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NATURE AND ART.

BY MRS. INCHBALD.

THE SECOND EDITION.

DUBLIN:

Printed by William Porter, FOR P. WOGAN, P. BYRNE, J. MILLIKEN, J. RICE, W. JONES, J. MOORE, H. COLBERT, AND G. FOLINGSBY.

1796.

NATURE AND ART.

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CHAPTER I.

AT a time when the nobility of Britain were ſaid, by the Poet Laureat, to admire and protect the arts, and were known by the whole nation to be the patrons of muſic,—William and Henry, youths under twenty years of age, brothers, and the ſons of a country ſhopkeeper who had lately died inſolvent, ſet out on foot for London, in the hope of procuring by their induſtry a ſcanty ſubſiſtence.

As they walked out of their native town, each with a ſmall bundle at his back, each obſerved the other drop ſeveral tears: but, upon the ſudden meeting of their eyes, they both ſmiled with a degree of diſdain at the weakneſs in which they had been caught.

[4]"I am ſure," ſaid William (the elder) "I don't know why I cry."

"Nor I neither," ſaid Henry: "for though we may never ſee this town again, yet we leave nothing behind us to give us cauſe to lament."

"No," replied William; "nor any body who cares what becomes of us."

"But I was thinking," ſaid Henry, now weeping bitterly, "that if my poor father were alive, he would care what was to become of us:—he would not have ſuffered us to begin this long journey without a few ſhillings more in our pockets."

At the end of this ſentence, William, who had with ſome effort ſuppreſſed his tears while his brother ſpoke, now uttered, with a voice almoſt inarticulate,—"Don't ſay any more; don't talk any more about it. My father uſed to tell us, that when he was gone we muſt take care of ourſelves: and ſo we muſt. I only wiſh," continued he, giving way to his grief, "that I had never done any thing to offend him while he was living."

"That is what I wiſh too," cried Henry. "If I had always been dutiful [5] to him while he was alive, I would not ſhed one tear for him now that he is gone: but I would thank heaven that he had eſcaped from his creditors."

In converſation ſuch as this, wherein their ſorrow for their deceaſed parent ſeemed leſs for his death, than becauſe he had not been ſo happy when living, as they ought to have made him; and wherein their own outcaſt fortune was leſs the ſubject of their grief, than the reflection "what their father would have endured, could he have beheld them in their preſent ſituation;" in converſation ſuch as this, they purſued their journey till they arrived at that metropolis, which has received for centuries paſt, from the provincial towns, the bold adventurer of every denomination; has ſtampt his character with experience and example; and, while it has beſtowed on ſome coronets and mitres—on ſome the laſting fame of genius—to others has dealt beggary, infamy, and untimely death.

CHAPTER II.

[6]

AFTER a trial of three weeks paſſed in London, a year followed, during which, William and Henry never ſat down to a dinner, or went into a bed, without hearts glowing with thankfulneſs to that providence which had beſtowed on them ſuch unexpected bleſſings; for no longer did they preſume to expect (what ſtill they preſumed they deſerved) a ſecure pittance for themſelves in this world of plenty. Their experience, ſince they came to town, had informed them that, to obtain a permanent livelihood, is the good fortune but of a part of thoſe who are in want of it: and the precarious earning of half a crown, or a ſhilling, in the neighbourhood where they lodged, by an errand, or ſome ſuch accidental means, was the ſole ſupport which they at preſent enjoyed.

They had ſought for conſtant, employment of various kinds, and even for ſervants' [7] places; but obſtacles had always occurred to prevent their ſucceſs. If they applied for the ſituation of a clerk to a man of extenſive concerns, their qualifications were admitted; but there muſt be ſecurity given for their fidelity: they had friends, who would give them a character, but who would give them nothing elſe.

If they endeavoured for the place even of a menial ſervant, they were too clowniſh and awkward for the preſence of the lady of the houſe;—and once, when William (who had been educated at the free grammar-ſchool of the town in which he was born, and was an excellent ſcholar) hoping to obtain the good opinion of a young clergyman whom he ſolicited for the favour of waiting upon him, acquainted him "That he underſtood Greek and Latin," he was rejected by the divine, "becauſe he could not dreſs hair."

Weary of repeating their mean accompliſhments of "honeſty, ſobriety, humility," and on the precipice of reprobating ſuch qualities,—which, however [8] beneficial to the ſoul, gave no hope of preſervation to the body,—they were prevented from this profanation by the fortunate remembrance of one qualification; which Henry, the poſſeſſor, in all his diſtreſs, had never till then called to his recollection: but which, being once remembered and made known, changed the whole proſpect of wretchedneſs placed before the two brothers; and they never knew want more.

Reader, not to keep you in ſuſpenſe concerning this attribute—Henry could play upon the fiddle.

CHAPTER III.

[9]

NO ſooner was it publicly known that Henry could play moſt excellently upon the violin, than he was invited into many companies where no other accompliſhment could have introduced him. His performance was ſo much admired, that he had the honour of being admitted to ſeveral tavern feaſts, of which he had alſo the honour to partake without partaking of the expence. He was ſoon addreſſed by perſons of the very firſt rank and faſhion, and was once ſeen walking ſide by ſide with a peer.

But yet, in the midſt of this powerful occaſion for rejoicing, Henry, whoſe heart was particularly affectionate, had one grief that eclipſed all the happineſs of his new life:—his brother William could not play on the fiddle!—conſequently, his brother William, with whom he had ſhared ſo much ill, could not ſhare in his good fortune.

[10]One evening, Henry, coming home from a dinner and concert at the Crown and Anchor, found William, in a very gloomy and peeviſh humour, poring over De Oratore of Cicero. Henry aſked him ſeveral times "How he did;" and ſimilar queſtions, marks of his kind diſpoſition towards his beloved brother: but all his endeavours, he perceived, could not ſoothe or ſoften the ſullen mind of William. At length, taking from his pocket a handful of almonds, and ſome delicious fruit (which he had purloined from the plenteous table, where his brother's wants had never been abſent from his thoughts) and laying them down before him, he exclaimed with a benevolent ſmile, "Do, William, let me teach you to play upon the violin."

William—full of the great orator whom he was then ſtudying, and ſtill more alive to the impoſſibility that his ear, attuned only to ſenſe, could ever deſcend from that elevation, to learn mere [...]unds—William caught up the tempting preſents which Henry had ventured his reputation to obtain for him, and threw them all indignantly at the donor's head.

[11]Henry felt too powerfully his own ſuperiority of fortune, to reſent this ingratitude; he only picked up the repaſt, and laying it again upon the table, placed by its ſide a bottle of claret, which he held faſt by the neck, while he aſſured his brother, that, "although he had taken it while the waiter's back was turned, yet it might be drank with a ſafe conſcience by them; for he had not himſelf taſted one drop at the feaſt, on purpoſe that he might enjoy a glaſs with his brother at home, and without wronging the company who had invited him."

The affection Henry expreſſed as he ſaid this,—or the force of a bumper of wine, which William had not ſeen ſince he left his father's houſe,—had ſuch an effect in calming the diſpleaſure he was cheriſhing, that, on his brother's offering him the glaſs, he took it; and he deigned even to eat of his preſent.

Henry, to convince him that he had ſtinted himſelf, to obtain for him this collation, ſat down and partook of it.

After a few glaſſes had paſſed, he again ventured to ſay, "Do, brother William, let me teach you to play on the violin."

[12]Again his offer was refuſed; but though with leſs vehemence, at length they both agreed the attempt could not proſper.

"Then," ſaid Henry, "William, go down to Oxford, or to Cambridge. There, no doubt, they are as fond of learning, as in this gay town they are of muſic. You know you have as much talent for the one as I for the other: do go to one of our univerſities, and ſee what dinners, what ſuppers and what friends you will find there."

CHAPTER IV.

[13]

WILLIAM did go to one of thoſe ſeats of learning, and would have ſtarved there, but for the affectionate remittances of Henry, who ſhortly became ſo great a proficient in the art of muſic, as to have it in his power not only to live in a very reputable manner himſelf, but to ſend ſuch ſupplies to his brother, as to enable him to purſue his ſtudies.

With ſome, the progreſs of fortune is rapid. Such is the caſe when, either on merit or demerit, great patronage is beſtowed. Henry's violin had often charmed, to a welcome forgetfulneſs of his inſignificance, an effeminate lord; or warmed with ideas of honour, the head of a duke, whoſe heart could never be taught to feel its manly glow. Princes had flown to the arms of their favourite fair-ones, with more rapturous delight, ſoftened by the maſterly touches of his art: and thoſe elevated perſonages, evergrateful to thoſe [14] from whom they derive benefits, were competitors in the deſire of heaping favours upon him. But he, in all his advantages, never once loſt from his thoughts the hope of ſome advantage for his brother William: and when at any time he was preſſed by a patron to demand a "token of his regard," he would conſtantly reply:

"I have a brother, a very learned man, if your lordſhip (your grace, or your royal highneſs) would confer ſome ſmall favour on him—"

His lordſhip would reply, "He was ſo teazed and haraſſed in his youth by learned men, that he had ever ſince deteſted the whole fraternity."

His grace would inquire "If the learned man could play upon any inſtrument."

And his highneſs would aſk "If he could ſing."

Rebuffs ſuch as theſe poor Henry met with in all his applications for William, till one fortunate evening, at the concluſion of a concert, a great man ſhook him by the hand, and promiſed a living of five hundred a year (the incumbent of [15] which was upon his death-bed) to his brother, in return for the entertainment Henry had juſt given him.

Henry wrote in haſte to William, and began his letter thus: "My dear brother, I am not ſorry you did not learn to play upon the fiddle."

CHAPTER V.

[16]

THE incumbent of this living died—William was ordained: and in a few weeks came to town, to take poſſeſſion of the gift, which his brother's ſkill had acquired him.

William had a ſteady countenance, a ſtern brow, and a majeſtic walk; all of which this new acceſſion, this holy calling to religious vows, rather increaſed than diminiſhed. In the early part of his life, the violin of his brother had rather irritated than ſoothed the moroſe diſpoſition of his nature: and though, ſince their departure from their native habitation, it had frequently calmed the violent ragings of his hunger, it had never been ſucceſsful in appeaſing the diſturbed paſſions of a proud and a diſdainful mind.

As the painter views with delight and wonder the finiſhed picture, expreſſive teſtimony of his taſte and genius: as the phyſician beholds with pride and gladneſs [17] the recovering invalid, whom his art has ſnatched from the jaws of death: as the father gazes with rapture on his firſt child, the creature to whom he has given life—ſo did Henry ſurvey with tranſporting glory, his brother, dreſt for the firſt time in his canonicals, to preach at his pariſh church. He viewed him from head to foot—ſmiled—viewed again—pulled one ſide of his gown a little this way, one end of his band a little that way—then ſtole behind him, pretending to place the curls of his hair, but in reality, to indulge, and to conceal, tears of fraternal pride and joy.

William was not without joy: neither was he wanting in love or gratitude to his brother—but his pride was not completely ſatisfied.

"I am eldeſt brother," he thought to himſelf, "and a man of literature; and yet am I obliged to my younger, an illiterate man."—Here he ſuppreſſed every thought that could be a reproach to that brother. But there remained an object of his former contempt, now become even deteſtable to him—ungrateful man! [18] the very agent of his elevation was now ſo odious to him, that he could not caſt his eyes upon the friendly violin, without inſtant emotions of diſguſt.

In vain would Henry at times endeavour to ſubdue his haughtineſs, by a tune on this wonderful machine.—"You know I have no ear," William would ſternly ſay, in recompenſe for one of Henry's beſt ſolo's. Yet was William enraged at Henry's anſwer, when, after taking him to hear him preach, he aſked him "how he liked his ſermon," and Henry replied (merely with pleaſantry, and in the technical phraſe of his profeſſion) "You know, brother, I have no ear."

Henry's renown in his profeſſion daily increaſed; and with his fame, his friends. Poſſeſſing the virtues of humility and charity, far above William, the profeſt teacher of thoſe virtues, his reverend brother's diſreſpect for his vocation, never once made him relax for a moment in his anxiety to advance him in his.—Within a year or two, he had the gratification of preſenting him to a deanery; and at once placed between them an inſurmountable [19] barrier to all friendſhip, that was not the effect of condeſcenſion, on the part of the dean.

William would now begin ſeriouſly to remonſtrate with his brother "upon his uſeleſs occupation," and would intimate "the degradation it was to him, to hear his frivolous talent ſpoken of in all companies." Henry believed his brother much wiſer than himſelf, and ſuffered ſhame that he was not more worthy of ſuch a relation. To conſole himſelf for the familiar friend, whom he now perceived he had entirely loſt, he ſearched for one of a ſofter nature—he married.

CHAPTER VI.

[20]

AS Henry deſpaired of receiving his brother's approbation of his choice, he never mentioned the event to him: but William, being told of it by a third perſon, inquired of Henry, who confirmed the truth of the intelligence, and acknowledged, that, in taking a wife, his ſole view had been, to obtain a kind companion and friend, who would bear with his failings, and know how to eſteem his few qualifications; therefore, he had choſen one of his own rank in life, and who, having a taſte for muſic, and, as well as himſelf, an obligation to the art—

"And is it poſſible," cried the dean, "that what has been hinted to me is true? Is it poſſible that you have married a public finger?"

"She is as good as myſelf," returned Henry: "I did not wiſh her to be better, for fear ſhe ſhould deſpiſe me."

"As to deſpiſe," (anſwered the dean) "heaven forbid that we ſhould deſpiſe [21] any one—that would be acting unlike a chriſtian—but do you imagine I can ever introduce her to my intended wife, who is a woman of family?"

Henry had received in his life many inſults from his brother: but, as he was not a vain man, he generally, thought his brother in the right, and conſequently ſubmitted with patience—but though he had little ſelf-love, he had for his wife an unbounded affection: on the preſent occaſion, therefore, he began to raiſe his voice, and even (in the coarſe expreſſion of clowniſh anger) to lift his hand—but the ſudden and affecting recollection of what he had done for the dean—of the pains, the toils, the hopes, and the fears he had experienced when ſoliciting his preferment—this recollection overpowered his ſpeech—weakened his arm—and deprived him of every active force, but that of flying out of the dean's houſe (in which they then were) as ſwift as lightning, while the dean ſat proudly contemplating—"that he had done his duty."

For ſeveral days Henry did not call, as was his cuſtom, to ſee his brother. William's [22] marriage drew near, and he ſent a formal card to invite him on that day; but not having had the condeſcenſion to name his ſiſter-in-law in the invitation, Henry took no notice of it; and the joyful event was celebrated without his preſence. But the ardour of the bridegroom was not ſo vehement as to overcome every other ſenſation—he miſſed his brother—that heart-felt cheerfulneſs with which Henry had ever given him joy upon every happy occaſion—even amidſt all the politer congratulations of his other friends—ſeemed to the dean mournfully wanting. This derogation from his felicity he was reſolved to reſent—and for a whole year theſe brothers, whom adverſity had entwined cloſely together, proſperity ſeparated.

Though Henry, on his marriage, paid ſo much attention to his brother's prejudices, as to take his wife from her public employment, this had not ſo entirely removed the ſcruples of William, as to permit him to think her a worthy companion for Lady Clementina, the daughter of a poor Scotch earl, whom he had choſen, [23] merely that he might be proud of her family; though, in return, he ſhould ſuffer that family to be aſhamed of his.

If Henry's wife was not fit company for Lady Clementina, it is to be hoped ſhe was company for angels—ſhe died within the firſt year of her marriage, a faithful, an affectionate wife and a mother.

When William heard of her death, he felt a ſudden ſhock—and a kind of fleeting thought glanced acroſs his mind, that

"Had he known ſhe had been ſo near her diſſolution, ſhe might have been introduced to Lady Clementina: and he himſelf would have called her ſiſter."

That is (if he had defined his fleeting idea) "they would have had no objection to have met this poor woman for the laſt time; and would have deſcended to the familiarity of kindred, in order to have wiſhed her a good journey to the other world."

Or, is there in death ſomething that ſo raiſes the abjectneſs of the poor, that, on their approach to its ſheltering abode, the arrogant believer feels the equality he had before denied, and trembles?

CHAPTER VII.

[24]

THE wife of Henry had been dead near ſix weeks before the dean heard the news: a month then elapſed in thoughts by himſelf, and conſultations with Lady Clementina, how he ſhould conduct himſelf, on this occurrence. Her advice was,

"That as Henry was the youngeſt, and by their ſtations, in every ſenſe, the dean's inferior, he ought firſt to make overtures of reconciliation."

The dean anſwered, "He had no doubt of his brother's good will to him: but that he had reaſon to think, from the knowledge of his temper, he would be more likely to come to him upon an occaſion to beſtow comfort, than to receive it: for inſtance, if I had ſuffered the misfortune of loſing you, my brother, I have no doubt, would have forgotten his reſentment, and—"

She was offended that the loſs of the vulgar wife of Henry ſhould be compared to the loſs of her—ſhe lamented her [25] indiſcretion in forming an alliance with a family of no rank, and implored the dean to wait till his brother ſhould make ſome conceſſion to him, before he renewed the acquaintance.

Though Lady Clementina had mentioned on this occaſion her indiſcretion, ſhe was of a prudent age—ſhe was near forty—yet, poſſeſſing rather a handſome face and perſon, ſhe would not have impreſſed the ſpectator with an idea that ſhe was near ſo old, had ſhe not conſtantly attempted to appear much younger. Her dreſs was fantaſtically faſhionable, her manners affected all the various paſſions of youth, and her converſation was perpetually embelliſhed with accuſations upon her own "heedleſsneſs, thoughtleſſneſs, careleſsneſs, and childiſhneſs."

There is perhaps, in every individual, one parent motive to every action, good or bad: be that as it will, it was evident, that with Lady Clementina, all ſhe ſaid or did, all ſhe thought or looked, had but one foundation—vanity.—If ſhe was nice, or if ſhe was negligent, vanity was the cauſe of both; for ſhe would contemplate [26] with the higheſt degree of ſelf-complacency "what ſuch a one would ſay of her elegant preciſeneſs, or what ſuch a one would think of her intereſting neglect."

If ſhe complained ſhe was ill, it was with the certainty that her languor would be admired; if ſhe boaſted ſhe was well, it was that the ſpectator might admire her glowing health; if ſhe laughed, it was becauſe ſhe thought it made her look pretty; if ſhe cried, it was becauſe ſhe thought it made her look prettier ſtill. If ſhe ſcolded her ſervants, it was from vanity, to ſhow her ſuperior knowledge to theirs; and ſhe was kind to them from the ſame vice, that her benevolence might excite their admiration.—Forward, and impertinent in the company of her equals from the vanity of ſuppoſing herſelf above them, ſhe was baſhful even to ſhame-facedneſs in the preſence of her ſuperiors, becauſe her vanity told her ſhe engroſſed all their obſervation. Through vanity ſhe had no memory; for ſhe conſtantly forgot every thing ſhe heard others ſay, from the minute attention which ſhe paid to every thing ſhe ſaid herſelf.

[27]She had become an old maid from vanity, believing no offer ſhe received worthy of her deſerts; and when her power of farther conqueſt began to be doubted, ſhe married from vanity to repair the character of her fading charms. In a word, her vanity was of that magnitude, that ſhe had no idea but that ſhe was humble in her own opinion; and it would have been impoſſible to have convinced her that ſhe thought well of herſelf, becauſe ſhe thought ſo well, as to be aſſured, that her own thoughts undervalued her.

CHAPTER VIII.

[28]

THAT, which in a weak woman is called vanity, in a man of ſenſe, is termed pride—make one a degree ſtronger, or the other a degree weaker, and the dean and his wife were infected with the ſelf-ſame folly. Yet, do not let the reader ſuppoſe that this failing (however deſpicable) had eraſed from either boſom all traces of humanity. They are human creatures who are meant to be pourtrayed in this little book, and where is the human creature who has not ſome good qualities to ſoften, if not counterbalance his bad ones?

The dean, with all his pride, could not wholly forget his brother, nor eradicate from his remembrance the friend he had been to him—he reſolved therefore, in ſpite of his wife's advice, to make him ſome overture, which he had no doubt but Henry's good nature would inſtantly accept. The more he became acquainted with all the vain and ſelfiſh propenſities [29] of Lady Clementina, the more he felt a returning affection for his brother: but little did he ſuſpect how much he loved him, till (after ſending to various places to enquire for him) he learnt—that on his wife's deceaſe, unable to ſupport her loſs in the ſurrounding ſcene, Henry had taken the child ſhe brought him in his arms, ſhaken hands with all his former friends—paſſing over his brother in the number—and ſet ſail in a veſſel bound for Africa, with a party of Portugueſe and ſome few Engliſh adventurers, to people there the uninhabited part of an extenſive iſland.

This was a reſolution, in Henry's circumſtances, worthy a mind of ſingular ſenſibility: but William had not diſcerned, till then, that every act of Henry's was of the ſame deſcription; and more than all, his every act towards him. He ſtaggered when he heard the tidings; at firſt thought them untrue; but quickly recollected that Henry was capable of ſurpriſing deeds! He recollected, with a force that gave him torture, the benevolence his brother had ever ſhown towards [30] him—the favours he had heaped upon him—the inſults he had patiently endured in requital!

In the firſt emotion, which this intelligence gave the dean, he forgot the dignity of his walk and geſture—He ran with frantic enthuſiaſm to every corner of his houſe where the leaſt veſtige of what belonged to Henry, remained—He preſſed cloſe to his breaſt, with tender agony, a coat of his, which by accident had been left there—He kiſſed and wept over a walking-ſtick which Henry once had given him—He even took up a muſic-book of his brother's with delight—nor would his poor violin, had it been there, have then excited anger.

When his grief became more calm, he ſat in deep and melancholy meditation, calling to mind, when, and where he ſaw his brother laſt. The recollection gave him freſh cauſe of regret. He remembered they had parted on his refuſal to ſuffer Lady Clementina to admit the acquaintance of Henry's wife.—Both Henry and his wife he now contemplated beyond the reach of his pride; and he felt the meanneſs of his triumph.

[31]To add to his ſelf-reproaches, he beheld in his tormented memory the countenance of his brother at their laſt interview, as it changed, while he cenſured his marriage, and treated with diſreſpect the object of his conjugal affection. He remembered the anger repreſſed, the tear burſting forth, and the laſt glimpſe he had of him, as he left his preſence for ever.

In vain he now wiſhed, that he had followed him to the door—that he had once ſhaken hands and owned his obligations to him before they had parted. In vain he wiſhed too, that, in this extreme agony of his mind, he had ſuch a friend to comfort him, as Henry had ever proved.

CHAPTER IX.

[32]

THE avocations of an elevated life eraſe the deepeſt impreſſions—the dean, in a few months, recovered of thoſe which his brother's departure firſt made upon him; and would now at times even condemn, in anger, Henry's having ſo haſtily abandoned him and his native country, in reſentment, as he conceived, of a few misfortunes which his uſual fortitude ſhould have taught him to bear. Yet, was he ſtill deſirous of his return, and wrote two or three letters expreſſive of his wiſh, which he anxiouſly endeavoured ſhould reach him. But many years elapſing without any intelligence from him, and a report having arrived that he, and all the party with whom he went, were ſlain by the ſavage inhabitants of the iſland, William's deſpair of ſeeing his brother again, cauſed the deſire to diminiſh; while attention and affection to a ſtill nearer and dearer relation than Henry ever was to him, now chiefly engaged his mind.

[33]Lady Clementina had brought him a ſon, on whom, from his infancy, he doated—and the boy, in riper years, poſſeſſing a handſome perſon and evincing a quickneſs of parts, gratified the father's darling, paſſion, pride; as well as the mother's vanity.

The dean had, beſides this child, a domeſtic comfort highly gratifying to his ambition: the biſhop of **** became intimately acquainted with him ſoon after his marriage, and from his daily viſits had become, as it were, a part of the family. This was much honour to the dean, not only as the biſhop was his ſuperior in the church, but was of that part of the bench whoſe blood is ennobled by a race of anceſtors, and to which, all wiſdom on the plebeian ſide crouches in humble reſpect.

Year after year rolled on in pride and grandeur; the biſhop and the dean paſſing their time in attending levees and in talking politics; Lady Clementina paſſing hers in attending routs and in talking of herſelf, till the ſon arrived at the age of thirteen.

[34]Young William paſſed his time, from morning till night, with perſons who taught him to walk, to ride, to talk, to think like a man—a fooliſh man, inſtead of a wiſe child, as nature deſigned him to be.

This unfortunate youth was never permitted to have one conception of his own—all was taught him—he was never once aſked "what he thought?" but men were paid to tell him "how to think." He was taught to revere ſuch and ſuch perſons, however unworthy of his reverence; to believe ſuch and ſuch things, however unworthy of his credit; and to act ſo and ſo, on ſuch and ſuch occaſions, however unworthy of his feelings.

Such were the leſſons of the tutors aſſigned him by his father—Thoſe maſters whom his mother gave him, did him leſs miſchief; for though they diſtorted his limbs and made his manners effeminate, they did not interfere with the internal.

Mr. Norwynne (the family name of his father, and though but a ſchoolboy, he was called Miſter) could talk on hiſtory, on politics, and on religion; ſurpriſingly to all who never liſtened to a parrot or a [35] magpie—for he merely repeated what he had heard, without one reflection upon the ſenſe or probability of his report. He had been praiſed for his memory, and to continue that praiſe, he was ſo anxious to retain every ſentence he had heard or he had read, that the poor creature had no time for one native idea, but only redelivered his tutors' leſſons to his father, and his father's to his tutors. But, whatever he ſaid or did, was the admiration of all who came to the houſe of the dean, and who knew he was an only child—Indeed, conſidering the labour that was taken to ſpoil him, he was rather a commendable youth; for, with the pedantic folly of his tutors, the blind affection of his father and mother, the obſequiouſneſs of the ſervants, and flattery of the viſitors, it was ſome credit to him that he was not an ideot, or a brute—Though when he imitated the manners of a man, he had ſomething of the latter in his appearance—for he would grin and bow to a lady, catch her fan in haſte if it fell, and hand her to her coach, as thoroughly void of all the ſentiment, which gives grace to ſuch tricks, as a monkey.

CHAPTER X.

[36]

ONE morning in winter, juſt as the dean, his wife, and darling child, had finiſhed their breakfaſt at their houſe in London, a ſervant brought in a letter to his maſter, and ſaid "The man waited for an anſwer."

"Who is the man?" cried the dean, with all that terrifying dignity, with which he never failed to addreſs his inferiors, eſpecially ſuch as waited on his perſon.

The ſervant replied with a ſervility of tone equal to the haughty one of his maſter "he did not know, but that the man looked like a ſailor, and had a boy with him."

"A begging letter no doubt," cried Lady Clementina.

"Take it back," ſaid the dean, "and bid him ſend up word who he is, or what is his errand."

The ſervant went; and returning ſaid "He comes from on board a ſhip, his captain ſent him, and his errand is, he [37] believes, to leave a boy he has brought with him."

"A boy!" (cried the dean) "what have I to do with a boy? I expect no boy. What boy? What age?"

"He looks about twelve or thirteen," replied the ſervant.

"He is miſtaken in the houſe," (ſaid the dean). "Let me look at the letter again."

He did look at it, and ſaw it was directed plainly to himſelf—Upon a ſecond glance, he had ſo perfect a recollection of the hand as to open it inſtantaneouſly; and after ordering the ſervant to withdraw, he read the following.

MY DEAR BROTHER WILLIAM,

IT is a long time ſince we have ſeen one another, but I hope not ſo long, that you have quite forgotten the many happy days we once paſſed together.

I did not take my leave of you when I left England, becauſe it would have been too much for me—I had met with [38] a great many ſorrows juſt at that time one of which was, the misfortune of loſing the uſe of my right hand by a fall from my horſe, which accident robbed me of moſt of my friends, for I could no longer entertain them with my performance as I uſed to do; and ſo I was aſhamed to ſee them or you; and that was the reaſon I came hither to try my fortune with ſome other adventurers.

You have I ſuppoſe heard, how the ſavages of the iſland put our whole party to death except myſelf. I was heart-broken for my comrades, but yet upon the whole I do not know that the ſavages were much to blame—we had no buſineſs to invade their territories, and if they had invaded England, we ſhould have done the ſame by them.—My life was ſpared, becauſe, having gained ſome little ſtrength in my hand, during the voyage, I pleaſed their king, when I arrived there, with playing on my violin.

They ſpared my child too, in pity to my lamentations, when they were going [39] to put him to death.—Now, dear brother, before I ſay any more concerning my child to you, I will firſt aſk your pardon for any offence I may have ever given you in all the time we lived ſo long together—I know you have often found fault with me, and I dare ſay I have been to blame very often; but I here ſolemnly declare that I never did any thing purpoſely to offend you, but moſtly all I could, to oblige you—and I can ſafely declare, that I never bore you above a quarter of an hour's reſentment, for any thing you might ſay to me which I thought harſh.

Now, dear William, after being in this iſland eleven years, the weakneſs in my hand has unfortunately returned, and yet there being no appearance of complaint, the uninformed iſlanders think it is all my obſtinacy, and that I will not entertain them with my muſic, which makes me ſay that I cannot; and they have impriſoned me, and threaten to put my ſon to death if I perſiſt in my ſtubbornneſs any longer.

