CHAP. I.

THE pungency of extreme grief acts as a temporary opiate: for a ſhort time it lulls the ſufferer to inſenſibility, and ſleep; but it is only to recruit him and awaken him to new torments.

When I reached my lodgings, I ap⯑peared to myſelf to have ſunk into a ſtate of quieſcent reſignation. The die was caſt. My doom was irrevocable; and de⯑ſpair itſelf ſeemed to have loſt its charm: the animation, the vigour, of miſery was gone. I was reduced to an inevitable [2] poſt-horſe kind of endurance; and had only now to be thankful if I might be permitted to exiſt. From an audacious and arrogant confidence in my own ſtrength, I had ſuddenly yet by percepti⯑ble gradations declined, though with ex⯑cruciating pangs at every ſtep, till I now at laſt found myſelf in a ſtate of ſluggiſh and brute imbecility.

Staggering home in this temper, I un⯑dreſſed myſelf, went to bed with ſtupid compoſure, and felt like a wretch that had been ſtretched on the rack, and, hav⯑ing juſt been taken off, was ſuffered to ſink into lifeleſs languor, becauſe he could endure no more. I was miſtaken. My ſleeping ſenſations ſoon became tur⯑bulent, oppreſſive, fevered, terrific, yet cumbrous, and impoſſible to awake from and eſcape.

It was ſeven in the morning, when I returned to my lodging. When I went to bed, my heavineſs was ſo great that I [3] ſeemed as if I could have ſlept for centu⯑ries; and, ſo multifarious and torturing were the images that haunted me, that, the time actually appeared indefinitely protracted: a month, a year, an age: yet it was little more than two hours. The moment ſtruggling nature had caſt off her horrible night-mares, and I had once more ſtarted into identity, the an⯑guiſh of the paſt day and night again ſeized me. Pains innumerable, and in⯑tolerable, ruſhed upon me. Each new thought was a new ſerpent. Mine was the head of Meduſa: with this differ⯑ence; my ſcorpions ſhed all their venom inward.

Confuſion of mind is the ſource of pain: but confuſion is the greateſt in minds that are the ſeldomeſt ſubject to it; and with thoſe the pain is proportionably in⯑tenſe. The conflict was too violent to be endured, without an endeavour to get rid of it. I roſe, traverſed my room I [4] know not how long, and at laſt ruſhed into the ſtreet; with a ſort of feeling that, when in the open air, the atmoſphere of miſery that enveloped me would be ſwal⯑lowed up, and loſt, in the infinite ex⯑panſe.

The hope was vain: it wrapped me round like a cloak. It was a univerſal cauſtic, that would not endure to be touched; much leſs torn away. I groan⯑ed. I gnaſhed my teeth. I griped my hands. I ſtruck myſelf violent blows. I ran with fury, in circles, in zigzag, with ſudden turns and frantic bounds; and, finding myſelf on the banks of the Avon, plunged headlong in.

I acted from no plan, or forethought; therefore was far from any intention to drown myſelf; and, being in the water, I ſwam as I had run, like a mad or hunt⯑ed bull.

That unpremeditated ſenſation which enforces immediate action is what, I ſup⯑poſe, [5] Philoſophers mean by inſtinct: if the word ever had any definite meaning. Thouſands of theſe inſtinctive experi⯑ments are, no doubt, injurious to the ani⯑mals that make them: but, their number being unlimited, ſome of them are ſuc⯑ceſsful. The benefit is remembered; they are repeated; and a future race profits by the wiſdom that becomes habi⯑tual. I am well perſuaded that my im⯑merſion in the ſtream was aſſuaging; and gameſters hereafter, or the faculty them⯑ſelves, may, if they pleaſe, profit by the experiment.

I have no diſtinct recollection of com⯑ing out of the water: though I remem⯑ber walking afterward, two or three hours, till my cloaths were again entirely dry. My feelings, in the interval, were ſome⯑what ſimilar to thoſe of the preceding evening; declining from frantic agita⯑tion to ſtupidity, and torpor.

CHAP. II.

MAN is, or, which is the ſame thing, his ſenſations are, continually changing; and it may be truly affirmed that he is many different animals in the courſe of a day. A very unexpected, yet very na⯑tural, incident again rouzed me, to a ſtate of activity.

During my ramble, I had ſtrayed among the new buildings, below the Creſcent. I know not whether I had any latent hope, or wiſh, of having a diſtant ſight of Oli⯑via, walking there as is cuſtomary for air and exerciſe: though I was certainly far too much degraded, in my own opinion, to intend being ſeen myſelf, even by her; much leſs by any of thoſe proud beings, thoſe ephemerae of fortune, with whom, while I deſpiſed their arrogance, not to [7] aſſociate, not to be familiar, nay not to treat with a ſort of conſcious ſuperiority, was miſery. We all practiſe that haugh⯑tineſs, ourſelves, which, in others, is ſo irritating to our feelings; and for which we pretend to have ſo ſovereign a con⯑tempt.

As I paſſed a number of workmen, my moody apathy, though great, did not pre⯑vent me from hearing one of them ex⯑claim, with a loud and ſuddenly angry ſurprize, "By G— that is he!"

I was at ſome little diſtance. I heard the ſteps of a man running ſpeedily to⯑ward me. I turned round. He looked me full in the face; and, with no leſs ea⯑gerneſs, repeated—"Yes! D-mn me if it is not! Dick! Will! Come here! Run!"

I ſtood fixed. I did not recollect ever to have ſeen the exact figure before me; but I had a ſtrong and inſtantaneouſly a painful impreſſion, of the ſame form in [8] a different garb. It was the man whom I had accuſed, the day before, of picking my pocket: the poor fellow who had been ſo unmercifully ducked, and ill treated, by the mob.

His impatience of revenge was furious. Without uttering another word, he made a deſperate blow at me. I was unpre⯑pared; and it brought me to the ground. His foot was up, to ſecond it with as vi⯑olent a kick; but, fortunately, the gene⯑rous ſpirit of my opponent and the laws of mob honour were mutually my ſhield. He recollected the cowardice as well as the opprobrium of kicking a combatant, when down; and, in the tone of rage, commanded me to get up.

I was not ſlow in obeying the man⯑date; nor he in repeating the aſſault. I warded ſeveral of his blows, which were dealt with too much thoughtleſs fury to be dangerous; but again and again call⯑ed on him to ſtop, for a moment, and [9] hear me. I felt I had been the cauſe of much miſchief to the man; and had no alacrity to increaſe the wrong. My be⯑haviour was not that of fear; and his companions at length got between us, and for a moment prevented the battle.

We were at the bottom of the hill: the beginning of the fray had been ſeen, and the crowd was collecting in every direction. The beaus deſcended from the creſcent; and left their belles to view us through their opera-glaſſes, and pocket-teleſcopes, while they came to collect more circumſtantial information. The Mowbray family had juſt arrived at this public promenade. Hector and tall Andrews joined the mob: the aunt and Olivia remained on the walk.

The ſtory of the falſe accuſation, the ducking, and the injuries done to my antagoniſt, ran, varied and mangled, from mouth to mouth: a general ſen⯑ſation of rage was excited againſt me; [10] and Hector and Andrews very charitably gave it every aſſiſtance in their power. Not ſatisfied with this, they propoſed the Lex Talionis; and called—"Duck him!" "Duck him!" They took care, however, to turn their backs; imagining that, amid the hubbub, I ſhould not diſtin⯑guiſh their voices.

My antagoniſt, though but a journey-man carpenter, had too much of the hero in him to admit of this mean revenge. His anger could only be appeaſed by chaſtiſing me with his own arm; and proving to me, as well as to the crowd, how unworthy he was of that con⯑temptible character which my accuſation had endeavoured to fix upon him. He was therefore determined to oblige me to fight.

I never remember to have felt greater repugnance, than I now had, to defend myſelf, by committing more hurt and in⯑jury upon this indignant, but brave, fel⯑low. [11] I tried to expoſtulate, nay to intreat, but in vain: my remonſtrances were conſtrued into cowardice, and fight I muſt, or ſuffer ſuch diſgrace as my tyro-philoſophy was ill calculated to endure.

My antagoniſt was ſtripped in form; and, as the diverſion of a battle is what an Engliſh mob will never willingly fore⯑go, I found partiſans; who determined to ſee fair play, encouraged, inſtructed me, clapped me on the back, and, partly by intreaty partly by violence, ſtrip⯑ped off my coat. They were vexed at my obſtinate refuſal to part with my waiſtcoat and ſhirt.

With their uſual activity, they ſoon made a ring; and I ſtood undetermined, and exceſſively reluctant; not very wil⯑ling to receive, but infinitely averſe to return the blows he now once more be⯑gan to deal!

The carpenter was an athletic and powerful man; famous for the battles he [12] had fought, and the victories he had gained. His companions, who evidently had an affection for him, and who knew his proweſs, had no ſuppoſition that I could withſtand him for five minutes: though the hopes of thoſe who were the moſt eager for the ſport had been a little raiſed, by the alertneſs with which I roſe, after being at firſt knocked down, and the ſkill with which I then ſtood on my defence.

The doubts that pervaded my mind imparted, I ſuppoſe, ſomething of that appearance to my countenance which is occaſioned by fear; for my adverſary ap⯑proached me with looks of contempt; and, as I retreated, bade me ſtand for⯑ward and face him like a man. The crowd behind ſeconded him; and, fear⯑ing it ſhould be a run-away victory, was rather willing to preſs upon and puſh me forward than to recede, and give me any play. Hector and Andrews were [13] all the while very active, as inſtiga⯑tors.

My indeciſion occaſioned me to re⯑ceive ſeveral ſevere blows, without re⯑turning one; till, at length, I was again extended on the ground, by a very de⯑ſperate blow near the ear; which, for a few ſeconds, deprived me of all ſenſe and recollection.

This was no longer to be endured. As ſoon as I recovered, I ſprang on my feet, condeſcended to ſtrip, and became in turn the aſſailant. The joy and voci⯑feration of the mob were immenſe. They thought it had been all over; and to ſee me now riſe, ſtand forward, and fight, as I did, with ſo much determination and effect, was, to them, rapture. They had diſcovered a hero. Their education had taught them, for ſuch is education, that the man who has the power to endure and to inflict the moſt miſery is the moſt admirable.

[14]For ſix ſucceſſive rounds, I had com⯑pletely the advantage; during which my brave foe had received five knock-down blows: for that is the phraſe. His com⯑panions and friends were aſtoniſhed. The beau pugiliſts were vociferating their bets; five pounds to a crown in my fa⯑vour.

The carpenter was as hardy as he was courageous. He collected himſelf; I had become leſs circumſpect, and he threw in another dangerous blow near my temple, with the left hand, that again felled me inſenſible to the earth.

I now recovered more ſlowly, and leſs effectually. I had been ſeverely breath⯑ed, by the violence of exertion. The laws of pugiliſtic war will not ſuffer a man to lie, after being knocked down, more than a certain number of ſeconds. Hector had his ſtop-watch in his hand; and tall Andrews joined him, to enforce the rule in all its rigour. I was lifted on [15] my feet before I had perfectly recovered my recollection; and was again knocked down, though with leſs injury. While down, I received a kick in the ſide; of which my partiſans inſtantly accuſed Andrews.

Meaning to do me miſchief, he did me a favour. The wrangling that took place gave me time to recover; and being again brought in face of my oppo⯑nent, I once more propoſed a reconcilia⯑tion; and, ſtretching out my arm, aſked him to ſhake hands. But, no. The ducking was too bitterly remembered. "He would beat me; or never go alive from the ground."

For a moment, the generous thought of acknowledging myſelf vanquiſhed ſug⯑geſted itſelf: but riſing vanity, and falſe ſhame, ſpurned at the propoſal; there⯑fore, ſince he was ſo deſperate, I had no reſource but in being equally ſavage. Accordingly, I bent my whole powers to this deteſtable purpoſe, brought him [16] twice more to the ground, and, on the third aſſault, gave him a blow that veri⯑fied his own prediction; for he fell dead at my feet, and was taken up lifeleſs from the place.

Agony to agony! Vice to vice! Such was my fate! Where, when, how, was it to have an end? Were not my own per⯑ſonal ſufferings ſufficient? Accuſe an in⯑nocent man of theft; deliver him over to the fury of a mob; and, not contented with that, meet him again to fight, beat, murder him! And without malice; with⯑out evil intention! Nay, with the very reverſe: abhorring the miſchief I had done him; and admiring the intrepidity and fortitude he had diſplayed!

Nor did it end here: the intelligence that was inſtantly ſent round was horror indeed. He had left a wife and ſeven children!

CHAP. III.

NEVER were ſenſations more truly tragical than mine: yet, as is frequent, they had a daſh of the ridiculous; which reſulted from the machinations of my good friends, Hector and Andrews. To inſpire others with the contempt in which they held, or rather endeavoured to hold, me, and to revenge the inſults which they ſuppoſed themſelves to have received from me, were their incentives. They knew I had been ſtripped of my money at the gaming-table: they mingled with the partiſans of the carpenter; and, in⯑forming them that I was a pretended gentleman, adviſed them to have me taken before a magiſtrate; for that the law would at leaſt make me provide for [18] the widow and children. Perhaps it would hang me: as I deſerved. They farther propoſed a ſubſcription, to begin with me; and accordingly they came up to me, as by deputation, with the mur⯑dered man's hat.

The mortification they intended me had its full effect. I was pennyleſs; and the epithets which generous ſouls like theſe appropriate, to ſuch upſtart in⯑truders upon their rights and privileges as myſelf, were muttered with as much inſolence as they had the courage to aſſume.

I was not yet tamed. I could not en⯑dure this baiting. I hated, almoſt ab⯑horred, Andrews. He dared to pretend love to Olivia: he had brought me into diſgrace with her; nay was ſoon to rob me of her everlaſtingly; and, recollecting the kick he had beſtowed upon me when down, I called him a ſcoundrel; and accom⯑panied the coarſe expreſſion with a blow.

[19]In a moment, the mob were again in agitation, expected another battle, ad⯑mired my hardy valour, and called for a ring. Andrews knew better: he ſaved them the trouble; and ſhuffled away; followed though ſcouted even by Hector himſelf, for his cowardice. Mowbray remembered the battle of the rats; and, by compariſon, found himſelf a very hero.

The moment I was permitted, I en⯑quired to what place the poor carpenter had been taken; and followed with in⯑finite terror, but with a faint degree of hope; ſome affirming that he was dead, others that he was not. I was attended by ſeveral of my admirers.

It would be vain to attempt any picture of what my feelings were, when, coming into his dwelling, I found him alive! ſitting ſurrounded by his wife, children, and companions! I fell on my knees to him. I owned all the miſchief I had [20] done him. I conjured him, for God's ſake, to forgive me. I was half frantic; and the worthy fellow, in the ſame free ſpirit with which he had ſought, ſtretched out his hand, in token of his forgiveneſs and friendſhip.

His unaffected magnanimity prompted me inſtantly to execute a deſign which I had before formed. "Stay where you are, my good friends," ſaid I, to the peo⯑ple that ſtood round him. "I will be back in a few minutes. The little re⯑paration that I can make I will make: to ſhew you that it was from error, and not ill intention, that I have done this brave man ſo much injury."

So ſaying, I ran out of the houſe, di⯑rected my courſe to my lodgings, and haſtened to my trunk; to take out the ten-pound note, which I had reſerved to pay my Bath debts. My paſſions were too much in a hurry to admit of any en⯑quiry how theſe debts were to be paid, [21] when I ſhould have given the bank-note to the carpenter. I was determined not to enquire; but to appeaſe my feelings, reſcue my character, and beſtow it on him.

Where were my troubles to end? The perſecuting malice of fortune was intolerable. Philip, the footman whom I had hired, but ſcarcely ever employed, had diſappeared: having previouſly brok⯑en open my trunk, and taken, with the ten pounds, ſuch of my linen and effects as he could carry under his cloaths, and in his pockets, without being ſeen.

This was a ſtroke little leſs painful than the worſt of the accidents that had be⯑fallen me: yet, ſo haraſſed was my mind, and ſo wearied with grieving, that I did not feel it with half the poignancy.

Act however I muſt. But how? I had left the carpenter and his family in ſuſpenſe. Muſt I talk of favours which I could not confer? or mention remune⯑ration [22] that would but ſeem like mockery? This was painful: but not ſo painful as falſehood.

I therefore returned, related the ſtory of the robbery, and added that "my intentions were to have endeavoured to afford ſome ſmall recompence, for the unintentional injury I had committed. I was ſorry that, at preſent, this accident had deprived me of the power: but I hoped I ſhould not always be ſo very deſtitute. I certainly ſhould neither forget the debt I had incurred, nor the noble behaviour of the man who had ſuffered ſo much from me. At preſent I was very unfortunate: but, if ever I ſhould become more proſperous, I ſhould remember my obligation, and in what manner it would become me to ſee it diſcharged."

I was heard with patience, and with no diſappointment. My auditors, though poor, were far from ſelfiſh. Beſide, as [23] I had not previouſly declared what I had intended, I had excited little expectation. My vanquiſhed opponent, whoſe name was Clarke, was ſoothed by the juſtice I did him, in defending his innocence and praiſing his courage; and ſaid "I had given him the ſatisfaction of a man, and that was all he aſked." He rather ſym⯑pathized with my loſs than felt a loſs of his own; and gave various indications of a generous ſpirit, ſuch as is ſeldom to be found among perſons who would think themſelves highly diſgraced by any com⯑pariſon between them and a poor car⯑penter. I own I quitted him with a degree of eſteem, ſuch as neither the lord nor the biſhop I had once been ſo willing, or rather ſo induſtrious, to revere had the good fortune to inſpire.

Having ſaid every thing I could recol⯑lect, to remove the doubts which the whole tranſaction might have excited [24] againſt me, I was eager to return to my lodging, and conſider what was beſt to be done.

The probability of tracing my foot⯑man and recovering the bank note, a conſiderable portion of which by the bye was due to him for wages, ſuggeſted itſelf. I recollected that when I roſe, after my two hours ſleep, he had brought the breakfaſt; and had manifeſted ſome tokens of anxiety, at perceiving the perturbation of my mind. I had haſtily devoured the bread and butter that was on the table, and drank a ſingle baſon of tea; after which he enquired as I went out, when I ſhould be back? And I had anſwered, in a wild manner, "I did not know. Per⯑haps never."

From the degree of intereſt that he had ſhewn, the robbery appeared the more ſtrange; and the remembrance of his en⯑quiring and compaſſionate looks made me [25] the leſs eager to purſue, and have him hang⯑ed: though, at that time, I conſidered hanging as a very excellent thing.

Beſide, I had not the means of pur⯑ſuit: I had no money. He had pro⯑bably taken the London road; and, profiting by the firſt ſtage-coach that paſſed, was now beyond my reach.

But how was I to act? How diſcharge my debts? What was to become of me? I could find no ſolution to theſe difficul⯑ties. I was oppreſſed by them. I was wearied by the exceſs of action on my body, as well as mind. I ſunk down on the bed, without undreſſing or covering myſelf, and fell into a profound ſleep.

CHAP. IV.

THE emptineſs of my ſtomach (for I had eaten nothing except the bread and butter I mentioned, ſince the preceding day at dinner) the heats into which my violent exertions had thrown me, and the ſudden reverſe of cold to which my motionleſs ſleep ſubjected me, produced conſequences that might eaſily have been foreſeen: I awoke, in the dead of the night, and found myſelf ſeized with ſhivering fits, my teeth chattering, a ſickneſs at my ſtomach, my head intoler⯑ably heavy, and my temples bruiſed with the blows I had received, and having a ſenſation as if they were ready to burſt. To all this was added the ſtiffneſs that per⯑vaded [27] the muſcles of my arms, and body, from the bruiſes, falls, and battering they had received.

It was with difficulty I could undreſs myſelf, and get into bed; where, after I had lain ſhaking with increaſing vio⯑lence I know not how long, my agueiſh ſenſations left me; and were changed into all the ſoreneſs, pains, and burning, that denote a violent fever.

During this paroxyſm, I felt conſola⯑tion from its exceſs; which perſuaded me that I was now on my death bed. I remembered all the wrongs, which I con⯑ceived myſelf to have ſuffered, with a ſort of miſanthropical delight; ariſing from the perſuaſion that, in my loſs, the world would be puniſhed for the vileneſs of its injuſtice toward me. Perhaps every hu⯑man being conceives that, when he is gone, there will be a chaſm, which no other mortal can ſupply; and I am not certain that he does not conceive truly. [28] Young men of active and impetuous ta⯑lents have this perſuaſion in a very forci⯑ble degree.

