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diff --git a/5083-0.txt b/5083-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e6040a2 --- /dev/null +++ b/5083-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4187 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Man of Feeling, by Henry Mackenzie, +Edited by Henry Morley + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Man of Feeling + + +Author: Henry Mackenzie + +Editor: Henry Morley + +Release Date: July 5, 2014 [eBook #5083] +[This file was first posted on April 18, 2002] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN OF FEELING*** + + +Transcribed from the 1886 Cassell & Company edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY + + * * * * * + + + + + + THE + MAN OF FEELING + + + BY + + HENRY MACKENZIE. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED: + + _LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_. + + 1886. + + + + +EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION + + +HENRY MACKENZIE, the son of an Edinburgh physician, was born in August, +1745. After education in the University of Edinburgh he went to London +in 1765, at the age of twenty, for law studies, returned to Edinburgh, +and became Crown Attorney in the Scottish Court of Exchequer. When +Mackenzie was in London, Sterne’s “Tristram Shandy” was in course of +publication. The first two volumes had appeared in 1759, and the ninth +appeared in 1767, followed in 1768, the year of Sterne’s death, by “The +Sentimental Journey.” Young Mackenzie had a strong bent towards +literature, and while studying law in London, he read Sterne, and falling +in with the tone of sentiment which Sterne himself caught from the spirit +of the time and the example of Rousseau, he wrote “The Man of Feeling.” +This book was published, without author’s name, in 1771. It was so +popular that a young clergyman made a copy of it popular with imagined +passages of erasure and correction, on the strength of which he claimed +to be its author, and obliged Henry Mackenzie to declare himself. In +1773 Mackenzie published a second novel, “The Man of the World,” and in +1777 a third, “Julia de Roubigné.” An essay-reading society in +Edinburgh, of which he was a leader, started in January, 1779, a weekly +paper called _The Mirror_, which he edited until May, 1780. Its writers +afterwards joined in producing _The Lounger_, which lasted from February, +1785, to January, 1787. Henry Mackenzie contributed forty-two papers to +_The Mirror_ and fifty-seven to _The Lounger_. When the Royal Society of +Edinburgh was founded Henry Mackenzie was active as one of its first +members. He was also one of the founders of the Highland Society. + +Although his “Man of Feeling” was a serious reflection of the false +sentiment of the Revolution, Mackenzie joined afterwards in writing +tracts to dissuade the people from faith in the doctrines of the +Revolutionists. Mackenzie wrote also a tragedy, “The Prince of Tunis,” +which was acted with success at Edinburgh, and a comedy, “The White +Hypocrite,” which was acted once only at Covent garden. He died at the +age of eighty-six, on the 13th June, 1831, having for many years been +regarded as an elder friend of their own craft by the men of letters who +in his days gave dignity to Edinburgh society, and caused the town to be +called the Modern Athens. + +A man of refined taste, who caught the tone of the French sentiment of +his time, has, of course, pleased French critics, and has been translated +into French. “The Man of Feeling” begins with imitation of Sterne, and +proceeds in due course through so many tears that it is hardly to be +called a dry book. As guide to persons of a calculating disposition who +may read these pages I append an index to the Tears shed in “The Man of +Feeling.” + + + + +INDEX TO TEARS. + + + (_Chokings_, _&c._, _not counted_.) + + PAGE +“Odds but should have wept” xiii +Tear, given, “cordial drop” repeated 17 +,, like Cestus of Cytherea 26 +,, one on a cheek 30 +“I will not weep” 31 +Tears add energy to benediction 31 +,, tribute of some 52 +„ blessings on 52 +I would weep too 52 +Not an unmoistened eye 53 +Do you weep again? 53 +Hand bathed with tears 53 +Tears, burst into 54 +„ sobbing and shedding 74 +,, burst into 75 +,, virtue in these 75 +„ he wept at the recollection of her 80 +,, glister of new-washed 81 +Sweet girl (here she wept) 94 +I could only weep 95 +Tears, saw his 97 +,, burst into 99 +„ wrung from the heart 99 +,, feet bathed with 100 +,, mingled, _i.e._, his with hers 100 +„ voice lost in 108 +Eye met with a tear 108 +Tear stood in eye 127 +Tears, face bathed with 130 +Dropped one tear, no more 131 +Tears, press-gang could scarce keep from 136 +Big drops wetted gray beard 137 +Tears, shower of 138 +,, scarce forced—blubbered like a boy 139 +Moistened eye 141 +Tears choked utterance 144 +I have wept many a time 144 +Girl wept, brother sobbed 145 +Harley kissed off her tears as they flowed, and wept between 145 +every kiss +Tears flowing down cheeks 148 +,, gushed afresh 148 +Beamy moisture 154 +A tear dropped 165 +Tear in her eye, the sick man kissed it off in its bud, 176 +smiling through the dimness of his own +Hand wet by tear just fallen 185 +Tears flowing without control 187 +Cheek wiped (at the end of the last chapter) 189 + + + + +AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION + + +MY dog had made a point on a piece of fallow-ground, and led the curate +and me two or three hundred yards over that and some stubble adjoining, +in a breathless state of expectation, on a burning first of September. + +It was a false point, and our labour was vain: yet, to do Rover justice +(for he’s an excellent dog, though I have lost his pedigree), the fault +was none of his, the birds were gone: the curate showed me the spot where +they had lain basking, at the root of an old hedge. + +I stopped and cried Hem! The curate is fatter than I; he wiped the sweat +from his brow. + +There is no state where one is apter to pause and look round one, than +after such a disappointment. It is even so in life. When we have been +hurrying on, impelled by some warm wish or other, looking neither to the +right hand nor to the left—we find of a sudden that all our gay hopes are +flown; and the only slender consolation that some friend can give us, is +to point where they were once to be found. And lo! if we are not of that +combustible race, who will rather beat their heads in spite, than wipe +their brows with the curate, we look round and say, with the nauseated +listlessness of the king of Israel, “All is vanity and vexation of +spirit.” + +I looked round with some such grave apophthegm in my mind when I +discovered, for the first time, a venerable pile, to which the enclosure +belonged. An air of melancholy hung about it. There was a languid +stillness in the day, and a single crow, that perched on an old tree by +the side of the gate, seemed to delight in the echo of its own croaking. + +I leaned on my gun and looked; but I had not breath enough to ask the +curate a question. I observed carving on the bark of some of the trees: +’twas indeed the only mark of human art about the place, except that some +branches appeared to have been lopped, to give a view of the cascade, +which was formed by a little rill at some distance. + +Just at that instant I saw pass between the trees a young lady with a +book in her hand. I stood upon a stone to observe her; but the curate +sat him down on the grass, and leaning his back where I stood, told me, +“That was the daughter of a neighbouring gentleman of the name of WALTON, +whom he had seen walking there more than once. + +“Some time ago,” he said, “one HARLEY lived there, a whimsical sort of +man I am told, but I was not then in the cure; though, if I had a turn +for those things, I might know a good deal of his history, for the +greatest part of it is still in my possession.” + +“His history!” said I. “Nay, you may call it what you please,” said the +curate; for indeed it is no more a history than it is a sermon. The way +I came by it was this: some time ago, a grave, oddish kind of a man +boarded at a farmer’s in this parish: the country people called him The +Ghost; and he was known by the slouch in his gait, and the length of his +stride. I was but little acquainted with him, for he never frequented +any of the clubs hereabouts. Yet for all he used to walk a-nights, he +was as gentle as a lamb at times; for I have seen him playing at teetotum +with the children, on the great stone at the door of our churchyard. + +“Soon after I was made curate, he left the parish, and went nobody knows +whither; and in his room was found a bundle of papers, which was brought +to me by his landlord. I began to read them, but I soon grew weary of +the task; for, besides that the hand is intolerably bad, I could never +find the author in one strain for two chapters together; and I don’t +believe there’s a single syllogism from beginning to end.” + +“I should be glad to see this medley,” said I. “You shall see it now,” +answered the curate, “for I always take it along with me a-shooting.” +“How came it so torn?” “’Tis excellent wadding,” said the curate.—This +was a plea of expediency I was not in a condition to answer; for I had +actually in my pocket great part of an edition of one of the German +Illustrissimi, for the very same purpose. We exchanged books; and by +that means (for the curate was a strenuous logician) we probably saved +both. + +When I returned to town, I had leisure to peruse the acquisition I had +made: I found it a bundle of little episodes, put together without art, +and of no importance on the whole, with something of nature, and little +else in them. I was a good deal affected with some very trifling +passages in it; and had the name of Marmontel, or a Richardson, been on +the title-page—’tis odds that I should have wept: But + +One is ashamed to be pleased with the works of one knows not whom. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. {15} +ON BASHFULNESS.—A CHARACTER.—HIS OPINION ON THAT SUBJECT. + + +THERE is some rust about every man at the beginning; though in some +nations (among the French for instance) the ideas of the inhabitants, +from climate, or what other cause you will, are so vivacious, so +eternally on the wing, that they must, even in small societies, have a +frequent collision; the rust therefore will wear off sooner: but in +Britain it often goes with a man to his grave; nay, he dares not even pen +a _hic jacet_ to speak out for him after his death. + +“Let them rub it off by travel,” said the baronet’s brother, who was a +striking instance of excellent metal, shamefully rusted. I had drawn my +chair near his. Let me paint the honest old man: ’tis but one passing +sentence to preserve his image in my mind. + +He sat in his usual attitude, with his elbow rested on his knee, and his +fingers pressed on his cheek. His face was shaded by his hand; yet it +was a face that might once have been well accounted handsome; its +features were manly and striking, a dignity resided on his eyebrows, +which were the largest I remember to have seen. His person was tall and +well-made; but the indolence of his nature had now inclined it to +corpulency. + +His remarks were few, and made only to his familiar friends; but they +were such as the world might have heard with veneration: and his heart, +uncorrupted by its ways, was ever warm in the cause of virtue and his +friends. + +He is now forgotten and gone! The last time I was at Silton Hall, I saw +his chair stand in its corner by the fire-side; there was an additional +cushion on it, and it was occupied by my young lady’s favourite lap dog. +I drew near unperceived, and pinched its ears in the bitterness of my +soul; the creature howled, and ran to its mistress. She did not suspect +the author of its misfortune, but she bewailed it in the most pathetic +terms; and kissing its lips, laid it gently on her lap, and covered it +with a cambric handkerchief. I sat in my old friend’s seat; I heard the +roar of mirth and gaiety around me: poor Ben Silton! I gave thee a tear +then: accept of one cordial drop that falls to thy memory now. + +“They should wear it off by travel.”—Why, it is true, said I, that will +go far; but then it will often happen, that in the velocity of a modern +tour, and amidst the materials through which it is commonly made, the +friction is so violent, that not only the rust, but the metal too, is +lost in the progress. + +“Give me leave to correct the expression of your metaphor,” said Mr. +Silton: “that is not always rust which is acquired by the inactivity of +the body on which it preys; such, perhaps, is the case with me, though +indeed I was never cleared from my youth; but (taking it in its first +stage) it is rather an encrustation, which nature has given for purposes +of the greatest wisdom.” + +“You are right,” I returned; “and sometimes, like certain precious +fossils, there may be hid under it gems of the purest brilliancy.” + +“Nay, farther,” continued Mr. Silton, “there are two distinct sorts of +what we call bashfulness; this, the awkwardness of a booby, which a few +steps into the world will convert into the pertness of a coxcomb; that, a +consciousness, which the most delicate feelings produce, and the most +extensive knowledge cannot always remove.” + +From the incidents I have already related, I imagine it will be concluded +that Harley was of the latter species of bashful animals; at least, if +Mr. Silton’s principle is just, it may be argued on this side; for the +gradation of the first mentioned sort, it is certain, he never attained. +Some part of his external appearance was modelled from the company of +those gentlemen, whom the antiquity of a family, now possessed of bare +£250 a year, entitled its representative to approach: these indeed were +not many; great part of the property in his neighbourhood being in the +hands of merchants, who had got rich by their lawful calling abroad, and +the sons of stewards, who had got rich by their lawful calling at home: +persons so perfectly versed in the ceremonial of thousands, tens of +thousands, and hundreds of thousands (whose degrees of precedency are +plainly demonstrable from the first page of the Complete Accomptant, or +Young Man’s Best Pocket Companion) that a bow at church from them to such +a man as Harley would have made the parson look back into his sermon for +some precept of Christian humility. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. +OF WORLDLY INTERESTS. + + +THERE are certain interests which the world supposes every man to have, +and which therefore are properly enough termed worldly; but the world is +apt to make an erroneous estimate: ignorant of the dispositions which +constitute our happiness or misery, they bring to an undistinguished +scale the means of the one, as connected with power, wealth, or grandeur, +and of the other with their contraries. Philosophers and poets have +often protested against this decision; but their arguments have been +despised as declamatory, or ridiculed as romantic. + +There are never wanting to a young man some grave and prudent friends to +set him right in this particular, if he need it; to watch his ideas as +they arise, and point them to those objects which a wise man should never +forget. + +Harley did not want for some monitors of this sort. He was frequently +told of men whose fortunes enabled them to command all the luxuries of +life, whose fortunes were of their own acquirement: his envy was invited +by a description of their happiness, and his emulation by a recital of +the means which had procured it. + +Harley was apt to hear those lectures with indifference; nay, sometimes +they got the better of his temper; and as the instances were not always +amiable, provoked, on his part, some reflections, which I am persuaded +his good-nature would else have avoided. + +Indeed, I have observed one ingredient, somewhat necessary in a man’s +composition towards happiness, which people of feeling would do well to +acquire; a certain respect for the follies of mankind: for there are so +many fools whom the opinion of the world entitles to regard, whom +accident has placed in heights of which they are unworthy, that he who +cannot restrain his contempt or indignation at the sight will be too +often quarrelling with the disposal of things to relish that share which +is allotted to himself. I do not mean, however, to insinuate this to +have been the case with Harley; on the contrary, if we might rely on his +own testimony, the conceptions he had of pomp and grandeur served to +endear the state which Providence had assigned him. + +He lost his father, the last surviving of his parents, as I have already +related, when he was a boy. The good man, from a fear of offending, as +well as a regard to his son, had named him a variety of guardians; one +consequence of which was, that they seldom met at all to consider the +affairs of their ward; and when they did meet, their opinions were so +opposite, that the only possible method of conciliation was the mediatory +power of a dinner and a bottle, which commonly interrupted, not ended, +the dispute; and after that interruption ceased, left the consulting +parties in a condition not very proper for adjusting it. His education +therefore had been but indifferently attended to; and after being taken +from a country school, at which he had been boarded, the young gentleman +was suffered to be his own master in the subsequent branches of +literature, with some assistance from the parson of the parish in +languages and philosophy, and from the exciseman in arithmetic and +book-keeping. One of his guardians, indeed, who, in his youth, had been +an inhabitant of the Temple, set him to read Coke upon Lyttelton: a book +which is very properly put into the hands of beginners in that science, +as its simplicity is accommodated to their understandings, and its size +to their inclination. He profited but little by the perusal; but it was +not without its use in the family: for his maiden aunt applied it +commonly to the laudable purpose of pressing her rebellious linens to the +folds she had allotted them. + +There were particularly two ways of increasing his fortune, which might +have occurred to people of less foresight than the counsellors we have +mentioned. One of these was, the prospect of his succeeding to an old +lady, a distant relation, who was known to be possessed of a very large +sum in the stocks: but in this their hopes were disappointed; for the +young man was so untoward in his disposition, that, notwithstanding the +instructions he daily received, his visits rather tended to alienate than +gain the good-will of his kinswoman. He sometimes looked grave when the +old lady told the jokes of her youth; he often refused to eat when she +pressed him, and was seldom or never provided with sugar-candy or +liquorice when she was seized with a fit of coughing: nay, he had once +the rudeness to fall asleep while she was describing the composition and +virtues of her favourite cholic-water. In short, be accommodated himself +so ill to her humour, that she died, and did not leave him a farthing. + +The other method pointed out to him was an endeavour to get a lease of +some crown-lands, which lay contiguous to his little paternal estate. +This, it was imagined, might be easily procured, as the crown did not +draw so much rent as Harley could afford to give, with very considerable +profit to himself; and the then lessee had rendered himself so obnoxious +to the ministry, by the disposal of his vote at an election, that he +could not expect a renewal. This, however, needed some interest with the +great, which Harley or his father never possessed. + +His neighbour, Mr. Walton, having heard of this affair, generously +offered his assistance to accomplish it. He told him, that though he had +long been a stranger to courtiers, yet he believed there were some of +them who might pay regard to his recommendation; and that, if he thought +it worth the while to take a London journey upon the business, he would +furnish him with a letter of introduction to a baronet of his +acquaintance, who had a great deal to say with the first lord of the +treasury. + +When his friends heard of this offer, they pressed him with the utmost +earnestness to accept of it. + +They did not fail to enumerate the many advantages which a certain degree +of spirit and assurance gives a man who would make a figure in the world: +they repeated their instances of good fortune in others, ascribed them +all to a happy forwardness of disposition; and made so copious a recital +of the disadvantages which attend the opposite weakness, that a stranger, +who had heard them, would have been led to imagine, that in the British +code there was some disqualifying statute against any citizen who should +be convicted of—modesty. + +Harley, though he had no great relish for the attempt, yet could not +resist the torrent of motives that assaulted him; and as he needed but +little preparation for his journey, a day, not very distant, was fixed +for his departure. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. +THE MAN OF FEELING IN LOVE. + + +THE day before that on which he set out, he went to take leave of Mr. +Walton.