The anguiſh I feel in my mind takes away all hope of the recovery of ſtrength [40] in my hand, and I have no doubt but that they intend in a few days to put their horrid threat into execution.

Therefore, dear brother William, hearing from my priſon of a moſt uncommon circumſtance, which is that an Engliſh veſſel is lying at a ſmall diſtance from the iſland, I have entruſted a faithful negro to take my child to the ſhip, and deliver him to the captain, with a requeſt that he may be ſent (with this letter) to you, on the ſhip's arrival in England.

Now, my dear, dear brother William, in caſe the poor boy ſhould live to come to you, I have no doubt but you will receive him; yet, excuſe a poor fond father, if I ſay a word or two that I hope may prove in his favour.

Pray, my dear brother, do not think it the child's fault, but mine, that you will find him ſo ignorant—he has always ſhown a quickneſs and a willingneſs to learn, and would, I dare ſay, if he had been brought up under your care, have been by this time a Greek [41] ſcholar—but you know I am no ſcholar myſelf. Beſides, not having any books here, I have only been able to teach my child by talking to him; and in all my converſations with him, I have never taken much pains to inſtruct him in the manners of my own country; thinking, that if ever he went over, he would learn them ſoon enough; and if he never did go over, that it would be as well, he knew nothing about them.

I have kept him alſo from the knowledge of every thing which I have thought pernicious in the conduct of the ſavages, except now and then pointing out a few of their faults, in order to give him a true conception and a proper diſtaſte of them. At the ſame time I have taught him to love, and to do good to his neighbour, whoever that neighbour might be, and whatever might be his failings. Falſehood of every kind I included in this precept as forbidden, for no one can love his neighbour and deceive him.

I have inſtructed him too, to hold in contempt all frivolous vanity, and [42] all kinds of indulgences which he was never likely to obtain. He has learnt all I have undertaken to teach him, but I am afraid you will yet think he has learnt too little.

Your wife, I fear, will be offended at his want of politeneſs, and perhaps want of proper reſpect for a perſon of her rank; but indeed he is very tractable, and can, without ſeverity, be cured of all his faults; and though you will find he has many, yet, pray my dear brother, pray my dear brother William, call to mind he has been a dutiful and an affectionate child to me; and that, had it pleaſed heaven we had lived together for many years to come, I verily believe that I ſhould never have experienced one mark of his diſobedience.

Farewel for ever, my dear dear brother William—and if my poor, kind, affectionate child ſhould live to bring you this letter, ſometimes ſpeak to him of me; and let him know, that for twelve years he was my ſole comfort; and that, when I ſent him from me, in [43] order to ſave his life, I laid down my head upon the floor of the cell in which I was confined, and prayed that heaven might end my days before the morning.

This was the concluſion of the letter, except four or five lines which (with his name) were ſo much blotted, apparently with tears, that they were illegible.

CHAPTER XI.

[44]

WHILE the dean was reading to himſelf this letter, his countenance frequently changed, and once or twice the tears ſtreamed from his eyes. When it was finiſhed, he exclaimed

"My brother has ſent his child to me, and I will be a parent to him." He was going towards the door when Lady Clementina ſtopped him.

"Is it proper, do you think, dean, that all the ſervants in the houſe ſhould be witneſſes to your meeting with your brother and your nephew in the ſtate in which they muſt be at preſent? ſend for them into a private apartment."

"My brother!" (cried the dean) "Oh! that it were my brother! The man is merely a perſon from the ſhip, who has conducted his child hither."

The bell was rung, money was ſent to the man, and orders given that the boy ſhould be ſhown up immediately.

While young Henry was walking up the ſtairs, the dean's wife was weighing [45] in her mind, in what manner it would moſt redound to her honour to receive him; for her vanity taught her to believe that the whole inquiſitive world pried into her conduct even upon every family occurrence.

Young William was wondering to himſelf what kind of an unpoliſhed monſter his beggarly couſin would appear; and was contemplating "how much the poor youth would be ſurpriſed, and awed by his ſuperiority."

The dean felt no other ſenſation than an impatient deſire of beholding the child.

The door opened—and the ſon of his brother Henry, of his benefactor, entered.

The habit he had on when he left his father, being worn out by the length of the voyage, he was in the dreſs of a ſailor-boy. Though about the ſame age with his couſin, he was ſomething taller: and though a ſtrong family reſemblance appeared between the two youths, he was handſomer than William; and from a ſimplicity ſpread over his countenance, a quick impatience in his eye, which denoted [46] anxious curioſity, and childiſh ſurpriſe at every new object which preſented itſelf, he appeared younger than his informed, and well-bred couſin.

He walked into the room, not with a dictated obeiſance, but with a hurrying ſtep, a half pleaſed, yet a half frightened look, an inſtantaneous ſurvey of every perſon preſent; not as demanding "what they thought of him," but expreſſing, almoſt as plainly as in direct words, "what he thought of them." For all alarm in reſpect to his ſafety and reception ſeemed now wholly forgotten in the curioſity which the ſudden fight of ſtrangers, ſuch as he had never ſeen in his life before, excited. And as to himſelf, he did not appear to know there was ſuch a perſon exiſting: his whole faculties were abſorbed in others.

The dean's reception of him did honour to his ſenſibility; and his gratitude to his brother.—After the firſt affectionate gaze, he ran to him, took him in his arms, ſat down, drew him to him, held him between his knees, and repeatedly exclaimed, "I will repay to you, all I owe to your father."

[47]The boy, in return, hugged the dean round the neck, kiſſed him, and cried,

"Oh you are my father—you have juſt ſuch eyes, and ſuch a forehead—indeed you would be almoſt the ſame as he, if it were not for that great white thing which grows upon your head!"

Let the reader underſtand, that the dean, fondly attached to every ornament of his dignified function, was never ſeen (unleſs caught in bed) without an enormous wig—with this, young Henry was enormouſly ſtruck; having never ſeen ſo unbecoming a decoration, either in the ſavage iſland from whence he came, or on board of the veſſel in which he ſailed.

"Do you imagine" (cried his uncle, laying his hand gently on the reverend habiliment) "that this grows?"

"What is on my head grows," ſaid young Henry, "and ſo does what is upon my father's."

"But now you are come to Europe, you will ſee many perſons with ſuch things as theſe, which they put on and take off."

"Why do you wear ſuch things?"

[48]"As a diſtinction between us and inferior people: they are worn to give an importance to the wearer."

"That is juſt as the ſavages do; they ſtick braſs nails, wire, buttons, and entrails of beaſts all over them to give them importance."

The dean now led his nephew to Lady Clementina, and told him "That was his aunt, to whom he muſt behave with the utmoſt reſpect."

"I will, I will," he replied, "for ſhe, I ſee, is a perſon of importance too—ſhe has, very near, ſuch a white thing upon her head as you have!"

His aunt had not yet fixed, in what manner it was beſt to behave; whether with intimidating grandeur, or with amiable tenderneſs. While ſhe was heſitating between the two, ſhe felt a kind of jealous apprehenſion that her ſon was not ſo engaging either in his perſon or addreſs as his couſin; and therefore ſhe ſaid

"I hope, dean, the arrival of this child will give you a ſtill higher ſenſe of the happineſs we enjoy in our own—what [49] an inſtructive contraſt between the manners of the one, and of the other!"

"It is not the child's fault," returned the dean, "that he is not ſo elegant in his manners as his couſin;—had William been bred in the ſame place, he would have been as unpoliſhed as this boy."

"I beg your pardon, ſir" (ſaid young William with a formal bow and a ſarcaſtic ſmile) "for I aſſure you that ſeveral of my tutors have told me, that I appear to know many things by inſtinct."

Young Henry fixed his eyes upon his couſin while with ſteady ſelf-complacency he delivered this ſpeech; and no ſooner was it concluded than Henry cried out [...]n a kind of wonder

"A little man! as I am alive, a little man! I did not know there were ſuch [...]ittle men in this country! I never ſaw one in my life before!"

"This is a boy" (ſaid the dean) "a boy not older than yourſelf."

He put their hands together, and William gravely ſhook hands with his couſin.

"It is a man," continued young Henry—then ſtroked his couſin's chin. No no, [...] do not know whether it is or not."

[50]"I tell you again," ſaid the dean, he is a boy of your own age—you and he are couſins, for I am his father."

"How can that be?" (ſaid young Henry) "he called you Sir."

"In this country," ſaid the dean, polite children do not call their parents father and mother."

"Then don't they ſometimes forget to love them as ſuch?" aſked Henry.

His uncle became now impatient to interrogate him in every particular, concerning his father's ſtate—Lady Clementina felt equal impatience to know where the father was; whether he was coming to live with them, wanted any thing of them, and every circumſtance in which her vanity was intereſted. Explanations followed all theſe queſtions; but which merely agreeing with what the elder Henry's letter has related, require n [...] recital here.

CHAPTER XII.

[51]

THAT vanity which preſided over every thought and deed of Lady Clementina's, was the protector of young Henry within her houſe: it repreſented to her "how amiable her conduct would appear in the eye of the world, ſhould ſhe condeſcend to treat this deſtitute nephew as her own ſon:" it repreſented to her "the envy ſuch heroic virtue would excite in the hearts of her particular friends, and what grief in the boſom of all thoſe who did not like her."

The dean was a man of acute penetration; he underſtood the thoughts which upon this occaſion paſſed in the mind of his wife; and in order to inſure her kind treatment of the boy, inſtead of reproaching her for the cold manner in which ſhe had at firſt received him, he praiſed her tender and ſympathetic heart for having ſhown him ſo much kindneſs: and thus ſtimulated her vanity to be praiſed ſtill more.

William, the mother's own ſon, far from apprehending a rival in this ſavage [52] boy, was convinced of his own pre-eminence, and felt an affection for him; though rather as a foil, than as a couſin. He ſported with his ignorance upon all occaſions, and even lay in wait for circumſtances that might expoſe it: while young Henry, ſtrongly impreſſed with every thing that appeared new to him, expreſſed, without reſerve, the ſenſations which thoſe novelties excited; and felt little care what conſtruction was put upon his obſervations.

He never appeared offended, or a baſhed when laughed at, but ſtill purſued his queſtions, and ſtill diſcovered his wonder at many replies made to him, though "ſimpleton," "poor filly boy," and "ideot," were vociferated around him from his couſin, his aunt, and their conſtant viſitor the biſhop.

His uncle would frequently undertake to inſtruct him; ſo indeed would the biſhop; but Lady Clementina, her ſon, and the greateſt part of her companions, found ſomething ſo irreſiſtibly ridiculous in his remarks, that nothing but immoderate laughter followed: they thought ſuch folly had even merit in the way of [53] entertainment, and they wiſhed him no wiſer.

Having been told, that every morning on firſt ſeeing his uncle he was to make a reſpectful bow, and coming into the dean's dreſſing room juſt as he was out of bed, his wig lying on the table, Henry appeared at a loſs which of the two he ſhould bow to—at laſt he gave the preference to his uncle; but afterwards, bowed reverently to the wig. In this, he did what he conceived was proper, from the introduction which the dean, on his firſt arrival, had given him to this venerable ſtranger; for in reality, Henry had a contempt for all finery; and had called even his aunt's jewels, when they were firſt ſhown to him, "trumpery," aſking "what they were good for?" But being corrected in this diſreſpect, and informed of their high value, he, like a good convert, gave up his reaſon to his faith: and becoming, like all converts, over zealous, he now believed there was great worth in glittering appearances, and reſpected the ear-rings of Lady Clementina almoſt as much as he reſpected her.

CHAPTER XIII.

[54]

IT was to be lamented, that when young Henry had been ſeveral months in England, had been taught to read, and had of courſe, in the ſociety in which he lived, ſeen much of the enlightened world, yet the natural expectation of his improvement was by no means anſwered.

Notwithſtanding the ſenſibility, which upon various occaſions he manifeſted in the moſt captivating degree, notwithſtanding the ſeeming gentleneſs of his nature upon all occaſions, there now appeared in moſt of his enquiries and remarks, a ſomething which demonſtrated either a ſtupid, or troubleſome diſpoſition; either dulneſs of conception, or an obſtinacy of perſeverance in comments and in arguments that were glaringly falſe.

Obſerving his uncle one day offended with his coachman, and hearing him ſay to him in a very angry tone "You ſhall never drive me again"

[55]The moment the man quitted the room, Henry (with his eyes fixed in the deepeſt contemplation) repeated five or ſix times in a half whiſper to himſelf

"You ſhall never drive me again."

"You ſhall never drive me again."

The dean at laſt aſked "what he meant by thus repeating his words?"

"I am trying to find out what you meant," ſaid Henry.

"What! do not you know," cried his enlightened couſin, "Richard is turned away?—he is never to get upon our coach-box again, never to drive any of us any more."

"And was it pleaſure to drive us, couſin?—I am ſure I have often pitied him—it rained ſometimes very hard when he was on the box—and ſometimes Lady Clementina has kept him a whole hour at the door all in the cold and ſnow—was that pleaſure?"

"No," replied young William.

"Was it honour, couſin?"

"No," exclaimed his couſin with a contemptuous ſmile.

"Then why did my uncle ſay to him as a puniſhment "he ſhould never"—

[56]"Come hither, child," ſaid the dean, "and let me inſtruct you—your father's negligence has been inexcuſable—There are in ſociety" (continued the dean) "rich and poor; the poor are born to ſerve the rich."

"And what are the rich born for?"

"To be ſerved by the poor."

"But ſuppoſe the poor would not ſerve them?"

"Then they muſt ſtarve."

"And ſo poor people are permitted to live, only upon condition that they wait upon the rich?"

"Is that a hard condition? or if it were, they will be rewarded in a better world than this."

"Is there a better world than this?"

"Is it poſſible you do not know there is?"

"I heard my father once ſay ſomething about a world to come; but he ſtopt ſhort, and ſaid I was too young to underſtand what he meant."

"The world to come" (returned the dean) "is where we ſhall go after death; and there no diſtinction will be made [57] between rich and poor—all perſons there will be equal."

"Aye, now I ſee what makes it a better world than this. But cannot this world try to be as good as that?"

"In reſpect to placing all perſons on a level, it is utterly impoſſible—God has ordained it otherwiſe."

"How! has God ordained a diſtinction to be made, and will not make any himſelf?"

The dean did not proceed in his inſtructions; he now began to think his brother in the right, and that the boy was too young, or too weak, to comprehend the ſubject.

CHAPTER XIV.

[58]

IN addition to his ignorant converſation upon many topics, young Henry had an incorrigible miſconception and miſapplication of many words—his father having had but few opportunities of diſcourſing with him upon account of his attendance at the court of the ſavages; and not having books in the iſland, he had conſequently many words to learn of this country's language when he arrived in England: this taſk his retentive memory made eaſy to him; but his childiſh inattention to their proper ſignification ſtill made his want of education conſpicuous.

He would call compliments, lies—Reſerve, he would call pride—ſtatelineſs, affectation—and for the monoſyllable war, he conſtantly ſubſtituted the word maſſacre.

"Sir," ſaid William, to his father one morning as he entered the room, "do you hear how the cannons are firing, and the bells ringing?"

[59]"Then I dare ſay," cried Henry, "there has been another maſſacre."

The dean called to him in anger "Will you never learn the right uſe of words? You mean to ſay a battle."

"Then what is a maſſacre?" cried the frightened, but ſtill curious Henry.

"A maſſacre" replied his uncle, "is when a number of people are ſlain—"

"I thought," returned Henry, "ſoldiers had been people!"

"You interrupt me," ſaid the dean, "before I finiſhed my ſentence—certainly, both ſoldiers and ſailors are people, but they engage to die by their own free will and conſent."

"What! all of them?"

"Moſt of them."

"But the reſt are maſſacred?"

The dean anſwered "The number that go to battle unwillingly, and by force, are few; and for the others, they have previouſly ſold their lives to the ſtate.

"For what?"

"For ſoldiers' and ſailors' pay."

"My father uſed to tell me, we muſt not take away our own lives; but he [60] forgot to tell me, we might ſell them for others to take away."

"William," (ſaid the dean to his ſon, his patience tired with his nephew's perſevering nonſenſe) "explain to your couſin the difference between a battle and a maſſacre."

"A maſſacre," ſaid William, riſing from his ſeat, and fixing his eyes alternately upon his father, his mother, and the biſhop (all of whom were preſent) for their approbation, rather than the perſon's to whom his inſtructions were to be addreſſed—"a maſſacre," ſaid William, "is when human beings are ſlain, who have it not in their power to defend themſelves."

"Dear couſin William," (ſaid Henry) "that muſt ever be the caſe, with every one who is killed."

After a ſhort heſitation, William replied, "In maſſacres people are put to death for no crime, but merely becauſe they are objects of ſuſpicion."

"But in battle," ſaid Henry, "the perſons put to death, are not even ſuſpected."

[61]The biſhop now condeſcended to end this diſputation by ſaying emphatically

"Conſider; young ſavage, that in battle neither the infant, the aged, the ſick or infirm are involved, but only thoſe in the full prime of health and vigour."

As this argument came from ſo great and reverend a man as the biſhop, Henry was obliged, by a frown from his uncle, to ſubmit, as one refuted; although he had an anſwer at the verieſt tip of his tongue, which it was torture to him not to utter. What he wiſhed to ſay muſt ever remain a ſecret. The church has its terrors as well as the law, and Henry was awed by the dean's tremendous wig, as much as Pater-noſter Row is awed by the attorney-general.

CHAPTER XV.

[62]

IF the dean had loved his wife but moderately, ſeeing all her faults clearly as he did, he muſt frequently have quarrelled with her: if he had loved her with tenderneſs, he muſt have treated her with a degree of violence in the hope of amending her failings: but having neither perſonal, nor mental affection towards her ſufficiently intereſting to give himſelf the trouble to contradict her will in any thing, he paſſed for one of the beſt huſbands in the world. Lady Clementina went out when ſhe liked, ſtaid at home when ſhe liked, dreſſed as ſhe liked, and talked as ſhe liked, without a word of diſapprobation from her huſband, and all—becauſe he cared nothing about her.

Her vanity attributed this indulgence to inordinate affection: and obſervers in general thought her happier in her marriage, than the beloved wife who bathes her pillow with her tears by the ſide of an angry huſband, whoſe affection is ſo exceſſive, [63] that he unkindly upbraids her becauſe ſhe is—leſs than perfection.

The dean's wife was not ſo diſpaſſionately conſidered by ſome of his acquaintance as by himſelf; for they would now and then hint at her foibles; but this great liberty ſhe alſo conceived to be the effect of moſt violent love, or moſt violent admiration; and ſuch would have been her conſtruction had they commended her follies—had they totally ſlighted, or had they beaten her.

Amongſt thoſe acquaintances, the Biſhop of ****, by far the moſt frequent viſitor, did not come merely to lounge an idle hour, but he had a more powerful motive; the deſire of fame, and dread of being thought a man receiving large emolument for unimportant ſervice.

The dean, if he did not procure him the renown he wiſhed, ſtill preſerved him from the apprehended cenſure.

The elder William was to his negligent or ignorant ſuperiors in the church, ſuch as an apt boy at ſchool is to the rich dunces—William performed the prelates' taſks for them, and they rewarded him— [64] not indeed with toys or money, but with their countenance, their company, their praiſe.—And ſcarcely was there a ſermon preached from the patrician part of the bench, that the dean did not faſhion ſome periods, blot out ſome uncouth phraſes, render ſome obſcure ſentiments intelligible, and was the certain perſon, when the work was printed, to correct the preſs.

The Honourable and Right Reverend Biſhop of **** delighted in printing and publiſhing his works; or rather the entire works of the dean, which paſſed for his—and ſo degradingly did William, the ſhopkeeper's ſon, think of his own honeſt extraction, that he was blinded, even to the loſs of honour, by the luſtre of this noble acquaintance: for though, in other reſpects, a man of integrity, yet, when the gratification of his friend was the concern, he was a liar; he not only diſowned his giving him aid in any of his publications, but he never publiſhed any thing in his own name, without declaring to the world "That he had been obliged for all the hints on the ſubject, for many of the moſt judicious corrections, and for [65] thoſe paſſages in page ſo and ſo (naming the moſt eloquent part of the work) to his noble and learned friend the biſhop.

The dean's wife being a fine lady—while her huſband and his friend pored over books or their own manuſcripts at home, ſhe ran from houſe to houſe, from public amuſement to public amuſement, but much leſs for the pleaſure of ſeeing than for that of being ſeen. Nor was it material to her enjoyment whether ſhe was obſerved, or welcome where ſhe went, as ſhe never entertained the ſmalleſt doubt of either; but reſted aſſured that her preſence rouſed curioſity and diſpenſed gladneſs all around.

One morning ſhe went forth to pay he viſits, all ſmiles, ſuch as ſhe thought captivating: ſhe returned, all tears, ſuch as ſhe thought no leſs endearing.

Three ladies accompanied her home, entreating her to be patient under a miſfortune to which even kings are liable, namely, defamation.

Young Henry, ſtruck with compaſſion at grief, of which he knew not yet the cauſe, begged to know "What was the matter?"

[66]"Inhuman monſters, to treat a woman thus!" cried his aunt in fury—caſting the corner of her eye into a looking-glaſs to ſee how rage became her.

"But, comfort yourſelf" (ſaid one of her companions) "few people will believe you merit the charge."

"But few! if only one believe it, I ſhall call my reputation loſt, and I will ſhut myſelf in ſome lonely hut, and give up all that is dear to me for ever!"

"What! all your fine cloaths!" ſaid Henry in amazement.

"Of what importance will my beſt dreffes be, when nobody would ſee them?"

"You would ſee them yourſelf, dear aunt, and I am ſure nobody admires them more."

"Now you ſpeak of that," ſaid ſhe, "I do not think this gown I have on becoming—I am ſure I look—"

The dean, with the biſhop (to whom he had been reading a treatiſe juſt going to the preſs, which was to be publiſhed in the name of the latter, though written by the former) now entered, to enquire why they had been ſent for in ſuch haſte.

[67]"Oh dean! Oh my lord!" ſhe cried, reſuming that grief which the thoughts of her dreſs had for a time diſpelled—" My reputation is deſtroyed—a public print has accuſed me of playing deep at my own houſe, and winning all the money."

"The world will never reform," ſaid the biſhop: "all our labour, my friend, is thrown away."

"But is it poſſible," cried the dean, "that any one has dared to ſay this of you?"

"Here it is in print." Said ſhe, holding out a newſpaper.

The dean read the paragraph, and then exclaimed "I can forgive a falſehood ſpoken—the warmth of converſation may excuſe it—but to write and print an untruth is unpardonable—and I will proſecute this publiſher."

"Still the falſehood will go down to poſterity," (ſaid Lady Clementina) "and after ages will think I was a gambler."

"Comfort yourſelf, dear madam," ſaid young Henry, wiſhing to conſole her, "perhaps after ages may not hear of you; nor even the preſent age think much about you."

[68]The biſhop now exclaimed, after having taken the paper from the dean and read the paragraph, "It is a libel, a rank libel, and the author muſt be puniſhed."

"Not only the author but the publiſher." Said the dean.

"Not only the publiſher, but the printer." Continued the biſhop.

"And muſt my name be bandied about by lawyers in a common court of juſtice?" cried Lady Clementina: "How ſhocking to my delicacy!"

"My lord, it is a pity we cannot try them by the eccleſiaſtical court." Said the dean, with a ſigh!

"Nor by the India delinquent bill," ſaid the biſhop with vexation.

"So totally innocent as I am!" ſhe vociferated with ſobs. "Every one knows I never touch a card at home, and this libel charges me with playing at my own houſe—and though, whenever I do play, I own I am apt to win, yet it is merely for my amuſement."

"Win or not win, play or not play," exclaimed both the church-men, "this is a libel: no doubt, no doubt, a libel."

[69]Poor Henry's confined knowledge of his native language tormented him ſo much with curioſity upon this occaſion, that he went ſoftly up to his uncle, and aſked him in a whiſper, "What was the meaning of the word libel?"

"A libel," replied the dean, in a raiſed voice, "is that, which one perſon publiſhes to the injury of another."

"And what can the injured perſon do" (aſked Henry) "if the accuſation ſhould chance to be true?"

"Proſecute." Replied the dean.

"But then, what does he do if the accuſation is falſe?"

"Proſecute likewiſe." Anſwered the dean.

"How, uncle! is it poſſible that the innocent behave juſt like the guilty?"

"There is no other way to act."

"Why then, if I was the innocent, I would do nothing at all, ſooner than I would act like the guilty. I would not perſecute—"

"I ſaid proſecute." (Cried the dean in anger) "Leave the room, you have no comprehenſion."

[70]"Oh yes, now I underſtand the difference of the two words—but they ſound ſo alike I did not obſerve the diſtinction at firſt. You ſaid "the innocent proſecute, but the guilty perſecute." He bowed (convinced as he thought) and left the room.

"After this modern ſtar-chamber, which was left ſitting, had agreed on its mode of vengeance, and the writer of the libel was made acquainted with his danger, he waited, in all humility, upon Lady Clementina, and aſſured her, with every appearance of ſincerity—

"That ſhe was not the perſon alluded to by the paragraph in queſtion, but that the initials which ſhe had conceived to mark out her name, were, in fact, meant to point out Lady Catharine Newland."

"But, Sir," cried Lady Clementina, "what could induce you to write ſuch a paragraph upon Lady Catharine? She never plays."

"We know that, madam, or we dared not have attacked her. Though we muſt circulate libels, madam, to gratify our numerous readers, yet no people are more in fear of proſecutions than authors and [71] editors; therefore, unleſs we are deceived in our information, we always take care to libel the innocent—we apprehend nothing from them—their own characters ſupport them—but the guilty are very tenacious; and what they cannot ſecure by fair means, they will employ force to accompliſh. Dear madam, be aſſured I have too much regard for a wife and ſeven ſmall children, who are maintained by my induſtry alone, to have written any thing in the nature of a libel upon your ladyſhip."

CHAPTER XVI.

[72]

ABOUT this period the dean had juſt publiſhed a pamphlet in his own name, and in which that of his friend the biſhop was only mentioned with thanks for hints, obſervations, and condeſcending encouragement to the author.

This pamphlet glowed with the dean's love for his country; and ſuch a country as he deſcribed, it was impoſſible not to love. "Salubrious air, fertile fields, wood, water, corn, graſs, ſheep, oxen, fiſh, fowl, fruit, and vegetables," were diſperſed with the moſt prodigal hand—"valiant men, pretty women; ſtateſmen wiſe and juſt; tradeſmen abounding in merchandiſe and money; huſbandmen poſſeſſing peace, eaſe, plenty: and all ranks, liberty."—This brilliant deſcription, while the dean read the work to his family, ſo charmed poor Henry that he repeatedly cried out

"I am glad I came to this country."

But it ſo happened that a few days after, Lady Clementina, in order to render [73] the delicacy of her taſte admired, could eat of no one diſh upon the table, but found fault with them all. The dean at length ſaid to her,

"Indeed you are too nice—reflect upon the hundreds of poor creatures who have not a morſel, or a drop of any thing to ſubſiſt upon, except bread and water; and even of the firſt a ſcanty allowance, but for which they are obliged to toil ſix days in the week, from ſun to ſun."

"Pray, uncle," cried Henry, "in what country do theſe poor people live?"

"In this country." Replied the dean.

Henry roſe from his chair, ran to the chimney-piece, took up his uncle's pamphlet, and ſaid, "I don't remember your mentioning them here."

"Perhaps I have not." Anſwered the dean coolly.

Still Henry turned over each leaf of the book, but he could meet only with luxurious details of "the fruits of the earth, the beaſts of the field, the birds of the air, and the fiſhes of the ſea."

"Why here is proviſion enough for all the people," ſaid Henry: "why ſhould [74] they want? why do not they go and take ſome of theſe things?"

"They muſt not," ſaid the dean, "unleſs they were their own."

"What! uncle, does no part of the earth, nor any thing which the earth produces, belong to the poor?"

"Certainly not."

"Why did not you ſay ſo then in your pamphlet?"

"Becauſe it is what every body knows."

"Oh, then, what you have ſaid in your pamphlet, is only what—nobody knows."

There appeared to the dean, in the delivery of this ſentence, a ſatirical acrimony, which his irritability as an author could but ill forgive.

An author, it is ſaid, has more acute feelings in reſpect to his works, than any artiſt in the world beſides.

Henry had ſome cauſe, on the preſent occaſion, to think this obſervation juſt; for no ſooner had he ſpoken the foregoing words, than his uncle took him by the hand out of the room; and leading him to his ſtudy, there he enumerated his various faults, and having told him "it was [75] for all thoſe, too long permitted with impunity, and not merely for the preſent impertinence, that he meant to puniſh him," ordered him to cloſe confinement in his chamber for a week.

In the mean time the dean's pamphlet (leſs hurt by Henry's critique than he had been) was proceeding to the tenth edition, and the author acquiring literary reputation beyond what he had ever conferred on his friend the biſhop.

The ſtyle, the energy, the eloquence of the work, was echoed by every reader who could afford to buy it—ſome few enlightened ones excepted, who chiefly admired the author's invention.

CHAPTER XVII.

[76]

THE dean, in the good humour which the rapid ſale of his book produced, once more took his nephew to his boſom; and although the ignorance of young Henry upon the late occaſions, had offended him very highly, yet that ſelf-ſame ignorance, evinced a ſhort time after upon a different ſubject, ſtruck his uncle, as productive of a moſt rare and exalted virtue.

