CHAPTER I.

As it very often happens that readers get half through a work without knowing its drift—not un⯑frequently becauſe the author does not know it him⯑ſelf—I hold it neceſſary to preclude all poſſibility of any ſuch thing in the peruſal of this work, by premiſing what, according to my conception, ought to be the tendency of productions ſimilar to this, and what I here mean to inculcate in particular.

A novel, as the word is now underſtood and eſtabliſhed, is a general title for any work which [2] ſprings ſolely from the imagination, yet ſo deline⯑ates men and manners as to place all its events within view of probability. It is a kind of mean betwixt hiſtory, which records mere fact, and ro⯑mance, which holds out acknowledged fiction.

As, however, pleaſure and inſtruction are the only end that any admitted exerciſe of the imagination can propoſe, theſe all labour, with different materials, to produce the ſame effect. Hiſtory not only teaches mankind to ſhun vice and imitate virtue, by in⯑ſtancing thoſe events which are moſt conduſive to ſo laudable an end, but ſhews the propriety of the doctrine it enforces, by authenticating the poſſibi⯑lity of ſuch conduct.

The noveliſt, who is the biographer of an ima⯑ginary hero, chuſes, for his ſource, manners in ge⯑neral. His margin cannot ſwell with authorities, nor can he—by way of notes—cite the contrary opinions of great men concerning the vices or vir⯑tues of thoſe characters he celebrates. So they poſſeſs the ſame qualities in common with the reſt of mankind, and the events brought about by their means are ſuch as our obſervation points out to be natural, his taſk is completely performed; and he has a right to expect as much credit for relating circumſtances that might have happened, as he [3] who—as far as he can clear his narrative from the cobwebs of tradition, and diſentangle it from the labyrinth of contradictory authority—records facts that did happen.

Romances are, figuratively, in nature; and, lite⯑rally, fictitious. They are intended, by lifting the mind above probability, to enforce moral by figure and allegory: and they attain their end—and indeed laudably—for they rouſe thoſe torpid minds into action which cannot reliſh writings that are kept within the bounds of ſimple nature.

This ſpecies of compoſition is remarkably grati⯑fying to weak minds. It is—if I may be permitted ſo to expreſs myſelf—an honourable fraud; for, exaggerate the beauty of virtue how you can, it will ſtill be lovely; whereas vice, being ugly in itſelf, becomes more hideous when it is carica⯑tured.

Theſe three different vehicles for the conveyance of truth and morality, ſeem to require different conductors; and indeed it has ſeldom happened that any one man has equally ſucceeded in them.—Romance ſeems to require a poetic ſoul: ſtrong in conception, fertile in invention, and various in ex⯑preſſion. Hiſtory wants nothing but a perſpicuous [4] ſtyle, authentic information, and invincible vera⯑city.

He who writes novels muſt partake of all theſe qualities. He muſt unite in his imagination the glow of poetry with the ſteadineſs of narrative.—The latter muſt be as a curb to the former: not, however, to damp its ſpirit, but to prevent it from running away:—like the alderman, who, at a lord mayor's feaſt, would have made himſelf ſick if his phyſician had not ſat by the ſide of him.

Thus I think it becomes pretty evident that novel writing holds a very reſpectable ſtand in literature, and I ſincerely believe that men of conſiderable ta⯑lents would very often practiſe it, were it not for thoſe ſpurious productions with which the preſs teems under the appellation of novels, which means any love ſtory calculated to madden the minds of ſentimental country ladies, to trouble the domeſtic happineſs of old gentlemen who marry young girls, and to overturn the purity imbibed at boarding ſchools.

Theſe are ſure to make their way into all the cir⯑culating libraries in the kingdom, provided they are ſufficiently ſtuffed with dying lovers, inexorable parents, and impertinent chambermaids; with the [5] addition of three or four elopements, half a dozen duels, and an attempt or two at a rape; to which may be added, a little ſuicide, or a ſmattering of inceſt—eſpecially if it be written by a lady—by way of zeſt, to make it go down the more glib.

Being about to give a novel to the world, I thought it incumbent on me to ſay thus much; from which the reader will naturally conclude that I intend, throughout this work, to keep nature and proba⯑bility in ſight, to reject that which is frivolous and impertinent, and to adopt only what, by means of amuſement, may bring about inſtruction.

It will nevertheleſs be neceſſary to ſay further, that, in portraying nature, I ſhall make her neither a flattering likeneſs, nor a caricature. Nor is it ne⯑ceſſary; for, let her ſit for her picture ever ſo often, ſhe never will exhibit the ſame face twice, yet ſhall the general reſemblance always be ſtriking; for it has been well obſerved, that ſhe takes every various hue of the camelion, yet, torture her how you will, her form is as conſtant as the polypus. No two hu⯑man faces, though compoſed of the ſame features, ever were known to be correctly alike, and the lu⯑minous mind of LAVATER, did he attempt the ar⯑duous and abſurd taſk of ſearching for any ſuch would exactly reſemble the lanthorn of AESOP.

[6] To theſe general remarks—which I conceived it expedient to place here—I ſhall add particular ones whenever they appear to be neceſſary, and now I invite the reader to the examination of a faithful, though a bold, repreſentation of human life, for I declare upon my word as a man, there is not a cha⯑racter or circumſtance in this whole work which I do not experimentally know from a cloſe obſerva⯑tion and mankind, to have virtual exiſtence.

CHAPTER II.

A BRIDGE thrown over the high road, at the en⯑trance of a village in Warwickſhire, called Caſtle⯑wick, is the ſeparation of two eſtates, one of which had been, at the period this hiſtory commences, for half a century in the poſſeſſion of the family of Ha⯑zard, and the other, for almoſt treble that ſpace, in the family of Roebuck.

Nature had been equally bountiful in the diſtribu⯑tion of her favours on either ſide of the road, which fortuitous advantage art had been induſtriouſly called in to improve. If a neat hamlet and a white ſpire gave a more modern termination to the view, through a group of pines and cedars, from Hazard lawn; an old market town and a contiguous moul⯑dering caſtle became viſible, through an avenue of elms, from Roebuck park.

Every Chineſe temple, urn, or ſtatue, on one ſide, erected to fancy, conſecrated to friendſhip, or dedicated to the arts, had, on the other, its rival [8] grotto, cavern, or hermitage. Here was ſeen a clump of elms, there a row of oaks; while the me⯑andering avon—leſt the lord of one manſion ſhould be jealous of its favours laviſhed on the other—not only by the advantage of a diſtant height, plunged up a rocky cliff to delight one favourite with the awful concuſſion of a beautiful caſcade, which fall⯑ing, leſſened into a gurgling rivulet; but, alſo, opening its ſmooth, capacious boſom, moved on in majeſtic ſilence, through the poſſeſſions of the other; ſtretching out on one ſide a ſmall, irregular ſtream, which ſupplied the houſe, watered the gar⯑den, and turned the village mill.

Old Ruſt, the grandfather of Lord Hazard, was a ſkinner in the city. His profeſſion unluckily made him rather a bye-word; for he had ſuch a vo⯑racious thirſt, or hunger, after money—for gold can be both eaten and drank—that it was archly ſaid he would ſkin any thing for profit. Nay, ſome are of opinion that, from this very remark, originated the epithet ſkinflint. Be that as it may, he cer⯑tainly amaſſed a very large fortune, and having run through the regular progreſſion of livery-man, common council-man, deputy, alderman, ſheriff, and lord mayor, he married in his ſeventy-firſt year, a girl of ſixteen, without a ſixpence, who bore him—or ſomebody elſe—a ſon, portioned three of [9] her ſiſters, granted a penſion to an Iriſh relation, ſet up a coach, and bought a villa; till at length, having expoſtulated, ſtormed, threatened, prayed, and entreated, to no purpoſe, poor Ruſt—think of it with horror ye antiquated Adonises—died raving mad in St. Luke's hoſpital.

Previous to his inſanity, however, he took care to make a will, veſting his whole poſſeſſions in the hands of truſtees, for the uſe of his ſon. His re⯑mains were, therefore, ſcarcely laid in the earth, when the widow, with a moderate annuity, was obliged to ſink into retirement; and of her it will not be neceſſary to ſay more than that ſhe died when her ſon, who was purpoſely kept from her by his guardians, came to be eighteen years old.

Young Ruſt, beſides the poſſeſſion of uncommon talents, was wonderfully calculated for commerce. Before he was thirty he conſiderably augmented his deceaſed father's wealth; and, a few years after⯑wards—having bought a large eſtate which gave him the entire nomination of four members of par⯑liament—he became ſo material an object to the miniſter, that he was made one of thoſe peers which it was then expedient to create, leſt the balance of power in the conſtitution ſhould be found to lean too much to the ſide of the people.

[10] No longer Mr. Ruſt, then, but Baron Hazard, he pulled down the old manſion on the eſtate he had purchaſed, and built that very chateau we have al⯑ready commemorated. As he had a towering am⯑bition, he now married into an honourable family, not overburdened with riches; was ſhortly bleſt with ſeveral children; and had made ſome rapid ſtrides towards an improvement in both church and ſtate; but—ſo tranſitory is the felicity of lords, as well as inferior beings—he did not live long to en⯑joy that ſucceſs his hopes ſeemed to promiſe:—for, ſitting up a whole night to compoſe a ſpeech, which was to have introduced a plan to deſtroy pluralities, and root out corruption, he caught a cold, which being followed by a fever, he was hurried out of the world, having ſcarcely time to ſettle his affairs.

The young lord—but here, kind reader, let us both give a ſigh to the memory of Lord Hazard, and admire that the wiſeſt deſigns in this ſublunary exiſtence are liable, like a grain of ſand, to be ſcat⯑tered at the will of providence!

CHAPTER III.

THE young lord—for we ſhall have no occaſion for the reſt of the family—ſaw himſelf his own maſ⯑ter at a very early period of life; a circumſtance which, together with diſſipated company at the uni⯑verſity, and a profligate tutor, contributed to form in him the ſtrongeſt principles of debauchery and libertiniſm.

When he became of age, his licentiouſneſs made him the terror of the neighbourhood. It is true he was a little checked in his wild career by the wiſe and wholeſome counſels of his mother, to which he at firſt affected to liſten; but, becoming more and more hardened, her precepts and conduct were al⯑together diſregarded; till at length, worn out with preaching to no purpoſe, ſhe retired into the boſom of her own family, with a firm determination to conſider herſelf entirely alienated from her diſgra⯑cious ſon.

[12] Lord Hazard being now left to the unbridled in⯑fluence of his headſtrong paſſions, ſtopt at nothing to gratify them. The farmers' wives and daughters, if they had the ſmalleſt pretenſions to beauty, were ſure to become objects firſt of his generoſity, then his gratification, and afterwards his neglect: or, if they durſt diſpute his impetuous wiſhes, his un⯑alterable reſentment. But, as the ſwifteſt cannon ball, which neither edifices of wood nor ſtone can oppoſe, may be ſtopt in its very ſtrongeſt velocity by the dull reſiſtance of a wool pack, ſo were the vehement purſuits of Lord Hazard effectually checked by that dulleſt of all dull things, accord⯑ing to the bachelors—ay, and many of the married men too—a wife.

My lord's tutor, whoſe name was Viney, and who, as I hinted before, had the higheſt aſcendancy over his pupil—having ever been cnofiderably more uſeful to him in the conduct of his love affairs than in his ſtudy of the claſſics—had alſo another pupil. Indeed his attention to this laſt mentioned ſcholar, on whom he had expended a large part of that money which the bounty to Lord Hazard—for his lordſhip was liberal to exceſs—had laviſhed on him, would appear very enigmatical did we not derive it from its natural motive.

[13] This ſcholar then was no other than his ſiſter, who, without a penny, had married an Iriſh for⯑tune hunter, and was very ſhortly ſaved the trouble of breaking his heart by a kind friend of his, who killed him in a duel. Viney had connived at this marriage, which, ſoon after it was conſummated, was found to be a mutual bite. However, as his ſiſter was left a blooming widow of twenty-two, he eaſily comforted himſelf by conſidering her market as not yet over. In a word, he had long in idea married her to Lord Hazard. This will account for his generoſity: nor, when it is conſidered how completely this ſame Mr. Viney ruled his pupil, will it appear very unaccountable that the lady ſhould become at length in reality what ſhe had long been in imagination.

Marriage ſtopt for a while the exceſſes of Lord Hazard. He doated on his wife; and, having taken this ſtep, Viney became his privy counſellor in a ſtronger degree than ever. His tone, however, was ſoon changed. He found her a mixture of arro⯑gance, meanneſs, bridled wantonneſs, and ignorant affectation. Nor is it difficult to divine where it might have ended if he had not accidentally diſco⯑vered, after having been about three months bleſſed with an heir, that ſhe had an intrigue with his valet de chamber.

This rouſed him at once. She was properly de⯑tected, the neceſſary ſteps were taken, and a divorce obtained. She recriminated, indeed, but he was a lord, and his ſucceſs certain. Thus, having re⯑ceived ſatisfaction for the injuries he had ſuſtained, he legally baniſhed her for ever from his preſence, granting her only a decent proviſion for life.

Any one experienced in the human heart will eaſily ſee the part Viney took upon his ſiſter's de⯑tection. He exclaimed againſt her with the great⯑eſt violence, and was the forwardeſt in procuring his lordſhip that redreſs which he knew it was not in his power to prevent.

This conduct eſtabliſhed him more firmly than ever in the good graces and houſehold of Lord Ha⯑zard; the firſt of which advantages he often de⯑clared—loudly to the world—was the ultimate end of all his wiſhes; becauſe, ſaid he—ſoftly to him⯑ſelf—it brings about the other.

I have already ſhewn that marriage proved a pret⯑ty tight curb to the exceſſes of this young noble⯑man, and one would think his divorce had given him a reaſonable ſurfeit of marriage; but, I know not how it is, ſome men ſeem to be the bubble of their own arts: their whole ſtudy is to overreach [15] themſelves, and if they ſtumble on tolerable con⯑tent, it is becauſe things take a different turn from what they deſigned.

Thus it happened with our peer. Every reſolu⯑tion he took, in conſequence of being a widower, was wrong; and yet he hit upon happineſs when he only meant revenge.

This was his argument. He had married a wo⯑man of ſpirit, who had injured him in the ſtrongeſt degree, and, for this indignity, he was determined to take vengeance on her whole ſex; idly forgetting that this was revenging himſelf on a whole hive, for the ſting of a ſingle bee. Beſides, he himſelf was to blame: the fault lay in his own want of diſcern⯑ment. Had he fairly examined the ground of the buſineſs, he would have plainly ſeen that it origi⯑nated with Viney, who had taught him nothing but what diſgraced his birth, and deprived him of the uſe of that valuable goodneſs of heart which he re⯑ally poſſeſſed, and which, had he fallen into proper hands, might have induced him to have diſpenſed the gifts of fortune nobly inſtead of licentiouſly.

To put this worthy project in execution, Lord Hazard reſolved once more to try the married ſtate, reſolutely vowing to conduct himſelf in ſo authori⯑tative [16] a manner to his ſecond wife, that ſhe ſhould not dare even to think without his previous permiſ⯑ſion. He had ſcarcely come to this reſolution, but his uneaſineſs on his late diſgrace vaniſhed. He looked round for a wife with the greateſt eagerneſs, till at length, with Viney's aſſiſtance, who was ſtill conſulted, he thought he had found one to his wiſh.

But how was he aſtoniſhed when he plainly ſaw it would be impoſſible to avail himſelf of any one of thoſe prudent determinations, thoſe ingenious precautions he had been ſo long and ſo induſtriouſly arming himſelf with. He had now ſuch a wife that to controul her was impoſſible; to adviſe her, uſe⯑leſs!

If my readers think he was again caught, after ſo much wary and cautious reſolution, after ſuch an⯑ticipation of ſucceſs, I hope it will be confeſſed he deſerved it.

Certainly he was diſappointed, but in that ſatis⯑factory way that a man would be at finding a lawyer who, taking a brief, ſhould refuſe a fee. Lady Hazard could not be controuled, adviſed, or en⯑treated; for ſhe had ſo high a ſenſe of her duty, ſuch equanimity of temper, and ſuch ſweetneſs of [17] manners, that ſhe anticipated her lord's very wiſhes. He had received her from her father, a wealthy country neighbour, who wanted to aggrandize his family. The young lady, who had all her life made it her ſtudy to pleaſe her father, found it no irkſome taſk to watch and comply with the tempers of her huſband:—ſo true it is that a dutiful daughter has gone a great way towards becoming a good wife.

If ever an extraordinary event new moulded a man's mind, this unexpected merit in his wife had that effect on Lord Hazard. He ſaw in an inſtant that his whole life had been one deluſion; that while he had ſought for pleaſure, he had neglected happineſs; and, therefore, reſolved doubly to cheriſh it, ſince it had complacently condeſcended to come home to him.

Nobody had ever dared to tell him he was a dupe to Viney: he now ſaw it himſelf. He did not, how⯑ever, think proper to withdraw his protection from him, but contented himſelf only with giving him a handſome rectory, to which that worthy incumbent ſhortly removed.

In about a twelvemonth after this ſecond mar⯑riage—but hold, all great events ſhould be uſhered in with cautious preparation.

[18] A watchmaker would have called the circum⯑ſtance I am about to celebrate the main ſpring of this hiſtory; a ſailor would have ſaid it was its helm; and an alderman its marrow.

It is ſomething, therefore, of material conſe⯑quence; and, of courſe, proper to be given in a new chapter, and with a particular introduction:—all which ceremony, though it may be the limbs and outward flouriſhes of writing, is not without its uſe; and though more than PHEDRUS have ſaid that a tree ſhould be eſtimated by its fruit, and not by its leaves, yet it muſt be conſidered, that, with⯑out the proper ſhelter afforded by the leaves, no fruit could arrive to perfection.

CHAPTER IV.

IT falls out ſometimes at the theatre, that, at the very moment the audience are ſitting with expec⯑tation on its utmoſt ſtretch, an actor, with a woe-begone countenance, comes on the ſtage to an⯑nounce the indiſpoſition of the principal actreſs.

This once happened of Deſdemona; and, as there was no lady in the company competent to the part but her whoſe name was in the bills, a gentleman undertook it at a very ſhort warning. The ſpec⯑tators were, as uſual, content per force; but, after waiting a conſiderable time, the apologizer was a ſecond time obliged to come on, who aſſured the audience the play would ſoon begin, but at preſent Deſdemona was not ſhaved.

I hope it will not be thought, by mentioning this caſe in point, that I mean to introduce in a ludi⯑crous way, a matter of ſuch eminent importance as that I now take the liberty of preſenting to the [20] reader's notice; but, my amour propre is wounded: for being forced—at the very critical moment I conſidered myſelf happy beyond all example in the mode of introducing my hero—to ſtopt ſhort, and put my readers in the exact ſituation of the ſpecta⯑tors above deſcribed, I am obliged to exculpate myſelf from any intentional offence by fairly laying the truth before them, and humbly appealing to their candour: or—according to the language of the ſtanding theatrical apology—their uſual indul⯑gence.

I was going to begin this chapter in a moſt lovely ſtyle, by ſaying that the bees came about ſomebody's cradle, and left their honey on his lips; giving proof that he would be ſweet and eloquent in diſ⯑courſe. But, caſting in my mind who this ſome⯑body could be, it preſently ſtruck me—for I ‘"do bear a brain"’—that the point was not ſettled.

This prodigy is related of ST. AMBROSE of Milan. Doctor JOHNSON, who ought to have known ſome⯑thing about the matter, ſays it was PINDAR; but FENELON affirms it was ſaid of PLATO by his pre⯑ceptor SENECA, who, while the circumſtance was warm in his mind, dreamt that a cygnet flew to his boſom, which, by degrees, became covered with feathers of a moſt beautiful and dazzling whiteneſs; [21] and which, taking wing, flew with a force and ra⯑pidity ſuperior to an eagle:—and theſe prodigies were ſo ſtrongly verified in this great man, that CICERO ſaid of him, when he grew up, ‘"If JUPI⯑TER had condeſcended to ſpeak like man, he would have uſed the language of PLATO."’

Now it cannot be denied but that here is proof upon proof on the ſide of FENELON; and, as he ga⯑thered this intelligence for the improvement of princes, one would think that he muſt have made a point of collecting his materials from the beſt au⯑thorities. But as there is no court of criticiſm to appeal to from the fiat of Dr. JOHNSON—his ipſe dixit being always final upon theſe occaſions—if the reader pleaſe it ſhall ſtand for PINDAR: not for the living PINDAR, becauſe every body knows that, in⯑ſtead of honey, he deals in nothing but gall.

In this caſe it is melancholy to loſe the beautiful dream of SENECA, and the fine ſaying of CICERO, but ornament and flouriſh muſt give way to truth and Dr. JOHNSON. Beſides, Mr. BOSWELL informs us that the Doctor had but a pitiful opinion of FE⯑NELON, for that he would not allow Telemachus to be written more than ‘"pretty well."’

Having eſtabliſhed this important point, I ſhall [22] regularly proceed to the buſineſs of introducing my hero, who having ſet the poets together by the ears before he was born, will be allowed to have given a pretty good ſpecimen of the work he was to cut out for them afterwards.

Many and various are the portents and omens that are ſaid to have announced the births, deaths, and marriages of great men and women; and I could muſter up a long catalogue of them, from the lady who made ſo handſome a deluge as to ſwallow up all Aſia, to Tom Thumb—which is a pretty touch of the bathos—who was ſwallowed up by a cow; but that it would inſenſibly draw me into an imitation of certain authors, who are fonder of ſhewing their reading than their good manners.

I ſhall be forgiven however, ſince a great man and a prodigy are almoſt ſynonimous terms, if I la⯑ment that nature did not go a ſingle ſtep out of her road to introduce our hero: neither his father nor his mother having dreamt any thing prodigious on the occaſion.

Viney indeed had a confuſed idea in a dream of a baſiliſk which kept continually in his way, and the nurſe, as ſhe nodded by the fire ſide while Lady Ha⯑zard was in labour, dreamt that her young maſter— [23] for ſhe always ſaid it would be a boy—ſpoke the mo⯑ment he came into the world, and that he believed any thing you ſaid to him; which ſhe ſagaciouſly interpreted as a ſure ſign that he would be very learned, and very much impoſed upon:—the truth of which obſervation the reader may perhaps have occaſion to admire before he and I part.

Lady Hazard's being brought to bed of a ſon, to the great joy of that honourable family, ſeems then to be the event I hinted at in the third chap⯑ter. It really took place about a twelve month after the marriage, and three years and a quarter—for I love to be exact—after the birth of the firſt ſon, whom Lord Hazard called Zekiel, after his grand⯑father, and this, our hero, Charles, after himſelf.

The happineſs of Lord Hazard would now have been complete, had it not been imbittered by a con⯑ſideration that the whole eſtate being willed away with the title, he could not do his youngeſt ſon the juſtice he wiſhed. To amend, however, this defi⯑ciency, he reſolved to make him a paragon of learn⯑ing; and, as he knew very well that had not the former part of his own life been devoted to idleneſs, it would have been leſs given to diſſipation, he re⯑ſolved to add a complete ſtudy of the arts to his ſon's education.

[24] In the contemplation of this plan he took great delight. At length, when Zekiel had attained his eleventh year, he was ſent to Eaton ſchool, to leave the coaſt clear for a proper attention to the educa⯑tion of Charles, which his lordſhip was determined to ſuperintend himſelf.

Many eſſays were made upon his tender intellects, which gave very promiſing hopes; and now the difficulty was to get him a tutor. Lord Hazard fairly owned he deſpaired of finding one to his wiſh. He declared he had himſelf witneſſed ſo much ill conduct in men of that deſcription, that he ſhould be very cautious indeed how he made a choice.

Theſe doubts he often imparted to Lady Hazard, who ſaid ſhe had mixed very little in the world, and therefore was happy whenever he was ſo good as to give her his opinion, in order that ſhe might form hers. She could not help thinking, however, that he was warmer on that ſubject than he otherwiſe would have been, had not an ill choice been made in a tutor for him. She hoped he would be able to find a man who ſhould have talents, and yet be honeſt.

‘'If,' ſaid my lord, 'I could form a tutor, he ſhould be ingenuous above all things; not aſhamed [25] if he found any of thoſe trivial vices creeping on him to which human nature is ſubject, to confeſs and amend them. Such a kind of man cannot deſign to do ill, becauſe he is ſorry for his own infirmity. Ingenuouſneſs has a tendency to gratitude, which is with me the firſt of vir⯑tues. I declare if I was obliged to accuſe a man of a crime, and he could prove his motive to be in the ſmalleſt degree ſimilar to any thing I had ever forgiven in myſelf, I ſhould inſtantly feel an inclination to pardon him. It is the ſneaking, un⯑derhand villain I hate; the hypocrite, the de⯑ceiver, who ſtudies to be a raſcal; who ſtings while he fawns. But he who acts from mere in⯑tuitive principles, may correct his frailty by his judgment; and, at any rate, you have a declared enemy, and know how to be on your guard. One ſtands ſome chance with a lion, but who can pro⯑vide againſt the venom of a ſlow worm?'’

Thus ended a converſation which the reader may hereafter think I had a reaſon for inſerting.

Very little paſſed in this family worthy relation till Maſter Charles was twelve years old, when one day my lord brought a gentleman who, he ſaid, an⯑ſwered, in every particular, that deſcription of per⯑ſon he had ſo long and ſo fruitleſsly ſought for, as [26] a tutor for his darling ſon. As to Zekiel, he did not believe him to be his ſon at all, though he had in vain tried to prove him legally illegitimate. He therefore took very little further notice of him than to remit him money; nor did he expreſs either aſ⯑toniſhment or diſſatisfaction at being told he was both an arrant dunce and an arrant puppy. On the contrary, he ſarcaſtically obſerved ‘"he would do well enough for a lord."’

Having brought matters in the family of Lord Hazard to a ſort of ſtand ſtill, the reader and I will now, if he pleaſe, take a walk acroſs the bridge into Roebuck park. But, upon recollection, being come now to the center which commands a view of the whole village of Caſtlewick, and its inhabitants making a part of our dramatis perſonae, we will take a ſhort view of that little community, which had really ſomething to recommend it to our notice.

CHAPTER V.

THE village of Caſtlewick contained about five hundred inhabitants. About half the men and boys were generally employed at the trade of wool-comb⯑ing; part of the women and girls in carding, ſpin⯑ning, twiſting, and knitting; the more intelligent and experienced of the men in journeying to large towns to purchaſe ſheep, and ſupply factors, clothiers, and hoſiers with wool, yarn, worſted, ſtockings, nightcaps, ſocks, and ſuch other articles as they manufactured. The lower order of the men and boys were employed in tilling, manuring, and encloſing; and the remainder of the women buſied themſelves in houſehold affairs, buying and ſelling the neceſſaries of life, and ſuch other occupations as the vicar—for this pariſh had no curate—pointed out to them.

The vicar had two deputies, the clerk and the ſchoolmaſter; and theſe three were all the perſons in the village who did no bodily labour:—for Caſ⯑tlewick [28] could boaſt neither lawyer, exciſeman, nor apothecary.

Their good paſtor undertook to regulate the tem⯑poral, as well as ſpiritual, concerns of his flock; and, by a ſcrupulous diſcharge of his duty as their treaſurer, ſhewed them more than by a thouſand precepts how much it was their intereſt to act with truth and integrity towards each other. Not that his preaching was not of a piece with his example, for every Sunday they heard ſome new leſſon of ſweet and comfortable morality from his mouth; for he, inſtead of deſcribing religion as a denunci⯑ation of vengeance, and the deity as delighting in puniſhment, ſoftened that high duty into a gentle and intelligent ſyſtem of morality, by inculcating the principles of ſocial virtue and brotherly love, and repreſenting the creator as an indulgent father watching with anxious and tender care over the in⯑tereſt and happineſs of his children, and regarding their virtuous endeavours with a ſmile of celeſtial benevolence:—thus troubling his hearers with no⯑thing beyond the reach of that capacity which had fallen to their ſhare, and leaving the diſcuſſion of dogmas to larger communities, who better under⯑ſtood cavilling.

The clerk and the ſchoolmaſter kept an account [29] of the receipts and diſburſements throughout the pariſh. Theſe were faithfully audited by the vicar. Ten of the moſt conſiderable of the inhabitants, who acted as a committee for the reſt, were called in every week to the veſtry, where the books were always forth coming for general inſpection.

Every other regulation for the pleaſure and ad⯑vantage of this happy community was proportion⯑ably wiſe and ſalutary. Thus cheerfulneſs ſmiled on their labours; content converted their pittance into plenty; health, eaſe, and good humour accom⯑panied their ſteps, and they paſſed their time in the exerciſe of as much moral rectitude as would have immortalized them—had they been born an⯑cient Spartans—without dreaming they did more than a common duty, for the ſake of general conve⯑nience.

By this time I believe the reader begins to ſuſpect that the vicar, however well diſpoſed to lend a help⯑ing hand towards the regulation of this little com⯑monwealth, as well as the clerk and the ſchool⯑maſter, who kept the account of their finances, were but ſubordinate actors in this performance, and here introduced, like the centinels in Hamlet and the ſervants in the Orphan—both of which circumſtances VOLTAIRE is very angry at—only to uſher in the ca⯑pital [30] perſonage, who, having once made his appear⯑ance, is to receive all the applauſe.

It muſt be owned that the motions of Caſtlewick appeared to be as regular as thoſe of its church clock, which clock, though any blackſmith could wind it up, and ſet it a going, muſt have required a much better mechanic to have invented it origi⯑nally. If there ſhould be a hidden firſt cauſe for this, it will be announced in its proper place. In the mean time I cannot prevail upon myſelf to re⯑pent my having introduced theſe ſons of induſtry, inſignificant as they are. The mind is often both improved and amuſed by the moſt trifling objects: the ſmaller the mite the more worthy the curioſity of the philoſopher.

CHAPTER VI.

MY reader and I having paſſed through the rookery that received us as we left the bridge, are now within ſight of the manſion of Sir Sydney Wal⯑ter Roebuck, lord of the manor of Caſtlewick, and member of parliament for the borough of Neither⯑ſide.

The grandfather of this gentleman—for were I to trouble the reader with any thing anterior, my deſcription would reſemble a game of cheſs, where biſhops, knights, caſtles, and the king and queen are continually croſſing each other. Indeed I have two other reaſons for not going farther back; one is, that in the courſe of this hiſtory Sir Sidney will talk to us a little about the fame of his anceſtors him⯑ſelf; and the other, that, for ought I could ever learn, their lives were, take them all in all, ſuch a uniform mixture of morality, loyalty, and bro⯑therly love, that the deſcription of one would ſerve for the whole. Their tempers might not be unaptly [32] compared to a bowl of punch, for though made up of the ſame contrariety of ingredients in common with the reſt of their fellow creatures, the mixture was ſo happily blended, that they diffuſed comfort and cheerfulneſs to all around them.

The grandfather then having taken umbrage at court for being turned out of the cabinet, only be⯑cauſe he maintained that the Lancaſhire witches were harmleſs old women—for which indeed Dr. JOHNSON would have been as angry with him as the council were, for he tells us he will not ſay there never was any ſuch thing as witchcraft, for that probably there might have been, but that it had ceaſed—retired to the manſion of his forefathers, which gothic and ſtately ſtructure the reader and I are looking at.

There having ſat contentedly down, with a quiet conſcience, an active mind, and a princely fortune, he conſidered—which was nothing more than his daily cuſtom—how he might beſt be ſerviceable to his fellow creatures.

He had not deliberated long on the ſubject before he determined to build the village of Caſtlewick, and, like another Biſhop Blaze, ſet up the trade of wool-combing. Nor was this, would he argue, a [33] project unworthy his rank; wool was the ſtaple commodity of that country he ſo dearly loved, and for which his anceſtors had ſo gallantly ſhed their blood; the wool ſack was the emblem of honour, for it ſuſtained the leading member of the houſe, and took place in that aſſembly of every thing but the throne. He had yet a better reaſon: his ſcheme would give employment to his tenants and other poor neighbours, and he ſhould be ſure to receive the daily bleſſings of many families who would owe a ſubſiſtance to their honeſt labours, under the au⯑ſpices of his bounty.