All that I can remember of this fit of ſickneſs, till the violence and danger of it were over, is, that the people of the houſe came to me in the morning, I knew not at what hour, and made ſome en⯑quiries. A delirium ſucceeded; which was ſo violent that, at the beginning of my convaleſcence, I had abſolutely loſt my memory; and could not without ef⯑fort recollect where I was, how I had come there, or what had befallen me. The firſt objects that forcibly arreſted my attention, and excited memory, were the honeſt carpenter, Clarke, and his wife ſitting by my bedſide, and endea⯑vouring to conſole me.

The particulars which I afterward learn⯑ed were, that Belmont had come, the firſt day of my illneſs; had ſeen me delirious; had heard the account of my having been [29] robbed, and had left a twenty-pound note for my immediate neceſſities.

So true is it that the licentious, the de⯑praved, and the unprincipled are ſuſcep⯑tible of virtue; and deſirous of commu⯑nicating happineſs. The moſt ignorant only are the moſt inveterately brutal: but nothing leſs than idiotiſm, or mad⯑neſs, can abſolutely deprive man of his propenſity to do good.

I was further informed that a ſealed paper, addreſſed to Mr. Trevor, had been received, and opened in the preſence of the phyſician, containing another twenty-pound bank-bill; but the paper that in⯑cloſed it was blank: and that Clarke, un⯑able to go immediately to work, and re⯑flecting on what he had heard from me concerning the deſtitute ſtate in which I, a ſtranger in Bath, was left by the rob⯑bery of my ſervant, had walked out the next day, had come with fear and diffi⯑dence to enquire after me, and that, find⯑ing [30] me in a high fever, his wife bad been my firſt nurſe.

Her own large family indeed prevented her from watching and continuing al⯑ways with me; and therefore another at⯑tendant was obliged to be hired: but ſhe was by my bed ſide the greateſt part of every day; and her huſband the ſame till he was again able to work; after which he never failed to come in the evening.

He was a generous fellow. I had won his heart, by my deſire to do him juſtice; and my condeſcenſion excited a degree of adoration in him, when he found that I was really what the world calls a gen⯑tleman. He had viſited me before Bel⯑mont had left the money; and, hearing the landlady talk of ſending me to the hoſpital, had propoſed to take me to his home; that he and his wife might do a chriſtian part by me, and I not be left to the mercy of ſtrangers.

[31]And here, as they are intimately con⯑nected with my own hiſtory, it is neceſ⯑ſary I ſhould mention ſuch particulars as I have ſince learned, concerning Olivia.

Hector and Andrews had been buſy, in collecting all the particulars they could, relating to me, from, the mob; among whom the ſtrangeſt rumours ran: of which theſe my faſt friends were prediſ⯑poſed to ſelect the moſt unfavourable, and to believe and report them as true. All of theſe they carried to Olivia, and her aunt; and the chief of them were, that I had falſely accuſed a man of theft, had ſeized him by the collar, dragged him to the water, and had been the prin⯑cipal perſon in ducking him to death. The brother of this man had diſcovered who I was; and had followed me, with his comrades, to have me taken before a magiſtrate: but I had artfully talked to the people round me, had got a part of the mob on my ſide, and had then be⯑gun [32] to beat and ill uſe the brother. They added that I had ſtripped like a common bruiſer, of which character I was ambi⯑tious; that the brother had ſought with uncommon bravery; that he had been treated with foul play, by me and my abettors; and that, in concluſion, I had killed him: that, in addition to this, I had prevented a ſubſcription, for the wi⯑dow and nine young children, which had been propoſed by them; that I had in⯑ſulted them, ſtruck at Andrews, and chal⯑lenged him to box with me, for this their charitable endeavour to relieve the widow and her children; and that, having loſt my laſt guinea at the gaming table the night before in their preſence, I ſhould probably run away from my lodgings, or perhaps turn highwayman; for which they thought me quite deſperate enough.

It may well be imagined what effect a ſtory like this would produce, on the mind of Olivia: corroborated as it was, [33] though not proved in every incident, by the circumſtances which ſhe herſelf had witneſſed from the creſcent, by thoſe which ſhe gathered on enquiry from other people, by her own experience of my raſh impetuoſity, and theſe all height⯑ened by the conjectures of an active ima⯑gination, and a heart not wholly unin⯑tereſted. She hoped indeed that I had not actually killed two men: but ſhe had the moſt dreadful doubts.

The impreſſion it made upon her did not eſcape the penetration of the aunt; and ſhe determined to quit Bath, and take Olivia with her, the very next day. Terrified by the poſſibility that the pre⯑dictions of Hector and Andrews ſhould be fulfilled, Olivia ventured ſecretly to inſtruct her maid to ſearch the book in the pump room, and find my addreſs, and afterward to ſend her with the twen⯑ty-pound bank-bill: hoping, that this temporary reſource might have ſome [34] ſmall chance of preventing the fatal con⯑ſequences which ſhe feared.

Had they returned to London, by the aid of Miſs Wilmot and Mary, ſhe might have made further enquiries: but the cautious aunt directed her courſe to Scar⯑borough.

I was exceſſively reduced by the fe⯑ver. According to the phyſician and apothecary, my life had been in extreme danger; and eight weeks elapſed before I was able to quit Bath. The expences I had incurred amounted to between eight and nine and twenty pounds. I was ful⯑ly determined to beſtow the ten pounds I had originally intended on Clarke. Thus, after diſtributing ſuch ſmall gifts among the ſervants as cuſtom and my notion of the manners of a gentleman demanded, the only choice I had was, either to ſell my cloaths, or, with four and ſixpence in my pocket, to undertake a journey to London on foot.

[35]I preferred the latter, ſent my trunk to the waggon, returned for the laſt time to my lodging, incloſed a ten pound note in a letter, in which I expreſſed my ſenſe of the worth of Clarke, and my ſorrow for the evil I had done him, and, ſend⯑ing it by the maid-ſervant, I followed, and watched her to his dwelling.

CHAP. V.

DURING my recovery, I had converſed freely on my own affairs, with Clarke and his wife. They gradually became ac⯑quainted with my whole hiſtory; and diſcovered ſo much intereſt in the pic⯑tures I drew, and entered ſo ſympatheti⯑cally and with ſuch unaffected marks of paſſion into all my feelings, that I found [36] not only great eaſe but conſiderable de⯑light, in narrating my fears, hopes, and miſhaps.

Clarke had a ſtrong underſtanding; and was not entirely illiterate. His wife was active, cleanly, and kind. Their children were managed with great good ſenſe: the three eldeſt were put out, two to ſervice, and the other an appren⯑tice; and, large as their family was, they had, by labour and oeconomy, advanced a conſiderable ſtep from the extreme po⯑verty to which ſuch perſons are too often ſubject.

When I went to take leave of them, I could perceive, not only that they were both very much affected, but that Clarke had ſomething more on his imagination. He had a great reſpect for my gentility, and learning; and was always afraid of being too familiar. At ſome moments, he felt as it were the inſolence of having fought with me: at others a gleam of [37] exultation broke forth, at his having had that honour. He had ſeveral times ex⯑preſſed an earneſt wiſh that he might be ſo happy as to ſee me again; and, when I aſſured him that he ſhould hear from me, his feelings were partly doubt, and partly ſtrong delight.

Juſt as I was prepared to bid them fare⯑well, he gave a deep ſigh; and ſaid "he thought he ſhould ſoon come to Lon⯑don. He wiſhed he knew where I might be found, and, if he ſhould leave the country, it would be a great favour done him if he might but be allowed to come and aſk me how I did. If I would allow him that honour, it would make his heart very light. He had been many years in his preſent employ; and perhaps his maſ⯑ter would be ſorry, if he were to leave him; but he had given him fair notice. At one time, he did not believe he ever ſhould have left him; but he thought [38] now he ſhould be much happier in Lon⯑don."

His tone was ſerious, there was a de⯑jectedneſs in his manner, and with it, as was evident, much ſmothered emotion in his heart. I was affected; and taking his hand, earneſtly aſſured him that, if ever fortune ſhould ſmile on me, I would not forget what had happened at Bath. His parting reply was, "God be with you, wherever you go! Perhaps you may ſee me again ſooner than you think for."

This was the temper in which we took leave, previous to my ſending the maid with the ten-pound note: and, as I paſſed within ſight of his door, I felt the regret of quitting a human being whoſe attach⯑ment to me was manifeſtly ſo ſtrong and affectionate. But I had no alternative; and I purſued my road.

Winter was advancing: the weather was rainy: the roads were heavy. The [39] cloudy ſky ſympathiſed with the gloom of the proſpect before me. I had waſted my patrimony, quarrelled with my pro⯑tectors, renounced the univerſity, had no profeſſion, no immediate reſource, and had myſelf and my mother to provide for: by what means I knew not.

The experience of Wilmot ſeemed to prove how precarious a ſubſiſtence the labours of literature afford; and Wil⯑mot was indiſputably a man of genius.

I had not quite concluded againſt the morality of the practice of the law: but I remembered, in part, the objections of Turl; and they were ſtaggering. Had it been otherwiſe, where would have been the advantage? I had entered of the Temple: but I had neither the means of keeping my terms nor the patience to look forward, for precarious wealth and fame, to ſo diſtant a period.

All this might have been endured: but Olivia?—Where was ſhe?—Per⯑haps, [40] at that moment, the wife of An⯑drews!—Or if not, grant ſhe were ne⯑ver to be his, ſhe never could be mine. Yet mine ſhe muſt be! Mine ſhe ſhould be! I would brave the deſpotiſm of her odious enſlavers! I would move heaven and earth! I would defy hell itſelf to ſe⯑parate us!

Such were the continual conflicts to which I was ſubject: and, while the fogs of deſpondency roſe thick aud murky around me, with them continually roſe the ignis fatuus of hope; dancing before my eyes, and encouraging me ſtep after ſtep to follow on.

Conſidering how wild and extravagant the deſires of youth are, it is happy for them that they calculate ſo ill; and are ſo ſhort-ſighted. Their deſpair would elſe be frequently fatal.

I did not forget, as a ſuppoſed imme⯑diate means of relief, that my pamphlet againſt the Earl and the Biſhop was [41] printed; and I thought the revenge more than juſtifiable: it was a neceſſary vin⯑dication of my own honour and claims. I was indeed forty pounds in debt: twen⯑ty to Belmont; and twenty more to I knew not whom: though I ſuſpected, and partly hoped partly feared, it was Olivia. I hoped it, becauſe it might be affection. I feared it, left it ſhould be nothing more than pity; for one whom ſhe had known in her childhood, but whom, now he was a man, ſhe might compaſſionate; but muſt contemn. To have been obliged even to Olivia, on theſe terms, was worſe than ſtarving. Such were my medita⯑tions through the day; which was a lit⯑tle advanced when I left Bath.

I was eager to perform my journey, and had walked at a great rate. A little before twilight, I heard a diſtant call, two or three times repeated. At laſt, I turned round, ſaw a hat waving, and heard my own name.

[42]I ſtopped; and the perſon approach⯑ed. It was Clarke. I was ſurpriſed; and enquired the reaſon of his following me. He was embarraſſed; and began with requeſting I would go a little ſlower, for he had run and walked till he was half tired, and he would tell me.

Clarke was an untaught orator. He had very ſtrong feelings; and a clear head; which are the two grand ſources of eloquence. "You know," ſaid he, "how much miſchief I have done you; for it cannot be denied. I ſtruck you firſt, and knocked you down when you was off your guard. I ſet every body againſt you. I refuſed to ſhake hands with you, over and over, when you had the goodneſs to offer to forgive me. And, laſt of all, you may thank me for the fe⯑ver; which brought you to death's door. You forgave me this, as well as the reſt. But that was not all. That would not content you. Becauſe I had been uſed [43] ill, without any malice of yours, nothing would ſatisfy you but to ſtrip yourſelf of the little modicum that you had, and give it to me. So that, I am ſure, you have hardly a ſhilling to take you up to Lon⯑don. And, when you are there, you are not ſo well off as I am: you have no trade. I can turn my hand to twenty things: you have never been uſed to hard work; and how you are to live God Almighty knows! For I am ſure I can⯑not find out; though I have been think⯑ing of nothing elſe for weeks and weeks paſt."

"Why ſhould you ſuppoſe I have no money?"

"Becauſe I am ſure of it. I aſked and found out all that you had to pay. The ſervants too told me how open-hearted you was; ſo that you had given away all you had. Shame on 'em for taking it, ſay I! You are not fit to live in this world! And then to ſend me ten pounds, [44] who have a houſe and home, and hands to work! But I'll be damned if I keep it!"

"Nay but, indeed you muſt."

"I will not! I will not! I would not forſwear myſelf for all the money in the world! And I have ſworn it, again and again. So take it! Nay, here, take it! —If you don't, I'll throw it down in the road; and let the firſt that comes find it; for I'll not forſwear myſelf. So pray now, I beg, for God's ſake, you will take it!"

I found it was in vain to contend with him: he was too determined, and had taken this oath in the ſimplicity of his heart, that it might not be poſſible for him to recede. I therefore accepted the money: but I endeavoured, having re⯑ceived it to ſatisfy his oath, to perſuade him to take a part of it back again. My efforts were fruitleſs. "He had three half crowns," he told me, "in his poc⯑ket; [45] which would ſerve his turn, till he could get more: and he had left five gui⯑neas at home; ſo that there was no fear his wife and children ſhould want."

Happy, enviable, ſtate of indepen⯑dance! When a man and his wife and family, poſſeſſed of five guineas, are ſo wealthy that they are in no fear of want!

Having complied, becauſe I found, though I could equal him in bodily ac⯑tivity, I could not vanquiſh him in ge⯑neroſity, I requeſted him to return to the place we juſt had paſſed through, and take up his lodging.

He replied, "To be ſure he was a little tired; for he had ſet out a good hour after me, and I had come at a rare rate. Not but that he could keep his ground, though I was ſo good a footman; but that it did not become him to make him⯑ſelf my companion."

"Companion!" ſaid I. "Why are not you going back to Bath?"

[46]"No: I have taken my leave of it. I ſhall go and ſet up my reſt in London. I have not been ſharking to my maſter. I thought of it ſome time ſince, and gave him fair notice; and more than that, I got him another man in my room; which is all he could demand: and I hope he will ſerve him as honeſtly as I have done."

"What, would you forſake your wife and children?"

"Forſake my wife and children!"

[There was a mixed emotion of indig⯑nant ſorrow and ſurprize in his counte⯑nance.]

"I did not think, Mr. Trevor, you could have believed me to be ſuch a baſe villain."

"I do not believe it! I never could believe it! I ſpoke thoughtleſſly. I ſaw you were too happy together for that to be poſſible."

"Forſake my dear Sally, and our Bill, [47] and Bet, and —? No! I'd ſooner take up my axe and chop off my hand! There is not another man in England has ſuch a wife! I have ſeen bad ones enough; and, for the matter of that, bad huſbands too. But that's nothing. If you will do me the favour, I ſhould take it kind of you to let me walk with you, and keep you company, now night is coming on, to the next town; and then you may take ſome reſt, and wait for the ſtage in the morning. I ſhall make my way; and find you out, I ſuppoſe, faſt enough in London."

"Are you then determined to go to town?"

"Yes: it is all ſettled. I told Sally; and ſhe did cry a little to be ſure: but ſhe was ſoon ſatisfied. She knows me; and I never in my life found her piggiſh. God be her holy keeper!"

"Why then, come along. We'll go [48] together. If I ride, you ſhall ride: if you walk, ſo will I."

"Will you? God bleſs you! You know how to win a man's heart! There is not ſo good or ſo brave a fellow; I mean gentleman, upon the face of the earth, damn me if there is! I beg your pardon! Indeed I do! But you force it out of one! One can't remember to keep one's diſtance, with you. However, I will try to be more becoming."

The manner of Clarke was more im⯑preſſive than his words: though they, generally ſpeaking, were not unapt.

We purſued our way together, mutu⯑ally gratified by what had paſſed. Per⯑haps there is no ſenſation that ſo cheers, and ſooths the ſoul, as the knowledge that there are other human beings, whoſe happineſs ſeems knitted and bound up with our own; willing to ſhare our fate, receive our favours, and, whenever oc⯑caſion [49] offers, to return them ten fold! And the pleaſure is infinitely increaſed, when thoſe who are ambitious of being beloved by us ſeem to feel, and acknow⯑ledge, that we have more amply the pow⯑er of conferring than even of receiving happineſs.

CHAP. VI.

WHILE we had been diſcuſſing the above points, we had ſat down; and roſe to purſue our journey, as ſoon as we had brought them to a concluſion. We were on the borders of a foreſt. As we proceeded, we came up with a coun⯑tryman; who, enquiring where we were going, told us that, by ſtriking a little out of the road, we might ſave half a mile. [50] We had nine miles to travel, to the inn at which the ſtage coaches ſtopped; and were very willing, Clarke eſpecially, to ſhorten the way. The countryman ſaid he was going part of the road; and that the remainder was ſo plain it could not be miſtaken. Accordingly, we put our⯑ſelves under his guidance.

The ſun had been down, by this time, nearly an hour and a half. The moon gave ſome light; but the wind was riſing, ſhe was continually obſcured by thick ſwift-flying clouds, and our conductor adviſed us to puſh on, for it was likely to be a very bad night.

In leſs than a quarter of an hour his prophecy began to be fulfilled. The rain fell, and at intervals the oppoſing clouds and currents of air, aided by the impe⯑diments of hills and trees, gave us a full variety of that whiſtling, roaring, and howling, which is heard in high winds.

The darkneſs thickened upon us, and [51] I was about to requeſt the countryman to lead us to ſome village, or even barn, for ſhelter, when he ſuddenly ſtruck into ano⯑ther path; and, bidding us good night, again told us "we could not miſs our road." We could not ſee where he was gone to; and, though we repeatedly called, we called in vain: he was too anx⯑ious to get ſhelter himſelf to heed our anxiety, and was ſoon out of hearing.

So long as we could diſcern, the path we were in appeared to be tolerably beaten: but we now could no longer trace any path; for it was too dark for the ground to have any diſtinct colour. We had ſkirted the foreſt; and our only remaining guide was a hedge on our left.

In this hedge we placed our hopes. We followed its direction, I know not how long, till it ſuddenly turned off, at an angle; and we found ourſelves, as far as we could conjecture, from the in⯑tervening lights and the ſtrenuous efforts [52] we made to diſcover the objects around us, on the edge of ſome wild place, pro⯑bably a heath, with hills, and conſe⯑quently deep vallies, perhaps ſtreams of water, and precipices.

We pauſed; we knelt down, examin⯑ed with our eyes, and felt about with our hands, to diſcover whether we yet were in a path; but could find none.

We continued our conſultation, till we had begun to think it adviſable to re⯑turn, once more guided by the hedge. Yet this was not only very uncertain, but the idea of a retrograde motion was by no means pleaſant.

While we were in this irreſolute di⯑lemma, we thought we ſaw a light; that glimmered for a moment, and as ſud⯑denly diſappeared. We watched, I know not how long, and again ſaw it twinkle, though, as we thought, in ſomething of a different direction. Clarke ſaid it was a Will o'the whiſp. I replied, it might [53] be one, but, as it ſeemed the only chance we had, my advice was to continue our walk in that direction; in hopes that, if it were a light proceeding from any houſe or village, it would become more viſible as we approached.

We walked on, I know not how far; and then pauſed; but diſcovered no more of the light. We walked again; again ſtood ſtill, and looked on every ſide of us, either for the light or any other object; but we could ſee nothing diſtinctly. The obſcure forms around us had varied their appearance; and whether they were hills, or clouds, or what they were, we could not poſſibly diſcover: though the firſt we ſtill thought was the moſt probable.

By this time, we had no certain recol⯑lection of which way we had come; or to what point we were directing our courſe. We were continually in doubt: now pauſing; now conjecturing; now proceeding.

[54]We continued to wander, we knew not whither. Sometimes it appeared we went up hill: and ſometimes down. We had ſtepped very cautiouſly, and there⯑fore very ſlowly; had warned each other continually to be careful; and had not dared to take twenty ſteps at a time, without mutually enquiring to know if all were ſafe.

We continued, environed as it were by the objects that moſt powerfully in⯑ſpire fear; by the darkneſs of night, the tumult of the elements, the utter igno⯑rance of where we were or by what ob⯑jects ſurrounded, and the dejectedneſs which our ſituation inſpired. Thieves and aſſaſſins might be at our back, and we could not hear them: gulphs, rocks, or river, in our front, or on either ſide, and we could not ſee them. The next ſtep might plunge us, headlong, we knew not whither.