—We would conceal nothing;—there was another person of the family +to whom also the visit was intended, on whose account, perhaps, there +were some tenderer feelings in the bosom of Harley than his gratitude for +the friendly notice of that gentleman (though he was seldom deficient in +that virtue) could inspire. Mr. Walton had a daughter; and such a +daughter! we will attempt some description of her by and by. + +Harley’s notions of the καλον, or beautiful, were not always to be +defined, nor indeed such as the world would always assent to, though we +could define them. A blush, a phrase of affability to an inferior, a +tear at a moving tale, were to him, like the Cestus of Cytherea, +unequalled in conferring beauty. For all these Miss Walton was +remarkable; but as these, like the above-mentioned Cestus, are perhaps +still more powerful when the wearer is possessed of some degree of +beauty, commonly so called, it happened, that, from this cause, they had +more than usual power in the person of that young lady. + +She was now arrived at that period of life which takes, or is supposed to +take, from the flippancy of girlhood those sprightlinesses with which +some good-natured old maids oblige the world at three-score. She had +been ushered into life (as that word is used in the dialect of St. +James’s) at seventeen, her father being then in parliament, and living in +London: at seventeen, therefore, she had been a universal toast; her +health, now she was four-and-twenty, was only drank by those who knew her +face at least. Her complexion was mellowed into a paleness, which +certainly took from her beauty; but agreed, at least Harley used to say +so, with the pensive softness of her mind. Her eyes were of that gentle +hazel colour which is rather mild than piercing; and, except when they +were lighted up by good-humour, which was frequently the case, were +supposed by the fine gentlemen to want fire. Her air and manner were +elegant in the highest degree, and were as sure of commanding respect as +their mistress was far from demanding it. Her voice was inexpressibly +soft; it was, according to that incomparable simile of Otway’s, + + —“like the shepherd’s pipe upon the mountains, + When all his little flock’s at feed before him.” + +The effect it had upon Harley, himself used to paint ridiculously enough; +and ascribed it to powers, which few believed, and nobody cared for. + +Her conversation was always cheerful, but rarely witty; and without the +smallest affectation of learning, had as much sentiment in it as would +have puzzled a Turk, upon his principles of female materialism, to +account for. Her beneficence was unbounded; indeed the natural +tenderness of her heart might have been argued, by the frigidity of a +casuist, as detracting from her virtue in this respect, for her humanity +was a feeling, not a principle: but minds like Harley’s are not very apt +to make this distinction, and generally give our virtue credit for all +that benevolence which is instinctive in our nature. + +As her father had some years retired to the country, Harley had frequent +opportunities of seeing her. He looked on her for some time merely with +that respect and admiration which her appearance seemed to demand, and +the opinion of others conferred upon her from this cause, perhaps, and +from that extreme sensibility of which we have taken frequent notice, +Harley was remarkably silent in her presence. He heard her sentiments +with peculiar attention, sometimes with looks very expressive of +approbation; but seldom declared his opinion on the subject, much less +made compliments to the lady on the justness of her remarks. + +From this very reason it was that Miss Walton frequently took more +particular notice of him than of other visitors, who, by the laws of +precedency, were better entitled to it: it was a mode of politeness she +had peculiarly studied, to bring to the line of that equality, which is +ever necessary for the ease of our guests, those whose sensibility had +placed them below it. + +Harley saw this; for though he was a child in the drama of the world, yet +was it not altogether owing to a want of knowledge on his part; on the +contrary, the most delicate consciousness of propriety often kindled that +blush which marred the performance of it: this raised his esteem +something above what the most sanguine descriptions of her goodness had +been able to do; for certain it is, that notwithstanding the laboured +definitions which very wise men have given us of the inherent beauty of +virtue, we are always inclined to think her handsomest when she +condescends to smile upon ourselves. + +It would be trite to observe the easy gradation from esteem to love: in +the bosom of Harley there scarce needed a transition; for there were +certain seasons when his ideas were flushed to a degree much above their +common complexion. In times not credulous of inspiration, we should +account for this from some natural cause; but we do not mean to account +for it at all; it were sufficient to describe its effects; but they were +sometimes so ludicrous, as might derogate from the dignity of the +sensations which produced them to describe. They were treated indeed as +such by most of Harley’s sober friends, who often laughed very heartily +at the awkward blunders of the real Harley, when the different faculties, +which should have prevented them, were entirely occupied by the ideal. +In some of these paroxysms of fancy, Miss Walton did not fail to be +introduced; and the picture which had been drawn amidst the surrounding +objects of unnoticed levity was now singled out to be viewed through the +medium of romantic imagination: it was improved of course, and esteem was +a word inexpressive of the feelings which it excited. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. +HE SETS OUT ON HIS JOURNEY—THE BEGGAR AND HIS DOG. + + +HE had taken leave of his aunt on the eve of his intended departure; but +the good lady’s affection for her nephew interrupted her sleep, and early +as it was next morning when Harley came downstairs to set out, he found +her in the parlour with a tear on her cheek, and her caudle-cup in her +hand. She knew enough of physic to prescribe against going abroad of a +morning with an empty stomach. She gave her blessing with the draught; +her instructions she had delivered the night before. They consisted +mostly of negatives, for London, in her idea, was so replete with +temptations that it needed the whole armour of her friendly cautions to +repel their attacks. + +Peter stood at the door. We have mentioned this faithful fellow +formerly: Harley’s father had taken him up an orphan, and saved him from +being cast on the parish; and he had ever since remained in the service +of him and of his son. Harley shook him by the hand as he passed, +smiling, as if he had said, “I will not weep.” He sprung hastily into +the chaise that waited for him; Peter folded up the step. “My dear +master,” said he, shaking the solitary lock that hung on either side of +his head, “I have been told as how London is a sad place.” He was choked +with the thought, and his benediction could not be heard:—but it shall be +heard, honest Peter! where these tears will add to its energy. + +In a few hours Harley reached the inn where he proposed breakfasting, but +the fulness of his heart would not suffer him to eat a morsel. He walked +out on the road, and gaining a little height, stood gazing on that +quarter he had left. He looked for his wonted prospect, his fields, his +woods, and his hills: they were lost in the distant clouds! He pencilled +them on the clouds, and bade them farewell with a sigh! + +He sat down on a large stone to take out a little pebble from his shoe, +when he saw, at some distance, a beggar approaching him. He had on a +loose sort of coat, mended with different-coloured rags, amongst which +the blue and the russet were the predominant. He had a short knotty +stick in his hand, and on the top of it was stuck a ram’s horn; his knees +(though he was no pilgrim) had worn the stuff of his breeches; he wore no +shoes, and his stockings had entirely lost that part of them which should +have covered his feet and ankles; in his face, however, was the plump +appearance of good humour; he walked a good round pace, and a +crook-legged dog trotted at his heels. + +“Our delicacies,” said Harley to himself, “are fantastic; they are not in +nature! that beggar walks over the sharpest of these stones barefooted, +whilst I have lost the most delightful dream in the world, from the +smallest of them happening to get into my shoe.” The beggar had by this +time come up, and, pulling off a piece of hat, asked charity of Harley; +the dog began to beg too:—it was impossible to resist both; and, in +truth, the want of shoes and stockings had made both unnecessary, for +Harley had destined sixpence for him before. The beggar, on receiving +it, poured forth blessings without number; and, with a sort of smile on +his countenance, said to Harley “that if he wanted to have his fortune +told”—Harley turned his eye briskly on the beggar: it was an unpromising +look for the subject of a prediction, and silenced the prophet +immediately. “I would much rather learn,” said Harley, “what it is in +your power to tell me: your trade must be an entertaining one; sit down +on this stone, and let me know something of your profession; I have often +thought of turning fortune-teller for a week or two myself.” + +“Master,” replied the beggar, “I like your frankness much; God knows I +had the humour of plain-dealing in me from a child, but there is no doing +with it in this world; we must live as we can, and lying is, as you call +it, my profession, but I was in some sort forced to the trade, for I +dealt once in telling truth. + +“I was a labourer, sir, and gained as much as to make me live: I never +laid by indeed: for I was reckoned a piece of a wag, and your wags, I +take it, are seldom rich, Mr. Harley.” + +“So,” said Harley, “you seem to know me.” + +“Ay, there are few folks in the country that I don’t know something of: +how should I tell fortunes else?” + +“True; but to go on with your story: you were a labourer, you say, and a +wag; your industry, I suppose, you left with your old trade, but your +humour you preserve to be of use to you in your new.” + +“What signifies sadness, sir? a man grows lean on’t: but I was brought to +my idleness by degrees; first I could not work, and it went against my +stomach to work ever after. I was seized with a jail fever at the time +of the assizes being in the county where I lived; for I was always +curious to get acquainted with the felons, because they are commonly +fellows of much mirth and little thought, qualities I had ever an esteem +for. In the height of this fever, Mr. Harley, the house where I lay took +fire, and burnt to the ground; I was carried out in that condition, and +lay all the rest of my illness in a barn. I got the better of my +disease, however, but I was so weak that I spit blood whenever I +attempted to work. I had no relation living that I knew of, and I never +kept a friend above a week, when I was able to joke; I seldom remained +above six months in a parish, so that I might have died before I had +found a settlement in any: thus I was forced to beg my bread, and a sorry +trade I found it, Mr. Harley. I told all my misfortunes truly, but they +were seldom believed; and the few who gave me a halfpenny as they passed +did it with a shake of the head, and an injunction not to trouble them +with a long story. In short, I found that people don’t care to give alms +without some security for their money; a wooden leg or a withered arm is +a sort of draught upon heaven for those who choose to have their money +placed to account there; so I changed my plan, and, instead of telling my +own misfortunes, began to prophesy happiness to others. This I found by +much the better way: folks will always listen when the tale is their own, +and of many who say they do not believe in fortune-telling, I have known +few on whom it had not a very sensible effect. I pick up the names of +their acquaintance; amours and little squabbles are easily gleaned among +servants and neighbours; and indeed people themselves are the best +intelligencers in the world for our purpose: they dare not puzzle us for +their own sakes, for every one is anxious to hear what they wish to +believe, and they who repeat it, to laugh at it when they have done, are +generally more serious than their hearers are apt to imagine. With a +tolerable good memory, and some share of cunning, with the help of +walking a-nights over heaths and church-yards, with this, and showing the +tricks of that there dog, whom I stole from the serjeant of a marching +regiment (and by the way, he can steal too upon occasion), I make shift +to pick up a livelihood. My trade, indeed, is none of the honestest; yet +people are not much cheated neither who give a few half-pence for a +prospect of happiness, which I have heard some persons say is all a man +can arrive at in this world. But I must bid you good day, sir, for I +have three miles to walk before noon, to inform some boarding-school +young ladies whether their husbands are to be peers of the realm or +captains in the army: a question which I promised to answer them by that +time.” + +Harley had drawn a shilling from his pocket; but Virtue bade him consider +on whom he was going to bestow it. Virtue held back his arm; but a +milder form, a younger sister of Virtue’s, not so severe as Virtue, nor +so serious as Pity, smiled upon him; his fingers lost their compression, +nor did Virtue offer to catch the money as it fell. It had no sooner +reached the ground than the watchful cur (a trick he had been taught) +snapped it up, and, contrary to the most approved method of stewardship, +delivered it immediately into the hands of his master. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. +HE MAKES A SECOND EXPEDITION TO THE BARONET’S. THE LAUDABLE AMBITION OF +A YOUNG MAN TO BE THOUGHT SOMETHING BY THE WORLD. + + +WE have related, in a former chapter, the little success of his first +visit to the great man, for whom he had the introductory letter from Mr. +Walton. To people of equal sensibility, the influence of those trifles +we mentioned on his deportment will not appear surprising, but to his +friends in the country they could not be stated, nor would they have +allowed them any place in the account. In some of their letters, +therefore, which he received soon after, they expressed their surprise at +his not having been more urgent in his application, and again recommended +the blushless assiduity of successful merit. + +He resolved to make another attempt at the baronet’s; fortified with +higher notions of his own dignity, and with less apprehension of repulse. +In his way to Grosvenor Square he began to ruminate on the folly of +mankind, who affixed those ideas of superiority to riches, which reduced +the minds of men, by nature equal with the more fortunate, to that sort +of servility which he felt in his own. By the time he had reached the +Square, and was walking along the pavement which led to the baronet’s, he +had brought his reasoning on the subject to such a point, that the +conclusion, by every rule of logic, should have led him to a thorough +indifference in his approaches to a fellow-mortal, whether that +fellow-mortal was possessed of six or six thousand pounds a year. It is +probable, however, that the premises had been improperly formed: for it +is certain, that when he approached the great man’s door he felt his +heart agitated by an unusual pulsation. + +He had almost reached it, when he observed among gentleman coming out, +dressed in a white frock and a red laced waistcoat, with a small switch +in his hand, which he seemed to manage with a particular good grace. As +he passed him on the steps, the stranger very politely made him a bow, +which Harley returned, though he could not remember ever having seen him +before. He asked Harley, in the same civil manner, if he was going to +wait on his friend the baronet. “For I was just calling,” said he, “and +am sorry to find that he is gone for some days into the country.” + +Harley thanked him for his information, and was turning from the door, +when the other observed that it would be proper to leave his name, and +very obligingly knocked for that purpose. + +“Here is a gentleman, Tom, who meant to have waited on your master.” + +“Your name, if you please, sir?” + +“Harley.” + +“You’ll remember, Tom, Harley.” + +The door was shut. “Since we are here,” said he, “we shall not lose our +walk if we add a little to it by a turn or two in Hyde Park.” + +He accompanied this proposal with a second bow, and Harley accepted of it +by another in return. + +The conversation, as they walked, was brilliant on the side of his +companion. The playhouse, the opera, with every occurrence in high life, +he seemed perfectly master of; and talked of some reigning beauties of +quality in a manner the most feeling in the world. Harley admired the +happiness of his vivacity, and, opposite as it was to the reserve of his +own nature, began to be much pleased with its effects. + +Though I am not of opinion with some wise men, that the existence of +objects depends on idea, yet I am convinced that their appearance is not +a little influenced by it. The optics of some minds are in so unlucky a +perspective as to throw a certain shade on every picture that is +presented to them, while those of others (of which number was Harley), +like the mirrors of the ladies, have a wonderful effect in bettering +their complexions. Through such a medium perhaps he was looking on his +present companion. + +When they had finished their walk, and were returning by the corner of +the Park, they observed a board hung out of a window signifying, “An +excellent ORDINARY on Saturdays and Sundays.” It happened to be +Saturday, and the table was covered for the purpose. + +“What if we should go in and dine here, if you happen not to be engaged, +sir?” said the young gentleman. “It is not impossible but we shall meet +with some original or other; it is a sort of humour I like hugely.” + +Harley made no objection, and the stranger showed him the way into the +parlour. + +He was placed, by the courtesy of his introductor, in an arm-chair that +stood at one side of the fire. Over against him was seated a man of a +grave considering aspect, with that look of sober prudence which +indicates what is commonly called a warm man. He wore a pretty large +wig, which had once been white, but was now of a brownish yellow; his +coat was one of those modest-coloured drabs which mock the injuries of +dust and dirt; two jack-boots concealed, in part, the well-mended knees +of an old pair of buckskin breeches; while the spotted handkerchief round +his neck preserved at once its owner from catching cold and his +neck-cloth from being dirtied. Next him sat another man, with a tankard +in his hand and a quid of tobacco in his cheek, whose eye was rather more +vivacious, and whose dress was something smarter. + +The first-mentioned gentleman took notice that the room had been so +lately washed, as not to have had time to dry, and remarked that wet +lodging was unwholesome for man or beast. He looked round at the same +time for a poker to stir the fire with, which, he at last observed to the +company, the people of the house had removed in order to save their +coals. This difficulty, however, he overcame by the help of Harley’s +stick, saying, “that as they should, no doubt, pay for their fire in some +shape or other, he saw no reason why they should not have the use of it +while they sat.” + +The door was now opened for the admission of dinner. “I don’t know how +it is with you, gentlemen,” said Harley’s new acquaintance, “but I am +afraid I shall not be able to get down a morsel at this horrid mechanical +hour of dining.” He sat down, however, and did not show any want of +appetite by his eating. He took upon him the carving of the meat, and +criticised on the goodness of the pudding. + +When the table-cloth was removed, he proposed calling for some punch, +which was readily agreed to; he seemed at first inclined to make it +himself, but afterwards changed his mind, and left that province to the +waiter, telling him to have it pure West Indian, or he could not taste a +drop of it. + +When the punch was brought he undertook to fill the glasses and call the +toasts. “The King.”—The toast naturally produced politics. It is the +privilege of Englishmen to drink the king’s health, and to talk of his +conduct. The man who sat opposite to Harley (and who by this time, +partly from himself, and partly from his acquaintance on his left hand, +was discovered to be a grazier) observed, “That it was a shame for so +many pensioners to be allowed to take the bread out of the mouth of the +poor.” + +“Ay, and provisions,” said his friend, “were never so dear in the memory +of man; I wish the king and his counsellors would look to that.” + +“As for the matter of provisions, neighbour Wrightson,” he replied, “I am +sure the prices of cattle—” + +A dispute would have probably ensued, but it was prevented by the spruce +toastmaster, who gave a sentiment, and turning to the two politicians, +“Pray, gentlemen,” said he, “let us have done with these musty politics: +I would always leave them to the beer-suckers in Butcher Row. Come, let +us have something of the fine arts. That was a damn’d hard match between +Joe the Nailor and Tim Bucket. The knowing ones were cursedly taken in +there! I lost a cool hundred myself, faith.” + +At mention of the cool hundred, the grazier threw his eyes aslant, with a +mingled look of doubt and surprise; while the man at his elbow looked +arch, and gave a short emphatical sort of cough. + +Both seemed to be silenced, however, by this intelligence; and while the +remainder of the punch lasted the conversation was wholly engrossed by +the gentleman with the fine waistcoat, who told a great many “immense +comical stories” and “confounded smart things,” as he termed them, acted +and spoken by lords, ladies, and young bucks of quality, of his +acquaintance. At last, the grazier, pulling out a watch, of a very +unusual size, and telling the hour, said that he had an appointment. “Is +it so late?” said the young gentleman; “then I am afraid I have missed an +appointment already; but the truth is, I am cursedly given to missing of +appointments.” + +When the grazier and he were gone, Harley turned to the remaining +personage, and asked him if he knew that young gentleman. “A gentleman!” +said he; “ay, he is one of your gentlemen at the top of an affidavit. I +knew him, some years ago, in the quality of a footman; and I believe he +had some times the honour to be a pimp. At last, some of the great +folks, to whom he had been serviceable in both capacities, had him made a +gauger; in which station he remains, and has the assurance to pretend an +acquaintance with men of quality. The impudent dog! with a few shillings +in his pocket, he will talk you three times as much as my friend Mundy +there, who is worth nine thousand if he’s worth a farthing. But I know +the rascal, and despise him, as he deserves.” + +Harley began to despise him too, and to conceive some indignation at +having sat with patience to hear such a fellow speak nonsense. But he +corrected himself by reflecting that he was perhaps as well entertained, +and instructed too, by this same modest gauger, as he should have been by +such a man as he had thought proper to personate. And surely the fault +may more properly be imputed to that rank where the futility is real than +where it is feigned: to that rank whose opportunities for nobler +accomplishments have only served to rear a fabric of folly which the +untutored hand of affectation, even among the meanest of mankind, can +imitate with success. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. +HE VISITS BEDLAM.—THE DISTRESSES OF A DAUGHTER. + + +Of those things called Sights in London, which every stranger is supposed +desirous to see, Bedlam is one. To that place, therefore, an +acquaintance of Harley’s, after having accompanied him to several other +shows, proposed a visit. Harley objected to it, “because,” said he, “I +think it an inhuman practice to expose the greatest misery with which our +nature is afflicted to every idle visitant who can afford a trifling +perquisite to the keeper; especially as it is a distress which the humane +must see, with the painful reflection, that it is not in their power to +alleviate it.” He was overpowered, however, by the solicitations of his +friend and the other persons of the party (amongst whom were several +ladies); and they went in a body to Moorfields. + +Their conductor led them first to the dismal mansions of those who are in +the most horrid state of incurable madness. The clanking of chains, the +wildness of their cries, and the imprecations which some of them uttered, +formed a scene inexpressibly shocking. Harley and his companions, +especially the female part of them, begged their guide to return; he +seemed surprised at their uneasiness, and was with difficulty prevailed +on to leave that part of the house without showing them some others: who, +as he expressed it in the phrase of those that keep wild beasts for show, +were much better worth seeing than any they had passed, being ten times +more fierce and unmanageable. + +He led them next to that quarter where those reside who, as they are not +dangerous to themselves or others, enjoy a certain degree of freedom, +according to the state of their distemper. + +Harley had fallen behind his companions, looking at a man who was making +pendulums with bits of thread and little balls of clay. He had +delineated a segment of a circle on the wall with chalk, and marked their +different vibrations by intersecting it with cross lines. A +decent-looking man came up, and smiling at the maniac, turned to Harley, +and told him that gentleman had once been a very celebrated +mathematician. “He fell a sacrifice,” said he, “to the theory of comets; +for having, with infinite labour, formed a table on the conjectures of +Sir Isaac Newton, he was disappointed in the return of one of those +luminaries, and was very soon after obliged to be placed here by his +friends. If you please to follow me, sir,” continued the stranger, “I +believe I shall be able to give you a more satisfactory account of the +unfortunate people you see here than the man who attends your +companions.” + +Harley bowed, and accepted his offer. + +The next person they came up to had scrawled a variety of figures on a +piece of slate. Harley had the curiosity to take a nearer view of them. +They consisted of different columns, on the top of which were marked +South-sea annuities, India-stock, and Three per cent. annuities consol. +“This,” said Harley’s instructor, “was a gentleman well known in Change +Alley. He was once worth fifty thousand pounds, and had actually agreed +for the purchase of an estate in the West, in order to realise his money; +but he quarrelled with the proprietor about the repairs of the garden +wall, and so returned to town, to follow his old trade of stock-jobbing a +little longer; when an unlucky fluctuation of stock, in which he was +engaged to an immense extent, reduced him at once to poverty and to +madness. Poor wretch! he told me t’other day that against the next +payment of differences he should be some hundreds above a plum.” + +“It is a spondee, and I will maintain it,” interrupted a voice on his +left hand. This assertion was followed by a very rapid recital of some +verses from Homer. “That figure,” said the gentleman, “whose clothes are +so bedaubed with snuff, was a schoolmaster of some reputation: he came +hither to be resolved of some doubts he entertained concerning the +genuine pronunciation of the Greek vowels. In his highest fits, he makes +frequent mention of one Mr. Bentley. + +“But delusive ideas, sir, are the motives of the greatest part of +mankind, and a heated imagination the power by which their actions are +incited: the world, in the eye of a philosopher, may be said to be a +large madhouse.” “It is true,” answered Harley, “the passions of men are +temporary madnesses; and sometimes very fatal in their effects. + + From Macedonia’s madman to the Swede.” + +“It was, indeed,” said the stranger, “a very mad thing in Charles to +think of adding so vast a country as Russia to his dominions: that would +have been fatal indeed; the balance of the North would then have been +lost; but the Sultan and I would never have allowed it.”—“Sir!” said +Harley, with no small surprise on his countenance.—“Why, yes,” answered +the other, “the Sultan and I; do you know me? I am the Chan of Tartary.” + +Harley was a good deal struck by this discovery; he had prudence enough, +however, to conceal his amazement, and bowing as low to the monarch as +his dignity required, left him immediately, and joined his companions. + +He found them in a quarter of the house set apart for the insane of the +other sex, several of whom had gathered about the female visitors, and +were examining, with rather more accuracy than might have been expected, +the particulars of their dress. + +Separate from the rest stood one whose appearance had something of +superior dignity. Her face, though pale and wasted, was less squalid +than those of the others, and showed a dejection of that decent kind, +which moves our pity unmixed with horror: upon her, therefore, the eyes +of all were immediately turned. The keeper who accompanied them observed +it: “This,” said he, “is a young lady who was born to ride in her coach +and six. She was beloved, if the story I have heard is true, by a young +gentleman, her equal in birth, though by no means her match in fortune: +but love, they say, is blind, and so she fancied him as much as he did +her. Her father, it seems, would not hear of their marriage, and +threatened to turn her out of doors if ever she saw him again. Upon this +the young gentleman took a voyage to the West Indies, in hopes of +bettering his fortune, and obtaining his mistress; but he was scarce +landed, when he was seized with one of the fevers which are common in +those islands, and died in a few days, lamented by every one that knew +him. This news soon reached his mistress, who was at the same time +pressed by her father to marry a rich miserly fellow, who was old enough +to be her grandfather. The death of her lover had no effect on her +inhuman parent: he was only the more earnest for her marriage with the +man he had provided for her; and what between her despair at the death of +the one, and her aversion to the other, the poor young lady was reduced +to the condition you see her in. But God would not prosper such cruelty; +her father’s affairs soon after went to wreck, and he died almost a +beggar.” + +Though this story was told in very plain language, it had particularly +attracted Harley’s notice; he had given it the tribute of some tears. +The unfortunate young lady had till now seemed entranced in thought, with +her eyes fixed on a little garnet ring she wore on her finger; she turned +them now upon Harley. “My Billy is no more!” said she; “do you weep for +my Billy? Blessings on your tears! I would weep too, but my brain is +dry; and it burns, it burns, it burns!”—She drew nearer to Harley.—“Be +comforted, young lady,” said he, “your Billy is in heaven.”—“Is he, +indeed? and shall we meet again? and shall that frightful man (pointing +to the keeper) not be there!—Alas! I am grown naughty of late; I have +almost forgotten to think of heaven: yet I pray sometimes; when I can, I +pray; and sometimes I sing; when I am saddest, I sing:—You shall hear +me—hush! + + “Light be the earth on Billy’s breast, + And green the sod that wraps his grave.” + +There was a plaintive wildness in the air not to be withstood; and, +except the keeper’s, there was not an unmoistened eye around her. + +“Do you weep again?” said she. “I would not have you weep: you are like +my Billy; you are, believe me; just so he looked when he gave me this +ring; poor Billy! ’twas the last time ever we met!— + +“’Twas when the seas were roaring—I love you for resembling my Billy; but +I shall never love any man like him.”—She stretched out her hand to +Harley; he pressed it between both of his, and bathed it with his +tears.—“Nay, that is Billy’s ring,” said she, “you cannot have it, +indeed; but here is another, look here, which I plated to-day of some +gold-thread from this bit of stuff; will you keep it for my sake? I am a +strange girl; but my heart is harmless: my poor heart; it will burst some +day; feel how it beats!” She pressed his hand to her bosom, then holding +her head in the attitude of listening—“Hark! one, two, three! be quiet, +thou little trembler; my Billy is cold!—but I had forgotten the +ring.”—She put it on his finger. “Farewell! I must leave you now.”—She +would have withdrawn her hand; Harley held it to his lips.—“I dare not +stay longer; my head throbs sadly: farewell!”—She walked with a hurried +step to a little apartment at some distance. Harley stood fixed in +astonishment and pity; his friend gave money to the keeper.—Harley looked +on his ring.—He put a couple of guineas into the man’s hand: “Be kind to +that unfortunate.”—He burst into tears, and left them. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. +THE MISANTHROPE. + + +THE friend who had conducted him to Moorfields called upon him again the +next evening. After some talk on the adventures of the preceding day: “I +carried you yesterday,” said he to Harley, “to visit the mad; let me +introduce you to-night, at supper, to one of the wise: but you must not +look for anything of the Socratic pleasantry about him; on the contrary, +I warn you to expect the spirit of a Diogenes. That you may be a little +prepared for his extraordinary manner, I will let you into some +particulars of his history. + +“He is the elder of the two sons of a gentleman of considerable estate in +the country. Their father died when they were young: both were +remarkable at school for quickness of parts and extent of genius; this +had been bred to no profession, because his father’s fortune, which +descended to him, was thought sufficient to set him above it; the other +was put apprentice to an eminent attorney. In this the expectations of +his friends were more consulted than his own inclination; for both his +brother and he had feelings of that warm kind that could ill brook a +study so dry as the law, especially in that department of it which was +allotted to him. But the difference of their tempers made the +characteristical distinction between them. The younger, from the +gentleness of his nature, bore with patience a situation entirely +discordant to his genius and disposition. At times, indeed, his pride +would suggest of how little importance those talents were which the +partiality of his friends had often extolled: they were now incumbrances +in a walk of life where the dull and the ignorant passed him at every +turn; his fancy and his feeling were invincible obstacles to eminence in +a situation where his fancy had no room for exertion, and his feeling +experienced perpetual disgust. But these murmurings he never suffered to +be heard; and that he might not offend the prudence of those who had been +concerned in the choice of his profession, he continued to labour in it +several years, till, by the death of a relation, he succeeded to an +estate of a little better than £100 a year, with which, and the small +patrimony left him, he retired into the country, and made a love-match +with a young lady of a similar temper to his own, with whom the sagacious +world pitied him for finding happiness. + +“But his elder brother, whom you are to see at supper, if you will do us +the favour of your company, was naturally impetuous, decisive, and +overbearing. He entered into life with those ardent expectations by +which young men are commonly deluded: in his friendships, warm to excess; +and equally violent in his dislikes. He was on the brink of marriage +with a young lady, when one of those friends, for whose honour he would +have pawned his life, made an elopement with that very goddess, and left +him besides deeply engaged for sums which that good friend’s extravagance +had squandered. + +“The dreams he had formerly enjoyed were now changed for ideas of a very +different nature. He abjured all confidence in anything of human form; +sold his lands, which still produced him a very large reversion, came to +town, and immured himself, with a woman who had been his nurse, in little +better than a garret; and has ever since applied his talents to the +vilifying of his species. In one thing I must take the liberty to +instruct you; however different your sentiments may be (and different +they must be), you will suffer him to go on without contradiction; +otherwise, he will be silent immediately, and we shall not get a word +from him all the night after.” Harley promised to remember this +injunction, and accepted the invitation of his friend. + +When they arrived at the house, they were informed that the gentleman was +come, and had been shown into the parlour. They found him sitting with a +daughter of his friend’s, about three years old, on his knee, whom he was +teaching the alphabet from a horn book: at a little distance stood a +sister of hers, some years older. “Get you away, miss,” said he to this +last; “you are a pert gossip, and I will have nothing to do with +you.”—“Nay,” answered she, “Nancy is your favourite; you are quite in +love with Nancy.”—“Take away that girl,” said he to her father, whom he +now observed to have entered the room; “she has woman about her already.” +The children were accordingly dismissed. + +Betwixt that and supper-time he did not utter a syllable. When supper +came, he quarrelled with every dish at table, but eat of them all; only +exempting from his censures a salad, “which you have not spoiled,” said +he, “because you have not attempted to cook it.” + +When the wine was set upon the table, he took from his pocket a +particular smoking apparatus, and filled his pipe, without taking any +more notice of Harley, or his friend, than if no such persons had been in +the room. + +Harley could not help stealing a look of surprise at him; but his friend, +who knew his humour, returned it by annihilating his presence in the like +manner, and, leaving him to his own meditations, addressed himself +entirely to Harley. + +In their discourse some mention happened to be made of an amiable +character, and the words _honour_ and _politeness_ were applied to it. +Upon this, the gentleman, laying down his pipe, and changing the tone of +his countenance, from an ironical grin to something more intently +contemptuous: “Honour,” said he: “Honour and Politeness! this is the coin +of the world, and passes current with the fools of it. You have +substituted the shadow Honour, instead of the substance Virtue; and have +banished the reality of friendship for the fictitious semblance which you +have termed Politeness: politeness, which consists in a certain +ceremonious jargon, more ridiculous to the ear of reason than the voice +of a puppet. You have invented sounds, which you worship, though they +tyrannize over your peace; and are surrounded with empty forms, which +take from the honest emotions of joy, and add to the poignancy of +misfortune.” “Sir!” said Harley—his friend winked to him, to remind him +of the caution he had received. He was silenced by the thought. The +philosopher turned his eye upon him: he examined him from top to toe, +with a sort of triumphant contempt; Harley’s coat happened to be a new +one; the other’s was as shabby as could possibly be supposed to be on the +back of a gentleman: there was much significance in his look with regard +to this coat; it spoke of the sleekness of folly and the threadbareness +of wisdom. + +“Truth,” continued he, “the most amiable, as well as the most natural of +virtues, you are at pains to eradicate. Your very nurseries are +seminaries of falsehood; and what is called Fashion in manhood completes +the system of avowed insincerity. Mankind, in the gross, is a gaping +monster, that loves to be deceived, and has seldom been disappointed: nor +is their vanity less fallacious to your philosophers, who adopt modes of +truth to follow them through the paths of error, and defend paradoxes +merely to be singular in defending them. These are they whom ye term +Ingenious; ’tis a phrase of commendation I detest: it implies an attempt +to impose on my judgment, by flattering my imagination; yet these are +they whose works are read by the old with delight, which the young are +taught to look upon as the codes of knowledge and philosophy. + +“Indeed, the education of your youth is every way preposterous; you waste +at school years in improving talents, without having ever spent an hour +in discovering them; one promiscuous line of instruction is followed, +without regard to genius, capacity, or probable situation in the +commonwealth. From this bear-garden of the pedagogue, a raw, +unprincipled boy is turned loose upon the world to travel; without any +ideas but those of improving his dress at Paris, or starting into taste +by gazing on some paintings at Rome. Ask him of the manners of the +people, and he will tell you that the skirt is worn much shorter in +France, and that everybody eats macaroni in Italy. When he returns home, +he buys a seat in parliament, and studies the constitution at Arthur’s. + +“Nor are your females trained to any more useful purpose: they are +taught, by the very rewards which their nurses propose for good +behaviour, by the first thing like a jest which they hear from every male +visitor of the family, that a young woman is a creature to be married; +and when they are grown somewhat older, are instructed that it is the +purpose of marriage to have the enjoyment of pin-money, and the +expectation of a jointure.” + +“These, {61} indeed, are the effects of luxury, which is, perhaps, +inseparable from a certain degree of power and grandeur in a nation. But +it is not simply of the progress of luxury that we have to complain: did +its votaries keep in their own sphere of thoughtless dissipation, we +might despise them without emotion; but the frivolous pursuits of +pleasure are mingled with the most important concerns of the state; and +public enterprise shall sleep till he who should guide its operation has +decided his bets at Newmarket, or fulfilled his engagement with a +favourite mistress in the country. We want some man of acknowledged +eminence to point our counsels with that firmness which the counsels of a +great people require. We have hundreds of ministers, who press forward +into office without having ever learned that art which is necessary for +every business: the art of thinking; and mistake the petulance, which +could give inspiration to smart sarcasms on an obnoxious measure in a +popular assembly, for the ability which is to balance the interest of +kingdoms, and investigate the latent sources of national superiority. +With the administration of such men the people can never be satisfied; +for besides that their confidence is gained only by the view of superior +talents, there needs that depth of knowledge, which is not only +acquainted with the just extent of power, but can also trace its +connection with the expedient, to preserve its possessors from the +contempt which attends irresolution, or the resentment which follows +temerity.” + + * * * * * + +[Here a considerable part is wanting.] + +* * “In short, man is an animal equally selfish and vain. Vanity, +indeed, is but a modification of selfishness. From the latter, there are +some who pretend to be free: they are generally such as declaim against +the lust of wealth and power, because they have never been able to attain +any high degree in either: they boast of generosity and feeling. They +tell us (perhaps they tell us in rhyme) that the sensations of an honest +heart, of a mind universally benevolent, make up the quiet bliss which +they enjoy; but they will not, by this, be exempted from the charge of +selfishness. Whence the luxurious happiness they describe in their +little family-circles? Whence the pleasure which they feel, when they +trim their evening fires, and listen to the howl of winter’s wind? +Whence, but from the secret reflection of what houseless wretches feel +from it? Or do you administer comfort in affliction—the motive is at +hand; I have had it preached to me in nineteen out of twenty of your +consolatory discourses—the comparative littleness of our own misfortunes. + +“With vanity your best virtues are grossly tainted: your benevolence, +which ye deduce immediately from the natural impulse of the heart, +squints to it for its reward. There are some, indeed, who tell us of the +satisfaction which flows from a secret consciousness of good actions: +this secret satisfaction is truly excellent—when we have some friend to +whom we may discover its excellence.” + +He now paused a moment to re-light his pipe, when a clock, that stood at +his back, struck eleven; he started up at the sound, took his hat and his +cane, and nodding good night with his head, walked out of the room. The +gentleman of the house called a servant to bring the stranger’s surtout. +“What sort of a night is it, fellow?” said he.