This gentleman lived to ſee his benevolent plan carried into execution, and he enjoined his ſon to purſue it. This injunction was faithfully complied with, but the preſent Sir Sidney conſiderably in⯑creaſed the number of houſes and inhabitants, al⯑tered the former rules and orders into a more regu⯑lar and digeſted ſet of laws, and called in the vicar and his adherents, as the reader has already ſeen, to aſſiſt him in their execution.

Thus, burning the Lancaſhire witches was pro⯑ductive of one public benefit at leaſt; for, had not the humanity of good old Sir Sidney taken fire at the cruel propoſition, in all probability the village of Caſtlewick would never have been built.

[34] The ſurviving gentleman of this family I now take the liberty of introducing in form to the rea⯑der. He had many ſingularities: one I have al⯑ready hinted at: another was a fixed averſion to cards and dice; yet he was a ſtrenuous encourager of all athletic ſports. He would ſometimes pitch the bar himſelf, and was allowed to be the beſt bowler at cricket within ten miles. He was an ad⯑mirer of the arts, and never failed to bring with him from town, at the end of every ſeſſions, a poet, a painter, and a muſician, who were obliged—and ſo indeed were all others who wiſhed for his eſteem—to accompany him in the different departments of his duty, as he called the regulation of his little commonwealth. Nay ſometimes he would ſet them to work, on which occaſion he enjoyed their awk⯑wardneſs.

Seeing once the wig of a counſellor catch in the girt of a twiſting mill, as he was unhandily turning it round, it afforded no ſmall diverſion to the ba⯑ronet, who facetiouſly exclaimed, ‘"My good old friend, you let your learning fly about at a ſtrange rate."’

No man was more admired, nor ſought leſs to be ſo, than Sir Sidney. Even the boobies, with whom he could not mix, becauſe he never ſwore, gamed, [35] nor drank pint bumpers, declared he was a gruffiſh odd ſort of a hearty cock. In ſhort, his heart was benevolent, his means were ample, he was in the prime of life, ſurrounded with hundreds of ſin⯑cere friends—which is a bold thing to ſay-re⯑ſpected, valued, eſteemed, adored, almoſt deified, and yet he was not happy. I could tell the reader why, but ſhall only ſo far indulge him as to ſay that, according to Sir Sidney's own account, his unhappineſs was occaſioned by a phantom he had ſeen, which had ſo poſſeſſed him, that he could not reſt in his bed till he had opened his mind to it:—for, were I to unriddle the whole ſecret of this ghoſt, the ſpirit and the reader's curioſity would vaniſh together.

I ſhall therefore collect together all the leading circumſtances, that I may the more adroitly intro⯑duce the time when, the place where, and the man⯑ner how, it appeared. And this has been a privi⯑lege to authors and old women time immemorial; a climax having ever been allowed the proper mo⯑ment to introduce a cataſtrophe, and the candle's burning blue a ſignal for the approach of a hob⯑goblin.

As ſoon, therefore, as I ſhall have terrified my readers into a belief of the proper prognoſtic, the [36] ghoſt ſhall ſtalk forth. To ſuffer this ſooner would be inartificial, and conſequently an impeachment of my capacity of tantalizing the reader, which would be an indelible diſgrace to the fraternity of novel writers, ſome of whom have excited no other ſen⯑ſation.

I hope, however, I ſhall be forgiven if I differ in the main from this mode of conſtructing my work, and not deemed an innovator if I endeavour to make ſatisfaction keep pace with expectation.

CHAPTER VII.

I MEAN to lead the reader on, chapter after chap⯑ter, through this hiſtory, in the ſame manner as we are led, day after day, through life. They who experience the largeſt portions of human happineſs, are ſure to have ſome unpleaſant moments in every four-and-twenty hours; whereas the ſame degree of miſery will not ſo far overcome the fortitude of others: but they find now and then a tranſient gleam of pleaſure, which, like an accidental creek through the wall of a dungeon, magnifies the light of comfort, by peeping in upon obſcurity.

At the cloſe of every dull day, we naturally look forward in hopes of finding the next more agree⯑able. Thus people comfort themſelves with ‘"to⯑morrow is a new day;"—"we ſhall ſee how mat⯑ters will go to-morrow;"’ and thus cheriſh a laudable expectation, though it end perhaps only in diſappoinment.

[38] I am led to theſe remarks by the recollection of my having promiſed to tell the reader what Sir Sid⯑ney wanted to make him completely happy. To do this ſuddenly, and without preparation, would ſeem to ſhew that I know not the way to elevate and ſurpriſe; a myſtery which more than Mr. Bayes have thought the moſt eſſential requiſite of an au⯑thor.

As no reader, therefore, can reaſonably deſire me to violate a ſtanding rule, I ſhall now proceed to unfold a nice chain of circumſtances, which will lead directly to the main event.

In the deſcription that has been given of Caſtle⯑wick, I more than doubt I have been ſhrewdly ſuſ⯑pected of that kind of embelliſhment in which heroes are ſaid to deal when ſpeaking of their ex⯑ploits, and lovers when extolling the charms of their miſtreſſes. In fact, to ſuppoſe a body of nearly five hundred people, of different ſexes, ages, and complexions, could be perfectly ſecure from evil in themſelves, or guarded againſt the tempta⯑tions of others, would be to ſuppoſe an order of be⯑ings that certainly ſhall not intrude themſelves here, my intention being to treat of human creatures, the beſt of whom, I am afraid, are not exempt from frailty. I would only have it underſtood that vices [39] exiſted in Caſtlewick no longer than till they were found out; at which time the parties were, for the firſt offence, reprehended; for a ſecond, mulct; for a third, condemned to have no intercourſe with their neighbours; and, for a fourth, conſidered as incorrigible; and, without favour or affection, ba⯑niſhed from the place, and deprived for ever of any claim to its advantages.

When this happened, which I will ſay was very ſeldom, the offenders generally took refuge in an⯑other village, about three miles diſtant, called Little Hockley, the inhabitants of which place were moſtly tenants of Lord Hazard; and, as that nobleman had found no great difficulty in bringing over the men, and the women too, to any of his purpoſes, it may eaſily be ſuppoſed they were a very likely people to afford ſuch a left-handed aſylum.

Little Hockley then was as famous for ſpringes, trammel nets, and pitched battles, as Caſtlewick was for cricket, quoits, and tranquillity; and if one was without an attorney, that a proper number of that worthy fraternity might be kept up, the other maintained two. Nay, a ſpruce young man, who indeed had been porter to an obſcure druggiſt, in a blind alley near Roſemary-lane, eſtabliſhed him⯑ſelf there as an apothecary, who, when Lord Ha⯑zard [40] firſt began to reſide at his ſeat, ordered a new ſign, and added to his former qualifications ſurgeon and man-midwife.

One great pleaſure of the wicked wights of Little Hockley, was to torment their more fortunate neigh⯑bours of Caſtlewick, This they effected by certain railings and backbitings; to which exploits of their fancy, they added others, which were achieved by means of their fingers; for ſcarcely a week paſt but ſome hog was hamſtrung, horſe lamed, or houſe dog hanged. Sucking pigs and chickens diſappear⯑ed from their ſties and rooſts, without the aſſiſtance of a fox; the cows were milked in the night by two-handed urchins, and lambs ran away with by two-legged wolves.

Theſe depredations ceaſed now and then, upon Sir Sidney's application to Lord Hazard, but they conſtantly broke out again. In the mean time, cer⯑tain defiances were breathed, and ſometimes a few blows exchanged.

The vicar was not without frequent apprehen⯑ſions that ſome of his pariſhioners, meeting with ſo many inſulting provocations, and being healthy, ſpi⯑rited men, would once for all take ſuch a revenge as might involve the community in trouble; for one [41] or two of them had been already cited to the quar⯑ter ſeſſions, where it required the whole intereſt of Sir Sidney to prevent their paying heavy damages, though what they did was perhaps in reſentment of ſome inſult offered to a wife or daughter.

At the time Lord Hazard petitioned the lords for his divorce, Sir Sidney was attending with great earneſtneſs his duty in the lower houſe. Taking advantage of this opportunity, a month had ſcarcely paſſed before the Hockley men, grown more au⯑dacious than ever, had irritated their peaceable neighbours ſo often, that three ſtout bruiſing matches had already been the conſequence; and though the Hockley boxers would have cut no contemptible figure in the learned Mr. MENDOZA's ſchool, yet it ſo happened—perhaps becauſe a right cauſe is half the victory—the men of Caſtlewick were the con⯑querors.

Seeing matters at this extremity, and unwilling to trouble Sir Sidney, the vicar determined to pay a viſit to the curate of Little Hockley, for that pa⯑riſh, which was a rectory, had not been bleſt with a ſight of its incumbent for ten years. Indeed that worthy member of the church, who was alſo a mem⯑ber of a gaming club, commuted for the tithes and all other immunities of his living, and had given up, [42] among other advantages, the right of appointing a curate.

The gentleman who made this purchaſe lived in the neighbourhood, and was called Major Malpla⯑quet. He had diſtinguiſhed himſelf in the wars of the low countries, when very young, under the fa⯑mous Duke of MALBOROUGH, and was now late in life in quiet poſſeſſion of his paternal ſeat, and a very fine fortune.

The Major had a chaplain, who, it muſt be con⯑feſſed, did not look much like a clergyman. He had been in the wars too, and indeed he fought much better than he prayed. I will illuſtrate his charac⯑ter by an anecdote.

A clergyman being on a viſit to a captain of a man of war, a ſmart gale ſprung up ſo ſuddenly that the veſſel parted her cable, and was hurried out to ſea. No harm happened, but it gave the crew a great deal of trouble. The boatſwain, who in the language of his meſſmates, was a dry hand, coming upon the forecaſtle, cried, ‘'Sink me if I did not think as this would be the caſe. I will be keel⯑hauled if we have had a bit of good luck ſince that there parſon came aboard. Of all the fiſh that ſwims, I cannot abide a parſon. I never ſailed [43] but once before with a parſon, and then we had not a fair wind the whole voyage.'’

‘'Never but once!' ſaid one of his companions, 'why a chaplain's parſon, 'ent he?'’

‘'Avaſt that ſlack chatter,' ſaid the boatſwain, 'a chaplain a parſon, hey!'’

‘'Why I tell you he is,' ſays the other, 'he wears black, and ſays prayers.'’

‘'Why then I ſuppoſe,' retorted the boatſwain, 'the devil's an alderman becauſe he wears horns.—All the chaplains I ever knew were honeſt hearty cocks: good fellows, who would not mind mak⯑ing a curtain of their black gown, to hide a pretty laſs. None of your grave thinking gentlemen; but roaring boys, who ſhewing you what they are, and telling you what they ought to be, leave you to your choice whether you'll go to heaven by their preaching, or to the ſouthward by their ex⯑ample.'’

This worthy member of the church militant, whoſe name was Standfaſt, had, in his younger days—for he was now near fifty—performed as many exploits of the buckiſh kind as ever diſtinguiſhed [44] the Mohawks, Sweaters, or any other ſet of deſpe⯑rados who uſed formerly to parade the ſtreets of London, to the terror of every decrepid watchman, and the demolition of his lanthorn. He was the very man who once propoſed to give the waiter of a coffee-houſe a rouleau, to ſee how he would look.

Beſides all this, he had killed his man; and, hav⯑ing abſconded to Flanders, he ran away with a nun from a convent, married her, ſpent her fortune, ſet her adrift, and entered a volunteer in the army, where the officers—finding him a genteel man—be⯑ing informed of his function, procured him a chap⯑laincy.

In this ſituation Standfaſt was particularly noticed by Major Malplaquet, who being a man of ſingular credulity, ſo attached himſelf to his new acquain⯑tance, that he ſoon became his all in all. Indeed the chaplain had many qualities that rendered him agreeable to the major. He would drink claret, play at put, and beat a reveille, with any man in the corps. Beſides theſe winning accompliſhments, he had other accommodating methods of endearing himſelf to his patron. He often complimented him with the poſſeſſion of ſome yielding female he had himſelf grown tired of, and never failed, if huſbands or fathers grew impertinent and troubleſome, to [45] brazen the matter out. In ſhort, having gained a conſummate knowledge of the world, by a ſcrupulous hardneſs of belief, a total want of every feeling but ſelf-intereſt, and a critical exerciſe of obſervation, he penetrated every man's characteriſtic foible, and worked upon it as he pleaſed.

Such was the Rev. Mr. Standfaſt, private chaplain to Major Malplaquet, and curate of Little Hock⯑ley. To this perſon I am going to introduce the vicar of Caſtlewick, who, conſcious of the rectitude of his own intentions, was indulging himſelf in the flattering hope that his efforts, in conjunction with thoſe of the curate, would effectually make up every breach between the two contending parties.

CHAPTER VIII.

To the qualities already celebrated in Tiger Standfaſt—for ſo had he been nicknamed by his companions, from the utter impoſſibility of taming him—I ſhall add, that, let him converſe with whom he might, he, as the phraſe is, knew his man; and was always provided with ſo many ſhifts and turns, that come what would he was never off his guard. Beſides he had an admirable knack of ſiding with his enemy, the better to laugh at him,

I thought it neceſſary to premiſe this, leſt the reader ſhould wonder how it came about that the moment he ſaw Mr. Mildman he ſhould not only welcome him with all imaginable courteſey, but de⯑clare he intended, the next morning, to have paid him a viſit, in order to conſult with him on the very ſubject which had now brought them together:—adding, as he took the good old vicar by the hand, that he had a hard time of it indeed, but bad ex⯑amples were terrible things, and if Lord Hazard [47] would encourage his tenants in idleneſs—which Mr. Mildman's experience muſt have long taught him is the corner ſtone of the temple of corruption—of what avail were all his prayers, nay his tears, in en⯑forcing either their duty towards God or their neighbour.

The aſtoniſhed vicar could ſcarcely credit his ears. He had not to learn the general character of Standfaſt; but, on the contrary, had both heard and believed much ill of him: and indeed, on his way, had uncharitably, as he now thought, conjured up a number of difficulties in his mind, which he expected would be thrown in the way of his benefi⯑cent plan.

This Standfaſt well knew, and as the firſt blow in argument, as well as boxing, is a manifeſt ad⯑vantage, he had the inward ſatisfaction—I ſay in⯑ward becauſe his features betrayed no ſuch ſenſation—of ſeeing his antagoniſt ſtruck aghaſt.

To purſue this firſt blow, therefore, he thus went on. ‘'I ſee Mr. Mildman you are ſhocked to find I have no more influence over my pariſhio⯑ners.'’

The vicar, to whom truth was as habitual as per⯑jury [48] is to an attorney, with the utmoſt ſimplicity of heart immediately anſwered: ‘'You have not at all divined the ſubject of my aſtoniſhment. I was admiring that the world could be ſo unneceſſarily ſlanderous to have deſcribed you as a diſſolute and immoral character, and one who—pardon me for uſing the expreſſion, was a ſcandal to your cloth; whereas you appear to me—'’

‘'Ah,' cried Standfaſt, 'poor deluded wretches I forgive them. But what do they ſay? It is of conſequence that I ſhould clear my character to you. Their ſlander I ſmile at, but your ill opi⯑nion! What do they ſay, dear Mr. Mildman?'’

‘'Why Sir,' replied the vicar, 'ſince I ſee you bear it with a proper firmneſs, I will tell you.'—’ ‘'Sit down ſir,' ſaid Standfaſt.’

The vicar having complied with his requeſt, pro⯑ceeded to inform him that, in the firſt place, it was ſaid he drank very hard for a clergyman. ‘'Not a drop more, in general, than two bottles at a ſit⯑ting,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'and never more than four.'’ ‘'Four bottles!' exclaimed the vicar.’ ‘'Why what is that;' cried Standfaſt very calmly, 'if, my dear ſir, you had been in countries where I have, you muſt have drank. Ay, ay, it is better to be car⯑ried [49] off to bed in liquor than in an ague. Then, between ourſelves, the major is a notable toper; never ſtirs till the ſixth bottle, though there ſhould be only he and I to drink it: and I dare not diſoblige my patron: I hate ingratitude. I only aſk you Mr. Mildman if any thing could induce you to thwart the will of Sir Sidney?'’

‘'Sir,' cried the vicar, with a look of extreme ſenſibility, 'it is the ſtudy of my life to deſerve his bounty.'’

‘'That was ſpoken,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'too warmly not to have come from the heart. You muſt, my dear ſir, pledge me in a glaſs to Sir Sidney's health. Here bring ſome wine.'’

The vicar, who, though he never was drunk in his life, could take a glaſs or two, and very fre⯑quently did at Sir Sidney's table, made no great difficulty to comply.

Two bottles of wine were immediately brought, two glaſſes poured out, and ſoon emptied to the health of the vicar's patron. Standfaſt aſked Mr. Mildman if he liked his port as well as Sir Sidney's? at the ſame time excuſing himſelf from drinking any, ſaying that nothing but claret agreed with him.

[50] The vicar commended the wine, but ſaid it had a dryiſh ſour ſmack after it. ‘'Goute de la terreinne, nothing elſe,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'it is the very ex⯑cellence of it.'’

‘'Perhaps ſo,' ſaid the vicar, 'but to our buſineſs.'’ ‘'No ſir,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'you ſhall purge me of all my ſecret faults. It has long been my ambition to be known to you, and I promiſe moſt truly, if you can uſe any fair argument before you go, to convince me of the leaſt impropriety in my con⯑duct, I will amend it immediately.'’

‘'Sir,' ſaid the vicar, 'it is handſomely ſaid; and, after this declaration, I will not believe you the man you have been repreſented to me. You a murderer!'’

‘'A murderer!' echoed Standfaſt, 'I abhor the idea.'’

‘'I dare ſay you do ſir,' cried the vicar, 'and yet the wicked world ſays you killed a man in a duel.'’

‘'Oh is that all!' ſaid Standfaſt, 'I was com⯑pelled to it. Poor Ned—he was a worthy fellow— [51] I had a great regard for him, but he would inſiſt upon it, ſo I ran him through the body.'’

‘'Mercy on us,' cried the vicar, 'and do you feel no remorſe for having the blood of a fellow creature upon your head?'’

‘'Not in an affair of honour,' ſaid Standfaſt. It was impoſſible to be avoided.'’

‘'Honour!' cried the vicar with great vehe⯑mence, 'it is a proſtitution of the word. Can it be honour, becauſe a man has perhaps unwittingly affronted me, to ſhed his blood, and deſolate his family? Is it honour, becauſe there are men of deſperate fortunes, with whom it is ſafer to face a piſtol than a halter that I muſt either fear to de⯑tect their villany, or put my life upon a footing with theirs.'’

‘'Spoken like an oracle, my dear ſir,' ſaid Stand⯑faſt, 'but it will ſometimes unavoidably happen that two men of perfect honour, who wiſh one another extremely well, ſhall ſuddenly diſpute, till, grown warm, one or the other ſhall uſe an opprobious epithet, which his friend cannot brook. What is to be done?—the man muſt be knocked down you know.'’

[52] ‘'Knocked down!' hollowed the vicar, 'and ſo make the breach too wide for all poſſibility of re⯑paration. No ſir, the higheſt courage is to pity paſſion, not take advantage of it. Convince a man into a conceſſion, and your triumph is doubly noble. Why ſhould a fally of paſſion be ſooner reſented than the ſally of a madman? Beſides, ac⯑cording to your own rules, not to ſpeak of its wickedneſs, can any thing be ſo ſilly as duelling? A man receives an injury: what is the ſatisfaction he aſks? why truly he invites the aggreſſor in terms of perfect politeneſs, to meet him at a cer⯑tain time, where he requeſts, as an attonement for the wrong, that his adverſary may exert all his ſkill to take away his life.'’

The vicar, who had now drank two glaſſes, made the above declaration with uncommon vehemence. Standfaſt, in a pretended rapture embraced him, confeſſed he was become his convert, and filling the glaſſes for the third time, gave the major for a toaſt.

This the vicar could not avoid drinking. He de⯑termined however it ſhould be the laſt; three glaſſes being at any time his utmoſt ſtint. He had ſcarcely drank when, whether it was owing to the goute de la terreinne, or being warm upon the ſubject, or what I ſhall not now take upon me to ſay, but cer⯑tainly [53] he gave manifeſt ſigns of being diſordered from top to toe. His eyes ſparkled, his head be⯑came dizzy, and his chair was of the ſame uſe to him as a pole is to a rope-dancer; for, without it, he aſſuredly would have tumbled down. Nor could he help teſtifying ſome applauſe at the end of a little chanſonette, which Standfaſt had been negligently ſinging. At this the latter declared, with a violent oath, that he was the heartieſt companion he ever knew.

The vicar blamed him ſeverely for ſwearing, but, ſtamping his foot to enforce the rebuke, he trod upon the leg of a dog that lay before the fire. The cur having received a private intimation from his maſter, flew at the vicar, who, with great difficulty, and an exclamation of ‘'damn the dog,'’ got out of his way.

Standfaſt now fell foul of the vicar; telling him that he might plainly ſee there were provocations that might induce a man to ſwear; that the words themſelves were no more than other words; and that men uſed indiſcriminately God bleſs you, and its oppoſite expreſſion, when neither a benediction nor a curſe was in their hearts: which he was ſure was the caſe in relation to the vicar, as the excla⯑mation [54] againſt the dog was certainly uttered with⯑out the ſmalleſt premeditated malice.

‘'Oh ſir,' ſaid poor Mildman, whoſe ſpeech now became affected, 'I would not wiſh the deſtruction of the ſmalleſt reptile. As to the poor dumb creature, what he did was natural. I trod upon him, and he flew at me: I did him an injury, and he reſented it.'’

‘'Juſt my caſe,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'in the affair of the duel.'’

‘'Oh no,' cried the vicar; as to the duel—the duel—you ſee in relation to the duel—a man that is intoxicated with paſſion—'’ ‘'is as bad,' inter⯑rupted Standfaſt, 'as a man intoxicated with liquor.'’

‘'Oh yes,' cried the vicar, 'that is another ter⯑rible evil. When a man is drunk, he feels—that is the liquor mounts to his head—and if the gid⯑dineſs—which is the effect of—what is the mat⯑ter with me—I—but it is no ſuch thing—it is—im—im—impoſſible that—Oh dear me—'’

Poor Mildman, ſinking back in his chair, now fell faſt aſleep; which Standfaſt no ſooner ſaw, than he ordered in two ſturdy fellows, who were at [55] hand, and bid them lay the vicar in a certain field, where ſome of his flock would be ſure to find him.

This was all that Standfaſt really meant; for, be⯑ing a perfect ſchool boy at a frolic, and having long indulged a deſire of touching the vicar on the ſide of his ſobriety, upon hearing of his coming to con⯑ſult with him, he had infuſed a few grains of crude opium into a bottle of port, which cauſed that goute de la terreine the vicar complained of, and ſo acted both upon his head and his unſuſpicious temper as, at the third glaſs, to throw him into a complete ſtate of intoxication.

This deception I ſhould have imparted at the be⯑ginning of this chapter, but for my conſtant obſer⯑vance of that neceſſary etiquette which I hinted to my readers in the beginning of the laſt.

The two fellows, however, who carried out the vicar, were not ſo eaſily contented. To get the par⯑ſon completely into their clutches, was ſuch a tri⯑umph, that they were determined to make the moſt of it. They therefore ſtript him of his coat, put him on an old jerkin, patched with a hundred different colours, ſet him in the middle of a field, upon a broken chair, propt up by a few ſtakes, to prevent [56] him from falling, where he looked exactly like a figure placed to frighten the crows.

Very fortunately for the poor vicar, the clerk and the ſchoolmaſter paſſed over the field a few minutes after the Hockley men had left him. They were go⯑ing to Little Hockley with a view to meet the good man, and learn the ſucceſs of his enterprize; and were ſcarcely within a hundred yards of the ſuppoſed ſcarecrow when they ſaw it move of itſelf, as it ap⯑peared, for there was not a breath of wind ſtirring. Upon this, looking with more attention, it got upon its legs, ſtaggered two or three paces, and fell down.

Perfectly convinced it muſt be a human being, they went up to it; but what words can deſcribe their aſtoniſhment when they heard the voice and beheld the features of the vicar.

The two men who had ſtood aloof now made their appearance. They were ſoon afterwards joined by almoſt half the village, who, ſeeing the vicar in the hands of his friends, began to open upon them.

‘'Fine doings indeed,' ſaid one; 'ay, ay, the ſtill ſow ſucks all the grains.'’ ‘'Yes, yes,' cried another, 'there be black ſheep at Caſtlewick as well [57] as at other places.'’ The clerk and ſchoolmaſter retorted, that they were ſure ſome trick had been played.

‘'Odd rot it,' ſaid a third, 'a reare trick to be ſure. Here muſt your parſon cum to zee our parſon, and nothing would zarve un, as he zed, but bleeding the zellers, and zo you do zee, after he had got mean drunk, we took and geed un an airing in our veeld, to fright away the crows.'—’

‘'Odds wounds,' cried another, 'your drunken parſon makes a mortal good ſcarecrow!'’ at which they all ſet up a horſe laugh.

The clerk and the ſchoolmaſter having aſked the vicar ſeveral queſtions, and found, from his utter incapacity to give a rational anſwer, they ſtood very little chance of knowing the truth—for as to a ſingle tittle to his prejudice, nothing could induce them to credit it—they contented themſelves with de⯑manding his coat, hat, and wig, which were pe⯑remptorily refuſed; the ringleader ſwearing they ſhould be put upon a figure of the vicar, and that very night burnt in effigy.

Seeing that all their attempts to recover theſe ſpoils were in vain, their next care was how to get [58] home their charge, when, fortunately, a tilted cart happening to go by, they called the driver, who knowing them, with great readineſs aſſiſted to con⯑vey the vicar to his vehicle, heartily concerned at his deplorable condition, and vowing revenge againſt thoſe who had reduced him to it.

The cart ſet off one way, and the crowd another, ſhouting in triumph as they bore away their tro⯑phies, and ſwearing to exhibit them upon a pile of faggots as ſoon as it ſhould be dark.

Whether they did ſo or not will be known here⯑after; but not in the next chapter, that being ap⯑propriated for another ſubject. Beſides, the reader may wiſh to be releaſed for a time from the brutes of Little Hockley. Nay it is not impoſſible but he may, in ſome ſmall degree, revolt at theſe latter circumſtances. What a ſhocking indignity to make ſo amiable a man drunk, let him ſwear, and after⯑wards introduce him as a ſcarecrow!

To theſe objections—for I own I am myſelf ſhocked at the facts—I muſt beg to plead that I am only the hiſtorian of theſe tranſactions; but, if I were the inventor, I really think that they are the very cunning of the ſcene; for the more attrocious [59] the Hockley men appear, the more luſtre will be thrown round the worthies of Caſtlewick.

As for the ſwearing, I own I had ſome idea of ſmothering it, but I will prove beyond contra⯑diction that it is natural even in the excellent Mr. Mildman.

The reader cannot wiſh for a more truly moral character to illuſtrate the poſition than Doctor JOHNSON. This great man, we are told by Mr. BOSWEL, while on his tour once made uſe of the words ‘"what the devil:"’—I forget whether it was on that evening the young lady ſat upon his knee, for then there would have been no great improba⯑bility in his feeling the gentleman he mentioned a little buſy:—but he haſtily recalled himſelf, and corrected his expreſſion.

Now ‘"what the devil,"’ from Dr. JOHNSON, perfectly ſober, I inſiſt upon it, is about upon a par with ‘"damn the dog"’ from Mr. Mildman, drunk; for drunkenneſs has the ſame effect upon the ſpirits, whether we fall into it by accident or deſign. Nay drugs and charms may very likely create a ſtronger delirium, and I have no manner of doubt but that if Dr. JOHNSON could that evening have been prevailed upon to drink fermented liquor, [60] it is within bare poſſibility—for I contend for no more—that he might have whiſpered to his friend BOSWELL that the lady was a damned fine girl, or ſome ſuch buckiſhneſs.

CHAPTER IX.

STANDFAST, as ſoon as he underſtood what had been done with the vicar, appeared well enough ſa⯑tisfied, though he did not fail to declare that the matter had been carried a great deal too far. How⯑ever, at the major's in the evening he gave the ſtory in all its perfection; enlarging a little indeed on one article, which was in ſaying that the vicar drank like a fiſh:— ‘'but,' ſaid he, looking very earneſtly at Mrs. Malplaquet, 'few virtues are ſo practicable as people would feign teach us to believe. The detection of one hypocrite has in it merit enough to atone for fifty ſins openly committed. What ſay you major.'’

‘'Why I ſay,' replied the major, 'that hypocriſy is a low ſin; a kind of rank and file vice; and ought to be drumed out of every regiment of ho⯑neſt fellows. Don't you think ſo chicken?' ſaid he to his wife.’

[62] ‘'Certainly I do,' ſaid ſhe, and as no man alive has leſs of that meaneſt of vices than yourſelf, I may the more freely utter my deteſtation of it.’

‘'You may be aſſured the worſt of hypocrites is he who covers his deceit with the practice of other vices. All you can do with ſuch a man is not to truſt him too far: but how dreadful it is to be al⯑ways doubting a man you would wiſh to think well of. You will ſay he keeps you a ſtranger to his hypocriſy, and leaves you almoſt ſecure he is no ſuch character, by openly avowing his other ſins. This very circumſtance ought to excite your ſuſpicion of his honeſty; for what does he ſee in one friend more than another, unleſs per⯑haps to make him his dupe.'’

‘'This may be all very true, madam,' ſaid Stand⯑faſt, 'but I muſt ſay it appears to me to be a very uncharitable kind of judgment: I hope there are no ſuch perſons as you deſcribe.'’

‘'I am ſure ſir I ſhould be as willing to hope ſo as you,' ſaid the lady, 'but I cannot give myſelf that indulgence; for, uncharitable as it may be, I ſtill inſiſt that there is one ſuch character at leaſt in the world.'’

[63] ‘'Come, come, I hope not,' ſaid the major, 'if it were only for the honour of the corps of human nature.'’

‘'Well,' ſaid the lady, 'ſince it has gone ſo far, I beg that I may have leave to prove what I ad⯑vance, merely to clear myſelf from Mr. Standfaſt's imputation of uncharitableneſs.’

‘'I will ſuppoſe a caſe: A gentleman ſhall be in your houſe, as Mr. Standfaſt is; receive your protection, countenance, and friendſhip; and, in the moment you are heaping benefits upon him—in full aſſurance that you count every thing upon his gratitude—ſhall harbour diſhonourable deſigns againſt your wife; ſhall eternally teaze her when ſhe is alone; behave himſelf ſo particular to her in company, that ſhe is obliged to force that de⯑portment into conſtraint which ſhe could wiſh ſhould be cheerfulneſs; and, in the mean time, ſhe dreads to make her perſecutions known, for fear of ill conſequences from the anger of her huſ⯑band. In what order of hypocrites would you claſs this man? What would he deſerve?'’

‘'Deſerve!' cried the major, 'to be flogged till every thread of hemp was worn off the cat o' nine [64] tails. But pray now chicken do you mean this as mere general converſation, or is there any thing intended by it?'’

‘'Oh that is impoſſible,' ſaid Standfaſt, nudging her at the ſame time under the table.’

‘'Perhaps not,' cried the lady, 'enjoying his confuſion; 'at any rate you have no objection to my making it known, I hope.'’

‘'I—no—Oh no madam—I—not the leaſt'—and then recovering himſelf a little—'not the ſmalleſt objection you may be aſſured.'’

‘'Very well ſir,' ſaid Mrs. Malplaquet, 'ſince it is a matter of ſuch perfect indifference to you, I will take an opportunity when I am tete a tete with my huſband, of endeavouring to ſhew him his friends from his enemies. At preſent,' added ſhe, 'I ſhould be obliged to you to ring the bell, it may recover you from your fright.'’