Theſe fears were not all imaginary. [55] Finding the ground very uneven on a ſudden, and ſtumbling dangerouſly my⯑ſelf, I ſtood ſtill—I did not hear my com⯑panion!—I called — I received no an⯑ſwer! I repeated, in a louder tone, "Clarke! Where are you? "—Still no anſwer!

I then ſhouted, with all the fear that I felt, and heard a faint reſponſe, that ſeemed to be beneath me, and at a pro⯑digious diſtance. It terrified; yet it relieved. We had ſpoken not three mi⯑nutes before. I ſtood ſilent, in hopes he would ſpeak again: but my fears were too violent to remain ſo long. I once more called; and he replied, with rather a louder voice which leſſened the appa⯑rent diſtance, "Take care! You'll daſh yourſelf to pieces!"

"Are you hurt?" ſaid I.

"I hope not much," returned he. "For God's ſake take care of yourſelf!"

"Can you walk?"

[56]"I ſhall be able preſently, I believe."

"How can I get to you?"

"I don't know."

"Stay where you are, and I will try."

"For God in heaven's ſake don't! You'll certainly break your neck! I ſup⯑poſe I am in a chalk pit, or at the bottom of a ſteep crag."

"I will crawl to you on my hands and knees."

"Good God! You will ſurely kill yourſelf!"

"Nothing can be more dangerous than to lie here on the wet ground. We muſt only take care to keep within hear⯑ing of each other."

While I ſpoke, I began to put my crawling expedient in practice; ſtill call⯑ing to Clarke, every half minute, and en⯑deavouring to proceed in the direction of his voice.

I found the rough impediments around me increaſe; till, preſently, I came to one [57] that was ruder than the reſt. I crawled upon it, ſuſtained by my knees and right hand, and ſtretching forward with my left. I groped, but felt nothing. I cautiouſly laid my belly to the ground and ſtretched out my other arm. Still it was vacancy. I ſtretched a little more violently; feeling forward, and on each ſide; and I ſeemed to be projected upon a point, my head and ſhoulders inclining over a dark abyſs, which the imagination left unfathomable.

I own I felt terror; and the ſenſation certainly was not leſſened, when, making an attempt to recover my poſition and go back, my ſupport began to give way. My effort to retreat was as violent as my terror: but it was too late. The ground ſhook, looſened, and, with the ſtruggle I made carrying me with it, toppled headlong down.

What the height that I fell was I have no means of aſcertaining; for the [58] heath on which we were wandering abounds with quarries, and precipices; but either it was, in fact, or my fears made it prodigious.

Had this expedient been propoſed un⯑der ſuch circumſtances, as the only pro⯑bable one of bringing me and Clarke together again, who would not have ſhuddered at it? Yet, though it is true I received a violent ſhock, I know of no injury that it did me.

As ſoon as I recovered my preſence of mind, I replied to Clarke; whoſe queſ⯑tions were vehement; he having heard me fall. After mutual enquiry, we found we were both once more upon our legs; and had eſcaped broken bones. Though they had been ſeverely ſhaken: Clarke's much the moſt violently.

But where were we now? How ſhould we diſcover? Perhaps in a ſtone quarry; or lime pit. Perhaps at the edge of waters. It might be we had fallen down [59] only on the firſt bank, or ridge of a quarry; and had a precipice ten fold more dreadful before us.

While we were conjecturing, the ſtroke of a large clock, brought whizzing in the wind, ſtruck full upon our ear. We liſtened, with the moſt anxious ardour. The next ſtroke was very, very faint: a different current had carried it a diffe⯑rent way: and, with all our eager atten⯑tion, we could not be certain that we heard any more. Yet, though we had loſt much time and our progreſs had been exceſſively tedious, it could not be two o'clock in the morning. It might in⯑deed very probably be twelve.

The firſt ſtroke of the clock made us conjecture it came from ſome ſteeple, or hall tower, at no very great diſtance. The ſecond carried our imaginations we knew not whither. We had not yet recovered courage enough to take more ſteps than were neceſſary to come to each [60] other; and, while we were conſidering, during an intermitting pauſe of the roar⯑ing of the wind, we diſtinctly heard a cur yelp.

Encouraged by this, we immediately hallooed with all our might. The wind again began to chafe, and ſwell, and ſeemed to mock at our diſtreſs. Still we repeated our efforts, whenever the wind pauſed: but, inſtead of voices intending to anſwer our calls, we heard ſhrill whiſt⯑lings; which certainly were produced by men.

Could it be by good men? By any but night marauders; intent on miſchief, but diſturbed and alarmed? They were ſignals indubitably; for we ſhouted again, they were again given, and were then re⯑peated from another quarter: at leaſt, if they were not, they were miraculouſly imitated, by the dying away of the wind.

In a little while, we again heard the cur yelp; and immediately afterward a [61] howling, which was ſo mingled with the blaſt, that we could not tell whether it were the wind itſelf, the yelling of a dog, or the agonizing cries of a human voice: but it was a dreadfully diſmal ſound. We liſtened with perturbed and deep attention; and it was ſeveral times repeated, with increaſing uncertainty, confuſion, and terror.

What was to be done? My patience was exhauſted. Danger itſelf could no longer detain me; and I told Clarke I was determined to make toward the village, or whatever the place was, from whence, dangerous and doubtful as they were, theſe various ſounds pro⯑ceeded.

Finding me reſolute, he was very earneſt to have led the way; and, when I would not permit him, he graſped me by the hand, and told me that, if there were pitfalls and gulphs, and if I did go down, unleſs he ſhould have ſtrength [62] enough to ſave me, we would go down together.

CHAP. VII.

AS we were cautiouſly and ſlowly tak⯑ing ſtep by ſtep, and, as new conjectures croſſed us, ſtopping to conſider, we again ſaw a dancing light; but more diſtinctly, though, as we imagined, not very near. We repeated our calls; but, whether they were or were not heard, they were not anſwered. We ventured, however, to quicken our pace; for we continued, at intervals, to catch the light.

Preſently, we ſaw the light no more; and a conſiderable time again elapſed, which was ſpent in wandering as this or that ſuppoſition directed us; till at laſt, [63] ſuddenly and very unexpectedly, we per⯑ceived lines and forms, that convinced us they appertained to ſome houſe, or man⯑ſion; and, as it appeared to us, a large one. We approached it, examined, ſhouted, and endeavoured to diſcover which was the entrance. But all was ſtill, all dark, all cloſed.

We continued our ſearch on the out⯑ſide; till, at length, we came to a large gate that was open; which we entered, and proceeded to ſome diſtance till we arrived at a door, that evidently belonged to an out-houſe or detached building. It was ſhut; and, feeling about, we found that the key was in the lock. We had little heſitation in profiting by the acci⯑dent. We had been ſhelterleſs too long, and the circumſtances pleaded too power⯑fully, for us to indulge any ſcruples; and accordingly we entered.

We had no ſooner put our heads within the door but we found ourſelves aſſaulted with a ſmell, or rather ſtench, [64] ſo intolerable as almoſt to drive us back: but the fury of the elements, and perhaps the leſs delicate organs of Clarke, who ſeemed determined to profit by the ſhel⯑ter we had obtained, induced us to brave an inconvenience which, though ex⯑ceſſively offenſive at firſt, became leſs the longer we continued.

Groping about, we diſcovered ſome barrels, and lumber; behind which there was ſtraw. Here we determined to lie down; and reſt our bruiſed and aching bones. Our cloaths had been drenched and dried more than once, in the courſe of the night; and they were at preſent neither wet nor dry.

We had ſcarcely neſtled together in our ſtraw, before we again heard the yelping of the cur, arid preſently after⯑ward the ſame diſmal howls repeated. To theſe, at no great diſtance, ſuc⯑ceeded the ſhrill whiſtling ſignals. Our imaginations had been ſo highly wrought up that they were apt at horrible [65] conjectures; and, for my part, my own was at that moment very buſily employed in conjuring them up.

In the very midſt of this activity, we heard the voices of men, walking round the building. They again whiſtled, with a piercing ſhrillneſs; and, though we heard nothing diſtinctly, yet we caught tones that were coarſe, rude, and ſavage; and words, that denoted anger and anxiety, for the perpetration of ſome dark purpoſe no doubt correſponding to the fierce and threatening ſounds we heard.

They approached. One of them had a lanthorn. He came up to the door; and, finding it open, boiſterouſly ſhut it; with a broad and bitter curſe againſt the careleſſneſs of ſome man, whoſe name he pronounced, for leaving it open; and eternally damning others, for being ſo long in doing their buſineſs.

We were now locked in; and we ſoon heard no more of the voices.

[66]In ſpite of all theſe alarms, the mo⯑ment they ceaſed our condition, com⯑paring it with the tempeſt and difficulties without, ſeemed to be much bettered; and we once more prepared ourſelves for ſleep, while fear gave place to fatigue.

Our reſt was of ſhort duration. We began indeed to ſlumber; but I was pre⯑ſently diſturbed by Clarke, whom I found ſhaking in the moſt: violent agitation and horror that I ever witneſſed in any hu⯑man being.

I aſked "what is the matter?"

He replied with a groan!

I was awakened from wild ſlumbers of my own, and ſtrongly partook of his ſenſations; but endeavoured however to rouze him to ſpeech, and recollection. Again and again I aſked "what have you heard? What ails you?"

It was long before he could utter an articulate ſound. At laſt, ſhaking more violently as he ſpoke, and with inexpreſ⯑ſible [67] horror in his voice, he gaſping ſaid —"A dead hand!"—

"Where?"—

"I felt it!—I had hold of it!—It is now at my neck."

For a moment I pauſed: not daring to ſtretch out my arm, and examine. I trembled in ſympathy with him. At length I ventured.

Never ſhall I forget the ſenſation I experienced, when, to my full conviction, I actually felt a cold, dead, hand, between my fingers!

I was ſuffocated with horror! I ſtrug⯑gled to overcome it: again it ſeized me; and I ſunk half entranced!

At this very inſtant, the ſhrill ſound of the whiſtle rung, piercing, through the diſmal place in which we were impriſon⯑ed. It was anſwered. The ſame hoarſe voices once more were heard: but in tones fifty fold more dire.

One terror combated the other, and [68] we were recalled to ſome ſenſe of diſtin⯑guiſhing and underſtanding. We lay ſilent, not daring to breathe, when we heard the door unlock. Our feelings will not readily be conceived, while the following dialogue paſſed.

"What a damned while you have kept us waiting, ſuch a night as this!"

"What ails the night? It is a ſpecial good night, for our trade."

"What the devil have you been about?"

About? Doing our buſineſs, to be ſure: and doing it to ſome purpoſe, I tell you. Is not the night as bad for us as for you? Who had the beſt of it, do you think? What had you to do, but to keep on the ſcout?"

"How came you to leave the door open, and be d—mn'd to you?"

"Who left the door open, Jack Dingyface? We left the key in it, in⯑deed; for ſuch lubbers as you to paſs in [69] and out: while we had all the work to do, and all the danger to boot."

"Who do you call lubber, Bull-calf? We have had as much to do as yourſelves. There has been an alarm given; for we have heard noiſes and hallooing all night. For my part, I don't much like it. We ſhall be ſmoked: nay it is my belief we are already; and I have a great mind to decamp, and leave the country."

" You are always in a panic. Who is to ſmoke us?"

"Well, mark my words, it will come upon us when we leaſt think of it."

"Think of —! Hold up the Ian⯑thorn. Come, heave in the ſack—We were d—mn'd fools, for taking ſuch a hen-hearted fellow among us. Lift the ſack an end. Why don't you lend a hand, and keep it ſteady, while I untie it? Do you think a dead man can ſtand on his [70] legs? D—mn my body, the fool is afraid he ſhould bite."

"You are a hardened dog, Randal, bl—ſt me!"

"Come, tumble the body out. Lay hold! Here! Heave this way. So: that will do. We may leave him. He will not run away. His journey is over. He will travel no farther, to-night. He can't ſay however but we have provided him with a lodging."

"D—mn me, where do you expect to go to?"

"To bed. It's high time."

"I never heard ſuch a dare devil dog in all my life!"

"Don't let that trouble you; for you will never be like me."

"What is that?"

"What is what?"

"I ſaw a head."

"Where?"

[71]"Behind the tub."

"What then? Is there any wonder in ſeeing a head, or a body either, in this place?"

"Nay, but, a living head!"

"A living aſs!"

"I am ſure, I ſaw the eyes move."

"Ah! white-livered lout! I wonder what the devil made ſuch a quaking pudding poltroon think of taking to our trade! Come: I am hungry: let us go into the kitchen, and get ſome grub; and then to bed. Pimping Simon, here, will ſee his grandmother's ghoſt, if we ſtay five minutes longer.

CHAP. VIII.

HERE to our infinite eaſe they quitted us, went through an inner door that led to the houſe, locked it after them, and left us, not only with the dead hand, not only with the dead body, but in the moſt diſmal human ſlaughter-houſe that murder and horror ever con⯑ſtructed, or ever conceived. Such were our impreſſions: and ſuch, under the ſame circumſtances, they would have been, perhaps, of the braveſt man, or man-killer, that ever exiſted. Alexander and Caeſar themſelves would have ſhook, lying as we lay, hearing what we heard, and ſeeing what we ſaw: for, by the light of the lanthorn, we beheld limbs, [73] and bones, and human ſkeletons, on every ſide of us. I repeat: horror had nothing to add.

The dancing lights we had ſeen, the ſhrill ſignals and the dreadful howls that we had heard, were now no longer thought myſterious. It was no ign's fatuus; but the lanthorn of theſe aſſaſſins: no dog or wolf, baying the moon; but the agonizing yells of murder!

The men were four in number. The idea of attacking them ſeveral times ſug⯑geſted itſelf. Nor was it ſo much over-powered by the apprehenſion of the arms with which I concluded ſuch men muſt be provided, as that my mind was ren⯑dered irreſolute by the dreadful pictures, real and imaginary, which had paſſed through my mind.

Clarke, brave as he was, had loſt all his intrepidity in this golgotha, this place of ſkulls; the very ſcent of which, know⯑ing whence it proceeded, was abhorrent.

[74]No: it was not their arms, nor their numbers, but theſe fears that induced me, when he that ſaw my eyes move was in danger of giving the alarm, to cloſe them; and, profiting by the fellow's ſympathetic terror, counterfeit the death by which I was environed.

Here then we were. And muſt we here remain? To ſleep was impoſſible. Muſt we riſe and grapple with the dead; trample on their limbs, and ſtumble over their unearthed bones, in endeavouring to get out?

Neither could we tell what new hor⯑rors were in ſtore for us. Who had not heard of trap doors, ſliding wainſcots, and other murderous contrivances? And could they be now forgotten? Impoſſible. All the phantoms memory could revive, or fancy could create, were realized and aſſembled.

Of the two, I certainly had more the uſe of my underſtanding than Clarke; [75] but I was ſo abſorbed, in the terrors which aſſailed me, on every ſide, that I was intent on them only; and forgot, while the lanthorn glimmered its partial and dull rays, to conſider the geography of the place; or to plan the means of eſcape, till the moment the men were departing; when I caught a glimpſe of what I imagined to be a window facing me.

As ſoon as our fears would permit us, we began, in low and cautious whiſpers, to communicate our thoughts. Clarke was pertinaciouſly averſe to riſe, and hurtle in the dark, with the bones of the dead. By the intervening medium of the ſtraw, he had puſhed away the terrific hand; and was determined, he ſaid, to lie ſtill; till day-light ſhould return, and prevent him from treading, at random, on the horrible objects around him; or ſtumbling over and being ſtretched upon a corpſe.

[76]I had as little inclination to come in contact with dead hands, cadaverous bo⯑dies, and diſſevered joints, as he could have; yet was too violently tormented to remain quiet, and ſuffer myſelf to be preyed on by my imagination. Had I reſigned myſelf to it, without endeavour⯑ing to relieve it by action, it would have driven me frantic. I half roſe, ſat con⯑ſidering, ventured to feel round me and ſhrunk back with inexpreſſible terror, from the firſt object that I touched. Again I ruminated, again ventured to feel, and again and again ſhivered with horrible apprehenſions.

Uſe will reconcile us to all ſituations. Experience corrects fear, emboldens ig⯑norance, and renders deſire adventurous. The builder will walk without dread on the ridge of a houſe: while the timid ſpectator ſtanding below is obliged to turn his eyes away, or tumble headlong down and be daſhed to pieces in imagi⯑nation. [77] Repeated trials had a ſimilar ef⯑fect on me: they rendered me more hardy; and I proceeded, as nearly as I could gueſs, toward the window; touch⯑ing, treading on, and encountering, I knew not what; ſubject, every moment, to new ſtarts of terror; and my heart now ſinking, now leaping, as the ſudden freaks and frights of fancy ſeized upon me.

After the departure of the deſpera⯑does, we had heard various noiſes, in the adjoining houſe; among others the occaſional ringing of a chamber bell. While I was thus endeavouring to ex⯑plore my way, arreſted by terror at every ſtep, as I have been deſcribing, we again heard ſounds that approached more near⯑ly; and preſently the inner-door once more opened, and a livery ſervant, bear⯑ing two lighted candles, came in; fol⯑lowed by a man with an apron tied round [78] him, having a kind of bib up to his chin, and linen ſleeves drawn over his coat.

The maſter, for ſo he evidently was, had a meagre, wan, countenance; and a diminutive form. The ſervant had evidently ſome trepidation.

"Do not be afraid, Matthew," ſaid the maſter. "You will ſoon be accuſ⯑tomed to it; and you will then laugh at your preſent timidity. Unleſs you con⯑quer your fears, you will not be able to obey my directions, in aſſiſting me; and conſequently will not be fit for your place; and you know you cannot get ſuch good wages in any other."

"I will do my beſt, ſir," ſaid the ſer⯑vant: "but I can't ſay but, for the firſt time, it is a little frightful."

"Mere prejudice, Matthew. I am ſtudying to gain knowledge, which will be ſerviceable to mankind: and that you muſt perceive will be doing good."

[79]"Yes, ſir."

"Reach me thoſe inſtruments—Now, lift up the body; and turn the head a little this way—Why do you tremble? Are you afraid of the dead?"

"Not much, ſir."

"Lift boldly, then."

"Yes, ſir."

As the ſervant turned round, half ſtu⯑pefied with his fears, he beheld me ſtand⯑ing with my eyes fixed, watchful and liſ⯑tening with my whole ſoul, for the in⯑terpretation of theſe enigmas. The man ſtared, gaped, turned pale, and at laſt dropped down; overcome with his ter⯑rors.

The maſter was amazed; and, per⯑ceiving which way the ſervant's attention had been directed, looked round. His eye caught mine. He ſtood motionleſs. His pale face aſſumed a death-like hue; and, for a few moments, he ſeemed to want the power of utterance.

[80]Clarke had remained, aſtoniſhed and confounded, a ſilent ſpectator of the ſcene. But there was now light; and, though the objects of horror were mul⯑tiplied in reality, they were leſs nume⯑rous to the imagination. Seeing the fear of the ſervant, obſerving his fall, and re⯑marking the gentle and feeble appear⯑ance of the maſter, armed though he was with murderous inſtruments, Clarke was now riſing; determined to come to ac⯑tion. His proceeding diſturbed our mu⯑tual amazement. He was on his legs; and, as I perceived, advancing with hoſ⯑tile intentions.

The dialogue I had heard, and the ob⯑jects which I had diſtinctly ſeen and ex⯑amined, had, by this time, unravelled the whole myſtery. I diſcovered that we were in the diſſecting-room of an anato⯑miſt. Clarke was clenching his fiſt and preparing to direct a blow at the opera⯑tor; and I had but juſt time to ſtep for⯑ward, [81] arreſt his arm, and impede its pro⯑greſs. "Be quiet," ſaid I, "Clarke; we have been miſtaken."

"For God's ſake, who are you, gen⯑tlemen?" ſaid the owner of the man⯑ſion: recovered in part from his appre⯑henſions, by my pacific interference.

"We are benighted travellers, ſir," an⯑ſwered I; "who got entrance into this place by accident; and have ourſelves been ſuffering under falſe, but exceſſive, fear. Pray, ſir, be under no alarm; for we are far from intending you injury."

He made no immediate reply, and I continued.

"Fear, I find, though ſhe has indeed a moſt active fancy, has no underſtand⯑ing: otherwiſe, among the innumerable conjectures with which my brain has been buſied within this hour, the truth would certainly have ſuggeſted itſelf. But, in⯑ſtead of ſuppoſing I was tranſported to the benignant regions of ſcience, I [82] thought myſelf certain of being in the purlieus of the damned; in the very den of murder."