Henry had frequently in his converſation betrayed the total want of all knowledge in reſpect to religion or futurity; and the dean for this reaſon delayed taking him to church, till he had previouſly given him inſtructions wherefore he went.

A leiſure morning arrived on which he took his nephew to his ſtudy, and implanted in his youthful mind, the firſt unconfuſed idea, of the Creator of the univerſe!

The dean was eloquent, Henry was all attention: his underſtanding, expanded [77] by time, to the conception of a God—and not warped by cuſtom, from the ſenſations which a juſt notion of that God inſpires, dwelt with delight and wonder on the information given him!—leſſons, which inſtilled into the head of a ſenſeleſs infant, too often produce throughout his remaining life, an impious indifference to the truths revealed.

Yet, with all that aſtoniſhed, that reſpectful ſenſibility which Henry ſhowed on this great occaſion; he ſtill expreſſed his opinion, and put queſtions to the dean with his uſual ſimplicity, till he felt himſelf convinced.

"What!" cried he—after being informed of the attributes inſeparable from the Supreme Being, and having received the injunction to offer prayers to him night and morning, "What! am I permitted to ſpeak to power divine?"

"At all times." Replied the dean.

"What! whenever I like?"

"Whenever you like." Returned the dean.

"I durſt not" (cried Henry) "make ſo free with the biſhop: nor dare any of his attendants."

[78]"The biſhop" (ſaid the dean) "is the ſervant of God, and therefore muſt be treated with reſpect."

"With more reſpect than his maſter?" aſked Henry.

The dean not replying immediately to this queſtion, Henry in the rapidity of enquiry ran to another: "But what am I to ſay, when I ſpeak to the Almighty?"

"Firſt, thank him for the favours he has beſtowed on you."

"What favours?"

"You amaze me" (cried the dean) "by your queſtion! Do not you live in eaſe, in plenty, and happineſs?"

"And do the poor, and the unhappy, thank him too, uncle?"

"No doubt—every human being glorifies him, for having been made a rational creature."

"And does my aunt and all her card parties glorify him for that?"

The dean again made no reply—and Henry went on to other queſtions, till his uncle had fully inſtructed him as to the nature and the form of prayer—and now putting into his hands a book, he pointed [79] out to him a few ſhort prayers which he wiſhed him to addreſs to heaven in his preſence.

Whilſt Henry bent his knees, as his uncle had directed, he trembled—turned pale—and held for a ſlight ſupport, on the chair placed before him.

His uncle went to him and aſked him, "What was the matter?"

"Oh!" cried Henry, "when I firſt came to your door with my poor father's letter, I ſhook for fear you would not look upon me—and I cannot help feeling, even more now, than I did then."

The dean embraced him with warmth—gave him confidence—and retired to the other ſide of the ſtudy to obſerve his whole demeanour on this new occaſion.

As he beheld his features varying between the paſſions of humble fear, and ſervent hope,—his face ſometimes glowing with the rapture of thankſgiving, and ſometimes with the bluſhes of contrition, he thus exclaimed apart:

"This is the true education on which to found the principles of religion—The favour conferred by heaven in granting [80] the freedom of petitions to its throne, can never be conceived with proper force, but by thoſe, whoſe moſt tedious moments during their infancy, were not paſſed in prayer. Unthinking governors of childhood! to inſult the Deity with a form of worſhip, in which the mind has no ſhare; nay worſe, has repugnance; and by the thoughtleſs habits of youth, prevent, even in age, devotion.

Henry's attention was ſo firmly fixed, that he forgot there was a ſpectator of his fervour; nor did he hear young William enter the chamber and even ſpeak to his father.

At length cloſing his book, and riſing from his knees, he approached his uncle and couſin with a ſedateneſs in his air, which gave the latter a very falſe opinion of the ſtate of his youthful companion's mind.

"So, Mr. Henry," cried William, "you have been obliged to ſay your prayers at laſt."

The dean informed his ſon, "That to Henry, it was no puniſhment to pray."

"He is the ſtrangeſt boy I ever knew." Said William inadvertently.

[81]"To be ſure," ſaid Henry, "I was frightened when I firſt knelt; but when I came to the words Father which art in heaven, they gave me courage; for I know how merciful and kind a father is, beyond any one elſe."

The dean again embraced his nephew; let fall a tear to his poor brother Henry's misfortunes; and admoniſhed the youth to ſhow himſelf equally ſubmiſſive to other inſtructions, as he had done to thoſe, which inculcate piety.

CHAPTER XVIII.

[82]

THE interim between youth and manhood was paſſed by young William and young Henry in ſtudious application to literature; ſome caſual miſtakes in our cuſtoms and manners on the part of Henry, ſome too cloſe adherences to them on the ſide of William.

Their different characters when boys, were preſerved when they were men: Henry ſtill retained that natural ſimplicity which his early deſtiny had given him; he wondered ſtill at many things he ſaw and heard, and at times would venture to give his opinion, contradict, and even act in oppoſition to perſons, whom long experience and the approbation of the world had placed in ſituations that claimed his implicit reverence and ſubmiſſion.

Unchanged in all his boyiſh graces, young William, now a man, was never known to infringe upon the ſtatutes of good-breeding, even though ſincerity, his own free will, duty to his neighbour, [83] with many other plebeian virtues and privileges, were the ſacrifice.

William inherited all the pride and ambition of the dean—Henry, all his father's humility. And yet (ſo various and extenſive is the acceptation of the word pride, that) on ſome occaſions, Henry was proud even beyond his couſin. He thought it far beneath his dignity, ever to honour or contemplate with awe, any human being in whom he ſaw numerous failings. Nor would he, to ingratiate himſelf into the favour of a man above him, ſtoop to one ſervility, ſuch as the haughty William daily practiſed.

"I know I am called proud." One day ſaid William to Henry.

"Dear couſin," replied Henry, "it muſt be only then, by thoſe who do not know you: for to me you appear the humbleſt creature in the world."

"Do you really think ſo?"

"I am certain of it; or would you always give up your opinion to that of perſons in a ſuperior ſtate, however inferior in their underſtanding? Would, elſe, their weak judgment immediately change [84] yours, though, before, you had been decided on the oppoſite ſide? Now indeed, couſin, I have more pride than you, for I never will ſtoop to act or to ſpeak contrary to my feelings.

"Then you will never be a great man."

"Nor ever deſire it, if I muſt firſt be a mean one."

There was in the reputation of theſe two young men another miſtake, which the common retailers of character committed. Henry was ſaid to be wholly negligent, while William was reputed to be extremely fond; of the other ſex: William indeed was gallant, was amorous, and indulged his inclination to the libertine ſociety of women; but Henry it was who loved them. He admired them at a reverential diſtance, and felt ſo tender an affection for the virtuous part, that it ſhocked him to behold, much more to aſſociate with the depraved and vicious.

In the advantages of perſon Henry was ſtill ſuperior to William, and yet the latter had no common ſhare of thoſe attractions which captivate weak, thoughtleſs, or unſkilful minds.

CHAPTER XIX.

[85]

ABOUT the time that Henry and William quitted college and had arrived at their twentieth year, the dean made the purchaſe of a ſmall eſtate in a village near to the country reſidence of Lord and Lady Bendham; and in the total want of ſociety, the dean's family were frequently honoured with invitations from the great houſe.

Lord Bendham, beſides a good eſtate, poſſeſſed the office of a lord of the bed-chamber to his majeſty. Hiſtorians do not aſcribe much importance to the ſituation, or to the talents of nobles in this department, nor ſhall this little hiſtory. A lord of the bed-chamber is a perſonage well known in courts, and in all capitals where courts reſide; with this advantage to the inquirer, that in becoming acquainted with one of thoſe noble characters, you become acquainted with all the remainder; not only with thoſe of the ſame kingdom, but thoſe of foreign [86] nations; for, in whatever land, in whatever climate, a lord of the bed-chamber muſt neceſſarily be the ſelf-ſame creature: one, wholly made up of obſervance, of obedience, of dependance, and of imitation—a borrowed character—a character formed by reflection.

The wife of this illuſtrious peer, as well as himſelf, took her hue, like the chameleon, from ſurrounding objects; her manners were not governed by her mind, but were ſolely directed by external circumſtances. At court, humble, reſigned, patient, attentive—At balls, maſquerades, gaming-tables, and routs, gay, ſprightly, and flippant—At her country ſeat, reſerved, auſtere, arrogant, and gloomy.

Though in town her timid eye, in preſence of certain perſons, would ſcarce uplift its trembling lid, ſo much ſhe felt her own inſignificance; yet, in the country, till Lady Clementina arrived, there was not one being of conſequence enough to ſhare in her acquaintance; and ſhe paid back to her inferiors there, all the humiliating ſlights, and all the mortifications [87] which in London ſhe received from thoſe to whom ſhe was inferior.

Whether in town or country, it is but juſtice to acknowledge, that in her own perſon ſhe was ſtrictly chaſte; but in the country ſhe extended that chaſtity even to the perſon of others; and the young woman who loſt her virtue in the village of Anfield, had better have loſt her life. Some few were now and then found hanging or drowned, while no other cauſe could be aſſigned for their deſpair, than an imputation on their character, and dread of the harſh purity of Lady Bendham. She would remind the pariſh prieſt of the puniſhment ordained for female diſhonour, and by her influence had cauſed many an unhappy girl to do public penance in their own or the neighbouring churches.

But this country rigour, in town, ſhe could diſpenſe withal; and like other ladies of virtue, ſhe there viſited and received into her houſe the acknowledged miſtreſſes of a man in elevated life: it was not therefore the crime, but the rank which the criminal held in ſociety, that [88] drew down Lady Bendham's vengeance: ſhe even carried her diſtinction of claſſes in female error to ſuch a very nice point, that the adulterous concubine of an elder brother was her moſt intimate acquaintance, while the leſs guilty unmarried miſtreſs of the younger, ſhe would not fully her lips to exchange a word with.

Lord and Lady Bendham's birth, education, talents, and propenſities, being much on the ſame ſcale of eminence, they would have been a very happy pair had not one great misfortune intervened—The lady never bore her lord a child.—While every cottage of the village was crammed with half-ſtarved children, whoſe father from week to week, from year to year, exerted his manly youth and waſted his ſtrength in vain to protect them from hunger; whoſe mother mourned over her new-born infant as a little wretch, ſent into the world to deprive the reſt of what already was too ſcanty for them; in the caſtle that owned every cottage and all the ſurrounding land, and where one ſingle day of feaſting would have nouriſhed for a month all the poor inhabitants [89] of the pariſh, not one child was given to partake of the plenty. The curſe of barrenneſs was on the family of the lord of the manor—the curſe of fruitfulneſs upon the famiſhed poor.

This lord and lady, with an ample fortune both by inheritance and their ſovereign's favour, had never yet the oeconomy to be exempt from debts; ſtill, over their ſplendid, their profuſe table, they could contrive and plan excellent ſchemes "how the poor might live moſt comfortably with a little better management."

The wages of a labouring man with a wife and half a dozen ſmall children, Lady Bendham thought quite ſufficient, if they would only learn a little oeconomy.

"You know, my lord, thoſe people never want to dreſs—ſhoes and ſtockings, a coat and a waiſtcoat, a gown and a cap, a petticoat and a handkerchief, is all they want—fire, to be ſure, in winter—then all the reſt is merely for proviſion."

"I'll get a pen and ink," ſaid young Henry, (one day when he had the honour [90] of being at their table) "and ſee what the reſt amounts to."

"No, no accounts," cried my lord, "no ſumming up: but if you were to calculate, you muſt add to the receipts of the poor my gift at Chriſtmas—Laſt year, during the froſt, no leſs than a hundred pounds."

"How benevolent!" Exclaimed the dean.

"How prudent!" Exclaimed Henry.

"What do you mean by prudent?" aſked Lord Bendham. "Explain your meaning."

"No, my lord," replied the dean, "do not aſk for an explanation: this youth is wholly unacquainted with our cuſtoms; and though a man in ſtature, is but a child in intellects. Henry, have not I often cautioned you—"

"Whatever his thoughts are upon this ſubject," cried Lord Bendham, "I deſire to know them."

"Why then, my lord," anſwered Henry, "I thought it was prudent in you to give a little; leſt the poor, driven to deſpair, ſhould take all."

[91]"And if they had they would have been hanged."

"Hanging, my lord, our hiſtory, or ſome tradition, ſays, was formerly adopted as a mild puniſhment, in place of ſtarving."

"I am ſure," cried Lady Bendham, (who ſeldom ſpoke directly to the argument before her) "I am ſure they ought to think themſelves much obliged to us."

"That is the greateſt hardſhip of all." Cried Henry.

"What, ſir?" Exclaimed the earl.

"I beg your pardon—my uncle looks diſpleaſed—I am very ignorant—I did not receive my firſt education in this country—and I find I think ſo differently from every one elſe, that I am aſhamed to utter my ſentiments."

"Never mind, young man," anſwered Lord Bendham: "we ſhall excuſe your ignorance for once. Only inform us what it was you juſt now called, the greateſt hardſhip of all."

"It was, my lord, that what the poor receive to keep them from periſhing, ſhould paſs under the name of gifts and [92] bounty. Health, ſtrength, and the will to earn a moderate ſubſiſtence, ought to be every man's ſecurity from obligation."

"I think a hundred pounds a great deal of money," cried Lady Bendham, "and I hope my lord will never give it again."

"And ſo do I," cried Henry, for if my lord would only be ſo good as to ſpeak a few words for the poor as a ſenator, he might poſſibly for the future keep his hundred pounds, and yet they never want it."

Lord Bendham had the good nature only to ſmile at Henry's ſimplicity, whiſpering to himſelf, "I had rather keep my—" His laſt word was loſt in the whiſper.

CHAPTER XX.

[93]

IN the country—where the ſenſible heart is ſtill more ſuſceptible of impreſſions; and where the unfeeling mind, in the want of other wits to invent, forms ſchemes for its own amuſement—our youths both fell in love; if paſſions that were purſued on the moſt oppoſite principles can receive the ſame appellation. William, well verſed in all the licentious theory, thought himſelf in love, becauſe he perceived a tumultuous impulſe cauſe his heart to beat, while his fancy fixed on a certain object, whoſe preſence agitated yet more his breaſt.

Henry thought himſelf not in love, becauſe, while he liſtened to William on the ſubject, he found their ſenſations did not in the leaſt agree.

William owned to Henry, that he loved Hannah, the daughter of a cottager in the village, and hoped to make her his miſtreſs.

[94]Henry felt that his tender regard for Rebecca, the daughter of the curate of the pariſh, did not inſpire him even with the boldneſs to acquaint her with his ſentiments, much leſs to meditate one deſign that might tend to her diſhonour.

While William was cautiouſly planning, how to meet in private, and accompliſh the ſeduction of the object of his paſſion, Henry was endeavouring to fortify the object of his choice with every virtue. He never read a book from which he received improvement, that he did not carry it to Rebecca—never knew a circumſtance that might aſſiſt towards her moral inſtruction, that he did not haſte to tell it her—and once, when William boaſted

"He knew he was beloved by Hannah;"

Henry ſaid, with equal triumph, "he had not dared to take the means to learn, nor had Rebecca dared to give one inſtance of her partiality."

Rebecca was the youngeſt, and by far the leaſt handſome daughter of four, to whom the Reverend Mr. Rymer, a [95] widower, was father. The other ſiſters were accounted beauties; and ſhe, from her comparative want of perſonal charms, having been leſs beloved by her parents, and leſs careſſed by thoſe who viſited them than the reſt, had for ſome time paſt ſought other reſources of happineſs than the affection, praiſe, and indulgence of her fellow-creatures. She read—but more—ſhe thought. The choiceſt books from her father's little library taught her to think; and reflection faſhioned her mind to bear the ſlights, the mortifications of neglect, with a patient dejection, rather than with an indignant or a peeviſh ſpirit.

This reſignation to injury and contumely gave to her perfect ſymmetry of perſon, a timid eye, a retiring manner, and ſpread upon her face a placid ſweetneſs, a pale ſerenity mixed with ſenſe and taſte, that no wiſe connoiſſeur in female charms would have exchanged for all the ſparkling eyes and florid tints of her vain and vulgar ſiſters.—Henry's ſoul was ſo much enamoured of her gentle deportment that in his ſight ſhe appeared beautiful; while ſue, with an underſtanding [96] competent to judge of his worth, was ſo greatly ſurpriſed, ſo prodigiouſly aſtoniſhed at the diſtinction, the attention, the many offices of civility paid to her by him in preference to her idoliſed ſiſters, that her gratitude for ſuch unexpected favours had ſometimes (even in his preſence, and in that of her family) nearly drowned her eyes with tears. Yet, they were only trifles, in which Henry had the opportunity or the power to give her teſtimony of his regard—trifles often more grateful to the ſenſible mind than efforts of high importance; and by which, the artiſt in the human heart will accurately trace a paſſion, wholly concealed from the dull eye of the unſkilled obſerver.

The firſt cauſe of amazement to Rebecca in the manners of Henry was, that he talked with her as well as with her ſiſters; no viſitor elſe had done ſo. In taking a morning's or an evening's walk, he propoſed her going with the reſt; no one had ever required her company before. When he called and ſhe was abſent, he aſked where ſhe was; no one [97] had ever miſſed her before.—She thanked him from her very heart, and ſoon perceived that at thoſe times, when he was preſent, company was more pleaſing even than books.

Her aſtoniſhment, her gratitude, did not ſtop here—Henry proceeded in attention—he ſoon ſelected her from her ſiſters to tell the news of the day when he chanced to call; anſwered her obſervations the firſt; once gave her a ſprig of myrtle from his boſom in preference to another who had praiſed its beauty; and once—never to be forgotten kindneſs—ſheltered her from a haſty ſhower with his parapluie, while he lamented to her drenched companions,

"That he had but one to offer."

From a man whoſe ſenſe and perſon they admire, how dear, how impreſſive on the female heart is every trait of tenderneſs! Till now, Rebecca had experienced none; not even of the parental kind; and merely from the overflowings of a kind nature (not in return for affection) had ſhe ever loved her father and her ſiſters. Sometimes, repulſed by their [98] ſeverity, ſhe transferred the fulneſs of an affectionate heart upon animals: but now her alienated mind was recalled and ſoftened by a ſenſation that made her long to complain of the burthen it impoſed—thoſe obligations which exact ſilence, are a heavy weight to the grateful—Rebecca longed to tell Henry "that her life would be too little to expreſs the full ſenſe ſhe had of the reſpect he paid to her." But as modeſty forbade not only every kind of declaration, but every inſinuation purporting what ſhe felt, ſhe wept through ſleepleſs nights from a load of ſuppreſſed explanation; yet ſtill ſhe would not have exchanged this trouble, for all the beauty of her ſiſters.

CHAPTER XXI.

[99]

OLD John and Hannah Primroſe, a prudent hardy couple, who, by many years of peculiar labour and peculiar abſtinence, were the leaſt poor of all the neighbouring cottagers, had an only child called after the mother, Hannah: and this cottage girl was reckoned, in ſpite of the beauty of the elder Miſs Rymers, by far the prettieſt female in the village.

Reader of ſuperior rank, if the paſſions which rage in the boſom of the inferior claſs of human kind are beneath your ſympathy, throw aſide this little hiſtory, for Rebecca Rymer and Hannah Primroſe are its heroines.

But you, unprejudiced reader, whoſe liberal obſervations are not confined to ſtations, but who conſider all mankind alike deſerving your inveſtigation; who believe that there exiſts in ſome, knowledge without, the advantage of inſtruction; refinement of ſentiment independent of elegant ſociety; honourable pride [100] of heart without dignity of blood; and genius deſtitute of art to render it conſpicuous—You will, perhaps, venture to read on; in hopes that the remainder of this ſtory may deſerve your attention, juſt as the wild herb of the foreſt, equally with the cultivated plant in the garden, claims the attention of the botaniſt.

When young William ſaw Hannah, he thought her even more beautiful than ſhe was thought by others; and on thoſe days that he felt no inclination to ride, to ſhoot, or to hunt, he would contrive, by ſome ſecret device, the means to meet with her alone, and give her tokens (if not of his love) at leaſt of his admiration of her beauty, and of the pleaſure he enjoyed in her company.

Hannah liſtened with a kind of delirious enchantment to all her elevated and eloquent admirer uttered; and in return for his praiſes of her charms, and his equivocal replies, in reſpect to his deſigns towards her, gave to him, her moſt undiſguiſed thoughts, and her whole enraptured heart.

This, to her apparently harmleſs, intercourſe had not laſted many weeks before [101] ſhe loved him—ſhe even confeſſed ſhe did, every time that any unwonted mark of attention from him, ſtruck with unexpected force her infatuated ſenſes.

It has been ſaid by a celebrated writer, upon the affection ſubſiſting between the two ſexes, "that there are many perſons who, if they had never heard of the paſſion of love, would never have felt it." Might it not with equal truth be added, that—there are many more, who having heard of it, and believing moſt firmly that they feel it, are nevertheleſs miſtaken? Neither of theſe caſes was the lot of Hannah. She experienced the ſentiment before ſhe ever heard it named in that ſenſe in which ſhe felt it—and ſhe felt it as genuine love alone exiſts—joined with numerous other ſentiments: for love, however rated by many, as the chief paſſion of the human heart, is but a poor dependant, a retainer upon other paſſions; admiration, gratitude, reſpect, eſteem, pride in the object—diveſt the boaſted ſenſation of theſe, and it is no more than the impreſſion of a twelve-month, by courteſy, or vulgar error, termed love.

[102]Hannah was formed by the rareſt ſtructure of the human frame, and fated by the tendereſt thrillings of the human ſoul, to inſpire and to experience real love—but her nice taſte, her delicate thoughts, were ſo refined beyond the ſphere of her own ſtation in ſociety, that nature would have produced this prodigy of attraction in vain, had not one of ſuperior education and manners aſſailed her heart: and had ſhe been accuſtomed to the converſation of men in William's rank of life, ſhe had, perhaps, treated William's addreſſes with indifference; but in comparing him with her familiar acquaintance, he was a miracle! His unremitted attention ſeemed the condeſcenſion of a ſuperior being, to whom ſhe looked up with reverence, with admiration, with awe, with pride, with ſenſe of obligation—and all thoſe various paſſions which conſtitute true, and never to be eradicated, love.

But in vain ſhe felt and even avowed with her lips what every look, every geſture, had long denoted; William, with diſcontent, ſometimes with anger, upbraided [103] her for her falſe profeſſions, and vowed "That while one tender proof, which he fervently beſought, was wanting, ſhe did but aggravate his miſery by leſſer endearments."

Hannah had been taught the full eſtimation of female virtue; and if her nature could have deteſted one being in a ſtate of wretchedneſs, it would have been the woman who had loſt her honour: yet, for William, what would not Hannah forfeit? The dignity, the peace, the ſerenity, the innocence of her own mind, love ſoon encouraged her to fancy ſhe could eaſily forego—and this ſame overpowering influence at times ſo forcibly poſſeſſed her, that ſhe even felt a momentary tranſport in the idea "of ſo precious a ſacrifice to him."—But then ſhe loved her parents; and their happineſs ſhe could not prevail on herſelf to barter even for his. She wiſhed he would demand ſome other pledge of her affection; for there was none but this, her ruin in no other ſhape, that ſhe would deny at his requeſt. While thus ſhe deliberated ſhe prepared for her fall.

[104]Bred up with ſtrict obſervance both to his moral and religious character, William did not dare to tell an unequivocal lie even to his inferiors—he never promiſed Hannah he would marry her; nay even, he paid ſo much reſpect to the forms of truth, that no ſooner was it evident that he had obtained her heart, her whole ſoul entire—ſo that loſs of innocence would be leſs terrifying than ſeparation from him—no ſooner did he perceive this, than he candidly told her he "could never make her his wife."—At the ſame time he lamented "the difference of their births, and the duty he owed his parents' hopes," in terms ſo pathetic to her partial ear, that ſhe thought him a greater object of compaſſion in love, even than herſelf; and was now urged by pity to remove the cauſe of his complainings.

One evening Henry accidentally paſſed the lonely ſpot where William and ſhe conſtantly met—he obſerved his couſin's impaſſioned eye, and her affectionate, yet fearful glance. William, he ſaw, took delight in the agitation of mind, in the ſtrong apprehenſion mixed with the love [105] of Hannah; this convinced Henry that either he, or himſelf, was not in love: for his heart told him he would not have beheld ſuch emotions of tenderneſs mingled with ſuch marks of ſorrow, upon the countenance of Rebecca, for the wealth of the univerſe.

The firſt time he was alone with William after this, he mentioned his obſervation on Hannah's apparent affliction, and aſked "Why her grief was the reſult of their ſtolen meetings?"

"Becauſe," replied William, "her profeſſions are unlimited, while her manners are reſerved; and I accuſe her of loving me with unkind moderation, while I love her to diſtraction."

"You deſign to marry her then?"

"How can you degrade me by the ſuppoſition?"

"Would it degrade you more to marry her than to make her your companion? To talk with her for hours in preference to all other company? To wiſh to be endeared to her by ſtill cloſer ties?"

"But all this is not raiſing her to the rank of my wife."

[106]"It is ſtill raiſing her to that rank, for which wives alone were allotted."

"You talk wildly!—I tell you I love her; but not enough, I hope, to marry her."

"But too much, I hope, to undo her?"

"That muſt be her own free choice—I make uſe of no unwarrantable methods."

"What are the warrantable ones?"

"I mean, I have made her no falſe promiſes—offered no pretended ſettlement—vowed no eternal conſtancy."

"But you have told her you love her; and, from that confeſſion, has ſhe not reaſon to expect every protection which even promiſes could ſecure?"

"I cannot anſwer for her expectations—but I know, if ſhe ſhould make me happy as I aſk, and I ſhould then forſake her, I ſhall not break my word."

"Still ſhe will be deceived; for you will falſify your looks."

"Do you think ſhe depends on my looks?"

"I have read in ſome book, Looks are the lover's ſole dependence."

[107]"I have no objection to her interpreting mine in her favour; but then for the conſequences, ſhe will have herſelf, and only herſelf to blame."

"Oh! heaven!"

"What makes you exclaim ſo vehemently?"

"An idea of the bitterneſs of that calamity which inflicts ſelf-reproach! Oh rather deceive her—leave her the conſolation to reproach you, rather than herſelf."

"My honour will not ſuffer me."

"Exert your honour, and never ſee her more."

"I cannot live without her."

"Then live with her by the laws of your country; and make her, and yourſelf both happy."

"Am I to make my father and my mother miſerable? They would diſown me for ſuch a ſtep."

"Your mother, perhaps, might be offended, but your father could not. Remember the ſermon he preached but laſt Sunday, upon—the ſhortneſs of this life: contempt of all riches and worldly honours [108] in balance with a quiet conſcience—and the aſſurance he gave us—that the greateſt happineſs enjoyed upon earth, was under an humble roof with heaven in proſpect."

"My father is a very good man," ſaid William, "and yet, inſtead of being ſatisfied with an humble roof, he looks impatiently forward to a biſhop's palace."

"He is ſo very good then," ſaid Henry, "that perhaps, ſeeing the dangers to which men in exalted ſtations are expoſed, he has ſuch extreme philanthropy, and ſo little ſelf-love, he would rather that himſelf ſhould brave thoſe perils incidental to wealth and grandeur, than any other perſon."

"You are not yet civiliſed," ſaid William; "and to argue with you, is but to inſtruct, without gaining inſtruction."

"I know, Sir," replied Henry, "that you are ſtudying the law moſt aſſiduouſly, and have vaſt proſpects of riſing to eminence in your profeſſion: but let me hint to you—that though you may be perfect in the knowledge how to adminiſter [109] the commandments of men, unleſs you keep in view the precepts of God, your judgment, like mine, will be fallible."

CHAPTER XXII.

[110]

THE dean's family paſſed this firſt ſummer at the new-purchaſed eſtate ſo pleaſantly, that they left it with regret when winter called them to their houſe in town.

But if ſome felt concern on quitting the village of Anfield, ſome who were left behind felt the deepeſt anguiſh. Thoſe were not the poor—for rigid attention to the morals of people in poverty, and total neglect of their bodily wants, was the dean's practice. He forced them to attend church on every ſabbath; but whether they had a dinner on their return, was too groſs and temporal an enquiry for his ſpiritual fervour. Good of the ſoul was all he aimed at; and this pious undertaking, beſides his diligence as a paſtor, required all his exertion as a magiſtrate—for to be very poor and very honeſt, very oppreſſed yet very thankful, is a degree of ſainted excellence not to be attained without the aid of zealous men to frighten into virtue.

[111]Thoſe then, who alone felt ſorrow at the dean's departure, were two young women, whoſe parents, exempt from indigence, preſerved them from ſuffering under his unpitying piety; but whoſe diſcretion had not protected them from the bewitching ſmiles of his nephew, and ſeducing wiles of his ſon.

The firſt morning that Rebecca roſe and knew Henry was gone till the following ſummer, ſhe wiſhed ſhe could have lain down again and ſlept away the whole long interval. Her ſiſters' peeviſhneſs, her father's auſterity, ſhe foreſaw, would be inſupportable now that ſhe had experienced Henry's kindneſs, and he was no longer near to fortify her patience. She ſighed—ſhe wept—ſhe was unhappy.