Standfaſt did as he was deſired, the lady's woman made her appearance, and ſhe retired to her cham⯑ber, ſaying, as ſhe went out, ‘'adieu major; and for you Mr. Standfaſt, I wiſh you this and every [65] night as ſweet a repoſe, with all your virtues, as that of Mr. Mildman, with all his hypocriſy.'’

The two gentlemen being left to themſelves, a ſilence of a few minutes enſued. At length the ma⯑jor got up ſuddenly, and having ſhut the door, and locked it, advanced to Standfaſt in a moſt deter⯑mined ſtride, and uttered, in as determined a tone, ‘'Look'e Sir—if I thought I harboured a raſcal in my houſe, I would not wait for a court martial—his ears!—dam'me his ears ſhould in two minutes be nailed againſt the wall, in terrorum to all ſcoundrels who dared to come as ſpies into a gen⯑tleman's camp! That my wife meant ſomething is evident; that ſhe would not run a riſk of ex⯑aſperating me without cauſe is as evident; tell me, therefore, what you know of the matter; for fire me, Mr. Standfaſt, but it ſhall be explained.'’

Standfaſt, who had taken good time to ſort his cards, began now to conſider how he ſhould play his game; and knowing the major's credulity to his ſtrongeſt ſuit, after ſtipulating for a patient hear⯑ing, he thus began.

‘'You very well know, major, you are upwards of ſeventy; whereas your lady is not more than twenty-five. She married you againſt her will, [66] out of mere filial piety; and I ſincerely believe has been as faultleſs in her conduct as ſhe is beau⯑tiful in her perſon. You have often ſaid our ſouls were congenial; and, that though there were no conſanguinity between us, nature made us bro⯑thers. Is it wonderful then I ſhould admire what you do? When the deſertion of a recreant pin has diſplayed her ſpreading boſom, burſting like a lily from its pod, or a friendly ſtile betrayed her taper leg to my view, I will not deny but it has fired my imagination, and in the ſweet mad⯑neſs of that delicious moment, I have been a raſ⯑cal!—have loved your wife!—have told her of it!—’

‘'Oh major! you do not know what it is to che⯑riſh a hopeleſs paſſion: you are happy: you poſ⯑ſeſs the object of your wiſhes, while I pine in de⯑ſpair.'’

‘'In deſpair! ay, and ſo you ought,' cried the major; 'what the devil would the man have? Han't you my friendſhip, my credit, my purſe?'’

‘'None of which I deſerve,' ſaid Standfaſt.’

‘'Why no I think not indeed,' returned the ma⯑jor, 'if you cannot be content without my wife into [67] the bargain. No, no, I chuſe, if you pleaſe ſir, to have her affections to myſelf.'’

‘'Come, come,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'major that is too much; you know ſhe did not marry you for love. She may have a friendſhip for you, but aſſure your⯑ſelf no affection at her age for a man of yours.'’

‘'Why,' grumbled the major, 'there may be ſomething in that, but ſtill ſir that is nothing to you.'’

‘'It is ſo far ſomething to me,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'that it ſerves me to exculpate myſelf; for if ſhe had loved you, I would ſooner have cut my tongue out of my mouth than have ſuffered it even to have whiſpered my paſſion. But you ſee how very excuſeable I am: Younger than you by al⯑moſt twenty years, verſed all my life in the arts of pleaſing women, and you know very well how many I have ſpared you in the charming days of our youth.'’

‘'Well, well,' ſaid the major, 'that I do'nt pre⯑tend to deny.'’

‘'Many a delicious girl,' returned Standfaſt, [68] 'that doted on me have I torn from my own arms to preſent to my friend.'’

‘'So you have—ſo you have'—ſaid the major.’

‘'And what thanks you gave me for it!' ſaid Standfaſt. Don't you remember the little auburn haired wench at Ghent?'’

‘'What the counſellor's wiſe?' cried the major. 'She was a charming woman, by my faith. Come give me ſome wine. I wonder what is become of her?'’

‘'I don't know,' ſaid Standfaſt; 'but major nei⯑ther you nor I boggled at her being married, that I recollect.’

‘'True, true,' cried the major,' but that you know was a different affair.'’

‘'It was indeed,' returned Standfaſt, 'for I inſiſt upon it I ſhewed myſelf, in that inſtance, capable of a more exalted friendſhip than you are; for I loved her, poſſeſſed her, and yet gave her up to you: deprived myſelf of a ſweet felicity to oblige my friend. Ah major you never got the ſtart of [69] me but in this laſt buſineſs. How different things uſed to be. The gayeſt, the moſt accompliſhed yielded to me in the art of pleaſing, and till I was ſatisfied none dared attempt to make a choice.—Now, a fooliſh woman, who loves neither of us, is to ſow diſſention between two friends, who are all the world to each other.'’

‘'Dam'me,' cried the major, 'but ſhe ſhall not; and if it was only a miſtreſs, curſe me if I don't think that tongue of yours would prevail with me not to ſtand upon niceties: but you know, Stand⯑faſt, as it is'’

‘'Oh,' cried the chaplain, 'however miſerable I may be, I will conſume in ſilence rather than ut⯑ter another ſyllable.'’

‘'Well that is friendly, ſaid the major. How⯑ever,' returned the chaplain, 'I hope you will lay an injunction on Mrs. Malplaquet to treat me with civility.'’

‘'Oh you may depend upon that,' anſwered the major.’

‘'And I think,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'I may venture [70] to inſiſt that I am not the hypocrite the lady has thought proper to call me.'’ ‘'I'll anſwer for that,' ſaid the major.’

‘'No, no,' repeated the chaplain, 'any ſcoundrel if you pleaſe, Mrs. Malplaquet, but a hypocrite.'’

After this, upon aſking the major if there was any remaining animoſity, his patron ſhook him heartily by the hand, and ſwore he believed him to be the worthieſt fellow upon earth; ‘'for where,' ſaid he, 'is there another man who, being in love with your wife, would have the honeſty to con⯑feſs it to your face?'’

Having brought this dialogue between tame cre⯑dulity and unbluſhing impudence to an end, I ſhall only add that this worthy friendſhip ſeemed to be ſtronger cemented by what had paſſed.

The remainder of the converſation turned on their former exploits, in which Standfaſt did not loſe ſight of the main point; but enlarged wherever he could on the ſatisfaction he had always received in adminiſtering to the major's pleaſures.

At length the major was led off to bed in much [71] about the ſame ſtate of inebriety as the reader may remember to have ſeen Mr. Mildman.

Before I take my leave of this chapter, I ſhall ſay a word or two concerning Mrs. Malplaquet.

This lady, who was one of thoſe living ſacrifices which avarice offers up at the ſhrine of intereſt, had, to ſay the truth, a very difficult taſk to per⯑form. Her parents, though ſprung from an ho⯑nourable family, were of a younger branch, and, therefore, could give her but a thouſand pounds. The only man ſhe ever loved had deſerted her, for a pert piece of deformity with juſt thirty times that ſum. Thus, being perfectly indifferent what be⯑came of herſelf, ſhe gave her hand, as the good chaplain has already kindly noticed, to the major, out of perfect obedience to her friends.

The life ſhe had led ſince—the only pleaſurable moments of which were thoſe ſhe paſſed alone—may be eaſily gueſſed. The audacious importunities of Standfaſt were much bolder than either he or ſhe had deſcribed; and he having repeated them in ſome way that night ſo as extremely to offend her—though ſhe was remarkable for complacency and ſweetneſs of temper—her anger had ſo far got the better of her forbearance, as to force from her that [72] declaration of Standfaſt's diſhonourable intentions, which the reader has already ſeen he contrived, by the power he had over his patron, ſo to palliate as to leave her the object of reſentment rather than him.

I mention this for fear Mrs. Malplaquet, for whom I would wiſh to intereſt the reader, ſhould be wrong⯑fully ſuppoſed to be one of thoſe outrageouſly vir⯑tuous ladies who are eternally ſinging forth their own praiſes, leſt the world, from its natural uncha⯑ritableneſs, ſhould unkindly imagine they are en⯑titled to no praiſe at all:—a practice at preſent in great and general credit. And really I do not ſee why it ſhould not; for who ſo proper to be the he⯑rald of a man's merits as himſelf? ſince he is ſurely competent to ſpeak to his own motives, from a thorough knowledge of whence they originate. And if he ſhould turn the beſt ſide outward, it ought to be conſidered as a meritorious expedient to put him⯑ſelf upon a footing with his neighbour, and ſo pay him in his own coin; appearance being as requiſite to eſtabliſh one ſort of reputation as paper to eſta⯑bliſh another; neither of which could ſuſtain any ſo⯑lid credit without ſuch aſſiſtance: for honour is a commerce as well as buſineſs, and ſuch ideal re⯑ſources often prevent bankruptcies in both.

CHAPTER X.

THE worthy curate, in his way home, exulting at this new inſtance of his influence over the major, ut⯑tered, or rather I believe reflected, the following ſo⯑liloquy.

‘'Zounds what an eſcape!—but it is nothing to a genius like mine. Poor dolt, how gloriouſly I ride him! As to madam, I fancy ſhe'll tell no more tales. This is reducing things to a ſyſtem: but I always ſaid it. To palliate an accuſation, if you take a man by that foible his generoſity, you are ſure to be ſafe. Men are always liberal when there is nothing required but words.’

‘'But to expedients. This woman is a fool: I had a ſcheme to her advantage. Her huſband cannot live long, eſpecially as I drench him, and would ſhe join me, we might make a comfortable thing on't when once I ſhould have preached his funeral ſermon. Well, if ſhe will kick down her [74] baſket of glaſs ware, that is her buſineſs. I will try her however once more. I am ſecure from any impertinent tattling. The major will hear no more complaints. If ſhe comes to, I ſhall be charmed; for, to ſay the truth, ſhe is a lovely wo⯑man: if not, ſhall I ſtake my intereſt againſt her folly? No, not were ſhe a Venus.’

‘'To-morrow I will begin the attack, and if ſhe ſhould not capitulate in a week, I will then appear to raiſe the ſiege; but it ſhall be only to prepare a mine, which, when once ſprung, ſhall either de⯑ſtroy her, or make her priſoner at the mercy of her conqueror: in which caſe ſhe will not find in me the continence of POMPEY or ALEXANDER.—No, no, my buſineſs is to talk of virtue; let fools practiſe it, who are content to take it for their re⯑ward.'’

Whether all or any part of Standfaſt's plan was put in execution will hereafter be ſeen. When he came to the above period, he had juſt finiſhed his meditation and his walk, and having knocked at his door, was let in by his confidential ſervant, who beat Scrub out of ſight, in point of variety in his employments; for as Scrub had one employment for every day in the week, Mr. Fluſh—for that was his name—had one for almoſt every day in the year. [75] Nor, to ſay the truth, was there ever any perſon better cut out for a great man's appendage, for I hope the reader already allows Mr. Standfaſt to be a great man; and as to Mr. Fluſh, or Mr. Kiddy Fluſh—for he had alſo a nick name—if a fork be ne⯑ceſſary to a knife, fuel to a fire, a ſcabbard to a ſword, a bucket to a well, a bailiff to an attorney, or a bully to a bawd, the ſervices of that faithful ad⯑herent were eſſentially material and abſolutely ne⯑ceſſary to his worthy principal: nay I queſtion if Kiddy was not very near, if not altogether as great an original as his maſter.

As, however, my opinion is of very little conſe⯑quence if my good reader does not coincide with it, I think it abſolutely incumbent on me to delineate the portrait of the ſaid Fluſh, or Kiddy—for he was as often called one as the other—ſo let the claim to ſuperiority reſt either on the ſide of the man or maſ⯑ter, as it ſhall appear by the drawing; and as it is uſual in portraits to illuſtrate the character by ſome cymbolical ornament, through the means of which you can lay your finger on the canvas and ſay this is a general, for he has a truncheon in his hand, and this a butcher, for he has a noſegay in his boſom, ſo will I give the like infallible traits to know the characteriſtic marks of Kiddy's moſt ſtriking qua⯑lities.

[76] As to his perſon, it was, for his ſize—for he was only four feet eleven inches high—the moſt compact that ever was ſeen; but then, as if nature had been fearful, had ſhe finiſhed the front of this well pro⯑portioned ſtructure equal to the reſt of the work, leſt ſhe ſhould have been tempted to have thrown down her tools in deſpair, his face was the moſt ſin⯑gular piece of deformity that can be conceived.

His noſe and chin, like the head and tail of a weathercock, pointed different ways; yet not eaſt and weſt, nor north and ſouth, but to the zenith and nadir.

Some were of opinion that he had no mouth when he was born, but that the operator had made an inciſion to ſerve for one; and that being in a hurry, and his ſciſſors none of the ſharpeſt, he had not only cut it in an oblique direction, from the right ſide of the under jaw up to the left cheek bone, but alſo zig zag; ſo that when he laughed—indeed laugh he never did—but when he grinned—for his teeth were pretty even, which lends probability to the buſineſs of the inciſion—

But pray excuſe me from relating how he looked when he grinned, till I have deſcribed his eyes; one of which, the left, was ſmaller than the other, and [77] whether it envied the ſuperior ſize of its neighbour, or was awed by conſcious humility at its own inſig⯑nificance, I really cannot ſay, but it fairly ſlunk into the oppoſite corner, without even deigning, or perhaps daring, to caſt one ſingle glance to the right, while the other, in triumphant pride, rolled, or ra⯑ther goggled about, and appeared itſelf an Argus, looking a hundred ways at once.

To theſe unlovely marks—which in females are called certificates for their honeſty—I muſt add that Kiddy was frightfully ſeamed with the ſmall pox, and that he received no addition in point of beauty from an exploſion of gunpowder when he was abroad, which ſtript the ſkin off his face, except on a ſmall part of one of his cheeks, and one or two other places; and thereby left ſuch a violent redneſs for ever after, that his face looked ſomething like a rump ſteak, or rather like red ochre in the grinding, in which, if you take up the muller, you may ſee an appearance like branches of trees, which anſwers exactly to ſeams of the ſmall pox; or, to add one more ſimile, which ſhall take in beard and all—for his beard, like that of Hudibras, was orange tawny—his complexion was like a red wine ſyllabub, where here and there appears a ſplotch of white curd, the whole gently tinged with a ſprinkling of nutmeg.

[78] As to the grinning, after I have ſaid ſo much, I think I ſhould affront the reader by deſcribing it. He knows every feature now as well as I do, and if he chuſes to call up a grin in his imagination, and when he has ſo done, does not grin himſelf, I can only ſay he is not the reader I took him for.

Kiddy Fluſh had been employed from his youth up to beat the drum, diſtribute the bills, and ſlang the figures of a puppet ſhew, where he had learnt a ſmattering of every thing. He could ſcrape the fid⯑dle, vault on the ſlack wire, ſwear a good round hand, coax the girls, get boozy, and I am afraid thieve; for if he had not this laſt qualification, I cannot ſee why they ſhould ſend him hand-cuffed, which they really did, on board a tranſport whoſe deſtination was to the American plantations.

In ſhort, not to conceal the diſgrace, Kiddy was certainly tranſported to America; from whence he contrived to get re-tranſported to Ireland. There he found means to get engaged as a drummer in the ſame regiment where Standfaſt was chaplain. In⯑deed Kiddy Fluſh was the very perſon who taught Tiger Standfaſt to beat that reveille, which has been already celebrated as a chef d'oeuvre.

Were I to run through all the ſcenes ſo full of [79] ſrolic, whim, diſſipation, and ſingular diſſoluteneſs, which were practiſed by this trim tram, this horſe and his rider, I might as well at once have given the world the adventures of Tiger Standfaſt and his man Kiddy; but as that is not totally my intention, I ſhall content myſelf with noticing that theſe worthy aſſociates, finding themſelves very neceſſary to each other, a league was entered into between them, that mutual aſſiſtance ſhould be given—to put the matter a little technically—in all breezes, friſks, plots, queerings, tricks, humbugs, and bambouzlings, that they might find it expedient to engage in; that the agreement ſhould be underſtood as a partnerſhip between them, with this ſole diſtinction, that Fluſh ſhould be openly conſidered as a ſervant, and in that character be kept in ſubordination before company, but permitted to ſpeak his mind freely, openly, and without reſerve when nobody ſhould be preſent.

Kiddy Fluſh, at the time of his firſt introduction to the reader—for nothing is ſo advantageous as to bring on your principal characters with a good grace,—was what is called half gone; in his own language a little cockiſh: for I muſt tell the reader—and that is really the laſt explanation I will trouble him with about Kiddy—that, among the reſt of his oddities, his choice of words was the moſt ſingular. It was compoſed of the cant terms of both his profeſſions, [80] to which he occaſionally added a miſerable pun, and now and then a little bad French, which he had picked up on his travels; the whole interlarded with new-fangled oaths.

Kiddy had juſt been witneſs to a curious ſcene in the village, and was burſting to diſcloſe it to his maſter on his arrival. At the ſame time it muſt be remembered that Standfaſt's head was entirely filled with what had paſſed at the major's.

Kiddy then ſcarcely ſuffered his maſter to ſit down before he began with ‘'I ſay maſter, there has been rum gig going forward this evening.'’ ‘'Gig, what do you mean?' ſaid Standfaſt:’ his mind ſtill running on his late adventure. ‘'Nay nothing,' ſaid Fluſh, 'no rang, only we had like to have come off with tats, that's all. Shiver me if we had not been cute, we ſhould ſome of us have taken a leap without nobody to hold the blanket.'’

Standfaſt thinking he alluded to the ſcrape he had ſo narrowly got out of, replied, ‘'why how the devil came you to know any thing about it?'’ ‘'Why Lord love you,' ſaid Kiddy, 'I know the whole manoeuvre of the thing, and I muſt ſay it was bunglingly managed.'’ ‘'Bunglingly!' ſaid Stand⯑faſt; 'dam'me if I think any man in the world [81] ever drew himſelf out of ſuch a hobble with half ſo much grace. To have them both upon me, the old ſoldier and his wife!'’

‘'Why maſter, what are you upon?' ſaid Fluſh. 'The jonſe I means ben't no old ſoldiers, nor their wives; but a parcel of ſheep biting poltroons—flats—mazards—who, inſtead of pelting it out like hearties, ſneaked away to the boozing caſes, and left the enemy maſters of the champ of battle.'’

He here acquainted Standfaſt that, at the moment of exhibiting the effigy of the vicar on its funeral pile, a party of heroes from Caſtlewick, who had heard from the clerk and the ſchoolmaſter of the in⯑dignity intended to be offered to their worthy paſtor, ruſhed in, ſaved thoſe precious relics from the flames, and bore them off in triumph; while the affrighted Hockleymen fled amazed, ſcarcely offer⯑ing to reſiſt:—and it was well they did, for the vi⯑car's adherents would have died on the ſpot rather than have yielded.

‘'However,' ſaid Fluſh, 'for the honour of the cauſe I rallied the ſcums, and ſpoke a ſpeech to them, as near as I can remember, in theſe um here words.’

[82] ‘'Says I—Splinter your joints, what are you about? Will you, after this, pretend to call your⯑ſelves hearty culls, rum codgers, or valiant dickies? You lump the Caſtlewickites!—you be damned. Don't you ſee the queer kids have made off with the toggies! But, however, this here I will ſay—you had no maulers, and they took you by ſurprize. Don't be down hearted then. To day is for them: to-morrow may be for us. Kal⯑lenge them nolens volens to the field: fifty againſt fifty, like worthies. Thump it out kindly; and then if you loſe, why you die like cocks, and we will ſing tiddium over your graves. What ſay you my good maſter to my horation? Was it not great, high, and crackiſh?'’

‘'Oh very great indeed, General Fluſh,' returned Standfaſt. 'What effect had it?'’ ‘'Effect!' ex⯑claimed Fluſh, 'Dam'me it took like a train. In an hour the kallenge was ſent, a categorical re⯑turned, and to-morrow at five we beat to arms.’

‘'Bravo!' cried Standfaſt; 'but remember I know nothing of this. Stay, a thought ſtrikes me: I can make this matter of uſe: my pretty piece of temptation yonder is ſqueamiſh: I will think on't: but it is late. Good night Fluſh:—[83] hearten your ſoldiers, and don't forget that I muſt be a ſtranger to the whole buſineſs.'’

The maſter and man here parted; the one went to ſnooze, as he called it, and the other to meditate how he could make this accident of advantage to him.

In this ſituation, if the reader pleaſe, we will leave them, and return to the major's, late as it is; as I am anxious to make known what paſſed in the mind of Mrs. Malplaquet, after ſhe retired to her appart⯑ment.

That lady had a moſt faithful and honeſt friend in her handmaid Emma, who was almoſt as ſingular a character as Fluſh, though a perfect contraſt, for nothing in nature could be more harmleſs.

Emma was the daughter of a bookſeller in Lon⯑don, who having a large family, and being in no very flouriſhing circumſtances, was prevailed on to put her out as a lady's companion. An advantage⯑ous recommendation brought her into the care of Mrs. Malplaquet, where ſhe had been now retained for almoſt three years; in which time ſhe had made herſelf ſo neceſſary and ſo agreeable to her lady, that [84] nothing I believe could have prevailed on her to part with ſo valuable an acquiſition.

What made her company ſo particularly deſir⯑able, was the aſtoniſhing fund of information ſhe had treaſured up, by ſitting in her father's ſhop. Her mind was a kind of circulating library in little, and I ſincerely wiſh romances were always attended with the ſame good effects they produced in her; for there is ſcarcely a good moral inculcated by them that ſhe did not act up to. Not that ſhe had not formed a decided opinion of writings as well as writers; but ſhe rarely broached that opinion, think⯑ing with Madam DACIER that ſilence was the beſt ornament of the female ſex. It was evident, how⯑ever, that it was wiſely and judiciouſly choſen, for at the head of her favourite authors ſhe placed Dr. JOHNSON; though I rather think her great admira⯑tion of him muſt have been as a critic, for the Doc⯑tor is known to have entertained a rooted diſlike to mythology, and indeed every figurative writing which does not ſquare with what he calls truth and morality; whereas Emma maintained that morality being the nobleſt drift of literature, thoſe writings were the moſt perfect which brought virtue into dan⯑ger, that ſhe might riſe the more triumphant; and that ſuch productions received an additional force and beauty from allegory and mythological alluſion.

[85] The various merits of our literary Abigail will gradually unfold themſelves as we go on. I thought it neceſſary to ſay ſo much, to account for Mrs. Mal⯑plaquet's determination of diſcloſing to her the bu⯑ſineſs of Standfaſt's audacity, and to adviſe with her what ſteps ſhe ſhould take.

Emma heard the whole affair with great delibe⯑ration, and, pauſing for ſome moments, her lady aſked her of what ſhe was conſidering?

‘'I am looking, madam,' ſaid ſhe, 'over the ca⯑talogue of my mind, to ſee if I have ever read any thing like it, and, upon recollection, the ſame thing occurs in the Nonjuror, one of CIBBER's plays; which is taken from the Tartuffe of MO⯑LIERE; who had it I believe from PLAUTUS:—and if I might adviſe, you ſhould ſerve your parſon as the lady in that play does hers.'’

‘'How is that?' ſaid Mrs. Malplaquet, 'for I re⯑ally forget.'’ ‘'Why madam,' replied Emma, 'ſhe pretends to be caught in his ſnare, while ſhe is laying one for him; and placing her huſband ſo as to over-hear a pretended love ſcene between them, his villany is detected, and he is turned out of the houſe.’

[86] ‘'I like the idea,' ſaid the lady 'of all things in the world, and, with thy aſſiſtance am ready to ſet about it. But how Emma if he ſhould turn the tables upon us? for he is very ſubtle.'’ ‘'I know it very well madam,' ſaid Emma, 'for at this moment he is making as ſtrong love to me as to yourſelf; but I promiſe you he finds me a very Pamela.'’

The lady expreſſed ſome ſurprize at this intelli⯑gence, and aſked her maid if ſhe was not uneaſy at it.

‘'On the contrary,' cried Emma, 'I am charm⯑ed; for to reſiſt temptation is the proper exerciſe of virtue, and ſerves as a kind of moral penance to ſtrengthen us in our duty. Oh I aſſure you madam you need not be uneaſy: one look from virtue, though a lamb, will as ſurely make vice crouch, as the lion did at the ſight of Una.'’

By this time Mrs. Malplaquet was undreſt, and ſoon after her maid retired; which opportunity I ſhall ſeize to account for my having given two ſuch ſubordinate characters as Fluſh and Emma ſo parti⯑cular an introduction.

To ſay the truth then, I think that, though the [87] clown ſhould ſay no more than is ſet down for him, yet he ſhould ſay all that is ſet down for him. The devil has been conſidered by ſome as the principal character in Paradiſe Loſt. Comus on all hands is allowed to have the better of the lady. Will any one pretend to ſay Don Quixote would be any thing without Sancho. In all the Spaniſh plays the ſer⯑vants are the principal characters, and I have heard the ſoldier in WEST's General Wolfe ſpoken of as the beſt figure in the groupe. Emma would have de⯑fended this argument by ſaying that Honor is drawn in as maſterly a ſtyle as Sophia; and Fluſh would have told you that both man and maſter were human puppets, moved by the ſame ſlangs. In ſhort, I write for all readers, and I hope I have ſcarcely a character but ſome one or other will pitch upon for my hero.

CHAPTER XI.

THE challenge from the Hockleymen having been, as Mr. Fluſh informed us, accepted by the Caſtle⯑wickites, a large plain, known by the name of the cricket green, ſituated near the high road, about midway between the two villages, was pitched upon for the ſcene of action. Thither repaired the com⯑batants; and there were they drawn up in battle ar⯑ray, every man poiſing his hedgeſtake, when a gen⯑tleman in a poſt chaiſe and four, who had ordered the poſtilion to mend his pace, when he firſt ſaw a mob aſſembled, came up, and cried out in a pretty authoritative voice, that if the inhabitants of Caſtle⯑wick did not deſiſt, they ſhould loſe his favour for ever.

The Caſtlewickites expected a very different word of command. Finding however their preſent ge⯑neral to be no other than Sir Sidney, they thought proper to throw down what Mr. Fluſh called mau⯑lers. Upon this the Hockley men began to ſpring [89] forward with an exulting ſhout and would have dealt death among their unarmed enemies had not another authoritative voice commanded a ſuſpenſion of hoſtilities on their part.

This voice proceeded from no leſs a perſon than Mr. Fluſh, who having deliberately weighed the probable conſequence of ſuch violent proceedings, began to think they would not be altogether ſo con⯑ſiſtent with prudence. He conſidered that the quar⯑rel had originated with Standfaſt, and that there would be enough to do, without this new outrage, to ſet matters to rights about the vicar. It was therefore his buſineſs, in quality of his maſter's friend—by means of which he knew he ſhould be alſo his own—to ſoften matters; and having an ex⯑cellent opportunity, owing to this piece of cowar⯑dice on the part of his adherents, he holloed out, as loud as his ſhrill pipe would permit him—

‘'Why, pink your livers, what are going for to do? Would ye, ſtiffen your timbers, go for to be ſuch poltroons as to bruſh the jackets of a parcel of naked men! Don't you ſee they have canted away their whackers?'’

Then ſpeaking in a lower tone to his lieutenant general—ſaid he ‘'The ſhew is over, we muſt let [90] down the rug: ſo do you parley to the hearties, while I palaver the old rum kid yonder.'’

Upon this he came up to Sir Sidney, and was be⯑ginning to ſtate the caſe in a very advantageous way to his maſter and himſelf, when their attention was drawn off by a violent ſcreaming at a ſhort diſtance. Directing their eyes to where the ſound proceeded from, they ſaw a coach overturned, to which Sir Sidney ran, and was indeed followed by the whole mob, friends and enemies.

The coach belonged to Major Malplaquet, and there were in it, at the time of this accident, that gentleman, his lady, and the reverend Mr. Standfaſt. Neither the lady nor the curate received any mate⯑rial injury, but the major's head had pitched againſt a ragged ſtone, by which means his ſkull was dan⯑gerouſly fractured.

The combatants, their cauſe of quarrel, and every other conſideration was now abſorbed in this me⯑lancholy accident.

The major was with difficulty liſted into his coach, where Sir Sidney, who had never ſeen him before, offered to accompany him; recommending his chaiſe to Mrs. Malplaquet, into which Mr. [91] Standfaſt very politely offered to accompany her, with a view, as he ſaid, of keeping up her ſpirits.

The lady however thought proper to refuſe both offers, and inſiſted upon going with her huſband. She, however, did not neglect to thank Sir Sidney with tears for his kind concern, which indeed was as manifeſt as if the wounded perſon had been his own brother; for he had by this time diſpatched three ſervants to different ſurgeons. Not but Mr. Standfaſt appeared in ſome concern too, but the glances he caſt at the lady, and the opera tune he ſoftly whiſtled while he aſſiſted his dying patron, pretty well evinced that his mind ran rather upon the future than the preſent.

Sir Sidney would not leave the major a moment, but ſupported him in the coach with the utmoſt care and tenderneſs all the way home, where by the time they arrived, and the major was put to bed, arrived alſo two of the ſurgeons, who agreed that the ma⯑jor had not many hours to live. They however bled him, prepared bandages, and one of them be⯑gan to prepare for the operation of the trepan: re⯑ſolved that their patient ſhould go out of the world ſecundum artem. They were, however, diſappoint⯑ed; for falling into a delirium, he erupted a blood [92] veſſel—which one of the ſurgeons very judiciouſly obſerved muſt have been injured by the fall—and was inſtantly ſuffocated.

Mrs. Malplaquet did not faint away, nor even go into hyſterics, upon this occaſion: ſhe felt however very ſeverely. It is true her tears did not prevent her from thanking Sir Sidney; on the contrary ſhe acknowledged his ſingular goodneſs in terms of the moſt lively gratitude; yet her grief, though it ap⯑peared only decent and proper, was from the heart. She, no more than the vicar, would have wiſhed the deſtruction of the vileſt reptile; and though ſhe never regarded the major with the ardour of love, yet he had ever been kind, and ſhe grateful.

I ſhall paſs over the funeral, at which Sir Sidney, by a particular invitation from Mrs. Malplaquet, was preſent, and only ſay that when all proper ce⯑remonies and decent ſolemnities were over, the wi⯑dow, after paying ſome legacies—the principal of which was three thouſand pounds to the Reverend Mr. Standfaſt, as a trifling acknowledgment of his diſintereſted and honourable attachment—for the chaplain had frequently hinted that if a man left any thing to a friend, it had better be in money, which would prevent litigation. The widow, I ſay, after [93] diſcharging theſe obligations, found herſelf in the poſſeſſion of a plentiful fortune.

One circumſtance, however, I muſt not fail to mention, which is that Mr. Mildman, at the deſire of Mrs. Malplaquet, preached the funeral ſermon. Nor can I avoid noticing that Sir Sidney furniſhed the epitaph, which was no more than what follows: ‘HERE are depoſited the Remains of
MAJOR MALPLAQUET,
Who feared his Maker,
Served his Country,
And left a grateful Widow to lament his Death,
And celebrate his inferior Virtues.
He died March the 1ſt, 1751.
Aged 71 Years.’

This epitaph Emma declared to be perfect in all its requiſites; for it told who was the perſon buried, and very conciſely pointed out his good qualities: you alſo learnt by it when he died, and how old he was. Nay, ſo much was ſhe pleaſed, that ſhe doubted not, if it had been written in latin, but that Dr. JOHNSON himſelf muſt have been perfectly content with it. For her part, ſhe liked it as well as it was; and that for a very good reaſon, as ſhe humbly conceived, namely, becauſe ſhe did not un⯑derſtand [94] latin. Indeed ſhe owned that this was one of the ſpots that candour obliged her to acknow⯑ledge were now and then to be diſcovered in the doctor. He was very angry that Dr. SMOLLET's epitaph was not written in latin; and when he went into an apothecary's ſhop with Mr. BOSWELL, in⯑ſtead of aſking for ſome trifling medicine he had oc⯑caſion, for, he called for paper, pen, and ink, and wrote it down in latin.