—“It rains, sir,” answered +the servant, “with an easterly wind.”—“Easterly for ever!” He made no +other reply; but shrugging up his shoulders till they almost touched his +ears, wrapped himself tight in his great coat, and disappeared. + +“This is a strange creature,” said his friend to Harley. “I cannot say,” +answered he, “that his remarks are of the pleasant kind: it is curious to +observe how the nature of truth may be changed by the garb it wears; +softened to the admonition of friendship, or soured into the severity of +reproof: yet this severity may be useful to some tempers; it somewhat +resembles a file: disagreeable in its operation, but hard metals may be +the brighter for it.” + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. +HIS SKILL IN PHYSIOGNOMY. + + +THE company at the baronet’s removed to the playhouse accordingly, and +Harley took his usual route into the Park. He observed, as he entered, a +fresh-looking elderly gentleman in conversation with a beggar, who, +leaning on his crutch, was recounting the hardships he had undergone, and +explaining the wretchedness of his present condition. This was a very +interesting dialogue to Harley; he was rude enough, therefore, to slacken +his pace as he approached, and at last to make a full stop at the +gentleman’s back, who was just then expressing his compassion for the +beggar, and regretting that he had not a farthing of change about him. +At saying this, he looked piteously on the fellow: there was something in +his physiognomy which caught Harley’s notice: indeed, physiognomy was one +of Harley’s foibles, for which he had been often rebuked by his aunt in +the country, who used to tell him that when he was come to her years and +experience he would know that all’s not gold that glitters: and it must +be owned that his aunt was a very sensible, harsh-looking maiden lady of +threescore and upwards. But he was too apt to forget this caution and +now, it seems, it had not occurred to him. Stepping up, therefore, to +the gentleman, who was lamenting the want of silver, “Your intentions, +sir,” said he, “are so good, that I cannot help lending you my assistance +to carry them into execution,” and gave the beggar a shilling. The other +returned a suitable compliment, and extolled the benevolence of Harley. +They kept walking together, and benevolence grew the topic of discourse. + +The stranger was fluent on the subject. “There is no use of money,” said +he, “equal to that of beneficence. With the profuse, it is lost; and +even with those who lay it out according to the prudence of the world, +the objects acquired by it pall on the sense, and have scarce become our +own till they lose their value with the power of pleasing; but here the +enjoyment grows on reflection, and our money is most truly ours when it +ceases being in our possession. + +“Yet I agree in some measure,” answered Harley, “with those who think +that charity to our common beggars is often misplaced; there are objects +less obtrusive whose title is a better one.” + +“We cannot easily distinguish,” said the stranger; “and even of the +worthless, are there not many whose imprudence, or whose vice, may have +been one dreadful consequence of misfortune?” + +Harley looked again in his face, and blessed himself for his skill in +physiognomy. + +By this time they had reached the end of the walk, the old gentleman +leaning on the rails to take breath, and in the meantime they were joined +by a younger man, whose figure was much above the appearance of his +dress, which was poor and shabby. Harley’s former companion addressed +him as an acquaintance, and they turned on the walk together. + +The elder of the strangers complained of the closeness of the evening, +and asked the other if he would go with him into a house hard by, and +take one draught of excellent cyder. “The man who keeps this house,” +said he to Harley, “was once a servant of mine. I could not think of +turning loose upon the world a faithful old fellow, for no other reason +but that his age had incapacitated him; so I gave him an annuity of ten +pounds, with the help of which he has set up this little place here, and +his daughter goes and sells milk in the city, while her father manages +his tap-room, as he calls it, at home. I can’t well ask a gentleman of +your appearance to accompany me to so paltry a place.” “Sir,” replied +Harley, interrupting him, “I would much rather enter it than the most +celebrated tavern in town. To give to the necessitous may sometimes be a +weakness in the man; to encourage industry is a duty in the citizen.” +They entered the house accordingly. + +On a table at the corner of the room lay a pack of cards, loosely thrown +together. The old gentleman reproved the man of the house for +encouraging so idle an amusement. Harley attempted to defend him from +the necessity of accommodating himself to the humour of his guests, and +taking up the cards, began to shuffle them backwards and forwards in his +hand. “Nay, I don’t think cards so unpardonable an amusement as some +do,” replied the other; “and now and then, about this time of the +evening, when my eyes begin to fail me for my book, I divert myself with +a game at piquet, without finding my morals a bit relaxed by it. Do you +play piquet, sir?” (to Harley.) Harley answered in the affirmative; upon +which the other proposed playing a pool at a shilling the game, doubling +the stakes; adding, that he never played higher with anybody. + +Harley’s good nature could not refuse the benevolent old man; and the +younger stranger, though he at first pleaded prior engagements, yet being +earnestly solicited by his friend, at last yielded to solicitation. + +When they began to play, the old gentleman, somewhat to the surprise of +Harley, produced ten shillings to serve for markers of his score. “He +had no change for the beggar,” said Harley to himself; “but I can easily +account for it; it is curious to observe the affection that inanimate +things will create in us by a long acquaintance. If I may judge from my +own feelings, the old man would not part with one of these counters for +ten times its intrinsic value; it even got the better of his benevolence! +I, myself, have a pair of old brass sleeve buttons.” Here he was +interrupted by being told that the old gentleman had beat the younger, +and that it was his turn to take up the conqueror. “Your game has been +short,” said Harley. “I re-piqued him,” answered the old man, with joy +sparkling in his countenance. Harley wished to be re-piqued too, but he +was disappointed; for he had the same good fortune against his opponent. +Indeed, never did fortune, mutable as she is, delight in mutability so +much as at that moment. The victory was so quick, and so constantly +alternate, that the stake, in a short time, amounted to no less a sum +than £12, Harley’s proportion of which was within half-a-guinea of the +money he had in his pocket. He had before proposed a division, but the +old gentleman opposed it with such a pleasant warmth in his manner, that +it was always over-ruled. Now, however, he told them that he had an +appointment with some gentlemen, and it was within a few minutes of his +hour. The young stranger had gained one game, and was engaged in the +second with the other; they agreed, therefore, that the stake should be +divided, if the old gentleman won that: which was more than probable, as +his score was 90 to 35, and he was elder hand; but a momentous re-pique +decided it in favour of his adversary, who seemed to enjoy his victory +mingled with regret, for having won too much, while his friend, with +great ebullience of passion, many praises of his own good play, and many +malediction’s on the power of chance, took up the cards, and threw them +into the fire. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. +FRUITS OF THE DEAD SEA. + + +THE company he was engaged to meet were assembled in Fleet Street. He +had walked some time along the Strand, amidst a crowd of those wretches +who wait the uncertain wages of prostitution, with ideas of pity suitable +to the scene around him and the feelings he possessed, and had got as far +as Somerset House, when one of them laid hold of his arm, and, with a +voice tremulous and faint, asked him for a pint of wine, in a manner more +supplicatory than is usual with those whom the infamy of their profession +has deprived of shame. He turned round at the demand, and looked +steadfastly on the person who made it. + +She was above the common size, and elegantly formed; her face was thin +and hollow, and showed the remains of tarnished beauty. Her eyes were +black, but had little of their lustre left; her cheeks had some paint +laid on without art, and productive of no advantage to her complexion, +which exhibited a deadly paleness on the other parts of her face. + +Harley stood in the attitude of hesitation; which she, interpreting to +her advantage, repeated her request, and endeavoured to force a leer of +invitation into her countenance. He took her arm, and they walked on to +one of those obsequious taverns in the neighbourhood, where the dearness +of the wine is a discharge in full for the character of the house. From +what impulse he did this we do not mean to enquire; as it has ever been +against our nature to search for motives where bad ones are to be found. +They entered, and a waiter showed them a room, and placed a bottle of +claret on the table. + +Harley filled the lady’s glass: which she had no sooner tasted, than +dropping it on the floor, and eagerly catching his arm, her eye grew +fixed, her lip assumed a clayey whiteness, and she fell back lifeless in +her chair. + +Harley started from his seat, and, catching her in his arms, supported +her from falling to the ground, looking wildly at the door, as if he +wanted to run for assistance, but durst not leave the miserable creature. +It was not till some minutes after that it occurred to him to ring the +bell, which at last, however, he thought of, and rung with repeated +violence even after the waiter appeared. Luckily the waiter had his +senses somewhat more about him; and snatching up a bottle of water, which +stood on a buffet at the end of the room, he sprinkled it over the hands +and face of the dying figure before him. She began to revive, and, with +the assistance of some hartshorn drops, which Harley now for the first +time drew from his pocket, was able to desire the waiter to bring her a +crust of bread, of which she swallowed some mouthfuls with the appearance +of the keenest hunger. The waiter withdrew: when turning to Harley, +sobbing at the same time, and shedding tears, “I am sorry, sir,” said +she, “that I should have given you so much trouble; but you will pity me +when I tell you that till now I have not tasted a morsel these two days +past.”—He fixed his eyes on hers—every circumstance but the last was +forgotten; and he took her hand with as much respect as if she had been a +duchess. It was ever the privilege of misfortune to be revered by +him.—“Two days!” said he; “and I have fared sumptuously every day!”—He +was reaching to the bell; she understood his meaning, and prevented him. +“I beg, sir,” said she, “that you would give yourself no more trouble +about a wretch who does not wish to live; but, at present, I could not +eat a bit; my stomach even rose at the last mouthful of that crust.”—He +offered to call a chair, saying that he hoped a little rest would relieve +her.—He had one half-guinea left. “I am sorry,” he said, “that at +present I should be able to make you an offer of no more than this paltry +sum.”—She burst into tears: “Your generosity, sir, is abused; to bestow +it on me is to take it from the virtuous. I have no title but misery to +plead: misery of my own procuring.” “No more of that,” answered Harley; +“there is virtue in these tears; let the fruit of them be virtue.”—He +rung, and ordered a chair.—“Though I am the vilest of beings,” said she, +“I have not forgotten every virtue; gratitude, I hope, I shall still have +left, did I but know who is my benefactor.”—“My name is Harley.”—“Could I +ever have an opportunity?”—“You shall, and a glorious one too! your +future conduct—but I do not mean to reproach you—if, I say—it will be the +noblest reward—I will do myself the pleasure of seeing you again.”—Here +the waiter entered, and told them the chair was at the door; the lady +informed Harley of her lodgings, and he promised to wait on her at ten +next morning. + +He led her to the chair, and returned to clear with the waiter, without +ever once reflecting that he had no money in his pocket. He was ashamed +to make an excuse; yet an excuse must be made: he was beginning to frame +one, when the waiter cut him short by telling him that he could not run +scores; but that, if he would leave his watch, or any other pledge, it +would be as safe as if it lay in his pocket. Harley jumped at the +proposal, and pulling out his watch, delivered it into his hands +immediately, and having, for once, had the precaution to take a note of +the lodging he intended to visit next morning, sallied forth with a blush +of triumph on his face, without taking notice of the sneer of the waiter, +who, twirling the watch in his hand, made him a profound bow at the door, +and whispered to a girl, who stood in the passage, something, in which +the word CULLY was honoured with a particular emphasis. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. +HIS SKILL IN PHYSIOGNOMY IS DOUBTED. + + +AFTER he had been some time with the company he had appointed to meet, +and the last bottle was called for, he first recollected that he would be +again at a loss how to discharge his share of the reckoning. He applied, +therefore, to one of them, with whom he was most intimate, acknowledging +that he had not a farthing of money about him; and, upon being jocularly +asked the reason, acquainted them with the two adventures we have just +now related. One of the company asked him if the old man in Hyde Park +did not wear a brownish coat, with a narrow gold edging, and his +companion an old green frock, with a buff-coloured waistcoat. Upon +Harley’s recollecting that they did, “Then,” said he, “you may be +thankful you have come off so well; they are two as noted sharpers, in +their way, as any in town, and but t’other night took me in for a much +larger sum. I had some thoughts of applying to a justice, but one does +not like to be seen in those matters.” + +Harley answered, “That he could not but fancy the gentleman was mistaken, +as he never saw a face promise more honesty than that of the old man he +had met with.”—“His face!” said a grave-looking man, when sat opposite to +him, squirting the juice of his tobacco obliquely into the grate. There +was something very emphatical in the action, for it was followed by a +burst of laughter round the table. “Gentlemen,” said Harley, “you are +disposed to be merry; it may be as you imagine, for I confess myself +ignorant of the town; but there is one thing which makes me hear the loss +of my money with temper: the young fellow who won it must have been +miserably poor; I observed him borrow money for the stake from his +friend: he had distress and hunger in his countenance: be his character +what it may, his necessities at least plead for him.” At this there was +a louder laugh than before. “Gentlemen,” said the lawyer, one of whose +conversations with Harley we have already recorded, “here’s a pretty +fellow for you! to have heard him talk some nights ago, as I did, you +might have sworn he was a saint; yet now he games with sharpers, and +loses his money, and is bubbled by a fine tale of the Dead Sea, and pawns +his watch; here are sanctified doings with a witness!” + +“Young gentleman,” said his friend on the other side of the table, “let +me advise you to be a little more cautious for the future; and as for +faces—you may look into them to know whether a man’s nose be a long or a +short one.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. +HE KEEPS HIS APPOINTMENT. + + +THE last night’s raillery of his companions was recalled to his +remembrance when he awoke, and the colder homilies of prudence began to +suggest some things which were nowise favourable for a performance of his +promise to the unfortunate female he had met with before. He rose, +uncertain of his purpose; but the torpor of such considerations was +seldom prevalent over the warmth of his nature. He walked some turns +backwards and forwards in his room; he recalled the languid form of the +fainting wretch to his mind; he wept at the recollection of her tears. +“Though I am the vilest of beings, I have not forgotten every virtue; +gratitude, I hope, I shall still have left.”—He took a larger +stride—“Powers of mercy that surround me!” cried he, “do ye not smile +upon deeds like these? to calculate the chances of deception is too +tedious a business for the life of man!”—The clock struck ten.—When he +was got down-stairs, he found that he had forgot the note of her +lodgings; he gnawed his lips at the delay: he was fairly on the pavement, +when he recollected having left his purse; he did but just prevent +himself from articulating an imprecation. He rushed a second time up +into his chamber. “What a wretch I am!” said he; “ere this time, +perhaps—” ’Twas a perhaps not to be borne;—two vibrations of a pendulum +would have served him to lock his bureau; but they could not be spared. + +When he reached the house, and inquired for Miss Atkins (for that was the +lady’s name), he was shown up three pair of stairs, into a small room +lighted by one narrow lattice, and patched round with shreds of +different-coloured paper. In the darkest corner stood something like a +bed, before which a tattered coverlet hung by way of curtain. He had not +waited long when she appeared. Her face had the glister of new-washed +tears on it. “I am ashamed, sir,” said she, “that you should have taken +this fresh piece of trouble about one so little worthy of it; but, to the +humane, I know there is a pleasure in goodness for its own sake: if you +have patience for the recital of my story, it may palliate, though it +cannot excuse, my faults.” Harley bowed, as a sign of assent; and she +began as follows:— + +“I am the daughter of an officer, whom a service of forty years had +advanced no higher than the rank of captain. I have had hints from +himself, and been informed by others, that it was in some measure owing +to those principles of rigid honour, which it was his boast to possess, +and which he early inculcated on me, that he had been able to arrive at +no better station. My mother died when I was a child: old enough to +grieve for her death, but incapable of remembering her precepts. Though +my father was doatingly fond of her, yet there were some sentiments in +which they materially differed: she had been bred from her infancy in the +strictest principles of religion, and took the morality of her conduct +from the motives which an adherence to those principles suggested. My +father, who had been in the army from his youth, affixed an idea of +pusillanimity to that virtue, which was formed by the doctrines, excited +by the rewards, or guarded by the terrors of revelation; his dashing idol +was the honour of a soldier: a term which he held in such reverence, that +he used it for his most sacred asseveration. When my mother died, I was +some time suffered to continue in those sentiments which her instructions +had produced; but soon after, though, from respect to her memory, my +father did not absolutely ridicule them, yet he showed, in his discourse +to others, so little regard to them, and at times suggested to me motives +of action so different, that I was soon weaned from opinions which I +began to consider as the dreams of superstition, or the artful inventions +of designing hypocrisy. My mother’s books were left behind at the +different quarters we removed to, and my reading was principally confined +to plays, novels, and those poetical descriptions of the beauty of virtue +and honour, which the circulating libraries easily afforded. + +“As I was generally reckoned handsome, and the quickness of my parts +extolled by all our visitors, my father had a pride in allowing me to the +world. I was young, giddy, open to adulation, and vain of those talents +which acquired it. + +“After the last war, my father was reduced to half-pay; with which we +retired to a village in the country, which the acquaintance of some +genteel families who resided in it, and the cheapness of living, +particularly recommended. My father rented a small house, with a piece +of ground sufficient to keep a horse for him, and a cow for the benefit +of his family. An old man servant managed his ground; while a maid, who +had formerly been my mother’s, and had since been mine, undertook the +care of our little dairy: they were assisted in each of their provinces +by my father and me: and we passed our time in a state of tranquillity, +which he had always talked of with delight, and my train of reading had +taught me to admire. + +“Though I had never seen the polite circles of the metropolis, the +company my father had introduced me into had given me a degree of good +breeding, which soon discovered a superiority over the young ladies of +our village. I was quoted as an example of politeness, and my company +courted by most of the considerable families in the neighbourhood. + +“Amongst the houses where I was frequently invited was Sir George +Winbrooke’s. He had two daughters nearly of my age, with whom, though +they had been bred up in those maxims of vulgar doctrine which my +superior understanding could not but despise, yet as their good nature +led them to an imitation of my manners in everything else, I cultivated a +particular friendship. + +“Some months after our first acquaintance, Sir George’s eldest son came +home from his travels. His figure, his address, and conversation, were +not unlike those warm ideas of an accomplished