But if Rebecca awoke with a dejected mind and an a king heart, what were the ſorrows of Hannah? The only child of two doating parents, ſhe never had been taught the neceſſity of reſignation—untutored, unread, unuſed to reflect, but knowing how to feel; what were her ſufferings when, on waking, ſhe called to mind that "William was gone," and [112] with him gone all that exceſs of happineſs which his preſence had beſtowed, and for which ſhe had exchanged her future tranquillity.

Loſs of tranquillity even Rebecca had to bemoan—Hannah had ſtill more—the loſs of innocence!

Had William remained in the village, ſhame, even conſcience perhaps had ſlept; but ſeparated from her betrayer, parted from the joys of guilt, and left only to its ſorrows, every ſting which quick ſenſibility could ſharpen, was transfixed in her heart to torture her. Firſt came the recollection of a cold farewell from the man whoſe love ſhe had hoped her yielding paſſion had for ever won—next, flaſhed on her thoughts her violated perſon—next, the crime incurred—next, her cruelty to her tender parents—and laſt of all came the horrors of detection.

She knew that as yet, by warineſs, care, and contrivance, her meetings with William had been unſuſpected; but in this agony of mind her fears foreboded an informer who would defy all caution; who would ſtigmatiſe her with a name—dear [113] and deſired by every virtuous female—abhorrent to the bluſhing harlot—the name of mother.

That Hannah, thus impreſſed, could riſe from her bed, meet her parents and her neighbours with her uſual ſmile of vivacity, and voice of mirth, was impoſſible—to leave her bed at all, to creep down ſtairs, and reply in a faint broken voice to queſtions aſked, were, in her ſtate of mind, mighty efforts; and all to which her ſtruggles could attain for many weeks.

William had promiſed to write to her while he was away: he kept his word; but not till the end of two months ſhe received a letter. Fears for his health, apprehenſion of his death during this cruel interval, cauſed an agony of ſuſpence that, by repreſenting him to her diſtracted fancy in a ſtate of ſuffering, made him, if poſſible, ſtill dearer to her. In the excruciating anguiſh of uncertainty, ſhe walked with trembling ſteps through all weathers (when ſhe could ſteal half a day while her parents were employed in labour abroad) to the poſt [114] town at ſix miles diſtance, to enquire for his long expected, long wiſhed for letter. When at laſt it was given to her, that moment of conſolation ſeemed to repay her for the whole time of agoniſing terror ſhe had endured. "He is alive!" ſhe ſaid, "and I have ſuffered nothing."

She haſtily put this token of his health and his remembrance of her into her boſom, rich as an empreſs with a new-acquired dominion. The way from home, which ſhe had trod with heavy pace, in the fear of renewed diſappointment, ſhe ſkimmed along on her return ſwift as a doe—the cold did not pierce, neither did the rain wet her. Many a time ſhe put her hand upon the prize ſhe poſſeſſed, to find if it were ſafe—once, on the road, ſhe took it from her boſom, curiouſly viewed the ſeal and the direction, then replacing it, did not move her fingers from their faſt gripe, till ſhe arrived at home.

Her father and her mother were ſtill abſent. She drew a chair, and placing it near to the only window in the room, ſeated herſelf with ceremonious order; [115] and then, gently drew forth her treaſure; laid it on her knee; and with a ſmile that almoſt amounted to a laugh of gladneſs, once more inſpected the outward part, before ſhe would truſt herſelf with the exceſſive joy of looking within.

"At length the ſeal was broken—but the contents ſtill a ſecret. Poor Hannah had learned to write as ſome youths learn Latin; ſo ſhort a time had been allowed for the acquirement, and ſo little expert had been her maſter, that it took her generally a week to write a letter of ten lines, and a month to read one of twenty. But this being a letter on which her mind was deeply engaged, her whole imagination aided her ſlender literature, and at the end of a fortnight ſhe had made out every word.—They were theſe,

Dr. HANNAH,

I HOPE you have been well ſince we parted—I have been very well myſelf, but I have been teazed with a great deal of buſineſs, which has not given me time to write to you before—I have been called to the bar, which [116] engages every ſpare moment—but I hope it will not prevent my coming down to Anfield with my father in the ſummer.

I am, Dr. Hannah,
With gratitude for all the favours you have conferred on me, Yours, &c. W. N.

To have beheld the illiterate Hannah try for two weeks, day and night, to find out the exact words of this letter, it would have ſtruck the ſpectator with amazement to have underſtood the right, the delicate, the nicely proper ſenſations with which ſhe was affected by every ſentence it contained.

She wiſhed it had been kinder, even for his ſake who wrote it—becauſe ſhe thought ſo well of him, and deſired ſtill to think ſo well, that ſhe was ſorry at any faults that rendered him leſs worthy of her good opinion. The cold civility of his letter had this effect—her clear, her acute judgment felt it a kind of prevarication to promiſe to write—and then write [117] nothing that was hoped for. But enthralled by the magic of her paſſion, ſhe ſhortly found excuſes for the man ſhe loved, at the expence of her own condemnation:

"He has only the fault of inconſtancy," ſhe cried, "and that has been cauſed by my change of conduct—had I been virtuous ſtill, he had ſtill been affectionate." Bitter thought!

Yet there was a ſentence in the letter, that, worſe than all the tenderneſs left out, wounded her ſenſibility—and ſhe could not read the line, gratitude for all the favours conferred on me, without turning pale with horror, then kindling with indignation at the common-place thanks which inſultingly reminded her of her innocence, her peace of mind, given in exchange for unmeaning acknowledgement.

CHAPTER XXIII.

[118]

ABSENCE is ſaid to encreaſe ſtrong and virtuous love, but to deſtroy that which is weak and ſenſual. In the parallel between young William and young Henry, this was the caſe; for Henry's real love encreaſed, while William's turbulent paſſion declined in ſeparation: yet had the latter not ſo much abated that he did not perceive a ſenſation, like a ſudden ſhock of ſorrow, on a propoſal made him by his father, of entering the marriage ſtate with a young woman, the dependent niece of Lady Bendham; who, as the dean informed him, had ſignified her lord's and her own approbation of his becoming their nephew.

At the firſt moment William received this intimation from his father, his heart revolted with diſguſt from the object, and he inſtantly thought upon Hannah, with more affection than he had done for many weeks before. This was from the compariſon between her and his propoſed [119] wife; for he had frequently ſeen Miſs Sedgeley at Lord Bendham's, but had never ſeen in her whole perſon, or manners, the leaſt attraction to excite his love. He pictured to himſelf an unpleaſant home with a companion ſo little ſuited to his taſte, and felt a pang of conſcience, as well as of attachment, in the thought of giving up poor Hannah.

But theſe reflections, theſe feelings laſted no longer than for the moment: no ſooner had the dean explained why the marriage was deſirable, recited what great connections, and what great patronage it would confer upon their family, than William liſtened with eagerneſs, and both his love and his conſcience were, if not wholly quieted, at leaſt for the preſent huſhed.

Immediately after the dean had expreſſed to Lord and Lady Bendham his ſon's "ſenſe of the honour and the happineſs conferred on him by their condeſcenſion in admitting him a member of their noble family"—Miſs Sedgeley received from her aunt, nearly the ſame ſhock as William had done from his [120] father. For ſhe had frequently ſeen the dean's ſon at Lord Bendham's, but had never ſeen in his whole perſon or manners the leaſt attraction to excite her love—ſhe pictured to herſelf an unpleaſant home with a companion ſo little ſuited to her taſte: and at this moment ſhe felt a more than uſual partiality to the dean's nephew, finding the ſecret hope ſhe had long indulged, of winning his affections, ſo near being thwarted.

But Miſs Sedgeley was too much ſubjected to the power of her uncle and aunt to have a will of her own, at leaſt, to dare to utter it. She received the commands of Lady Bendham with her accuſtomed ſubmiſſion, while all the conſolation for the grief they gave her was, "that ſhe reſolved to make a very bad wife."

"I ſhall not care a pin for my huſband," ſhe ſaid to herſelf, "and ſo I will dreſs and viſit, and do juſt as I like—he dares not be unkind becauſe of my aunt. Beſides, now I think again, it is not ſo diſagreeable to marry him as if I were obliged to marry into any other family, becauſe I ſhall ſee his couſin Henry as often, if not oftener, than ever.

[121]For Miſs Sedgeley, with a perſon he did not like, and with a mind thus diſpoſed, William began to force himſelf to ſhake off every little remaining affection, even all pity, for the unfortunate, the beautiful, the ſenſible, the doating Hannah; and determined to place in a ſituation to look down with ſcorn upon her ſorrows, this weak, this unprincipled woman.

Connections, intereſt, honours, were powerful advocates—his private happineſs William deemed trivial, compared to public opinion—and to be under obligations to a peer his wife's relation, gave greater renown in his ſervile mind, than all the advantages that might accrue from his own intrinſic independent worth.

In the uſual routine of pretended regard, and real indifference, ſometimes diſguſt, between parties allied by what is falſely termed prudence, the intended union of Mr. Norwynne with Miſs Sedgeley proceeded in all due form; and at their country ſeats at Anfield, during the ſummer, their nuptials were appointed to be celebrated.

[122]William was now introduced into all Lord Bendham's courtly circles—his worldly ſoul was entranced in glare and ſhow—he thought of nothing but places, penſions, titles, retinues: and ſtedfaſt, alert, unſhaken in the purſuit of honours, neglected not the leſſer means of riſing to preferment—his own endowments. But in this round of attention to pleaſures and to ſtudy, he no more complained to Hannah of "exceſs of buſineſs." Cruel as ſhe had once thought that letter in which he thus apologiſed for neglecting her, ſhe at laſt began to think it was wondrous kind; for he never found time to ſend her another. Yet ſhe had ſtudied with all her moſt anxious care to write him an anſwer; ſuch a one as might not leſſen her underſtanding, which he had often praiſed, in his eſteem.

Ah William! even with leſs anxiety your beating ambitious heart panted for the admiration of an attentive auditory, when you firſt ventured to harangue in public!—With far leſs hope and fear (great as yours were) did you firſt addreſs a crowded court, and thirſt for its approbation [123] on your efforts, than Hannah ſighed for your approbation, when ſhe took a pen and awkwardly ſcrawled over a ſheet of paper. Near twenty times ſhe began—but to a gentleman—and one ſhe loved like William—what could ſhe dare to ſay? Yet ſhe had enough to tell, if ſhame had not interpoſed—or, if remaining confidence in his affection had but encouraged her.

Overwhelmed by the firſt, and deprived of the laſt, her hand ſhook, her head drooped, and ſhe dared not communicate what ſhe knew muſt inevitably render her letter unpleaſing: and ſtill more depreciate her in his regard as the occaſion of encumbrance; and of injury to his moral reputation.

Her free, her liberal, her venturous ſpirit ſubdued, intimidated by the force of affection, ſhe only wrote—

SIR,

I am ſorry you have ſo much to do, and ſhould be aſhamed if you put it off to write to me. I have not been at all well this winter—I never before [124] paſſed ſuch a one in all my life, and I hope you will never know ſuch a one yourſelf in regard to not being happy—I ſhould be ſorry if you did—think I would rather go through it again myſelf than you ſhould. I long for the ſummer, the fields are ſo green, and every thing ſo pleaſant at that time of the year. I always do long for the ſummer, but I think never ſo much in my life as for this that is coming—though ſometimes I wiſh that laſt ſummer had never come. Perhaps you wiſh ſo too—and that this ſummer would not come either.

Hope you will excuſe all faults, as I never learnt but one month.

Your obedient humble ſervant, H. P.

CHAPTER XXIV.

[125]

SUMMER arrived—and lords and ladies who had partaken of all the diſſipation of the town, whom opera-houſes, gaming-houſes, and various other houſes had detained whole nights from their peaceful home, were now poured forth from the metropolis, to imbibe the wholeſome air of the farmer and peaſant, and diſſeminate in return moral and religious principles.

Among the reſt, Lord and Lady Bendham, ſtrenuous oppoſers of vice in the poor, and gentle ſupporters of it in the rich, never played at cards, or had concerts on a Sunday, in the village, where the poor were ſpies—he there never gamed, or drank, except in private—and ſhe baniſhed from her doors every female of ſullied character. Yet poverty and idiotiſm are not the ſame—the poor can hear, can talk, ſometimes can reflect—ſervants will tell their equals how they live in town—liſteners will ſmile and [126] ſhake their heads—and thus, hypocriſy, inſtead of cultivating, deſtroys every ſeed of moral virtue.

The arrival of Lord Bendham's family at Anfield, announced to the village that the dean's would quickly follow. Rebecca's heart bounded with joy at the proſpect—Poor Hannah felt a ſinking, a foreboding tremor, that wholly interrupted the joy of her expectations—She had not heard from William for five tedious months—ſhe did not know whether he loved or deſpiſed—whether he thought of, or had forgotten her. Her reaſon argued againſt the hope that he loved her—yet hope ſtill ſubſiſted—ſhe would not abandon herſelf to deſpair while there was doubt—ſhe "had frequently been deceived from the appearance of circumſtances, and perhaps he might come all kindneſs—perhaps—even not like her the leſs for that indiſpoſition which had changed her bloom to paleneſs, and the ſparkling of her eyes to a penſive languor."

Henry's ſenſations on his return to Anfield were the ſelf-ſame as Rebecca's were: [127] ſympathy in thought, ſympathy in affection, ſympathy in virtue, made them ſo. As he approached near the little village, he felt more light than uſual. He had committed no treſpaſs there, dreaded no one's reproach or enquiries, but his arrival might prove, at leaſt to one object, the cauſe of rejoicing.

William's ſenſations were the reverſe of theſe. In ſpite of his ambition, and the flattering view of accompliſhing all to which it aſpired, he often, as they proceeded on their journey, envied the gaiety of Henry, and felt an inward monitor, that told him, "he muſt firſt act like Henry, to be as happy."

His intended marriage was ſtill, to the families of both parties, (except to the heads of the houſes) a profound ſecret. Neither the ſervants, nor even Henry had received the ſlighteſt intimation of the deſigned alliance; and this to William was matter of ſome comfort.

When men ſubmit to act in contradiction to their principles, nothing is ſo precious as a ſecret. In their eſtimation, to have their conduct known is the eſſential [128] miſchief—while it is hid, they fancy the ſin but half committed; and to the moiety of a crime they reconcile their feelings, till, in progreſſion, the whole, when diſcloſed, appears trivial. He deſigned that Hannah ſhould receive the news from himſelf by degrees, and in ſuch a manner as to conſole her, or at leaſt to ſilence her complaints: and with the wiſh to ſoften, the ſomething like, regret, which he ſtill felt on the prudent neceſſity of yielding her up when his marriage ſhould take place, he promiſed to himſelf ſome intervening hours of private meetings, which he hoped would produce ſatiety.

While Henry flew to Mr. Rymer's houſe with a conſcience clear, and a face enlightened with gladneſs; while he met Rebecca with open-hearted friendſhip and frankneſs that charmed her foul to peaceful happineſs; William ſkulked around the cottage of Hannah, dreading detection; and when towards midnight he found the means to obtain the company of the ſad inhabitant, he grew ſo impatient at her tears and ſobs, at the [129] delicacy with which ſhe with-held her careſſes, that he burſt into bitter upbraidings at her coyneſs; and at length (without diſcovering the cauſe of her peculiar agitation and reſerve) abruptly left her, vowing "never to ſee her more."

As he turned away, his heart even congratulated him, "that he had made ſo diſcreet a uſe of his momentary diſappointment, as thus to ſhake her off at once without farther explanation or excuſe."

She, ignorant and illiterate as ſhe was, knew enough of her own heart to judge of his, and to know, that ſuch violent affections and expreſſions, above all, ſuch a ſudden, heart-breaking, manner of departure, were not the effects of love: not even of humanity. She felt herſelf debaſed by a ruffian—yet ſtill, having loved him when ſhe thought him otherwiſe, the blackeſt proof of the deception could not eraſe a ſentiment, formed while ſhe was deceived.

She paſſed the remainder of the night in anguiſh—but with the cheerful morning ſome cheerly thoughts aroſe. She [130] thought "perhaps William by this time had found himſelf to blame—had conceived the cauſe of her grief and her diſtant behaviour, and had pitied her."

The next evening ſhe waited with anxious heart for the ſignal that had called her out the foregoing night—in vain ſhe watched, counted the hours, and the ſtars, and liſtened to the nightly ſtillneſs of the fields around: they were not diſturbed by the tread of her lover.—Day-light came; the ſun roſe in its ſplendour; William had not been near her, and it ſhone upon none ſo miſerable as Hannah.

She now conſidered his word, "never to ſee her more," as ſolemnly paſſed—ſhe heard anew the impreſſive, the implacable tone in which the ſentence was pronounced; and could look back on no late token of affection, on which to found the ſlighteſt hope that he would recall it.

Still, reluctant to deſpair—in the extremity of grief, in the extremity of fear for an approaching criſis that muſt ſpeedily arrive, ſhe (after a few days had elapſed) truſted a neighbouring peaſant [131] with a letter to deliver to Mr. Norwynne in private.

This letter, unlike the laſt, was dictated without the hope to pleaſe—no pains were taken with the ſtyle, no care in the formation of the letters—the words flowed from neceſſity; ſtrong neceſſity guided her hand.

SIR,

I BEG your pardon—pray don't forſake me all at once—ſee me one time more—I have ſomething to tell you—it is what I dare tell nobody elſe—and what I am aſhamed to tell you—yet pray give me a word of advice—what to do I don't know—I then will part if you pleaſe, never to trouble you, never any more—but hope to part friends—pray do if you pleaſe—and ſee me one time more.

Your obedient, H. P.

Theſe incorrect, inelegant lines produced this immediate reply:—

[132]
TO HANNAH PRIMROSE.

I have often told you that my honour is as dear to me as my life—my word is a part of that honour—you heard me ſay I would never ſee you again—I ſhall keep my word.

CHAPTER XXV.

[133]

WHEN the dean's family had been at Anfield about a month—One miſty morning, ſuch as portends a ſultry day, as Henry was walking ſwiftly through a thick wood on the ſkirts of the pariſh, he ſuddenly ſtarted on hearing a diſtant groan, expreſſive as he thought, both of bodily and mental pain. He ſtopped to hear it repeated that he might purſue the ſound. He heard it again; and though now but in murmurs, yet as the tone implied exceſſive grief, he directed his courſe to that part of the wood from whence it came.

As he advanced, in ſpite of the thick fog, he diſcerned the appearance of a female ſcudding away on his approach. His eye was fixed on this object; and regardleſs where he placed his feet, ſoon he ſhrunk back with horror, on perceiving they had nearly trod upon a new-born infant, lying on the ground!—a lovely male child, entered on a world where [134] not one preparation had been made to receive him.

"Ah!" cried Henry, forgetting the perſon who had fled, and with a ſmile of compaſſion on the helpleſs infant, "I am glad I have found you—you give more joy to me, than you have done to your hapleſs parents. Poor dear," (continued he, while he took off his coat to wrap it in,) "I will take care of you while I live—I will beg for you rather than you ſhall want—but firſt, I will carry you to thoſe who at preſent can do more for you than myſelf."

Thus Henry ſaid, and though while he incloſed the child carefully in his coat, and took it in his arms. But about to walk his way with it, an unlucky query ſtruck him, where he ſhould go.

"I muſt not take it to the dean's," he cried, "becauſe Lady Clementina will ſuſpect it is not nobly, and my uncle will ſuſpect it is not lawfully, born. Nor muſt I take it to Lord Bendham's for the ſelf-ſame reaſon—though, could it call Lady Bendham mother, this whole village, nay the whole country round would [135] ring with rejoicings for its birth. How ſtrange!" continued he, "that, we ſhould make ſo little of human creatures, that one ſent among us, wholly independent of his own high value, becomes a curſe inſtead of a bleſſing by the mere accident of worthleſs circumſtances."

He now, after walking out of the wood, peeped through the folds of his coat to look again at his charge—He ſtarted, turned pale, and trembled to behold what, in the ſurpriſe of firſt ſeeing the child, had eſcaped his obſervation. Around its little throat was a cord entwined by a ſlipping nooſe, and drawn half way—as if the trembling hand of the murderer had revolted from its dreadful office, and he or ſhe had left the infant to pine away with nakedneſs and hunger, rather than ſee it die.

Again Henry wiſhed himſelf joy of the treaſure he had found; and more ſervently than before; for he had not only preſerved one fellow creature from death, but another from murder.

Once more he looked at his charge, and was tranſported to obſerve, upon its ſerene [136] brow and ſleepy eye, no traces of the dangers it had paſſed—no trait of ſhame either for itſelf or its parents—no diſcompoſure at the unwelcome reception it was likely to encounter from a proud world!—He now ſlipped the fatal ſtring from its neck; and; by this affectionate diſturbance cauſing the child to cry, he ran (but he ſcarce knew whither) to convey it to a better nurſe.

He at length found himſelf at the door of his dear Rebecca—for ſo very happy Henry felt at the good luck which had befallen him, that he longed to beſtow a part of the bleſſing upon her he loved.

He ſent for her privately out of the houſe to ſpeak to him.—When ſhe came,

"Rebecca," ſaid he (looking around that no one obſerved him) "Rebecca, I have brought you ſomething you will like."

"What is it?" ſhe aſked.

"You know, Rebecca, that you love deſerted birds, ſtrayed kittens, and motherleſs lambs—I have brought ſomething more pitiable than any of theſe. [137] Go, and get a cap and a little gown, and then I will give it you."

"A gown!" exclaimed Rebecca. "If you have brought me a monkey, much as I ſhould eſteem any preſent from you, indeed I cannot touch it."

"A monkey!" repeated Henry, almoſt in anger—then changing the tone of his voice, exclaimed in triumph,

"It is a child!"

On this he gave it a gentle pinch, that its cry might confirm the pleaſing truth he ſpoke.

"A child!" Repeated Rebecca in amaze.

"Yes, and indeed I found it."

"Found it?"

"Indeed I did. The mother, I fear, had juſt forſaken it."

"Inhuman creature!"

"Nay, hold Rebecca! I am ſure you will pity her when you ſee her child—you then will know ſhe muſt have loved it—and will conſider how much ſhe certainly had ſuffered, before ſhe left it to periſh in a wood."

[138]"Cruel!" Once more exclaimed Rebecca.

"Oh! Rebecca, perhaps, had ſhe poſſeſſed a home of her own, ſhe would have given it the beſt place in it—had ſhe poſſeſſed money, ſhe would have dreſſed it with the niceſt care—or had ſhe been accuſtomed to diſgrace, ſhe would have gloried in calling it hers! But now, as it is, it is ſent to us, to you and me, Rebecca, to take care of."

Rebecca, ſoothed by Henry's compaſſionate eloquence, held out her arms and received the important parcel—and, as ſhe kindly looked in upon the little ſtranger,

"Now are not you much obliged to me," ſaid Henry, "for having brought it to you? I know no one but yourſelf to whom I would have truſted it with pleaſure."

"Much obliged to you," repeated Rebecca with a very ſerious face, "if I did but know what to do with it—where to put it—where to hide it from my father and ſiſters."

[139]"Oh! any where"—returned Henry. "It is very good—it will not cry—But if they ſhould diſcover it, they will take it from you, proſecute the wretched mother, and ſend the child to the work-houſe."

"I will do all I can;" replied Rebecca, "and I know I can take milk from the dairy, and bread from the pantry, without its being miſſed, or my father much the poorer.—But if it ſhould cry—"

That inſtant they were interrupted by the appearance of the ſtern curate at a little diſtance—Henry was obliged to run ſwiftly away, while Rebecca returned by ſtealth into the houſe with her innocent burthen.

CHAPTER XXVI.

[140]

THERE is a word in the vocabulary more bitter, more direful in its import, than all the reſt.—Reader, if poverty, if diſgrace, if bodily pain, even if ſlighted love is your unhappy fate, kneel and bleſs heaven for its beneficent influence, ſo that you are not tortured with the anguiſh of—remorſe.

Deep contrition for paſt offences had long been the puniſhment of unhappy Hannah; but till the day ſhe brought her child into the world, remorſe had been averted. From that day life became an inſupportable load, for all reflection was torture! To think—merely to think, was to ſuffer excruciating agony—yet, never before was thought ſo intruſive—it haunted her in every ſpot, in all ſocieties—ſleep was no ſhelter—ſhe never ſlept but her racking dreams told her—"ſhe had ſlain her infant."

They preſented to her view the naked innocent whom ſhe had longed to preſs [141] to her boſom while ſhe lifted up her hand againſt its life—They laid before her the ſmiling babe whom her eye-balls ſtrained to behold once more, while her feet hurried her away for ever.

Often had Hannah, by the winter's fire, liſtened to tales of ghoſts—of the unceaſing ſting of a guilty conſcience—often had ſhe ſhuddered at the recital of murders—often had ſhe wept over the ſtory of the innocent put to death; and ſtood aghaſt that the human mind could perpetrate the heinous crime of aſſaſſination!

From the tendereſt paſſion the moſt ſavage impulſe may ariſe—In the deep receſſes of fondneſs, ſometimes is implanted the root of cruelty—and from loving William with unbounded lawleſs affection, ſhe found herſelf depraved ſo as to become the very object, that could moſt of all excite her own horror!

Still at delirious intervals, that paſſion, which like a fatal taliſman had enchanted her whole ſoul, held out the deluſive proſpect that—"William might yet relent"—for though ſhe had for ever diſcarded the idea of peace, ſhe could not [142] force herſelf to think, but that again bleſt with his ſociety ſhe ſhould, at leaſt for the time that he was preſent, taſte the ſweet cup of "forgetfulneſs of the paſt," for which ſhe ſo ardently thirſted.

"Should he return to me," ſhe thought in thoſe paroxyſms of deluſion, "I would to him unboſom all my guilt; and as a remote, a kind of innocent accomplice in my crime, his ſenſe, his arguments, ever ready in making light of my ſins, might afford a reſpite to my troubled conſcience."

While thus ſhe unwittingly thought, and ſometimes watched through the night, ſtarting with convulſed rapture at every ſound, becauſe it might poſſibly be the harbinger of him; he was buſied in carefully looking over marriage articles, fixing the place of reſidence with his deſtined bride, or making love to her in formal proceſs.—Yet, Hannah, vaunt—he ſometimes thought on thee—he could not witneſs the folly, the weakneſs, the vanity, the ſelfiſhneſs of his future wife, without frequently comparing her with thee. When equivocal words, and prevaricating [143] ſentences fell from her lips, he remembered with a ſigh thy candour—that open ſincerity which dwelt upon thy tongue, and ſeemed to vie with thy undiſguiſed features, to charm the liſtener even beyond the ſpectator. While Miſs Sedgeley eagerly graſped at all the preſents he offered, he could not but call to mind that Hannah's declining hand was always cloſed, and her looks forbidding, every time he proffered ſuch diſreſpectful tokens of his love." He recollected the ſoftneſs that beamed from Hannah's eyes, the bluſh on her face at his approach, while he could never diſcern one glance of tenderneſs from the niece of Lord Bendham: and the artificial bloom on her cheeks was nearly as diſguſting, as the ill-conducted artifice with which ſhe attempted gentleneſs and love.

But all theſe impediments were only obſerved as trials of his fortitude—his prudence could overcome his averſion, and thus he valued himſelf upon his manly firmneſs.

'Twas now, that having rid himſelf, by Hannah's peeviſhneſs, moſt honourably [144] of all future ties to her; and the day of his marriage with Miſs Sedgeley being fixed, that Henry with the reſt of the houſe, learnt, what, to them, was news.—The firſt dart of Henry's eye upon William when, in his preſence, he was told of it, cauſed a reddening on the face of the latter: he always fancied Henry ſaw his thoughts, and he knew that Henry in return would give him his. On the preſent occaſion, no ſooner were they alone, and Henry began to utter them, than William charged him

"Not to dare to proceed; for that, too long accuſtomed to trifle, the time was come when ſerious matters could alone employ his time; and when men of approved ſenſe muſt take place of friends and confidents like him."

Henry replied, "The love, the ſincerity of friends, I thought, were their beſt accompliſhments; thoſe I poſſeſs."

"But you do not poſſeſs knowledge."

"If that is knowledge which has of late eſtranged you from all who bear you a ſincere affection; which imprints every day more and more upon your features [145] the marks of gloomy inquietude, am I not happier in my ignorance?"

"Do not torment me with your ineffectual reaſoning."

"I called at the cottage of poor Hannah the other day," returned Henry. "Her father and mother were eating their homely meal alone; and when I aſked for their daughter, they wept and ſaid—Hannah was not the girl ſhe had been."

William caſt his eyes on the floor.

Henry proceeded—"They ſaid a ſickneſs, which they feared would bring her to the grave, had preyed upon her for ſome time paſt. They had procured a doctor, but no remedy was found, and they feared the worſt."

"What worſt?" cried William, (now recovered from the effect of the ſudden intelligence, and attempting a ſmile) "Do they think ſhe will die? And do you think it will be for love? We do not hear of theſe deaths often, Henry."

"And if ſhe die, who will hear of that? No one but thoſe intereſted to conceal the cauſe: and thus it is, that dying for love becomes a phenomenon."

[146]Henry would have purſued the diſcourſe farther, but William, impatient on all ſubjects, except where his argument was the better, retired from the controverſy, crying out "I know my duty, and want no inſtructor."