Theſe manners and opinions ſhe thought—for nobody was ſo open to conviction as Emma—were upon erudition what ruſt is upon a coin, which no one knows the value of but the poſſeſſor.

Nothing could be ſo clear, ſhe ſaid, as what ſhe advanced. It was not every body's lot to be bleſt with ſo much learning as the doctor, which ſhe maintained was very fortunate; for if all men were arrived at ſuch perfection as himſelf, and were able like him of advancing incontrovertible ipſe dixits, argument would be at an end, and of courſe litera⯑ture along with it. But, as he was the only one who had ever pretended to be infallible, and who cer⯑tainly was ſo, except in a few trifling points like this, it might ſo happen that latin epitaphs would prove a ſarcaſm where they were meant to be a pa⯑negyric; for to praiſe a dead perſon in a language [95] he was unacquainted with while living, though a tacit, would be a very ſtrong ſatire; beſides being a cruel inconvenience to his family, who muſt, in this caſe, be obliged to get the parſon to conſtrue the virtues of the deceaſed, who, after all, perhaps might not be able to do it off hand. She therefore clearly apprehended, that as Dr. JOHNSON had iſ⯑ſued a literary bill, enacting that an epitaph could not be perfect which did not mention the particu⯑lars before rehearſed, the next infallible writer—if ever this country ſhould be bleſt with another, ſhould be petitioned to move, by way of rider, that, for the benefit of the public in general, all ſuch epi⯑taphs ſhould be done in Engliſh. ‘'But,' ſaid ſhe, finiſhing her harrangue, 'dear Doctor JOHNSON put me in mind at laſt of DOMITIUS AFER, who would be an orator when he could no longer be audible, and of whom QUINTILIAN ſaid that he would rather ſail than deſiſt.'’

It is now high time I ſhould account for that ſtrange jumble of accidents which, in ſo ſhort a time, ſaved an hundred men from bodily hurt, and yet killed another, who had no concern at all in the fray.

The reader will recollect that Standfaſt had a ſcheme in agitation. It was this: He knew Mrs. [96] Malplaquet to be of a moſt tender and compaſſionate temper, and he thought he could wound her through this weak ſide. He had therefore lured the major and her out, by way of an afternoon's ride, intend⯑ing, when they arrived at the field of battle, to ex⯑claim againſt the barbarity of the diſputants, to jump out of the carriage, and to inſiſt on their going peaceably home.

This he thought the lady would take in ſuch a light as muſt greatly forward his deſigns. The con⯑templation of this ſcheme on his ſide, and the hopes of detecting him on the ſide of Mrs. Malplaquet, made them, on that afternoon, better ſatisfied with each other than they had been a long time, and gave the major ſuch real pleaſure, that he declared, as they were in the carriage, that he never paſſed ſo happy a day in his life, without divining, poor man, that it would be his laſt.

Mr. Standfaſt's kind intentions were, however, foreſtalled by Sir Sidney, who, through an unex⯑pected diſſolution of parliament, was poſting down to be rechoſen for the borough of Neitherſide.

Thus are men ſaved or deſtroyed by the turn of a ſtraw. Thus the villagers ſlept in whole ſkins: thus the major was hurried into the other world: thus [97] were the deſigns of Mr. Standfaſt fruſtrated: and thus—for I cannot longer refrain from declaring it—did Sir Sidney ſee that phantom we formerly ſpoke of: that diſturber of his peace, to whom he longed to open his mind.

This is the ſecret I hinted to the reader at the end of the ſixth chapter, and I only deſire to be reſolved, had I then divulged it—and thereby have neglected to bring him acquainted with the heartburnings of the two villages, the contraſt between the two par⯑ſons, the ſingular friendſhip of Standfaſt and the major, the amiable caſt of Mrs. Malplaquet, the ex⯑traordinary qualities of her maid, the wonderful and ſurpriſing talents of Mr. Fluſh, and every other perſon or thing that conduced to bring about that event which introduced Sir Sidney to Mrs. Malpla⯑quet—whether it would not have been doing things in a bungling and unworkmanlike manner?

Beſides I have now no further trouble with theſe people; the reader is perfectly acquainted with them, and if, in future, they ſhould be thrown in his way, let them ſpeak for themſelves.

To be ſure had they never appeared at all, Sir Sidney might have been heart-whole; but ſince a number of circumſtances are likely to grow out of [98] this accidental interview, I have even given it as it happened; and ſhall now tell the reader when time had fully confirmed the baronet in his firſt opi⯑nion of the widow, that ſhe was a very handſome, and, what was more to him, a very valuable wo⯑man, he reſolved to throw his fortune into her lap, and his perſon into her arms: and for this purpoſe he was determined to make her a propoſal to that effect as ſoon as decency ſhould permit it.

Several reaſons urged him to this: firſt, there was a ſecret, which, to make amends for my late tranſ⯑greſſion, ſhall be almoſt immediately diſcloſed to the reader.

Perhaps my readineſs to indulge him may be at⯑tributed to malevolence; becauſe, in doing ſo, I ſhall be obliged to ſhew a ſpeck in the character of Sir Sidney, which to ſome may appear black, place it in what light I will. To this accuſation, however, I plead not guilty; ſolemnly declaring, that, in the moſt unrighteous moments of his life, I truly be⯑lieve he had as reaſonable a ſtock of piety as any biſhop would deſire; as much temperance, ſober⯑neſs, and chaſtity, even in his very exceſſes, as a gouty alderman under a regimen; and, at any rate, as little deſire of doing an injury to man, woman, or child as a Lord Chancellor.

[99] This however need not hinder the reader from exerciſing his own judgment, which I not only de⯑ſire he may do, but alſo with the moſt critical care and nicety; and when all the circumſtances, dan⯑gers, temptations, motives, and inducements, are clearly and fairly examined, if he ſhould not acquit Sir Sidney of every thing worſe than venial frailty, I muſt honeſtly take ſhame to myſelf for having palmed on the world, as an exemplary character, a mere mortal, made up of fleſh and blood, and ſub⯑ject to wiſhes, inclinations, and deſires, like other men.

I could ſay certainly that the very excellence of Sir Sidney's heart ſprung from having as vigorous and turbulent paſſions as any rake in chriſtendom, and never having improperly given them the reins, but once, in his life. But ſome of my readers may think that once too much. And as a blot at back⯑gammon is no blot till it is hit, and a blot of ink is the eaſier diſcoverable in proportion to the whiteneſs of the paper on which it falls; and as an atom is not only magnified, but more deformed, by being ſeen through a microſcope, ſo I fear this one fault will intrude itſelf on the reader's remembrance, in the very act of relieving diſtreſſed genius, or wiping a tear from the cheek of an orphan. If it ſhould be [100] ſo, I muſt ſubmit; for a reader, like a pope, is in⯑fallible, and from his fiat there is no appeal.

The ſtory of Sir Sidney's incontinence—for in⯑continence it was, and ſuch things, like murder, will out—ſhall be told in the next chapter, which will finiſh the firſt book of this hiſtory; and while the reader takes time to conſider what heinous crime this can poſſibly be, let me beſpeak his charity by informing him that Sir Sidney being once foreman of a grand jury, whom the judge recommended to find a bill againſt a murderer, becauſe, as he ſaid, ſuch and ſuch circumſtances were, which could not have been yet proved, anſwered with an honeſt fer⯑vour,— ‘'My Lord, in my opinion the pre-judgment of an offence is half as criminal as the commiſſion of it.'’

CHAPTER XII.

WE are now going to enter upon action, every thing already related having happened previous to the time when the reader and I entered the rookery; or, as Mr. Bayes has it, long before the beginning of this play. We there left Sir Sidney apparently poſſeſſed of every comfort upon earth, and yet un⯑happy. This ſeeming paradox has been partly ac⯑counted for; but let us hope, as Mrs. Malplaquet is now entirely miſtreſs of herſelf, that the bar to the completion of the baronet's wiſhes may be re⯑moved.

The major has now been dead nearly a twelve-month, and Sir Sidney has had many opportunities of confirming himſelf in the good opinion he origi⯑nally entertained of the widow; but as, at his time of life, marriage was no maygame, he honeſtly ſo⯑licited to be acquainted with every ſecret of her [102] heart, frankly offering to encourage her by laying open the exact ſituation of his own.

Mrs. Malplaquet liked the propoſal ſo well, that ſhe did not heſitate to give him every information concerning herſelf, which I formerly gave the rea⯑der; not forgetting to own, with an ingenuous frankneſs, that ſhe had loved before; and though, were ſhe to form a character, ſhe knew of no qua⯑lity ſhe would wiſh to make a part of it that Sir Sid⯑ney did not perfectly poſſeſs, yet that warmth of af⯑fection which ſhe had formerly cheriſhed would ne⯑ver again, ſhe ſincerely believed, take place in her heart.

Sir Sidney ſcarcely heard her to an end, when he exclaimed— ‘'Madam, in opening my own heart, I ſhould have uſed the very ſame words. I have loved, and will imitate you by confeſſing that the object of my affection, whether alive or dead, is ſtill dear to me. Your reſemblance of her firſt induced my admiration of you, and the conſonance of your ſentiments with hers, inſpired me with an eſteem of the trueſt kind, which perhaps, in marriage, more ſecurely enſures happineſs than what is generally called love.’

‘'To conſide in your tender boſom the ſecret of [103] my paſſion is now my duty, and if you will have the patience to hear me, I ſhall ſhew you that thoſe who are capable of moſt tenderneſs, are effectively the leaſt happy:—but, as old AESOP ſaid when Prometheus took the clay to form man, he tem⯑pered it with tears.'’

The lady teſtified great impatience, and the ba⯑ronet proceeded to ſatisfy her in the following words.

‘'Being about ten years ago in the ſouth of France, I became acquainted with a gentleman of the name of Le Clerc. He had a daughter, who, at the time I firſt viſited in the family, was juſt come home from a convent. Converſations between French and Engliſh too often turn on the ſubject of religion. As to Mr. Le Clerc, he was not ſa⯑tisfied with continually chanting forth the praiſes of that only and excluſive worſhip, which, accord⯑ing to him, would procure ſalvation, but he daily exhorted me to embrace his faith.’

‘'This inconvenience I ſhould have got rid of by renouncing his acquaintance, or removing to ano⯑ther town: but I had no ſuch power. I had ſpoken you may be aſſured warmly, though not like an enthuſiaſt, of our own mild, reaſonable worſhip, [104] repreſenting it as the true medium between fran⯑tic zeal and ſubtle hypocriſy; and though all my arguments ſerved but to root the father's opinion the ſtronger, I plainly began to perceive I had made a convert of the daughter.’

‘'In the convent where ſhe boarded lived alſo ſe⯑veral Engliſh ladies, who had already began to ſtagger her ſentiments:—no wonder then her con⯑verſion was completed by the man ſhe loved. Yes madam, plain, downright, and ſincere as I was, a beautiful girl of nineteen, gentle as a che⯑rub, and good as an angel, doated on me. Nor was I behind hand with her, I promiſe you; for my affection was exactly of that ſort which receives its pleaſure by reflecting what it has given.’

‘'This was the charm that withheld me. We conſulted together on the moſt expedient means to gratify our mutual wiſhes, and though I dreaded the event, it was reſolved that I ſhould offer my⯑ſelf to her father as the huſband of my dear An⯑nette. I did ſo; he heard me to an end, and then very explicitly informed me that he would conſent to my marriage with his daughter upon condition I changed my religion.’

‘'I ſpoke of this as an unſurmountable objection, [105] when he candidly told me he ſaw how matters were, and would immediately ſend his daughter to a ſeverer convent, to prevent her from throwing herſelf into the arms of a heretic.’

‘'I had ſcarcely returned to my lodgings, to re⯑flect on this adventure, and the meaſures I ought to take in conſequence of it, when my ſervant came running to tell me that a poſt chaiſe was waiting at the door, with a lady in it, who deſired to ſee me immediately. Gueſs what was my ſur⯑prize when I beheld my Annette, who told me in as few words as poſſible that her father was at that moment gone to the abbeſs of a certain convent, to agree to her entire excluſion from the world; that ſhe had choſen the moment of his abſence to come to me; and knowing how much my mind was above the falſe delicacy of ſacrificing to ridi⯑culous form and unneceſſary ceremony, ſhe pro⯑poſed at once going off for ſome town where we might be married in the proteſtant faith.’

‘'You may be ſure I did not heſitate, but leaving my affairs to my faithful ſervant, whom I ordered to ſtay and watch the motions of the enemy, I leaped into the chaiſe, and we were more than twenty leagues on our road to Geneva, when poor [106] Annette was taken ſo very ill that it was impoſſible for us to proceed.’

‘'I was in hopes her indiſpoſition had proceeded from the fatigue, the hurry of her ſpirits, and thoſe fears which were natural upon having taken ſo precipitate a reſolution: but I found myſelf lamentably miſtaken; her diſorder encreaſed, and I was greatly alarmed for her life. By degrees, however, ſhe recovered, and though very weak, we apprehended no more dangerous ſymptoms.’

‘'During all this time as we were thrown among a parcel of boors, I was obliged to give her every attendance I decently could. This attention pro⯑cured ſo free and uninterrupted an intercourſe be⯑tween us, that is it wonderful when the roſe be⯑gan to reviſit her cheeks, and my whole ſoul was in a trance of happineſs at the proſpect of retriev⯑ing an ineſtimable treaſure that, a few days before, I had dreaded to loſe for ever:—Is it wonderful thus unreſtrained, conſidering ourſelves as man and wife, we became ſo by every tie but the cere⯑mony. I will not comment on the circumſtance: perhaps it was inexcuſable: perhaps I ought not to have diſcloſed it: but nothing could be purer than our intentions were, and I have no opinion of ſecrets which are revealed after marriage.'’

[107] Mrs. Malplaquet—which I think was very hand⯑ſome in her—ſcarcely called it a fault, becauſe of the peculiarity of their ſituation, and their intention of ſetting matters honourably to rights. Nay ſhe undertook to defend the conduct of the lady; at which Sir Sidney was ſo greatly charmed, that he ſung forth very laviſhly in praiſe of the widow's ge⯑neroſity, liberality, and candour; and declared that, except now and then a ſigh to the memory of An⯑nette, he ſhould never have an intruding care.

‘'Well madam,' returned the baronet, 'three weeks paſſed in pleaſures which it is not in my power to deſcribe. At the end of this time, my Annette having recovered ſufficient ſtrength to undergo the fatigue of her journey, we ſet out for Geneva; but ſcarcely had we got within a league and a half of thoſe frontiers where, by exerciſing the right of a huſband, I could have ſilenced the pretenſions of a father, when being overtaken by a poſſe of horſemen, headed by Le Clerc, my Annette was torn from me, while I was over⯑powered, and carried before the general of the police of the neighbouring town.’

‘'This gentleman heard my ſtory to an end; laughed at my folly for not getting ſooner out of danger; took a handſome preſent of me; and gave [108] me a letter to the father of Annette: adviſing him to make up the breach, by conſenting to our mar⯑riage.’

‘'I ſcarcely gave myſelf time for ſleep, or any other refreſhment, before I threw myſelf at the feet of Mr. Le Clerc. I got nothing from him however but a volley of reproaches; to which I anſwered that his daughter was affianced to me, that I conſidered her as my wife, and would em⯑ploy my whole fortune, as well as the intereſt of the Engliſh embaſſador, who was my particular friend, to do myſelf juſtice.’

‘'Every argument procured me a new inſult; I therefore went to Paris for the purpoſe of con⯑ſulting my friend, the embaſſador; but, as we were then upon the eve of a war, and he expected every moment to be recalled, it was out of his power to do me any ſervice.’

‘'Thus diſappointed, I returned once more to Provence. There I found Le Clerc ten times more furious than ever. He loaded me with a thouſand invectives. It had it ſeems been found out that Annette was with child, and he ſwore he would rather ſee her expire than that ſhe ſhould bring a heretic into the world. Vainly I repre⯑ſented [109] to him that he was now compelled, by every motive of honour and juſtice, to make us one. He vowed my deſtruction.’

‘'After hovering about the place for a conſidera⯑ble while—employing every emiſſary my purſe could procure, to trace out where they had ſe⯑queſtered Annette—and having learnt no more than that ſhe was admitted into a convent at a con⯑ſiderable diſtance till ſhe ſhould lie in, upon con⯑dition of taking the veil immediately afterwards, I was muſing one day what further courſe to pur⯑ſue, when my ſervant came running in, with the greateſt horror pictured in his countenance, and told me if I did not immediately fly, I ſhould be impriſoned for life, for that his dear lady—ſo he always called Annette—had died in childbed, after bringing forth a girl, and that her father, out of revenge, had procured a lettre de cachet againſt my perſon.’

‘'Shocked as I was at this fatal news, I did not however neglect my ſafety, to which I was not a little prompted by a lively deſire to ſuccour the little innocent pledge of our tender affection. I therefore followed my man through a back field, mounted a horſe of my own—for I feared to go [110] poſt—and made the beſt of my way towards Sa⯑voy.’

‘'On the road my man informed me that the poſ⯑tilion who drove us to the houſe where Annette was taken ill, happened to ſet a company down at Provence ſome time afterwards, where being told, among other things, of the buſtle Le Clerc had made in ſearching after his daughter to no purpoſe, began to be convinced, by putting different cir⯑cumſtances together, that it muſt be her he had driven in my company: for it had been explained to him that ſhe had gone off with an Engliſh gentle⯑man. In hopes, therefore, of a bribe on the other ſide, he went to Le Clerc, confeſſed to him where he had taken us, informed him of Annette's ill⯑neſs, and aſſured him that, as we talked of going to Geneva, if he could not overtake us, there was a great chance of catching us as we returned, eſ⯑pecially if we went to that houſe; for as we muſt have ſtopt there ſome time, they would, at any rate, be able to give a good account of us.’

‘'Le Clerc did not heſitate a moment, but ſet out with two friends and a party of the Marechauſe', who came to the inn [...]ome hours after we had left it. There they got every intelligence they want⯑ed, [111] and quickening their diligence, they ſoon over⯑took us, as I have already deſcribed.’

‘'My ſervant alſo told me that he did not believe a ſyllable of Annette's death. His real opinion was that ſhe had taken the veil, for that it was a very common thing for their friends to give out, whenever that event took place, that they were dead, to prevent troubleſome importunity; and in the preſent inſtance it was extremely probable; be⯑cauſe, could I have found out the convent to which ſhe was devoted, I ſhould have left nothing un⯑tried to ſhake that vow which I was ſure ſhe never would have taken but by compulſion.'’

‘'And for heaven's ſake,' ſaid the widow, 'what is become of the child?'’ ‘'She is well madam,'—anſwered the baronet.’ ‘'But where?' ſaid the wi⯑dow.’ ‘'At a ſchool about twenty miles off,' replied Sir Sidney.’ ‘'You aſtoniſh me,' replied ſhe. 'How did you preſerve her?'’ ‘'You ſhall hear,' ſaid the baronet.’

‘'Having left reſpectable connections in Provence, I received intelligence from thence, that, very ſoon after I left France, Le Clerc quitted that part of the kingdom; but they never could hear to what [112] place he retired. About two years afterwards—no longer apprehending any ill conſequences from the lettre de cachet—I went again to Provence; but, however, had my journey for my pains.’

‘'Three other viſits were made with no better ſucceſs. Laſt year, however, I was more fortu⯑nate; for I had not been many days in the town before a nun of the order of St. Clare called at my friend's houſe, and demanded to ſpeak to me.—She informed me that her order being one of thoſe which are allowed to have intercourſe at certain times with the world, ſhe was deſired by an ab⯑beſs of another convent to let me know that my child would be delivered up to me.’

‘'You may believe I was charmed with this intel⯑ligence. I went with her to the convent, where I enquired very earneſtly for Annette; but they confirmed every thing I had before heard. Nay I was even ſhewn her grave, which you may be aſ⯑ſured I watered with my tears. In ſhort, I came away, bringing with me her living model, who I ſincerely believe was not out of my arms an hour at a time till my arrival in Warwickſhire.'’

‘'Your doubts after this ſubſided, I ſuppoſe?' [113] cried the widow.’ ‘'I cannot ſay they did,' returned the baronet: 'the little creature at this moment talks of Madame Le Clerc, whom ſhe uſed to call mamma, in a great houſe, like a church. I there⯑fore think my being ſhewn the grave was a reli⯑gious fraud, invented to deter me from ſearching for her in vain.’

‘'She is certainly irrecoverably gone, and there⯑fore dead to me. No, I ſhall never forget her, but let me not forget myſelf. Providence per⯑mitted this ſeparation perhaps to puniſh us for the crime of having impetuouſly gratified our wiſhes before they received the ſanction of religion. It is a heavy puniſhment, but I will not incur a greater by repining.'’

Here Sir Sidney pauſed. Several parts of his narrative were recapitulated, and a variety of reflec⯑tions grew out of them on the inſtability of human expectations. Sir Sidney apologized to Mrs. Mal⯑plaquet for having ſo freely opened his heart to her, and ſhe ſincerely aſſured him it had conſiderably augmented her eſteem for him.

I ſhall not trouble the reader with his reply, or her rejoinder; but only ſay, that after a number of [114] civil things had paſſed on both ſides, he reminded her that he wanted a mother for his child, and ſhe, without affectation, at length promiſed to undertake that taſk.

In a word, ſhe ſhortly after became Lady Roe⯑buck, to the great ſatisfaction of the baronet, the confuſion of Standfaſt, and the univerſal joy of Caſ⯑tlewick.

CHAPTER I.

As a variety of circumſtances—many of them very unexpectedly—will ſhortly preſent themſelves to the reader, I think it neceſſary, as far as I may conceive it our mutual intereſt, to prepare him for their reception. Indeed it is my intention to adopt this practice frequently in the courſe of this hiſtory: not in ſuch a way however as to anticipate any thing. Nay I will not promiſe that theſe explanations ſhall always be literally what they ſeem; for ſhould I wiſh to cover or diſguiſe any circumſtance till the proper moment of making it known, I hope he will not be angry if I put him a little upon a falſe [116] ſcent, by way of exerciſe, to get him an appetite to the real game, when at laſt he ſhall come up with it.

I beg however it may be underſtood that theſe falſe lights are not intended unneceſſarily to lead him aſtray. I know this literary Will o' th' Wiſp is often introduced; but I diſclaim it as an unpar⯑donable and impotent attempt at a ſpurious wit, which is really an affront to every intelligent reader. So much indeed do I hold ſuch ſort of trifling a thing that ought on no account to be excuſed, that I deſire this work may be conſidered perfect only in proportion as every circumſtance, even the moſt minute and apparently inſignificant, tends to pro⯑mote the general effect, and that effect holds out a laudable and improving moral.

We have heard very little of Standfaſt ſince the death of Major Malplaquet. This worthy wight, which will be very little doubted, laid ſtrong ſiege to the widow; for, as I ſaid before, ſhe became, at her huſband's deceaſe, very wealthy. She, how⯑ever, having nobody to pleaſe but herſelf, gave him ſuch a reception as ſoon convinced him that his hopes were like ſome of the projects of our late builders—fair, and elegantly finiſhed in the eſtimate, but mere ſkeletons in practice.

[117] Thus diſappointed, he pocketed his trifle, as he called the three thouſand pounds, and decamped; contenting himſelf with whiſpering that he might very eaſily have married the widow if he had thought proper, but knowing ones were not to be taken in: that women who would ſip in the time of their firſt huſbands, might taſte when they got a ſecond; and that perhaps, had he been fool enough to be caught, he might have doated too, and ſo have gotten a luſty chaplain to help him out, as ſomebody elſe did.

Theſe groſs jokes were faithfully retailed by Mr. Fluſh. Not however without a finiſh, that if the go⯑vernor—meaning Standfaſt—had braced the drum of matrimony, a certain genteel dapper cock of an humble ſervant of his would not have feared coming in for a trevally, or ſo.

I have never told the reader that Mr. Standfaſt and Mr. Viney were very intimate friends; and perhaps he has divined why: if not, he will preſently. The fact however was ſo. They had known each other for ſeveral years, and indeed upon Viney's being civilly diſmiſſed from Lord Hazard's houſe, he con⯑ſulted Standfaſt, whom he well knew to be a per⯑fect Machiavel in domeſtic politics, upon the like⯑lieſt means to preſerve his declining intereſt in that family.

[118] The ſtream of Standfaſt's intereſt going, at that time, in another channel, nothing came of the ne⯑gociation; but the major being dead, and he ex⯑pelled from the preſence of the widow, the two friends finding themſelves in the ſame ſituation, and that the intereſt of one was the intereſt of both, they laid their heads together, and conſidered of the matter in every point of view. At length they agreed that nothing could ſo perfectly anſwer their ſeveral wiſhes as to get Standfaſt into Lord Hazard's family. Take their own words.

‘'It is ſuch a damned good ſcheme,' ſaid Stand⯑faſt, 'that I envy you for thinking on it; but I am devliſhly afraid it is not practicable.'’

‘'You are right,' cried Viney, 'let us tread ſure. Go on warily: I know his foibles, that is one thing in our favour.'’ ‘'How is he for a firſt ſight attack?' ſaid Standfaſt.’ ‘'A very dove,' cried Viney; 'a greenhorn.'’ ‘'That is lucky,' ſaid Standfaſt; 'we have nothing then to conſider of but the introduction. Does he know any thing of me?'’ ‘'Only by hearſay,' replied Viney, 'and now I recollect, what he did hear was to your ad⯑vantage. Let me ſee what was it? Oh that the major, out of his great friendſhip, had left you [119] conſiderably; and, in particular, had commanded his lady on his death bed to take you for her ſe⯑cond huſband.'’

‘'Ridiculous!' cried Standfaſt: 'the old fellow never ſpoke after the accident; and as to the wi⯑dow, my dear Sir, ſhe was too peery. No, no, nothing leſs than the title of my lady would con⯑tent her.'’

‘'Odſo,' ſaid Viney, 'I wonder at it too. You uſed to be pretty ſure of your mark when the doe was to be ſtruck. Ha, ha, ha.'’ ‘'True, true,' cried Standfaſt, 'but this was ſo ſkittiſh, ſhe would have taken more powder and ſhot, as well as patience, than I would ſpare upon any ſuch doe, were ſhe the transformation of a goddeſs. Hang her, let her go. She has enough to ſay againſt me; but, if ſhe prattles, we muſt retaliate, right or wrong.'’

‘'That to be ſure,' ſaid Viney 'is but ſelf-de⯑fence: but to our buſineſs. Lord Hazard is now ſeeking out a tutor for his favourite Charles, and I own I ſhould like to gall him there. Hey my friend, am I not right? There I feel my ſiſter's injuries.'’ ‘'Well hit faith,' cried Standfaſt.—'They tell me it is a fine mettled boy, I will bring him up well.'’

[120] ‘'Not ſo faſt,' interrupted Viney. 'In the firſt place, did he know of our intimacy, it would be an immoveable bar to our deſign; and then he is determined to receive none but an exemplary cha⯑racter.'’

‘'Me again!' exclaimed Standfaſt. I will give him examples of pleaſure that might reſuſcitate old Anacreon; that is to ſay, behind his father's back: and leſſons of morality, before his face, that might be heard and approved by liſtening an⯑gels.'’

‘'But ſtill our intimacy,' ſaid Viney.’ ‘'We muſt get over that,' replied Standfaſt. 'Let me ſee—I have it—can't I introduce myſelf to ſome family in town?—or make my court to any relation of the wife? Zounds, now I recollect, there is a capital houſe in the city—Ingot, the wire-drawer—where they make me very welcome. Lord Ha⯑zard occaſionally banks there. If I can but get recommended to preach two or three charity ſer⯑mons, and afterwards invited to dine with the ſtewards, the buſineſs is done. I am ſure Mr. In⯑got is under obligations enow to me; for I ſo did up his elder brother, by making him genteel, that, in conſequence of two or three genteel faux [121] pas, he at laſt genteelly finiſhed himſelf, by which this remaining brother got to be head of the firm: and ſo you ſee, Viney, one good turn deſerves ano⯑ther.'’ ‘'True, true,' ſaid Viney.’

So ſaid, ſo done. Standfaſt left a friend to offi⯑ciate for him at Little Hockley, and repaired to town, where he ſo well ſet his engines to work, that, in ſix months, he not only got introduced to Lord Hazard, but contrived ſo to ſuſtain the ſeveral eſ⯑ſays made on his diſpoſition and abilities, that he iſſued from that ordeal through which the reader may remember my lord was determined his ſon's tutor ſhould paſs ſo perfect, as to fix himſelf ſe⯑curely in that nobleman's good opinion; and in⯑deed—which I ſhould not think it neceſſary to ſet down, but by way of regularity—Mr. Standfaſt was the very gentleman introduced to Lady Hazard in the fourth chapter of the firſt book, in quality of tutor to her ſon.

If the reader ſhould wonder how it came to paſs that Lord Hazard did not know the irregularities of Standfaſt, eſpecially as one was curate of Little Hockley, and the other landlord, I muſt inform him that his lordſhip had never viſited his eſtate in Warwickſhire but once after his ſecond marriage, [122] but repaired to a villa about twenty miles from London, which he bought ſoon after he came of age. Indeed, as ſoon as he determined to give over his exceſſes, Little Hockley was the laſt place upon earth he wiſhed to think of. His rents were punc⯑tually remitted, and this was all he ever would hear upon the ſubject.

Neither his reformation, however, nor this cau⯑tion altered his character in the opinion of the vil⯑lagers; for as the ſons and daughters of Little Hock⯑ley were many of them of his getting, and the reſt very ambitious to be thought ſo, they never dreamt that he had any virtues, but remembered his vices only, glorying in them, and ſpeaking of them in ſo familiar and ſhameleſs a manner, as if every meal they taſted was the ſweeter for being garniſhed with the bread of diſhonour.

I will not ſuppoſe my reader to be ſo inexperi⯑enced as to think that Standfaſt's views were merely confined to his intention of becoming the tutor of Charles; nor, on the other hand, will I believe him ſo ſagacious as to diſcover what they really were.—We can ſcarcely credit that a man of this worthy clergyman's conſummate experience in human traf⯑fic had not a material point to carry, eſpecially now [123] he was in partnerſhip with Viney. If it was ſo it will certainly come in its proper place, which, un⯑leſs I had a wiſh—which I really have not—to de⯑ſtroy the reader's pleaſure, cannot poſſibly be here.

Having fixed Mr. Standfaſt in the family of Lord Hazard, we will now ſpeak of Mr. Fluſh. That valiant thumper of parchment having received a handſome ſum and a long leſſon from his quondam maſter, was transferred, through Viney, to the ori⯑ginal Lady Hazard, now reduced to Mrs. O'Shock⯑neſy, and by her again transferred to her ſon, at college.

I ſhall alſo ſay that Mrs. O'Shockneſy was pre⯑ſent at one or two of the latter conſultations relative to the grand buſineſs; nor indeed was Fluſh abſo⯑lutely left out. It was, on the contrary, found ne⯑ceſſary to let him partially into the matter; for ſaid he, very archly, ‘'If you don't let me into the maxim of the thing, how the devil ſhall I be able to move your figures for you?'’

A letter from Fluſh to Standfaſt, after he had been ſix months at Eton, ſhall finiſh this chapter.—I ſhall give it the reader in his own words.

Generals have been known to ſettle with their aid de camps a kind of characters ſo unintelligible to any but themſelves, that ſhould information fall into the enemy's hand, no ill conſequence could enſue. One [125] would think Standfaſt and Fluſh had made this ſame agreement. In truth, did I believe the reader could make Kiddy's letter into Engliſh, I ſhould not have inſerted it. As it is, I ſhall leave it, by way of aenigma, which he may either ſtay and ſolve, or go on to the next chapter, and ſo leave the ex⯑planation of that and every thing elſe to what I may conceive the proper ſeaſon for it.

I would nevertheleſs have that, as well as many other particulars in this chapter, carefully attended to. Gangrenes begin by a ſmall ſpot, and the egg of a crocodile has as inoffenſive an appearance as that of a gooſe.