My language, manner, and tone of voice, relieved him from all alarm; and he ſaid, with a ſmile, "This is a very whimſical accident."

"You would think ſo, indeed, ſir," replied I, "if you knew but half of the horrible images on which we have been dreaming. But it was diſtreſs that drove us to take ſhelter here; and if there be any village, or if not, even any barn, in which we could take a little reſt till day⯑light, we ſhould be exceedingly obliged to you for that kind aſſiſtance which, from your love of ſcience, and from the remarks I have heard you make to your ſervant, I am perſuaded, you will be very willing to afford."

By this time, the ſervant was reco⯑vered from his fright; and on his legs. "Go, Matthew," ſaid the maſter, "and [83] call up one of the maids." And turning to me he added, "Be kind enough to follow me, ſir, with your companion. I doubt if you could procure either lodging or refreſhment, within three miles of the place; and I ſhall therefore be very hap⯑py in ſupplying you with both."

We obeyed; I highly delighted with the benevolent and hoſpitable manner of our hoſt; and Clarke moſt glad to eſcape, from a ſcene which no explana⯑tion had yet reconciled to his feelings, or notions of good and evil.

CHAP. IX.

IN the relation of this adventure, I have given a picture, not of things as they were afterward diſcovered to be, but, as they appeared to us at the time; reflect⯑ed through the medium of conſternation and terror. We had been powerfully prepared for theſe, by the previous cir⯑cumſtances. Our imaginations had been ſtrongly preyed upon by our diſtreſs, by the accidents of falling, and by the min⯑gled noiſes we had heard: proceeding from the church-yard robbers, from the [85] village-dogs and curs diſturbed by them and us, and from the whiſtling roaring and howling which are ſo common to high guſts of wind; and ſo almoſt diſ⯑tracting to a mind already in a ſtate of viſionary deception and alarm. There was indeed enough to excite that wild and uncontroulable dread, which ruſhed upon us every moment. Mingled as they were with darkneſs, ignorance, and confuſion, the ſucceeding objects were actually horrible.

Thus the diſcourſe and dialect, as well as the voices, of the men employed to furniſh dead bodies, were groſs and rude; and the timidity and prejudices of thoſe, who probably were young in the em⯑ployment, contraſted with the jokes, vul⯑gar ſarcaſms, and oaths, of the boiſterous and hardened adepts, though habitual to ſuch people, gave a colouring to the pre⯑ceding circumſtances, that ſo confirmed and realized our fears as not to allow us [86] the leiſure to doubt. To repeat ſuch coarſe colloquies and vulgar ribaldry is no pleaſing taſk; except as a hiſtory of the manners of ſuch men, and of the emotions with which on this occaſion they were accompanied. Theſe indeed made the repetition neceſſary.

It is likewiſe true that, in their own opinion, theſe men were more or leſs criminal: and guilt always aſſumes an audacity, and fierceneſs, which it does not feel. They were not intentionally acting well: but were doing that which they ſuppoſed to be a deed of deſperate wickedneſs, for ſelfiſh purpoſes. Had the conſent of any one of them when dying been aſked, to have his body dug up and diſſected, he would have heard the propoſal with deteſtation. Conſequently, they deceived us the more effectually: for they had the manners of that guilt which, as far as intention was concerned, they actually poſſeſſed.

[87]Add to this the ſpectacle of a diſſect⯑ing-room; ſeen indiſtinctly by the par⯑tial glimmerings of a lanthorn. Who⯑ever has been in ſuch a place will recog⯑niſe the picture. Here preparations of arms, pendent in rows, with the veſſels injected. There legs, feet, and other limbs. In this place the inteſtines: in that membranes, cartilages, muſcles, with the bones and all their varieties of cloth⯑ing, in every imaginary mangled form. Theſe things ought not to be terrible: but to perſons of little reflection, and not familiarized to them, they always are.

Eſcaped from this ſcene, reſtored as it were to human intercourſe, and encou⯑raged by the kindneſs of our hoſt, whoſe name was Evelyn, our pulſe began to grow temperate; and our imaginations to relax and gravitate toward common ſenſe. We took the refreſhment that was brought us, and converſed during [88] the meal with Mr. Evelyn: partly on the incidents of the night, and partly in anſwering a few queſtions; which he put with a feeling that denoted a deſire ra⯑ther to afford us aid than to gratify his own curioſity. After which, as we were weary and he diſpoſed to purſue his noc⯑turnal reſearches, we immediately retired to reſt. Clarke was full to overflowing with cogitation: but, fro the preſent, it was too large, or rather too confuſed, for utterance; and it ſoon overpowered and ſunk him into ſleep.

For my own part, my mind was too much alive to be immediately overcome by fatigue. I lay revolving in thought the incidents of the night; which led me into reveries on the ſingular character of Mr. Evelyn, on my own forlorn ſtate, on the bleak proſpect before me, and on Olivia.

This laſt train of thinking was not ea⯑ſily diſmiſſed. At length, however, both [89] mind and body were ſo overwearied that I fell into an unuſually profound ſleep; from which I did not awake till Clarke, who had riſen two hours before, came between nine and ten o'clock and rouzed me, to inform me that breakfaſt was waiting, and that our hoſt expected my company.

While I was dreſſing, he told me that Mr. Evelyn had been making many en⯑quiries concerning me; and apologized himſelf, with marks of apprehenſion leſt he ſhould have done wrong, while he owned that he had anſwered theſe inter⯑rogatories, by relating ſuch particulars as he knew.

We then went down; and, among other converſation at breakfaſt, Mr. Eve⯑lyn remarked that he underſtood, from Clarke, we had no urgent buſineſs which would make a day ſooner or a day later of any material conſequence; and he therefore particularly requeſted we would [90] delay our departure till the next morn⯑ing. The reaſon he gave was a kind ex⯑preſſion of intereſt, which what he had heard from my companion had excited; and a deſire, not of inquiſitive prying but evidently of benevolence, to be as fully informed of my hiſtory as I ſhould think proper to make him.

There was ſomething ſoothing both in the requeſt and in his manner, which induced me to readily comply. Poor Clarke excepted, I ſeemed as if no hu⯑man being took any concern in my fate; and to diſcover that there was yet a man who was capable of ſympathizing with me was like filling a painful vacancy of the heart, and afforded ſomething of an incoherent hope of relief.

Not that I was prepared to aſk or even to accept favours. I had rather entertained a kind of indignant ſenſe of injury, againſt any one who ſhould preſume to make me his debtor: or to ſuppoſe I was inca⯑pable [91] of not rather enduring all extre⯑mities than ſo to ſubject and degrade myſelf as, in my own apprehenſion, I ſhould do by any ſuch condeſcenſion.

After breakfaſt, Mr. Evelyn deſired me to walk with him; that we might con⯑verſe the more freely when alone. He then repeated what Clarke had told him, gave a ſtrong and affecting picture of the overflowing kindneſs and compaſſion with which my companion had related all he knew, and proceeded afterward to ſpeak of himſelf in the following terms.

"I am a man, Mr. Trevor, engaged in a truſt which I find it very difficult con⯑ſcientiouſly to diſcharge. I have an eſ⯑tate of fifteen hundred a year, and am a creature whoſe real wants, like thoſe of other human creatures, are few. I live here ſurrounded by ſome hundreds of acres; ſtored with fruits, corn, and cat⯑tle; which the laws and cuſtoms of na⯑tions call mine. But what is it that theſe [92] laws and cuſtoms mean? That I am to devour the whole produce of thus much land? The thing is impoſſible!"

"Why impoſſible? You may con⯑vert a hundred head of oxen into a ſer⯑vice of gold plate. Liveries, laces, equi⯑page, gilding, garniſhing, and ten thou⯑ſand other modes or faſhionable wants, which if not gratified render thoſe that have them miſerable, would eat up all that ten thouſand acres, if you had them, could yield. Are you an Epicure? You may ſo ſtew, diſtill, and titillate your pa⯑late with eſſences that a hecatomb ſhall be ſwallowed at every meal. The means of devouring are innumerable, and juſti⯑fied by general uſage."

"General uſage may be an apology, but not a juſtification. Happineſs is the end of man: but it cannot be ſingle. On the contrary, the more beings are happy the greater is the individual happineſs of each: for each is a being of ſympathies, [93] and affections; which are increaſed by being called into action. It is the mi⯑ſerable mechaniſm of ſociety which, by giving legal poſſeſſion of what is called property to the holders, puts it abſolutely and unconditionally in their diſpoſal."

"Why the miſerable mcchaniſm? Are you a friend to the Agrarian ſyſtem?"

"By no means. I was incorrect: The mechaniſm is defective enough, but I rather meant to have ſaid the miſerable moral ſyſtem of ſociety; which allows every man to exerciſe his own caprice, and thinks him guilty of no crime though he is in the daily habit of waſting that which might render numbers happy, who are in abſolute want."

"This is an evil of which the world has for ages been complaining: but for which I ſee no remedy."

"You mean no remedy which laws or governments, by the inflicting of pains [94] and penalties, can afford: at which, to do them juſtice, they have been much too often aiming; but have as continu⯑ally failed."

"And you imagine, ſir, you are poſ⯑ſeſſed of a more effectual preſcription?

"I dare not preſcribe: it would be an arrogant aſſumption of wiſdom. But I may adviſe a regimen which has nume⯑rous probabilities in its favour. Yet what I muſt adviſe has been ſo many thouſand times adviſed before that it ſeems imper⯑tinence to repeat it; if not mockery. To tell the rich that they ſeek enjoyment where it is not to be found, that the pa⯑rade by which they torment themſelves to gain diſtinction renders them ſupreme⯑ly ridiculous, that their follies, while they are oppreſſive and hateful to the poor, are the topics of contempt and ſcandal even in their own circles, and that the repe⯑tition of them inevitably proves that they [95] bring wearineſs, diſguſt, ruin, pain, and every human miſery, is mere common-place declamation.

"But there is one truth of which they have not been ſufficiently reminded. They are not, as they have too long been taught to ſuppoſe themſelves, placed be⯑yond the cenſure of the multitude. It is found that the multitude can think, and have diſcovered that the uſe the wealthy too often make of what they call their own is unjuſt, tyrannical, and de⯑ſtructive.

"This memento will come to them with the greater force the oftener they are made to recollect that the ſpirit of enquiry is abroad, that their voluptuous waſte is daily becoming more odious, and that ſimplicity of manners, a bene⯑volent oeconomy, a vigorous munifi⯑cence, and a comprehenſive philanthro⯑py, can alone redeem them; and pre⯑ſerve that ſocial order which every lover [96] of the human race delights to contem⯑plate, but of which they arrogate to themſelves the merit of being the ſole advocates.

"It is the moral ſyſtem of ſociety that wants reform. This cannot be ſuddenly produced, nor by the efforts of any indi⯑vidual: but it may be progreſſive, and every individual may contribute: though ſome much more powerfully than others. The rich, in proportion as they ſhall un⯑derſtand this power and theſe duties, will become peculiarly inſtrumental: for po⯑verty, by being ſubjected to continual labour, is neceſſarily ignorant; and it is well known how dangerous it is for igno⯑rance to turn reformer.

"Let the rich therefore awake: let them encourage each other to quit their pernicious frivolities, and to enquire, without fear or prejudice, how they may ſecure tranquillity and promote happineſs; and let them thus avert thoſe miſeries at [97] which they ſo loudly and ſo bitterly rail, but into which by their conduct a majo⯑rity of them is ſo ready to plunge.

"The intentions of thoſe among them who think the moſt are excellent: to aſſert the contrary is equally falſe and abſurd. But, when they expect to pro⯑mote peace and order by irritating each other againſt this or that claſs of men, however miſtaken thoſe men may be, and by diſſeminating a mutual ſpirit of acrimony between themſelves and their opponents, they act like madmen; and, if they do not grow calm, forgiving, and kind, the increaſing fury of the mad ma⯑ny will overtake them."

"They are like the brethren of Dives they pay but little regard to Moſes and the prophets."

"Well, Mr. Trevor, you will own at leaſt that, ſince I can talk with all this ſeeming wiſdom, a ſmall ſhare of the prac⯑tice [98] will be becoming in me; and what you and all mankind would expect."

"I may: but not all mankind. There are ſome who pretend to be ſo learned, in what they call the depravity of human nature, that, after having heard you ſpeak thus admirably in favour of virtue, they would think it more than an equal chance that you are one of the wickedeſt of men."

"Oh, with reſpect to that, ſome of my very neighbours do not ſcruple to affirm that I am ſo. But, I repeat, I have what I conſider as a large eſtate in truſt; and it is a ſerious and a ſacred duty impoſed upon me to ſeek how it may be beſt em⯑ployed. I ſeldom am ſatisfied with the means which offer themſelves; and am therefore always in queſt of new."

"I wonder at that, ſir, with your ſyſ⯑tem. Have you no poor in the country?"

"O yes: enough to grieve any pene⯑trable heart. But I know no taſk more [99] difficult than that of adminiſtering to their wants, without encouraging their vices. Of theſe wants I conſider inſtruc⯑tion as the greateſt; and to that I pay the greateſt attention. Food, cloathing, and diſeaſe are imperious neceſſities; and to leave them unprovided would be guilt incredible to ſpeculation, did we not ſee it in hourly practice. But the poor are ſo miſled, by the opinions they are taught to hold and the oppreſſions to which they are ſubject, that, by relieving theſe moſt urgent wants we are in danger of teaching them idleneſs, drunkenneſs, and ſervility. I do them the little good that I can, moſt willingly: but I conſider the diffuſion of knowledge, by which that which I call the moral ſyſtem of mankind is to be improved, as the moſt effectual means of conferring happineſs. Are you of that opinion?"

"I certainly am."

[100]"Then I cannot but think you intend to promote this beneficial plan."

"I ſcarcely know my own intentions. They are unſettled, incoherent, and the dreams of delirium; rather than the ſyſ⯑tem of a ſage, ſuch as you have ima⯑gined."

"I wiſh we had been longer acquaint⯑ed and were intimate enough to induce you to relate your hiſtory, and confide your thoughts to me, as to a friend; or, if you pleaſe, as to one who holds it a duty to offer aid, whenever he imagines it will anſwer a good end."

"To offer aid is kind: but there are very few caſes in which he that receives it is not mean and degraded. You how⯑ever are actuated by a generous ſpirit; and, as you are inclined to liſten, I will very willingly inform you of the chief incidents of a life that has already been conſiderably checkered, and the fu⯑ture [101] proſpects of which are ſufficiently gloomy."

After this preface, I began my narra⯑tive; and ſuccinctly related the principal of thoſe events with which the reader already is acquainted. Nor did the ſtate of my feelings and the ſtrong ſenſe of injury which was ever preſent to my ima⯑gination, when I came to recapitulate my adventures ſince I firſt left college, ſuffer me to colour with a negligent or a feeble hand.

Some of the incidents neceſſarily in⯑duced me to mention Olivia, and betray my ſentiments in part: which the queſ⯑tions of Mr. Evelyn, put with kindneſs, delicacy, and intereſt that was evidently unaffected, induced me at length wholly to reveal, with all the tenderneſs and the vehemence of paſſion.

I was encouraged or rather impelled to this confidence by the emotions which Mr. Evelyn betrayed, in his countenance, [102] voice, and manner. His hopes, his fears, and his affections, were ſo much in uni⯑ſon with my own, his eye ſo often gliſt⯑ened and his cheek ſo frequently glowed, that it was impoſſible for the heart not to open all its receſſes, and pour out not only its complaints but its very follies.

Of all the pleaſures in which the ſoul of man moſt delights that of ſympathy is ſurely the chief. It can unite and mingle not only two but ten millions of ſpirits as one. Could a world be ſpectators of the ſorrows of Lear, a world would with one conſent participate in them: ſo om⯑nipotent is the power of ſympathy. It is the conſolation of poverty, it is the cordial of friendſhip, it is the eſſence of love. Pride and ſuſpicion are its chief enemies; and they are the vices that en⯑gender the moſt baneful of the miſeries of man.

Mr. Evelyn remained, after I had ended, for ſome time in deep meditation; [103] now and then caſting his eyes toward me and then taking them away, as if fearful of offending my ſenſibility and again fall⯑ing into thought. At length, fixing them more firmly and with an open benignity of countenance, he thus broke ſilence.

"I have been deviſing, my noble young friend, allow me to call you ſo, by what means I ſhould beſt make myſelf under⯑ſtood to you; and how moſt effectually prevail on you to contribute to my hap⯑pineſs, and to thoſe great ends for which ſouls of ardour like yours are ſo highly gifted. I have already ſketched my principles, concerning the uſe and abuſe of property. One of thoſe rare occaſions on which it may be excellently employed now preſents itſelf. You are in purſuit of ſcience, by which a world is to be im⯑proved. To the beſt of my ability I fol⯑low the ſame track: but I have the means, which you want. You have too little: I have too much. It is my pro⯑vince, [104] and, if you conſent, as I hope and truſt you will, it will be my ſupreme pleaſure to ſupply the deficiency. I am acquainted with the delicacy of your ſen⯑timents: but I am likewiſe acquainted with the expanſion of your heart, and with its power of riſing ſuperior to the falſe diſtinctions which at preſent regulate ſociety. I might aſſume the ſevere tone of the moraliſt, and urge your compli⯑ance with my requeſt as a duty: but I would rather indulge what may perhaps be the foible of immature virtue, and follow the affectionate impulſe which binds me to you as my friend and bro⯑ther. Beſide theſe are vibrations with which I am perſuaded your warm and kindred heart will more readily har⯑monize. In youth, we willingly obey impetuous ſenſations: but reluctantly liſten to the flow and frigid deductions of reaſon, when they are in contradiction to our habits and prejudices. I therefore [105] repeat, you are my friend and brother; and I conjure you, by thoſe generous and magnanimous feelings of which your whole life proves you are ſo eminently ſuſceptible, not to wound me by refuſal. Do not conſider me as the acquaintance of a day; for, by hearing your hiſtory, I have travelled with you through life, and ſeem as if I had been the inmate of your boſom even from your years of in⯑fancy. No: far from being ſtrangers, we have been imbibing ſimilar principles, ſimilar views, and ſimilar affections. Our ſouls have communed for years, and re⯑joice that the time at length is come in which that individual intercourſe for which they may moſt juſtly be ſaid to have panted is opened. If you object, if you heſitate, if you ſuſpect me, you will annihilate the pureſt ſenſations which theſe ſouls have mutually cheriſhed: you will wrong both yourſelf and me."

There was an emanating fervor in the [106] look, deportment, and the very geſtures, of Mr. Evelyn that was irreſiſtible. It ſurpaſſed his language. It led me out of myſelf. It hurried me beyond the narrow limits of prejudices and prepoſ⯑ſeſſions, and tranſported me wherever it pleaſed. I was no longer in mortal ſo⯑ciety; ſurrounded by ſelfiſhneſs, cun⯑ning, and cowardly ſuſpicions. He had borne me on his wings, and ſeated me among the Gods; whoſe miniſters were wiſdom and beneficence. I burſt into exclamation.

"I own it, you are my friend! you are my brother! I accept your offers, I will receive your benefits, but I will re⯑taliate."

I pauſed. I felt the egotiſm of my own thoughts, but could not ſubdue the torrent. I continued inwardly to vow, with the moſt vehement aſſeverations, that I would repay every mark of kind⯑neſs he ſhould beſtow fifty fold. The [107] heart of man will not reſt ſatisfied with inferiority, and has recourſe to a thou⯑ſand ſtratagems, a thouſand deceptions, to relieve itſelf of any ſuch doubts; which it entertains with impatience, and pain.

My own enthuſiaſm however was ſoon inclined to ſubſide; and I became ready to tax myſelf with that meanneſs and de⯑gradation which I had felt, and expreſſed, at the beginning of the diſcuſſion. Of this the quick penetration of Mr. Evelyn ſeemed to be aware; and he ſo effectu⯑ally counteracted theſe emotions that, at length, I abandoned all thoughts of re⯑ſiſtance; or of betraying thoſe jealouſies which would now have appeared almoſt inſulting, to a man who had diſplayed a ſpirit ſo diſintereſted.

This ſubject being as it were diſmiſſed, our converſation recurred to my preſent affairs, and future proſpects; and, while we diſcourſed on theſe, that which might [108] well at this period be called the malady of my mind exhibited itſelf. Though I had as it were loſt ſight of Olivia, though I knew not but ſhe might at that time be a wife, and though, whatever her condition might be, I had ſufficient reaſon to fear that if ſhe thought of me it was with pain, not with love, ſtill that ſhe muſt and ſhould be mine was a kind of frantic con⯑cluſion with which I always conſoled myſelf. But for this purpoſe riches pre⯑ſented themſelves as of the firſt neceſſity; and riches themſelves would be uſeleſs, unleſs obtained with the rapidity rather of enchantment than by the ordinary progreſs of human events.