It would be unjuſt to William to ſay, he did not feel for Hannah's reported illneſs—he felt, during that whole evening, and part of the next morning—but buſineſs, pleaſures, new occupations, and new ſchemes of future ſucceſs, crowded to diſſipate all unwelcome reflections: and he truſted in her youth, her health, her animal ſpirits, and above all, in the folly of the goſſips' ſtory of dying for love, as a ſurety for her life, and a ſafeguard for his conſcience.

CHAPTER XXVII.

[147]

THE child of William and Hannah was ſecreted by Rebecca in her own chamber, a garret, and at ſome diſtance from where her ſiſters ſlept. There ſhe adminiſtered to all its wants, viewed almoſt with the joy of a mother its health, its promiſed life; and in a ſhort time found ſhe loved her little gift, better than any thing on earth, except the giver.

Henry called the next day, and the next, and many ſucceeding times, in hopes of an opportunity to ſpeak alone with Rebecca, to enquire concerning her charge, and conſult when, and how, he could privately relieve her from her truſt; as he now meant to procure a nurſe for wages. In vain he called or lurked around the houſe—for near five weeks all the converſation he could obtain with her was in the company of her ſiſters, who beginning to obſerve his preference, his marked attention to her, indulged [148] their envy and reſentment at the contempt ſhown to their charms, by watching her ſteps when he was away, and her every look and whiſper while he was preſent.

For five weeks, then, he was continually thwarted in his expectation of meeting her alone; and at the end of that period, the whole deſign he had to accompliſh by ſuch a meeting, was rendered abortive.

Though Rebecca had every day and night with ſtricteſt caution locked her bed-chamber door, and covered the crevices, and every aperture of her room through which ſound might more eaſily proceed; though ſhe had ſurrounded the infant's head with pillows to obſtruct all noiſe from his crying, yet one unlucky night, the ſtrength of his voice encreaſing with his age, he was heard by the maid who ſlept in the oppoſite garret.

Not meaning to injure her young miſtreſs, the ſervant next morning ſimply related to the family what ſounds had ſtruck her ear during the night; but from what part of the houſe they came, ſhe would [149] not undertake directly to ſay.—At firſt ſhe was ridiculed "for ſuppoſing herſelf awake when in reality ſhe muſt be dreaming." But ſtedfaſtly perſiſting in what ſhe had ſaid, and Rebecca's confuſion giving much colour to the improbable tale, her chamber was ſearched by her ſiſters, the infant diſcovered, and brought down to their father.

That account which Henry had given Rebecca "of his having found the child," and which her own ſincerity, joined to the faith ſhe had in his word, made her receive as truth; ſhe now felt would be heard by the preſent auditors with contempt, even with indignation, as a falſehood.—Her affright is better to be conceived than deſcribed.

Dragged by her ſiſters along with the child before the curate, his crimſoned face, knit brow, and thundering voice, ſtruck with terror her very ſoul—Innocence is not always a protection againſt fear—ſometimes leſs bold than guilt.

In her father and ſiſters, ſhe ſaw, ſhe knew the ſuſpicious, partial, cruel, boiſterous natures by whom ſhe was to be [150] judged; and timid, gentle, oppreſſed ſhe fell trembling on her knees, and could only articulate

"Forgive me."

The curate would not liſten to this ſupplication till ſhe had replied to his queſtion—"Whoſe child is this?"

She replied "I do not know."

Queſtioned louder, and with more violence ſtill, "How the child came there, and whoſe it was?" She felt the improbability of the truth ſtill more forcibly than before, and dreaded ſome immediate peril from her father's rage, ſhould ſhe dare to relate an apparent lie—ſhe pauſed to think upon a more probable tale than the real one—and as ſhe heſitated, ſhook in every limb—while her father exclaimed—

"I underſtand the cauſe of this terror!—From your infancy I have predicted that ſome fatal cataſtrophe would befall you—I never loved you like my other children—I never had the cauſe—you were always unlike the reſt—and I knew your ſate would be calamitous—but the very worſt of my fore-bodings did not [151] come to this—ſo young, ſo guilty, and ſo artful!—tell me this inſtant, are you married?"

Rebecca anſwered, "No."

The ſiſters lifted up their hands!

The father continued—"Vile proſtitute, I thought as much.—Still I will know the father of this child."

She caſt up her eyes to heaven, and firmly vowed ſhe "did not know herſelf—nor who the mother was."

"This is not to be borne!" exclaimed the curate in fury. "Perſiſt in this, and you never ſee my face again. Both your child and you I'll turn out of my houſe inſtantly, unleſs you confeſs your crime, and own the father."

Curious to know this ſecret, the ſiſters went up to Rebecca with ſeeming kindneſs, and—"Conjured her to ſpare her father ſtill greater grief, and her own and her child's public infamy, by acknowledging herſelf its mother; and naming the man who had ſeduced her."

Emboldened by this inſult from her own ſex, Rebecca now began to declare the ſimple truth.—But no ſooner had ſhe [152] ſaid that—"The child was the gift of a young man who had found it—" than her ſiſters burſt into laughter, and her father into freſh fits of rage.

Once more the women offered their advice—"To confeſs and be forgiven."

Once more the father raved.

Beguiled by ſolicitations, and terrified by threats, ſhe at length felt inclined to take the mother's ſhare of the infant, but was at a loſs to whom to give the father's. She thought that Henry had entailed on himſelf the beſt right to the charge; but ſhe loved him, and could not bear the idea of accuſing him falſely.

While, with agitation in the extreme, ſhe thus deliberated, the propoſition again was put

"Whether ſhe would truſt to the mercy of her father by confeſſing, or draw down his immediate vengeance by denying her guilt?"

She made choice of the former—and with tears and ſobs "Owned herſelf the mother of the boy."

But ſtill—"Who is the father?"

[153]Again ſhe ſhrunk from the queſtion, and fervently implored—"To be ſpared on that point."

Her petition was rejected with vehemence; and the curate's rage encreaſed till ſhe acknowledged

"Henry was the father."

"I thought ſo." Exclaimed all her ſiſters at the ſame time.

"Villain!" cried the curate. "The dean ſhall know, before this hour is expired, the baſeneſs of the nephew whom he ſupports upon charity: he ſhall know the miſery, the grief, the ſhame he has brought upon me, and know how unworthy he is of his protection."

"Oh! have mercy on him!" cried Rebecca as ſhe ſtill knelt to her father: "Do not ruin him with his uncle, for he is the beſt of creatures."

"Ay, ay, we always ſaw how much ſhe loved him." Cried her ſiſters.

"Wicked, undone girl!" ſaid the clergyman (his rage now ſubſiding, and tears ſupplying its place) "you have drawn a curſe upon us all—your ſiſters' reputation will be ſtampt with the colour of [154] yours—my good name will ſuffer—but that is trivial—your ſoul is loſt to virtue, to religion, to ſhame—"

"No indeed;" cried Rebecca, "If you will but believe me."

"Do not I believe you? Have not you confeſſed?"

"You would not pretend to unſay what you have ſaid:" cried her eldeſt ſiſter, "that would be making things worſe."

"Go, go out of my ſight:" ſaid her father. "Take your child with you to your chamber, and never let me ſee either of you again.—I do not turn you out of my doors to day, becauſe I gave you my word I would not if you revealed your ſhame—but by to-morrow I will provide ſome place for your reception, where neither I, nor any of your relations, ſhall ever ſee or hear of you more."

Rebecca made an effort to cling around her father, and once more to declare her innocence: but her ſiſters interpoſed, and ſhe was taken, with her reputed ſon, to the chamber where the curate had ſentenced her to remain, till ſhe quitted his houſe for ever.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

[155]

THE curate, in the ſoldier of his mind, ſcarce felt the ground he trod as he haſted to the dean's to complain of his wrongs. His name procured him immediate admittance into the library—and the moment the dean appeared, the curate burſt into tears.—The cauſe being required of ſuch "very ſingular marks of grief," Mr. Rymer deſcribed himſelf, "as having been a few months ago the happieſt of parents, but that his peace and that of his whole family had been deſtroyed by Mr. Henry Norwynne, the dean's nephew."

He now entered into a minute recital of Henry's frequent viſits there, and of all that had occurred in his houſe that morning, from the ſuſpicion that a child was concealed under his roof, to the confeſſion made by his youngeſt daughter of her fall from virtue, and of her betrayer's name.

[156]The dean was aſtoniſhed, ſhocked, and rouzed to anger: he vented reproaches and menaces on his nephew; and, "bleſſing himſelf in a virtuous ſon, whoſe wiſdom and counſel were his only ſolace in every care," ſent for William to communicate with him on the unhappy ſubject.

William came, all obedience, and heard with marks of amazement and indignation the account of ſuch black villany! In perfect ſympathy with Mr. Rymor and his father, he allowed no "puniſhment could be too great for the ſeducer of innocence, the ſelfiſh invader of a whole family's repoſe."

Nor did William here ſpeak what he did not think—he merely forgot his own conduct; or if he did recal it to his mind, it was with ſome fair interpretation in his own behalf; ſuch as ſelf-love ever ſupplies to thoſe, who wiſh to cheat their conſcience.

Young Henry being ſent for to appear before this triumvirate, he came with a light ſtep and a chearful face. But, on the charge againſt him being exhibited, [157] his countenance changed—yet only to the expreſſion of ſurpriſe! He boldly aſſerted his innocence, plainly told the real fact; and with a deportment ſo perfectly unembarraſſed, that nothing but the aſſeverations of the curate, "that his daughter had confeſſed the whole," could have rendered the ſtory Henry told ſuſpected; although ſome of the incidents he related were of no common kind. But Mr. Rymer's charge was an objection to his veracity, too potent to be overcome; and the dean exclaimed, in rage—

"We want not your avowal of your guilt—the mother's evidence is teſtimony ſufficient."

"The virtuous Rebecca is not a mother." Said Henry, with firmneſs.

William here, like Rebecca's ſiſters, took Henry aſide, and warned him not to "Add to his offence by denying what was proved againſt him."

But Henry's ſpirit was too manly, his affection too ſincere, not to vindicate the chaſtity of her he loved, even at his own peril. He again and again proteſted "ſhe was virtuous."

[158]"Let her inſtantly be ſent for," ſaid the dean, "and this madman confronted with her." Then, adding, that as he wiſhed every thing might be conducted with ſecrecy, he would not employ his clerk on the unhappy occaſion; he deſired William to draw up the form of an oath, which he would adminiſter as ſoon as ſhe arrived.

A man and horſe were immediately diſpatched to bring Rebecca; William drew up an affidavit as his father had directed him—in Rebecca's name, ſolemnly proteſting ſhe was a mother, and Henry, the father of her child—and now, the dean, ſuppreſſing till ſhe came the warmth of his anger, ſpoke thus calmly to Henry:

"Even ſuppoſing that your improbable tale of having found this child, and all your declarations in reſpect to it were true, ſtill you would be greatly criminal: what plea can you make for not having immediately revealed the circumſtance to me or ſome other proper perſon, that the real mother might be detected and puniſhed for her deſign of murder?"

[159]"In that perhaps I was to blame:" returned Henry: "but whoever the mother was, I pitied her."

"Compaſſion on ſuch an occaſion was ill placed." Said the dean.

"Was I wrong, Sir, to pity the child?"

"No."

"Then how could I feel for that, and yet diveſt myſelf of all feeling for its mother?"

"Its mother!" (exclaimed William, in anger) "She ought to have been immediately purſued, apprehended, and committed to priſon."

"It ſtruck me, couſin William," replied Henry, "that the father was moſt deſerving a priſon: the poor woman had abandoned only one—the man, in all likelihood, had forſaken two."

William was pouring execrations "on the villain, if ſuch there could be," when Rebecca was announced.

Her eyes were half-cloſed with weeping; deep confuſion overſpread her face; and her tottering limbs could hardly ſupport her to the awful chamber where the dean, her father, and William ſat in [160] judgment, whilſt her beloved Henry ſtood arraigned as a culprit, by her falſe evidence.

Upon her entrance, her father firſt addreſſed her, and ſaid in a ſtern, threatening, yet feeling tone, "Unhappy girl, anſwer me before all preſent—Have you, or have you not, owned yourſelf a mother?"

She replied, ſtealing a fearful look at Henry,—"I have."

"And have you not," aſked the dean, "owned that Henry Norwynne is the father of your child?"

She ſeemed as if ſhe wiſhed to expoſtulate—

The curate raiſed his voice—"Have you, or have you not?"

"I have," ſhe faintly replied.

"Then here," cried the dean to William, "read that paper to her, and take the Bible."

William read the paper, which in her name declared a momentous falſehood: he then held the book in form, while ſhe looked like one diſtracted—wrung her hands, and was near ſinking to the earth.

[161]At the moment the book was lifted up to her lips to kiſs, Henry ruſhed to her—"Stop," he cried, "Rebecca; do not hurt your future peace; do not be terrified into the commiſſion of a crime which hereafter will diſtract your delicate conſcience. My confeſſion will be a teſtimony equal to your oath—will render it needleſs—and here I acknowledge that all you have aſſerted is truth."

"Surpriſing audacity!—Complicated villany!" exclaimed the dean—then added, "Henry Norwynne, your firſt guilt is ſo enormous; your ſecond, in ſtedfaſtly denying it, ſo baſe; this laſt conduct ſo unaccountable! That from the preſent hour you muſt never dare to call me relation, or to conſider my houſe as your home."

William, in uniſon with his father, exclaimed, "Indeed, Henry, your actions merit this puniſhment."

Henry anſwered with firmneſs, "Inflict what puniſhment you pleaſe."

"With the dean's permiſſion then," ſaid the curate) "you muſt marry my daughter."

[162]Henry ſtarted—"Marry her! Marry Rebecca! Do you pronounce that as a puniſhment? It would be the greateſt bleſſing providence could beſtow.—But how are we to live? My uncle is too much offended ever to be my friend again; and in this country, people of a certain claſs are ſo educated they cannot exiſt without the aſſiſtance, or what is called the patronage, of others; when that is with-held they ſteal or ſtarve. Heaven protect Rebecca from ſuch misfortune!—Sir, (to the curate) do you but conſent to ſupport her a year or two longer, and in that time I will learn ſome occupation that ſhall raiſe me to the eminence of maintaining both her and myſelf without one obligation, or one inconvenience to another."

Rebecca exclaimed, "Oh! you have ſaved me from ſuch a weight of ſin, that my future life would be too happy paſſed as your ſlave."

"No, my dear Rebecca, return to your father's houſe, return to ſlavery but for a few years more, and the reſt of your life I will make free."

[163]"And can you forgive me?"

"I can love you; and in that is compriſed every thing that is kind."

The curate, who, bating a few paſſions and a few prejudices, was a man of ſome worth and feeling, had felt, in the midſt of her diſtreſs, though the reſult of crimes, that he loved this neglected daughter better than he had before conceived; and he now agreed "to take her home for a time, provided ſhe were relieved from the child, and the matter ſo huſhed up, that it might draw no imputation upon the characters of his other daughters.

The dean did not degrade his conſequence by conſultations of this nature; but, having penetrated (as he imagined) into the very bottom of this intricate ſtory, and iſſued his mandate againſt Henry—as a mark that he took no farther concern in the matter, he proudly walked out of the room without uttering another word.

William as proudly, and as ſilently followed.

The curate was inclined to adopt the [164] manners of ſuch great examples—but, ſelf-intereſt, ſome affection to Rebecca, and concern for the character of his family, made him wiſh to talk a little more with Henry; who now repeated what he had ſaid reſpecting his marriage with Rebecca, and promiſed "to come the very next day in ſecret, and deliver her from the care of the infant, and the ſuſpicion that would attend her nurſing it."

"But above all," ſaid the curate, "procure your uncle's pardon; for without that, without his protection, or the protection of ſome other rich man; to marry, to obey God's ordinance, increaſe and multiply, is to want food for yourſelf and your offspring."

CHAPTER XXIX.

[165]

THOUGH this unfortunate occurrence in the curate's family was, according to his own phraſe, "to be huſhed up," yet certain perſons of his, of the dean's, and of Lord Bendham's houſe, immediately heard and talked of it. Among theſe, Lady Bendham was moſt of all ſhocked and offended; ſhe "never could bear to hear Mr. Rymer either pray or preach again—he had not conducted himſelf with proper dignity either as a clergyman or a father—he ſhould have imitated the dean's example in reſpect to Henry, and have turned his daughter out of doors."

Lord Bendham was leſs ſevere on the ſeduced, but had no mercy on the ſeducer—"a vicious youth, without one accompliſhment to endear vice"—For vice Lord Bendham thought (with ſome philoſophers) might be moſt exquiſitely pleaſing, in a pleaſing garb. "But this [166] youth ſinned without elegance, without one particle of wit, or an atom of good breeding."

Lady Clementina would not permit the ſubject to be mentioned a ſecond time in her hearing—extreme delicacy in woman ſhe knew was bewitching; and the delicacy ſhe diſplayed on this occaſion went ſo far that ſhe "could not even intercede with the dean to forgive his nephew, becauſe the topic was too groſs for her lips to name even in the ear of her huſband.

Miſs Sedgeley, though on the very eve of her bridal day with William, felt ſo tender a regard for Henry, that often ſhe thought "Rebecca happier in diſgrace and poverty, bleſt with the love of him, than ſhe was likely to be in the poſſeſſion of friends and fortune with his couſin."

Had Henry been of a nature to ſuſpect others of evil, or had he felt a confidence in his own worth, ſuch a paſſion as this young woman's would ſoon have diſcloſed its exiſtence: but he, regardleſs of any attractions of Miſs Sedgeley, equally ſuppoſed [167] he had none in her eyes; and thus, fortunately for the peace of all parties, this prepoſſeſſion ever remained a ſecret except to herſelf.

So little did William conceive that his clowniſh couſin could rival him in the affections of a woman of faſhion, that he even ſlightly ſolicited his father "that Henry might not be baniſhed from the houſe, at leaſt till after the following day, when the great feſtival of his marriage was to be celebrated."

But the dean refuſed; and reminded his ſon, "That he was bound both by his moral and religious character, in the eyes of God, and ſtill more, in the eyes of men, to ſhew laſting reſentment of iniquity like his."

William acquieſced, and immediately delivered his couſin the dean's "wiſhes for his amendment," and a letter of recommendation procured from Lord Bendham, to introduce him on board a man of war; where, he was told, "he might hope to meet with preferment according to his merit as a ſailor and a gentleman."

Henry preſſed William's hand on parting [168] —wiſhed him happy in his marriage—and ſupplicated, as the only favour he would implore, an interview with his uncle—to thank him for all his former kindneſs, and ſee him for the laſt time.

William repeated this petition to his father, but with ſo little energy, that the dean did not grant it. He felt himſelf compelled to reſent that reprobate character in which Henry had appeared; and he feared—"leſt the remembrance of his laſt parting from his brother might, on taking a formal leave of that brother's ſon, reduce him to ſome tokens of weakneſs, that would ill-become his dignity and juſt diſpleaſure."

He ſent him his bleſſing, with money to convey him to his ſhip—and Henry quitted his uncle's houſe in a flood of tears, to ſeek firſt a new protectreſs for his little ſoundling, and then to ſeek his fortune.

CHAPTER XXX.

[169]

THE wedding day of Mr. William Norwynne with Miſs Caroline Sedgeley arrived—and on that day, the bells of every pariſh ſurrounding that in which they lived, joined with their own, in celebration of the bliſsful union. Flowers were ſtrewed before the new-married pair, and favours and ale made many a heart more gladſome, than that of either bridegroom or bride.

Upon this day of ringing and rejoicing, the bells were not muffled, nor was converſation on the ſubject withheld from the ear of Hannah! She heard like her neighbours; and ſitting on the ſide of her bed in her little chamber, ſuffered, under the cottage roof, as much affliction as ever viſited a palace.

Tyrants, who have embrued their hands in the blood of myriads of their fellow creatures, can call their murders "religion, juſtice, attention to the good [170] of mankind"—poor Hannah knew no ſophiſtry to calm her conſcience—ſhe felt herſelf a harlot and a murderer—a ſlighted, a deſerted wretch, bereft of all ſhe loved in this world, all ſhe could hope for in the next.

She complained bitterly of illneſs, nor could the entreaties of her father and mother prevail on her to ſhare in the ſports of this general holiday.—As none of her humble viſitors ſuſpected the cauſe of her more than ordinary indiſpoſition, they endeavoured to divert it with an account of every thing they had ſeen at church—"What the bride wore, how joyful the bridegroom looked: and all the little ſigns of that complete happineſs, which they conceived was for certain taſted.

Hannah, who, before this event, had at moments ſuppreſſed the agoniſing ſting of guilt, in the faint proſpect of her lover one day reſtored; on this memorable occaſion loſt every glimpſe of hope, and was weighed to the earth with an accumulation of deſpair.

[171]Where is the degree in which the ſinner ſtops? Unhappy Hannah! the firſt time you permitted indecorous familiarity from a man who made you no promiſe, who gave you no hope of becoming his wife, who profeſt nothing beyond thoſe fervent, though ſlender, affections which attach the rake to the wanton—the firſt time you interpreted his kind looks and ardent prayers, into tenderneſs and conſtancy—the firſt time you deſcended from the character of purity, you ruſhed imperceptibly on the blackeſt crimes. The more ſincerely you loved, the more you plunged in danger—from one ungoverned paſſion proceeded a ſecond and a third. In the fervency of affection, you yielded up your virtue!—In the exceſs of fear, you ſtained your conſcience, by the intended murder of your child!—and now, in the violence of grief, you meditate—what?—to put an end to your exiſtence by your own hand!

After caſting her thoughts around, anxious to find ſome little bud of comfort on which to fix her longing eye; ſhe beheld, [172] in the total loſs of William, nothing but a wide waſte, an extenſive plain of anguiſh.—"How am I to be ſuſtained through this dreary journey of life?" ſhe exclaimed.—Upon this queſtion ſhe felt more poignantly than ever, her loſs of innocence—innocence would have been her ſupport—but, in place of this beſt prop to the afflicted, guilt flaſhed on her memory every time ſhe flew for aid to reflection.

At length, from horrible rumination, a momentary alleviation came—"But one more ſtep in wickedneſs," ſhe triumphantly ſaid, "and all my ſhame, all my ſufferings are over." She congratulated herſelf upon the lucky thought—when, but an inſtant after, the tears trickled down her face for the ſorrow her death, her ſinful death, would bring to her poor, and beloved parents.—She then thought upon the probability of a ſigh it might draw from William; and the pride, the pleaſure of that little tribute, counterpoiſed every ſtruggle on the ſide of life.

As ſhe ſaw the ſun decline, "When you riſe again," ſhe thought, "when [173] you peep bright to-morrow morning into this little room to call me up, I ſhall not be here to open my eyes upon a hateful day—I ſhall no more regret that you have waked me!—I ſhall be ſound aſleep, never to wake again in this wretched world—not even the voice of William would then awake me.

While ſhe found herſelf reſolved, and evening juſt come on, ſhe hurried out of the houſe, and haſtened to the fatal wood; the ſcene of her diſhonour—the ſcene of meditated murder—and now, the intended ſcene of ſuicide.

As ſhe walked along between the cloſeſet trees, ſhe ſaw at a little diſtance, the ſpot where William firſt made love to her; and where, at every appointment, he uſed to wait her coming. She darted her eye away from this place with horror—but, after a few moments of emotion, ſhe walked ſlowly up to it—ſhed tears, and preſſed with her trembling lips that tree, againſt which he was accuſtomed to lean while he talked to her.—She felt an inclination to make this the ſpot to die in—but her preconcerted, and the leſs [174] frightful death, of throwing herſelf into a pool on the other ſide of the wood, induced her to go onwards.

Preſently, ſhe came near the place where her child, and William's, was expoſed to periſh.—Here, ſhe ſtarted with a ſenſe of the moſt atrocious guilt; and her whole frame ſhook with the dread of an approaching, an omnipotent judge to ſentence her for murder.

She halted, appalled! Aghaſt! Undetermined whether to exiſt longer beneath the preſſure of a criminal conſcience, or die that very hour and meet her final condemnation.

She proceeded a few ſteps farther, and beheld the very ivy-buſh cloſe to which her infant lay, when ſhe left him expoſed—and now, from this minute recollection, all the mother riſing in her ſoul, ſhe ſaw, as it were, her babe again in its deſerted ſtate; and, burſting into tears of bittereſt contrition and compaſſion, ſhe cried

"As I was mercileſs to thee, my child, thy father has been pitileſs to me! As I abandoned thee to die with cold and [175] hunger, he has forſaken, and has driven me to die by ſelf-murder."

She now fixed her eager eyes on the diſtant pond, and walked more nimbly than before, to rid herſelf of her agoniſing ſenſe!

Juſt as ſhe had nearly reached the wiſhed-for brink, ſhe heard a footſtep, and ſaw, by the glimmering of a clouded moon, a man approaching. She turned out of her path for fear her intentions ſhould be gueſſed at, and thwarted; but ſtill as ſhe walked another way, her eye was wiſhfully bent towards the water that was to obliterate her love and her remorſe—obliterate for ever, William and his child.

It was now, that Henry—who, to prevent ſcandal, had ſtolen at that ſtill hour of night to rid the curate of the incumbrance ſo irkſome to him, and take the foundling to a woman whom he had hired for the charge—it was now that Henry came up, with the child of Hannah in his arms, carefully covered all over from night's dew.

[176]"Hannah, is it you?" (cried Henry, at a little diſtance) "Where are you going thus late?"

"Home, Sir." Said ſhe, and ruſhed among the trees.

"Stop, Hannah," he cried, "I want to bid you farewell—to-morrow I am going to leave this part of the country for a long time—So God bleſs you, Hannah!" Saying this, he ſtretched out his arm to ſhake her by the hand.

Her poor heart truſting that his bleſſing, for want of more potent offerings, might perhaps, at this tremendous criſis, aſcend to heaven in her behalf: ſhe ſtopt, returned, and put out her hand to take his.

"Softly," ſaid he, "don't wake my child—this ſpot has been a place of danger for him—for underneath this very ivy-buſh it was that I found him."

"Found what?" Cried Hannah, with a voice elevated to a tremulous ſcream.

"I will not tell you, replied Henry, "for no one I have ever yet told of it, would believe me."

[177]"I will believe you. I will believe you." She repeated with tones yet more impreſſive.

"Why then," ſaid Henry, "only five weeks ago—"

"Ah!" ſhrieked Hannah.

"What do you mean?" Said Henry.

"Go on." She articulated, in the ſame voice.

"Why then, as I was paſſing this very place, I wiſh I may never ſpeak truth again, if I did not find"—here he pulled aſide the warm rug in which the infant was wrapt—"this beautiful child."

"With a cord?—"

"A cord was round its neck."

"'Tis mine—the child is mine—'tis mine—my child—I am the mother and the murderer—I fixed the cord, while the ground ſhook under me—while flaſhes of fire darted before my eyes!—while my heart was burſting with deſpair and horror.—But I ſtopt ſhort—I did not draw the nooſe—I had a moment of ſtrength, and I ran away. I left him living—he is living now—eſcaped from my hands—and I am no longer aſhamed, [178] but overcome with joy that he is mine! I bleſs you, my dear, for ſaving his life—for giving him to me again—for preſerving my life, as well as my child's."

Here ſhe took her infant, preſſed it to her lips and to her boſom; then bent to the ground, claſped Henry's knees, and wept upon his feet.

He could not for a moment doubt the truth of what ſhe ſaid—her powerful, yet broken accents, her convulſive ſtarts, even more than her declaration, convinced him.

She now roſe from the earth in haſte, and ſtealing quick on one ſide, poſtponed farther gratitude to Henry, for the performance of the moſt endearing office of a mother. The child greedily received from her boſom the food till then untaſted—and on this, feeling more exquiſitely the tender, the proud prerogative of a maternal parent, ſhe uttered with ſighs of tranſport,

"Now I am as rich, as happy as your father—as bleſt as his bride!—for I experience the joy of a conſcience relieved from a deadly weight—and I have ſomething [179] to love—ſomething on which to pour that fund of affection which he rejects."

"Good heaven!" cried Henry, "and this is my couſin William's child!"

"But your couſin does not know it." Said ſhe. "I never told him—he was not kind enough to embolden me—therefore do not blame him for my ſin—he did not know of my wicked deſigns—he did not encourage me—"

"But he forſook you, Hannah."

"He never ſaid he would not. He always told me he could not marry me."

"Did he tell you ſo at his firſt private meeting?"

"No."

"Nor at the ſecond?"

"No, nor yet at the third."

"When was it he told you ſo?"

"I forget the exact time—but I remember it was on that very evening when I confeſt to him—"

"What?"

"That he had won my heart."

"Why did you confeſs it?"

[180]"Becauſe he aſked me, and ſaid it would make him happy if I would ſay ſo."

"Cruel! diſhonourable!"

"Nay, do not blame him—he cannot help not loving me, no more than I can help, loving him."

Henry rubbed his eyes.

"Bleſs me, you weep!—I always heard that you were brought up in a ſavage country; but I ſuppoſe it is a miſtake; it was your couſin William."

"Will not you apply to him for the ſupport of your child?" Aſked Henry.

"If I thought he would not be angry."

"Angry!—I will write to him on the ſubject, if you will give me leave."

"But do not ſay it is by my deſire. Do not ſay I wiſh to trouble him—I would ſooner beg, than be a trouble to him."