CHAPTER II.

Mr. STANDFAST no ſooner ſat down in Lord Ha⯑zard's family than, like a ſpy in an enemy's camp, he began to reconnoitre its ſituation, ſtrength, and diſpoſition; to examine whether the body was well united, whether there were any rotten members, whether centinels dared to ſleep on their poſts, whe⯑ther the commanding officer was moſt loved or feared—In ſhort, to uſe his own words—though I would not have the reader infer from thence that he was a cobler in his buſineſs—he had the length of every foot in the family.

Not however to be outdone in courteſy, there was not one among them that had not ſomething to ſay in his favour. My Lord declared he was a man of ſtrong intellects and ſound erudition. He did not think him a ſaint, nor wiſh him to be one. Solid argument, for ought he could ſee, might as well be diſcuſſed over a glaſs as a lamp, and as to gaiety and careleſſneſs, he dreaded nothing from them, for they could harbour no ill deſigns. He was a little [127] ſurpriſed at hearing from Standfaſt that he had been frequently in his life taken in, but it gave him an opportunity of exerciſing his ſagacity by remarking that thoſe who mix moſt with the world, know leaſt of it:—as it was ſaid of Lord ANSON, after he had been a prey to ſharpers, that he had been over the world, but never in it. Upon the whole, he thought Mr. Standfaſt a fair, undeſigning man, and both a proper tutor for his ſon, and companion for him⯑ſelf.

Lady Hazard was no leſs prepoſſeſſed in favour of the tutor. She looked upon him as an unaffected cheerful man, perfectly well bred; and, as ſhe ſaw his being in the houſe gave her lord particular ſatis⯑faction, really felicitated herſelf upon this acquiſi⯑tion to the family.

The butler liked him; for though he could well diſtinguiſh the different qualities of the wine, yet he never made uſe of his knowledge to a poor ſer⯑vant's diſadvantage. In ſhort, there was not a per⯑ſon in the family whoſe good opinion he had not been anxious to procure, and one would have thought with more care and induſtry than belonged to ſuch a trifle; for he ſo ſucceeded, that he was al⯑lowed to be a true ſervant's friend.

[128] Mr. Standfaſt had certainly no Iago to egg him on. He knew however, as well as that ſubtle gen⯑tleman himſelf, that trifles light as air in caſes of art are of great uſe, and he doubted not but they would as much conduce to anſwer the purpoſes of one kind of hypocriſy as another.

As to the pupil, he loved Standfaſt like a father, and took inſtructions from him full as faſt as the other could give it, which, between ourſelves, not a little embarraſſed the tutor, who, begging Lord Hazard's pardon, was not ſo profound a ſcholar as that kind patron, in his liberal warmth, had repre⯑ſented him.

Standfaſt, feeling this deficiency, preſſed his lord⯑ſhip to carry his ſcheme into execution, of having Charles taught muſic and painting: thinking, and very rightly, that relieved by thoſe avocations, he ſhould be able to make his ſtock of learning laſt as long as he might have occaſion for it.

Having worked his materials into a proper tem⯑per, Mr. Standfaſt now began to think of moulding them to his different purpoſes, but this required the niceſt care and circumſpection. My Lord plumed himſelf upon being no novice, and Lady Hazard's amiable heart and unconquerable duty [129] barred all poſſibility of flattering the moſt diſtant hopes, had there been any ſuch conceived, of ſtag⯑gering her virtue, or even her prudence.

Something Mr. Standfaſt was certainly hatching up, and while it was in contemplation, a moſt ſin⯑gular circumſtance happened, which that gentle⯑man did not fail to lay up as food for his project.

Lord and Lady Hazard were one night in a ſide box at the playhouſe, where, behind them, ſat a lady and two gentlemen, one of whom the fair one often called brother, and the other Sir Daniel. At the end of the amuſement, while they were waiting for their carriage, one of theſe gentlemen, ſeeing a per⯑ſon go out of the oppoſite box, exclaimed, ‘'there he goes, and by God I'll be after him.'’ Imme⯑diately upon this he darted out of the box, followed by the other, who warmly entreated him not to be precipitate. Almoſt at the ſame moment the lady ſhrieked out ‘'Good God there will be murder,'’ and immediately fainted away.

Neither the good offices of Lord Hazard nor his lady were wanting to reſtore her, which deſirable event they at length happily achieved. The lady now begged for heaven's ſake he would have the goodneſs to conduct her to her coach, which entreaty. [128] [...] [129] [...] [130] Lady Hazard ſeconded with all her eloquence.—Upon this the lady's footman from the lobby ſum⯑moned the coach to the door, and my lord having very politely ſeen her into it, returned with an in⯑tention to join Lady Hazard. In his way he en⯑countered one of the gentlemen he had ſeen in the box, who accoſted him with ‘'I muſt thank you Sir for the civility you have done me.'’ ‘'Sir,' an⯑ſwered Lord Hazard, with great politeneſs, 'if you mean in reſpect to any attention ſhewn to the lady, it was but my duty, and I am already thanked.'’ ‘'I dare ſay you are,' replied the other, 'but that won't go down with me: In ſhort, you are a ſcoundrel, and I inſiſt upon deciding the matter immediately: it can be done in this tavern.'—’ ‘'Sir,' ſaid Lord Hazard, very ſpiritedly, 'I do not think myſelf obliged to anſwer ſo unprovoked and rude an aſſault, but as every thing in your ap⯑pearance, except this inſult, calls you gentleman, I attend you Sir.'’

At this moment Standfaſt, who had been at the other theatre, and had, by promiſe, returned to go home with Lord Hazard, came up, and boldly en⯑quired who it was that dared to inſult that noble⯑man?—upon which, a crowd having gathered about, the cry was ‘'ſettle it in the tavern—ſettle it in the tavern.'’ There they now adjourned, but not be⯑fore [131] Lord Hazard had diſpatched Standfaſt to his lady, to requeſt that ſhe would ſtay, for that he ſhould be immediately with her.

When they were come to the place of explana⯑tion, Lord Hazard was more at a loſs than ever.—The gentleman who had inſulted him, brought a⯑gainſt him a direct accuſation of carrying on a clan⯑deſtine correſpondence with his ſiſter, which he ſaid was doubly diſhonourable, as ſhe was at the point of marriage to a worthy young baronet.

This charge was parried by a declaration that, till the preſent evening, the lord had never ſeen the lady; but the brother treated this excuſe with con⯑tempt, and was for fighting it out inſtantly, mixing his invectives with ſome inſinuations about a maſ⯑querade. The company, however, oppoſed his warmth; and the clamour was ſo various and vio⯑lent, that nothing diſtinctly could be underſtood. It was therefore determined, as with one voice, that the affair ſhould not then be decided; but, as it ſeemed a matter of delicacy, the diſputants ſhould privately exchange addreſſes, and meet, with each a friend, to talk the buſineſs over in the morning. This was immediately complied with, and now arrived Stand⯑faſt, with news that Lady Hazard had quitted the boxes, and he ſuppoſed was gone home.

[132] Lord Hazard and Standfaſt betook themſelves to a hackney coach, in which, on their way, the latter was made acquainted, as far as my lord knew it, with this myſterious buſineſs. Standfaſt ſaid it muſt have originated in ſome miſtake, which he ſuppoſed would be cleared up on the morrow; for, added he, ‘'you never ſaw the lady before, did you my lord?'’ ‘'Never in my life,' ſaid Lord Hazard.’ ‘'Nay,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'if you had, the fellow need not have made ſuch a piece of work about it, for I am very much miſtaken or ſhe is one of the right ſort; and very likely the brother is only a led knight, employed to bully in her cauſe; therefore, were I your lordſhip, I would take care, if I muſt be forced into a duel, it ſhould be with a gentle⯑man.'’

My Lord declared that he moſt ſincerely believed the lady was a woman of honour; for, ſaid he, ‘'I never ſaw more unaffected ſigns of modeſty. As to the brother, I think with you, that the whole matter will prove a miſtake, and the affair blow over.'’

‘'You know, my lord,' cried Standfaſt, 'I always yield to you in matters of experience; however, we ſhall ſee, for I hope I am to have the honour of accompanying your lordſhip to-morrow.'’

[133] ‘'Why I was thinking ſo too,' ſaid my lord, 'but as the gentleman may unfortunately happen to call in my abſence, and as it would be a kind of tacit reflection on my honour if he ſhould go away unſatisfied, I will get you to ſtay and receive him. I hope, however to prevent his coming; for I ſhall be out very early, to convince him that I am as anxious to bring this buſineſs to a finiſh as him⯑ſelf. As to a ſecond, you know, if it ſhould be neceſſary, I can take our friend Colonel Tiltly.'’

They now arrived at Lord Hazard's houſe, where they found my lady, who informed them that hav⯑ing ſtayed till there was no ſoul in the theatre but herſelf, ſhe prevailed on the box-keeper to find her ſervants, and ſee her to her coach: ‘'But, my lord,' ſaid ſhe, 'what could poſſibly detain you?'’

Lord Hazard, who had never conſidered that this queſtion would certainly be aſked him, was totally unprepared to anſwer it. After ſome heſitation, however, he faultered out, in great apparent confu⯑ſion, ‘'Nay not the lady, I aſſure you my love.'’

‘'I did not know but ſhe might have had another fit,' ſaid Lady Hazard: 'in that caſe it would have been inhumanity to have left her.'’

[134] ‘'Why if it had been ſo,' replied my lord, 'where would have been the great crime in it?'’

‘'Crime!' returned her ladyſhip, 'I had no idea of any ſuch thing. Charity is no crime my lord: but really your looks accuſe you more than I do. I appeal to any body, if I was a jealous wife, whe⯑ther a ſtander-by would blame me if I ſhould be ſuſpicious at this moment?'’

‘'Well then upon my honour madam,' ſaid Lord Hazard, 'I only ſaw the lady to her coach, and was returning to you, but a particular buſineſs, which happened very unexpectedly, prevented me. This Mr. Standfaſt knows to be truth.'’

Standfaſt was here beginning a very handſome excuſe for his friend, when the lady ſtopt him, and addreſſing herſelf to my lord, ſaid, ‘'My dear, if you had not made this laſt declaration, if your friend here had not ſeconded you, if I had actu⯑ally been told that you went home with the lady, that ſhe was an old acquaintance of yours, and that ſhe came into the box by your appointment, I ſhould never have mentioned the ſubject again;—therefore, I beg my lord I may not hear of it from you.'’

[135] ‘'This is ridiculous,' ſaid his lordſhip, 'you conjure up a parcel of imaginary ſtuff, and then argue upon it as if it really exiſted.'’

‘'God forbid it ever ſhould exiſt,' ſaid the lady, 'I only mention it to ſhew, if it really did, what a good wife I ſhould be.'’

Supper was now brought in, and the ſubject of courſe dropt.

The three perſons concerned in it, however, did not ſo eaſily diſmiſs it from their thoughts as they had from their tongues. They neither eat much ſupper, nor enjoyed much reſt; and, what appears very extraordinary, Standfaſt, who one ſhould think was leaſt concerned, ruminated on it the moſt.

Perhaps the cataſtrophe of this adventure may bring out what his cogitations were. Thoſe of Lord and Lady Hazard may be very eaſily gueſſed. I cannot help, however, remarking that this night was the firſt they ever ſlept together without ſpeak⯑ing to each other, nor did my lord ever before leave his lady ſo early, or ſo abruptly.

If the reader wiſhes the matter to clear up, and [136] that a reconciliation ſhould take place, it is more than Mr. Standfaſt did, who very archly remarked, as he came down ſtairs in the morning, that he muſt be a bungling phyſician indeed who did not know how to irritate as well as to cure.

CHAPTER III.

LADY Hazard having been told by my lord's gen⯑tleman that her huſband was gone out, and had left word he ſhould not return perhaps till dinner, ſat down to breakfaſt with Mr. Standfaſt and her ſon Charles, which meal, however, was very ſhort; for the tutor appeared exceedingly anxious to introduce his pupil to ſome new author, with whom the young gentleman ſeemed as evidently to wiſh himſelf ac⯑quainted. They therefore retired to the library, and left the lady to herſelf, who, for ſome minutes afterwards, continued in a profound reverie, not knowing what to make of her huſband's having gone out ſo unprecedentedly; for as to the adventure of the preceding night, ſhe had pretty well made up her mind on it.

There was not much time to reflect on that or any thing elſe before the door opened, and a perſon walked into the room, whom Lady Hazard knew immediately for the very ſame Sir Daniel whom ſhe had ſeen at the playhouſe. She was for a moment [138] aſtoniſhed, but, recollecting herſelf, ſhe got up, and was making her way towards the bell, when the gen⯑tleman, who, for ſome reaſon or other, did not ſeem to approve of her taking that ſtep, got the ſtart of her, and diſputed the paſs.

‘'No, no, my dear madam,' ſaid he, 'that cannot be; you muſt ſuffer me to prevent you. Beſides, what would your ſervants ſay, if you called them about you?'’

‘'Say Sir!' anſwered the lady, with a look of in⯑effable diſdain, 'one of them was witneſs to your ruffian-like behaviour laſt night, and would want no order from me to treat you as you merit—which chaſtiſement if you do not wiſh to provoke, you will begone inſtantly.'’

‘'Not till you have granted my pardon,' ſaid he. 'By heaven this viſit, which I have managed to a miracle, was meant only as an atonement for my laſt night's offence. 'Twas madneſs—liquor—any thing you will.'’

‘'Dare not Sir,' ſaid the lady, 'to affront my ears with your groſs inſolence.'’ ‘'Nay then,' cried he, 'there is but a moment, and by heaven I will not loſe it. Charming creature look with [139] pity on me!'’ ‘'What do you mean!' exclaimed Lady Hazard. 'Nay unhand me, or I'll raiſe the houſe!'’ ‘'Never,' cried the raviſher; 'this mi⯑nute ſhall ſeal my happineſs.'’ ‘'Heavens!' cried the lady, 'ſhall I be treated thus!—is there no one near me!'’

‘'Yes madam,' cried Standfaſt, who entered the room, 'there is one near you, and ever ready thus to treat the villain who ſhall dare to wrong ſuch beauty and innocence.'’ So ſaying, he flew at the raviſher as if he would have throttled him. Then pauſing:— ‘'But hold,' ſaid he, 'my regard to Lady Hazard's character protects you in this houſe:—Tell me who you are, and expect me in half an hour at the Smyrna.'’

‘'I am called,' ſaid the other, 'Sir Daniel Dog-bolt, and will not fail you may be aſſured. As to you madam,' ſaid he, 'I ſincerely regret that I have given you a moment's pain. What a wretch I am—laſt night—Oh that it had been proſperous, or that I could blot it from my memory!'’

Here he left the room, and Mr. Standfaſt ringing the bell, a ſervant preſently made his appearance, who aſking if he was wanted, was told only to ſee the gentleman out; to which he anſwered that John [140] had opened the door, and the gentleman offered him half a guinea, but he would not take it. ‘'Very well,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'take away the things;'’ which while the ſervant was doing, he whiſpered to Lady Hazard to compoſe herſelf:—for ſhe was on a ſofa, and ſeemed indeed extremely flurried.

When the ſervant was gone out of the room, Stand⯑faſt advanced to Lady Hazard, and ſaid, ‘'I ſhould be extremely unhappy if, zealous in your lady⯑ſhip's cauſe, I have done any thing in this buſineſs contrary to your wiſhes.'’

‘'Good God!' cried the lady, 'how can you have ſuch an idea, Mr. Standfaſt? A ruffian aſſaulted me, and you came to my aſſiſtance. Can ſuch conduct demand any thing leſs from me than the warmeſt thanks.'’

‘'Madam I beg your pardon,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'but it has been a ſtrange buſineſs altogether. I had for one moment—perhaps for which I ought never to be forgiven—forgot the unſullied purity of Lady Hazard; and when I heard from the gen⯑tleman that inſinuation concerning laſt night—but it is impoſſible—I ſee it—he muſt be a villain. I will anſwer with my life that if ever a heart was the manſion of innocence, yours is.'’

[141] ‘'I thank you for your opinion ſir,' ſaid the lady, 'I hope I deſerve it. As to laſt night, I will not make a myſtery of it now, though I thought I had ſufficient reaſon for it then. After my lord left me, this bold man came back to the box, and ſee⯑ing me alone, began to enquire what was become of the lady? I told him that, at my deſire, my lord had conducted her to her coach; upon which he ſaid he would remain to thank him for his ci⯑vility, as well as to protect me from any inſult.—He behaved very properly at firſt, but, as the houſe thinned, his converſation took quite a different turn. He firſt ſaid he wondered my lord did not return; then ſaid he was ſurely gone home with the lady; and at laſt aſſured me that, to his know⯑ledge, ſhe was an old acquaintance of his. At length he ventured at ſome rude freedoms, but at that moment John came to aſk me if he ſhould draw off the coach, and ſeeing what paſſed, did not heſitate to treat the ruffian pretty ſeverely for his inſolence.'’

‘'Bleſſings on him for it,' cried Standfaſt, 'as well as for refuſing the money juſt now; I never thought it of him I confeſs before; but I ſee he is a noble fellow:—but go on madam.'’

‘'I ſuffered myſelf,' ſaid Lady Hazard, 'to be [142] conducted by my ſervant and the box-keeper to my coach, and came home, when having cautioned John never to open his lips on the ſubject, I took the reſolution of keeping it from my huſband's knowledge, for fear of his reſentment.'’

‘'Nothing could be more commendable certainly,' ſaid Standfaſt. 'Inſufferable impudence; in a pub⯑lic place too, a fellow you had never ſeen before I ſuppoſe. And then to have recourſe to that ſtale trick of accuſing my lord!—ſo worthy a charac⯑ter; ſo good a huſband!'’

‘'Heaven forbid I ſhould think him otherwiſe,' ſaid the lady; 'but how came this audacious man here? Which of the ſervants could ſhew him into this apartment?'’

‘'Oh I can account for that,' ſaid Standfaſt.—’ ‘'Can you ſir,' ſaid the lady.’ ‘'That is to ſay,' an⯑ſwered the tutor, 'I think I can gueſs. You know my lord entruſted me with the buſineſs of laſt night, upon which, between ourſelves, he is gone out this morning.'’ ‘'Well, and what then?' ſaid the lady, a little peeviſhly.’ ‘'What then,' cried Stand⯑faſt, 'really it is ſo awkward a buſineſs to anſwer, you had better not enquire about it; for, upon my word, I am not at liberty to tell you.'’

[143] ‘'This is the ſtrangeſt myſtery,' ſaid the lady—'Surely if you know any thing of the matter, you can explain to me how this man came here?'’

‘'Why very true,' returned Standfaſt, 'as far as it relates to that madam, I can have no objection. My lord, upon going out this morning, deſired me to receive every perſon who ſhould call, and I ſuppoſe, as I had not left the breakfaſt room five minutes when this pretty gentleman was ſhewn up here—'’

‘'But ſtill that is very extraordinary,' ſaid the lady, 'for no ſervant announced him.'’

‘'Why then certainly he muſt have been previ⯑ouſly ſhewn into the library,' ſaid Standfaſt, while Charles and I were in the little ſtudy Sup⯑poſe I ring to know: but, upon ſecond thoughts, I had better not. One ſervant already has been witneſs of—but, however, I will quiet him.'’

‘'I cannot think of it,' ſaid the lady, 'and what⯑ever may be the conſequence, rather than my con⯑duct ſhould appear ſo equivocal, I am reſolved to acquaint my lord with every thing, juſt as it has fallen out.'’

[144] ‘'You would not ſurely be ſo mad,' cried Stand⯑faſt. 'He has quite enough upon his hands about it already: I tremble for him at this moment.'—’ ‘'Good God,' ſaid the lady, 'one would think you wanted to drive me diſtracted. Why tremble for him? What has he upon his hands?'’

‘'I beg your pardon madam, returned Standfaſt; my anxiety, my warmth—Oh that I could diſ⯑ſemble like other men: this abſurd frankneſs of mine is always leading me into ſcrapes.'’

‘'Mr. Standfaſt,' ſaid the lady, very earneſtly, 'if you have any thing to tell me that regards my happineſs—for I now begin to ſuſpect you have—do not keep me in this dreadful ſuſpence: if, on the contrary, my huſband has entruſted you with any thing, and enjoined you not to inform me, convince him of your friendſhip, by ſhewing you are worthy of his confidence.'’

‘'Good heaven!' ſaid Standfaſt, 'where is there ſuch another woman to be found?—of ſuch nice prudence!—ſuch delicate honour! What my lord entruſted me with, madam, he certainly left to my own diſcretion. However, as one would think it implied a wiſh to conceal every thing from you—[145] and yet a breach of confidence where any thing ſo valuable as your peace of mind is concerned would—'’ ‘'By no means,' interrupted the lady; 'nothing could induce you to forgive yourſelf.'—’ ‘'But, my dear madam,' cried Standfaſt, finding her curioſity ſo tardy, 'the thing cannot remain a ſe⯑cret, the newſpapers will be full of it.'’ ‘'Well Sir,' cried the lady, 'it will then be time enough to tell me what I now plainly ſee will make me wretched whenever I know it.'’ ‘'I may not live perhaps till then madam,' ſaid Standfaſt.’ ‘'Not live!' ſaid Lady Hazard; 'what do you mean?'’ ‘'Surely you forget my appointment,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'with the gentleman at the Smyrna.'’ ‘'You will not be ſo mad,' cried ſhe.’ ‘'How!' returned Standfaſt, 'my honour is engaged, and in your cauſe. Adieu, and if I ſhould fall, do me the juſtice to reflect that my laſt moments were ſpent in your ſervice.'’

So ſaying, he ran precipitately down ſtairs, re⯑gardleſs of Lady Hazard, who ſeveral times called after him to return. She now ſummoned John into her preſence, told him to go immediately to the Smyrna coffee-houſe, and deſire, in her name, that Mr. Standfaſt would come back, and that if he ſaw any miſchief going on, to call any aſſiſtance he could to prevent it.

[146] John was ſcarcely out of ſight when Lady Hazard reflected what a ſtrange errand ſhe had ſent him on, and was about to ring the bell to diſpatch another ſervant after him, when ſhe recollected this would be only making bad worſe.

Thus ſituated, it is impoſſible to deſcribe what ſhe felt. Anger for my lord—compaſſion for Stand⯑faſt—fear for herſelf, intruded all at once on her gentle mind; and yet ſhe knew not why.

In the midſt of this contention ſhe ſought for her ſon, with a view in his converſation to alleviate her uneaſineſs, when going into the library the firſt ob⯑ject that ſtruck her was Lord Hazard, who had gone there in ſearch of Standfaſt. Nothing could equal their mutual ſurpriſe; out of which my lord firſt recovering himſelf, ſaid, ‘'So madam, I am come home you ſee.'’ ‘'Yes,' ſaid the lady, 'and before dinner too.'’ ‘'Well,' cried my lord, 'are you not obliged to me?'’ ‘'My Lord,' ſaid Lady Ha⯑zard, 'I ſhall never think myſelf obliged to you for any conduct of which I don't know the motive.'’ ‘'Pſhaw!' cried my lord, 'you know I hate diſ⯑content.'’ ‘'And I diſſimulation,' ſaid the lady.'’

They were going on in this manner when Charles [147] came into the room with a book. ‘'Oh madam,' ſaid he, 'are you here? Where is Mr. Standfaſt? I came to ſhew him the prettieſt thing I ever met with in my life. Shall I read it my lord?'’

‘'I am in no reading mood at preſent,' ſaid Lord Hazard.’ ‘'Read it to me, my love,' anſwered the lady.’

Charles anſwered, with ſtrong indications of ſur⯑priſe at the looks of his parents, ‘'I would read it to you, but it is in Greek; however, I will tell you the ſenſe of it. It is an allegorical alluſion to the polity of either a kingdom or a family, and given in the way of advice by a ſage to a king, who had quarrelled with his ſubjects.’

‘'There was a river,' ſays the author, 'that de⯑lighted to expand its ſmooth ſurface to the beams of the ſun. Its banks were emboſſed with ver⯑dure, it nouriſhed myriads of ſcaly inhabitants, and it glided through the meadows with a placid and majeſtic grandeur, to the ſurpriſe and delight of every beholder. An unexpected cataract, from a neighbouring mountain, on a ſudden dimmed its luſtre and ruffled its tranquillity; till, hurried by the overbearing conflux, it forced itſelf into two diſtinct channels:—there murmuring, it bemoaned [148] its ſad and vagrant fate. At laſt, each ſtream, as if by joint conſent, burſt the banks which ſepa⯑rated them, and they met together in affectionate reconcilement, no more to part till divided by the ocean.’

‘'Thus,' ſays our author, 'after inteſtine broils, may every kingdom or family, endeared by love and loyalty, unite, and never ſeparate till re⯑ceived into the boſom of fate.'’

CHAPTER IV.

CHARLES having finiſhed his allegory, aſked his parents how they liked it? Lord Hazard ſaid he believed there were very few kingdoms or families either that were not ſubject to ſuch cataracts.—Charles anſwered it muſt then be miſmanagement in not properly guarding againſt them.

‘'You are right my dear,' ſaid his mother, 'but what can be done with inundations that force their way like miners in a town, and do miſchief in pro⯑portion as their ſource is concealed.'’

Perhaps my lord took this as ſomething meant at him, for looking very earneſtly at his lady, he ſaid ‘'you are wonderfully ſagacious madam;'’ and then turning to his ſon, aſked what he had done with Mr. Standfaſt.

Here John entered the library, ſaying, ‘'Madam, I went as your ladyſhip ordered me, but they were gone.'’ ‘'Oh,' ſaid the lady in great apparent con⯑fuſion, [150] 'ta—'tis—very well John—and when does her ladyſhip—'’ ‘'Ladyſhip!' anſwered John, firſt looking at Lord Hazard, and then at his lady.—’ ‘'But you ſay they were gone,' returned the lady.’ ‘'Well, tell Frill I am going to my dreſſing room.'’ ‘'Yes, my lady,' ſaid John, and retired.’ ‘'Lord,' continued Lady Hazard, 'what could I be thinking about?'’ ‘'What indeed,' ſaid my lord. 'Some⯑thing, one would imagine, not altogether ſo in⯑genuous, by your evident embarraſſment.'’ ‘'My embarraſſment!' anſwered ſhe, recollecting her⯑ſelf, and then gathering ſtrength from the conſciouſ⯑neſs of her integrity, 'no my lord, there is no⯑thing diſingenuous in me, as you ſhall very eaſily be convinced, when you have ſhewn me all that paſſes in your own heart.'’ So ſaying ſhe left the room.

‘'In my heart,' muttered my lord. 'Why zounds,'’—but ſeeing Charles he reſtrained himſelf. Then endeavouring to give the matter a different turn, ſaid, with a forced ſmile, ‘'I ſuppoſe your mother is angry at my going out to breakfaſt this morn⯑ing. She would be prudent however not to threaten me.'’

Here Mr. Standfaſt came into the room, and the moment my lord ſaw him, he exclaimed ‘'here I am [151] ſound.'’ ‘'And ſafe I hope my lord,' ſaid Stand⯑faſt.’ ‘'I don't know that,' anſwered the patron; 'but come with me, I have a great deal to tell you.'’

The lord and the tutor now walked out of the room, and Charles returned to his ſtudy; not how⯑ever without telling Mr. Standfaſt he would not al⯑low him to play truant in that manner.

The lord told his friend, as ſoon as they were in a room by themſelves, that not finding Colonel Tiltly at home, he had been to Mr. Snaffle's houſe alone, where he was ſurpriſed to find that gentle⯑man had been gone out about an hour, it being then pretty early; ‘'and as I knew,' continued my lord, 'that if he came you would give him a proper an⯑ſwer, I ſat down to wait his return. I had ſcarcely been there five minutes before his ſiſter came in. Seeing a ſtranger, as ſhe imagined, ſhe would have retired, but preſently recollecting me, ſhe paid me ſome well-bred acknowledgments for the at⯑tention I had the pleaſure of paying her laſt night. I anſwered this civility, and gave my viſit a turn of enquiring after her health; complimenting her, at the ſame time, on the little prejudice her fears had done her complexion. She lamented her bro⯑ther [152] was not at home, but added that ſhe expected him every minute, and begged I would take break⯑faſt.'’

‘'Though I knew my hot-headed gentleman would only be ſtill more exaſperated at finding me tete a tete with his ſiſter, I reſolved to accept her in⯑vitation; nor do I repent of my reſolution: for I confeſs to you I never met with a woman more unaffectedly captivating. You know Standfaſt I like a ſincere candid openneſs of behaviour, and it was never more ſtrongly manifeſted than in the ſweet manner of this lovely young creature.’

‘'In the courſe of our converſation on the adven⯑ture of yeſterday evening, I learnt the real cauſe of that ſtrange medley of circumſtances which in⯑troduced a coolneſs for the firſt time between my wife and me, gave me a freſh proof of thy kind attachment—here Standfaſt bowed—and brought me in company with the moſt lovely woman my eyes ever beheld.’

‘'I was aſtoniſhed to find myſelf a great deal more concerned in this buſineſs than I imagined, though poor thing ſhe little knew it, but told me the mat⯑ter as if to an indifferent perſon; imagining my [153] conduct laſt night demanded from her every ex⯑planation.'’

‘'You muſt know this brother of hers is rigidly tenacious of his ſiſter's honour, for he lies under very great obligations to this baronet, who is ſhortly to be married to her; and ſhe, on her ſide, partakes ſo ſtrongly of his generoſity, that ſhe conſents to give her hand to a man ſhe cannot love, to pay her brother's debt of gratitude.'’

‘'She told you all this, did ſhe my lord?' ſaid Sandfaſt.’

‘'Oh yes,' anſwered my lord; 'ſhe has none of that ſordid narrowneſs of mind, the reſult of vul⯑gar ſentiments and mean education. She is all candour and frankneſs. Oh you may ſee in a mo⯑ment ſhe has maintained a high rank in ſociety.’

‘'Well, you have been told that the brother very abruptly left his ſiſter and her intended huſband in the box, and ſallied after a gentleman whom he ſaw coming out on the oppoſite ſide. This man it ſeems paid ſome attention to this ſweet girl, and was inſulting enough, knowing their circumſtances, to propoſe a ſettlement. This the brother reſented, and a duel was the conſe⯑quence: [154] but no alarming iſſue came of it; for after a mutual diſcharge of piſtols, the ſeconds interfered, and, upon a promiſe given by this gen⯑tleman, that he would never more preſume to ad⯑dreſs Miſs Snaffle, all anger ſubſided. Laſt week, however, at the maſquerade, if you recollect, you and I paid particular attention to a lovely figure in the dreſs of a circaſſian, and to confeſs the truth, while you were gone to ſee after our party, I made no ſcruple to be very free with her; ſeeing her entirely alone, and believing her to be one of the frail ſiſterhood. She ſays indeed I took a number of indecent liberties; and faith the fact might be ſo, for we had been drinking a great deal of cham⯑paigne. All this Miſs Snaffle—for you have ſeen ſhe was the circaſſian—related to her brother, when he returned from ſeeing after their car⯑riage.'’

‘'The brother immediately ſought after me, directed by the deſcription of my dreſs, all over the rooms, and I dare ſay we ſhould have had a tilting bout that evening, had I not, upon joining you, yielded to your preſſing entreaty to return home.’

‘'Not finding me, they had nothing now for it but conjecture who it could be that had ſo pub⯑licly inſulted the lady. The ſuſpicion naturally [155] lighted on the gentleman who had before affronted her, by his offer of a ſettlement. Mr. Snaffle therefore immediately determined upon an expla⯑nation with him whenever they ſhould meet. The firſt time he ſaw him was laſt night at the play, where he joined him in that ſudden manner you have heard of, and they went together into the Shakeſpear. Here a very ſingular explanation took place: the gentleman informed Mr. Snaffle that he had religiouſly adhered to the promiſe made at the concluſion of their quarrel; that how⯑ever he was entirely devoted to the lady, and meant to make her honourable propoſals, the moment he ſhould, by the death of a very near relation, be releaſed from the reſtraint which, till that event happened, would prevent his having ſo much hap⯑pineſs; that being nevertheleſs unalterably at⯑tached to her, he determined, as far as he decently could, to watch her inclinations, and being that evening at the maſquerade, and noticing the par⯑ticular conduct of a gentleman there—meaning me—had the curioſity to enquire who that gentle⯑man was; in which he ſo well ſucceeded that I was deſcribed as a reformed rake, who had mar⯑ried after ruining a whole village.’