I did not conceal this weakneſs from my friend, and ventured to propoſe a plan on which I had previouſly been ruminating; though I had foreſeen no means of putting it in practice. Every man had heard of the fortunes acquired in the eaſt, and of the wealth which had [109] been poured from the lap of India. The army there was at all times open to men like myſelf; youthful, healthy, and of education. 'Tis true I had been of opi⯑nion that there were ſtrong moral ob⯑jections to this profeſſion: but theſe my more prevalent paſſions had lulled me into a forgetfulneſs of, and I ſtated this as the moſt probable ſcheme for the ac⯑compliſhment of my deareſt hopes.

Mr. Evelyn, anxious not to wound me where I was moſt vulnerable, began by ſoothing my ruling paſſion; and then proceeded to detail the phyſical chances of a ruined conſtitution, of death, and of failure; and afterward to repreſent, with unaſſuming but with ſtedfaſt energy, the moral turpitude firſt of ſubjecting myſelf to the phyſical evils he had recited, and next of hiring myſelf to enmity againſt nations I had never known, and of be⯑coming the aſſaſſin of people whom I had never ſeen, and who had not had any [110] poſſible opportunity of doing me an in⯑jury, or even of giving me an offence.

The objections I ſtarted, partly to defend the opinions I had begun with, and partly becauſe I felt myſelf loth to relinquiſh a plan by which my imagina⯑tion had been flattered, ſoon became very feeble: but the intereſting nature of the ſubject prolonged the diſcuſſion till it was nearly dinner time.

In the courſe of this enquiry, Mr. Evelyn delineated the contemptible yet ridiculous arts which are employed to en⯑trap men into the military ſervice; pour⯑trayed the inevitable depravity of their morals, and gave a hiſtory of the feelings worthy of fiends which are engendered, while they are trained to fix their bayo⯑nets, load their pieces, level them, diſ⯑charge them at men they had never ſeen before, ſtrike off the heads of theſe ſtran⯑gers with furious dexterity, ſtab the ground in full gallop on which they are [111] ſuppoſed to have fallen and to lie help⯑leſs, and commit habitual and innume⯑rable murders in imagination, that they may be hardened for actual ſlaughter.

He afterward gave an enlightened and animated ſketch of the abject condition of thoſe who command theſe men, of the total reſignation which each makes of his underſtanding to that of the next in rank above him, and of the arrogant, the igno⯑rant, the turbulent, the dangerous and the ſlaviſh ſpirit which this begets. He finiſhed the picture with a recapitulation of the innumerable and horrid miſeries which everlaſtingly mark the progreſs of war; which he painted with ſuch force and truth that I recoiled from the con⯑templation of it with abhorrence.

My feelings had been ſo agitated by this diſcourſe that my imagination was thoroughly rouzed. My former ideas, concerning the enormous vices of war, had not only been revived but increaſed; [112] and, though I began with debating the queſtion, I ſoon ceaſed to oppoſe: ſo that my thoughts were rather buſied in filling up the picture, and collecting all its hor⯑rors, than in apologizing for or denying their exiſtence. This was the temper of mind in which Mr. Evelyn, attending to his own concerns, left me for a ſhort time; and my heart was ſo agonized by the recollection that this was a ſyſtem to which men were ſtill devoted, and of which they were ſtill in the headlong and hot purſuit, that I then immediately, and perhaps with leſs effort than I ever made on a ſimilar occaſion, produced the fol⯑lowing poem:

I was too full of my ſubject, and poet like too much delighted with the verſes I had ſo ſuddenly produced, not to ſhew them immediately to Mr. Evelyn.

He ſeemed to do them even more than juſtice: he read them again and again, and each time with a feeling now of compaſſion, now of amazement, and now of horror, that ſhewed how ſtrongly [115] the picture had ſeized upon his ſoul. The aſſociations of miſery which his ima⯑gination added were ſo forcible that tears repeatedly rolled down his cheeks. To this more ſoothing trains of thought ſuc⯑ceeded. The pain of the paſt and the preſent was alleviated by a proſpect of futurity. Our minds roſe to a ſtate of mutual rapture, excited by a foreſight that the time was at length come in which men were awakening to a comprehenſive view of their own mad and deſtructive ſyſtems; that their vices began to be on the decline and no longer to be miſtaken for the moſt ſplendid virtues, as they had formerly been; and that truth was breaking forth upon the world with moſt animating force and vigour.

There have been few moments of my life in which I have experienced intel⯑lectual enjoyment with a pleaſure ſo exquiſite. Clarke himſelf, unuſed as his thoughts had been to explore the future and wreſt happineſs to themſelves by an⯑ticipation, [116] partook of our emotions; and ſeemed in a ſtate ſimilar to thoſe religious converts who imagine they feel that a new light is broke in upon them. It was a happy afternoon! It was a type of thoſe which ſhall hereafter be the ſub⯑ſtitutes of the wretched reſources of drinking, obſcene converſation, and games of chance, to which men have had re⯑courſe that they might rouze their minds: being rather willing to ſuffer the extremes of miſery than that dullneſs, and inanity, which they find ſtill more inſupportable.

This incident united me and Mr. Evelyn more intimately, and powerfully, than all that had paſſed. The warmth with which he ſpoke, of the benefits that ſociety muſt receive from talents like mine, dilated my heart. Every man is better acquainted with his own powers and virtues than any other can poſſibly be; and, when they are diſcovered, ac⯑knowledged, and applauded, inſtead of being denied or overlooked as is more [117] generally the caſe, the pleaſure he re⯑ceives is as great as it is unuſual.

Our converſation after dinner reverted to the plans I was to purſue. The law neceſſarily came under conſideration; and Mr. Evelyn, not having conſidered the ſubject under the ſame points of view as Turl had done, was ſtrongly in favour of that profeſſion. He foreſaw in me a future Judge, whoſe integrity ſhould benefit and whoſe wiſdom ſhould en⯑lighten mankind. He conceived there could be no function more honourable, more ſacred, or more beneficial. An upright judge, with his own paſſions and prejudices ſubdued, attentive to the prin⯑ciples of juſtice by which alone the hap⯑pineſs of the world can be promoted, and by the rectitude of his deciſions affording precedent and example to fu⯑ture generations, he conſidered as a cha⯑racter that muſt command the reverence and love of the human race.

My imagination while he ſpoke was [118] not idle. It helped to fill up the picture. It placed me on the judgment ſeat. It gave me the penetration of Solomon, the benevolence of Zalcucus, and the legiſ⯑lative ſoul of Alfred. As uſual, it over⯑ſtepped the probable with wonderful caſe and celerity. Not only the objec⯑tions of Turl diſappeared, but the jargon of the law, its voluminous lumber with which I had been diſguſted when read⯑ing the civilians at college, and all my other doubts and diſguſts, vaniſhed.

Our inquiries accordingly ended with a determination that I ſhould continue my journey to town, ſhould keep my terms at the Temple, and ſhould place myſelf, as is cuſtomary, under one of the moſt eminent barriſters.

This neceſſarily brought me to con⯑ſider the expence; and the moment that ſubject recurred I felt all the pain which could not but aſſault a mind like mine. I had nurtured, not only the haughtineſs of independance, but the ſuppoſition that, [119] in my own extraordinary powers and gifts, I poſſeſſed innumerable reſources; and, at moments, had encouraged thoſe many extravagant flights with which the reader is already well acquainted.

However, after all that had paſſed, and for the reaſons that had been ſuffi⯑ciently urged, I found it neceſſary to ſub⯑mit: though by the conceſſion my ſoul ſeemed to be ſubdued, and its faculties to be ſhrunk and half withered. It was an oppreſſive ſenſation that could not be ſhaken off, yet that muſt be endured. Such at leaſt was my preſent concluſion.

In the courſe of the evening, Mr. Evelyn at my requeſt ſtated his reaſons for purſuing his own courſe of ſtudies; and inſtanced a variety of facts which convinced me of the benefits to be deri⯑ved from the ſcience of ſurgery, of the raſh concluſions to which modern theo⯑riſts and enquirers have been led, and of the neceſſity there is that ſome practi⯑tioner, equally well informed with them⯑ſelves [120] but aware of the evil of falſe de⯑ductions, ſhould demonſtrate the miſchief of haſty aſſertion, and that things which are only conjectural ought not to be given as indubitable.

Of this nature he conſidered their hy⯑potheſes relating to the brain, the ner⯑vous ſyſtem, the lymphatic fluid, and other ſubjects; concerning which many curious but hitherto equivocal facts have been the diſcovery of modern reſearch.

Mr. Evelyn not only read all the beſt authors, but went to London, every win⯑ter, and aſſiduouſly maintained an inter⯑courſe with the moſt able men, attended their lectures, was preſent at their opera⯑tions, and fully informed himſelf of their differences both in opinion and practice.

But his frame was delicate, a too long abode in London always occaſioned pul⯑monary ſymptoms, and experience taught him that his native air was more healthful and animating than any other. The difficulties attending his ſtudies were [121] greatly increaſed by his reſidence in the country; but they were ſurmounted by his precaution, and by the general favour which his benevolence ſecured to him among the neighbouring people. Though there were not wanting ſome who con⯑ſidered him as a very ſtrange, if not a dangerous and a wicked, man.

It is a curious yet an aſtoniſhing and an afflicting ſpeculation that men ſhould be moſt prone to ſuſpect, and hate, thoſe who are moſt unwearied in endeavouring to remove their evils. That a ſurgeon muſt be acquainted with the direction, ſite, and properties, of the muſcles, arteries, ligaments, nerves, and other parts, before he can cut the living body with the leaſt poſſible injury, and that this knowledge can only be acquired by experience, is a very plain propoſition. It is equally ſelf-evident that a dead body is no longer ſubject to pain; and that it certainly cannot be more diſgraced by [122] the knife of a ſurgeon than by the gnaw⯑ing of worms. When will men ſhake off their infantine terrors, and their idiot-like prepoſſeſſions?

CHAP. X.

THE pleaſure I this day received in the company of Mr. Evelyn was uncommon, the friendſhip with which he had inſpired me was pure, and the reſpect that my heart paid to his virtues was profound. But eagerneſs of purſuit was my charac⯑teriſtic. My plan being formed, every moment of delay would have been tor⯑ment; and he, entering into all my thoughts and ſympathiſing with all my wiſhes, prompted me to follow my bent. [123] It was therefore agreed that I and my companion ſhould depart by one of the coaches which would paſs an inn at ſome diſtance in the morning. A meſſenger was accordingly diſpatched to take places in the firſt vacant coach, arrangements for money-matters were made with every poſſible delicacy by my friend, the night paſſed away, day returned, and we de⯑parted.

I will leave the reader to image to him⯑ſelf the crowding ſenſations that preſſed upon my heart on this occaſion, the tu⯑mult of thought which incidents ſo ſud⯑den and unexpected produced, and the feelings which mutually paſſed between me and my noble benefactor. I ſhall live, ſaid I, to acknowledge this in my old age. I ſhall have a ſtory to tell, a man to deſcribe, and a friend to revere, that will aſtoniſh and render common hearers incredulous. But this was the language of my heart: not of my tongue. [124] That was dumb. A preſſure of the hand, with eyes averted, was all the utterance I had.

A child and its mother were the only paſſengers beſide ourſelves. The coach, which was to be in London at ten that night, rolled along, they were aſleep, I was ſilent, and poor Clarke was full of ejaculation.

"If there be a good man on God's earth, that gentleman is one! He will find his road to heaven ſafe enough! He will be among the ſheep, and ſit on the right hand of God! I hope I ſhall be in his company! Though that can't be. I am unworthy. I may think myſelf happy to ſit far enough lower down. Not that I can ſay; for I find the beſt people have the leaſt pride. Perhaps as it is in earth ſo it may be in heaven. God ſend us all ſafe there together! For my part, I think that within theſe few weeks I am a dif⯑ferent kind of a creature. But what can [125] a poor carpenter do? He muſt not ſpeak to gentlefolk, unleſs in the way of his work: ſo he can have no ſociability, but with his poor neighbours. And though ſome of them to be ſure be as good-meaning people as any on earth, they are no better learned than himſelf: ſo they can teach him nothing. But I have hap⯑pened on good luck, ſo I have no right to complain. And I am very ſure, in my own mind, that there is good luck in ſtore for us all: for providence elſe would not have brought us and guided us where it did, by ſuch marvellous means; ſo that, while we thought we were breaking our necks and falling into the hands of murderers, and being frightened out of our ſenſes by the moſt ſhocking ſights I muſt ſay that ever were ſeen, we were all the while going ſtraight on as faſt as we could to good fortune! So that it is true enough that man is blind, but that God can ſee."

[126]What pleaſure does the mind of man take in ſolving all its difficulties! How impatient is it that any thing ſhould re⯑main unexplained; and how ready to elevate its own ignorance into myſtery and miracle!

To have remained longer ſilent, while the honeſt heart of my companion was thus overflowing with kindneſs, would have been no proof of the ſame excellent and winning quality in myſelf. I encou⯑raged his hopes, in which I was very rea⯑dy to participate. My own pleaſing dreams revived in full force; and I pre⯑ſently ranged my cloud-conſtructed caſ⯑tles, which I built, pulled down and re⯑built with admirable facility, and lorded it over my airy domains at will. 'Tis a folly to rail at theſe domains; for there are no earthly abodes that are half ſo captivating.

Nothing worth mentioning happened on the road till we came to the laſt ſtage [127] but one, where we changed horſes; at which time it was quite dark. Our fe⯑male companion and her child had been ſet down at Hungerford; and two new paſſengers, both ladies, as ſoon as the horſes were put to, were ſhewn to the carriage.

They had a footman, who mounted the box; and we ſoon learned from their diſcourſe that they had been waiting for the nephew of the elder lady, who was to have taken them in his phaeton, but that they had been diſappointed. They had been on a viſit, and had been brought to Salt-hill in a gentleman's carriage; which they had ſent back. While the coach had ſtopped, I had fallen into a doze; but awoke when it began to move again, and when I heard the voices of females converſing.

The old lady ſpoke moſt, and com⯑plained of the rudeneſs of her nephew in ſubjecting them to the inconvenience of [128] a ſtage-coach, or of waiting they knew not how long till poſt-horſes ſhould come in, which as they were informed would be tired and unfit for more work: it happening that there was a great run at that time on the Bath road.

The reader will preſently underſtand that they were people of real faſhion; and the eldeſt lady ſpoke of perſons and things which denoted that high life was familiar to her. This gave Clarke a new opportunity of wondering how he, a poor carpenter, came into ſuch company: which he directly expreſſed to me, with the ſimplicity and undiſguiſe that are common to ſuch characters.

The old lady, who had before ſignified her chagrin at the expedient to which her nephew had reduced her, did not find her pride ſoothed when ſhe learned that ſhe was in company with carpen⯑ters: for it ſoon appeared that ſhe conſi⯑dered [129] me and my companion as familiar acquaintances of the ſame rank.

Her young friend was likewiſe led into this error; and, when the former began to expreſs her diſguſt too freely to accord with the feelings of the latter, ſhe inter⯑rupted her with ſaying "Ayez la bonté, madame, de parler Franqois." "Be kind enough, madam, to ſpeak French."

The old lady complied; and a con⯑verſation enſued which certainly will nei⯑ther ſurpriſe nor move the reader ſo much as it did me. Should he aſk how I, as a man of honor, could ſuffer them to re⯑main in the deception of imagining I did not underſtand them, let him wait till he knows enough to ſurmiſe what the emo⯑tions were that were in a moment kin⯑dled in my boſom. At firſt, indeed, they were but dark and improbable conjec⯑tures: but, dark as they were, they ſhook my whole frame.

[130]The dialogue that enſued ſoon teſti⯑fied that the old lady was in no very complacent temper of mind. Her be⯑ginning ſentences expreſſed diſſatisfac⯑tion, were ſarcaſtic, and evidently glanced at her young companion, whoſe replies were mild and conciliating. But, not ſatisfied with indirect reproach, her aſſail⯑ant, ſtill ſpeaking French, continued her interrogatories to the following effect.

"And are you ſtill determined, Miſs, to perſiſt in your obſtinate refuſal of his lordſhip?"

"Let me intreat you, dear madam, not to enter on that ſubject again."

"Oh, to be ſure! You very kindly intreat me to torment myſelf as much as I pleaſe, ſo that I do not trouble you!"

"How can you, madam, accuſe me of ſuch cruelty? Is it juſt? Am I indeed of ſuch a nature?"

"Yes, indeed are you, Miſs: however [131] you may flatter yourſelf. It is nothing but perverſity that can make you trifle with the honor and happineſs of your fa⯑mily—Now you are ſilent! Your fine ſpirit no doubt diſdains to reply!"

"What can I ſay?"

"Say that you are a headſtrong girl; acknowledge your fault, and conſent to be the wife of a peer—Silent again!"

"I could wiſh, madam, not to make you more angry."

"No, indeed; there is no occaſion for that! You have been doing nothing elſe for many weeks paſt. For my part, I can⯑not conceive what your objection can be! Had that deſperado been living, for whom ſince his death you have acknow⯑ledged what you call your weak prepoſ⯑ſeſſion, I ſhould have known very well to what cauſe to attribute your ſtubborn⯑neſs: but, as it is, I cannot conceive either your motives or your meaning. Nothing however is to be wondered at, [132] in a young lady of your character. No prudent perſon would have dared to in⯑dulge a thought in ſavour of a mad ad⯑venturer, whoſe actions were as raſh as they were inſolent, whoſe family was mean yet had dared to oppoſe and even make ridiculous attempts to rival that from which you are deſcended, and who yet was himſelf an outcaſt of that family."

"It is cruel, madam, to diſturb the aſhes of the dead!"

This was the firſt word of retort that had eſcaped the chidden ſufferer; and this was uttered in a voice half ſuffocated with paſſion.

"Cruel, indeed! Every thing is cruel that contradicts the wiſhes of young la⯑dies, whoſe melting tenderneſs is ruinous to themſelves and to every body that ought to be moſt dear to them."

"You muſt pardon me, madam, for again and again repeating, in my own defence, that there is no part of my con⯑duct [133] which can juſtify ſuch an accuſa⯑tion."

"How, Miſs! Is an avowed partiality for a fortune-hunter no proof? Is it no ſtain on the character of a modern young lady? Is it no inſult to her family?"

"It was a partiality which had never been avowed, till death had put an end to hope. It was produced and coun⯑teracted by very extraordinary circum⯑ſtances: but, however ſtrong it might be at ſome moments, which I acknowledge it was, for I diſdain falſehood, it was not indulged. I needed no monitor to ſhew me there were too many reaſons why it ought not to be."

"I have not patience. A runagate! A vagabond! A gambler! A prize-fight⯑er! One of the loweſt and moſt con⯑temptible of adventurers! who had be⯑trayed his patrons, who had flown in the face of his benefactors, who was capable [134] of every kind of malice and miſchief, and who had not a ſingle virtue!"

"Madam, I cannot liſten to ſuch an aſſertion as that, however I may offend you, without continually proteſting it is unfounded; and that you have been greatly miſinformed. I ſcorn to apolo⯑giſe for his miſtakes: but I know that he had virtues which thoſe who have given you this character of him are never likely to poſſeſs. How he could be guilty of the crimes of which he has been ac⯑cuſed I cannot conceive. Even when a boy, I have heard him expreſs ſentiments which I ſhall never forget; and which have ſince been confirmed by his ac⯑tions. You were acquainted with none of them. You ſpeak from report; and from report which I am ſure was falſe, and wicked. His heart I know to have been compaſſionate, his principles ſuch as no mean mind could have conceived, [135] and his courage blameably great; though it ſaved my life. [Tears half choaked her utterance.] But for him I ſhould have been where he now is: a different train of events might have taken place, and he perhaps might have been living. I owe him my life, and you muſt forgive me if I cannot fit patiently and hear his memory traduced without the leaſt oc⯑caſion: for, [Her ſobbing could not be ſtifled.] ſince he is dead, you can no lon⯑ger think him dangerous."

Oh Olivia!

Gracious God! What were the throbs, the thrillings, the love, the indignation, the tranſports, of my ſoul! How did a few moments raiſe and allay in me the whirlwind of the paſſions! How did my frame tremble, and madden, and ſhiver, and burn! How were my lips at once burſting with frenzy and locked in ſilence! It was my guardian angel that protected me, that pleaded for me, that awed me [136] to patience, and that repaid by her ſera⯑phic praiſe the virtue ſhe had inſpired!