"Why are you ſo delicate?"

"It is for my own ſake—I wiſh him not to hate me."

"Then, thus you may ſecure his reſpect—I will write to him, and let him [181] know all the circumſtances of your caſe; I will plead for his compaſſion on his child, but aſſure him that no conduct of his will ever induce you to declare (except only to me, who knew of your previous acquaintance) who is the father."

To this Hannah conſented: but when Henry offered to take from her the infant and carry him to the nurſe he had engaged; to this ſhe would not conſent.

"Do you mean then to acknowledge him yours?" Henry aſked.

"Nothing ſhall force me to part from him. I will keep him, and let my neighbours judge of me as they pleaſe."

Here Henry caught at a hope he feared to name before. "You will then have no objection," ſaid he, "to clear an unhappy girl to a few friends with whom her character has ſuffered by becoming, at my requeſt, his nurſe?"

"Moſt gladly. I will clear any one ſo that I do not accuſe the father."

"You give me leave, then, in your name, to tell the whole ſtory to ſome particular friends, my couſin William's part in it alone excepted?"

[182]"I do."

"Henry now cried "God bleſs you!" with greater fervour than when he ſpoke it before—and he hoped the nig [...]t was nearly gone, that the time might be ſo much the ſhorter before Rebecca ſhould be reinſtated in the eſteem of her father, and of all thoſe who had misjudged her.

"God bleſs you!" ſaid Hannah ſtill more fervently, as ſhe walked with unguided ſteps towards her home; for her eyes never wandered from the precious object that cauſed her unexpected return.

CHAPTER XXXI.

[183]

HENRY roſe early in the morning and flew to the curate's houſe, with more than even his uſual thirſt of juſtice, to clear-injured innocence, to redeem from ſhame, her whom he loved. With eager haſte he told—that he had ſound the mother, whoſe fall from virtue Rebecca, overcome by confuſion and threats, had taken on herſelf.

Rebecca rejoiced—but her ſiſters ſhook their heads—and even the father ſeemed to doubt.

Confident in the truth of his ſtory, Henry perſiſted ſo boldly in his affirmations, that if Mr. Rymer did not entirely believe what he ſaid, he ſecretly hoped the dean and other people might; therefore he began to imagine, he could poſſibly ſhake from his family the preſent ſtigma, whether or no it belonged to any other.

No ſooner was Henry gone, than Mr. Rymer waited on the dean to report what [184] he had heard; and he frankly attributed his daughter's falſe confeſſion, to the compulſive methods he had adopted in charging her with the offence: upon this ſtatement, Henry's love to her was alſo a ſolution of his inconſiſtent conduct on that ſingular occaſion.

The dean immediately ſaid—"he would put the matter beyond all doubt: for he would that moment ſend for the preſent reputed mother; and if ſhe acknowledged the child, he would inſtantly commit her to priſon for the attempt of putting it to death.

The curate applauded the dean's ſagacity; a warrant was iſſued; and Hannah brought priſoner before the grandfather of her child.

She appeared aſtoniſhed at the peril in which ſhe found herſelf! Confuſed alſo, with a thouſand inexpreſſible ſenſations which the dean's preſence inſpired, ſhe ſeemed to prevaricate in all ſhe uttered.—Accuſed of this, ſhe was ſtill more diſconcerted—ſaid, and unſaid—confeſſed herſelf the mother of the infant, but declared ſhe did not know—then owned [185] ſhe did know the name of the man who had undone her, but would never utter it.—At length, ſhe caſt herſelf on her knees before the father of her betrayer, and ſupplicated "he would not puniſh her with ſeverity, as ſhe moſt penitently confeſſed her fault, ſo far as it related to herſelf."

While Mr. and Mrs. Norwynne, juſt entered on the honey-moon, were ſitting ſide by ſide enjoying with peace and with honour conjugal ſociety; poor Hannah, threatened, reviled, and ſinking to the duſt, was hearing from the mouth of William's father, the enormity of thoſe crimes to which his ſon had been acceſſary.—She ſaw the mittimus written that was to convey her into a priſon—ſaw herſelf delivered once more into the hands of conſtables, before her reſolution of concealing the name of William in her ſtory left her.—She now, overcome with affright, and thinking ſhe ſhould expoſe him ſtill more in a public court, if hereafter on her trial ſhe ſhould be obliged to name him—ſhe now humbly aſked the dean to hear a few words ſhe had to ſay [186] in private—where ſhe promiſed ſhe "would ſpeak nothing but the truth."

This was impoſſible, he ſaid—"No private confeſſions before a magiſtrate! All muſt be done openly."

She urged again and again the ſame requeſt—it was denied more peremptorily than at firſt. On which ſhe ſaid,

"Then, Sir, forgive me, ſince you force me to it, if I ſpeak before Mr. Rymer and thoſe men, what I would for ever have kept a ſecret if I could.—One of your family is my child's father."

"Any of my ſervants?" cried the dean.

"No."

"My nephew?"

"No; one who is nearer ſtill."

"Come this way," ſaid the dean, "I will ſpeak to you in private.

It was not that the dean, as a magiſtrate, diſtributed partial decrees of pretended juſtice—he was rigidly faithful to his truſt—he would not inflict puniſhment on the innocent, or let the guilty eſcape—but in all particulars of refined or coarſe treatment, he would alleviate or aggravate according to the rank of the [187] offender. He could not feel that a ſecret was of equal importance to a poor, as to a rich perſon—and while Hannah gave no intimation but that her delicacy roſe from fears for herſelf, ſhe did not ſo forcibly impreſs the dean with an opinion that it was a caſe which had preſſing cauſe for a private conference, as when ſhe boldly ſaid, "a part of his family, very near to him, was concerned in her tale."

The final reſult of their converſation in an adjoining room was—a charge from the dean, in the words of Mr. Rymer, "to huſh the affair up;" and his promiſe that the infant ſhould be immediately taken from her, and "ſhe ſhould have no more trouble with it."

"I have no trouble with it." Replied Hannah. "It is now all my comfort; and I cannot part from it."

"Why, you inconſiſtent woman, did you not attempt to murder it?"

"That was before I had ſuckled it."

"It is neceſſary you ſhould give it up—it muſt be ſent ſome miles off—and then the whole circumſtance will be ſoon forgotten."

[188]"I ſhall never forget it."

"No matter—you muſt give up the child—Do not moſt of our firſt women of quality part with their children?"

"Women of quality have other things to love—I have nothing elſe."

"And would you occaſion my ſon, and his new-made bride, the ſhame and the uneaſineſs—"

Here Hannah burſt into a ſtood of tears; and being angrily aſked by the dean "why ſhe blubbered ſo?"—

"I—have had ſhame and uneaſineſs." She replied, wringing her hands.

"And you deſerve them—they are the ſure attendants of crimes ſuch as yours.—If you allured, and entrapped a young man like my ſon—"

"I am the youngeſt by five years." Said Hannah.

"Well, well, repent;" returned the dean, "repent, and reſign your child. Repent and you may yet marry an honeſt man who knows nothing of the matter."

"And repent too?" Aſked Hannah.

Not the inſufferable ignorance of young Henry, when he firſt came to England, [189] was more vexatious or provoking to the dean than the ruſtic folly of poor Hannah's uncultured replies. He at laſt, in an offended and determined manner, told her,

"That if ſhe would reſign the child, and keep the father's name a ſecret, not only the child ſhould be taken care of, but ſhe herſelf might, perhaps, receive ſome favours; but if ſhe perſiſted in her imprudent folly, ſhe muſt expect no conſideration on her own account; nor ſhould ſhe be allowed, for the maintenance of the boy, a ſixpence beyond the ſtated ſum for the poor man's unlawful offspring. Hannah, reſolving not to be ſeparated from her infant, bowed reſignation to this laſt decree; and, terrified at the loud words and angry looks of the dean, after being regularly diſcharged, ſtole to her home; where the ſmiles of her infant, and the careſſes ſhe laviſhed on it, repaid her for the ſorrows ſhe had juſt ſuffered for its ſake.

Let it here be obſerved, that the dean, on ſuffering Hannah to depart without putting, in force the law againſt her as he [190] had threatened, did nothing, as it were, behind the curtain. He openly and candidly owned to Mr. Rymer, his clerk, and the two conſtables who were attending—"That an affair of ſome little gallantry, in which, he was extremely ſorry to ſay, his ſon was rather too nearly involved, required, in conſideration of his recent marriage, and an excellent young woman's (his bride's) happineſs, that it ſhould not be publicly talked of—Therefore he had thought proper only to reprimand the huſſey, and ſent her about her buſineſs."

The curate aſſured the dean—"That upon this, and upon all other occaſions, which ſhould, would, or could occur, he owed to his judgment, as his ſuperior, implicit obedience."

The clerk and the two conſtables moſt properly ſaid—"His honour was a gentleman, and of courſe muſt know better how to act than they."

CHAPTER XXXII.

[191]

IT was not the pleaſure of a mother that Hannah experienced, which could make her inſenſible to the ſorrow of a daughter.

Her parents had received the ſtranger child along with a fabricated tale ſhe told "of its appertaining to another," without the ſmalleſt ſuſpicion; but, by the ſecret diligence of the curate, and the nimble tongues of his elder daughters, the report of all that had paſſed on the ſubject of this unfortunate infant, ſoon circulated through the village; and Hannah in a few weeks had ſeen her parents pine away in grief and ſhame at her loſs of virtue.

She perceived the neighbours avoid, or openly ſneer at her—but that was little—ſhe ſaw them ſlight her aged father and mother upon her account: and ſhe now took the reſolution, rather to periſh for want in another part of the country, [192] than live where ſhe was known, and ſo entail a curſe on all who loved her. She ſlightly hoped, too, that by diſappearing from the town and neighbourhood, ſome little reward might be allowed her for her baniſhment by the dean's family. In that ſhe was deceived—No ſooner was ſhe gone, indeed, than her guilt was forgotten; but with her guilt her wants. The dean and his family rejoiced at her and her child's departure; but as this mode ſhe had choſen; chanced to be no ſpecified condition in the terms, offered to her, they did not think they were bound to pay her for it; and while ſhe was too fearful and baſhful to ſolicit the dean, too proud (forlorn as ſhe was) to ſupplicate his ſon, they both concluded ſhe "wanted for nothing;" for to be poor, and too delicate to complain, they deemed incompatible.

To heighten the ſenſe of her degraded, friendleſs ſituation, ſhe knew that Henry had not been unmindful of his promiſe to her, but that he had applied to his couſin in her and his child's behalf; for he had acquainted her that William's [193] anſwer was—"all obligations on his part were now undertaken by his father; for Hannah having choſen (in a fit of malignity upon his marriage) to appriſe the dean of their former intercourſe, ſuch conduct had for ever cancelled all attention due from him to her, or to her child, beyond what its bare maintenance exacted."

In vain had Henry explained to him the predicament in which poor Hannah was involved before ſhe conſented to reveal her ſecret to his father; William was happy in an excuſe to rid himſelf of a burthen, and he ſeemed to believe, what he wiſhed were true—that ſhe had forfeited all claim to his farther notice.

Henry informed Hannah in as gentle terms as poſſible of this unkind reception of his efforts in her favour, for ſhe excited his deepeſt compaſſion.—Perhaps our own misfortunes are the cauſe of our pity for others, even more than their ills; and Henry's preſent ſorrows had ſoftened his heart to peculiar ſympathy in woe. He had unhappily found, that the ardour which had hurried him to vindicate the reputation of Rebecca, was likely to deprive [194] him of the bleſſing of her ever becoming his wife. For the dean, chagrined that his ſon was at length proved an offender inſtead of his nephew, ſubmitted to the temptation of puniſhing the latter, while he forgave the former. He ſent for Henry, and having coldly congratulated him on his and Rebecca's innocence, repreſented to him the impropriety of marrying the daughter of a poor curate, and laid his commands on him, "never to harbour ſuch an intention more." Henry found this reſtriction ſo ſevere that he would not promiſe obedience; but on his next attempt to viſit Rebecca, he met a poſitive repulſe from her father, who ſignified to him, "that the dean had forbid him to permit their farther acquaintance;" and the curate declared—"that, for his own part, he had no will, judgment, or faculties; but that he ſubmitted in all things to the ſuperior clergy."

At the very time young Henry had received the propoſal from Mr. Rymer of his immediate union with his daughter, and the dean had made no objection, [195] Henry waved the happineſs for the time preſent, and had given a reaſon why he wiſhed it poſtponed. The reaſon he then gave had its weight, but he had another concealed, of yet more import.—Much as he loved, and looked forward with rapture to that time when every morning, every evening, and all the day, he ſhould have the delight of Rebecca's ſociety; ſtill there was one other wiſh nearer his heart than this—one deſire which for years had been foremoſt in his thoughts, and which not even love could cradicate. He longed, he pined to know what fate had befallen his father. Provided he were living, he could conceive no joy ſo extreme as that of ſeeing him! If he were dead, he was anxious to pay the tribute of filial piety he owed, by ſatisfying his affectionate curioſity in every circumſtance of the ſad event.

While a boy, he had frequently expreſſed theſe ſentiments to both his uncle and his couſin: ſometimes they appriſed him of the total improbability of accompliſhing his wiſhes: at other times, when they ſaw the diſappointment weigh heavy [196] on his mind, they bade him—"wait till he was a man, before he could hope to put his deſigns in execution." He did wait. But on the very day he arrived at the age of twenty-one, he made a vow—"that to gain intelligence of his father ſhould be the firſt act of his free will."

Previouſly to this time he had made all the enquiries poſſible, whether any new adventure to that part of Africa in which he was bred, was likely to be undertaken. Of this there appeared to be no proſpect, till the intended expedition to Sierra Leone was announced, which favoured his hope of being able to procure a paſſage, among thoſe adventures, ſo near to the iſland on which his father was (or had been priſoner) as to obtain an opportunity of viſiting it by ſtealth.

Fearing contention, or the being diſſuaded from his plans if he communicated them, he formed them in private, kept them ſecretly; and his imagination filled with the kindneſs, the tenderneſs, the exceſs of fondneſs he had experienced from his father, beyond any other perſon in the world, he had thought with delight [197] on the ſeparation from all his other kindred, to pay his duty to him, or to his revered memory. Of late indeed, there had been an object introduced to his acquaintance, from whom it was bitter to part; but his deſigns had been planned and firmly fixed before he knew Rebecca; nor could he have taſted contentment even with her, at the expence of his piety to his father.

In the laſt interview he had with the dean, Henry—perceiving that his diſpoſition towards him was not leſs ſevere than when a few days before he had ordered him on board a veſſel—found this the proper time to declare his intentions of accompanying the ſleet to Sierra Leone. His uncle expreſſed ſurpriſe! but immediately gave him a ſum of money, ſuch as he thought might defray his expences; and as he gave it, by his willingneſs, his look, and his accent, ſeemed to ſay, "I foreſee this is the laſt you will ever require."

Young William, though a very dutiful ſon, was amazed when he heard of [198] Henry's project, "as the ſerious and ſettled reſolution of a man."

Lady Clementina, Lord and Lady Bendham, and twenty others "wiſhed him a ſucceſsful voyage," and thought no more about him,

It was for Rebecca alone, to feel the loſs of Henry—it was for a mind like hers alone, to know his worth—nor did this laſt proof of it, the quitting her, for one who claimed by every tie a preference, leſſen him in her eſteem.—When, by a meſſage from him, ſhe became acquainted with his deſign, ſhe valued him the more for this obſervance of his duty, much as it interfered with her happineſs—the more ſhe regretted his loſs, and the more anxiouſly prayed for his return; which, in the following letter, written juſt before his departure, he taught her to hope for.

MY DEAR REBECCA,

I Do not tell you I am ſorry to part from you—you know I am—and you know all I have ſuffered, ſince your [199] father denied me permiſſion to ſee you.

But perhaps you do not know the hopes I enjoy, and which beſtow on me a degree of peace—and thoſe I am eager to tell you.

I hope, Rebecca, to ſee you again—I hope to return to England, and overcome every obſtacle to our marriage—and then, in whatever ſtation we are placed, I ſhall conſider myſelf as happy, as it is poſſible to be in this world—I feel a conviction that you would be happy too.

Some perſons, I know, eſtimate happineſs by fine houſes, gardens, and parks—others, by pictures, horſes, money, and various things wholly remote from their own ſpecies—but when I wiſh to aſcertain the real felicity of any rational man, I always enquire whom he has to love. If I find he has nobody—or does not love thoſe he has—even in the midſt of all his profuſion of finery and grandeur, I pronounce him a being in deep adverſity. In loving [200] you, I am happier than my couſin William; even though I am obliged to leave you for a time.

Do not be afraid you ſhould grow old before I return—age can never alter you in my regard. It is your gentle nature, your unaffected manners, your eaſy cheerfulneſs, your clear underſtanding, the ſincerity of all your words and actions, that have gained my heart; and while you preſerve charms like theſe, you will be dearer to me with white hairs and a wrinkled face, than any of your ſex, who, not poſſeſſing all theſe qualities, poſſeſs the youth and bloom of perfect beauty.

You will eſteem me too, I truſt, though I ſhould return on crutches; and with my poor father, whom I may be obliged to maintain by daily labour.

I will employ all my time during my abſence, in the ſtudy of ſome art that may enable me to ſupport you both, provided heaven will beſtow [201] two ſuch bleſſings on me. In the cheering thought that it will be ſo, and in that only, I have the courage, my dear, dear Rebecca, to ſay to you

Farewell! H. NORWYNNE.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

[202]

BEFORE Henry could receive a reply to his letter, the fleet in which he ſailed put to ſea on the voyage.

By his abſence, not only Rebecca was deprived of the friend ſhe loved, but poor Hannah loſt a kind and compaſſionate adviſer. Her parents, too, both ſickened, and both died, in a ſhort time after—and now, wholly friendleſs, and in her little exile where ſhe could only hope for toleration, not being known, ſhe was contending with ſuſpicion, rebuffs, diſappointments, and various other ills, that might have made the moſt harſh of her Anfield perſecutors feel compaſſion for her, could they have witneſſed the throbs of her heart, and have viewed the ſtate of her agoniſing mind.

Still, there are few perſons whom providence afflicts, beyond the limits of all conſolation—few caſt ſo low, as not to [203] feel pride on certain occaſions—and Hannah felt a comfort, and a dignity in the thought—that ſhe had both a mind and a body capable of ſuſtaining every hardſhip her deſtiny might inflict, rather than ſubmit to the diſgrace of ſoliciting William's charity a ſecond time.

This determination was put to a variety of trials—In vain ſhe offered herſelf to the ſtrangers of the village, in which ſhe was accidentally caſt, as a ſervant—her child, her dejected looks, her broken ſentences, a wildneſs in her eye, a kind of bold deſpair that at times ſpread over her features, her imperfect ſtory who, and what ſhe was, prejudiced all thoſe to whom ſhe applied; and, after thus travelling to ſeveral ſmall towns and hamlets, the only employer ſhe could obtain was a farmer, and the only employment, to tend and feed his cattle, while his men were in the harveſt, tilling the ground, or at ſome other labour, which required, at that time, peculiar expedition.

Though Hannah was born of peaſants, yet, having been an only child, and of [204] induſtrious parents, ſhe had been nurſed with tenderneſs and delicacy, ill ſuited to her preſent occupation—but ſhe endured it with patience; and the moſt laborious part would have ſeemed light to her, could ſhe have diſmiſſed the reflection—what it was that had reduced her to it.

Soon her tender hands became hard and rough, her fair ſkin burnt and yellow; ſo that when, on a Sunday, ſhe has looked in the glaſs, ſhe has ſtarted back as if it were ſome other face ſhe ſaw inſtead of her own. But this loſs of beauty gave her no regret—while William did not ſee her, it was of little purport to her, whether ſhe were beautiful or hideous. On the features of her child only, ſhe now looked with joy—there, ſhe fancied ſhe ſaw William at every glance—and in the fond imagination, felt, at times, every happineſs ſhort of ſeeing him.

By herding ſolely with the brute creation, ſhe and her child were allowed to live together; and this was a ſtate ſhe preferred to the ſociety of human creatures, who would have ſeparated her [205] from what ſhe loved ſo tenderly.—Anxious to retain a place in which ſhe poſſeſſed ſuch a bleſſing, care and attention to her humble office cauſed her maſter to prolong her ſtay through all the winter—then, during the ſpring, ſhe attended his yeaning ſheep—in the ſummer, watched them as they grazed—and thus ſeaſon after ſeaſon paſſed, till her young ſon could afford her aſſiſtance in her daily work.

He now could charm her with his converſation as well as with his looks—a thouſand times, in the tranſports of parental love, ſhe has preſſed him to her boſom, and thought with an agony of horror—on her foul intent to deſtroy, what was now ſo dear, ſo neceſſary to her exiſtence.

Still the boy grew more like his father—in one reſemblance alone he failed.—He loved Hannah with an affection totally diſtinct from the pitiful and childiſh gratification of his own ſelf-love—he never would quit her ſide for all the tempting offers of toys or money—never would eat of rarities given to him, till [206] Hannah took a part—never croſſed her will, however contradictory to his own—never ſaw her ſmile that he did not laugh—nor did ſhe ever weep, but he wept too.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

[207]

FROM the mean ſubject of oxen, ſheep, and peaſants, we return to perſonages—i. e. perſons of rank and fortune. The biſhop, who was introduced in the beginning of this work, but who occupied very ſmall ſpace there, is now mentioned here merely that the reader may know, he is at preſent in the ſame ſtate as his writings—dying: and that his friend, the dean, is talked of as the moſt likely ſucceſſor to his dignified office.

The dean, moſt aſſuredly, had a ſtrong friendſhip for the biſhop, and now, moſt aſſuredly, wiſhed him to recover—and yet—when he reflected on the ſucceſs of his pamphlet a few years back, and of many which he had written ſince, on the very ſame ſubject, he could not but think "That he had more righteous pretenſions to fill the vacant ſeat of his much beloved and reverend friend (ſhould fate ordain it to be vacated) than any other [208] man:" and he knew that it would not take one moment from that friend's remaining life, ſhould he exert himſelf, and with all due management, to obtain the elevated ſtation when he ſhould be no more.

In preſuppoſing the death of a friend, the dean—like many other virtuous men—"always ſuppoſed him going to a better place." With perfect reſignation, therefore, he waited whatever change might happen to the biſhop; ready to receive him with open arms if he recovered, or equally ready, in caſe of his diſſolution, to receive his dignities.

Lady Clementina diſplayed her ſenſibility and feeling for the ſick prelate, by the diſguſting extravagance of hyſteric fits; except at thoſe times when ſhe talked ſeriouſly with her huſband upon the injuſtice which ſhe thought would be done to him, and to his many pamphlets and ſermons, if he did not immediately riſe to the epiſcopal honour.

"Surely, dean," ſaid ſhe, "ſhould you be diſappointed upon this occaſion, you will write no more books for the good of your country?"

[209]"Yes I will," he replied, "but the next book I write for the good of my country ſhall be very different, nay the very reverſe of thoſe I have already written."

"How, dean! would you ſhow yourſelf changed?"

"No, but I will ſhow that my country is changed."

"What! ſince you produced your laſt work? only ſix weeks ago!"

"Great changes may occur in ſix days;" replied the dean, with a threatening accent: "and if I find things have taken a new and improper turn, I will be the firſt to expoſe it."

"But before you act in this manner, my dear, ſurely you will wait—"

"I will wait till the See is diſpoſed of to another." Said he.

He did wait—The biſhop died—The dean was promoted to the See of * * *, and wrote a folio on the proſperity of our happy country.

CHAPTER XXXV.

[210]

WHILE the biſhop and his ſon were ſailing before proſperous gales on the ocean of life, young Henry was contending with adverſe winds, and many other perils on the watery ocean—yet ſtill, his diſtreſſes and dangers were leſs, than thoſe which Hannah had to encounter on land. The ſea threatens an untimely death; the ſhore menaces calamities from which death is a refuge.

The afflictions Hannah had already experienced, could juſt admit of aggravation—the addition occurred.

Had the good farmer, who made her the companion of his flocks and herds, lived till now, till now ſhe might have been ſecure from the annoyance of human kind: but, thrown once more upon ſociety, ſhe was unfit to ſuſtain the conflict of decorum againſt depravity.—Her maſter, her patron, her preſerver, was dead; and hardly as ſhe had earned the [211] pittance ſhe received from him, ſhe ſound, it ſurpaſſed all her power to obtain the like again. Her doubtful character, her capacious mind, her unmethodical manners were ſtill ill ſuited to the nice preciſion of a country houſewife; and as the prudent miſtreſs of a family ſneered at her pretenſions, ſhe, in her turn, ſcorned at the narrow-minded miſtreſs of a family.

In her enquiries how to gain her bread free from the cutting reproaches of diſcretion, ſhe was informed "that London was the only private corner where guilt could be ſecreted undiſturbed—and the only public place where in open day, it might triumphantly ſtalk, attended by a train of audacious admirers."

There was a charm to the ear of Hannah, in the name of London, that thrilled through her ſoul—William lived in London—and ſhe thought, that while ſhe retired to ſome dark cellar with her offences, he probably would ride in ſtate with his, and ſhe at humble diſtance might ſometimes catch a glance of him.

[212]As difficult as to eradicate infanity from a mind once poſſeſſed, ſo difficult it is to eraſe from the lover's breaſt, the deep impreſſion of a real affection. Coercion may prevail for a ſhort interval, ſtill love will rage again. Not all the ignominy Hannah experienced in the place where ſhe now was without a home—not the hunger which ſhe at times ſuffered, and even at times ſaw her child endure—not every inducement for going to London, or motive for quitting her preſent deſolate ſtation, had the weight to affect her choice ſo much as—In London, ſhe ſhould live nearer William; in the preſent ſpot ſhe could never hope to ſee him again; but there ſhe might chance to paſs him in the ſtreets; ſhe might paſs his door unobſerved every day; might enquire about him of his inferior neighbours, who would be unſuſpicious of the cauſe of her curioſity.—For theſe gratifications ſhe ſhould breathe another air—for theſe, ſhe could bear all hardſhips which London threatened; and for theſe, ſhe took a threeweeks' journey to that perilous town on foot, cheering, as [213] ſhe walked along, her innocent and wearied companion.

William! In your luxurious dwelling! Poſſeſſed of coffers filled with gold! Relations, friends, clients, joyful around you! Delicious viands and rich wines upon your ſumptuous board! Voluptuouſneſs diſplayed in every apartment of your habitation!—Contemplate, for a moment, Hannah, your firſt love, with her ſon, your firſt, and only child, walking through froſt and ſnow to London, with a foreboding fear on the mother—that they both may periſh for the want of a friend when arrived.

But no ſooner did Hannah find herſelf within the ſmoke of the metropolis, than the old charm was renewed, and ſcarcely had ſhe refreſhed her child at the poor inn at which ſhe ſtopped, than ſhe enquired—how far it was to that part of the town where ſhe knew William reſided.

She received for anſwer, "about two miles."

Upon this information, ſhe thought that ſhe would keep in reſerve, till ſome [214] new ſorrow befell her, the conſolation of paſſing his door, (perchance of ſeeing him) which muſt ever be an alleviation of her grief. It was not long before ſhe had occaſion for even more ſubſtantial comfort. She ſoon found ſhe was not likely to obtain a ſervice here, more than in the country. Some objected that ſhe could not make caps and gowns; ſome, that ſhe could not preſerve and pickle; ſome, that ſhe was too young; ſome, that ſhe was too pretty; and all declined accepting her, till at laſt a citizen's wife, on condition of her receiving but half the wages uſually given, took her as a ſervant of all work.

In romances, and in ſome plays, there are ſcenes of dark and unwholeſome mines, wherein the labourer works during the brighteſt day by the aid of artificial light. There are in London kitchens equally diſmal, though not quite ſo much expoſed to damp and noxious vapours. In one of theſe, under ground, hid from the cheerful light of the ſun, poor Hannah was doomed to toil from morning till night, ſubjected to the command [215] of a diſſatisfied miſtreſs; who, not eſtimating as ſhe ought, the miſery incurred by ſerving her, conſtantly threatened her ſervants "with a diſmiſſion;" at which the unthinking wretches would tremble merely from the ſound of the words—for, to have reflected—to have conſidered what their purport was—"to be releaſed from a dungeon, relieved from continual upbraidings, and vile drudgery," muſt have been a ſubject of rejoicing—and yet, becauſe theſe good tidings were delivered as a menace, cuſtom had made the poor creatures fearful of the conſequence. So, death being deſcribed to children as a diſaſter, even poverty and ſhame will ſtart from it with affright; when, had it been pictured (as it is) a good; it would be feared by few, and many, many would welcome it with gladneſs.

All the care of Hannah to pleaſe, her fear of offending, her toilſome days, her patience, her ſubmiſſion, could not prevail on her miſtreſs to retain her one hour after by chance ſhe had heard, "that Hannah was the mother of a child; that [216] ſhe wiſhed it ſhould be kept a ſecret; and that ſhe ſtole out now and then to viſit him."

Hannah, with ſwimming eyes and an almoſt breaking heart, left a place—where, to have lived one hour, would have plunged any fine lady in the deepeſt grief.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

[217]

HANNAH was driven from ſervice to ſervice—her deficiency in the knowledge of a mere drudge, or her loſt character, purſued her wherever ſhe went; and at length, becoming wholly deſtitute, ſhe gladly accepted a place where the latter misfortune was not the leaſt objection.