‘'Thus you ſee, Mr. Snaffle being told all theſe particulars, no wonder he ſhould accoſt me in the [156] extraordinary manner he did, or that I ſhould find it neceſſary to make the handſomeſt apology for my conduct, which I was on the point of doing, when I conſidered how awkward it would be to announce myſelf. Beſides, it would then have been neceſſary to inform the lady of the quarrel, which it was eaſy to ſee had been carefully concealed from her. And again, I did not know whether an apology to her might ſatisfy her brother. Be⯑ſides, to be ingenuous, if I had made a conceſſion, and taken my leave, it was poſſible I might never ſee her again. All theſe conſiderations determined me ſtill to conceal myſelf; ſo, after a thouſand acknowledgments for her condeſcenſion, I left a meſſage for the brother, and haſtened home to conſult thee.'’

‘'Well my lord,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'I have heard you to an end, and once more I caution you not to be impoſed upon. In the firſt place it is a very curious thing that the lady this morning ſhould re⯑late her love, her poverty, and her gratitude, and the Lord knows what, to a gentleman ſhe never ſaw till laſt night. It puts me too much in mind of one of the hiſtories of thoſe unfortunate poor devils who always begin with—I was a clergyman's daughter.'’

[157] ‘'Faith,' ſaid my lord, ſcarcely attending to Stand⯑faſt, 'there was one thing eſcaped her that charmed me. Said ſhe—I wiſh I had not gone to that maſ⯑querade, or elſe that this lord was not married, and a rake.'’

‘'Good God,' cried Standfaſt, 'cannot you ſee it yet? She knew you, and ſaid this on purpoſe. She thought it would hit, and ſo it has. Such a certain ſhot, ſo well directed: but ſurely, my lord, it was too groſs, too palpable, too little diſ⯑guiſed to paſs on you?'’

‘'Rather ſay,' returned my lord, 'too ingenuous to contain the leaſt ſhadow of art. Beſides, every thing around the place wears the air of ſober ele⯑gance. A handſome houſe—'’ ‘'Hired,' ſaid the tutor, 'for the purpoſe of gulling your lordſhip.'’

‘'I cannot conceive,' ſaid Lord Hazard, 'what makes you ſo warm in this buſineſs. You know the world I acknowledge, but give me leave to ſay I know it too, Mr. Standfaſt.'’

‘'Infinitely better,' ſaid the parſon, with an in⯑ward ſneer, 'than I do, my lord, I am ready to grant: but ſtill I am a by-ſtander, and as you ap⯑pear [158] to be playing pretty deep at this game, there may be no harm in giving you a caution not to be bubbled.'’

‘'I know thy friendſhip and anxiety,' cried my lord, 'but what is there to fear? She is a woman of honour, and if I was inclined to think of her, there is no chance for me. Beſides, I give you my word it is not my intention ever to cauſe Lady Hazard a moment's uneaſineſs:—but ſurely a beautiful woman may be admired without any of⯑fence to a wife's virtue.'’

‘'There my lord,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'is my hope: your heart is my ſheet anchor: and upon that I truſt with comfort for the ſafety of your honour.'’

‘'Enough,' ſaid my lord, 'it ſhall never deceive thee, nor any one.'’ ‘'Thank you my lord,' ſaid Standfaſt; 'I am completely ſatisfied: I will not even fear it can deceive itſelf. And now pray what ſort of an apology do you mean to make to Mr. Snaffle?'’ ‘'A full and entire one,' ſaid my lord; 'he is entitled to it, and ſo is the lady. You and I will go together to-morrow morning, and I dare ſay we ſhall very eaſily laugh off the whole matter.'’

[159] This being agreed on, the converſation turned on Lady Hazard. Standfaſt ſaid he conceived there was ſome apology due to her. My lord did not think ſo. He ſaw in her conduct all the myſterious inquiſitiveneſs of growing jealouſy. It was the firſt time to be ſure he had ever been diſingenuous with her, but circumſtances required it. He now began to perceive there might be occurrences which would admit of treating her with a ſort of laudable dupli⯑city; which indeed ſhe ought to be thankful for:—but ſuch was the reſtleſs and unſatisfied curioſity of wives, that he plainly ſaw ſhe would infallibly con⯑ſtrue it into coldneſs and neglect. However, he had ſeen many inſtances of reſigned acquieſcence in her duty, and therefore he doubted not but this bu⯑ſineſs—the truth of which he was determined to keep a ſecret—though it might ruffle a little, yet it would not deſtroy their mutual tranquillity.

He thought it, nevertheleſs, incumbent on him to give the matter ſome hue of probability, the bet⯑ter to appeaſe her at once. To do this he told her, as if caſually, at dinner, that an affair of honour had called him out in the morning, but that fortunately every thing had terminated without bloodſhed.

The reflection that her huſband had eſcaped ſuch [160] a danger, bore down in Lady Hazard's mind all other conſiderations, and ſhe was in a moment per⯑fectly at eaſe. She chid him however for preferring a fooliſh punctilio of honour to her peace of mind, and his own perſonal ſafety; ſaying that his courage was too well eſtabliſhed to need any ſuch ſavage and unneceſſary proof of it: and ſhe wondered a brutal cuſtom ſhould ſo prevail, which, far from exhibiting any trait of true honour, or real ſpirit, was gene⯑rally the refuge of ſharping knaves, and the laſt re⯑ſort of deſperate cowards.

Standfaſt acquieſced in the juſtice of the remark, and Lord Hazard told her with a ſmile that, had he known ſhe poſſeſſed ſo much ſpirit, he would have engaged her as his ſecond.

A ſilent minute, or rather a ſilent quarter of an hour, here enſued, which would perhaps have laſted much longer had not the arrival of ſome company put an end to their different cogitations, the ſubject of which, if the reader will but think a little, by way of making one, it is not impoſſible but he may be able to gueſs.

As the converſation now took a mixed turn, and the general topics of miniſters, puppet-ſhews, ſer⯑mons, [161] plays, ſceptres, waſh-balls, lottery tickets, loaded dice, lords, monkies, ſpeakers, parrots, ducheſſes, and drabs, were alternately handled with ſuch velocity and vociferation, that the parties themſelves were all talkers, and no hearers.

I ſhall therefore content myſelf with barely men⯑tioning that, while my lord was out of the room, Mr. Standfaſt aſked Lady Hazard when he ſhould have the honour of communicating the reſult of what ſent him to the Smyrna.

The lady agreed to hear it the next morning, at which Standfaſt ſaid, that then, and every other moment of his life, was perfectly at the devotion of her ladyſhip, even though it ſhould be attended with far greater perils than thoſe he had that day encountered:—ſo ſaying, he heaved a profound ſigh, and joined the company.

What ſhall I ſay to the reader in this place? for ſo far from relieving him from that ſuſpenſe into which I have ſo completely thrown him, it is certainly my intention to heighten it:—but, however, there is a remedy for ſuch as are over impatient; for if the tenter-hooks on which I have ſet them prick too hard, they have nothing [162] to do but dip a few pages forward, and they will find them as eaſy as a cuſhion.

CHAPTER IV.

No ſooner had the complicated din of itinerant retailers opened the eyes, or rather the ears, of the ſervants—for they were yet only half awake—in that ſquare where Lord Hazard reſided, than that noble⯑man left the partner of his bed, to ſeek after Stand⯑faſt, who was ſuddenly awoke by a ſervant from a nap into which he had fallen about half an hour be⯑fore; for the pious preceptor had been exerciſing that portion of his religious duty called watching the greater part of the night.

In fact, the ſubject which occupied his thoughts was of ſo complicate and nice a kind, that he had been turning it in his mind with much care and at⯑tention; and after looking at it in every poſſible ſituation—rejecting this expedient, adopting that, and at laſt fairly ſatisfying himſelf as to the meaſures to be taken—he had fallen aſleep juſt at the very in⯑ſtant when Phoebus awoke, and walked abroad to cheer the world, inſpire poets, and engender ani⯑malculae: [164] three employments, according to ſome philoſophers equally material.

Mr. Standfaſt underſtanding that his patron re⯑quired his preſence, now only muttered thoſe curſes which he before had been thundering againſt the footman. In a few minutes he joined Lord Ha⯑zard, whom he found full of impatience and anxiety.

My lord ſaid he wanted to have five minutes con⯑verſation with him previous to their intended buſi⯑neſs that morning; adding, that he muſt candidly confeſs he wiſhed for a pretext for continuing his viſits at Mr. Snaffle's, and that he could think of nothing but the ſiſter.

‘'My lord,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'I am ſorry to ſee this. It can end but one way. Good God that this Sy⯑ren ſhould get ſuch hold of you in a moment!—Why the moſt inexperienced of your adventures at Little Hockley was prudence to this.'’

He had ſcarcely ſpoken when Lady Hazard came abruptly into the room. Addreſſing herſelf to her huſband, ſhe ſaid, ‘'My lord, I know not how you will receive the over anxious ſolicitude of a wife, whoſe uniform ſtudy has been to adminiſter to your wiſhes; but I am impelled, by an irreſiſta⯑ble [165] ſomething, to entreat that the horrid coolneſs you have ſhewn me ever ſince that ſtrange buſi⯑neſs at the playhouſe, may be fully explained; may be done away: that ſo the tranquillity which reigned in this family, till that unhappy moment, and pointed us out as fit and worthy objects for imitation may be reſtored to us.'’

‘'I know not what you mean,' ſaid my lord.—You are a charming woman; I doat on you:—therefore make yourſelf eaſy, and truſt to the truth of my affection.'’

‘'Heaven forbid I ſhould doubt it,' ſaid the lady; 'but be aſſured the beſt affections are too often en⯑dangered by the ſlighteſt miſunderſtandings. I believe we have all three a great deal to confeſs to each other, and I came to encourage you both, by frankly acknowledging all I know and all I con⯑jecture, relative to the moſt extraordinary and moſt unpleaſant buſineſs I ever yet experienced; at the ſame time, my lord, let me ſay I have no idle curioſity to indulge, no whim to gratify, no fooliſh feminine fears that alarm me, not even the ſlighteſt want of confidence in your lordſhip's laviſh love or firm fidelity;—I honeſtly and ſa⯑credly believe that nothing could ſhake either;—but, as an artful train of flattering concurrent cir⯑cumſtances [166] might give them, ſtrong as they are, ſome ſlight inclination to pauſe, I think it my duty to endeavour what I can, to ſuſtain them, to hold them ſecurely where they ought, and where I am ſure they wiſh invariably to fix.'’

My lord paid his lady a very elegant, and I be⯑lieve a very ſincere compliment, on her inten⯑tions, attachment, affection, ſenſe of duty, and right conception of that exquiſite charm in a wife's con⯑duct who is never officiouſly ſolicitous, but ever on the watch to pleaſe. He remarked however that the breakfaſt would interrupt nothing.

Here Standfaſt interfering, ſaid, that at breakfaſt Charles would neceſſarily make one of the party, which he apprehended was not Lady Hazard's wiſh; he therefore propoſed to defer it till the evening, or ſome other time, which the lady peremptorily declared ſhe could not conſent to. Indeed ſhe preſſed ſo hard for a hearing that very morning, that Standfaſt, at the inſtance of my Lord Hazard, un⯑dertook to ſet his pupil a taſk in the library imme⯑diately after breakfaſt, when it was agreed that the converſation ſhould be reſumed.

Perhaps Mr. Standfaſt was glad of a moment's pauſe. He certainly betrayed evident ſymptoms of [167] aſtoniſhment at the firſt part of Lady Hazard's harrangue, which, added to an affected indif⯑ference, and a forced ſprightlineſs, would have con⯑veyed to an uninterrupted by-ſtander, a trait or two of ſuſpicion that the lady's conduct was not altoge⯑ther agreeable to him: but we have already hinted that he never ſuffered long under perturbation of any kind. Thus, whatever inward ſenſations might produce the above effects, they certainly did not re⯑main viſible long enough to be noticed either by the lord or the lady; and with the aſſiſtance of ſum⯑moning his pupil to breakfaſt, he had ſo rallied his ſpirits, that he appeared the moſt cheerful and un⯑concerned of the whole company.

It was far otherwiſe with my lord. He ſet it down for a certainty that his lady had, by ſome means, diſcovered all that had paſt, and divined all that was likely to come. Nevertheleſs, he felt no reluctance to review his intentions either in one light or the other; but certain nameleſs ſenſations, which he felt in ſpight of himſelf gave his behaviour an awkwardneſs which was apparent in proportion as he endeavoured to hide it.

Charles was no ſooner informed by his father that he had ſome particular buſineſs with Mr. Standfaſt, and given his taſk, than he retired to the library, [168] when the lady, after an apology much in the ſtyle of the former one, acquainted her huſband with all ſhe knew relative to this ſtrange affair: not even omitting either the inſult ſhe had received the morn⯑ing before, the ſpirited kindneſs of Standfaſt, or the meſſage ſhe had ſent after him to the Smyrna; which laſt buſineſs clearly accounted for her conſu⯑ſion in the library when John came back; whom ſhe alſo loaded with praiſes, in which Standfaſt joined, declaring, at the ſame time, that the hiring of that worthy fellow was a new inſtance that Lord Hazard's knowledge of the world and judgment of mankind was ſuperior to his, for that John had what he thought a forbidding countenance, which his lordſhip, however, with a penetration far be⯑yond his, had conſtrued into a ſign of bluntneſs and plain dealing. ‘'But madam,' ſaid Standfaſt, 'I interrupt you.'’

The lady went on, ſaying that her huſband's new and extraordinary conduct had firſt given her the alarm. In addition to this, a ſervant had been privy to the treatment ſhe had received from the baronet at the theatre. Again, he who ought to have pro⯑tected her was out of the way, when Mr. Standfaſt ſtept forward in her defence. In ſhort, ſuch con⯑cealments and ſuch obligations were very repug⯑nant to her delicacy, which ſhe hoped his lordſhip, [169] in this caſe, would conceive was not affected or over⯑ſtrained. My lord, ſhe added, was the proper per⯑ſon to reward the ſervant and thank Mr. Standfaſt, who, though a gentleman in years, and perfectly exemplary in his manners, was by no means a pro⯑per confident for her who thought it her firſt hap⯑pineſs to have no wiſh or thought concealed from her huſband.

Lord Hazard paſſed ſome very high compliments on the frankneſs, kindneſs, and great propriety of his lady's declaration and conduct. He owned he thought the buſineſs of the baronet perfectly inex⯑plicable; but theſe and all other conſiderations were ſwallowed up in the obligations he thought himſelf under to Standfaſt, who took all theſe com⯑pliments with the ſame compoſure as he would have received his ſalary, or any thing elſe which he con⯑ceived to be perfectly his own property.

His lordſhip deſired this worthy friend, as he called him, to relate the iſſue of his meeting the baronet at the Smyrna; but Standfaſt remarked that the harveſt of domeſtic tranquillity this diſcovery promiſed, belonged entirely to his lordſhip and the amiable Lady Hazard; that at beſt he was but a privileged gleaner, who ſaw, but envied not, that abundant happineſs which kindly let fall as much [170] comfort as he deſired, and more, infinitely more than he deſerved:—he therefore begged to come in his place. ‘'Beſides,' added he, 'totally ignorant as your lordſhip is of the motives of theſe people for ſtirring up all this miſchief, your ſtory cannot but involve ſome awkwardneſs which my after ex⯑planation may relieve; for I fancy the baronet has made me more au fait to this buſineſs than either of you.'’

His lordſhip, taking this as a friendly hint of the tutor, to clear up any embarraſſment that might ariſe in his narrative, conſented to unfold. It is but truth to ſay that his relation was not ſo ingenu⯑ous as that of his lady had been; for he did not mention the cauſe of the quarrel, nor that it yet exiſted; but, on the contrary, ſaid that the whole was a miſtake, the brother having taken him for another perſon, who had, it ſeems, offered an inſult to the ſiſter, and that every thing was amicably made up. He ſunk entirely the circumſtance of his having ſeen Miſs Snaffle the day before; he alſo forbore to touch on his intention of paying that lady a ſecond viſit; and indeed on any one point that could give the ſmalleſt reaſon for conjecture that the whole was any other than a matter of a common curſory kind, which, in proportion as it was myſ⯑terious, ſo it ſunk to nothing, the myſtery being [171] cleared away. He was very much alive however to all thoſe matters relative to Sir Daniel Dogbolt.—He hoped his friend would be able to clear them up: for, after all, he ſhould not conſider that part of the buſineſs at an end without a full and explicit ſa⯑tisfaction for the inſult his wife had ſuſtained in his abſence.

‘'I am heartily ſorry you were abſent,' ſaid Stand⯑faſt. 'Proud as I was of chaſtiſing his inſolence, it was certainly your right.'’

Lord Hazard acknowledged his obligations, and proceeded to finiſh his account of this buſineſs, in which, upon the whole, he ſo well ſucceeded, that Lady Hazard declared ſhe was, except a little re⯑maining curioſity, perfectly ſatisfied.

Now came the tutor's turn. He began with ſay⯑ing he had a much longer tale to tell than either of them, and that ſince he was not then bound by the painful duty which had hitherto punctiliouſly kept him from divulging it, he thought himſelf obliged openly and without reſerve to declare all he knew on the ſubject. ‘'But,' added he, 'I believe my lord they are too artful a ſet for us to place any reliance on what they tell us. What I am going now to inform you, I forced from the pretty ba⯑ronet—if [172] he be one—who had the unparalleled inſolence to inſult this lady, for which—and I hope your lordſhip will not blame my too forward zeal, I had the honour of calling him to account.’

Standfaſt here received the compliments he had once more fiſhed for, and then went on: not with⯑out firſt exclaiming ‘'Heavens! why my lord a per⯑fect ſtranger would have been entitled to the aſ⯑ſiſtance I gave, much leſs her ladyſhip. A meer common exerciſe of humanity. Beſides, the gen⯑tleman gave me very little trouble. He fences pretty well, but I ſoon diſarmed him; and having his life in my power, I made uſe of this oppor⯑tunity of extorting from him an account of him⯑ſelf and his aſſociates. He ſaid he had long ſe⯑cretly admired Lady Hazard, that he had tried many experiments to get an opportunity of diſ⯑cloſing his paſſion, but found none which had the ſmalleſt appearance of feaſibility till about three weeks ago, at the maſquerade, where you may remember we were in a very large party.'’

‘'Good God,' cried Lady Hazard, 'I recollect it. A man certainly did teaze me at the maſque⯑rade, but I took it for ſome drunken fool, and never gave the matter a ſecond thought.'’

[173] ‘'He told me,' ſaid Standfaſt, he firſt accoſted your lordſhip, drew you away from your com⯑pany, and introduced you to another, that he might have better opportunity to entertain her ladyſhip. His words were that he had found an impregnable fortreſs, and therefore, from that moment, de⯑termined to give up the attack; but accident in⯑troducing him into the ſame box at the playhouſe, his wiſhes revived, and reſolving to make uſe of the occaſion that preſented itſelf through Mr. Snaffle's quarrel with the gentleman in the oppo⯑ſite box, he dropt him in the crowd, and returned to Lady Hazard juſt as your lordſhip had gone to conduct Miſs Snaffle to her coach. He confeſſed that, to ingratiate himſelf, he had told her lady⯑ſhip ſeveral falſities, ſuch as that you my lord had an intimacy with Miſs Snaffle, that you were then gone home with her, all which we have already heard. In ſhort, firſt making him anſwer many other queſtions, I gave him his life, and ſuffered him to leave me, after he had proteſted in the moſt ſolemn manner that he would never dare to mention the name of this lady in future upon any account whatever.’

‘'Well, my lord, theſe are the facts: now hear my comments on them. This man is not a baro⯑net, [174] neither is he upon the point of marrying this young lady, nor are they any other than three ſharpers, who have in ſome way or other a dark plot on the conjugal peace of your worthy lady and yourſelf. This Sir Daniel did draw you aſide from your company, and introduced you to this very Miſs Snaffle: with what deſign is another matter: but it is very extraordinary you ſhould be left by this baronet with his intended wife, that he might the better introduce himſelf to Lady Hazard.—Nor am I miſtaken as to the lady, for I heard a chair called in her name.’

‘'You cannot forget my lord that we at that time decided that ſhe was a woman of no character. I remember your ſaying with great earneſtneſs, Stand⯑faſt, let us not pay Lady Hazard ſo ill a compli⯑ment as to ſpeak to a creature of this ſtamp;—though ſhe is under the ſame roof with her.’

‘'Well, my lord, can it be, after what I have ſaid, that this is a woman of honour? that her brother is a man of the niceſt feelings? and that Sir Daniel Dogbolt is on the point of marriage with this woman? No, my lord, it is, as I ſaid, a plot againſt you; however, thank heaven, armed with a proper confidence in each other, you may deſpiſe it.'’

[175] ‘'Mr. Standfaſt has placed this matter in its true light,' ſaid the lady. 'For my part, I am per⯑fectly at eaſe, and I am ſure my lord will thank me for waving all abſurd delicacy, and coming to this declaration.'’

Here ſeveral ſuitable remarks were made, Mr. Standfaſt was loaded with thanks, and the moſt per⯑fect harmony was reſtored. After this the lady re⯑tired to her dreſſing room, and left the two friends together.

They were no ſooner alone than Lord Hazard be⯑gan anew to compliment and thank Mr. Standfaſt. That gentleman aſſured his patron his thanks were more than he deſerved; and indeed he ſpoke truth. However, no one upon earth could have bel eved his conduct to be any other than cordial zeal and ſin⯑cere friendſhip; conformable to which appearances, he ſaid he would not leave his lordſhip till he had made him a firm promiſe not to ſee that woman any more, who he muſt now very plainly perceive was a ſuborned wretch, to aſſiſt in ſome vile plot againſt his domeſtic peace.

My lord did not heſitate to make this promiſe; for he was charmed with the angel-like conduct of [176] his lady, and went ſo far as to ſay that, ſeeing the matter now in the ſame light with the tutor, he felt himſelf at eaſe with relation to Sir Daniel Dogbolt, as well as the reſt. Standfaſt hearing this, and being told that his kindneſs ſhould not go unremembered, went, with the greateſt air of ſatisfaction to ſeek his pupil.

As the ſingle articles in my account with the rea⯑der begin again to be pretty numerous, I ſhall now, for his ſatisfaction, add them up, and carry them over. To ſpeak without metaphor, Mr. Standfaſt pleaſe to unmaſk.

The preceptor then had, in conjunction with Vi⯑ney, concerted this whole ſcheme. The maſque⯑rade, the playhouſe, the interview, and every other part of it, was as regularly digeſted as the trial of a felon before he comes to the bar at the Old Bailey. Mr. Viney had tutored the gentleman, and Mrs. O'Shockneſy had inſtructed the lady.

Standfaſt, however, who had contrived the whole plot, was totally unknown to any of the actors in it. His argument with Viney and Mrs. O'Shockneſy was, that as they enjoyed the utmoſt they ever could expect from Lord Hazard, they had no meaſures [177] to keep with him; eſpecially as ever ſo violent a rupture could not deprive either him of his living, or her of her annuity. On the contrary, that he, Standfaſt, might in a moment loſe both his ſalary and his expectations, which were not trifles. He therefore ſtipulated not to be ſeen at all, but in their privy council; and inſtructions were particularly given to the under villains to be more cautious in deceiving him than any other of the family.

This maſter ſtroke could be worthy of no other than Standfaſt. To teach his tools to look upon him as their enemy, ſecured him from all poſſibility of detection; for he knew he might laugh at the re⯑ſentment of Viney, even if he had any cauſe to ſuſ⯑pect him of treachery: his own ipfe dixit being al⯑ways ſufficient to overturn any thing of that kind with his patron. Nay, notwithſtanding this infor⯑mation, the reader is almoſt obliged to confeſs that he is innocent; for his conduct gives the lie direct even to what I have advanced of him. It is very true that we have ſeen him act the part of a diſinte⯑reſted friend, we have heard him counſel Lord Ha⯑zard to ſhun that very plot he himſelf had laid for him, and one would think he had ſo far ſucceeded againſt himſelf—if I may be allowed the expreſ⯑ſion—that theſe ſwindlers in love ſeem to be turned out of employ: the gentlemen to hunt other game [178] at the hazard table, or perhaps on the highway, and the lady to ruin apprentices, or gull libidinous elders.

If the reader thinks thus of Mr. Standfaſt, he is not yet half acquainted with that conſummate fabri⯑cator of domeſtic ruin. A ſimple intrigue, and the common incidental train of diſquietude attending it, would not have been a luxury inexorable enough for him. In ſhort, Mr. Standfaſt, put on your maſk again; for we will not ſee your naked heart till we are prepared to pronounce, by a knowledge of the ſpecies of deſtruction it meditates—that in the round of human conception there is not ſo ſhocking a piece of deformity as a complete hypocrite.

CHAPTER VI.

THE day on which this eclairciſſement took place was diſtinguiſhed by the cheerfulneſs that ſat on every countenance. Indeed ſo remarkable was the prevalent good humour, that Mr. Standfaſt was heartily joined by a great deal of company, who dined at my lord's, when he ventured an opinion that Hazard houſe had the only roof in town that could boaſt of a couple perfectly elegant and per⯑fectly happy. I do not pretend to aſſert that this declaration was truth; I only ſay the company then preſent allowed it to be ſo.

My lord would not read a ſingle letter—for many were that day brought him—leſt it ſhould give a tinge of diſſatisfaction that might check the general hilarity. They were all ordered to be laid in the ſtudy, and it was agreed that he and Standfaſt ſhould look them over the next morning.

The whole day being like a ſmooth ſea, which looked the more beautiful for having been a little [180] ruffled, we will glide over it, as too uniform for any ſtriking remarks, and come to the next, which was a little more agitated.

As ſoon as breakfaſt was over, his lordſhip and Standfaſt, according to agreement, retired to ex⯑amine the letters. Theſe were ſeven in number, and as four of them in ſome degree relate to this hiſtory, I ſhall inſert them, together with the remarks of their examiners. Indeed it was once in my head to have given this whole hiſtory through that ve⯑hicle, but I conſidered that making my perſonages retire to their cloſets before they diſcloſed their ſen⯑timents would have thrown a frigidity over the bu⯑ſineſs; beſides the unavoidable neceſſity of relating every thing two or three times over, and always partially. Beſides I may introduce ſome characters who cannot write, and others who will not. Mr. Standfaſt, for inſtance, would not have been poſ⯑ſeſſed of half the cunning I have given him if any thing could have induced him to diſcloſe his ſenti⯑ments upon paper.

Upon reflection, therefore, I was determined not to follow a method, however faſhionable, by which I muſt have made villains confide their vices, and young ladies their wiſhes—which, if they felt deli⯑cately, they would find difficult to expreſs at all, [181] much leſs in a letter—to their confidants and clerks of the roads.

All ſuch matters conſidered, I have left theſe penny-poſt men in biography to themſelves, con⯑tented to jog on an old road, where what the proſ⯑pects want of trimming and regulation, will, I truſt, be made up in ſimple and natural luxuriance. But to the letters under examination.

Standfaſt having thanked the lady for her glance at him, and my lord having laughed heartily at the good natured reflection on his extraction, in the latter part of the letter, they paſſed on to the next, which contained what follows.

‘'What could a guardian do?' ſaid my lord.—’ ‘'Faith be very troubleſome,' replied Standfaſt. 'Theſe eſtates in tail, without right of waſte, are, of all legal niceties, the beſt morſel for a litigious ſtomach. As to what the lady and her ſon want, your lordſhip knows beſt whether it is worth con⯑tending for; but I think I would not be bullied out of any thing.'’

‘'Well, we will conſider what is to be done,' ſaid his lordſhip; 'in the mean time let us to the next.'’ [184] So ſaying, he opened another letter, which came by the poſt, and was written by Sir Sidney Roebuck. Theſe were the contents.

Lord Hazard, as I formerly mentioned, received his rents regularly from his ſteward, and therefore did not dream of the enormities carried on at Little Hockley. He now firſt reflected that theſe ſeeds of vice he had himſelf ſown; and as wickedneſs, like weeds, flouriſhes beſt where there are no whole⯑ſome plants to interrupt its growth, he eaſily per⯑ceived [186] and felt the truth of Sir Sidney's relation; and, therefore, determined to acquaint him that he was as well diſpoſed as himſelf to perfect ſo deſira⯑ble an undertaking, and that he ſhould be glad to ſee him for that purpoſe.

After examining another letter or two, they came to the following one.

‘'Oh,' ſaid my lord, 'this is too ſhocking to paſs. I muſt break the fellow's bones.'’

[187] ‘'Rather get a chairman to do it,' ſaid Standfaſt. Did not you wait at the raſcal's houſe two hours? Where was he all that time? No, no, they think you begin to ſmell the matter out, and ſo are grown deſperate. Does not all this confirm my ſuſpicions?'’

‘'But ſtill,' ſaid my lord, 'there is ſomething curſedly unpleaſant in letting ſuch a ſcoundrel go on with impunity. I am determined,' conti⯑nued he, 'to give him manuel chaſtiſement where⯑ever I meet him.'’

‘'Not at all,' cried Standfaſt, 'till he has eſta⯑bliſhed his credentials to diſpute a point of honour with your lordſhip.'’ ‘'Well, well, perhaps you are right,' ſaid my lord, 'you generally ſee things very properly. Let us talk no more of the damned fellow; he has ſet my blood in a ferment.'’

The converſation was interrupted by a note from Ingot, in the city, with whom—as the reader for⯑merly heard from Mr. Standfaſt—Lord Hazard ſometimes banked. The letter was concerning the transfer of ſome ſtock, and other buſineſs, on which he required to ſee his lordſhip at an early opportu⯑nity; and my lord, as he was anxious to adviſe with [188] counſel what was beſt to be done with Mrs. O'Shock⯑neſy and her ſon, thought he could not take a pro⯑perer time than the preſent.

As his lordſhip went alone into the city, he had leiſure to revolve in his mind the various buſineſs of the day, and in particular the ſubject of the letter from Snaffle, which he did not enter into much be⯑fore Mr. Standfaſt: knowing that an inclination to indulge his feelings would meet with every poſſible oppoſition from that careful friend.

At the ſame time, however, that he gave Stand⯑faſt credit for the goodneſs of his intentions, he could not help thinking the conjectures of that gen⯑tleman rather preſcient than wiſe, careful than certain. What was all this mighty buſineſs? Why truly a hot-headed fellow had inſulted him with great acrimony, and written to him with great im⯑pertinence. What were Standfaſt's ideas of this matter? That a plot was laid to diſturb his domeſtic repoſe. In truth it appeared ſo by the aſſault on his lady, and looked ſomething like it by the tempting opportunity that had been given him of addreſſing a very beautiful woman. Well, it was ſo perhaps: in that caſe the proper check had been given to the firſt; and, as to the latter, he could ſee no ruinous [189] conſequences that would enſue, even were they to carry their ſcheme into execution. He could not be drawn into a marriage, and therefore an intrigue was the worſt that could be apprehended. This it was his buſineſs to avoid; and he certainly ſhould do ſo: but was this any reaſon why he muſt put up with a moſt provoking and impudent affront? No, no; he muſt beg leave to underſtand the etiquette of his own honour as well as Mr. Standfaſt. He was no ſchool boy, and therefore took the liberty to diſ⯑ſent from the neceſſity of having his actions eternally inſpected; and as to the affront, which he neither could nor would brook, a proper time ſhould cer⯑tainly be taken to reſent it.