Oh, yes, it was Olivia! It was ſhe herſelf that had the juſtice, the fortitude, and the affection, to aſſert the dignity of truth, to controvert an overbearing aunt whom ſhe revered, for this aunt had her virtues, and to ſpeak in defiance of that hypocriſy which inculcates the ſilence that intends to deceive, and which teaches females that ſincerity is an un⯑pardonable vice.

CHAP. XI.

IT has been truly remarked that the moſt ſerious and even the moſt dignified [137] emotions are ſometimes mingled with the moſt ludicrous. When the divine Olivia had ended, there was a momen⯑tary pauſe; and Clarke, meditating no doubt on the advantages of which he had been deprived, and to the enjoyment of which every man feels he has a right, di⯑recting his remark to me, ſuddenly ex⯑claimed—"What would I give now if I underſtood all that theſe ladies were ſaying as well as you do!"

"Eſt-ce donc que Monſieur ſçait parler François?—What, ſir! Can you ſpeak French?" ſaid the aunt with a burſt of ſurpriſe.

"Yes, madam," anſwered I; in a low and tremulous voice.

"Gesù Maria! Chi l' avrebbe penſato! Parliamo Italiano, Signora. Good God! who could have thought it! Let us ſpeak Italian, Miſs," continued ſhe: but, ſud⯑denly recollecting herſelf, added—"Per⯑haps, ſir, you ſpeak that language, too?"

[138]"Yes, madam."

A dead ſilence enſued; which was on⯑ly once or twice interrupted by an excla⯑mation of diſcontent from the aunt. Each became buſied with their own thoughts: mine were diſtracted by doubts and ap⯑prehenſions, concerning the manner in which I ought to act. I could come to no determination. To be ſeen by the aunt would not only have wounded her pride, and if poſſible have rendered her more implacably my mortal enemy than ſhe had been, but it would have ſubject⯑ed Olivia, toward whom my heart was burſting with affection, to a ſeries of new aſſaults and perſecutions. Nay the ſud⯑den ſight of me might overpower her, and even have dangerous effects. Such at leaſt were the whiſperings either of my tenderneſs or my vanity. And yet to miſs this opportunity, to acquaint her with none of thoſe overwhelming ſenſa⯑tions that were all thankfulneſs, love, and [139] adoration, and not ſo much as to inform her that I was ſtill living, ſtill perhaps capable of all the good that ſhe had ever ſuppoſed of me, was in every view of it tormenting. How had ſhe ſtruggled to conceal her emotions when ſhe mention⯑ed my death, and that I had ſaved her life! Should I deſerve this tenderneſs, if I could leave her to grieve a moment longer? Such unkindneſs were not only unworthy of me, but might be dangerous: it might even riſk her compliance to the propoſed match.

And here a torrent of painful anxieties and ſurmiſes ruſhed upon me. The hate⯑ful ſubject was brought fully to my re⯑collection. Andrews was no longer the rival I had to dread. A lord had entered the liſts: a peer of the realm had ſued for Olivia. Who could he be? Was it likely that ſhe ſhould long withſtand the ſolicitations of her aunt, endure her bit⯑ter upbraidings, and ſuffer the rude [140] taunts of her brother, while rank and ſplendor were courting her acceptance, while coronets were crouching at her feet and ſupplicating her compaſſion? Which of our ancient barons could he be? How ſhould I learn? Was he young, handſome, courteous, engaging? Had he the virtues and the high qualities which imagination is ſo apt to attach to the word noble?

Another train of conjecture ſeized up⯑on my thoughts. How did it happen that they ſhould believe me dead? Who were the authors of this falſe report? It muſt ſurely be intentional deceit; per⯑haps of the aunt, perhaps of Hector; in⯑vented to induce her to comply with their wiſhes, and ally them to the peer⯑age. I muſt not ſuffer it to continue. The aunt appeared to believe it; and that Olivia had no doubt of it was cer⯑tain. My fears confirmed me in the ſuſ⯑picion that it was a family artifice.

[141]I was at length awakened from theſe reveries by the aunt; who expreſſed her ſurpriſe and impatience at the ſlow driv⯑ing of the coachman. It ſeems it had continued for ſome time, though not re⯑marked by me; and it was not long be⯑fore the coach ſtopped, when I perceived that we were in an uncommonly thick fog. Olivia was ſtill ſilent, but the aunt was alarmed by the voices of men; and, as the darkneſs and miſt prevented all danger of my being known, I opened the coach-door and jumped out; and Clarke followed my example.

I found on enquiry we were paſſing Cranford-bridge at the beginning of Hounſlow-heath, that a broad-wheeled waggon had approached, and that the coachman unable to diſtinguiſh the road had alighted to lead his horſes, left we ſhould be overturned. He had truſted the reins to the footman who remained on the box.

[142]By the caution of the coachman, the waggon was ſafely paſſed, and he thought proper to mount his box again: but he durſt not venture to drive faſt; and, as I was alarmed for the ſafety of Olivia, I and Clarke continued beſide the horſes.

We had not gone fifty yards before we were again entangled with a timber carriage; the driver of which, embar⯑raſſed by the fog, had turned it acroſs the road.

The waters, which lie in the hollows on the Hounſlow-ſide of the bridge, had been greatly increaſed by the late tem⯑peſts, and heavy rains. The coach horſes began to ſnort with more vehemence; for they had for ſome time been diſturb⯑ed with fright; and one of them, run⯑ning againſt the projecting timber, plun⯑ged, and terrified the reſt: ſo that the two fore-horſes, quitting the road, daſh⯑ed into the water, dragged the coach af⯑ter [143] them in deſpite of the driver, and the near-wheels were hurried down the bank.

It fortunately happened that the de⯑clivity was not ſteep enough immediately to overturn the coach; otherwiſe Olivia and her aunt would probably have loſt their lives.

Bewildered by the fog, neither I nor Clarke could act with that promptitude which we deſired. I however got to the horſes' heads, myſelf above the knees in, water, and ſtopped them juſt in time. I called to Clarke to come to me; and, as I knew him to be both ſtrong and deter⯑mined, I committed the horſes to him and ran to ſupport the carriage, left it ſhould overturn.

The coachman ſenſible of his danger, took care to alight on the off-ſide. The footman did the ſame; and I, with an air of authority which the circumſtances inſpired, ordered them to come to me [144] and ſupport the coach. They obeyed. I haſtened round to the other ſide, open⯑ed the door, firſt took out the aunt, and then accompliſhed the wiſh of my heart: I held the lovely Olivia once more in my arms, and once more preſſed her to my boſom, without the leaſt alarm to her delicacy.

For how many rapturous moments are lovers indebted to accident! Mine in⯑deed would have been a ſingle bliſs, and therefore unworthy the name, had not the tenderneſs and the truth of Olivia ſo lately been manifeſted. But this addition made the tranſport undeſcribable! To be in my arms yet not to know me, but to ſuppoſe me dead, to feel my embrace and to have no ſuſpicion that it was the embrace of love, to be once more ſafe and I myſelf once more her protector, oh Imagination! Strong as thou art, thy power is inſufficient for the repetition of [145] ſuch a ſcene, for the complete revival of ſuch ecſtacy!

I was unwilling to part with my pre⯑cious burthen, which I had no longer any pretence to retain. "Pray, ſir, put me down," ſaid the angel; with a ſweet, a gentle, and a thankful voice. " We are very ſafe now: for which both I and my aunt are infinitely indebted to you."

I could make no reply: but I preſſed her hand with ſomething of that too ar⯑dent raſhneſs of which the aunt had ac⯑cuſed me.

The old lady too did not forget her acknowledgments. She had no doubt now that I was a gentleman. My beha⯑viour proved it. She ſhould be very proud to thank me, in a more proper place, for my civilities; and would en⯑deavour to repay the obligation if I would do her the favour to call in Hertford-ſtreet.

Olivia was not one of thoſe who think [146] only of themſelves. "Having been ſo good, ſir," ſaid ſhe, "as to take us out of danger, perhaps you could be ſerviceable to the poor coachman."

"Let me firſt ſee you back to the inn, ladies."

"Some accident may happen in the mean time. The horſes are unruly. We will ſtay here till all is ſafe."

The advice was juſt, and it came from Olivia. I obeyed and haſtened to the coachman; who was buſied in looſing the traces, and relieving the horſes from the carriage. This was preſently done; and the coach was left, till proper aid and more light could be obtained.

I then returned to Olivia; and, when the coachman came up, the aunt en⯑quired if their danger had been great?

"I don't know, madam, what you may call great," anſwered he; "but, if that gentleman had not ſtopped the cattle, and if the near wheels had gone one yard [147] nay two feet farther I ſhould have had an overturn; and then how either you or I could have got out of that gravel pit is more than I can tell. For my own part, I know, I thank him with all my heart; and the other gentleman too: for it is not often that your gentlemen are ſo handy. Inſtead of helping, they gene⯑rally want ſomebody to help them. I hope they'll be civil enough to take a glaſs with me. By G— they ſhall go to the depth of my pocket, and welcome."

"If that be the caſe," replied the aunt, "we are all very much obliged to them indeed! But I will take care never to travel in a fog again."

Juſt as this was paſſing, we heard at a diſtance, and as if coming from the inn, a ſhouting of Hollo! Hoix! Coachee! Coach! where are you all?

"I declare," ſaid the aunt, "that is my nephew's voice! This is very lucky! He will now take us in his phaeton."

[248]"Surely, madam," exclaimed I, "you would not truſt yourſelf and this young lady in a phaeton ſuch a night as this; when you ſee the moſt experienced dri⯑vers are liable to ſuch accidents?"

"If the lady does," continued the coachman as he was going, "why I ſhall ſuppoſe ſhe does not value a broken neck of a farthing."

We then proceeded back to the inn, and were preſently joined by Hector; whom the aunt immediately began to rate.

While ſhe was thus employed, I, endeavouring to diſguiſe my voice, as I had before done in the few ſentences I had uttered, and addreſſing myſelf to Olivia, ſaid, "I ſhould be exceed⯑ingly concerned, madam, if I thought you would ſuffer Mr. Mowbray to drive you home till day light ſhall appear."

"I certainly ſhall not, ſir;" anſwered ſhe. "But do you know my brother?"

[149]"Madam!"

"You are acquainted with his name; and I don't recollect that it has been mentioned."

I heſitated, Hector turned upon us, we were approaching the light, and, with a ſuddenneſs which fear and paſſion inſpired, knowing that Mowbray did not underſtand Italian, I ſaid in an under voice—"Il' Signor Hugo Trevor non é morto, belliſſima Signora; Mr. Trevor is not dead, deareſt lady"—At the ſame inſtant I ſnatched her hand, preſſed it, was about to raiſe it to my lips, but re⯑collecting myſelf, turned, ſhort round, and added, "Addio!"

Clarke was at my back; and I pluckled him by the coat, and whiſpered—"Come with me."

But what of Olivia? Was ſhe dead to feeling at this ſtrange myſterious mo⯑ment? Did no ruſhing orrent of ideas ſuddenly overwhelm her? The man [150] whoſe loſs ſhe had lamented not in his grave; that man again her ſaviour, her guardian genius in the dark hour of dread and danger; acquainted in a way the moſt extraordinary with her thoughts, and favourable wiſhes; or, as ſhe was too ſeverely inclined to term it, her paſſion and its folly; a witneſs that ſhe did not credit all which malice could urge againſt him, nor liſten in baſe ſilence when her perhaps too partial heart pleaded in his behalf; nay more, that man the protector of her aunt, by whom he had been ſo often and ſo bitterly reviled; that man travelling in obſcurity; in fa⯑miliar ſociety with a carpenter; yet brav⯑ing peril in her behalf, and ſhunning the thanks which the uncommon ſervices he had rendered might boldly make him claim; avoiding them moſt certainly be⯑cauſe of the mean condition to which he was reduced; faithful in his affection: for ſuch his behaviour ſpoke him; but [151] unfortunate, depreſſed, deſpiſed; ſinking under poverty; languiſhing away his youth; or cruſhed by accumulating diſ⯑aſters!—Did no ſuch fears, no ſuch tender recollections, aſſail her boſom?— I have deſcribed her ill indeed if that could be ſuppoſed. I muſt purſue my narrative: for how can I picture what moſt indubitably muſt have paſſed in her heart, ſince I feel myſelf ſo very incapa⯑ble of delineating my own!

This adventure did not entirely end here. I wiſhed to have gone forward on foot to Hounſlow without delay: but Clarke interceded for a glaſs of brandy. He ſaid the water had chilled him; and he was ſtill more importunate with me to take the ſame preventative. I had no fear for myſelf; for I had no ſuch feel⯑ing: but, as I did not think I had any right to trifle with his health. I returned with him; taking the precaution to go through the paſſage to the kitchen door.

[152]Here, juſt as we came to the threſhold, who ſhould be coming in face of us, carrying a pair of candles, but my quon⯑dam ſervant, Philip!

The inſtant he beheld me, he turned pale, trembled, ſet down the lights, ſtood aghaſt for a moment, and then took to his heels.

Though not ſo terrified, I was almoſt as much ſurpriſed as he; and ſuffered him to eſcape before I had the preſence of mind to know how to act. As how⯑ever it was my plan to avoid being known myſelf for the preſent, I thought proper to make no other enquiry than to aſk whoſe ſervant he was? and was anſwered that he came with the ladies, who had juſt returned from the coach.

Various conjectures inſtantly croſſed my imagination; all of which were aſſo⯑ciated with the ſudden flight from Bath, the robbery he had committed, the ſeem⯑ing honeſty and even affection of his [153] character previous to that event, his now being in the ſervice of Olivia, for I un⯑derſtood him to be her own valet, and the ſtory of my death. But, though my curioſity was greatly excited, the preſent was not the time in which theſe myſteries could be unravelled. We therefore took Clarke's preſcription againſt cold; and, leaving Cranford bridge, purſued our road to Hounſlow: where we ar⯑rived about eleven o'clock, and put up at an inferior inn; left any accident ſhould bring us again in company with the aunt and the nephew.

CHAP. XII.

IT may be well ſuppoſed that the in⯑cidents of this night were not eaſily dri⯑ven from my imagination. While we were walking, the care we were obliged to take, and the gloom around us, pre⯑vented any thing from eſcaping me ſuffi⯑ciently marked to attract the notice of my companion. But, when we were ſeated in a room with lights, and my mind was no longer diverted by other objects, the reveries into which I fell, the interjections that broke from me, the haſty and interrupted manner in which I ate and drank, the expreſſions of extreme joy which altered my countenance at one moment, and the ſolemn ſeriouſneſs [155] which it aſſumed the next, with my eyes fixed, while the tears rolled down my cheeks, at laſt ſo agitated poor Clarke that he exclaimed—"For God's ſake, Mr. Trevor, what is the matter with you?"

My ſilence, for I was unable to ſpeak, did but increaſe his alarm—"Are you taken ill? What has befallen you? Won't you open your mind to me? If I could do you any good, I hope you don't think I ſhould be backward? Are you un⯑happy?"

"No, no."

"I am very glad of that. But ſome⯑thing uncommon I am ſure has happened to you: though it may not be fit perhaps that I ſhould hear what. And I don't want to be a buſy body; though I muſt ſay I ſhould be more at eaſe, if I was quite ſure that all was right. That's all. I have no other curioſity."

"All is not right: but yet I hope it will [156] be. I know not by what means. It ſeems indeed impoſſible! And perhaps it is; and yet I hope! I hope! I hope!"

"Well, well: I am glad of that. We ſhould all hope. We are bid to hope. God help us if we did not. Perhaps I can't give you any help? I ſuppoſe that is beyond me. I am ſorry for it. But what can a poor carpenter do, in the way of befriending a gentleman?"

"A poor carpenter can have a kind heart; and I do not know whether that is not the moſt bleſſed thing on earth! Did you ever hear me repeat the name of Olivia?"

"Yes; when you were light-headed, I heard the name many a time and often. And the nurſe ſaid you raved of nobody elſe. But we could none of us find out who ſhe was. Though, I muſt ſay, I have often enough wiſhed to aſk: but that I did not think it became me to ſeem to be at all prying."

[157]"That is the lady you have been in company with to-night. It is ſhe whom you have helped me to ſave. I was ſufficiently indebted to you before: but what am I then at preſent?"

"Well, that to be ſure is accidental enough! I could not have thought it! How oddly things do fall out! But I am glad of it with all my heart!

"I could not ſee much of her, to be ſure; though I looked with all the eyes I had: but I thought ſomehow ſhe ſeemed as fine a young creature as I had ever beheld ſince the hour I was born; which the mildneſs of her voice did but make the more likely. I thought to myſelf, I never in my days heard any living ſoul ſo ſweet-ſpoken. So that I muſt ſay things have fallen out very ſtrangely.

"I always ſaid to my Sally there muſt be ſomething between you and the gen⯑tlewoman the name of which was on your tongue's end ſo often, while you [158] were down in the fever; and I am glad to the heart that you have happened on her again ſo unexpectedly: though I can ſee no good reaſon, now you have found her, why you ſhould be in ſuch a hurry to get away."

The unaffected participation of Clarke in all my joys and ſorrows, the queſtions which his feelings impelled him to put, and the fidelity of his nature, as well as the impulſe which paſſion gave me to diſburthen my mind, were all of them inducements to ſpeak; and I informed him of many of thoſe particulars which have already been recited.

The more intimately he became ac⯑quainted with my hiſtory, the more powerfully he ſeemed imbued with my hopes and fears; and the better ſatisfied I was with the confidence I had repoſed in him. I am unable to paint the honeſt indignation of his feelings and phraſeo⯑logy at the injuſtice which he as well as [159] I ſuppoſed had been done me, the de⯑preſſion of his countenance when I dwelt on the deſpair and wretchedneſs which the almoſt impoſſibility of my obtaining Olivia inſpired, and the animation with which he ſeemed as it were to ſet his ſhoulders to the wheel, when my return⯑ing fervor led me to the oppoſite extreme, and gave me confidence in my own powers and the ſtrenuous exertions on which I was reſolved.

The converſation continued long after we retired to reſt; ſo that our ſleep was ſhort: for we were up again very early, before it was light, and con⯑tinued our journey to London; where we arrived a little after nine in the morning.

I immediately proceeded to the lodg⯑ing of Miſs Wilmot; whom I found where I had left her, and who was truly rejoiced to ſee me. Clarke had never been in London: I therefore took him [160] with me, gave a proper account of him to Miſs Wilmot, and we all breakfaſted together, while Mary waited; whoſe fea⯑tures as well as her words ſufficiently teſtified the unexpected pleaſure of the meeting, and who artleſsly related the apprehenſions of herſelf and my few friends: at not hearing from me.

My firſt enquiries were concerning Wilmot and Turl; and I was delighted to learn that Wilmot, whom I left in a ſickly ſtate of mind that was ſeriouſly alarming, had been awakened by Turl to a more juſt ſenſe of human affairs; and had recovered much of the former vigour and elaſticity of his talents.

His ſiſter told me that he was at pre⯑ſent engaged in a periodical publication; and had beſide compoſed a conſiderable part of a comedy: of which Turl, as well as herſelf, conceived the greateſt hopes.

The reader ſcarcely need be told that this intelligence gave me great pleaſure. [161] It led me to revolve mighty matters in my own mind, created emulation, and inſpired me with increaſing confidence and alacrity. Yes, ſaid I, exultingly, genius may ſafely encounter and dare difficulties. Let it but confide in itſelf and it will conquer them all.

While we were converſing Wilmot came in.

I muſt leave the imagination to paint the welcome we gave each other.

I was ſurpriſed at the change which had taken place in his form and phyſiog⯑nomy; and at the different aſpect they had aſſumed. Not that the marks of melancholy were quite eradicated: but, when I conſidered his whole appearance, he was ſcarcely the ſame perſon.

I produced ſurpriſe in him of a con⯑trary kind. There was neither the wont⯑ed freſhneſs of my complexion nor the faſhionable eaſe of my air and dreſs, which he had remarked but a few months [162] before; and he took the firſt private op⯑portunity that offered to enquire, with great earneſtneſſ, if there were any means by which he could be of ſervice?

Under the general ſelfiſhneſs which our preſent inſtitutions inſpire, ſuch queſtions are wonderfully endearing. I anſwered him that I had found a friend, whoſe principles were as liberal and en⯑larged as they were uncommon; and that I would take an early occaſion to give him an account of my preſent de⯑ſigns, and the poſture of my affairs.