man which my favourite +novels had taught me to form; and his sentiments on the article of +religion were as liberal as my own: when any of these happened to be the +topic of our discourse, I, who before had been silent, from a fear of +being single in opposition, now kindled at the fire he raised, and +defended our mutual opinions with all the eloquence I was mistress of. +He would be respectfully attentive all the while; and when I had ended, +would raise his eyes from the ground, look at me with a gaze of +admiration, and express his applause in the highest strain of encomium. +This was an incense the more pleasing, as I seldom or never had met with +it before; for the young gentlemen who visited Sir George were for the +most part of that athletic order, the pleasure of whose lives is derived +from fox-hunting: these are seldom solicitous to please the women at all; +or if they were, would never think of applying their flattery to the +mind. + +“Mr. Winbrooke observed the weakness of my soul, and took every occasion +of improving the esteem he had gained. He asked my opinion of every +author, of every sentiment, with that submissive diffidence, which showed +an unlimited confidence in my understanding. I saw myself revered, as a +superior being, by one whose judgment my vanity told me was not likely to +err: preferred by him to all the other visitors of my sex, whose fortunes +and rank should have entitled them to a much higher degree of notice: I +saw their little jealousies at the distinguished attention he paid me; it +was gratitude, it was pride, it was love! Love which had made too fatal +a progress in my heart, before any declaration on his part should have +warranted a return: but I interpreted every look of attention, every +expression of compliment, to the passion I imagined him inspired with, +and imputed to his sensibility that silence which was the effect of art +and design. At length, however, he took an opportunity of declaring his +love: he now expressed himself in such ardent terms, that prudence might +have suspected their sincerity: but prudence is rarely found in the +situation I had been unguardedly led into; besides, that the course of +reading to which I had been accustomed, did not lead me to conclude, that +his expressions could be too warm to be sincere: nor was I even alarmed +at the manner in which he talked of marriage, a subjection, he often +hinted, to which genuine love should scorn to be confined. The woman, he +would often say, who had merit like mine to fix his affection, could +easily command it for ever. That honour too which I revered, was often +called in to enforce his sentiments. I did not, however, absolutely +assent to them; but I found my regard for their opposites diminish by +degrees. If it is dangerous to be convinced, it is dangerous to listen; +for our reason is so much of a machine, that it will not always be able +to resist, when the ear is perpetually assailed. + +“In short, Mr. Harley (for I tire you with a relation, the catastrophe of +which you will already have imagined), I fell a prey to his artifices. +He had not been able so thoroughly to convert me, that my conscience was +silent on the subject; but he was so assiduous to give repeated proofs of +unabated affection, that I hushed its suggestions as they rose. The +world, however, I knew, was not to be silenced; and therefore I took +occasion to express my uneasiness to my seducer, and entreat him, as he +valued the peace of one to whom he professed such attachment, to remove +it by a marriage. He made excuse from his dependence on the will of his +father, but quieted my fears by the promise of endeavouring to win his +assent. + +“My father had been some days absent on a visit to a dying relation, from +whom he had considerable expectations. I was left at home, with no other +company than my books: my books I found were not now such companions as +they used to be; I was restless, melancholy, unsatisfied with myself. +But judge my situation when I received a billet from Mr. Winbrooke +informing me, that he had sounded Sir George on the subject we had talked +of, and found him so averse to any match so unequal to his own rank and +fortune, that he was obliged, with whatever reluctance, to bid adieu to a +place, the remembrance of which should ever be dear to him. + +“I read this letter a hundred times over. Alone, helpless, conscious of +guilt, and abandoned by every better thought, my mind was one motley +scene of terror, confusion, and remorse. A thousand expedients suggested +themselves, and a thousand fears told me they would be vain: at last, in +an agony of despair, I packed up a few clothes, took what money and +trinkets were in the house, and set out for London, whither I understood +he was gone; pretending to my maid, that I had received letters from my +father requiring my immediate attendance. I had no other companion than +a boy, a servant to the man from whom I hired my horses. I arrived in +London within an hour of Mr. Winbrooke, and accidentally alighted at the +very inn where he was. + +“He started and turned pale when he saw me; but recovered himself in time +enough to make many new protestations of regard, and beg me to make +myself easy under a disappointment which was equally afflicting to him. +He procured me lodgings, where I slept, or rather endeavoured to sleep, +for that night. Next morning I saw him again, he then mildly observed on +the imprudence of my precipitate flight from the country, and proposed my +removing to lodgings at another end of the town, to elude the search of +my father, till he should fall upon some method of excusing my conduct to +him, and reconciling him to my return. We took a hackney-coach, and +drove to the house he mentioned. + +“It was situated in a dirty lane, furnished with a tawdry affectation of +finery, with some old family pictures hanging on walls which their own +cobwebs would better have suited. I was struck with a secret dread at +entering, nor was it lessened by the appearance of the landlady, who had +that look of selfish shrewdness, which, of all others, is the most +hateful to those whose feelings are untinctured with the world. A girl, +who she told us was her niece, sat by her, playing on a guitar, while +herself was at work, with the assistance of spectacles, and had a +prayer-book with the leaves folded down in several places, lying on the +table before her. Perhaps, sir, I tire you with my minuteness, but the +place, and every circumstance about it, is so impressed on my mind, that +I shall never forget it. + +“I dined that day with Mr. Winbrooke alone. He lost by degrees that +restraint which I perceived too well to hang about him before, and, with +his former gaiety and good humour, repeated the flattering things which, +though they had once been fatal, I durst not now distrust. At last, +taking my hand and kissing it, ‘It is thus,’ said he, ‘that love will +last, while freedom is preserved; thus let us ever be blessed, without +the galling thought that we are tied to a condition where we may cease to +be so.’ + +“I answered, ‘That the world thought otherwise: that it had certain ideas +of good fame, which it was impossible not to wish to maintain.’ + +“‘The world,’ said he, ‘is a tyrant, they are slaves who obey it; let us +be happy without the pale of the world. To-morrow I shall leave this +quarter of it, for one where the talkers of the world shall be foiled, +and lose us. Could not my Emily accompany me? my friend, my companion, +the mistress of my soul! Nay, do not look so, Emily! Your father may +grieve for a while, but your father shall be taken care of; this +bank-bill I intend as the comfort for his daughter.’ + +“I could contain myself no longer: ‘Wretch,’ I exclaimed, ‘dost thou +imagine that my father’s heart could brook dependence on the destroyer of +his child, and tamely accept of a base equivalent for her honour and his +own?’ + +“‘Honour, my Emily,’ said he, ‘is the word of fools, or of those wiser +men who cheat them. ’Tis a fantastic bauble that does not suit the +gravity of your father’s age; but, whatever it is, I am afraid it can +never be perfectly restored to you: exchange the word then, and let +pleasure be your object now.’ + +“At these words he clasped me in his arms, and pressed his lips rudely to +my bosom. I started from my seat. ‘Perfidious villain!’ said I, ‘who +dar’st insult the weakness thou hast undone; were that father here, thy +coward soul would shrink from the vengeance of his honour! Cursed be +that wretch who has deprived him of it! oh doubly cursed, who has dragged +on his hoary head the infamy which should have crushed her own!’ I +snatched a knife which lay beside me, and would have plunged it in my +breast, but the monster prevented my purpose, and smiling with a grin of +barbarous insult— + +“‘Madam,’ said he, ‘I confess you are rather too much in heroics for me; +I am sorry we should differ about trifles; but as I seem somehow to have +offended you, I would willingly remedy it by taking my leave. You have +been put to some foolish expense in this journey on my account; allow me +to reimburse you.’ + +“So saying he laid a bank-bill, of what amount I had no patience to see, +upon the table. Shame, grief, and indignation choked my utterance; +unable to speak my wrongs, and unable to bear them in silence, I fell in +a swoon at his feet. + +“What happened in the interval I cannot tell, but when I came to myself I +was in the arms of the landlady, with her niece chafing my temples, and +doing all in her power for my recovery. She had much compassion in her +countenance; the old woman assumed the softest look she was capable of, +and both endeavoured to bring me comfort. They continued to show me many +civilities, and even the aunt began to be less disagreeable in my sight. +To the wretched, to the forlorn, as I was, small offices of kindness are +endearing. + +“Meantime my money was far spent, nor did I attempt to conceal my wants +from their knowledge. I had frequent thoughts of returning to my father; +but the dread of a life of scorn is insurmountable. I avoided, +therefore, going abroad when I had a chance of being seen by any former +acquaintance, nor indeed did my health for a great while permit it; and +suffered the old woman, at her own suggestion, to call me niece at home, +where we now and then saw (when they could prevail on me to leave my +room) one or two other elderly women, and sometimes a grave business-like +man, who showed great compassion for my indisposition, and made me very +obligingly an offer of a room at his country-house for the recovery of my +health. This offer I did not chose to accept, but told my landlady, +‘that I should be glad to be employed in any way of business which my +skill in needlework could recommend me to, confessing, at the same time, +that I was afraid I should scarce be able to pay her what I already owed +for board and lodging, and that for her other good offices, I had nothing +but thanks to give her.’ + +“‘My dear child,’ said she, ‘do not talk of paying; since I lost my own +sweet girl’ (here she wept), ‘your very picture she was, Miss Emily, I +have nobody, except my niece, to whom I should leave any little thing I +have been able to save; you shall live with me, my dear; and I have +sometimes a little millinery work, in which, when you are inclined to it, +you may assist us. By the way, here are a pair of ruffles we have just +finished for that gentleman you saw here at tea; a distant relation of +mine, and a worthy man he is. ’Twas pity you refused the offer of an +apartment at his country house; my niece, you know, was to have +accompanied you, and you might have fancied yourself at home; a most +sweet place it is, and but a short mile beyond Hampstead. Who knows, +Miss Emily, what effect such a visit might have had! If I had half your +beauty I should not waste it pining after e’er a worthless fellow of them +all.’ + +“I felt my heart swell at her words; I would have been angry if I could, +but I was in that stupid state which is not easily awakened to anger: +when I would have chid her the reproof stuck in my throat; I could only +weep! + +“Her want of respect increased, as I had not spirit to assert it. My +work was now rather imposed than offered, and I became a drudge for the +bread I eat: but my dependence and servility grew in proportion, and I +was now in a situation which could not make any extraordinary exertions +to disengage itself from either—I found myself with child. + +“At last the wretch, who had thus trained me to destruction, hinted the +purpose for which those means had been used. I discovered her to be an +artful procuress for the pleasures of those who are men of decency to the +world in the midst of debauchery. + +“I roused every spark of courage within me at the horrid proposal. She +treated my passion at first somewhat mildly, but when I continued to +exert it she resented it with insult, and told me plainly that if I did +not soon comply with her desires I should pay her every farthing I owed, +or rot in a jail for life. I trembled at the thought; still, however, I +resisted her importunities, and she put her threats in execution. I was +conveyed to prison, weak from my condition, weaker from that struggle of +grief and misery which for some time I had suffered. A miscarriage was +the consequence. + +“Amidst all the horrors of such a state, surrounded with wretches totally +callous, lost alike to humanity and to shame, think, Mr. Harley, think +what I endured; nor wonder that I at last yielded to the solicitations of +that miscreant I had seen at her house, and sunk to the prostitution +which he tempted. But that was happiness compared to what I have +suffered since. He soon abandoned me to the common use of the town, and +I was cast among those miserable beings in whose society I have since +remained. + +“Oh! did the daughters of virtue know our sufferings; did they see our +hearts torn with anguish amidst the affectation of gaiety which our faces +are obliged to assume! our bodies tortured by disease, our minds with +that consciousness which they cannot lose! Did they know, did they think +of this, Mr. Harley! Their censures are just, but their pity perhaps +might spare the wretches whom their justice should condemn. + +“Last night, but for an exertion of benevolence which the infection of +our infamy prevents even in the humane, had I been thrust out from this +miserable place which misfortune has yet left me; exposed to the brutal +insults of drunkenness, or dragged by that justice which I could not +bribe, to the punishment which may correct, but, alas! can never amend +the abandoned objects of its terrors. From that, Mr. Harley, your +goodness has relieved me.” + +He beckoned with his hand: he would have stopped the mention of his +favours; but he could not speak, had it been to beg a diadem. + +She saw his tears; her fortitude began to fail at the sight, when the +voice of some stranger on the stairs awakened her attention. She +listened for a moment, then starting up, exclaimed, “Merciful God! my +father’s voice!” + +She had scarce uttered the word, when the door burst open, and a man +entered in the garb of an officer. When he discovered his daughter and +Harley, he started back a few paces; his look assumed a furious wildness! +he laid his hand on his sword. The two objects of his wrath did not +utter a syllable. + +“Villain,” he cried, “thou seest a father who had once a daughter’s +honour to preserve; blasted as it now is, behold him ready to avenge its +loss!” + +Harley had by this time some power of utterance. “Sir,” said he, “if you +will be a moment calm—” + +“Infamous coward!” interrupted the other, “dost thou preach calmness to +wrongs like mine!” + +He drew his sword. + +“Sir,” said Harley, “let me tell you”—the blood ran quicker to his cheek, +his pulse beat one, no more, and regained the temperament of +humanity—“you are deceived, sir,” said he, “you are much deceived; but I +forgive suspicions which your misfortunes have justified: I would not +wrong you, upon my soul I would not, for the dearest gratification of a +thousand worlds; my heart bleeds for you!” + +His daughter was now prostrate at his feet. + +“Strike,” said she, “strike here a wretch, whose misery cannot end but +with that death she deserves.” + +Her hair had fallen on her shoulders! her look had the horrid calmness of +out-breathed despair! Her father would have spoken; his lip quivered, +his cheek grew pale, his eyes lost the lightning of their fury! there was +a reproach in them, but with a mingling of pity. He turned them up to +heaven, then on his daughter. He laid his left hand on his heart, the +sword dropped from his right, he burst into tears. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. +THE DISTRESSES OF A FATHER. + + +HARLEY kneeled also at the side of the unfortunate daughter. + +“Allow me, sir,” said he, “to entreat your pardon for one whose offences +have been already so signally punished. I know, I feel, that those +tears, wrung from the heart of a father, are more dreadful to her than +all the punishments your sword could have inflicted: accept the +contrition of a child whom heaven has restored to you.” + +“Is she not lost,” answered he, “irrecoverably lost? Damnation! a common +prostitute to the meanest ruffian!” + +“Calmly, my dear sir,” said Harley, “did you know by what complicated +misfortunes she had fallen to that miserable state in which you now +behold her, I should have no need of words to excite your compassion. +Think, sir, of what once she was. Would you abandon her to the insults +of an unfeeling world, deny her opportunity of penitence, and cut off the +little comfort that still remains for your afflictions and her own!” + +“Speak,” said he, addressing himself to his daughter; “speak; I will hear +thee.” + +The desperation that supported her was lost; she fell to the ground, and +bathed his feet with her tears. + +Harley undertook her cause: he related the treacheries to which she had +fallen a sacrifice, and again solicited the forgiveness of her father. +He looked on her for some time in silence; the pride of a soldier’s +honour checked for a while the yearnings of his heart; but nature at last +prevailed, he fell on her neck and mingled his tears with hers. + +Harley, who discovered from the dress of the stranger that he was just +arrived from a journey, begged that they would both remove to his +lodgings, till he could procure others for them. Atkins looked at him +with some marks of surprise. His daughter now first recovered the power +of speech. + +“Wretch as I am,” said she, “yet there is some gratitude due to the +preserver of your child. See him now before you. To him I owe my life, +or at least the comfort of imploring your forgiveness before I die.” + +“Pardon me, young gentleman,” said Atkins, “I fear my passion wronged +you.” + +“Never, never, sir,” said Harley “if it had, your reconciliation to your +daughter were an atonement a thousand fold.” He then repeated his +request that he might be allowed to conduct them to his lodgings, to +which Mr. Atkins at last consented. He took his daughter’s arm. + +“Come, my Emily,” said he, “we can never, never recover that happiness we +have lost! but time may teach us to remember our misfortunes with +patience.” + +When they arrived at the house where Harley lodged, he was informed that +the first floor was then vacant, and that the gentleman and his daughter +might be accommodated there. While he was upon his enquiry, Miss Atkins +informed her father more particularly what she owed to his benevolence. +When he turned into the room where they were Atkins ran and embraced +him;—begged him again to forgive the offence he had given him, and made +the warmest protestations of gratitude for his favours. We would attempt +to describe the joy which Harley felt on this occasion, did it not occur +to us that one half of the world could not understand it though we did, +and the other half will, by this time, have understood it without any +description at all. + +Miss Atkins now retired to her chamber, to take some rest from the +violence of the emotions she had suffered. When she was gone, her +father, addressing himself to Harley, said, “You have a right, sir, to be +informed of the present situation of one who owes so much to your +compassion for his misfortunes. My daughter I find has informed you what +that was at the fatal juncture when they began. Her distresses you have +heard, you have pitied as they deserved; with mine, perhaps, I cannot so +easily make you acquainted. You have a feeling heart, Mr. Harley; I +bless it that it has saved my child; but you never were a father, a +father torn by that most dreadful of calamities, the dishonour of a child +he doated on! You have been already informed of some of the +circumstances of her elopement: I was then from home, called by the death +of a relation, who, though he would never advance me a shilling on the +utmost exigency in his life-time, left me all the gleanings of his +frugality at his death. I would not write this intelligence to my +daughter, because I intended to be the bearer myself; and as soon as my +business would allow me, I set out on my return, winged with all the +haste of paternal affection. I fondly built those schemes of future +happiness, which present prosperity is ever busy to suggest: my Emily was +concerned in them all. As I approached our little dwelling my heart +throbbed with the anticipation of joy and welcome. I imagined the +cheering fire, the blissful contentment of a frugal meal, made luxurious +by a daughter’s smile, I painted to myself her surprise at the tidings of +our new-acquired riches, our fond disputes about the disposal of them. + +“The road was shortened by the dreams of happiness I enjoyed, and it +began to be dark as I reached the house: I alighted from my horse, and +walked softly upstairs to the room we commonly sat in. I was somewhat +disappointed at not finding my daughter there. I rung the bell; her maid +appeared, and shewed no small signs of wonder at the summons. She +blessed herself as she entered the room: I smiled at her surprise. +‘Where is Miss Emily, sir?’ said she. + +“‘Emily!’ + +“‘Yes, sir; she has been gone hence some days, upon receipt of those +letters you sent her.’ + +“‘Letters!’ said I. + +“‘Yes, sir, so she told me, and went off in all haste that very night.’ + +“I stood aghast as she spoke, but was able so far to recollect myself, as +to put on the affectation of calmness, and telling her there was +certainly some mistake in the affair, desired her to leave me. + +“When she was gone, I threw myself into a chair, in that state of +uncertainty which is, of all others, the most dreadful. The gay visions +with which I had delighted myself, vanished in an instant. I was +tortured with tracing back the same circle of doubt and disappointment. +My head grew dizzy as I thought. I called the servant again, and asked +her a hundred questions, to no purpose; there was not room even for +conjecture. + +“Something at last arose in my mind, which we call Hope, without knowing +what it is. I wished myself deluded by it; but it could not prevail over +my returning fears. I rose and walked through the room. My Emily’s +spinnet stood at the end of it, open, with a book of music folded down at +some of my favourite lessons. I touched the keys; there was a vibration +in the sound that froze my blood; I looked around, and methought the +family pictures on the walls gazed on me with compassion in their faces. +I sat down again with an attempt at more composure; I started at every +creaking of the door, and my ears rung with imaginary noises! + +“I had not remained long in this situation, when the arrival of a friend, +who had accidentally heard of my return, put an end to my doubts, by the +recital of my daughter’s dishonour. He told me he had his information +from a young gentleman, to whom Winbrooke had boasted of having seduced +her. + +“I started from my seat, with broken curses on my lips, and without +knowing whither I should pursue them, ordered my servant to load my +pistols and saddle my horses. My friend, however, with great difficulty, +persuaded me to compose myself for that night, promising to accompany me +on the morrow, to Sir George Winbrooke’s in quest of his son. + +“The morrow came, after a night spent in a state little distant from +madness. We went as early as decency would allow to Sir George’s. He +received me with politeness, and indeed compassion, protested his +abhorrence of his son’s conduct, and told me that he had set out some +days before for London, on which place he had procured a draft for a +large sum, on pretence of finishing his travels, but that he had not +heard from him since his departure. + +“I did not wait for any more, either of information or comfort, but, +against the united remonstrances of Sir George and my friend, set out +instantly for London, with a frantic uncertainty of purpose; but there, +all manner of search was in vain. I could trace neither of them any +farther than the inn where they first put up on their arrival; and after +some days fruitless inquiry, returned home destitute of every little hope +that had hitherto supported me. The journeys I had made, the restless +nights I had spent, above all, the perturbation of my mind, had the +effect which naturally might be expected—a very dangerous fever was the +consequence. From this, however, contrary to the expectation of my +physicians, I recovered. It was now that I first felt something like +calmness of mind: probably from being reduced to a state which could not +produce the exertions of anguish or despair. A stupid melancholy settled +on my soul; I could endure to live with an apathy of life; at times I +forgot my resentment, and wept at the remembrance of my child. + +“Such has been the tenor of my days since that fatal moment when these +misfortunes began, till yesterday, that I received a letter from a friend +in town, acquainting me of her present situation. Could such tales as +mine, Mr. Harley, be sometimes suggested to the daughters of levity, did +they but know with what anxiety the heart of a parent flutters round the +child he loves, they would be less apt to construe into harshness that +delicate concern for their conduct, which they often complain of as +laying restraint upon things, to the young, the gay, and the thoughtless, +seemingly harmless and indifferent. Alas! I fondly imagined that I +needed not even these common cautions! my Emily was the joy of my age, +and the pride of my soul! Those things are now no more, they are lost +for ever! Her death I could have born, but the death of her honour has +added obloquy and shame to that sorrow which bends my grey hairs to the +dust!” + +As he spoke these last words, his voice trembled in his throat; it was +now lost in his tears. He sat with his face half turned from Harley, as +if he would have hid the sorrow which he felt. Harley was in the same +attitude himself; he durst not meet his eye with a tear, but gathering +his stifled breath, “Let me entreat you, sir,” said he, “to hope better +things. The world is ever tyrannical; it warps our sorrows to edge them +with keener affliction. Let us not be slaves to the names it affixes to +motive or to action. I know an ingenuous mind cannot help feeling when +they sting. But there are considerations by which it may be overcome. +Its fantastic ideas vanish as they rise; they teach us to look beyond +it.” + + * * * * * + + + +A FRAGMENT. +SHOWING HIS SUCCESS WITH THE BARONET. + + +* * THE card he received was in the politest style in which +disappointment could be communicated. The baronet “was under a necessity +of giving up his application for Mr. Harley, as he was informed that the +lease was engaged for a gentleman who had long served His Majesty in +another capacity, and whose merit had entitled him to the first lucrative +thing that should be vacant.” Even Harley could not murmur at such a +disposal. “Perhaps,” said he to himself, “some war-worn officer, who, +like poor Atkins, had been neglected from reasons which merited the +highest advancement; whose honour could not stoop to solicit the +preferment he deserved; perhaps, with a family, taught the principles of +delicacy, without the means of supporting it; a wife and +children—gracious heaven! whom my wishes would have deprived of bread—” + +He was interrupted in his reverie by some one tapping him on the +shoulder, and, on turning round, he discovered it to be the very man who +had explained to him the condition of his gay companion at Hyde Park +Corner. “I am glad to see you, sir,” said he; “I believe we are fellows +in disappointment.” Harley started, and said that he was at a loss to +understand him. “Pooh! you need not be so shy,” answered the other; +“every one for himself is but fair, and I had much rather you had got it +than the rascally gauger.” Harley still protested his ignorance of what +he meant. “Why, the lease of Bancroft Manor; had not you been applying +for it?” “I confess I was,” replied Harley; “but I cannot conceive how +you should be interested in the matter.” “Why, I was making interest for +it myself,” said he, “and I think I had some title. I voted for this +same baronet at the last election, and made some of my friends do so too; +though I would not have you imagine that I sold my vote. No, I scorn it, +let me tell you I scorn it; but I thought as how this man was staunch and +true, and I find he’s but a double-faced fellow after all, and +speechifies in the House for any side he hopes to make most by. Oh, how +many fine speeches and squeezings by the hand we had of him on the +canvas! ‘And if ever I shall be so happy as to have an opportunity of +serving you.’ A murrain on the smooth-tongued knave, and after all to +get it for this pimp of a gauger.” “The gauger! there must be some +mistake,” said Harley. “He writes me, that it was engaged for one whose +long services—” “Services!” interrupted the other; “you shall hear. +Services! Yes, his sister arrived in town a few days ago, and is now +sempstress to the baronet. A plague on all rogues, says honest Sam +Wrightson. I shall but just drink damnation to them to-night, in a +crown’s worth of Ashley’s, and leave London to-morrow by sun-rise.” “I +shall leave it too,” said Harley; and so he accordingly did. + +In passing through Piccadilly, he had observed, on the window of an inn, +a notification of the departure of a stage-coach for a place in his road +homewards; in the way back to his lodgings, he took a seat in it for his +return. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. +HE LEAVES LONDON—CHARACTERS IN A STAGE-COACH. + + +THE company in the stage-coach consisted of a grocer and his wife, who +were going to pay a visit to some of their country friends; a young +officer, who took this way of marching to quarters; a middle-aged +gentlewoman, who had been hired as housekeeper to some family in the +country; and an elderly, well-looking man, with a remarkable +old-fashioned periwig. + +Harley, upon entering, discovered but one vacant seat, next the grocer’s +wife, which, from his natural shyness of temper, he made no scruple to +occupy, however aware that riding backwards always disagreed with him. + +Though his inclination to physiognomy had met with some rubs in the +metropolis, he had not yet lost his attachment to that science. He set +himself, therefore, to examine, as usual, the countenances of his +companions. Here, indeed, he was not long in doubt as to the preference; +for besides that the elderly gentleman, who sat opposite to him, had +features by nature more expressive of good dispositions, there was +something in that periwig we mentioned, peculiarly attractive of Harley’s +regard. + +He had not been long employed in these speculations, when he found +himself attacked with that faintish sickness, which was the natural +consequence of his situation in the coach. The paleness of his +countenance was first observed by the housekeeper, who immediately made +offer of her smelling bottle, which Harley, however, declined, telling at +the same time the cause of his uneasiness. The gentleman, on the +opposite side of the coach, now first turned his eye from the side +direction in which it had been fixed, and begged Harley to exchange +places with him, expressing his regret that he had not made the proposal +before. Harley thanked him, and, upon being assured that both seats were +alike to him, was about to accept of his offer, when the young gentleman +of the sword, putting on an arch look, laid hold of the other’s arm. +“So, my old boy,” said he, “I find you have still some youthful blood +about you, but, with your leave, I will do myself the honour of sitting +by this lady;” and took his place accordingly. The grocer stared him as +full in the face as his own short neck would allow, and his wife, who was +a little, round-faced woman, with a great deal of colour in her cheeks, +drew up at the compliment that was paid her, looking first at the +officer, and then at the housekeeper. + +This incident was productive of some discourse; for before, though there +was sometimes a cough or a hem from the grocer, and the officer now and +then humm’d a few notes of a song, there had not a single word passed the +lips of any of the company. + +Mrs. Grocer observed, how ill-convenient it was for people, who could not +be drove backwards, to travel in a stage. This brought on a dissertation +on stage-coaches in general, and the pleasure of keeping a chay of one’s +own; which led to another, on the great riches of Mr. Deputy Bearskin, +who, according to her, had once been of that industrious order of youths +who sweep the crossings of the streets for the conveniency of passengers, +but, by various fortunate accidents, had now acquired an immense fortune, +and kept his coach and a dozen livery servants. All this afforded ample +fund for conversation, if conversation it might be called, that was +carried on solely by the before-mentioned lady, nobody offering to +interrupt her, except that the officer sometimes signified his +approbation by a variety of oaths, a sort of phraseology in which he +seemed extremely versant. She appealed indeed, frequently, to her +husband for the authenticity of certain facts, of which the good man as +often protested his total ignorance; but as he was always called fool, or +something very like it, for his pains, he at last contrived to support +the credit of his wife without prejudice to his conscience, and signified +his assent by a noise not unlike the grunting of that animal which in +shape and fatness he somewhat resembled. + +The housekeeper, and the old gentleman who sat next to Harley, were now +observed to be fast asleep, at which the lady, who had been at such pains +to entertain them, muttered some words of displeasure, and, upon the +officer’s whispering to smoke the old put, both she and her husband +purs’d up their mouths into a contemptuous smile. Harley looked sternly +on the grocer. “You are come, sir,” said he, “to those years when you +might have learned some reverence for age. As for this young man, who +has so lately escaped from the nursery, he may be allowed to divert +himself.” “Dam’me, sir!” said the officer, “do you call me young?” +striking up the front of his hat, and stretching forward on his seat, +till his face almost touched Harley’s. It is probable, however, that he +discovered something there which tended to pacify him, for, on the ladies +entreating them not to quarrel, he very soon resumed his posture and +calmness together, and was rather less profuse of his oaths during the +rest of the journey. + +It is possible the old gentleman had waked time enough to hear the last +part of this discourse; at least (whether from that cause, or that he too +was a physiognomist) he wore a look remarkably complacent to Harley, who, +on his part, shewed a particular observance of him. Indeed, they had +soon a better opportunity of making their acquaintance, as the coach +arrived that night at the town where the officer’s regiment lay, and the +places of destination of their other fellow-travellers, it seems, were at +no great distance, for, next morning, the old gentleman and Harley were +the only passengers remaining. + +When they left the inn in the morning, Harley, pulling out a little +pocket-book, began to examine the contents, and make some corrections +with a pencil. “This,” said he, turning to his companion, “is an +amusement with which I sometimes pass idle hours at an inn. These are +quotations from those humble poets, who trust their fame to the brittle +tenure of windows and drinking-glasses.” “From our inn,” returned the +gentleman, “a stranger might imagine that we were a nation of poets; +machines, at least, containing poetry, which the motion of a journey +emptied of their contents. Is it from the vanity of being thought +geniuses, or a mere mechanical imitation of the custom of others, that we +are tempted to scrawl rhyme upon such places?” + +“Whether vanity is the cause of our becoming rhymesters or not,” answered +Harley, “it is a pretty certain effect of it. An old man of my +acquaintance, who deals in apothegms, used to say that he had known few +men without envy, few wits without ill-nature, and no poet without +vanity; and I believe his remark is a pretty just one. Vanity has been +immemorially the charter of poets. In this, the ancients were more +honest than we are. The old poets frequently make boastful predictions +of the immortality their works shall acquire them; ours, in their +dedications and prefatory discourses, employ much eloquence to praise +their patrons, and much seeming modesty to condemn themselves, or at +least to apologise for their productions to the world. But this, in my +opinion, is the more assuming manner of the two; for of all the garbs I +ever saw Pride put on, that of her humility is to me the most +disgusting.” + +“It is natural enough for a poet to be vain,” said the stranger. “The +little worlds which he raises, the inspiration which he claims, may +easily be productive of self-importance; though that inspiration is +fabulous, it brings on egotism, which is always the parent of vanity.” + +“It may be supposed,” answered Harley, “that inspiration of old was an +article of religious faith; in modern times it may be translated a +propensity to compose; and I believe it is not always most readily found +where the poets have fixed its residence, amidst groves and plains, and +the scenes of pastoral retirement. The mind may be there unbent from the +cares of the world, but it will frequently, at the same time, be unnerved +from any great exertion. It will feel imperfect, and wander without +effort over the regions of reflection.” + +“There is at least,” said the stranger, “one advantage in the poetical +inclination, that it is an incentive to philanthropy. There is a certain +poetic ground, on which a man cannot tread without feelings that enlarge +the heart: the causes of human depravity vanish before the romantic +enthusiasm he professes, and many who are not able to reach the +Parnassian heights, may yet approach so near as to be bettered by the air +of the climate.” + +“I have always thought so,” replied Harley; “but this is an argument with +the prudent against it: they urge the danger of unfitness for the world.” + +“I allow it,” returned the other; “but I believe it is not always +rightfully imputed to the bent for poetry: that is only one effect of the +common cause.—Jack, says his father, is indeed no scholar; nor could all +the drubbings from his master ever bring him one step forward in his +accidence or syntax: but I intend him for a merchant.—Allow the same +indulgence to Tom.—Tom reads Virgil and Horace when he should be casting +accounts; and but t’other day he pawned his great-coat for an edition of +Shakespeare.—But Tom would have been as he is, though Virgil and Horace +had never been born, though Shakespeare had died a link-boy; for his +nurse will tell you, that when he was a child, he broke his rattle, to +discover what it was that sounded within it; and burnt the sticks of his +go-cart, because he liked to see the sparkling of timber in the +fire.—’Tis a sad case; but what is to be done?—Why, Jack shall make a +fortune, dine on venison, and drink claret.—Ay, but Tom—Tom shall dine +with his brother, when his pride will let him; at other times, he shall +bless God over a half-pint of ale and a Welsh-rabbit; and both shall go +to heaven as they may.—That’s a poor prospect for Tom, says the +father.—To go to heaven! I cannot agree with him.” + +“Perhaps,” said Harley, “we now-a-days discourage the romantic turn a +little too much. Our boys are prudent too soon. Mistake me not, I do +not mean to blame them for want of levity or dissipation; but their +pleasures are those of hackneyed vice, blunted to every finer emotion by +the repetition of debauch; and their desire of pleasure is warped to the +desire of wealth, as the means of procuring it. The immense riches +acquired by individuals have erected a standard of ambition, destructive +of private morals, and of public virtue. The weaknesses of vice are left +us; but the most allowable of our failings we are taught to despise. +Love, the passion most natural to the sensibility of youth, has lost the +plaintive dignity he once possessed, for the unmeaning simper of a +dangling coxcomb; and the only serious concern, that of a dowry, is +settled, even amongst the beardless leaders of the dancing-school. The +Frivolous and the Interested (might a satirist say) are the +characteristical features of the age; they are visible even in the essays +of our philosophers. They laugh at the pedantry of our fathers, who +complained of the times in which they lived; they are at pains to +persuade us how much those were deceived; they pride themselves in +defending things as they find them, and in exploding the barren sounds +which had been reared into motives for action. To this their style is +suited; and the manly tone of reason is exchanged for perpetual efforts +at sneer and ridicule. This I hold to be an alarming crisis in the +corruption of a state; when not only is virtue declined, and vice +prevailing, but when the praises of virtue are forgotten, and the infamy +of vice unfelt.” + +They soon after arrived at the next inn upon the route of the +stage-coach, when the stranger told Harley, that his brother’s house, to +which he was returning, lay at no great distance, and he must therefore +unwillingly bid him adieu. + +“I should like,” said Harley, taking his hand, “to have some word to +remember so much seeming worth by: my name is Harley.” + +“I shall remember it,” answered the old gentleman, “in my prayers; mine +is Silton.” + +And Silton indeed it was! Ben Silton himself! Once more, my honoured +friend, farewell!—Born to be happy without the world, to that peaceful +happiness which the world has not to bestow! Envy never scowled on thy +life, nor hatred smiled on thy grave. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. +HE MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. + + +WHEN the stage-coach arrived at the place of its destination, Harley +began to consider how he should proceed the remaining part of his +journey. He was very civilly accosted by the master of the inn, who +offered to accommodate him either with a post-chaise or horses, to any +distance he had a mind: but as he did things frequently in a way +different from what other people call natural, he refused these offers, +and set out immediately a-foot, having first put a spare shirt in his +pocket, and given directions for the forwarding of his portmanteau. This +was a method of travelling which he was accustomed to take: it saved the +trouble of provision for any animal but himself, and left him at liberty +to chose his quarters, either at an inn, or at the first cottage in which +he saw a face he liked: nay, when he was not peculiarly attracted by the +reasonable creation, he would sometimes consort with a species of +inferior rank, and lay himself down to sleep by the side of a rock, or on +the banks of a rivulet. He did few things without a motive, but his +motives were rather eccentric: and the useful and expedient were terms +which he held to be very indefinite, and which therefore he did not +always apply to the sense in which they are commonly understood. + +The sun was now in his decline, and the evening remarkably serene, when +he entered a hollow part of the road, which winded between the +surrounding banks, and seamed the sward in different lines, as the choice +of travellers had directed them to tread it. It seemed to be little +frequented now, for some of those had partly recovered their former +verdure. The scene was such as induced Harley to stand and enjoy it; +when, turning round, his notice was attracted by an object, which the +fixture of his eye on the spot he walked had before prevented him from +observing. + +An old man, who from his dress seemed to have been a soldier, lay fast +asleep on the ground; a knapsack rested on a stone at his right hand, +while his staff and brass-hilted sword were crossed at his left. + +Harley looked on him with the most earnest attention. He was one of +those figures which Salvator would have drawn; nor was the surrounding +scenery unlike the wildness of that painter’s back-grounds. The banks on +each side were covered with fantastic shrub-wood, and at a little +distance, on the top of one of them, stood a finger-post, to mark the +directions of two roads which diverged from the point where it was +placed. A rock, with some dangling wild flowers, jutted out above where +the soldier lay; on which grew the stump of a large tree, white with age, +and a single twisted branch shaded his face as he slept. His face had +the marks of manly comeliness impaired by time; his forehead was not +altogether bald, but its hairs might have been numbered; while a few +white locks behind crossed the brown of his neck with a contrast the most +venerable to a mind like Harley’s. “Thou art old,” said he to himself; +“but age has not brought thee rest for its infirmities; I fear those +silver hairs have not found shelter from thy country, though that neck +has been bronzed in its service.” The stranger waked. He looked at +Harley with the appearance of some confusion: it was a pain the latter +knew too well to think of causing in another; he turned and went on. The +old man re-adjusted his knapsack, and followed in one of the tracks on +the opposite side of the road. + +When Harley heard the tread of his feet behind him, he could not help +stealing back a glance at his fellow-traveller. He seemed to bend under +the weight of his knapsack; he halted on his walk, and one of his arms +was supported by a sling, and lay motionless across his breast. He had +that steady look of sorrow, which indicates that its owner has gazed upon +his griefs till he has forgotten to lament them; yet not without those +streaks of complacency which a good mind will sometimes throw into the +countenance, through all the incumbent load of its depression. + +He had now advanced nearer to Harley, and, with an uncertain sort of +voice, begged to know what it was o’clock; “I fear,” said he, “sleep has +beguiled me of my time, and I shall hardly have light enough left to +carry me to the end of my journey.” + +“Father!” said Harley (who by this time found the romantic enthusiasm +rising within him) “how far do you mean to go?” + +“But a little way, sir,” returned the other; “and indeed it is but a +little way I can manage now: ’tis just four miles from the height to the +village, thither I am going.” + +“I am going there too,” said Harley; “we may make the road shorter to +each other. You seem to have served your country, sir, to have served it +hardly too; ’tis a character I have the highest esteem for.—I would not +be impertinently inquisitive; but there is that in your appearance which +excites my curiosity to know something more of you; in the meantime, +suffer me to carry that knapsack.” + +The old man gazed on him; a tear stood in his eye! “Young gentleman,” +said he, “you are too good; may Heaven bless you for an old man’s sake, +who has nothing but his blessing to give! but my knapsack is so familiar +to my shoulders, that I should walk the worse for wanting it; and it +would be troublesome to you, who have not been used to its weight.” + +“Far from it,” answered Harley, “I should tread the lighter; it would be +the most honourable badge I ever wore.” + +“Sir,” said the stranger, who had looked earnestly in Harley’s face +during the last part of his discourse, “is act your name Harley?” + +“It is,” replied he; “I am ashamed to say I have forgotten yours.” + +“You may well have forgotten my face,” said the stranger;—“’tis a long +time since you saw it; but possibly you may remember something of old +Edwards.” + +“Edwards!” cried Harley, “oh! heavens!” and sprung to embrace him; “let +me clasp those knees on which I have sat so often: Edwards!—I shall never +forget that fire-side, round which I have been so happy! But where, +where have you been? where is Jack? where is your daughter? How has it +fared with them, when fortune, I fear, has been so unkind to you?” + +“’Tis a long tale,” replied Edwards; “but I will try to tell it you as we +walk. + +“When you were at school in the neighbourhood, you remember me at +South-hill: that farm had been possessed by my father, grandfather, and +great-grandfather, which last was a younger brother of that very man’s +ancestor, who is now lord of the manor. I thought I managed it, as they +had done, with prudence; I paid my rent regularly as it became due, and +had always as much behind as gave bread to me and my children. But my +last lease was out soon after you left that part of the country; and the +squire, who had lately got a London-attorney for his steward, would not +renew it, because, he said, he did not chuse to have any farm under £300 +a year value on his estate; but offered to give me the preference on the +same terms with another, if I chose to take the one he had marked out, of +which mine was a part. + +“What could I do, Mr. Harley? I feared the undertaking was too great for +me; yet to leave, at my age, the house I had lived in from my cradle! I +could not, Mr. Harley, I could not; there was not a tree about it that I +did not look on as my father, my brother, or my child: so I even ran the +risk, and took the squire’s offer of the whole. But had soon reason to +repent of my bargain; the steward had taken care that my former farm +should be the best land of the division: I was obliged to hire more +servants, and I could not have my eye over them all; some unfavourable +seasons followed one another, and I found my affairs entangling on my +hands. To add to my distress, a considerable corn-factor turned bankrupt +with a sum of mine in his possession: I failed paying my rent so +punctually as I was wont to do, and the same steward had my stock taken +in execution in a few days after. So, Mr. Harley, there was an end of my +prosperity. However, there was as much produced from the sale of my +effects as paid my debts and saved me from a jail: I thank God I wronged +no man, and the world could never charge me with dishonesty. + +“Had you seen us, Mr. Harley, when we were turned out of South-hill, I am +sure you would have wept at the sight. You remember old Trusty, my shag +house-dog; I shall never forget it while I live; the poor creature was +blind with age, and could scarce crawl after us to the door; he went +however as far as the gooseberry-bush that you may remember stood on the +left side of the yard; he was wont to bask in the sun there; when he had +reached that spot, he stopped; we went on: I called to him; he wagged his +tail, but did not stir: I called again; he lay down: I whistled, and +cried Trusty; he gave a short howl, and died! I could have lain down and +died too; but God gave me strength to live for my children.” + +The old man now paused a moment to take breath. He eyed Harley’s face; +it was bathed with tears: the story was grown familiar to himself; he +dropped one tear, and no more. + +“Though I was poor,” continued he, “I was not altogether without credit. +A gentleman in the neighbourhood, who had a small farm unoccupied at the +time, offered to let me have it, on giving security for the rent; which I +made shift to procure. It was a piece of ground which required +management to make anything of; but it was nearly within the compass of +my son’s labour and my own. We exerted all our industry to bring it into +some heart. We began to succeed tolerably and lived contented on its +produce, when an unlucky accident brought us under the displeasure of a +neighbouring justice of the peace, and broke all our family-happiness +again. + +“My son was a remarkable good shooter; he-had always kept a pointer on +our former farm, and thought no harm in doing so now; when one day, +having sprung a covey in our own ground, the dog, of his own accord, +followed them into the justice’s. My son laid down his gun, and went +after his dog to bring him back: the game-keeper, who had marked the +birds, came up, and seeing the pointer, shot him just as my son +approached. The creature fell; my son ran up to him: he died with a +complaining sort of cry at his master’s feet. Jack could bear it no +longer; but, flying at the game-keeper, wrenched his gun out of his hand, +and with the butt end of it, felled him to the ground. + +“He had scarce got home, when a constable came with a warrant, and +dragged him to prison; there he lay, for the justices would not take +bail, till he was tried at the quarter-sessions for the assault and +battery. His fine was hard upon us to pay: we contrived however to live +the worse for it, and make up the loss by our frugality: but the justice +was not content with that punishment, and soon after had an opportunity +of punishing us indeed. + +“An officer with press-orders came down to our county, and having met +with the justices, agreed that they should pitch on a certain number, who +could most easily be spared from the county, of whom he would take care +to clear it: my son’s name was in the justices’ list. + +“’Twas on a Christmas eve, and the birth-day too of my son’s little boy. +The night was piercing cold, and it blew a storm, with showers of hail +and snow. We had made up a cheering fire in an inner room; I sat before +it in my wicker-chair; blessing providence, that had still left a shelter +for me and my children. My son’s two little ones were holding their +gambols around us; my heart warmed at the sight: I brought a bottle of my +best ale, and all our misfortunes were forgotten. + +“It had long been our custom to play a game at blind man’s buff on that +night, and it was not omitted now; so to it we fell, I, and my son, and +his wife, the daughter of a neighbouring farmer, who happened to be with +us at the time, the two children, and an old maid servant, who had lived +with me from a child. The lot fell on my son to be blindfolded: we had +continued some time in our game, when he groped his way into an outer +room in pursuit of some of us, who, he imagined, had taken shelter there; +we kept snug in our places, and enjoyed his mistake. He had not been +long there, when he was suddenly seized from behind; ‘I shall have you +now,’ said he, and turned about. ‘Shall you so, master?’ answered the +ruffian, who had laid hold of him; ‘we shall make you play at another +sort of game by and by.’”—At these words Harley started with a convulsive +sort of motion, and grasping Edwards’s sword, drew it half out of the +scabbard, with a look of the most frantic wildness. Edwards gently +replaced it in its sheath, and went on with his relation. + +“On hearing these words in a strange voice, we all rushed out to discover +the cause; the room by this time was almost full of the gang. My +daughter-in-law fainted at the sight; the maid and I ran to assist her, +while my poor son remained motionless, gazing by turns on his children +and their mother. We soon recovered her to life, and begged her to +retire and wait the issue of the affair; but she flew to her husband, and +clung round him in an agony of terror and grief. + +“In the gang was one of a smoother aspect, whom, by his dress, we +discovered to be a serjeant of foot: he came up to me, and told me, that +my son had his choice of the sea or land service, whispering at the same +time that, if he chose the land, he might get off, on procuring him +another man, and paying a certain sum for his freedom. The money we +could just muster up in the house, by the assistance of the maid, who +produced, in a green bag, all the little savings of her service; but the +man we could not expect to find. My daughter-in-law gazed upon her +children with a look of the wildest despair: ‘My poor infants!’ said she, +‘your father is forced from you; who shall now labour for your bread? or +must your mother beg for herself and you?’ I prayed her to be patient; +but comfort I had none to give her. At last, calling the serjeant aside, +I asked him, ‘If I was too old to be accepted in place of my son?’ + +“‘Why, I don’t know,’ said he; ‘you are rather old to be sure, but yet +the money may do much.’ + +“I put the money in his hand, and coming back to my children, ‘Jack,’ +said I, ‘you are free; live to give your wife and these little ones +bread; I will go, my child, in your stead; I have but little life to +lose, and if I staid, I should add one to the wretches you left behind.’ + +“‘No,’ replied my son, ‘I am not that coward you imagine me; heaven +forbid that my father’s grey hairs should be so exposed, while I sat idle +at home; I am young and able to endure much, and God will take care of +you and my family.’ + +“‘Jack,’ said I, ‘I will put an end to this matter, you have never +hitherto disobeyed me; I will not be contradicted in this; stay at home, +I charge you, and, for my sake, be kind to my children.’ + +“Our parting, Mr. Harley, I cannot describe to you; it was the first time +we ever had parted: the very press-gang could scarce keep from tears; but +the serjeant, who had seemed the softest before, was now the least moved +of them all. He conducted me to a party of new-raised recruits, who lay +at a village in the neighbourhood; and we soon after joined the regiment. +I had not been long with it when we were ordered to the East Indies, +where I was soon made a serjeant, and might have picked up some money, if +my heart had been as hard as some others were; but my nature was never of +that kind, that could think of getting rich at the expense of my +conscience. + +“Amongst our prisoners was an old Indian, whom some of our officers +supposed to have a treasure hidden somewhere; which is no uncommon +practice in that country. They pressed him to discover it. He declared +he had none, but that would not satisfy them, so they ordered him to be +tied to a stake, and suffer fifty lashes every morning till he should +learn to speak out, as they said. Oh! Mr. Harley, had you seen him, as I +did, with his hands bound behind him, suffering in silence, while the big +drops trickled down his shrivelled cheeks and wet his grey beard, which +some of the inhuman soldiers plucked in scorn! I could not bear it, I +could not for my soul, and one morning, when the rest of the guard were +out of the way, I found means to let him escape. I was tried by a +court-martial for negligence of my post, and ordered, in compassion of my +age, and having got this wound in my arm and that in my leg in the +service, only to suffer three hundred lashes and be turned out of the +regiment; but my sentence was mitigated as to the lashes, and I had only +two hundred. When I had suffered these I was turned out of the camp, and +had betwixt three and four hundred miles to travel before I could reach a +sea-port, without guide to conduct me, or money to buy me provisions by +the way. I set out, however, resolved to walk as far as I could, and +then to lay myself down and die. But I had scarce gone a mile when I was +met by the Indian whom I had delivered. He pressed me in his arms, and +kissed the marks of the lashes on my back a thousand times; he led me to +a little hut, where some friend of his dwelt, and after I was recovered +of my wounds conducted me so far on my journey himself, and sent another +Indian to guide me through the rest. When we parted he pulled out a +purse with two hundred pieces of gold in it. ‘Take this,’ said he, ‘my +dear preserver, it is all I have been able to procure.’ + +“I begged him not to bring himself to poverty for my sake, who should +probably have no need of it long, but he insisted on my accepting it. He +embraced me. ‘You are an Englishman,’ said he, ‘but the Great Spirit has +given you an Indian heart, may He bear up the weight of your old age, and +blunt the arrow that brings it rest!’ + +“We parted, and not long after I made shift to get my passage to England. +’Tis but about a week since I landed, and I am going to end my days in +the arms of my son. This sum may be of use to him and his children, ’tis +all the value I put upon it. I thank Heaven I never was covetous of +wealth; I never had much, but was always so happy as to be content with +my little.” + +When Edwards had ended his relation, Harley stood a while looking at him +in silence; at last he pressed him in his arms, and when he had given +vent to the fulness of his heart by a shower of tears, “Edwards,” said +he, “let me hold thee to my bosom, let me imprint the virtue of thy +sufferings on my soul. Come, my honoured veteran! let me endeavour to +soften the last days of a life, worn out in the service of humanity; call +me also thy son, and let me cherish thee as a father.”’ + +Edwards, from whom the recollection of his own suffering had scarced +forced a tear, now blubbered like a boy; he could not speak his +gratitude, but by some short exclamations of blessings upon Harley. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. +HE MISSES AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.—AN ADVENTURE CONSEQUENT UPON IT. + + +WHEN they had arrived within a little way of the village they journeyed +to, Harley stopped short, and looked steadfastly on the mouldering walls +of a ruined house that stood on the road side. “Oh, heavens!” he cried, +“what do I see: silent, unroofed, and desolate! Are all thy gay tenants +gone? do I hear their hum no more Edwards, look there, look there? the +scene of my infant joys, my earliest friendships, laid waste and ruinous! +That was the very school where I was boarded when you were at South-hill; +’tis but a twelve-month since I saw it standing, and its benches filled +with cherubs: that opposite side of the road was the green on which they +sported; see it now ploughed up! I would have given fifty times its +value to have saved it from the sacrilege of that plough.” + +“Dear sir,” replied Edwards, “perhaps they have left it from choice, and +may have got another spot as good.” + +“They cannot,” said Harley, “they cannot; I shall never see the sward +covered with its daisies, nor pressed by the dance of the dear innocents: +I shall never see that stump decked with the garlands which their little +hands had gathered. These two long stones, which now lie at the foot of +it, were once the supports of a hut I myself assisted to rear: I have sat +on the sods within it, when we had spread our banquet of apples before +us, and been more blessed—Oh! Edwards, infinitely more blessed, than +ever I shall be again.” + +Just then a woman passed them on the road, and discovered some signs of +wonder at the attitude of Harley, who stood, with his hands folded +together, looking with a moistened eye on the fallen pillars of the hut. +He was too much entranced in thought to observe her at all, but Edwards, +civilly accosting her, desired to know if that had not been the +school-house, and how it came into the condition in which they now saw +it. + +“Alack a day!” said she, “it was the school-house indeed; but to be sure, +sir, the squire has pulled it down because it stood in the way of his +prospects.” + +“What! how! prospects! pulled down!” cried Harley. + +“Yes, to be sure, sir; and the green, where the children used to play, he +has ploughed up, because, he said, they hurt his fence on the other side +of it.” + +“Curses on his narrow heart,” cried Harley, “that could violate a right +so sacred! Heaven blast the wretch! + + “And from his derogate body never spring + A babe to honour him!”