Lord Hazard had now arrived to that very pitch where Standfaſt wiſhed to conduct him. The tutor knew that no longer to confide in him was the only way to keep him ſafe from all conſequences. He waited with malicious joy for the moment when the patron would voluntarily exclaim, Oh that I had taken thy advice! Oh that thy ſalutary counſel had been followed!—and I ſay to the reader, woe be to Lord Hazard if ever the moment ſhould arrive when ſuch an exclamation ſhall be neceſſary. But at pre⯑ſent let us change the ſcene.

In the courſe of his lordſhip's buſineſs with Mr. [190] Ingot, a lady paſſed through the room, whom he remarked ſpoke nothing but French; for there were two gentlemen with her, one of whom told Mr. Ingot, in very broken Engliſh, that the lady wiſhed him a good morning.

After they were gone, Ingot told my lord that there was ſomething ſingular in the lady's ſtory, which had been ſo interwoven with a buſineſs con⯑cerning money he had been recommended to tranſ⯑act for her, that he could not but be perfectly ac⯑quainted with it.

My lord, who had never any improper curioſity, ſeemed very indifferent about hearing it; ſaying there were family matters in it not proper to be divulged.

Ingot aſſured my lord that was not the caſe at all; on the contrary, he ſhould tell it to every one he knew; becauſe it placed in a more glaring point of view the ſcandalous traffic and ſhameful ſelling and buying of conſciences among the papiſts (a ſect it ſeems for which Mr. Ingot had a great inveteracy) than any inſtance that had ever come within his knowledge.

My Lord ſmiled, and Mr. Ingot continued.— [191] ‘'This lady, when ſhe was very young, having un⯑fortunately an intrigue with a ſtranger her father had a great averſion to, ſhe was ſecluded in a con⯑vent, but what convent her lover never could learn. After ſome time, being perſuaded by her friends that her enamorato had played her falſe, ſhe was prevailed on to take the veil, and ſhut herſelf up, as every one thought, for ever.’

‘'About a year and a half ago her father died in England, having long repented of his daughter's ill treatment, and made a will, leaving her his whole fortune, all veſted in the Engliſh funds. Mind the conditions: to be ſpent in France, half for her own uſe, and half in pious donations—provided a diſ⯑penſation of her vow could be obtained: but, in default of this, to go to Engliſh charities.’

‘'Here was manifeſt the cunning of the Frenchman. He thought, and rightly too, the pious donations in France would procure intereſt enough to obtain the diſpenſation of her vow. Ay, ay, the Pope ſhall make a bargain with any Jew in Duke's-place.’

‘'The diſpenſation was obtained, with this ſingle proviſo—which indeed graſped at the whole for⯑tune—that ſhe ſhould live penſioner in the ſame convent, with liberty to go out when ſhe pleaſed.’

[192] ‘'Theſe terms the lady accepted, and giving ſecu⯑rity for her return, ſhe was permitted to come to England, in company with a perſon deputed by the convent, to arrange her father's affairs. This ſhe has now done, and, in a week or ten days will return to France.'’

‘'An extraordinary buſineſs indeed,' ſaid Lord Hazard.’ ‘'Yes, yes,' replied Ingot, with great arch⯑neſs; 'the church of Rome never fails to ſtretch its prerogative when intereſt is in the caſe. How happy are we who live under the three eſtates and the proteſtant religion?'’

‘'Spoken as a citizen ſhould ſpeak,' ſaid my lord. 'Poor lady, I dare ſay ſhe rejoices at her eſcape from captivity. What does ſhe think of En⯑gland?'’

‘'Oh ſhe knows nobody here,' cried Ingot. 'Ex⯑cept one gentleman, ſhe has not enquired for a ſingle creature. How ſhe came to know him is a myſtery to me. It is Sir Sidney Roebuck. I have promiſed to find him out for her if he be in town.'’ ‘'Then I can tell you, Mr. Ingot, that he is not,' anſwered my lord. 'I received a letter from him this very morning, which induces me to think it will be a fortnight firſt; as he only talks of com⯑ing [193] up by the meeting of parliament.'’ ‘'Well, well, ſhe will not ſee him then,' cried Ingot:—it is no great matter I ſuppoſe.'’

Here the converſation drew to an end; the lord teſtifying great pleaſure at the lady's emancipation from confinement, and the citizen reprobating the folly of immuring healthy young girls, who ought to increaſe their ſpecies, and produce ſoldiers and ſailors, and thanking his ſtars that he did not live under the influence of an Italian prieſt, not half ſo good a citizen as himſelf; a fellow who, becauſe he wore a triple crown, could roaſt and barbecue any of his peaceable ſubjects whenever he pleaſed, the better to confiſcate their fortunes.

CHAPTER VII.

THAT very afternoon Lord Hazard wrote an an⯑ſwer to Sir Sidney's letter, the receipt of which gave the baronet ſuch ſatisfaction, that it haſtened his journey to town, where in a few days he arrived; for his concerns were always in ſo regular a ſtate, that he could at any time leave them with very ſhort preparation: and Lady Roebuck, who was of all women living the propereſt wife for ſuch a man, never required much warning to follow him through all his duties; for ſuch he conceived every one of his purſuits. It was a duty to diſcharge all truſts, to anſwer all letters, to return all viſits: but then he took care to undertake nothing but what he could conveniently do, to receive no viſits but from thoſe he liked, and to reject all unneceſſary or imperti⯑nent correſpondents. It was alſo with him a duty to be merry, and to make others ſo; and he could with equal eaſe—ay, and without any deviation from his illuſtrious extraction, which I have already ſaid he was pretty proud of—walk a minuet with a [195] ducheſs, on a birth-night, or crack a facetious jeſt with a cobler. He might be termed an elegant oddity; and to his peculiarities, for they were all amiable, did his lady accommodate herſelf.

Before they ſet out it was agreed to leave the faith⯑ful Emma with little Annette, who had nearly reached her fourteenth year, and was grown a moſt beautiful young creature. Lady Roebuck loved her with an intereſting and lively tenderneſs. She had watched her growing perfections with at leaſt ma⯑ternal care; for had ſhe been twenty times her own daughter, ſhe could not have paid more attention to her education, or felt more pleaſure at thoſe dawning accompliſhments with which ſhe promiſed to be remarkably gifted.

Emma ſaid ſhe had peruſed her little mind with profound attention, and though ſhe was no further than the introduction, it was prefaced with a pro⯑miſe of ſuch delightful matter as could not fail to charm the hearts of all readers. She could diſcern that the ſubject was intereſting, the moral inſtruc⯑tive, and that goodneſs and virtue were ſtrongly in⯑culcated in every page.

Annette and Emma then, and the whole village of Caſtlewick were left under the care of the good [196] Mildman, who had not ſuffered at all in the opinion of Sir Sidney, for having been turned into a ſcare⯑crow for the amuſement of the Hockleyites.

Sir Sidney and his lady arrived in town, at the period above mentioned; and a card was almoſt in⯑ſtantly diſpatched to Lord Hazard, purporting that the baronet intended to pay him a viſit in a day or two, to talk over the buſineſs of Little Hockley.

The peer and the baronet ſoon came to an eligible agreement; and as leaſes and title deeds were obliged to be conſulted in great plenty, during the courſe of this negociation, a ſort of cordiality grew between the leſſor and leſſee. Sir Sidney acknowledged there was great fairneſs and candour in the conduct of the peer, and facetiouſly remarked he was glad to ſee ſo good an underſtanding between the upper and lower houſe. As to my lord, he looked up to Sir Sidney as a being of a ſuperior kind, and while he penetrated his amiable and benignant views, his only wonder was that every man of ample poſſeſſions did not do the ſame, ſince his reward was ſo certain and ſo immenſe.

The ladies, who I have more than once remarked were to their huſbands what an echo is to the voice, had alſo commenced ſomething more than an ac⯑quaintance; [197] which both the huſbands ſtrongly re⯑commended. Indeed this intimacy had well nigh brought about a breach of the bargain between Lord Hazard and Sir Sidney; for the latter had propoſed to the peer to wave ſigning the writings, and take upon himſelf the arrangements of Little Hockley. However, whether my lord felt the ſu⯑periority of Sir Sidney's qualifications for ſuch an undertaking, whether he thought it ridiculous to expect a harveſt of virtue where he had only planted vice; whatever in ſhort was the motive, he agreed only to return to Warwickſhire with Sir Sidney, and give him poſſeſſion of his bargain, by which means the families would paſs ſome months in the ſociety of each other.

Even this was ſome acquiſition, and Sir Sidney, in hopes of enticing his lordſhip to follow his ex⯑ample, eagerly catched at the propoſal. Schemes of pleaſure to be executed in the following ſpring and ſummer engroſſed much of their converſation. Beſides, Lady Hazard was with child, and it was thought the country would be likely to reſtore her ſtrength, after ſhe ſhould have lain in; for ſhe was in general very ill upon thoſe occaſions, and had never ſince Charles had a child—though ſhe had borne in all four—that did not, after its birth, pine away, and at length die.

[198] Pleaſures were alſo chalked out for Charles and Annette, who was underſtood to be Sir Sidney's daughter by a former marriage, but that her mo⯑ther died abroad; and the baronet did not ſpare to hint that an union between the prince and princeſs of the two rival villages might perhaps cement the general amneſty between all parties.

It will be eaſily ſeen that Standfaſt felt awkward in this ſociety. He too well knew Lady Roebuck's prudence, to ſuppoſe that ſhe had acquainted Sir Sidney with any of his tricks, and as there ſeemed no coolneſs on the part of the baronet, theſe con⯑jectures were confirmed. Thus, ſuppoſing the bu⯑ſineſs would be concluded in a ſhort time between his patron and Sir Sidney, he was ſo far perfectly at eaſe; but when he found the ladies were to be con⯑ſulted, he trembled for the conſequence. How to act? Suppoſe he tried to prevent their meeting? but that was dangerous and difficult. He once thought of hinting at a diſtance that ſomething had actually paſſed between him and the lady, which, if credited, would account for any rancour in her; but, upon maturer reflection, any of theſe would be to deſert his own grand principle, which was, to be always prepared with expedients, but never to uſe them except in caſes of emergency. It would be enough to defend himſelf when he ſhould be at⯑tacked; [199] and all things conſidered, ſince the lady had evidently kept the grand point a ſecret from Sir Sidney, it was poſſible, though barely ſo, that ſhe would not tattle to any one elſe: yet that curſed female vanity—In ſhort, the gentleman's combat with himſelf continued a conſiderable while, till at length the reſult was that he ſhould make an ex⯑cuſe to go out of town for a month, and by that means gather from Lord Hazard's letters what was going forward. Beſides he had another reaſon for taking this reſolution—indeed he had ſeveral reaſons—which will in due time appear to the reader:—ſo, having imparted his intention to my lord, and got permiſſion for Charles to accompany him, the tutor and the pupil ſet out for the weſt of England, where buſineſs of a particular nature demanded their pre⯑ſence.

Thus, moſt of the arrangements before related paſſed in the abſence of Standfaſt and Charles, whom, as their excurſion has ſomething remarkable in it, we will join: after I have related a matter that cur⯑ſorily paſſed between the two ladies.

They were talking of Annette, and Lady Sidney, who was by no means aſhamed of confeſſing ſo much of the truth as ſaved the honour of Miſs Le Clerc, mentioned the matter exactly as it happened, ſimply [200] with the addition of their being privately married. ‘'But,' ſaid Lady Hazard, 'are you ſure that the mother is dead?'’ ‘'Sure!' ſaid Lady Roebuck, 'what doubt can there be of that? Beſides, at any rate, ſhe is dead to the world.'’ ‘'Perhaps not,' ſaid the other lady. 'Good God, have you any reaſon for what you ſay?'’ cried Lady Roebuck. Lady Hazard here made a very ſerious apology for her imprudence, ſaying, the great ſimilarity between the ſtory ſhe had heard from her ladyſhip, and one recently told her by my lord, had ſtruck her ſo for⯑cibly, that ſhe had unwarily betrayed herſelf into thoſe unguarded expreſſions.

This redoubled Lady Roebuck's anxiety, and ſhe entreated, in the moſt earneſt manner, to know what all this myſtery meant. ‘'Nay,' ſaid Lady Hazard, if it be as I conjecture, it muſt be known, for the lady is determined to ſee Sir Sidney before ſhe leaves England.'’ ‘'Who?—what lady?'—cried her friend, 'for heaven's ſake keep me no longer in ſuſpence.'’

Lady Hazard, ſeeing ſhe had advanced ſo far, made no ſcruple of relating the whole ſtory, as In⯑got told it to my lord, from firſt to laſt. When ſhe had finiſhed, Lady Roebuck aſked the name of the lady, which her friend confeſſed ſhe did not know, [201] but ſaid that it would be very eaſy to ſatisfy them⯑ſelves by ſending to Mr. Ingot.

This was ſcarcely agreed on before Lady Roebuck received a letter from her handmaid Emma, which the reader ſhall have in her own words.

This letter ſeemed to clear up the whole buſineſs, and it being upon enquiry found that the name of the lady his lordſhip ſaw at Mr. Ingot's houſe was Le Clerc, Lady Roebuck did not ballance a moment in her mind, as to the probability of her being the mother of Annette.

In this exigence ſhe conſulted Lady Hazard on what conduct ſhe ought to purſue, who being, as we have ſeen, no friend to duplicity, though even of that laudable kind recommended by Emma, ad⯑viſed her, without delay, to inform Sir Sidney of the whole truth, telling her ſhe had wonderfully well ſucceeded with her lord by the ſame mode of experiment within the laſt fortnight.

This brought forward the ſtory of Miſs Snaffle, which the reader has ſeen ſo fully inveſtigated, and [205] which not being told without the higheſt enco⯑miums on Mr. Standfaſt's attachment and integrity, and an information that his lordſhip had ſettled an additional annuity on him, Lady Roebuck teſ⯑tified the greateſt ſurpriſe, which Lady Hazard perceiving, ſaid, you may well ſhudder at the world's villany. I wiſh I could prevail with my lord to embrace Sir Sidney's offer, that I might live always with you in retirement.

Lady Roebuck, whoſe ſhudderings had been at hearing of Standfaſt's great influence in the family, was upon the point of ſaying ſomething which might have led to an inveſtigation of his conduct, not very favourable to that gentleman; but finding Lady Hazard had given her ſurpriſe another motive, ſhe contented herſelf for the preſent with falling in with that lady's conjectures, and ſimply remarking that indeed the expectations of villains were ſo ina⯑dequate to the pains they took, and the riſks they run, that ſhe wondered men became knaves to be infamous, when, by only being honeſt, they might be happy.

CHAPTER VIII.

I MAKE no ſcruple to confeſs that my leaving the buſineſs of Miſs Le Clerc and the poſſibility of Standfaſt's detection in ſuch a ſtate of uncertainty as they appeared to be at the end of the laſt chapter, is taking a liberty with the reader, and, what is worſe, with the ladies. But the conſideration of having ſo long forborne to introduce my hero, who, by the way, would be the laſt to excuſe me for be⯑ing guilty of the ſmalleſt incivility to the fair ſex, has got the better of all others:—for indeed the circumſtances in this hiſtory are ſo various, and follow in ſuch quick ſucceſſion, that really if I do not uſe ſome expedition to bring him forward, I might as well have no hero at all. Juſt ſo far how⯑ever I have nothing to reproach myſelf with; for, though hitherto he has ſaid very little, I can aſſure the reader he has thought a great deal. To what purpoſe will hereafter appear. At preſent I ſhall proceed to the examination of his good and bad qualities, a portion of each—for I am afraid there is nothing perfect in this world—he certainly had; [207] and having cleared away the ſhores, and made every other proper preparation—for we may well give him fair play—fairly launch him on the ocean of life, where we ſhall ſee him ſteming many adverſe gales of fortune, in which it will be difficult to de⯑termine whether moſt to admire his diſtreſs or his fortitude.

I certainly had ſome apprehenſions that having ſuffered a fourth part of this work to paſs without approaching to ſuch a neceſſary buſineſs, the reader might perhaps be given to imagine that I called Charles Hazard the hero out of facetiouſneſs, and merely by inference and deduction, and ſo uſe him as a painter does a layman, which ſtands in all the attitudes, bears the helmet, drapery, or poll parrot of the hero or heroine, and yet, though he play this reſpectable part, is never known perſonally to the ſpectators.

To ſay the truth, I have often been wickedly in⯑clined to wiſh that many heroes I have met with in my life had been ſo dealt with, and it is not impoſ⯑ſible but ſome of my readers may retort the cour⯑teſy; for it ſo happens that particular people find in theſe ſaid heroes particular qualities, which ge⯑nerally being adventitious, it is fifty to one if a hero-maker thinks of them, and, in the abſence of theſe [208] qualities, though the gentleman ſhould be poſſeſſed of ever ſo long a catalogue of real and permanent virtues, he ſinks to a nonentity, in the opinion of ſuch critics, becauſe he does not happen to be en⯑livened with their favourite animating principle.

I cannot give a ſtronger inſtance of what I have advanced than by producing the names of two of the greateſt men in their way that ever lived:—I mean ALEXANDER of Macedon the great warrior, and A⯑LEXANDER of Twickenham the great poet.

ALEXANDER the warrior would not have given three-pence for all the noiſy applauſe and bellowing acclamations of the largeſt populace that ever aſ⯑ſembled, if they had not hailed him ſon of Jupiter; and ALEXANDER the poet—according to Dr. JOHN⯑SON—continually made himſelf wretched leſt the world ſhould fancy him to be the ſon of nobody; yet I appeal to any one if the fighting hero had been the offspring of a beggar, and the writing hero the heir of a king, whether one would have cut throats, or the other ‘'liſped numbers'’ in greater perfection. Neither of theſe could conquer his favourite foible, which it is admirable to remark proceeded in the warrior from hope, and in the poet from fear. This imaginary honour in one, and blot in the other, nothing could efface; for vainly did ALEXANDER's [209] mother ridicule the prepoſterous folly of her ſon, ſaying, ‘'huſh, huſh, my dear boy, you don't con⯑ſider you are bringing me into a ſcrape, for if you talk ſo loud about being the ſon of Jupiter, you will make Juno angry with me:'’—and equally unſucceſsful were the efforts of POPE's friends, who it is ſaid told him it was ridiculous to lament that he was the ſon of a tradeſman, when the father of ESCHINES, the Socratic philoſopher, was but a ſauſage-maker.

A hundred inſtances may be adduced, perhaps a thouſand, to prove upon what cobweb qualities the very eſſence of a hero often depends; but none I believe can be found ſtronger than thoſe I have given. Let us then ſettle the diſpute in this way: Let all matters relative to Charles Hazard, which are totally dependant upon chance, be conſidered as out of his power to alter or amend, and all qua⯑lities, good, bad, or indifferent, which are the re⯑ſult of his ſerious reflections, be underſtood as his act and deed, and cenſured or praiſed accordingly.

Charles had been left from his infancy in the quiet and unwearied purſuit of every uſeful and ele⯑gant accompliſhment. All theſe advantages had been procured for him at home, under a tutor who cer⯑tainly had ſome taſte, and a father who had more; [210] both of whom were perfectly well ſatisfied with his progreſs. His ardour had been ſo unremitting, that perfection, by the help of perſeverence, ſeemed to be within his reach. I therefore left him to him⯑ſelf, for why ſhould I interrupt him in the midſt of ſo laudable a career?—eſpecially when thoſe very advantages are good recommendations to the reader.

Having untied him, however, a little from his mother's apron ſtrings, I ſhall now fairly truſt him to the bent of his inclination:—and this for ſeveral good reaſons:—one is, that my veracity as a hiſto⯑rian obliges me to it, for Standfaſt declared to Vi⯑ney, before he ſet out—firſt indeed giving him ſome other inſtructions—he ſhould try what mettle the youngſter was made of.

Charles was at this time ſomething more than ſeventeen, ſo that he took the field young, as did his nameſake of Sweden. He was not, however, at all like that great man in any reſpect, except in⯑deed that no Charles the Twelfth upon earth could be a more rigid obſerver of his word; for, as the Swediſh Charles could never be perſwaded by any body, the Engliſh Charles placed an implicit faith in every body, and as the fighting hero hated the ſight of a woman, the ſcientific hero was charmed with every woman he ſaw.

[211] Charles—for there is no hiding it—was very amorous, and very credulous. His credulity, how⯑ever, was not of that kind begot by adulation upon impudence; he was too modeſt to be vain; but when a plauſible appeal was made to the ſoftneſs of his manners, the ſtrength of his ſenſibility, or the excellence of his heart, his expanded ſoul cheriſhed the fiction becauſe it wore the garb of truth; there⯑fore, in him, credulity was a virtue: and yet virtue would be in much leſs repute than it is—for which there is little neceſſity—if it met with no better re⯑ward. His propenſity to the ſofter paſſions were, though ſo young, of a pretty robuſt kind, for he had already attacked, and that very briſkly, fat Betty, who, by force of arms, or rather fiſts, defended her virtue. Nor was he leſs ſolicitous with Lady Ha⯑zard's woman, before whom, about a week previous to his journey, his father found him on his knees, which accident produced the following ſhort lec⯑ture.

My lord having pretty well ſhamed him, ſaid— ‘'Charles, I am glad to ſee this grace in you; I never before ſpoke to you with the harſhneſs of a father; hitherto you have had nothing from me but the mildneſs of that character. I am ſcarcely ſorry for what has happened, becauſe it gives me an opportunity of ſpeaking on a ſubject which I [212] could not otherwiſe ſo well have introduced.—You have heard of my exceſſes in my youth; they have coſt me reflections bitterer than I would wiſh my worſt enemy. I am not hurt at ſeeing you ſuſceptible, nor do I expect, as you grow up, to keep you entirely continent. You are informed, your opinions are decided ones, and you have an underſtanding far beyond your years, or I ſhould not be ſo explicit. You have conferred on me one great bleſſing, which I know you will never deprive me of: I mean a faithful obſervance of your word upon all occaſions. If, upon conſult⯑ing your heart, you can truly make me the pro⯑miſe I am going to aſk of you, theſe are the laſt words you ſhall ever hear from me on this ſubject. I would naturally recommend to you to think of no idle amours; but perhaps that is impoſſible: if it ſhould be ſo, chuſe ſome other place than your father's houſe: let me know nothing of it. I ſhould pity and perhaps forgive the frailties of my ſon, but I ſhould ſhudder at being his confi⯑dant.’

‘'The promiſe I exact from you is to combat your inclinations upon all occaſions, but to ſubdue them abſolutely and entirely when they tempt you to the ſeduction of a wife or daughter, or any way tend to diſturb domeſtic happineſs.'’

[213] ‘'My dear father,' cried Charles, 'throwing him⯑ſelf on his knees, and taking Lord Hazard's hand, 'I promiſe you your advice ſhall be engraven on my heart, and ſo may I proſper as I keep or reject it.'’

‘'Enough,' ſaid Lord Hazard, 'abundantly enough; I know you will keep your word, and therefore nothing can paſs between you and I upon this ſubject again.'’

Foibles our hero certainly had in plenty, but he had alſo many excellent qualities. Indeed they will be well exerciſed in the courſe of this work, for though no temper was ever more tried, or mind more worked upon, yet I defy any one to detect him in the commiſſion of either an ungenerous or a diſho⯑nourable action.

This in common heroes is nothing, for being made up entirely of ſterling virtues, without alloy, what wonder if they come out of the fire of tempta⯑tion pure and undeminiſhed?—but for an elegant, handſome, fine young fellow, unſuſpecting, inex⯑perienced, ſenſible, accompliſhed, born to capti⯑vate and be captivated—for ſuch a one neither to turn out a puppy nor a knave, is an inſtance that does not every day attract our admiration.

[214] But I have often held—and many will agree with me—that is is as eaſy to do right as wrong, and in my hero this truth is illuſtrated; for know reader, this young gentleman preſerved his honour, nay perhaps his life, by a ſtrict adherence to one ruling principle, which, being ſo young, it is ſingularly admirable he ſhould ſet down for himſelf. It was this: never to promiſe what was improper to per⯑form, but having made a promiſe never to break it.

CHAPTER IX.

STANDFAST's journey into the country was to the houſe of a young clergyman, to whom he was pa⯑tron. Read it ye great, and confeſs your inſigni⯑ficance. Your dependants have their hangers on; your very toad-eaters have their tools: nay, ſome⯑times, you are their tools yourſelves. Has not your ſteward his carriage, his country houſe, his hounds, his partridge mews, and his doxey? and do not you pay for it? Nay he is, in point of certainty, ſo much better off than you, that, were you to be ruined, and even through his miſmanagement, he could behold the wreck from the ſhore, and get comfortably to a retreat which your bounty pro⯑vided for him.

This young clergyman, whoſe name was Figgins, was originally a Bridewell boy. Standfaſt took a great fancy to him one evening, as he ſignalized himſelf on a rejoicing night. The peculiar addreſs with which he broke the windows of ſuch as would not put out lights, and threw ſquibs into coaches to frighten ladies, and burn their cloaths, evinced [216] ſuch a proneneſs to miſchief, that Standfaſt felt a congenial warmth, and immediately determined to ſelect this youth as a fit inſtrument, in time, for nobler daring.

It was neceſſary, however, that he ſhould add to this unluckineſs and audacity a neceſſary portion of ſubtilty. He therefore aſked him ſeveral queſtions, to which he received ſuch anſwers as pleaſed him; that is to ſay, full of impudence and ambiguity: and hearing him afterwards tell one of his compa⯑nions that he had queered Raven Grey, his mind was ſo made up that he determined—to uſe his own phraſe—upon patronizing him.

The reader however muſt not imagine that Mr. Standfaſt laid himſelf open to his dependant; the matter was apparently brought about through the medium of a third perſon, indeed Mr. Viney, to whom this hopeful youth was a diſtant relation, and he was required, among other things, to conſider Mr. Standfaſt as an exemplary character.

The tutor prevailed upon a biſhop, a friend of his—I ſincerely hope the biſhop did not know what he was about—to ordain this ſpark; and this was the very friend he left in the care of Little Hockley.

[217] At the time Charles and his tutor paid this viſit to Mr. Figgins, he was in the poſſeſſion of a vica⯑rage near Poole, which living Standfaſt procured him from a noble earl, in ſome reſpects however owing to the young parſon's own conduct, for he was ſo civil to introduce to his lordſhip a near re⯑lation, which circumſtance ended in my lord's making up, for a large ſum of money, a ſuit which the young lady commenced againſt him for ſeduc⯑tion, though the earl was about her thirteenth lover. One of this number, by her advice, quitted the kingdom leſt he ſhould be taken up for the forgery of a bank note, which, after he was gone, ſhe changed, and put the money in her pocket.

Standfaſt's buſineſs with Mr. Figgins was of a very particular nature, and perhaps the reader may ſometime hence join with me in that opinion.—Whatever it was, Standfaſt did not chuſe to tranſact it by letter, it being one of his maxims never to write any thing but what all the world might read, nor make either promiſes or declarations in the pre⯑ſence of a third perſon.

In conformity to this latter part of his maxim, he very frequently took his friend Figgins with him either a walk or a ride, begging Charles to take care of the ladies till their return. Theſe ladies [218] were, firſt Mr. Figgins's maiden aunt, a woman of exemplary character, an enthuſiaſtic admirer of Drelincourt and a dram glaſs, and who her nephew very humanely maintained, upon her paying him down quarterly the ſum of eight pounds. Secondly Mrs. Figgins the ninth—for, like Major O'Flaherty, he had them in all quarters, and all alive and merry;—and, laſtly, Miſs Figgins, a young lady of beauty and accompliſhments, but who had not yet got a huſband—though ſhe owned twenty-ſeven—becauſe the men were brutes, and her nature was ſo delicate that the leaſt ill treatment would break her heart.

Charles found it no diſagreeable taſk to entertain theſe ladies, in the abſence of his tutor; nay he made a traffic of his complaiſance, for he wrote an impromtu for a ſmile, and ſketched their portrait for a kiſs. His ſkill in muſic enchanted them, and they wiſhed never to part with the young lord, as he was called.

As to Miſs Figgins, had any one witneſſed her behaviour at thoſe unguarded moments when he ſung a pathetic air—though, by the bye, he was of that age when the voice ſounds more like that of a raven than a nightingale—he would have ſworn ſhe had at once conquered her averſion to love and ma⯑trimony. [219] To ſay truth, her virtue was of the ram⯑pant kind, which perhaps was one reaſon ſhe con⯑tinually talked of the great pains ſhe took to ſubdue it. Indeed ſhe ſo prompted Charles in that part, which, if it had been the time to act, he knew with⯑out a cue, that the young gentleman had a kind of rebellion to quell, which gave him no little diſtur⯑bance. In ſhort, in ſpight of his teeth he was obliged to take a review of the promiſe he had made his father, and reflecting that the ſiſter of Mr. Fig⯑gins muſt certainly be a woman of honour, he tri⯑umphantly carried the point, and congratulated himſelf on this victory over his paſſions. Indeed the term ſiſter was not included in the conditions, but it was certainly implied, and it would have been diſhonourable had he taken advantage of the omiſſion.

The lady however having made good her land⯑ing, determined to loſe no opportunity of improv⯑ing that advantage; therefore, one day, while they ſat at dinner, ſhe ſlily ſlipt a note into the young gentleman's coat pocket, which contained theſe words both in form and ſubſtance.

‘'For hevven ſake mete mee in the arburr, and lett mee, ho lett mee, unbuzzum myſelf.'’

[220] Charles was too gallant not to attend the lady.—Indeed it was very much his wiſh to have a little converſation with her alone; not doubting but when the purity of his intentions were honeſtly made known, the young lady's quiet would be reſtored, which at preſent he made no doubt he greatly diſ⯑turbed. Having therefore attended the appoint⯑ment, he declared to her with the trueſt and moſt honeſt ſimplicity, his repugnance to do that which he could not conſider otherwiſe than as a ſhameful breach of hoſpitality. The lady acknowledged the generoſity of his ſentiments, and ſaid, that as ſhe ſaw her fears were unneceſſary, they might now in⯑dulge in all thoſe little innocent freedoms which to ſuſceptible and delicate hearts gave ſuch delight.—In ſhort, after much ſimpering, ſtammering, bluſh⯑ing, and other indications of maiden baſhfulneſs—the largeſt part of which, eſpecially the bluſhing, was moſt manifeſt in Charles—ſhe informed him that, upon certain conditions, he ſhould ſteal to her bedchamber, and ſleep with her that very night. Theſe conditions were explained to be exactly what I am informed they practiſe very commonly, and very innocently in America, under the name of bundling.

Perhaps Miſs Figgins had heard of Adhelm, who, to try his virtue, ſlept ſeveral nights with a [221] virgin without violating his chaſtity, and under⯑ſtanding Charles was intended for a great man, de⯑termined it ſhould not be her fault if he had not this proof of his virtue in as great perfection as his pious predeceſſor. If however theſe were her intentions, there was ſome how or other an infraction in the treaty, for Charles and the lady ſo bundled that, at the end of a fortnight, ſhe informed him, in the moſt decent manner ſo delicate a creature could muſter up words for the purpoſe, that ſhe was certainly with child.

What a ſtroke for our hero! Muſt he begin al⯑ready to feel the bitter reflections of having broken his promiſe. How to act? Which way to conceal her ſhame? He could not marry her—which at ſome intervals he had thoughts of—without conſult⯑ing his father, and the conſequence of ſuch a con⯑ſultation was apparent. Yet he had ruined her, and brought her into a ſituation that marriage alone could atone for. In ſo doing he had already broken his promiſe, and why not go farther, ſince there was no honourable means of retreat.

In this ſtate, chequered with pleaſure and com⯑punction, had he paſſed ſeveral days, when Mr. Standfaſt one morning told our hero that ſome damned thing or other had come to his fatheris ears, [222] who required their immediate preſence in town.— ‘'See there,'’ ſaid he, ſhewing him a letter he had that inſtant received.