He informed me that the ſevere ap⯑plication of Turl had enfeebled his health, and had induced him to reſide for a few weeks at a ſmall place by the ſea-ſide, that he might enjoy the benefits of bath⯑ing and the freſh breezes; for which purpoſe he had left London the week before: that neither Wilmot nor Turl himſelf conſidered his caſe at preſent as the leaſt dangerous, but that they had [163] both agreed this was a prudent ſtep; and that he had received a letter from Turl, informing him of his ſafe arrival; and that he thought he had already de⯑rived benefit and animation from the journey.

Turl was not a man to be known and to be thought of with apathy. The in⯑telligence Wilmot gave me, ſoftened as it was by the circumſtances attending it, produced a very unpleaſant feeling. The poſſibility of the loſs of ſuch a man, ſo wiſe, ſo benevolent, and ſo undaunted in the cauſe of truth, was a ſenſation for which I have no epithet. Wilmot per⯑ceived what paſſed in my mind, and again aſſured me of his thorough perſuaſion that there was not any danger.

We paſſed as much of the morning together as Wilmot could ſpare from his occupations; after which we parted, and each proceeded on his own concerns: I to enquire after a dwelling-place; and [164] be to his literary engagements: while Clarke, inſtructed by Mary, went in ſearch of a lodging for himſelf through thoſe ſtreets that were moſt likely to afford him one at a reaſonable rate.

Mr. Evelyn had a relation of a young⯑er branch of the family in the law, whose name was Hilary, to whom I was recom⯑mended; and from whom I received the utmoſt attention, in conſequence of the letters I brought. This gentleman was an attorney of repute, a practitioner of uncommon honeſty, aſſiduous and capa⯑ble as a profeſſional man, a firm defender of freedom even to his own riſk and de⯑triment, a ſincere ſpeaker, a valuable friend, and in every ſenſe a man of worth and principle.

Happy at all times to oblige, he will⯑ingly undertook the taſk aſſigned to him by Mr. Evelyn's recommendation; and, in purſuance of his advice, I hired an apartment in the neighbourhood of [165] Queen's-ſquare Bloomſbury: that I might be within a convenient diſtance of the inns of Court, yet not entirely buried in the noiſe and ſmoke of the diſagreeable part of the town.

I likewiſe informed Mr. Hilary of my determination not to be a dumb barriſter; and having, from my appearance and mode of enunciation as well as from the letters of Mr. Evelyn, conceived rather a high opinion of my talents, he applaud⯑ed my plan: in purſuance of which he recommended me to place myſelf with Counſellor Ventilate; a man of high ſituation in the law. I readily conſent⯑ed; and it was agreed that he ſhould ſpeak to that gentleman immediately on the ſubject, and appoint a meeting.

CHAP. XIII.

IT cannot be ſuppoſed that Olivia was out of my thoughts. Knowing her kind⯑neſs toward Miſs Wilmot, I carefully took the firſt opportunity to inform the latter of the chief incidents that had paſſed; and to concert with her ſome means, if poſſible, of obtaining an interview.

Miſs Wilmot no longer received any pecuniary aid from Olivia. Wilmot con⯑ſidered it as a duty to provide for his ſiſter; and had too lofty a ſenſe of inde⯑pendance to admit the repetition of theſe favours. Yet how far that pride of heart, which teaches us, not only that we ſhould not ſubmit to receive pecuniary aſſiſt⯑ance from any human being except from our relations, but that theſe relations can accept of no relief, however much they [167] may be in need of it, without tarniſhing our honor, is a queſtion which deſerves to be ſeriouſly examined. Not but, at that time, it ſquared very aptly with my opinions. It may be further remarked of relations that, as they ſometimes think they ought only to receive aid from each other, ſo, they moſt of them imagine that, from each other, they may unbluſhingly extort all they can. The generous Wil⯑mot indeed was in no danger of this laſt miſtake.

But though money was no longer a motive for intercourſe, between the gen⯑tle Olivia and Miſs Wilmot, there was no danger that either of the friends would forget the other; and the latter was too ſincerely intereſted in the happineſs both of me and Olivia not to be willing to pro⯑mote that happineſs, by every means in her power.

What theſe means ſhould be was the difficulty we had to ſolve. To uſe any [168] kind of ſtratagem would offend the deli⯑cate and juſtly-feeling Olivia. To come upon her by ſurpriſe, even if the opportu⯑nity ſhould offer itſelf, would not be a manly and dignified proceeding.

I had always thought highly of that courage which, mild as her manners were, ſhe never failed to exert on trying occaſions. Her defence of me in the coach was a proof that I had not over-eſtimated her fortitude. It likewiſe ſhew⯑ed that ſhe was under miſtakes concern⯑ing me that were dangerous, ſhould they remain unexplained; and that, whenever I thought of them, which was but too often, excited my utmoſt indignation.

Bold however as ſhe was in my defence when ſhe ſuppoſed me dead, very differ⯑ent ſenſations might aſſail her when ſhe ſhould be convinced (if ſhe ſtill doubted) that I was living. Her ſubmiſſion to her aunt ſeemed to be unlimited, as long as ſhe ſuppoſed that to comply would be [169] leſs productive of harm than to reſiſt: but I had witneſſed that ſhe would not conſent to actions of great moment, which her heart diſapproved.

Theſe facts made it improbable that ſhe would grant me an interview, without her aunt's knowledge. What then was to be done? A letter, that ſhould fully explain my thoughts, my plans, my de⯑termination, and my hopes and fears, ap⯑peared to be the moſt eligible mode. Were I to prompt her to a clandeſtine correſpondence, I was well aware that I ſhould highly and juſtly offend her. She would conſider it as little leſs than an in⯑ſult. Her conduct was open, her mind ſuperior to deceit; and to be ignorant of this would be to ſhew myſelf unworthy of her. The lover ſhould diſdain to ex⯑cite his miſtreſs to any action which he would diſapprove in a wife; and this was a rule not to be infringed, by him who ſhould aſpire to the noble-minded Oli⯑via.

[170]To write then I reſolved; and in ſuch a manner as to open my whole ſoul to her, awaken her affections, call forth her admiration, agitate her with pity and love, and enſure her perſeverance.

Alas! I took the pen in hand, but was miſerably deceived. I had undertaken an impoſſible taſk. Thought was too rapid, too multifarious, too complicate; and the tracing of letters and words infi⯑nitely too ſlow, and frigid. At laſt how⯑ever, after repeated attempts, I deter⯑mined on ſending the following: with which when written I was very far from ſatisfied; but of that I deſpaired.

"To the woman whom my ſoul adores how ſhall I addreſs myſelf? Tumultu⯑ous thoughts, hopes that vaniſh, and fears that diſtract, are ill fitted for ſuch a taſk. Governed by feelings which will admit of no controul, I can only claim your pardon on the plea of inability to pre⯑ſerve that ſilence which it is temerity, or [171] ſomething worſe, to break. My thoughts will have paſſage, will ruſh into your preſence, will expoſe themſelves to the worſt of calamities, your reproof and an⯑ger. Diſtracted as I am by a dread of the dangers that may reſult from my ſilence, I perſuade myſelf that theſe dangers are more immediate and threat⯑ening, though ſcarcely more painful, than your diſapprobation.

"You have ſuppoſed me dead; though by what ſtrange accident I cannot divine. Under that ſuppoſition, it was my mira⯑culous fortune, my ecſtatic bliſs, to hear you, with a purity of heart and a dignity of ſentiment ſuch as none but a heart like yours could conceive or expreſs, avow a former partiality in favour of one who, whatever may be his other faults, would gladly reſign his life to ſecure your happineſs: of one who, in his over⯑weening affection has fondly and fooliſh⯑ly [172] cheriſhed the perſuaſion that this happi⯑neſs is inſeparable from his own: nay who partly hopes and partly believes, ſo blind is his egotiſm, that he is the only man on earth who fully comprehends your won⯑derful worth and matchleſs virtues; and who is purſuing the fixed purpoſe of his ſoul, that of finally deſerving you, from the conviction that he through life will be invariable in that admiration, that ten⯑derneſs, and that unceaſing love without which the life of Olivia might perhaps be miſerable. Theſe may be the dreams of vanity, and folly: yet, if I do not miſ⯑take, they are the dreams of all lovers. They are indeed the aliment or rather the very eſſence of love. What delight can equal that of revelling, in imagina⯑tion, on the happineſs we can beſtow on thoſe who have bliſs ſo ineffable to beſtow upon us?

"What then if I were to ſee this Olivia [173] mated with a man ſo dull of faculty as ſoon to loſe all ſenſe of the wondrous treaſure in his poſſeſſion: who never perhaps had any diſcriminating know⯑ledge of its worth; and who ſhall be willing to barter it for any vile and con⯑temptible gewgaw that may allure his de⯑praved taſte, or ſickly appetite? Is there no ſuch man? Are theſe fears wholly groundleſs?

"At what an immeaſurable diſtance do I ſeem caſt from the enjoyment of that ſupreme bliſs to which, perhaps, the fren⯑zy only of imagination could make me aſpire! There is but one means by which I can be happy. Either I am to be the moſt favoured of mankind, or I am no⯑thing. Either I riſe into godlike exiſt⯑ence, or I ſink unknown and never to be remembered. Either we are made for each other, or — I dare not think on the reverſe. It is too diſtracting.

"Yet I have no hope! What I now [174] write is preſumption, is madneſs! And why? It is not your beauty, your vir⯑tues, or the ſupreme qualities of your mind that would raiſe this gulph of mi⯑ſery between us. No. Avarice, vanity, and prejudice are my enemies. It is they that would ſacrifice you at their altars. That you will perſevere in your refuſal is my only hope.

"How ſhall I palliate, what I cannot defend, my behaviour while I overheard you and your aunt? In vain do I plead that I was aſleep, when you came into the coach; and that I firſt diſcovered you by the ſound of your voice and the turn of the converſation; that I dreaded exciting any ſudden alarm in you: per⯑haps it was a vain dread: and that, when I ought moſt to have ſpoken, when I be⯑came the ſubject of the diſcourſe, I was then chained in ſilence by unconquerable emotions. Yet to be a liſtener? Indeed, indeed, it is a thing that my ſoul diſdains! [175] But I have done many ſuch things; not knowing, while they paſſed, what it was that I did.

"My deſtiny now is to ſtudy the law; and to this my days and nights ſhall be devoted: but the diſtance at which I ſee myſelf from the goal is a thought which I am obliged, by every poſſible effort, to ſhut out of my memory.

"I am in want of conſolation; but ſince your ſociety is denied me, I know not where it may be found. I own, there are moments in which I am fearfully agi⯑tated. Yet I do not ſolicit an anſwer. Let me rather periſh than prompt you to an action of the propriety of which even I am obliged to doubt; ſince it cannot I ſuppoſe be done without concealment. Oh that you knew every thought of my heart! You would then perceive the burning deſire I have to make myſelf every way worthy of that unutterable bliſs to which I aſpire.

[176]"Madman! I aſpire?

"With what contempt would ſuch during be treated, by thoſe whom cuſ⯑tom and ties of blood have taught you to revere! I confeſs this is a thought which I cannot endure. Yet I can leſs endure to relinquiſh my impoſſible hopes. Could you conceive what theſe contradictory and tormenting ſenſations are, you would perhaps be induced to pardon ſome of the extravagant acts which I heard you ſo mildly, yet ſo juſtly, cenſure.

"To be yours then is the end for which I live; and yet my pride and every other feeling revolts, to think I ſhould entreat you to accept a pauper, either in wealth or principle. Well, then, I will not waſte my time, in complaint. Let me become worthy of you, or let me pe⯑riſh! Fool! That is impoſſible. But if full I muſt, I will endeavour to make my ruin reſpectable.

"Suffer me to inform you that I have [177] lately acquired a friend whoſe virtues are beyond my praiſe, and who has urged me to accept his aid, in forwarding my ſtudies and purſuits, as an act of duty in⯑cumbent on us both. Our acquaintance has been ſhort; and ſo, conſidering the ſerious nature of the ſubject, was the de⯑bate that led to this concluſion: yet his arguments ſeemed unanſwerable, and I hope I have not yielded too lightly. Oh that it was allowed me to conſult your exquiſite ſenſe of right and wrong! But wiſhes are vain.

"Thus far I have intruded, yet know not how to end. My only hope that you will take no offence at what I have writ⯑ten is in the conſcious reſpect that my heart feels for you; which I think can⯑not have miſguided my pen; and the knowledge that you are too juſt lightly to attribute mean or ill motives to me.

"How languid is all that I have writ⯑ten! Am I ſo impotent that I can pre⯑ſent [178] none of the images that ſo eternally haunt me, that wing me into your pre⯑ſence, furniſh me with innumerable ar⯑guments which ſeem ſo all-perſuaſive, melt me in tenderneſs at one moment, ſupply me with the moſt irreſiſtible elo⯑cution the next, and convince you while they inſpire me with raptures inexpreſſi⯑ble? Are they all flown, all faded, all extinct? Where is the fervor that de⯑vours me?

"I would pray for your happineſs! I would ſupplicate heaven that no moment of your bliſs ſhould be abridged! Shall it then be diſturbed by me? Oh no. Unleſs authoriſed by hopes, as different as they are wild and improbable, pardon but this, and you ſhall never more be ſubject to the like importunity from

HUGH TREVOR."

Having written my letter, I had to de⯑viſe the means of having it delivered. [179] If it were addreſſed directly to her, what certainty had I that it would not be open⯑ed by the aunt? Nay was not that indeed the moſt probable? And would it in that caſe ever be ſeen by Olivia? In my ap⯑prehenſion certainly not.

I had then to chuſe whether I would ſend a meſſenger, who ſhould wait about the houſe and take ſome opportunity to deliver it clandeſtinely; or commit it to the care either of Mary or Miſs Wilmot.

The meſſenger was a very objection⯑able expedient: it was mean, and lia⯑ble to detection. The medium of Mary was ſomething of the ſame kind; and the friendſhip and intelligence of Miſs Wilmot rendered her intervention much the moſt deſirable.

It was a delicate office to require of her. But ſhe could ſpeak the truth: ſhe could ſay that it was to relate ſome facts which Olivia might even deſire to [180] know, that it contained nothing which I myſelf ſhould wiſh her to conceal, if ſhe thought fit to ſhew it; that it did not invite her to any improper correſpond⯑ence; and that it was the only one which, under the preſent circumſtances, I meant to obtrude upon her.

That Miſs Wilmot might be convinced I had neither deceived myſelf nor her in this account, which I ſhould inſtruct her to give of it, I haſtened with it to her lodgings, and requeſted her to read it before it was ſealed. Having ended, ſhe was ſo well ſatisfied with the propriety both of writing and delivering it that ſhe readily undertook the latter office; and with her I left it, hoping that Olivia would ſoon call, would read it in her preſence, and that I ſhould quickly learn what might be the ſenſations it ſhould pro⯑duce.

CHAP. XIV.

MEANTIME the appointed interview between me and Counſellor Ventilate took place. This gentleman was cha⯑racterized by thoſe manners, and opi⯑nions, which the profeſſion of the law is ſo eminently calculated to produce. He had a broad brazen ſtare, a curl of con⯑tempt on his upper-lip, and a ſomewhat ſhort ſupercilious noſe. His head was habitually turned upward, his eye in the contrary direction, as if on the watch in expectation to detect ſomething which his cunning might turn to advantage, and his half-opened mouth and dropping jaw ſeemed to ſay, "What an immenſe fool is every man I meet!"

[182]His whole manner and aſpect appeared to denote that he was in a continual re⯑very; and that he imagined himſelf in a court of law; brow-beating a witneſs, in⯑terrogating an idiot, or detailing caſes and precedents, to ſhew the ſubtlety with which he could miſlead and confound his hearers. A ſplit-hair diſtinction with⯑out a difference gave him rapture; and whenever it happened to puzzle, which was but too often, he raiſed his left ſhoul⯑der and gave a hem of congratulation to himſelf: denoting his conviction that he was indiſputably the greateſt lawyer in the world! And, if the greateſt lawyer, he was as certainly, according to his own creed, the greateſt man! For the reſt of mankind, if put in competition with law⯑yers, what were they? What but poor, ſilly, imbecile creatures?

One ſtandard, by which he delighted to meaſure his own talents, was the length to which he could drawl out a reply. [183] Was there a man to be found who could ſpeak eight hours unceaſingly? He would ſurpaſs him. When his turn came, nine ſhould not ſuffice. He would be more dull, contradictory, and intolerable, than his rival by an hour, at leaſt. He would repeat precedents, twiſt ſentences, miſ⯑conſtrue maxims, and ſo perplex and en⯑tangle his own intellect that his hearers had no way of getting rid of the pain he excited; except by falling a-ſleep, or de⯑termining not to liſten. It muſt be own⯑ed however he had ſome charity for them; for to ſleep he gave them a very ſuffi⯑cient provocative.

Being one of the retainers of govern⯑ment, he had a ſeat in the Houſe of Commons: where he uſed to riſe in his place and addreſs the Speaker, with no leſs logic, love of juſtice, and legiſlative wiſdom, than he was wont to diſplay when pleading in the courts.

[184]It was in vain that he expoſed himſelf to the ridicule of this moſt diſcerning body, not leſs witty than virtuous. Of ſhame he was incapable. He would again and again riſe in his place, totally forgetful of paſt flagellation, and again and again convince Mr. Speaker and the honorable members: perſiſting to labour, in the hope of making them all as pro⯑found reaſoners as himſelf. No matter that the thing was impracticable: he would get up and do his duty, and ſit down and receive his own applauſe.

To mention ſhame in this caſe was in⯑deed abſurd. How ſhould a man bluſh at reproof which he cannot comprehend? His ſkull was ſo admirably fortified, by nature, that it was equally impenetrable to the heavy batteries of argument or the ſkirmiſhing artillery of wit. Let the can⯑non roar: he heard it not. He was ab⯑ſtractedly contemplating thoſe obſcure [185] depths in which he remained for ever ſeated; and where he had viſions innu⯑merable, though he ſaw nothing.

One favourite and never-failing object, on theſe occaſions, was to inſtruct the houſe in law. And here the devil, who is himſelf a kind of lawyer, for he devours his beſt friends, the devil I ſay choſe theſe opportunities to vent his choiceſt malice. He did not ſet a lawyer to con⯑found a lawyer: that were but a ſtale de⯑vice. He humbled him out of the mouths of men who had occaſionally read law-books, it is true: but who had read them without a lawyer's obliquity; and had enquired what was the ſimple unadulte⯑rated intention of their authors. Now law, which in all its ſtages has a quibble in either eye, that may mean good or may mean ill, is every where, except in a Court of Juſtice, capable of a good in⯑terpretation. This is not a rule without an exception: but in many caſes at leaſt, [186] law has ſomething intentionally benefi⯑cial in its principle.

For this beneficent vital-ſpark every body, but a lawyer, is in ſearch; and it is what every body, but a lawyer, is delight⯑ed to find. No wonder therefore that a lawyer ſhould meet diſcomfiture, and con⯑fuſion, when he pretends to diſcuſs the abſtract nature of juſtice, in any place ex⯑cept in theſe aforeſaid Courts of Juſtice.

Thus it happened that Mr. Ventilate was, on all ſuch occaſions, confounded in that honorable houſe, of which he was an honorable member: which indeed, when we remember who were his opponents, was leſs miraculous than the immaculate conception—Pſhaw! I mean the tranſ⯑migrations—of Viſhnoo.

Much of the conceit and ridicule of the character of Mr. Ventilate was appa⯑rent, even to my eye, at our firſt meet⯑ing. But he was a perſon of great prac⯑tice, and had the reputation of a ſound [187] lawyer: which ſignifies a man who has patience to read reports, and a faci⯑lity at quoting them. Beſide, I was in haſtle; and rather inclined to leap over an obſtacle than to go round it.

Accordingly our arrangements were made, and the next day I attended at his chambers; with a firm and as I ſuppoſed not to be ſhaken determination to be⯑come one of the greateſt lawyers the world ever beheld.

The firſt book I was adviſed to read, as a hiſtorical introduction to and com⯑pendium of law, was Blackſtone's Com⯑mentaries. This author had acquired too much celebrity for any man of liberal education to be ignorant of his fame. I therefore began and continued to read him with all the prepoſſeſſion that an author himſelf could wiſh in his favour. The panegyric he makes on Engliſh laws, and the Conſtitution of Britain, gave me delight and animation. The reproof he [188] beſtows, on gentlemen who are ignorant of this branch of learning, and on the perplexities introduced into our ſtatute-law by ſuch "ill-judging and unlearned legiſlators," and his praiſe of the capa⯑city they would acquire for adminiſtering juſtice, to which ſacred function they are ſo often called, were this ignorance re⯑moved, gave dignity to the ſtudy I was about to purſue.