In one of thoſe habitations where continual miſery is dreſſed in continual ſmiles; where extreme of poverty is concealed by extreme of ſhow; where wine diſpenſes mirth only by diſpenſing forgetfulneſs; and where female beauty is ſo cheap, ſo complying, that while it inveigles it diſguſts the man of pleaſure;—in one of thoſe houſes, to attend upon its wretched inhabitants, Hannah was hired.—Her feelings of rectitude ſubmitted to thoſe of hunger—Her principles of virtue (which the loſs of virtue had not deſtroyed) received a ſhock when ſhe engaged to be [218] the abettor of vice, from which her delicacy, morality, and religion ſhrunk: but—perſons of honour and of reputation would not employ her: was ſhe then to periſh? That perhaps was eaſy to reſolve—but ſhe had a child to leave behind! A child, from whom to part for a day was a torment.—Yet, before ſhe ſubmitted herſelf to a ſituation that filled her mind with a kind of loathing horror, often ſhe paced up and down the ſtreet in which William lived, looked wiſtfully at his houſe, and ſometimes loſt to all her finer feelings of independent pride, thought of ſending a ſhort petition to him—but, at the idea of a repulſe, and of that frowning brow, which ſhe knew William could dart on her, ſhe preferred death, or the moſt degrading life, to the trial.

It was long ſince, that misfortune and diſhonour had made her callous to the good or ill opinion of all the world, except his; and the fear of drawing upon her his encreaſed contempt was ſtill, at the criſis of applying, ſo powerful, that ſhe found ſhe dared not even hazard a [219] reproof from him in the perſon of his father; whoſe rigour ſhe had now more than once experienced, in the frequent harſh meſſages conveyed to her with the poor ſtipend for her boy.

Awed by the rigid and pious character of the new biſhop, the riſing honours and growing reputation of his ſon, ſhe miſtook the appearance of moral experience, for moral excellence itſelf; and felt her own unworthineſs even to become the ſupplicant of thoſe great men.

Day after day ſhe watched thoſe parts of the town through which William's chariot was accuſtomed to drive—but, to ſee the carriage was all to which ſhe aſpired—a feeling, not to be deſcribed, forced her to caſt her eyes upon the earth as it drew near to her—and when it had paſſed, ſhe beat her breaſt and wept, that ſhe had not ſeen him.

Impreſſed with the ſuperiority of others, and her own abject and diſguſtful ſtate, ſhe cried—"Let me herd with thoſe who won't deſpiſe me—let me only ſee faces whereon I can look without confuſion and terror—let me aſſociate with wretches [220] like myſelf, rather than force my ſhame before thoſe who are ſo good, they can but ſcorn and mock at me."

With a mind thus languiſhing for ſympathy in diſgrace, ſhe entered a ſervant in the houſe juſt now deſcribed. There, accompliſhing the fatal proverb againſt "evil communications," ſhe had not the fortitude to be an exception to the general rule—That pliant diſpoſition which had yielded to the licentious love of William, ſtopped to ſtill baſer proſtitution in company ſtill more depraved.

At firſt ſhe ſhuddered at thoſe practices that ſhe ſaw, at thoſe converſations that ſhe heard; and bleſt herſelf that poverty, not inclination, had cauſed her to be a witneſs of ſuch things, and had condemned her in the vile abode to be a ſervant, rather, than in the lower rank of miſtreſs.—Uſe ſoftened thoſe horrors every day—at length ſelf-defence, the fear of ridicule, and the hope of favour, induced her to adopt that very conduct from which her heart revolted.

In her ſorrowful countenance, and fading charms, there yet remained attraction [221] for many viſitors—and ſhe now ſubmitted to the mercenary profanations of love; more odious, as her mind had been ſubdued by its moſt ſacred and endearing joys.

While inceſſant regret whiſpered to her "ſhe ought to have endured every calamity rather than this," ſhe thus queſtioned her nice ſenſe of wrong—"Why, why reſpect myſelf, while no other reſpects me? Why ſet a value on my own feelings, when no one elſe does?"

Degraded in her own judgment, ſhe doubted her own underſtanding when it ſometimes told her ſhe had deſerved better treatment—for ſhe felt herſelf a fool in compariſon with her learned ſeducer, and the reſt who deſpiſed her. "And why," ſhe continued, "ſhould I ungratefully perſiſt to contemn women, who alone are ſo kind as to accept me a companion? Why refuſe conformity to their cuſtoms, while none of my ſex beſides, will admit me to their ſociety a partaker of theirs?"

In ſpeculation theſe arguments appeared reaſonable, and ſhe purſued their dictates [222] —but in the practice of the life in which ſhe plunged, ſhe proved the fallacy of the ſyſtem; and at times tore her hair with frantic ſorrow—that ſhe did not continue in the mid-way of guilt, and ſo preſerve ſome little portion of ſelf-approbation, to recompence her, in a ſmall degree, for the total loſs of the eſteem of all the virtuous world.

But ſhe had now gone too far to recede. Could ſhe have now recalled her innocence, even that part ſhe brought with her to London, experience would have taught her to have given up her child, and have lived once more with the brute creation, and apart from him, rather than to have mingled with her preſent ſociety. Now, alas! the time for flying was paſt—all prudent choice was over—even all reflection was gone for ever—or only admitted on compulſion, when it imperiouſly forced its way amidſt the ſcenes of tumultuous mirth, of licentious paſſion, of diſtracted riot, ſhameleſs effrontery, and wild intoxication—when it would force its way—even through the walls of a brothel.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

[223]

IS there a reader ſo little experienced in the human heart, ſo forgetful of his own as not to feel the poſſibility of the following fact?

A ſeries of uncommon calamities had been for many years the lot of the elder Henry—a ſucceſſion of proſperous events had fallen to the ſhare of his brother William—The one was the envy, while the other had the compaſſion of all who thought about them. For the laſt twenty years William had lived in affluence bordering upon ſplendour, his friends, his fame, his fortune daily encreaſing; while Henry, throughout that very period, had, by degrees, loſt all he loved on earth, and was now exiſting apart from civiliſed ſociety—and yet—during thoſe twenty years, where William knew one happy moment, Henry taſted hundreds.

That the ſtate of the mind, and not outward circumſtances, is the nice point on which happineſs depends, is but a [224] quaint remark: but that intellectual power ſhould have the force to render a man diſcontented in extraordinary proſperity ſuch as that of the preſent biſhop, or contented in his brother's extreme of adverſity, requires illuſtration.

The firſt great affliction to Henry was his brother's ingratitude; but reaſoning on the frailty of man's nature, and the power of man's temptations, he found excuſes for William, which made him ſupport the treatment he had received, with more tranquillity, than William's proud mind ſupported his brother's marriage—Henry's indulgent diſpoſition made him leſs angry with William, than William was with him.

The next affliction Henry ſuffered, was the loſs of his beloved wife—that was a grief which time and change of objects gradually alleviated; while William's wife was a permanent grief to him; her puerile mind, her talking vanity, her affected virtues, ſoured his domeſtic comfort; and, in time, he had ſuffered more painful moments from her ſociety, than his brother had experienced, even from the death of her he loved,

[225]In their children, indeed, William was the happieſt—his ſon was a pride and pleaſure to him, while Henry never thought upon his without lamenting his loſs with bitter anguiſh. But if the elder brother had in this inſtance the advantage, ſtill Henry had a reſource to overbalance this article. Henry, as he lay impriſoned in his dungeon, and when, after his puniſhment was remitted, he was again allowed to wander and ſeek his ſubſiſtence where he would; in all his tedious walks and ſolitary reſting-places, during all his lonely days and mournful nights, had this reſource to conſole him:

"I never did an injury to any one: never was harſh, ſevere, unkind, deceitful: I did not merely confine myſelf to do my neighbour no harm; I ſtrove to ſerve him."

This was the reſource that cheered his ſinking heart amidſt gloomy deſerts and a barbarous people; lulled him to peaceful ſlumber in the hut of a ſavage hunter, and in the ſound of the lion's roar; at times impreſſed him with a ſenſe of happineſs; and made him contemplate with [226] a longing hope, the retribution of a future world.

The biſhop, with all his comforts, had no comfort like this—he had his ſolitary reflections too, but they were of a tendency the reverſe of theſe.—"I uſed my brother ill," was a ſecret thought of moſt powerful influence—it kept him waking upon his ſafe and commodious bed; was ſure to recur with every misfortune by which he was threatened, to make his fears ſtill ſtronger; and came with invidious ſtabs upon every ſucceſsful event, to take from him a part of his joy.—In a word, it was conſcience that made Henry's years paſs happier than William's.

But though, comparatively with his brother, William was the leſs happy man, yet his ſelf-reproach was not of ſuch magnitude, for an offence of that atrocious nature, as to baniſh a certain degree of happineſs, and a ſenſibility to the ſmiles of fortune from his breaſt—nor was Henry's ſelf-acquittal of ſuch exquiſite kind, as to chaſe away the feeling of his deſolate ſituation.

[227]As he fiſhed or hunted for his daily dinner, many a time in full view of his prey, a ſudden burſt of ſorrow at his fate, a ſudden longing for ſome dear ſociety, for ſome friend to ſhare his thoughts, for ſome kind ſhoulder on which to lean his head, for ſome companion to partake of his repaſt, would make him inſtantaneouſly deſiſt from his purſuit, caſt him on the ground in a fit of anguiſh, till a ſhower of tears, and his conſcience, came to his relief.

It was on a ſultry morning, when, after pleaſant dreams during the night, he had walked with more than uſual perception of his miſery; that, ſitting upon the bench, his wiſhes and his looks all bent on the ſea towards his native land, he thought he ſaw a ſail ſwelling before an unexpected breeze.

"Sure I am dreaming ſtill!" he cried. "This is the very veſſel I ſaw laſt night in my ſleep!—Oh! what cruel mockery, that my eyes ſhould ſo deceive me!"

Yet though he doubted, he leaped upon his feet in tranſport!—held up his hands, ſtretched at their length, in a [228] kind of ecſtatic joy!—and as the glorious fight approached, was near ruſhing into the ſea to meet it.

For a while hope and fear kept him in a ſtate bordering on diſtraction.

Now he ſaw the ſhip making for the ſhore, and tears flowed for the grateful proſpect. Now it made for another point, and he vented ſhrieks and groans from the diſappointment.

It was at thoſe moments, while hope and fear thus poſſeſſed him, that the horrors of his abode appeared more than ever frightful!—Inevitable afflictions muſt be borne; but that calamity which admits the expectation of relief, that is afterwards denied, is inſupportable.

After a few minutes paſſed in dreadful uncertainty, which enhanced the wiſhed-for happineſs, the ſhip evidently drew near the land—a boat was launched from her—and while Henry, now upon his knees, wept, and prayed fervently for the event; a youth ſprang from the barge on the ſtrand, ruſhed towards him, and falling on his neck, then at his feet, exclaimed—"My father! oh my father!"

[229]William! Dean! Biſhop! What are your honours, what your riches, what all your poſſeſſions, compared to the happineſs, the tranſport beſtowed by this one ſentence, on your poor brother Henry?

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

[230]

THE croſſes at land and the perilous events at ſea, had made it now ſeveral years ſince young Henry firſt took the vow of a man, no longer dependent on the will of another, to ſeek his father. His fatigues, his dangers were well recompenſed! Inſtead of weeping over a ſilent grave, he had the inexpreſſible joy to receive a parent's bleſſing for his labours. Yet, the elder Henry, though living, was ſo changed in perſon, that his ſon would ſcarcely have known him in any other than the favourite ſpot, which the younger (keeping in memory every incident of his former life) knew his father had always choſen for his morning contemplations; and where, previouſly to his coming to England, he had many a time kept him company. It was to that particular corner of the iſland that the captain of the ſhip had generouſly ordered they ſhould ſteer, out of the general [231] route, to gratify the filial tenderneſs he expreſſed. But ſcarcely had the interview between the father and the ſon taken place, than a band of natives, whom the appearance of the veſſel had called from the woods and hills, came to attack the invaders. The elder Henry had no friend with whom he wiſhed to ſhake hands at his departure; the old negro ſervant who had aſſiſted in young Henry's eſcape was dead; and he experienced the exceſſive joy of bidding adieu to a place, without one regret for all he left behind.

On the night of that day, whoſe morning had been marked by peculiar ſadneſs, at the louring proſpect of many exiled years to come; he ſlept on board an Engliſh veſſel, with Engliſhmen his companions, and his ſon, his beloved ſon—who was ſtill more dear to him for that mind which had planned and executed his reſcue—his attentive ſervant, and moſt affectionate friend.

Though many a year paſſed, and many a rough encounter was deſtined to the lot of the two Henrys before they ſaw the [232] ſhores of Europe, yet to them, to live or to die together was happineſs enough—even young Henry for a time aſked for no greater bleſſing—but, the firſt glow of filial ardor over, he called to mind, "Rebecca lived in England;" and every exertion which love, founded on the higheſt reverence and eſteem, could dictate, he employed to expedite a voyage, the end of which would be crowned by the ſight of her.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

[233]

THE contraſt of the ſtate of happineſs between the two brothers, was nearly reſembled by that of the two couſins—the riches of young William did not render him happy, nor did the poverty of young Henry doom him to miſery. His affectionate heart, as he had deſcribed in his letter to Rebecca, loved perſons rather than things, and he would not have exchanged the ſociety of his father, or the proſpect of her hand and heart, for all the wealth and finery of which his couſin William was the maſter.

He was right. Young William, though he viewed with contempt Henry's inferior ſtate, was far leſs happy than he—His marriage had been the very counterpart of his father's; and having no child to create affection to his home, his ſtudy, was the only relief from the domeſtic incumbrance, his wife: and though by unremitting application there (joined to [234] the influence of the potent relations of the woman he hated) he at length arrived at the ſummit of his ambitious deſires, ſtill they poorly repaid him, for the ſacrifice he had made in early life, of every tender diſpoſition.

Striding through a liſt of rapid advancements, in the profeſſion of the law, at the age of thirty-eight he found himſelf raiſed to preferment, ſuch as rarely falls to the ſhare of a man of his ſhort experience—he found himſelf inveſted with a judge's robe; and gratified by the exalted office, curbed more than ever that averſion, which her want of charms or ſympathy, had produced againſt the partner of his honours.

While William had thus been daily riſing in fortune's favour, poor Hannah had been daily ſinking deeper and deeper under fortune's frowns: till at laſt ſhe became a midnight wanderer through the ſtreets of London, ſoliciting, or rudely demanding money of the paſſing ſtranger. Sometimes, hunted by the watch, ſhe affrighted fled from ſtreet to ſtreet, from portico to portico—and once, unknowing [235] in her fear which way ſhe hurried, ſhe found her trembling knees had ſunk, and her wearied head was reclined, againſt the pillars that guarded William's door.

At the ſudden recollection where ſhe was, a ſwell of paſſion, compoſed of horror, of deſpair, and love, gave re-animated ſtrength to her failing limbs; and, regardleſs of her purſuers' ſteps, ſhe ran to the centre of the ſtreet, and looking up to the windows of the houſe, cried, "Ah! there he ſleeps in quiet, in peace, in eaſe—he does not even dream of me—he does not care how the cold pierces, or how the people perſecute me!—He does not thank me for all the laviſh love I have borne him and his child!—His heart is ſo hard, he does not even recollect that it was he, who brought me to ruin."

Had theſe miſeries, common to the unhappy proſtitute, been alone the puniſhment of Hannah—had her crimes and ſufferings ended in diſtreſs like this, her ſtory had not perhaps been ſelected for a public recital; for it had been no other [236] than the cuſtomary hiſtory of thouſands of her ſex. But Hannah had a deſtiny yet more ſevere.—Unhappily, ſhe was endowed with a mind ſo ſenſibly alive to every joy, and every ſorrow, to every mark of kindneſs, every token of ſeverity; ſo liable to exceſs in paſſion, that once perverted, there was no degree of error from which it would with firmneſs revolt.

Taught by the converſation of the diſſolute poor, with whom ſhe now aſſociated, or by her own obſervation on the worldly reward of elevated villany, ſhe began to ſuſpect "that diſhoneſty was only held a ſin, to ſecure the property of the rich; and that, to take from thoſe who did not want, by the art of ſtealing, was leſs guilt, than to take from thoſe who did want, by the power of the law."

By falſe, yet ſeducing opinions ſuch as theſe, her reaſon eſtranged from every moral and religious tie, her neceſſities urgent, the reluctantly aceepted the propoſal, to mix with a band of practiſed ſharpers and robbers; and become an accomplice in negotiating bills forged on a country banker.

[237]But though ingenious in arguments to excuſe the deed before its commiſſion; in the act, ſhe had the dread of ſome uncontrovertible ſtatement on the other ſide of the queſtion. Intimidated by this conviction, ſhe was the verieſt bungler in her vile profeſſion—and on the alarm of being detected, while every one of her confederates eſcaped and abſconded, ſhe alone was ſeized—was arreſted for iſſuing notes they had fabricated, and committed to the provincial jail, about fifty miles from London, where the crime was perpetrated, to take her trial for—life or death.

CHAPTER XL.

[238]

THE day at length is come, on which Hannah ſhall have a ſight of her beloved William!—She, who has watched for hours near his door, to procure a glimpſe of him going out, or returning home; who has walked miles to ſee his chariot paſs; ſhe now will behold him, and he will ſee her, by the command of the laws of their country—Thoſe laws that will deal with rigour towards her, in this one inſtance are ſtill indulgent.

The time of the aſſizes, at the county-town in which ſhe is impriſoned, is arrived—the priſoners are demanded at the ſhire-hall—the jail doors are opened—they go in ſad proceſſion.—The trumpet ſounds—it ſpeaks the arrival of the judge—and that judge is William.

The day previous to her trial, Hannah had read, in the printed calendar of the priſoners, his name as the learned juſtice before whom ſhe was to appear. For a [239] moment ſhe forgot her perilous ſtate in the exceſs of joy, which the ſtill unconquerable love ſhe bore to him, permitted her to taſte even on the brink of the grave!—After-reflection made her check thoſe worldly tranſports, as unfit for the preſent ſolemn occaſion. But alas! to her, earth and William were ſo cloſely united, that, till ſhe forſook the one, ſhe could never ceaſe to think, without the contending paſſions of hope, of fear, of joy, of love, of ſhame, and of deſpair, on the other.

Now fear took place of her firſt immoderate joy—ſhe feared, that although much changed in perſon ſince he had ſeen her, and her real name now added to many an alias—yet ſhe feared that ſome well-known glance of the eye, turn of the action, or accent of ſpeech, might recall her to his remembrance; and at that idea ſhame overcame all her other ſenſations—for ſtill ſhe retained pride, in reſpect to his opinion, to wiſh him not to know, Hannah was that wretch ſhe felt ſhe was!—Once a ray of hope beamed on her, "that if he knew her, if he recogniſed [240] her, he might poſſibly befriend her cauſe"—and life beſtowed through William's friendſhip ſeemed a precious object—But again, that rigorous honour ſhe had often heard him boaſt, that firmneſs to his word, of which ſhe had fatal experience, taught her to know, he would not for any improper compaſſion, any unmanly weakneſs, forfeit his oath of impartial juſtice.

In meditations ſuch as theſe ſhe paſſed the ſleepleſs night.

When, in the morning, ſhe was brought to the bar, and her guilty hand held up before the righteous judgment-ſeat of William; imagination could not form two figures, or two ſituations more incompatible with the exiſtence of former familiarity, than the judge and the culprit—and yet, theſe very perſons had paſſed together the moſt bliſsful moments that either ever taſted!—Thoſe hours of tender dalliance were now preſent to her mind—His thoughts were more nobly employed in his high office—nor could the haggard face, hollow eye, deſponding countenance, and meagre perſon of [241] the poor priſoner, once call to his memory, though her name was uttered among a liſt of others that ſhe had aſſumed, his former youthful, lovely, Hannah!

She heard herſelf arraigned with trembling limbs and downcaſt looks—and many witneſſes had appeared againſt her, before ſhe ventured to lift her eyes up to her awful judge. She then gave one fearful glance, and diſcovered William, unpitying, but beloved William, in every feature! It was a face ſhe had been uſed to look on with delight, and a kind of abſent ſmile of gladneſs, now beamed on her poor wan viſage.

When every witneſs on the part of the proſecutor had been examined, the judge addreſſed himſelf to her,

"What defence have you to make?"

It was William ſpoke to Hannah!—The ſound was ſweet—the voice was mild, was ſoft, compaſſionate, encouraging!—It almoſt charmed her to a love of life!—not ſuch a voice as when William laſt add [...]eſſed her; when he left her undone and pregnant, vowing "never to ſee or ſpeak to her more."

[242]She could have hung upon the preſent words for ever! She did not call to mind that this gentleneſs was the effect of practice, the art of his occupation: which at times, is but a copy, by the unfeeling, from his benevolent brothers of the bench. In the preſent judge, tenderneſs was not deſigned for the culprit's conſolation, but for the approbation of the auditors.

There were no ſpectators, Hannah, by your ſide when laſt he parted from you—if there had, the awful William had been awed to marks of pity.

Stunned with the enchantment of that well-known tongue directed to her, ſhe ſtood like one juſt petrified—all vital power was ſuſpended.

Again he put the queſtion, and with theſe additional ſentences, tenderly and emphatically delivered—"Recollect yourſelf—Have you no witneſſes? No proof in your behalf?"

A dead ſilence followed theſe queſtions.

He then mildly, but forcibly, added—"What have you to ſay?"

[243]Here, a flood of tears burſt from her eyes, which ſhe fixed earneſtly upon him, as if pleading for mercy, while ſhe faintly articulated,

"Nothing, my Lord."

After a ſhort pauſe, he aſked her, in the ſame forcible but benevolent tone

"Have you no one to ſpeak for your character?"

The priſoner anſwered,

"No."

A ſecond guſh of tears followed this reply, for ſhe called to mind by whom, her character had firſt been blaſted.

He ſummed up the evidence—and every time he was compelled to preſs hard upon the proofs againſt her, ſhe ſhrunk, and ſeemed to ſtagger with the deadly blow—writhed under the weight of his minute juſtice, more than from the proſpect of a ſhameful death.

The jury conſulted but a few minutes—the verdict was—

"Guilty."

She heard it with compoſure.

But when William placed the fatal velvet on his head, and roſe to pronounce [244] her ſentence—ſhe ſtarted with a kind of convulſive motion—retreated a ſtep or two back, and lifting up her hands, with a ſcream exclaimed—

"Oh! not from you!"

The piercing ſhriek which accompanied theſe words, prevented their being heard by part of the audience; and thoſe who heard them, thought little of their meaning, more, than that they expreſſed her fear of dying.

Serene, and dignified, as if no ſuch exclamation had been uttered, William delivered the fatal ſpeech, ending with—"Dead, dead, dead."

She fainted as he cloſed the period, and was carried back to priſon in a ſwoon; while he adjourned the court to go to dinner.

CHAPTER XLI.

[245]

IF, unaffected by the ſcene he had witneſſed, William ſat down to dinner with an appetite, let not the reader conceive, that the moſt diſtant idea had ſtruck his mind—of his ever having ſeen, much leſs familiarly known, the poor offender whom he had juſt condemned. Still this forgetfulneſs did not proceed from the want of memory for Hannah—In every peeviſh or heavy hour paſſed with his wife, he was ſure to think of her—yet, it was ſelf-love, rather than love of her, that gave riſe to theſe thoughts—he felt the want of female ſympathy and tenderneſs, to ſoften the fatigue of ſtudious labour; to ſoothe a ſullen, a moroſe diſpoſition—he felt he wanted comfort for himſelf, but never once conſidered, what Hannah's wants were.

In the chagrin of a barren bed, he ſometimes thought, too, even on the child that Hannah bore him; but whether it [246] were male or female, whether a beggar in the ſtreets, or dead—various and important public occupations, forbade him to waſte time to enquire. Yet the poor, the widow, and the orphan, frequently ſhared William's oſtentatious bounty. He was the preſident of many excellent charities; gave largely; and ſometimes inſtituted benevolent ſocieties for the unhappy: for he delighted to load the poor with obligations, and the rich with praiſe.

There are perſons like him, who love to do every good, but that which their immediate duty requires—There are ſervants who will ſerve every one more cheerfully than their maſters—There are men who will diſtribute money liberally to all, except their creditors—And there are wives who will love any man better than their huſbands.—Duty is a familiar word which has little effect upon an ordinary mind: and as ordinary minds are in a vaſt majority, we have acts of generoſity, valour, ſelf-denial, and bounty, where ſmaller pains would conſtitute greater virtues.—Had William followed the common dictates of charity; had he [247] adopted private pity, inſtead of public munificence: had he caſt an eye at home, before he ſought abroad for objects of compaſſion, Hannah had been preſerved from an ignominious death, and he had been preſerved from—Remorſe.—The tortures of which, he for the firſt time proved, on reading a printed ſheet of paper thrown accidentally in his way, a few days after he had left the town in which he had condemned her to die.

The laſt dying words, ſpeech, and confeſſion; birth, parentage, and education; life, character, and behaviour, of Hannah Primroſe, who was executed this morning between the hours of ten and twelve, purſuant to the ſentence paſſed upon her by the Honourable Juſtice Norwynne.

HANNAH PRIMROSE was born of honeſt parents, in the village of Anfield, in the county of—[William ſtarted at the name of the village and county] But being led aſtray by the [248] arts and flattery of ſeducing man, ſhe fell from the paths of virtue, premeditated many horrid crimes, and took to bad company, which inſtilled into her young heart all their evil practices, and at length brought her to this untimely end. So ſhe hopes her death will be a warning to all young perſons of her own ſex, how they liſten to the praiſes and courtſhip of young men, eſpecially of thoſe who are their betters; for they only court to deceive—But the ſaid Hannah, freely forgives all perſons who have done her injury, or given her ſorrow, from the young man who firſt won her heart, to the jury who found her guilty, and the judge who condemned her to death.

And ſhe acknowledges the juſtice of her ſentence, not only in reſpect of the crime for which ſhe ſuffers, but in regard to many other heinous ſins of which ſhe has been guilty, more eſpecially that of once attempting to commit a murder upon her own helpleſs child, for which guilt ſhe now conſiders the vengeance of God has overtaken [249] her, to which ſhe is patiently reſigned, and parts in peace and charity with all the world, praying the Lord to have mercy on her poor departing ſoul.

POSTSCRIPT TO THE CONFESSION.

So great was this unhappy woman's terror of death, and the awful judgment that was to follow, that when ſentence was pronounced upon her, ſhe fell into a ſwoon, from that into convulſions, from which ſhe never entirely recovered, but was delirious to the time of her execution, except that ſhort interval in which ſhe made her confeſſion to the clergyman who attended her—She has left one child, a youth about ſixteen, who has never forſaken his mother during all the time of her impriſonment, but with true filial duty waited on her—and no ſooner was her fatal ſentence paſſed, than he began to droop, and now lies dangerouſly ill near the priſon from which ſhe is releaſed by death—During the loſs of her ſenſes, the ſaid Hannah [250] raved continually on this child—and, aſking for pen, ink, and paper, wrote an incoheret petition to the judge, recommending the youth to his protection and mercy. But notwithſtanding this inſanity, ſhe behaved with compoſure and reſignation, when the fatal period arrived that ſhe was to be launched, into eternity. She prayed devoutly during the laſt hour, and ſeemed to have her whole mind fixed on the world to which ſhe was going—A crowd of ſpectators followed her to the fatal ſpot, moſt of whom returned weeping at the recollection of the fervency with which ſhe prayed, and the impreſſion which her dreadful ſtate ſeemed to make upon her.

No ſooner had the name of "Anfield" ſtruck William, than a thouſand reflections and remembrances flaſhed on his mind to give him conviction, whom he had judged and ſentenced. He recollected the ſad remains of Hannah, ſuch as he once had known her—and now he [251] wondered how his thoughts could have been abſent from an object ſo pitiable, ſo worthy of his attention, as not to give him even a ſuſpicion who ſhe was, either from her name, or from her perſon, during the whole trial!

But wonder, aſtoniſhment, horror, and every other ſenſation, was abſorbed in—Remorſe:—It wounded, it ſtabbed, it rent his hard heart, as it would do a tender one—It havocked on his firm inflexible mind, as it would on a weak and pliant brain!—Spirit of Hannah! Look down and behold all your wrongs revenged! William feels—Remorſe.

CHAPTER XLII.

[252]

A FEW momentary ceſſations from the pangs of a guilty conſcience were given to William, as ſoon as he had diſpatched a meſſenger to the jail in which Hannah had been confined, to enquire after the ſon ſhe had left behind, and to give orders that immediate care ſhould be taken of his health and ſafety—He likewiſe charged the meſſenger to convey back to him the petition ſhe had addreſſed to him during her ſuppoſed inſanity; for it was now no trivial conſolation to him, that he might poſſibly have it in his power to grant a requeſt from her.

The meſſenger returned with the written paper, which had been conſidered by the perſons to whom ſhe had entruſted it, as the diſtracted ſentences of an inſane mind; but to William, they proved beyond a doubt, that ſhe was perfectly in her ſenſes.

[253]

To Lord Chief Juſtice NORWYNNE.

MY LORD,

I AM Hannah Primroſe, the daughter of John and Hannah Primroſe, of Anfield—my father and mother lived by the hill at the ſide of the little brook where you uſed to fiſh, and where you firſt ſaw me.