Charles not doubting but his amour and its con⯑ſequences had already reached his father's ears, without conſidering how the intelligence could have been conveyed, told his tutor ingenuouſly that he was the cauſe of it. Mr. Standfaſt ſeemed greatly aſtoniſhed at the declaration, and demanded how it could poſſibly be? The pupil exacting a ſolemn promiſe from his tutor that he would carefully pre⯑ſerve the moſt profound ſecreſy, let him into the bundling ſecret from firſt to laſt, and concluded with vehemently entreating his advice.

Standfaſt looking very ſagacious, ſaid this muſt be the cauſe of Lord Hazard's injunction ſure enough, which it was a very proper thing to com⯑ply with, for fear of irritating him farther. As for the reſt, he ſaid it was a curſed unlucky affair, but [223] fortunately the brother was under his thumb, and his beſt endeavours might be depended on to huſh matters up.

If his father ſhould mention it, he adviſed Charles to deny the whole buſineſs; though he had no doubt but he ſhould uſe ſuch arguments as would induce him not to ſay a word about it.

Charles was in raptures at the kindneſs of his tu⯑tor, who took care nevertheleſs to give the young gentleman a wholeſome lecture, declaring his great repugnance to this duplicity of conduct, and pro⯑teſting he only conſented to it from the laudable view of preventing a difference between father and ſon.

By this time the chaiſe was at the door; for Standfaſt, zealous to obey his patron's mandate, had ordered it previous to this converſation with his pupil. The latter therefore took a haſty, but ten⯑der leave of his enamorata, who exacted a promiſe that he would write to her, and, if poſſible, ſee her ſoon again.

On the road, Standfaſt encouraged Charles to keep up his ſpirits. He told him, for one thing, that his honour was in no ſcrape; for that the lady, how⯑ever [224] ſhe might have impoſed upon his inexperience, was not a veſtal, nor had been for a good twenty years.

‘'Why ſhe is but ſix and twenty,' ſaid Charles:’ ‘'and eleven added to it,' replied the tutor. 'As to the brat, if there ſhould be one, we muſt ſee what's to be done with it. I have told you all theſe matters,' added he, 'leſt you ſhould be im⯑properly drawn in, therefore you muſt promiſe me to be upon your guard. No indiſcreet marri⯑ages, nor any other ſteps without firſt conſulting me. Upon theſe and no other terms will I un⯑dertake this buſineſs.'’

Charles eagerly promiſed every thing his tutor demanded of him, and Standfaſt reiterated his friend⯑ly profeſſions. They both arrived in town however with no little anxiety on their minds. That of Charles proceeded, as the reader knows, from his fear of having made his father miſerable. Mr. Stand⯑faſt had too hearty a contempt for every human weak⯑neſs to feel the influence of any ſuch hen-hearted ſenſation. Glorious miſchief begat his perplexity, and all his uneaſineſs was leſt the banquet preparing for his inexorable ſenſes ſhould not be ſeaſoned high enough with domeſtic wretchedneſs.

CHAPTER X.

IT was agreed, upon the arrival of Charles and his tutor, that the latter ſhould go firſt to ſee how the land lay, and that the young gentleman ſhould not ſee his father—thereby to give their project breath—till he had paid his reſpects to Lady Ha⯑zard.

Mr. Standfaſt immediately ſought my lord, and having very opportunely found him, he was in⯑formed, with but little previous ceremony, that his patron was undone—loſt—irretrievable loſt, beyond all poſſibility of hope.

‘'Good God!' exclaimed Standfaſt, with terror in his countenance, 'whence can this unexpected blow have come? It is no diminution of your fortune my lord?'’

‘'Of my life, of my ſoul, of my honour!' re⯑turned my lord. 'Oh that I had liſtened to thy advice. Heavenly God! that a man ſhould mur⯑der his peace, ſell his life's happineſs, and render [226] himſelf deſpicable for the brutal, villanous grati⯑fication of a ſingle moment! Will you know the extent of my miſery? the giddy precipice on which I ſtood, and frightful abyſs into which I am plunged? Will you know my torment, my horror, my deſpair, my hell?'’

‘'Be calm, my lord,' ſaid Standfaſt,’ with the utmoſt commiſeration he could convey into his countenance. ‘'Calm!' replied his lordſhip, 'yes, when I have deſtroyed myſelf, when the wretches have added my death to the deſtruction of my peace of mind.'’ ‘'Wretches! What wretches?' cried Standfaſt eagerly.’ ‘'Keep me not on this wrack of ſuſpence, leſt my friendſhip take the alarm, and I yield to my fears of that fatal evil which my boding heart has ſo long anticipated.’

‘'Hear the truth then,' ſaid my lord, 'and let all worthy men, like thee, deteſt me while I utter it. I have lain with that infernal woman, ſhe has communicated to me a damned diſeaſe, and I have infected my dear, my innocent wife, that excel⯑lent creature, that pattern of her ſex beyond all example, who never had a blemiſh on her heart or underſtanding but when ſhe joined her unhappy fate to a worthleſs wretch like me.'’

[227] ‘'Angels of pity comfort me!' ſaid Standfaſt.—'Ah my dear lord, why did I go this curſt journey into the country? If I had been on the ſpot, I am ſure I ſhould have ſaved you.'’

‘'It would have been uſeleſs,' cried my lord, ſtarting from a chair, into which he had thrown himſelf. 'I had ceaſed to confide in you before you left town, and was glad of a pretext to get rid of your ſolicitation.'’

Mr. Standfaſt now uttered a moſt warm and pa⯑thetic ſpeech, lamenting general depravity, and de⯑ploring moſt affectingly his friend's want of reſolu⯑tion. So excellent indeed were his reaſons, his re⯑marks ſo heartfelt, and his manner ſo perſuaſive, that my lord declared there lived not his equal.—To ſay truth, this ſpeech had its merit, and ſo it ought, for like many other ſpeeches which are in⯑tended to ſurpriſe inſtead of convince, it had been ſome time in preparation. And now the tutor en⯑treated to know the particulars of this unfortunate buſineſs, deſirous perhaps of being ſatisfied whether his actors had performed their parts in the manner he had ſet down for them, eſpecially as he had ſuch an opportunity of hearing their reſpective merits from a critic who would be ſure to do them juſtice.

[228] My lord briefly told him that being informed by Colonel Tiltly and ſome others that a gentleman named Snaffle was traducing him in every coffee-houſe where he came, and that one of his friends who vindicated him had very nearly got into a duel on his account, he made it his buſineſs to ſeek after Snaffle, but found only the ſham ſiſter as before who it was plain was inſtructed to play upon him'. At length he found his man at home, when matters were very handſomely explained, and he was idiot enough to ſtay to ſupper. The preſence of the ſiſter, and the bumpers with which he was drenched pro⯑duced the reſt. ‘'But,' concluded my lord, 'that a ſet of people ſhould conſpire the ruin of a man ſo little known to them, and work the deſtruction of his peace of mind, is a ſpecies of wickedneſs and depravity that I cannot give either motive or name.'’

‘'My dear lord,' cried Standfaſt impatiently, I ſee a gleam of happineſs here, a celeſtial and be⯑nignant ray of hope.'’ ‘'What do you mean?' ex⯑claimed Lord Hazard.’ ‘'Theſe people,' cried Standfaſt, 'have reaped no pecuniary advantage from their villany.'’ ‘'How ſhould they?' ſaid his lordſhip.’ ‘'No, none;—it is a contrivance then,' cried Standfaſt, 'of Mrs. O'Shockneſy; God ſend ſhe may be diſappointed.'’ ‘'Heaven [229] and earth,' cried my lord, 'you have certainly divined the truth; it is that diabolical wretch ſure enough: who elſe could have taken ſuch unheard of pains to make me miſerable? I knew, I felt, thou wouldſt comfort me. But ſtill is not the ca⯑lamity the ſame, my dear Standfaſt?'’ ‘'Not at all my lord,' anſwered his kind friend very con⯑fidently. 'Are you ſure of what you ſay in relation to your lady?'’ ‘'From what I may reaſonably conjecture it muſt be ſo,' ſaid my lord. 'Oh God! if I could but flatter myſelf there.'’ ‘Well, well, hope for the beſt,' cried Standfaſt. 'You forget my lord how artfully the ſnare was laid for you. I am ſure if your lordſhip was off your guard, there is no prudence but may be ſurpriſed. My advice is this: If, for the ſake of your lady's health, matters ſhould require an explanation, honeſtly give it her, and lay the blame upon Mrs. O'Shockneſy; I would ſtake my life upon the iſ⯑ſue. And now my lord throw off your chagrin; I dare ſay your lady knows no uneaſineſs upon this ſubject but that which ſhe has felt from ſeeing you miſerable.'’

‘'She ſhall ſee me ſo no longer then,' ſaid my lord. 'By imitating thee I will grow honeſt, and that ſhall teach me to be chearful.'’

[230] Having ſo far adjuſted matters, Lord Hazard felt himſelf wonderfully relieved. As for Charles, all he could learn from his mother was, that her lord had, for ſeveral days, appeared very ill and very uneaſy; that it certainly was cauſed by ſome diſagreeable news he had heard; ‘'but,' continued ſhe, 'whatever it is, we muſt unite to comfort him. I am ſure from me he deſerves every thing, for his affection encreaſes every day.'’

Charles, convinced he was the cauſe of his fa⯑ther's unhappineſs, took leave of his mother as early as he decently could, to go in queſt of Stand⯑faſt, that common friend in the family: for ſurely it is the office of a friend to make people eaſy.

The tutor was ready to receive him, and appa⯑rently anxious to put him out of pain, for he ſeized him very cordially by the hand, and told him mat⯑ters were in ſuch a ſwimming train, that he had only to appear as if nothing had happened, and he might be aſſured that his father would not even mention the circumſtance.

Standfaſt had now reſtored the tranquility of both father and ſon, and in ſome meaſure his own; for the latter part of his converſation with his patron was concerning Lady Roebuck, but as he could not [231] gather any reaſon to believe ſhe had been tatling, he fairly concluded ſhe was afraid to attack him, or elſe perhaps, as chance had thrown him again in her way, the lady had wiſely adopted the proverb better late than never; and ſo promiſed herſelf the accom⯑pliſhment of what his vanity induced him to believe ſhe wiſhed: ſo difficult is it for men of Mr. Stand⯑faſt's turn of mind to credit that any one can be actuated by motives purely generous, and merely diſintereſted.

The triumphant Mr. Standfaſt however had never been ſo near detection as while he was abſent. That converſation between the two ladies which took a different turn, as the reader has ſeen, at the end of the ſeventh chapter, had introduced into the mind of Lady Roebuck a number of alarming fears for her friend. She could not give Mr. Standfaſt that implicit credit which he ſeemed to exact of Lord and Lady Hazard, for the active part he had taken in the buſineſs of Miſs Snaffle. Indeed, knowing from her own experience how little pretenſions he had either to gratitude, principle, or generoſity, her tongue was very reluctantly reined in whenever ſhe heard any thing in his commendation; but at length, conſidering Lady Hazard was a new, though a very intimate acquaintance, and that the office ſhe longed to undertake was rather a thankleſs one, ſhe took a [232] little time for reflection, during which interval a circumſtance happened which decided her wavering reſolution. As however it was of ſufficient conſe⯑quence to require that Sir Sidney ſhould be conſult⯑ed, the reader is of courſe anxious to know what it was, and the reſult of their deliberations. The latter I am very ready to ſay was, that to arm Lord and Lady Hazard againſt the machinations of Mr. Standfaſt was treading on very tender ground, and therefore they ought not to take any material ſteps in ſo weighty a buſineſs till their arrival in the coun⯑try, where Sir Sidney ſaid he would begin this Her⯑culean labour. This then they reſolved. As to the circumſtance which procured this reſolution, it will come better hereafter. To have mentioned it here would have been premature, and not to have ſaid ſomething on the ſuſpicions of Sir Sidney and his lady, would have been tacitly to have accuſed the reader of a deficiency in penetration, for it is hardly poſſible that any one who knew Mr. Standfaſt ſhould believe him capable of devoting himſelf ſo ſuddenly to the practiſe of real virtue, when his whole life had been an artful ſtudy how to keep up the ap⯑pearance of it.

Standfaſt has been ſeen very ſolicitous to get at the particulars of Lord Hazard's unfortunate in⯑trigue, for which I have aſſigned the real motive; [233] and, to ſay truth, he was not pleaſed with the rela⯑tion: for in his abſence—to carry on the alluſion I uſed at that time—his peice had been mutilated by the managers, and ill performed by the actors; a ma⯑terial incident had been cut out of his projecting, and another, by no means conduſive to the cataſtro⯑phe he wiſhed to take place, introduced.—Theſe al⯑terations were principally owing to the heroine, who in real life, as well as upon the ſtage, is generally apt to take theſe ſort of liberties; and though Mr. Standfaſt had not been preſent at the repreſentation of his performance, yet, being a conſummate judge of effect, he ſaw plainly it would have had more ſtriking ſucceſs could he have been on the ſpot to have conducted it.

To drop this alluſion, Standfaſt plainly ſaw that Mrs. O'Shockneſy had taken the liberty to alter his plan, no doubt for private ends of her own. He had left orders for an anonymous letter to be ſent to Lady Hazard on the very evening his lordſhip ſhould be engaged at Snaffle's, apprizing her of the fact. This, it was plain to Standfaſt, had been neglected; but that ſomething, as we before ob⯑ſerved, ſhould be ſubſtituted in its place, the lady had, through the means of Miſs Snaffle, conferred a favour on his lordſhip which ſhe thought would ſerve juſt as well to communicate the ſecret to Lady [234] Hazard. To ſay truth, this was a coup de grace which Standfaſt, with all his raſcallity, had not me⯑ditated. It was a vengeance truly feminine, and greatly worthy the vindictive Mrs. O'Shockneſy.—How theſe conſpirators anſwered their conduct to their ringleader will by and by be ſeen. At pre⯑ſent I ſhall only ſay that Mrs. O'Shockneſy defended herſelf by an argument which will at leaſt prove her to be a proper coadjutor of the great Mr. Stand⯑faſt. It was no leſs than that the knowledge of Lady Hazard's pregnancy induced her to take that harmleſs ſtep before mentioned, without her prin⯑cipal's privity; at which he was as much incenced as was Hecate againſt the witches, who dared to prompt Macbeth in his iniquity without her orders.

CHAPTER XI.

IT will now be proper to ſpeak concerning Miſs Le Clerc, whoſe whole hiſtory, as far as Mr. Ingot knew it, Sir Sidney learnt much about the time the two ladies were reading Emma's letter; for the good citizen being, as I obſerved, Lord Hazard's man of buſineſs, they were in a manner obliged to conſult him upon ſeveral points relative to the pro⯑perty of Little Hockley. On the firſt of theſe viſits every thing naturally came out, and when the ba⯑ronet and his lady met, both were ripe for the diſ⯑covery of what was no ſecret to either.

The ſtory of Annette was no myſtery, but it has been ſhewn in what way it was told; and if Miſs Le Clerc was Sir Sidney's wife, what then was Lady Roebuck? This was a conſideration of a moſt ſe⯑rious nature, and, in juſtice to ſo amiable a lady, it was admitted that it ought to be ſet to rights.—Lord and Lady Hazard being therefore the only perſons who had it in their power to make a ſingle [236] comment on this ſubject, and that nobleman and his lady having by this time, for many reaſons, be⯑come great favourites with theſe two friends, they were, without the alteration of a ſingle circum⯑ſtance, informed of the real truth. This led to the eſtabliſhment of a moſt intimate and binding friend⯑ſhip between the two couples, and the baronet and Lady Roebuck felicitated themſelves upon the cer⯑tainty, as they now conceived it, of that plan which they had formed of making Lord Hazard the re⯑former of his own village. As preaching however cannot have half the effect of example, they reſolved, as the reader has ſeen, to reſerve their grand attack till they ſhould arrive at the place of action, when his lordſhip ſhould be aſſailed in ſuch a manner as would deprive him of the means of defending him⯑ſelf, and oblige him—eſpecially as his lady was al⯑ready gained over—to ſurrender at diſcretion.

Lord Hazard very ſoon got perfectly reſtored to health, and as there were no reaſons to believe that his ſuſpicions concerning his lady had any founda⯑tion, he by degrees regained his uſual eaſe and tran⯑quility.

As to Charles, he received a quire of letters from Miſs Figgins, full of ſythes and wows, and flamming arts; but, convinced that under the guidance of [237] Standfaſt, all he incurred was a trifling expence, he rather felt proud of the buſineſs, and was not a little pleaſed that, at an age under eighteen, he had given ſuch notable proofs of his manhood. He felt however very gratefully towards both his parents, who he was convinced knew of his irregularity, and had the kindneſs not to upbraid him with it; and, as this imaginary conduct of theirs induced him to treat them with the moſt dutiful and minute atten⯑tion, ſo it endeared him to their notice and regard ten times ſtronger than ever. Sir Sidney was not an idle ſpectator of this. He was charmed with Charles, and really began to meditate ſeriouſly that alliance which it may be recollected he mentioned formerly in jeſt.

Theſe projects, which were intended to bloſſom in the ſpring, and produce fruit in the ſummer, laid at preſent dormant in their minds; we will there⯑fore paſs over the hurry of the winter, and bring them to the ſign of the John of Gaunt's Head, an inn in their way to Warwickſhire.

The landlord of this houſe, who was a great fa⯑vourite of Sir Sidney, prided himſelf on having as diſtinct and ample a genealogy as any lord; nay he looked upon himſelf as ſuperior to many who boaſt that title: for, ſaid he, ‘'What are lords, the crea⯑tures [238] of yeſterday, to thoſe in my family of three hundred years ſtanding?' adding, 'alack a day! human creatures are buckets in a well, one up, and tother down.'’

This landlord was not a little proud of having been a ſubſtantial yeoman of Kent. He had been indeed a conſiderable farmer, but having a ſtrong inclination to indulge himſelf in that hoſpitality in which it was not within his circumſtances to cut any tolerable figure, he had entertained ſo many poor gentlemen of high extraction, till at length, as the phraſe is, he ran out; and, leaving off farming, left alſo his own country, and took an inn not far from High Wickham.

The houſe bore all the inſignia of its maſter's fan⯑cied conſequence, and the reliques of thoſe mighty deeds which were performed by his anceſtors, and in which he took ſo much pleaſure, as he ſat in his chimney corner, to record, were diſtributed about wherever he could find a place for them. Shields and ſpears glittered in the kitchen inſtead of pot⯑lids and ſpits; helmets and cuiſſes, in the place of ſtag's horns, adorned the hall, and miſmatched pieces of tapeſtry covered the walls of every room.

Lord Hazard inſiſted upon being introduced in [239] form, and Sir Sidney undertook to be gentleman uſher upon the occaſion. My lord confeſſed he could boaſt but of very recent extraction, being, as one might ſay, a junior branch of the nobility. ‘'Why truly' anſwered the landlord, 'you will pardon my jocularity my lord, there is a ſpot of Ruſt on your eſchuteon which perhaps, by Hazard, may be rubbed out.'’

The archneſs as well as frankneſs of this reply pleaſed his lordſhip ſo much, that he entered into a long converſation with the landlord, that ended in an explanation of all the warlike trophies before mentioned, the hiſtory of which contained a kind of ſummary review of the hiſtory of England; we ſhall therefore forbear to recite any part of what paſſed, except one remark. They were examining a ro⯑ſary, which was ſaid to have belonged to the un⯑fortunate Mary, Queen of Scots. My lord ſaid that her's was a lamentable fate. ‘'Lamentable,' ſaid the landlord, ſhaking his head, 'if ſhe had not been an angel upon earth, Beſs would not have been ſo ready to ſend her to make one in heaven.'’

CHAPTER XII.

AT the inn where our travellers lay had arrived two muſicians, juſt before dark, who were going to a nobleman's ſcat in the neighbourhood, upon a ſummer excurſion, and where there was to be a grand concert the next day. One of the gentlemen, an Italian, had the day before been ſeized with a vio⯑lent fever, but being told that his patron had ſent expreſs for him, he determined to go in ſpight of his indiſpoſition, eſpecially as he knew he ſhould be taken greater care of at the houſe of his benefac⯑tor than at home. His companion came to ac⯑quaint him that he had received a ſimilar ſummons. This put the finiſhing ſtroke to the Italian's deter⯑mination; for they were both famous performers on the trumpet, and ſeldom played aſunder.

At this meeting the two muſicians talked about what fiſhing and ſhooting they ſhould have, and, above all, what delicious burgundy they ſhould taſte at his lordſhip's; nor did they fail to enjoy, by an⯑ticipation, certain jokes which the Italian, being [241] a wag, had it in contemplation to play ſome of his lordſhip's retinue. One in particular he concerted, which was to ridicule a black ſervant, for whom the Italian had an inveterate averſion, becauſe he could not blow the french horn in tune. ‘'Perdio' cried he 'I tink I ſee de villain cavaliero vid his vite orſe and plack viſage make one tammed niſe oh Diavo⯑lo.'’ For it ſhould here be known that his lord⯑ſhip, though he had conſtantly a troop of muſicians after him, and ſome of them men of diſtinguiſhed talents, would rather have been called in at the death of a fox, by the diſſonant belching of his fa⯑vourite horn, than have liſtened to the beſt chorus of HANDEL, performed by five hundred and fifty-three perſons, capable of realizing all that celeſtial rapture of which Doctor BURNEY dreamt.

The Engliſh muſician took his leave of the Italian recommending him to take as much reſt as poſſible before they ſhould ſet off. In conformity with this advice, the Italian betook himſelf to ſleep, and paſſed the night in tolerable tranquility, except that he had a ſlight delirium, in which he fancied the above mentioned black purſued him, on his white horſe, and that he eſcaped from him with great difficulty; and much more ſuch ſtuff, evi⯑dently the effect of a diſtempered brain. Having, however, ſhook off the phantom, he afterwards ob⯑tained [242] tolerable repoſe, and felt himſelf pretty well recovered when his friend, the Engliſh muſician, came to call him up.

I thought it neceſſary to premiſe thus much, that the reader might the better account for a diſtur⯑bance that happened at the inn. The houſe was buried in a total ſilence, when the Italian, whoſe diſtemper had received no mitigation from either the journey or a ſhower of rain which had fallen in the afternoon, all of a ſudden awoke from a horrid dream, in which his inveterate enemy, the black, appeared to him on his ſteed, as before, but with the addition of a large ſabre, with which he threa⯑tened to put him inſtantly to death.

Frightened at the ſpectre, like Chamont, he roſe and called for lights, which indeed he need not have done, for there was a ſolitary candle glimmering in the chimney corner, by the help of which imperfect luminary, every thing could faintly be diſcerned. Leaping from the bed, the firſt object his eyes en⯑countered being a figure in the tapeſtry of Edward the black prince, mounted upon a white horſe, and giving directions at the battle of Poictiers, he ran in a moſt frantic manner along the gallery, and, ow⯑ing to his corpulent form—which extremely re⯑ſembled a brandy keg, or a ninepin, made a rapid [243] deſcent to the hall underneath. There, being in to⯑tal darkneſs, he groped about for a conſiderable time, to no purpoſe, in hopes of finding a door into the yard.

All this time the fever being at an alarming height, every thing he touched ſeemed to be the falling ſtroke of that monſtrous inſtrument of death wielded by the figure in the tapeſtry. At length, bellowing like a bull, and bounding from one table to another, like a toſt pancake, or a kicked football, he diſcovered, as he imagined, the door. A faint glimmering of light that beamed on him facilitated this welcome idea, and he ſtrove, but in vain, to find the lock. Exploring this impervious gloom, which, as far as his ſcattered recollection gave op⯑portunity to notice, appeared the ſeat of ſorcery, where all the demons of hell were aſſembled to tor⯑ment him; for as to being in an inn, it never once occurred to his imagination, ſomething that felt like down, and ſmelt intolerably bitter, fell about his ears, and tormented him the more in proportion as he attempted to defend himſelf from it. And now, having his eyes, noſe and mouth pretty well filled with this ſuffocating annoyance, which, con⯑trary to the air-drawn dagger of Macbeth, was ſen⯑ſible only to the feeling, he ſtampt, rubbed his face, raved, ſputtered, and ſtruggled, till at laſt he [244] got out of the vortex of this den of Erebus, to which he ſeemed to have been drawn by a helliſh and invi⯑ſible influence.

Lifting however his hands in an extreme of diſ⯑traction—indeed exactly as St. Paul is drawn preach⯑ing at Athens—ſomething tumbled from above which fitted himſelf completely, like a coat of ar⯑mour, without the caſque or cuiſſes.

Fully perſuaded the demon that purſued him had now got him in his clutches, he ſtormed, howled, foamed, and ſqueaked out as incongruous and inar⯑ticulate a recitative as ever Hannibal or Scipio did at the opera houſe.

At this moment one of the waiters, who had been to pay a viſit to the bed chamber of the cook maid Molly, and who of courſe was the moſt watchful in the houſe, entered the hall with a lighted candle.

The Italian's ſingular jeopardy was occaſioned by his miſtaking the chimney for the door. There, ſtruggling to get out, he had made himſelf as black as a ſoot bag, and, upon his retreat, fairly inveſted himſelf in the ſtrange manner above mention, with a buff jerkin, which my landlord had received as a legacy from his father, who affirmed and verily [245] believed that it was the ſame worne by Guy, Earl of Warwick, when he killed the dun cow.

No ſooner had the waiter ſeen this precious relique of his maſter's anceſtors in the hands, or rather on the back of the Italian, than, taking him for a thief, who wanted to rob the houſe, he ran to fetch his maſter. The Italian, to be even with him, upon deſcrying the light and an oppoſite door at the ſame time, ran rapidly up another pair of ſtairs. His precipitate flight confirmed the waiter in his ſuſ⯑picions, and facilitated his return to his maſter, who, by this time, alarmed by the noiſe, had juſt iſſued from his apartment.

The landlord having heard the matter from his man, ſwore by the glory of his forefathers he would cut him up alive, and invoking the manes of Ed⯑ward the black prince, and John of Gaunt, followed muttering curſes all the way to the chamber of the Engliſh muſician, whither the Italian had by acci⯑dent directed his flight, and to where his diſtracted bellowing piloted both man and maſter.

In the mean time, the Italian had reached his brother profeſſor's apartment, and hid himſelf, buff jerkin and all, under the cloaths. The Engliſh⯑man, diſturbed by the noiſe, and ſtill more by the [246] Italian's flouncing into bed, waked in an inſtant, and before he had time to recollect what could oc⯑caſion ſo extraordinary an intruſion, ſaw in a con⯑fuſed manner, by the help of the light which dimly gleamed through the paſſage, what a ſtrange hedi⯑ous figure he had in bed with him, on which he had no ſooner caſt his eyes, than, in a dreadful fright, he all of a ſudden leaped from the bed, and got under it.

The Italian, who began to perceive the light, and concluding his companion had ſeen the man and horſe which he had no doubt ſtill purſued him, followed him cloſe at his heels, being under the bed almoſt as ſoon as him. The Engliſh muſician being preſſed hard by the ſame abominable figure, half dead with the fright, crawled out on the oppoſite ſide, which happened to be next to the door, ſtill followed by the Italian.

The landlord and the waiter now came up with them, and the candle being produced, the appear⯑ance of this quadrumvirate was beyond the power of tongue or pen to deſcribe. The diſtraction of the Italian, the aſtoniſhment of his companion, the pa⯑ralytic fear of the landlord, who, ſpight of the ex⯑amples of his anceſtors, trembled from head to foot, and the conſternation of the waiter, compoſed in [247] their different countenances ſuch a ſet of unbrage⯑ous, olive, livid and cadaverous tints as ſurely no faces ever before exhibited.

The Engliſh trumpeter, as he encountered the landlord, was overturned, and now lay flat on the floor. The deſcendant of Hengiſt had gathered himſelf up into a groteſque attitude, looking at the fallen muſician, and the waiter was puſhing the candle forward, under his maſter's arm, to ſee what was the matter, while the Italian had crept to the other ſide of the bed, and having ſearched for ſomething to defend himſelf, catched up his com⯑panion's trumpet, who had brought that inſtrument into his chamber, to have it ſafe. With this wea⯑pon he leapt upon a cheſt of drawers, and whether he was now wrought to ſuch a height of phrenzy as not to know what he did, or whether inſtinct con⯑ducted the trumpet to his mouth without his know⯑ledge, certain it is that his ſtretched companion had ſcarcely demanded what was the matter, and the landlord thundered out a volley of execrations, ending with ‘'give me my jerkin,'’ than the Italian ſounded a charge, and then a defiance, and then a parley, as faſt as they could ſucceed each other.

The moment the Engliſh muſician heard the trumpet, he knew his friend as well as if he had [248] ſpoken to him, and inſtantly gueſſed that the con⯑fuſion muſt have been occaſioned by the Italian's ill⯑neſs, who had become delirious, and thus alarmed the houſe.

Feeling, however, for the ſafety of his trumpet, which ſame provident ſenſation impelled the land⯑lord in relation to the Earl of Warwick's habili⯑ment, they both approached him, where he ſtood, trumpet in hand, like another fame in a buff jerkin, and were within an inch of their prey, when the Italian fairly made a ſpring over their heads, darted out of the door, and ran along the gallery, then down ſtairs, afterwards out of the back door into the yard, and laſtly all over the village, blowing away almoſt without any ceſſation.

This was a partial laſt trump to the village, for all but thoſe in their graves immediately ſtarted up to ſee what was the matter. As to the inn, imagi⯑nation never formed ſo ſingular a confuſion. The muſician raved for his trumpet, the landlord ſtormed for his buff jerkin; here a waiter appeared with his cloaths tumbled into the tail of his ſhirt, which he held by way of an apron; there a maid ſervant with a petticoat tied about her head inſtead of her waiſt; here John the oſtler appeared in Sukey's night cap, and Sukey in John's wig:—In ſhort there was not [249] one perſon in the houſe—for all agreed to put o [...] manly firmneſs, and meet in the hall together—even to Sir Sidney and Lord Hazard, that did not cut a ludicrous figure, while the village cried out ſome a fight, others a fire, and all with haſty ſteps ran towards our inn, which thus, in a few minutes, was filled, in addition to its own company, with the major part of the village, among whom were not a few females with clouts about their heads, and children in their arms, a ſort of ſpectators who are ſure to be foremoſt at every ſight, be it a boxing match, a lord mayor's ſhew, or an execution.

The Engliſh muſician, getting upon the great table, now begged to be heard; and having at laſt obtained ſilence, very naturally accounted for every thing that had happened, finiſhing with a declara⯑tion that he apprehended the Italian muſt now be ſo far gone, that the landlord's jerkin and his trum⯑pet were certainly in danger of being ſpoiled.

‘'Far gone!' cried a country fellow, 'why I zeed un myzel at the back of Maſter Clover's barn, and that's only behind thick here orchard. Oons, do but liſt a tiny bit; doſt not hear un?'’ ‘'I do,' exclaimed the muſician, 'I do, and my dear trum⯑pet is as ſound as ever! Zounds, I know what I will do: ſhew me to his bed chamber:'’—at [250] which he jumped down, and ſo ſcampered up ſtairs, that the ſpectators began to fear leſt he ſhould be infected with the ſame phrenzy as his companion. A very few ſeconds however brought him back again, with the Italian's own trumpet, hollowing out, ‘'This will do, this will do; here is that ſhall bring him back again.'’ He now haſtened to the yard door, and, putting the trumpet to his mouth, ſounded a defiance, which was immediately anſwered at a diſtance. In his next eſſay he was anſwered ſomewhat nearer. Upon two or three repetitions the Italian came down the ſtreet, ſounding all the way a parley, till at laſt he was caught, held faſt, brought into the houſe, and the trumpet and buff jerkin reſtored to their reſpective owners. As to the poor devil himſelf, he was an object of the trueſt compaſſion. His eyes darted fire, he foamed at the mouth, and raved like a bedlamite.

At the deſire of his friend, the Italian was con⯑veyed to his bed, which, in a moſt emaciated con⯑dition, he made ſhift to leave in ſomewhat leſs than five weeks.