Then the account given of Servius Sulpicius! who, according to my learned author, "left behind him about a hun⯑dred and four-ſcore volumes of his own compiling!" How wonderfully did it move my admiration! I previouſly knew that in moſt countries, which are deno⯑minated civilized, law was voluminous: but I had never till then imagined that one man could himſelf compile a hun⯑dred and four-ſcore volumes! And, as it ſeems, could compile them at his leiſure too: for his chief buſineſs was that of [189] oratory! Beſide which it lives on record that, being a firm patriot, he was a wiſe and indefatigable ſenator! But it appears that Sulpicius could devour law with greater caſe than Milo, or perhaps even than Cacus himſelf, could oxen.

Neither was it recorded that this pro⯑digy of legal learning began young. And ſhould I then deſpair of equalling him? No, no: get me into one of my trances and, had he compiled as many thouſands of volumes, I ſhould ſcarcely have ſuſ⯑pected that I could not compile as faſt as he.

As I read on, how did I deplore the quarrel between Vicarius and his oppo⯑nents: or, in other words, between the pandects and the common law of En⯑gland: with the ignorance that had nearly been the reſult! How rejoice in the inſti⯑tution of thoſe renowned hot-beds of law, the Inns of Court: by the aid of which, had not the rage for enacting laws kept [190] pace with the rage for ſtudying them, there were hopes that the whole king⯑dom would in time have been ſo learned in the ſcience that every man might in⯑deed have become his own lawyer.

How did I regret that I had not ſtu⯑died common-law while at college! How ſympathiſe with my author, when he ex⯑claims—"That a ſcience, which diſtin⯑guiſhes the criterions of right and wrong; which teaches to eſtabliſh the one, and prevent, puniſh, or redreſs the other; which employs in its theory the nobleſt faculties of the ſoul, and exerts in its practice the cardinal virtues of the heart: a ſcience, which is univerſal in its uſe and extent, accommodated to each individual, yet comprehending the whole commu⯑nity; that a ſcience like this ſhould ever have been deemed unneceſſary to be ſtu⯑died in a univerſity, is a matter of aſto⯑niſhment and concern!"

How did I bleſs the memory of Mr. [191] Viner, who had found a remedy for this evil, by eſtabliſhing an Oxford profeſſor⯑ſhip; and how promiſe to make myſelf maſter of his abridgment, till I had every caſe it contained at my tongue's end! What were four and twenty volumes in folio? Compared to Sulpicius, it was a trifle!

The eulogium that I next came to on a univerſity education, how grateful was that to my heart! I was not, as my oracle deſcribed, though one of the "gen⯑tlemen of bright imaginations, to be wea⯑ried; however unpromiſing the ſearch." Neither was I to be numbered among thoſe "many perſons of moderate capa⯑city, who confuſe themſelves at firſt ſet⯑ting out; and continue ever dark and puzzled during the remainder of their lives." The law being itſelf ſo luminous, there was no fear of that with me.

I met indeed with one overwhelming aſſertion. "Such knowledge as is neceſ⯑ſary [192] for a judge is hardly to be acquired by the lucubrations of twenty years!"

But this to be ſure muſt be meant of dull fellows. As to the limits of genius, they were unknown.

My pleaſure revived in full force, when I arrived at my author's definition of law: which he ſtates to be—"a rule of civil conduct, preſcribed by the ſupreme power in a ſtate; commanding what is right, and prohibiting what is wrong." What will you ſay to that, friend Turl? exclaimed I: putting down the book, and pauſing. Can any thing be more provi⯑dent, more wiſe, more deſirable?

In ſhort, I found the writer ſo clearly underſtood and ſatisfactorily explained the nature of law, and the benefits ariſing from it, that, for my own part, I began to be aſhamed of my former ſtupidity. It was all ſo ſelf-evident that it ſeemed diſgraceful not to know it as it were by intuition. I was in that preciſe temper [193] of mind which renders conviction an eaſy taſk: for I was in haſte to be rich, and famous; and the deſire of wealth and fame are two of the ſtrongeſt provocatives to faith that the ſagacity of ſelfiſhneſs has ever yet diſcovered.

While I was in the midſt of all theſe admirings, my attention was rouſed by a dialogue that paſſed between two of my ſenior fellow-pupils, whoſe names were Rudge and Trottman, which the former thus began.

"That was a d— raſcally cauſe we were concerned in yeſterday."

"Raſcally enough. But we got it."

"I can't ſay but I was ſorry for the poor farmer."

"Sorry! Ha, ha, ha! You remind me of an unfleſhed-recruit: or a young ſurgeon, who has juſt begun to walk the hoſpitals. Frequent the Courts, and you will ſoon learn to forget commiſeration, and attend to nothing but law. Docking of entails gives the lawyer as little con⯑cern [194] as the amputation of limbs does the ſurgeon: they are both of them curious only about the manner, and dexterity of the operation."

"I ſuppoſe it will ruin the man."

"He was a fool for making it a cri⯑minal proſecution. He ſhould have brought an action for damages."

"It is an aggravating thing for a man to have his daughter ſeduced, be beaten himſelf becauſe he was angry at the injury, and, when he ſues for redreſs, not only be unable to obtain it, but find his fortune deſtroyed, as well as his daughter's character, and his own peace."

"The law knows nothing concerning him, or his fortune, character, peace, or daughter. It is and ought to be dead to private feeling. It muſt conſider no⯑thing but the public benefit: nor muſt it ever condeſcend to vary from its own plain and literal conſtruction."

"That is ſtrange: for its origin ſeems [195] to have been in thoſe very feelings, to which it is ſo dead."

"Undoubtedly. But it provides for ſuch feelings each under its individual claſs; and if a man, ſeeking redreſs, ſhall ſeek it under a wrong head, that is his fault; and not the fault of the law."

"It is a fault, however, that is daily committed."

"Ay to be ſure: or there would be but few lawyers."

"How ſo?"

"Why, if a man doing wrong was cer⯑tain, or almoſt certain, of being detected and expoſed, the chances would be ſo much againſt offenders that offences would of courſe diminiſh."

"Then the proſperity of lawyers ſeems to reſult from the blunders which they themſelves commit?"

"No doubt it does; and, as the blun⯑ders are innumerable, their proſperity muſt be in proportion."

[196]"There ſeems to be ſomething wrong in this; though I cannot tell what or why."

"Ha, ha, ha! You have no cauſe to complain: you are a lawyer, and your own intereſt muſt teach you that every thing is right. Except indeed that the claſſes or heads I mentioned, and conſe⯑quently the blunders, are not numerous enough. But, thank heaven, we have a remedy for that: for our ſtatute-books are daily ſwelling."

"Why, yes! Some people ſay they are pregnant with miſchief: of which it is further aſſerted that they are daily de⯑livered."

"Ay, certainly; and to the great joy of the parents."

"Who are they?"

"Enquire for the father at St. Ste⯑phen's; and for the mother at Weſt⯑minſter-hall. I aſſure you they are both enraptured at their own offspring. The [197] old lady ſits in ſtate, and daily praiſes her babes with the moſt doating loquacity. And ſhe does this with ſo grave a face that it is impoſſible to forbear laughing, when you hear her. She is ſo ſerious, ſo ſolemn, ſo convinced that every thing ſhe utters is oracular, and ſo iraſcible if ſhe does but ſo much as ſmell a doubt con⯑cerning the beauty and perfection of her brats, that there is no ſcene in the world which tickles my imagination ſo irreſiſti⯑bly as to watch her maternal viſage dur⯑ing her eulogiums, while the big-wigs are nodding approbation; or the contortions of her phyſiognomy, when any croſs in⯑cident happens to impede the torrent of her fondneſs. With all due reſpect to her motherly functions, ſhe is a very freakiſh and laughable old lady."

"You have a turn for ridicule: but I confeſs, if I thought your picture were true, I do not believe my ſenſations [198] would be ſo pleaſant as yours appear to be."

"And why, in the name of common ſenſe?"

"How can one laugh at the miſtakes and miſeries of mankind?"

"For a very ſimple reaſon: becauſe it is the only way that can render them endurable. None but a fool would cry at what cannot be corrected."

The colloquy between my compa⯑nions here took another direction, leſs intereſting to me, and left me to pauſe and ruminate. This picture, ſaid I, is ſatirical I own: but ſurely it is unjuſt. Blackſtone, beyond all doubt, under⯑ſtood the ſcience profoundly; and his account of it is very different indeed.

I turned back to the paſſage I have quoted.

"It diſtinguiſhes the criterions of right and wrong; teaches us to eſtabliſh the [199] one and prevent puniſh or redreſs the other; employs in its theory the nobleſt faculties of the ſoul, and exerts in its prac⯑tice the cardinal virtues of the heart: it is univerſal in its uſe and extent, is ac⯑commodated to each individual, and yet comprehends the whole community."

How juſt, how ennobling, how ſublime is this praiſe! To compare it to the doat⯑ings of an old woman is extremely falſe: nay is pernicious; for, by exciting laugh⯑ter, it miſleads the judgment.

My companions being ſilent, I was impelled to addreſs myſelf to Trott⯑man. "I wonder, ſir," ſaid I, "that you ſhould be ſuch an enemy to law."

"I an enemy! You totally miſtake. I am its faſt friend. And with good rea⯑ſon: I find it a very certain ſource of eaſe and affluence even to the moſt ſtupid blockheads, if they will but drudge on; and of riches, honours, and hereditary [200] fame, to men of but very moderate talents. I may ſurely expect to come in for my ſhare; and therefore ſhould be a rank fool indeed were I its enemy. I leave that to innovating fanatics. Let them dream, and rave, and write: while I mind my own affairs, take men as they are and ever muſt be, profit by ſupport⯑ing preſent eſtabliſhments, and look down with contempt on the puppies who prate philoſophy, and bawl for reform."

I was ſtung. Conſcious of the turn my own thoughts had taken, I ſuſpected that he had divined this from ſome words which I might have dropped, and that his attack was perſonal: I therefore ea⯑gerly replied—"Your language, ſir, is unqualified."

"I meant no offence. If you are a reformer, I beg your pardon. I never quarrel about what I have heard certain pompous gentlemen call principles."

[201]"Then all thoſe perſons, who differ in opinion from you, are puppies; and pompous gentlemen?"

"Oh dear, no, ſir! Only all thoſe that are abſent. The company, you know, according to the received rule, is ex⯑cepted."

There was ſomething impudently hum⯑ble and ſatirical in his look, while he uttered this: yet ſo contrived as to make the man appear a pettiſh angry block⯑head, who ſhould take offence at it; and I certainly was not inclined to quarrel with my new comrades, the firſt day of our acquaintance.

Beſide, Trottman was a little inſigni⯑ficant man, in appearance; pot-bellied, of a ſwarthy complexion, but with keen⯑neſs, cunning, and mockery in his eye; and whoſe form and figure, as well as his turn of mind, muſt have made it ridicu⯑lous to have quarrelled with him. I [202] therefore waited for ſome more fortunate opportunity, to repay him in his own coin: for I was as unwilling to be van⯑quiſhed by wit, and ſatire, as by force of argument, or of arms.

Rudge, whoſe temper was more pla⯑cid but who had an enquiring mind, ſaid, "You do not know my friend Trott⯑man yet, Mr. Trevor. He cares but little who has the moſt reaſon, ſo that he may have the moſt laughter."

"Life is a journey," added Trottman; "and, if I can travel on terra firma, with a clear ſky, and a ſmiling landſcape, let thoſe that pleaſe put to ſea in a butcher's tray, and ſail in queſt of foul weather."

"Yes, ſir, but the ſearch of eaſe is the loſs of happineſs; and to fly from dan⯑ger is the likelieſt way to meet it: that is, when you either ſeek or fly without a guide."

"And who is this guide to ſafety?"

[203]"It is, what you appear to hold in contempt, Principle."

"Ha, ha, ha! Right! The blind lead⯑ing the blind. Conjure up one phan⯑tom to ſeek for another. How prodigi⯑ouſly we improve!"

"From what you have ſaid, I am not ſurpriſed that you ſhould conſider prin⯑ciple as a phantom. But you only quar⯑rel with the word: for, as principle can mean nothing more than a rule of action, deduced from paſt experience and influ⯑encing our preſent conduct, you, cer⯑tainly, like other men, act from principle. It is a moral duty to ſhun pain, and keep your fingers out of the fire."

"Not if I want to ſear up a wound."

"You are excellent at a ſhifting blow. But why would you apply the cautery? Becauſe principle, guided by experience, has previouſly told you that to cauterize is in ſome caſes the way to heal."

"But empirics, who cauterize without [204] healing, are daily multiplying upon us."

"Were that granted, it is but em⯑piric oppoſed to empiric. Men have been groaning under their ſufferings for ages; and, ſince ages have proved that the old preſcriptions were inſufficient, I can neither ſee the danger nor the blame of following new."

"Zeal may be purblind, and perhaps could not ſee a guillotine: but her neck might chance to feel it."

"Then you think a guillotine a more terrible thing than a halter, an axe, or perhaps even a rack?"

"It will do more work in leſs time."

"And you ſuppoſe it to be principle, or if you pleaſe innovation, that has gi⯑ven this machine its momentum?"

"Suppoſe! Is there any doubt?"

"Infinite. I imagine it to be given, if we may be allowed to perſonify, nei⯑ther by Innovation nor Eſtabliſhment; [205] but by the raſhneſs and ill temper with which theſe heroines have mutually main⯑tained their poſitions. Innovation ſtruck the ball at firſt too impetuouſly: but Eſtabliſhment took it at the rebound, and returned it with triple violence. Brunſwickian manifeſtoes, and extermi⯑nating wars, were not ill adapted to raiſe the diabolical ſpirit of revenge. An en⯑deavour to ſtarve a nation, which it was found difficult to exterminate by fire and ſword, was not a very charitable act in Madam Eſtabliſhment. Her ſwindling forgeries were little better; and that her turn ſhould come, to be ſtarved and ſwindled, is not miraculous: though it is deplorable. Heaven avert her claims to the guillotine!"

My antagoniſt had no immediate re⯑ply; and Rudge exclaimed, with ſome ſatisfaction, "Why, Trottman, you have met with your match!"

"Not I, indeed," anſwered he, peev⯑iſhly. [206] "I am only loſt in a labyrinth of words; and am waiting for Principle to come and be my guide. But I am afraid ſhe carries a dark lanthorn; which will but blind thoſe that look."

"I ſuſpect, ſir," ſaid I, "you are leſs at loſs for a joke than an argument; and that you prefer buſh-fighting. For my own part, I love the fair and open field of enquiry."

"As this is a field that has no limits, nor any end to its croſs roads, I am con⯑tent, as you ſay, to ſit down under my hedge and be quiet."

"No, no; I did not ſay that: for I ſee you love to draw a ſly bow at paſſengers."

"I have now and then brought down a gull, or an owl."

"Have you ſhot any of thoſe birds to⯑day?"

I felt no compunction in making this triumphant retort to his ſneer. And here our dialogue ended. Though it [207] was a kind of declaration of war; I mean a war of words; which, as we became more acquainted, was occaſionally waged with ſome aſperity.

But, in one reſpect, Trottman was my ſuperior. To ſneer was habitual to him: but it was always done in a manner which ſeemed to indicate that he himſelf had no ſuſpicion of any ſuch intent. So that he continually appeared to keep his temper; and never triumphed ſo effectually as when he could provoke me to loſe mine. On which occaſions his additional conciliatory ſarcaſms, ac⯑companied with ſmiles denoting the en⯑joyment of his victory, never failed to make me feel my own littleneſs. And this is a leſſon for which I conſider myſelf as very highly in his debt.

I now purſued my reading; and em⯑ployed the reſt of the day in beginning to copy the manuſcript precedents, that were to capacitate me for the practice of [208] law: for the number of which, that were in his poſſeſſion, Mr. Ventilate was famed.

My ardour however had felt ſome trifling abatement, by the very different picture and panegyric of the law as given by Trottman, oppoſed to that I had been contemplating. But I had this very powerful conſolation: that, as Trottman knew very little of what I ſuppoſed to be the true principles of politics, it was high⯑ly probable he was no better acquainted with thoſe of law.

CHAP. XV.

ABOVE a fortnight paſſed away, during which I received no word of intelligence concerning Olivia. At ſome moments I [209] felt great affliction from this ſuſpenſe: at others I collected myſelf and determined to purſue my plan with all the vigour in which it had been conceived.

In the interval, I wrote ſeveral times to Mr. Evelyn. To this I was prompted from the very nature of my engagements and ſituation. Beſide which I had not forgotten my pamphlet againſt the Earl and the Biſhop, that lay ready for publi⯑cation; though the acrimony of my feel⯑ings was much abated. The propriety of making the world acquainted with this affair was one of the ſubjects of my cor⯑reſpondence, with Mr. Evelyn: to whom I had the candour to ſtate my own opi⯑nions and ſenſations, on one part; and, on the other, the objections that had been urged by Turl.

In the hiſtory I had given Mr. Evelyn of myſelf, I was impelled, as well by inclination as neceſſity, to delineate the character of Turl; with which he [210] could not but be charmed; and with his arguments and diſſuaſions on this ſub⯑ject. With theſe the ideas of Mr. Evelyn entirely coincided. He wrote delightful letters; full of animation, feel⯑ing, and friendſhip; and his perſuaſion therefore had the greater effect.

Wilmot concurred in the opinion of both; and, being thus preſſed by the men whom I moſt loved and revered, I endeavoured to conſign my reſentment and its effuſions to oblivion, and to diſ⯑miſs the ſubject entirely from my mind.

At length, my ſuſpenſe concerning Olivia found ſome, though far from a ſatisfactory, relief.

As ſhe had paid no viſit to Miſs Wil⯑mot, the latter of courſe had found no opportunity to deliver my letter. One evening, however, as I was ſitting after tea with Miſs Wilmot and her brother, a note came of which the following were the contents.

[211]"Miſs Mowbray preſents her kind and tendereſt reſpects to Miſs Wilmot, and informs her that ſhe has been in town for ſome ſhort time. Aſſures her that her not having called is far indeed from any decline of former friendſhip, the ſincerity of which is invariable: but that there are motives which prevent her, for the preſent, from the enjoyment of that ſatisfaction. She would have been moſt happy to have communicated her thoughts to Miſs Wilmot in perſon: but ſhe is the ſlave of circumſtances which, for family reaſons and indeed from other motives, ſhe is forbidden to explain; and to which ſhe is obliged to ſubmit. She confides in the goodneſs and friendſhip of Miſs Wilmot, who ſhe is well aſſured will not miſinterpret that which is un⯑avoidable; and, cheriſhing the hope of a more favourable opportunity, wiſhes her all poſſible happineſs: requeſting that, if by any means in her power it can be in⯑creaſed, [212] Miſs Wilmot will acquaint her with thoſe means: that ſhe may have the wiſhed-for occaſion of proving the ardour and ſincerity of her affections."

"Hertford-ſtreet, Nov. 17th."

Miſs Wilmot gave me this note to read; and the commentary I immediately made was that, finding I was alive, the fear of a rencontre with me was the ob⯑ſtacle to her viſits.

They agreed that this was a very pro⯑bable ſuppoſition: but how far the aunt was any way concerned in it was matter of more uncertain conjecture. Miſs Wilmot knew that Olivia had informed her aunt of the viſits ſhe was before ac⯑cuſtomed to make; and, as her ideas concerning ſincerity were delicately ſtrict, it was more than probable that ſhe had diſdained to conceal any of the circum⯑ſtances with which ſhe herſelf was ac⯑quainted. I therefore thought it almoſt [213] indubitable that ſhe had been no leſs frank on the preſent occaſion than was habitual to her on others; and time after⯑ward diſcovered that my concluſions were right.

"With what unequal weapons," ex⯑claimed I, "do the lovers of truth and the adherents of hypocriſy contend!"

"They do indeed," replied Wilmot.

"But, contrary I believe to your ſuppo⯑ſition, the former have infinitely the ad⯑vantage: for the latter ſyſtematically deceive themſelves."

What was to be done? Was I to pur⯑ſue ſome covert mode of conveying my letter? Should I ſend it openly? Or ought I to let it remain, and patiently wait the courſe of events, which, by endeavouring to forward, I might but retard? Wilmot, who, though he had too much ſympathy to communicate all his fears, had but little expectation, judging from the failure of his own plans [214] of the ſucceſs of mine, adviſed me to the latter; and, perplexed as I was with doubt and apprehenſion, I followed this advice.