Pray, my Lord, have mercy on my ſorrows, pity me for the firſt time, and ſpare my life. I know I have done wrong—I know it is preſumption in me to dare to apply to you, ſuch a wicked and mean wretch as I am; but, my lord, you once condeſcended to take notice of me—and though I have been very wicked ſince that time, yet if you would be ſo merciful as to ſpare my life. I promiſe to amend it for the future. But if you think it proper I ſhould die, I will be reſigned; but then I hope, I beg, I ſupplicate, that you will grant my other petition.—Pray, pray, my lord, if you cannot pardon me, be merciful to the child I [254] leave behind—What he will do when I am gone, I don't know—for I have been the only friend he has had ever ſince he was born.—He was born, my lord, about ſixteen years ago, at Anfield, one ſummer's morning, and carried by your couſin, Mr. Henry Norwynne, to Mr. Rymer's, the curate there—and I ſwore whoſe child he was, before the dean, and I did not take a falſe oath. Indeed, indeed my lord, I did not.

I will ſay no more for fear this ſhould not come ſafe to your hand, for the people treat me as if I were mad—ſo I will ſay no more, only this, that, whether I live or die, I forgive every body, and I hope every body will forgive me—and I pray that God will take pity on my ſon, if you refuſe: but I hope you will not refuſe.

HANNAH PRIMROSE.

William rejoiced, as he laid down the petition, that ſhe had aſked a favour he could beſtow; and hoped, by his protection of the ſon, to redreſs, in a degree, the wrongs he had done the mother. [255] He inſtantly ſent for the meſſenger into his apartment, and impatiently aſked, "If he had ſeen the boy, and given proper directions for his care?"

"I have given directions, Sir, for his funeral."

"How!" Cried William.

"He pined away ever ſince his mother was confined, and died two days after her execution."

Robbed, by this news, of his only gleam of conſolation—in the conſciouſneſs of having done a mortal injury for which he never now by any means could atone, he ſaw all his honours, all his riches, all his proud ſelfiſh triumphs dance before him! They ſeemed like airy nothings, which in rapture he would exchange for the peace of a tranquil conſcience!

He envied Hannah the death to which he expoſed, then condemned her—He envied her even the life ſhe ſtruggled through from his neglect—and felt, that his future days, would be far leſs happy, than her former exiſtence. He calculated with preciſion.

CHAPTER XLIII.

[256]

THE progreſſive riſe of William, and fall of Hannah, had now occupied nearly the term of eighteen years—added to theſe, another year elapſed before the younger Henry completed the errand on which his heart was fixed. Shipwreck, impriſonment, and ills to which the poor and unfriended traveller is peculiarly expoſed, detained the father and ſon in various remote regions until the preſent period; and for the laſt fifteen years, denied them the means of all correſpondence with their own country.

The elder Henry was now paſt ſixty years of age, and the younger almoſt beyond the prime of life. Still length of time had not diminiſhed, but rather had encreaſed, their anxious longings for their native home.

The ſorrows, diſappointments, and fatigues that throughout theſe tedious years were endured by the two Henrys, are of that dull monotonous kind of ſuffering, [257] better omitted than deſcribed: mere repetitions of the exile's woe, that ſhall give place to the tranſporting joy, of return from baniſhment!—Yet, much as the younger had reckoned with impatient wiſhes, the hours that were paſſed diſtant from her he loved, no ſooner was his diſaſtrous voyage at an end, and his feet trod upon the ſhores of England, and a thouſand wounding fears made him almoſt doubt, whether it were happineſs or miſery he had obtained by his arrival. If Rebecca were living, he knew it muſt be happineſs—for his heart dwelt with confidence on her faith—her unchanging ſentiments. "But death might poſſibly have raviſhed from his hopes what no mortal power could have done." And thus the lover creates a rival in every ill, rather than ſuffer his fears to remain inanimate.

The elder Henry had leſs to fear or to hope than his ſon—yet he both feared and hoped with a ſenſibility that gave him inexpreſſible anxiety. He hoped his brother would receive him with kindneſs, after his long abſence, and once [258] more take his ſon cordially to his favour. He longed impatiently to behold his brother; to ſee his nephew; nay, in the ardour of the renewed affection he juſt now felt, he thought even a diſtant view of Lady Clementina would be grateful to his ſight! But ſtill, well remembering the pomp, the ſtate, the pride of William, he could not rely on his affection, ſo much he knew that it depended on external circumſtances to excite, or to extinguiſh his love. Not that he feared an abſolute repulſion from his brother; but he feared, what, to a delicate mind, is ſtill worſe—Reſerved manners, cold looks, abſent ſentences, and all the cruel retinue of indifference, with which thoſe who are beloved, ſo often wound the boſom that adores them.

By enquiring of their countrymen (whom they met as they approached to the end of their voyage) concerning their relation the dean, the two Henrys learned that he was well, and had for ſome years paſt been exalted to the biſhoprick of * * *. This news gave them joy, while it encreaſed their fear of not receiving a familiar welcome.

[259]The younger Henry, on his landing, wrote immediately to his uncle, acquainting him with his father's arrival in the moſt abject ſtate of poverty: he addreſſed his letters to the biſhop's country reſidence, where he knew, as it was the ſummer ſeaſon, he would certainly be: He and his father then ſet off on foot, towards that reſidence—a palace!

The biſhop's palace was not ſituated above fifty miles from the port where they had landed: and at a ſmall inn about three miles from the biſhop's, they propoſed (as the letter to him intimated) to wait for his anſwer, before they intruded into his preſence.

At the town where they came on ſhore, and as they walked on their journey, though it was ſomewhat ſolitary, that they knew no creature whom they met or ſaw; yet it was no ſmall conſolation, that no creature knew them.

"To be poor and ragged, father," the younger ſmilingly ſaid, "is no diſgrace, no ſhame, thank heaven, where the object is not known."

[260]"True, my ſon," replied Henry, "and perhaps I feel myſelf much happier now unknowing and unknown to all but you, than I ſhall in the preſence of my fortunate brother and his family: for there, confuſion at my ill ſucceſs through life, may give me greater pain, than even my misfortunes have inflicted."

After uttering this reflection that had preyed upon his mind, he ſat down on the road ſide to reſt his diſcomfited limbs, before he could proceed farther. His ſon reaſoned with him; gave him courage; and now his hopes preponderated; till after two days' journey, on arriving at the inn where an anſwer from the biſhop was expected, no letter, no meſſage had been left.

"He means to renounce us." Said Henry trembling and whiſpering to his ſon.

Without diſcloſing to the people of the houſe who they were, or from whom the letter or the meſſage they enquired for was to have cone, they retired, and conſulted what ſteps they were now to purſue.

[261]Previouſly to his writing to the biſhop, the younger Henry's heart, all his inclinations had ſwayed him towards a viſit to the village in which was his uncle's former country ſeat—the beloved village of Anfield—but, reſpect and duty to him had made him check thoſe wiſhes—now, they revived again—and with the image of Rebecca before his eyes, he warmly entreated his father to go with him to Anfield, at preſent only thirty miles diſtance, and from thence, write once more—then wait the will of his uncle.

The father conſented to this propoſal, even glad to poſtpone the viſit to his dignified brother.

After a ſcanty repaſt, ſuch as they had been long inured to, they quitted the inn, and took the road towards Anfield.

CHAPTER XLIV.

[262]

IT was about five in the afternoon of a ſummer's day, that Henry and his ſon left the ſign of the Mermaid, and began their third day's journey: the young man's ſpirits elated with the proſpect of the reception he ſhould meet from Rebecca; the elder dejected, at not receiving a welcome from his brother.

The road which led to Anfield neceſſarily took our travellers within ſight of the biſhop's palace—the turrets appeared at a diſtance—and on the ſudden turn round the corner of a large plantation, the whole magnificent ſtructure was at once exhibited, before his brother's aſtoniſhed eyes! He was ſtruck with the grandeur of the habitation—and, totally forgetting, all the unkind, the contemptuous treatment he had ever received from its owner (like the ſame Henry in his earlier years) ſmiled with a kind of tranſport "that William was ſo great a man."

[263]After this firſt joyous ſenſation was over, "Let us go a little nearer, my ſon," ſaid he, "no one will ſee us I hope: or if they ſhould, you can run and conceal yourſelf; and not a creature will know me—even my brother would not know me thus altered—and I wiſh to take a little farther view of his fine houſe, and all his pleaſure grounds."

Young Henry, though impatient to be gone, would not object to his father's deſire.—They walked forward between a ſhady grove and a purling rivulet, ſnuffed in odours from the jeſſamine banks, and liſtened to the melody of an adjoining aviary.

The allurements of the ſpot ſeemed to enchain the elder Henry, and he at length ſauntered to the very avenue of the dwelling: but juſt as he had ſet his daring, yet trembling feet, upon the turf that led to the palace gates: he ſuddenly ſtopped, on hearing, as he thought, the village clock ſtrike ſeven; which reminded him, that evening drew on, and it was time to go.—He liſtened again—when he and his [264] ſon, both together ſaid "It is the toll of the bell before ſome funeral."

The ſignals of death, while they humble the rich, inſpire the poor with pride. The paſſing-bell gave Henry a momentary ſenſe of equality, and he courageouſly ſtept forward to the firſt winding of the avenue.

He darted back at the ſight which preſented itſelf!

A hearſe—mourning coaches—mutes—plumed horſes—with every other token of the perſon's importance, who was going to be committed to the earth.

Scarce had his terrified eyes been thus unexpectedly ſtruck—when a coffin borne by ſix men iſſued from the gates, and was depoſited in the waiting receptacle; while gentlemen in mourning went into the different coaches.

A ſtandard-bearer now appeared with an eſcutcheon, on which the keys and mitre were diſplayed. Young Henry, upon this, pathetically exclaimed

"My uncle!—It is my uncle's funeral!"

Henry, his father, burſt into tears.

The proceſſion moved along.

[265]The two Henrys, the only real mourners in the train, followed at a little diſtance—in rags, but in tears.

The elder Henry's heart was nearly burſting—he longed to claſp the dead corpſe of his brother, without the dread of being ſpurned for his preſumption.—He now could no longer remember him either as the dean, or biſhop; but leaping over that whole interval of pride and arrogance, called only to his memory William, ſuch as he knew him when they lived at home together, together walked to London, and there together, almoſt periſhed for want.

They arrived at the church—and while the coffin was placing in the dreary vault, Henry crept ſlowly after to the hideous ſpot—His reflections now took a different point. "Is this poſſible?" he ſaid to himſelf. "Is this the dean whom I ever feared? Is this the biſhop of whom, within the preſent hour, I ſtood in awe? Is this William, whoſe every glance ſtruck me with his ſuperiority? Alas! my brother, and is this horrid abode the return for all your aſpiring efforts? Is this the only [266] remains of your greatneſs, which you exhibit to me on my return? Did you foreſee an end like this, while you treated me, and many more of your youthful companions, with haughtineſs and contempt? While you thought it becoming of your dignity to ſhun and deſpiſe us? Where is the difference now between my departed wife and you? or, if there be a difference, ſhe, perchance has the advantage.—Ah! my poor brother, for diſtinction in the other world, I truſt, ſome of your anxious labours have been employed; for you are now of leſs importance in this, than when you and I firſt left our native town, and hoped for nothing greater, than to be ſuffered to exiſt."

On their quitting the church, they enquired of the by-ſtanders, particulars of the biſhop's death, and heard he had been ſuddenly carried off by a raging fever.

Young Henry enquired "If Lady Clementina was at the palace, or Mr. Norwynne?"

"The latter is there"—he was anſwered by a poor woman, "but Lady [267] Clementina has been dead theſe four years."

"Dead! Dead!" cried young Henry, "That worldly woman, quitted this world for ever!"

"Yes," anſwered the ſtranger, "ſhe caught cold by wearing a new-faſhioned dreſs that did not half cover her, waſted all away, and died the miſerableſt object you ever heard of."

The perſon who gave this melancholy intelligence concluded it with a hearty laugh; which would have ſurpriſed the two hearers, if they had not before obſerved—that amongſt all the village crowd that attended to ſee this ſolemn ſhow, not one afflicted countenance appeared, not one dejected look, not one watery eye. The paſtor was ſcarcely known to his flock—it was in London his meridian lay—at the levee of miniſters—at the table of peers—at the drawing-rooms of the great—and now his neglected pariſhioners, paid his indifference in kind.

The ceremony over, and the mourning-ſuite departed, the ſpectators diſperſed with ſmiling faces from the ſad ſpot; [268] while the Henrys, with heavy hearts, retraced their ſteps back towards the palace.—In their way, at the croſſing of a ſtile, they met a poor labourer returning from his day's work; who looking earneſtly at the throng of perſons who were leaving the church-yard, ſaid to the elder Henry

"Pray, maſter, what are all them folk gathered together about? What's the matter there?"

"There has been a funeral." Replied Henry.

"Oh zooks, what! a burying!—ay, now I ſee it is—and I warrant, of our old biſhop—I heard he was main ill—It is he, they have been putting into the ground, is not it?"

"Yes." Said Henry.

"Why then ſo much the better."

"The better!" cried Henry.

"Yes maſter—though, I ſhould be loath to be, where he is now."

Henry ſtarted—"He was your paſtor, man."

"Ha ha ha—I ſhould be ſorry that my maſter's ſheep that are feeding yonder, [269] ſhould have no better paſtor—the fox would ſoon get them all."

"You ſurely did not know him!"

"Not much, I can't ſay I did—for he was above ſpeaking to poor folks—unleſs they did any miſchief, and then he was ſure to take notice of them."

"I believe he meant well." Said Henry.

"As to what he meant, God only knows—but I know what he did."

"And what did he?"

"Nothing at all for the poor."

"If any of them applied to him, no doubt—"

"Oh! they knew better than all that comes to—for if they aſked for any thing, he was ſure to have them ſent to bride-well, or the work-houſe.—He uſed to ſay—"The workhouſe was a fine place for a poor man—the food good enough, and enough of it—" yet he kept a dainty table himſelf. His dogs, too, fared better than we poor. He was vaſtly tender and good to all his horſes and dogs, I will ſay that for him: and to all brute beaſts: he would ſuffer them to be either ſtarved or [270] ſtruck—but he had no compaſſion for his fellow creatures."

"I am ſenſible you do him wrong."

"That he is the beſt judge of by this time. He has ſent many a poor man to the houſe of correction—and now 'tis well, if he has not got a place there himſelf. Ha ha ha!"

"Did he give nothing in charity?"

"Next to nothing. A little weak broth, that runs through one's ſtomach like mad—a working man, maſter, can't live on ſuch meſs—and my wife wore out more ſhoe-leather going after it; and loſt more time waiting at the door before his fat ſervants would bring it her, than the thing was worth.—However, as we ſhould not ſpeak ill of the dead, I ſay nothing againſt him. So good night, maſter."

The man was walking away when Henry called to him—"Pray can you tell me if the biſhop's ſon, is at the palace?"

"Oh yes, you'll find maſter there, treading in the the old man's ſhoes, as proud as Lucifer!"

"Has he any children?"

[271]No, pleaſe God! There's been enough of the name—and after the ſon is gone, I hope we ſhall have no more of the breed."

"Is Mrs. Norwynne, the ſon's wife, at the palace?"

"What, maſter, did not you know what's become of her?"

"Any accident?—"

"Ha ha ha—yes. I can't help laughing—why, maſter, ſhe made a miſtake, and went to another man's bed—and ſo her huſband and ſhe were parted—and ſhe has married the other man."

"Indeed!" cried Henry amazed.

"Ay, indeed—but if it had been my wife or yours, the biſhop would have made her do penance in a white ſheet—but as it was a lady, why, it was all very well—and any one of us, that had been known to talk about it, would have been ſent to bridewell ſtraight—But we did talk, notwithſtanding."

The malicious joy with which the peaſant told this ſtory, made Henry believe (more than all the complaints the man uttered) that there had been want of charity [272] and chriſtian deportment, in the conduct of the biſhop's family. He almoſt wiſhed himſelf back on his ſavage iſland, where brotherly love could not be leſs, than it appeared to be in this civiliſed country.

CHAPTER XLV.

[273]

AS Henry and his ſon, after parting from the poor labourer, approached the late biſhop's palace, all the charms of its magnificence, its ſituation, which but a few hours before, had captivated the elder Henry's mind, was vaniſhed—and, from the mournful ceremony he had ſince been witneſs of, he now viewed this noble edifice, but as a heap of rubbiſh piled together to faſcinate weak underſtandings; and to make even the wiſe and religious man, at times, forget why he was ſent into this world.

Inſtead of preſenting themſelves to their nephew and couſin, they both felt an unconquerable reluctance to enter under the ſuperb, the melancholy roof—a bank, a hedge, a tree, a hill, ſeemed at this juncture, a pleaſanter ſhelter: and each felt himſelf happy in being a harmleſs wanderer on the face of the earth, rather than living in ſplendor, while the [274] wants, the revilings of the hungry and the naked, were crying to heaven for vengeance.

They gave a heart-felt ſigh to the vanity of the rich and the powerful; and purſued a path where they hoped to meet with virtue and happineſs.

They arrived at Anfield.

Poſſeſſed by apprehenſions, which his uncle's funeral had ſerved to encreaſe, young Henry, as he entered the wellknown village, feared every ſound he heard would convey intelligence of Rebecca's death. He ſaw the parſonage houſe at a diſtance, but dreaded to approach it, leſt Rebecca ſhould no longer be an inhabitant.—His father indulged him in the wiſh to take a ſhort ſurvey of the village, and rather learn by indirect means, by obſervation, his fate, than hear it all at once from the lips of ſome blunt relater.

Anfield had undergone great changes ſince Henry left it.—He found ſome cottages raiſed where formerly there were none; and ſome were no more, where he had frequently called, and held ſhort [275] converſations, with the poor who dwelt in them. Amongſt the latter number was the houſe of Hannah's parents—fallen to the ground! He wondered to himſelf where that poor family had taken up their abode? Henry, in a kinder world!

He once again caſt a look at the parſonage houſe—his inquiſitive eye informed him, there, no alteration had taken place externally—but he feared what change might be within.

At length he obtained the courage to enter the church-yard in his way to it.—As he ſlowly and tremblingly moved along, he ſtopped to read here and there a grave-ſtone, as mild, inſtructive, conveyers of intelligence, to which he could attend with more reſignation, than to any o her reporter.

The ſecond ſtone he came to, he found was erected To the memory of the Reverend Thomas Rymer. Rebecca's father. He inſtantly called to mind all that poor enrate's quick ſenſibility of wrong, towards himſelf; his unbridled rage in conſequence; and ſmiled to think—how trivial [276] now appeared all, for which he gave way to ſuch exceſs of paſſion.

But, ſhocked at the death of one ſo near to her he loved, he now feared to read on; and accidentally caſt his eyes from the tombs to the church. Through the window of the chancel, his ſight was ſtruck with a tall monument of large dimenſions raiſed ſince his departure, and adorned with the fineſt ſculpture. His curioſity was excited—he drew near, and he could diſtinguiſh (followed by elegant poetic praiſe) "To the memory of John Lord Viſcount Bendham."

Notwithſtanding the ſolemn, melancholy, anxious bent of Henry's mind, he could not read theſe words, and behold his coſtly fabric, without indulging a momentary fit of indignant laughter.

"Are ſculpture and poetry thus debaſed," he cried, "to perpetuate the memory of a man, whoſe beſt advantage is to be forgotten? Whoſe no one action merits record, but as an example to be ſhunned."

An elderly woman leaning on her ſtick, now paſſed along the lane by the [277] ſide of the church.—The younger Henry accoſted her, and ventured to enquire "Where the daughters of Mr. Rymer, ſince his death, were gone to live?"

"We live," ſhe returned, "in that ſmall cottage acroſs the clover field."

Henry looked again, and thought he had miſtaken the word we—for he felt aſſured, that he had no knowledge of the perſon to whom he ſpoke.

But ſhe knew him, and, after a pauſe, cried—"Ah! Mr. Henry, you are welcome back. I am heartily glad to ſee you—and my poor ſiſter Rebecca will go out of her wits with joy."

"Is Rebecca living, and will be glad to ſee me?" he cagerly aſked, while tears of rapture trickled down his face. "Father," he continued in his ecſtacy, "we are now come home to be completely happy—and I feel as if all the years I have been away, were but a ſhort week; and as if all the dangers I have paſſed, had been light as a feather.—But is it poſſible," he cried, to his kind informer, "that you are one of Rebecca's ſiſters?"

Well might he aſk; for inſtead of the blooming woman of ſeven-and-twenty he [278] had left her, her colour was gone, her teeth impaired, her voice broken. She was near fifty.

"Yes, I am one of Mr. Rymer's daughters." She replied.

"But which?" Said Henry.

"The eldeſt, and once called the prettieſt." She returned. "Though now people tell me I am altered—yet I cannot ſay I ſee it myſelf."

"And are you all living?" Henry enquired.

"All but one: ſhe married and died. The other three, on my father's death, agreed to live together and knit or ſpin for our ſupport. So we took that ſmall cottage and furniſhed it with ſome of the parſonage furniture, as you ſhall ſee—and kindly welcome I am ſure you will be to all it affords, though that is but little."

As ſhe was ſaying this, ſhe led him through the clover field towards the cottage.—His heart rebounded with joy that Rebecca was there—yet, as he walked, he ſhuddered at the impreſſion which he feared, the firſt ſight of her would [279] make. He feared, what he imagined (till he had ſeen this change in his ſiſter) he ſhould never heed. He feared Rebecca would look no longer young. He was not yet ſufficient maſter over all his ſenſual propenſities, as, when the trial came, to think he could behold her look like her ſiſter, and not give ſome evidence of his diſappointment.

His fears were vain.—On entering the gate of their little garden, Rebecca ruſhed from the houſe to meet them, juſt the ſame Rebecca as ever.

It was her mind, which beaming on her face, and actuating her every motion, had ever conſtituted all her charms: it was her mind which had gained her Henry's affection; that mind had undergone no change, and ſhe was the ſelf-ſame woman he had left her.

He was entranced with joy.

CHAPTER XLVI.

[280]

THE fare which the Henrys partook at the cottage of the female Rymers, was ſuch as the ſiſter had deſcribed, mean, and even ſcanty; but this did not in the leaſt diminiſh the happineſs they received in meeting, for the firſt time ſince their arrival in England, human beings who were glad to ſee them.

At a ſtinted repaſt of milk and vegetables, a glimmering light by a little bruſh-wood on the hearth, they yet could feel themſelves comparatively bleſt, while they liſtened to the recital of afflictions, which had befallen perſons around that very neighbourhood, for whom every delicious viand had been procured to gratify the taſte, every art deviſed to delight all the other ſenſes.

It was by the ſide of this glimmering fire, that Rebecca and her ſiſters told the ſtory of poor Hannah's fate; and of the thorn it had for ever planted in William's boſom—of his reported ſleepleſs, [281] perturbed nights; and his gloomy, or ſtarting, and half-diſtracted days: when, in the fullneſs of remorſe, he has complained—"Of a guilty conſcience! Of the wearineſs attached to continued proſperity! the miſery of wanting an object of affection!"

They told of Lord Bendham's death from the effects of intemperance; from a maſs of blood infected by high ſeaſoned diſhes, mixed with copious draughts of wine—repletion of food and liquor, not leſs fatal to the exiſtence of the rich, than the want of common ſuſtenance to the lives of the poor.

They told of Lady Bendham's ruin ſince her Lord's death, by gaming—They told, "that now ſhe ſuffered beyond the pain of common indigence, by the cutting triumph of thoſe, whom ſhe had formerly deſpiſed."

They related (what has been told before) the divorce of William; and the marriage of his wife with a libertine—The deceaſe of Lady Clementina; occaſioned by that incorrigible vanity, which even old age could not ſubdue.

[282]After numerous other examples had been recited of the dangers, the evils that riches draw upon their owner; the elder Henry roſe from his chair, and embracing Rebecca and his ſon, ſaid,

"How much indebted are we to providence, my children, who, while it inflicts poverty, beſtows peace of mind; and in return for the trivial grief we meet in this world, holds out to our longing hopes, the reward of the next!"

Not only reſigned, but happy in their ſtation; with hearts made cheerful rather than dejected by attentive meditation; Henry and his ſon planned the means of their future ſupport, independent of their kinſman William—not only of him, but of every perſon and thing, but their own induſtry.

"While I have health and ſtrength," (cried the old man, and his ſon's looks acquieſced in all the father ſaid) "I will not take from any one in affluence, what only belongs to the widow, the fatherleſs, and the infirm; for to ſuch alone, by chriſtian laws—however cuſtom may ſubvert them—the overplus of the rich is due."

CHAPTER XLVII.

[283]

BY forming an humble ſcheme for their remaining life, a ſcheme depending upon their own exertions alone; on no light promiſes of pretended friends, and on no ſanguine hopes of certain ſucceſs; but with prudent apprehenſion, with fortitude againſt diſappointment, Henry, his ſon, and Rebecca, (now his daughter) found themſelves, at the end of one year, in the enjoyment of every comfort which ſuch diſtinguiſhed minds knew how to taſte.

Exempt both from patronage and from controul—healthy, alive to every fruition with which nature bleſſes the world; dead to all out of their power to attain, the works of art—ſuſceptible of thoſe paſſions which endear human creatures one to another, inſenſible to thoſe which ſeparate man from man—they found themſelves the thankful inhabitants of a ſmall houſe or hut, placed on the borders of the ſea.

[284]Each morning wakes the father and the ſon to cheerful labour in fiſhing, or the tending of a garden, the produce of which they carry with their fiſh to the next market town. The evening ſends them back to their home in joy; where Rebecca meets them at the door, affectionately boaſts of the warm meal that is ready, and heightens the charms of converſation with her taſte and judgment.

It was after a ſupper of roots from their little garden, poultry that Rebecca's hand had reared, and a jug brewed by young Henry, that the following diſcourſe took place:

"My ſon," ſaid the elder Henry, "where under the ſky, ſhall three perſons be met together, happy as we three are? It is the want of induſtry, or the want of reflection, which makes the poor diſſatisfied. Labour gives a value to reſt, which the idle can never taſte; and reflection gives to the mind content, which the unthinking never can know."

"I once," replied the younger Henry, "conſidered poverty a curſe—but after [285] my thoughts became enlarged, and I had aſſociated for years with the rich, and now mix with the poor, my opinion has undergone a total change—for I have ſeen, and have enjoyed, more real pleaſure at work with my fellow labourers, and in this cottage, than ever I beheld, or experienced, during my abode at my uncle's; during all my intercourſe with the faſhionable, and the powerful of this world."

"The worſt is," ſaid Rebecca, "the poor have not always enough."

"Who has enough?" aſked her huſband. "Had my uncle? No—he hoped for more—and in all his writings ſacrificed his duty to his avarice. Had his ſon enough, when he yielded up his honour, his domeſtic peace, to gratify his ambition? Had Lady Bendham enough when ſhe ſtaked all ſhe had, in the hope of becoming richer? Were we, my Rebecca, of diſcontented minds, we have now too little. But conſcious, from obſervation and experience, that the rich are not ſo happy as ourſelves, we rejoice in our lot."

[286]The tear of joy that ſtole from her eye, expreſſed more than his words—a ſtate of happineſs.

He continued, "I remember, that when I firſt came a boy to England, the poor excited my compaſſion; but now that my judgment is matured, I pity the rich. I know that in this opulent kingdom, there are near as many perſons periſhing through intemperance, as ſtarving with hunger—there are as many miſerable in the laſſitude of having nothing to do, as there are, bowed down to the earth with hard labour—there are more perſons who draw upon themſelves calamity by following their own will, than there are, who experience it by obeying the will of another. Add to this, the rich fear dying, ſo much, they have no comfort in living."

"There the poor have another advantage," ſaid Rebecca: "for they may defy not only death, but every loſs by ſea or land, for they have nothing to loſe."

"Beſides," added the elder Henry, "there is a certain joy, of the moſt gratifying kind that the human mind is capable [287] of taſting, peculiar to the poor; and of which the rich can but ſeldom experience the delight."

"What can that be?" cried Rebecca.

"A kind word, a benevolent ſmile, one token of eſteem from the perſon, whom we conſider as our ſuperior."

To which Rebecca replied, "And the rarity of obtaining ſuch a token, is what encreaſes the honour."

"Certainly:" returned young Henry, "and yet thoſe in poverty, ungrateful as they are, murmur againſt that government from which they receive the bleſſing; and, unlearned as they are, would attempt to alter it.—We leave to the phyſician the care of reſtoring our health, we employ the ſoldier in fighting our battles, and the lawyer in the defence of our fortunes, without preſuming to interrupt them in their vocations—then, why not leave, and without moleſtation, thoſe to govern a kingdom who have ſtudied the ſcience of politics? For though a phyſician may not always be ſkilful, a ſoldier may not always have courage, a lawyer not always honeſty, or a miniſter [288] always good fortune—yet, we ſhould conſider, that it is not upon earth we are to look for a ſtate of perfection—it is only in heaven—and there, we may reſt aſſured, that no practitioner in the profeſſions I have named, will ever be admitted to diſturb our eternal felicity.

THE END.
[288]
[...]
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Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt
TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3823 Nature and art By Mrs Inchbald. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5AF9-7