— + +But I need not, Edwards, I need not” (recovering himself a little), “he +is cursed enough already: to him the noblest source of happiness is +denied, and the cares of his sordid soul shall gnaw it, while thou +sittest over a brown crust, smiling on those mangled limbs that have +saved thy son and his children!” + +“If you want anything with the school-mistress, sir,” said the woman, “I +can show you the way to her house.” + +He followed her without knowing whither he went. + +They stopped at the door of a snug habitation, where sat an elderly woman +with a boy and a girl before her, each of whom held a supper of bread and +milk in their hands. + +“There, sir, is the school-mistress.” + +“Madam,” said Harley, “was not an old venerable man school-master here +some time ago?” + +“Yes, sir, he was, poor man; the loss of his former school-house, I +believe, broke his heart, for he died soon after it was taken down, and +as another has not yet been found, I have that charge in the meantime.” + +“And this boy and girl, I presume, are your pupils?” + +“Ay, sir; they are poor orphans, put under my care by the parish, and +more promising children I never saw.” + +“Orphans?” said Harley. + +“Yes, sir, of honest creditable parents as any in the parish, and it is a +shame for some folks to forget their relations at a time when they have +most need to remember them.” + +“Madam,” said Harley, “let us never forget that we are all relations.” + +He kissed the children. + +“Their father, sir,” continued she, “was a farmer here in the +neighbourhood, and a sober industrious man he was; but nobody can help +misfortunes: what with bad crops, and bad debts, which are worse, his +affairs went to wreck, and both he and his wife died of broken hearts. +And a sweet couple they were, sir; there was not a properer man to look +on in the county than John Edwards, and so indeed were all the +Edwardses.” + +“What Edwardses?” cried the old soldier hastily. + +“The Edwardses of South-hill, and a worthy family they were.” + +“South-hill!” said he, in a languid voice, and fell back into the arms of +the astonished Harley. The school-mistress ran for some water—and a +smelling-bottle, with the assistance of which they soon recovered the +unfortunate Edwards. He stared wildly for some time, then folding his +orphan grandchildren in his arms, + +“Oh! my children, my children,” he cried, “have I found you thus? My +poor Jack, art thou gone? I thought thou shouldst have carried thy +father’s grey hairs to the grave! and these little ones”—his tears choked +his utterance, and he fell again on the necks of the children. + +“My dear old man,” said Harley, “Providence has sent you to relieve them; +it will bless me if I can be the means of assisting you.” + +“Yes, indeed, sir,” answered the boy; “father, when he was a-dying, bade +God bless us, and prayed that if grandfather lived he might send him to +support us.” + +“Where did they lay my boy?” said Edwards. + +“In the Old Churchyard,” replied the woman, “hard by his mother.” + +“I will show it you,” answered the boy, “for I have wept over it many a +time when first I came amongst strange folks.” + +He took the old man’s hand, Harley laid hold of his sister’s, and they +walked in silence to the churchyard. + +There was an old stone, with the corner broken off, and some letters, +half-covered with moss, to denote the names of the dead: there was a +cyphered R. E. plainer than the rest; it was the tomb they sought. + +“Here it is, grandfather,” said the boy. + +Edwards gazed upon it without uttering a word: the girl, who had only +sighed before, now wept outright; her brother sobbed, but he stifled his +sobbing. + +“I have told sister,” said he, “that she should not take it so to heart; +she can knit already, and I shall soon be able to dig, we shall not +starve, sister, indeed we shall not, nor shall grandfather neither.” + +The girl cried afresh; Harley kissed off her tears as they flowed, and +wept between every kiss. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. +HE RETURNS HOME.—A DESCRIPTION OF HIS RETINUE. + + +IT was with some difficulty that Harley prevailed on the old man to leave +the spot where the remains of his son were laid. At last, with the +assistance of the school-mistress, he prevailed; and she accommodated +Edwards and him with beds in her house, there being nothing like an inn +nearer than the distance of some miles. + +In the morning Harley persuaded Edwards to come with the children to his +house, which was distant but a short day’s journey. The boy walked in +his grandfather’s hand; and the name of Edwards procured him a +neighbouring farmer’s horse, on which a servant mounted, with the girl on +a pillow before him. + +With this train Harley returned to the abode of his fathers: and we +cannot but think, that his enjoyment was as great as if he had arrived +from the tour of Europe with a Swiss valet for his companion, and half a +dozen snuff-boxes, with invisible hinges, in his pocket. But we take our +ideas from sounds which folly has invented; Fashion, Bon ton, and Vertù, +are the names of certain idols, to which we sacrifice the genuine +pleasures of the soul: in this world of semblance, we are contented with +personating happiness; to feel it is an art beyond us. + +It was otherwise with Harley; he ran upstairs to his aunt with the +history of his fellow-travellers glowing on his lips. His aunt was an +economist; but she knew the pleasure of doing charitable things, and +withal was fond of her nephew, and solicitous to oblige him. She +received old Edwards therefore with a look of more complacency than is +perhaps natural to maiden ladies of three-score, and was remarkably +attentive to his grandchildren: she roasted apples with her own hands for +their supper, and made up a little bed beside her own for the girl. +Edwards made some attempts towards an acknowledgment for these favours; +but his young friend stopped them in their beginnings. + +“Whosoever receiveth any of these children,” said his aunt; for her +acquaintance with her Bible was habitual. + +Early next morning Harley stole into the room where Edwards lay: he +expected to have found him a-bed, but in this he was mistaken: the old +man had risen, and was leaning over his sleeping grandson, with the tears +flowing down his cheeks. At first he did not perceive Harley; when he +did, he endeavoured to hide his grief, and crossing his eyes with his +hand expressed his surprise at seeing him so early astir. + +“I was thinking of you,” said Harley, “and your children: I learned last +night that a small farm of mine in the neighbourhood is now vacant: if +you will occupy it I shall gain a good neighbour and be able in some +measure to repay the notice you took of me when a boy, and as the +furniture of the house is mine, it will be so much trouble saved.” + +Edwards’s tears gushed afresh, and Harley led him to see the place he +intended for him. + +The house upon this farm was indeed little better than a hut; its +situation, however, was pleasant, and Edwards, assisted by the +beneficence of Harley, set about improving its neatness and convenience. +He staked out a piece of the green before for a garden, and Peter, who +acted in Harley’s family as valet, butler, and gardener, had orders to +furnish him with parcels of the different seeds he chose to sow in it. I +have seen his master at work in this little spot with his coat off, and +his dibble in his hand: it was a scene of tranquil virtue to have stopped +an angel on his errands of mercy! Harley had contrived to lead a little +bubbling brook through a green walk in the middle of the ground, upon +which he had erected a mill in miniature for the diversion of Edwards’s +infant grandson, and made shift in its construction to introduce a pliant +bit of wood that answered with its fairy clack to the murmuring of the +rill that turned it. I have seen him stand, listening to these mingled +sounds, with his eye fixed on the boy, and the smile of conscious +satisfaction on his cheek, while the old man, with a look half turned to +Harley and half to heaven, breathed an ejaculation of gratitude and +piety. + +Father of mercies! I also would thank thee that not only hast thou +assigned eternal rewards to virtue, but that, even in this bad world, the +lines of our duty and our happiness are so frequently woven together. + + + +A FRAGMENT. +THE MAN OF FEELING TALKS OF WHAT HE DOES NOT UNDERSTAND.—AN INCIDENT. + + +* * * * “EDWARDS,” said he, “I have a proper regard for the prosperity of +my country: every native of it appropriates to himself some share of the +power, or the fame, which, as a nation, it acquires, but I cannot throw +off the man so much as to rejoice at our conquests in India. You tell me +of immense territories subject to the English: I cannot think of their +possessions without being led to inquire by what right they possess them. +They came there as traders, bartering the commodities they brought for +others which their purchasers could spare; and however great their +profits were, they were then equitable. But what title have the subjects +of another kingdom to establish an empire in India? to give laws to a +country where the inhabitants received them on the terms of friendly +commerce? You say they are happier under our regulations than the +tyranny of their own petty princes. I must doubt it, from the conduct of +those by whom these regulations have been made. They have drained the +treasuries of Nabobs, who must fill them by oppressing the industry of +their subjects. Nor is this to be wondered at, when we consider the +motive upon which those gentlemen do not deny their going to India. The +fame of conquest, barbarous as that motive is, is but a secondary +consideration: there are certain stations in wealth to which the warriors +of the East aspire. It is there, indeed, where the wishes of their +friends assign them eminence, where the question of their country is +pointed at their return. When shall I see a commander return from India +in the pride of honourable poverty? You describe the victories they have +gained; they are sullied by the cause in which they fought: you enumerate +the spoils of those victories; they are covered with the blood of the +vanquished. + +“Could you tell me of some conqueror giving peace and happiness to the +conquered? did he accept the gifts of their princes to use them for the +comfort of those whose fathers, sons, or husbands, fell in battle? did he +use his power to gain security and freedom to the regions of oppression +and slavery? did he endear the British name by examples of generosity, +which the most barbarous or most depraved are rarely able to resist? did +he return with the consciousness of duty discharged to his country, and +humanity to his fellow-creatures? did he return with no lace on his coat, +no slaves in his retinue, no chariot at his door, and no burgundy at his +table?—these were laurels which princes might envy—which an honest man +would not condemn!” + +“Your maxims, Mr. Harley, are certainly right,” said Edwards. “I am not +capable of arguing with you; but I imagine there are great temptations in +a great degree of riches, which it is no easy matter to resist: those a +poor man like me cannot describe, because he never knew them; and perhaps +I have reason to bless God that I never did; for then, it is likely, I +should have withstood them no better than my neighbours. For you know, +sir, that it is not the fashion now, as it was in former times, that I +have read of in books, when your great generals died so poor, that they +did not leave wherewithal to buy them a coffin; and people thought the +better of their memories for it: if they did so now-a-days, I question if +any body, except yourself, and some few like you, would thank them.” + +“I am sorry,” replied Harley, “that there is so much truth in what you +say; but however the general current of opinion may point, the feelings +are not yet lost that applaud benevolence, and censure inhumanity. Let +us endeavour to strengthen them in ourselves; and we, who live +sequestered from the noise of the multitude, have better opportunities of +listening undisturbed to their voice.” + +They now approached the little dwelling of Edwards. A maid-servant, whom +he had hired to assist him in the care of his grandchildren met them a +little way from the house: “There is a young lady within with the +children,” said she. Edwards expressed his surprise at the visit: it was +however not the less true; and we mean to account for it. + +This young lady then was no other than Miss Walton. She had heard the +old man’s history from Harley, as we have already related it. Curiosity, +or some other motive, made her desirous to see his grandchildren; this +she had an opportunity of gratifying soon, the children, in some of their +walks, having strolled as far as her father’s avenue. She put several +questions to both; she was delighted with the simplicity of their +answers, and promised, that if they continued to be good children, and do +as their grandfather bid them, she would soon see them again, and bring +some present or other for their reward. This promise she had performed +now: she came attended only by her maid, and brought with her a complete +suit of green for the boy, and a chintz gown, a cap, and a suit of +ribbons, for his sister. She had time enough, with her maid’s +assistance, to equip them in their new habiliments before Harley and +Edwards returned. The boy heard his grandfather’s voice, and, with that +silent joy which his present finery inspired, ran to the door to meet +him: putting one hand in his, with the other pointed to his sister, +“See,” said he, “what Miss Walton has brought us!”—Edwards gazed on them. +Harley fixed his eyes on Miss Walton; her’s were turned to the ground;—in +Edwards’s was a beamy moisture.—He folded his hands together—“I cannot +speak, young lady,” said he, “to thank you.” Neither could Harley. +There were a thousand sentiments; but they gushed so impetuously on his +heart, that he could not utter a syllable. * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER XL. +THE MAN OF FEELING JEALOUS. + + +THE desire of communicating knowledge or intelligence, is an argument +with those who hold that man is naturally a social animal. It is indeed +one of the earliest propensities we discover; but it may be doubted +whether the pleasure (for pleasure there certainly is) arising from it be +not often more selfish than social: for we frequently observe the tidings +of Ill communicated as eagerly as the annunciation of Good. Is it that +we delight in observing the effects of the stronger passions? for we are +all philosophers in this respect; and it is perhaps amongst the +spectators at Tyburn that the most genuine are to be found. + +Was it from this motive that Peter came one morning into his master’s +room with a meaning face of recital? His master indeed did not at first +observe it; for he was sitting with one shoe buckled, delineating +portraits in the fire. “I have brushed those clothes, sir, as you +ordered me.”—Harley nodded his head but Peter observed that his hat +wanted brushing too: his master nodded again. At last Peter bethought +him that the fire needed stirring; and taking up the poker, demolished +the turban’d head of a Saracen, while his master was seeking out a body +for it. “The morning is main cold, sir,” said Peter. “Is it?” said +Harley. “Yes, sir; I have been as far as Tom Dowson’s to fetch some +barberries he had picked for Mrs. Margery. There was a rare junketting +last night at Thomas’s among Sir Harry Benson’s servants; he lay at +Squire Walton’s, but he would not suffer his servants to trouble the +family: so, to be sure, they were all at Tom’s, and had a fiddle, and a +hot supper in the big room where the justices meet about the destroying +of hares and partridges, and them things; and Tom’s eyes looked so red +and so bleared when I called him to get the barberries:—And I hear as how +Sir Harry is going to be married to Miss Walton.”—“How! Miss Walton +married!” said Harley. “Why, it mayn’t be true, sir, for all that; but +Tom’s wife told it me, and to be sure the servants told her, and their +master told them, as I guess, sir; but it mayn’t be true for all that, as +I said before.”—“Have done with your idle information,” said Harley:—“Is +my aunt come down into the parlour to breakfast?”—“Yes, sir.”—“Tell her +I’ll be with her immediately.” + +When Peter was gone, he stood with his eyes fixed on the ground, and the +last words of his intelligence vibrating in his ears. “Miss Walton +married!” he sighed—and walked down stairs, with his shoe as it was, and +the buckle in his hand. His aunt, however, was pretty well accustomed to +those appearances of absence; besides, that the natural gravity of her +temper, which was commonly called into exertion by the care of her +household concerns, was such as not easily to be discomposed by any +circumstance of accidental impropriety. She too had been informed of the +intended match between Sir Harry Benson and Miss Walton. “I have been +thinking,” said she, “that they are distant relations: for the +great-grandfather of this Sir Harry Benson, who was knight of the shire +in the reign of Charles the First, and one of the cavaliers of those +times, was married to a daughter of the Walton family.” Harley answered +drily, that it might be so; but that he never troubled himself about +those matters. “Indeed,” said she, “you are to blame, nephew, for not +knowing a little more of them: before I was near your age I had sewed the +pedigree of our family in a set of chair-bottoms, that were made a +present of to my grandmother, who was a very notable woman, and had a +proper regard for gentility, I’ll assure you; but now-a-days it is money, +not birth, that makes people respected; the more shame for the times.” + +Harley was in no very good humour for entering into a discussion of this +question; but he always entertained so much filial respect for his aunt, +as to attend to her discourse. + +“We blame the pride of the rich,” said he, “but are not we ashamed of our +poverty?” + +“Why, one would not choose,” replied his aunt, “to make a much worse +figure than one’s neighbours; but, as I was saying before, the times (as +my friend, Mrs. Dorothy Walton, observes) are shamefully degenerated in +this respect. There was but t’other day at Mr. Walton’s, that fat +fellow’s daughter, the London merchant, as he calls himself, though I +have heard that he was little better than the keeper of a chandler’s +shop. We were leaving the gentlemen to go to tea. She had a hoop, +forsooth, as large and as stiff—and it showed a pair of bandy legs, as +thick as two—I was nearer the door by an apron’s length, and the pert +hussy brushed by me, as who should say, Make way for your betters, and +with one of her London bobs—but Mrs. Dorothy did not let her pass with +it; for all the time of drinking tea, she spoke of the precedency of +family, and the disparity there is between people who are come of +something and your mushroom gentry who wear their coats of arms in their +purses.” + +Her indignation was interrupted by the arrival of her maid with a damask +table-cloth, and a set of napkins, from the loom, which had been spun by +her mistress’s own hand. There was the family crest in each corner, and +in the middle a view of the battle of Worcester, where one of her +ancestors had been a captain in the king’s forces; and with a sort of +poetical licence in perspective, there was seen the Royal Oak, with more +wig than leaves upon it. + +On all this the good lady was very copious, and took up the remaining +intervals of filling tea, to describe its excellencies to Harley; adding, +that she intended this as a present for his wife, when he should get one. +He sighed and looked foolish, and commending the serenity of the day, +walked out into the garden. + +He sat down on a little seat which commanded an extensive prospect round +the house. He leaned on his hand, and scored the ground with his stick: +“Miss Walton married!” said he; “but what is that to me? May she be +happy! her virtues deserve it; to me her marriage is otherwise +indifferent: I had romantic dreams? they are fled?—it is perfectly +indifferent.” + +Just at that moment he saw a servant with a knot of ribbons in his hat go +into the house. His cheeks grew flushed at the sight! He kept his eye +fixed for some time on the door by which he had entered, then starting to +his feet, hastily followed him. + +When he approached the door of the kitchen where he supposed the man had +entered, his heart throbbed so violently, that when he would have called +Peter, his voice failed in the attempt. He stood a moment listening in +this breathless state of palpitation: Peter came out by chance. “Did +your honour want any thing?”—“Where is the servant that came just now +from Mr. Walton’s?”—“From Mr. Walton’s, sir! there is none of his +servants here that I know of.”—“Nor of Sir Harry Benson’s?”—He did not +wait for an answer; but having by this time observed the hat with its +parti-coloured ornament hanging on a peg near the door, he pressed +forwards into the kitchen, and addressing himself to a stranger whom he +saw there, asked him, with no small tremor in his voice, “If he had any +commands for him?” The man looked silly, and said, “That he had nothing +to trouble his honour with.”—“Are not you a servant of Sir Harry +Benson’s?”—“No, sir.”—“You’ll pardon me, young man; I judged by the +favour in your hat.”—“Sir, I’m his majesty’s servant, God bless him! and +these favours we always wear when we are recruiting.”—“Recruiting!” his +eyes glistened at the word: he seized the soldier’s hand, and shaking it +violently, ordered Peter to fetch a bottle of his aunt’s best dram. The +bottle was brought: “You shall drink the king’s health,” said Harley, “in +a bumper.”—“The king and your honour.”—“Nay, you shall drink the king’s +health by itself; you may drink mine in another.” Peter looked in his +master’s face, and filled with some little reluctance. “Now to your +mistress,” said Harley; “every soldier has a mistress.” The man excused +himself—“To your mistress! you cannot refuse it.” ’Twas Mrs. Margery’s +best dram! Peter stood with the bottle a little inclined, but not so as +to discharge a drop of its contents: “Fill it, Peter,” said his master, +“fill it to the brim.” Peter filled it; and the soldier having named +Suky Simpson, dispatched it in a twinkling. “Thou art an honest fellow,” +said Harley, “and I love thee;” and shaking his hand again, desired Peter +to make him his guest at dinner, and walked up into his room with a pace +much quicker and more springy than usual. + +This agreeable disappointment, however, he was not long suffered to +enjoy. The curate happened that day to dine with him: his visits, +indeed, were more properly to the aunt than the nephew; and many of the +intelligent ladies in the parish, who, like some very great philosophers, +have the happy knack at accounting for everything, gave out that there +was a particular attachment between them, which wanted only to be matured +by some more years of courtship to end in the tenderest connection. In +this conclusion, indeed, supposing the premises to have been true, they +were somewhat justified by the known opinion of the lady, who frequently +declared herself a friend to the ceremonial of former times, when a lover +might have sighed seven years at his mistress’s feet before he was +allowed the liberty of kissing her hand. ’Tis true Mrs. Margery was now +about her grand climacteric; no matter: that is just the age when we +expect to grow younger. But I verily believe there was nothing in the +report; the curate’s connection was only that of a genealogist; for in +that character he was no way inferior to Mrs. Margery herself. He dealt +also in the present times; for he was a politician and a news-monger. + +He had hardly said grace after dinner, when he told Mrs. Margery that she +might soon expect a pair of white gloves, as Sir Harry Benson, he was +very well informed, was just going to be married to Miss Walton. Harley +spilt the wine he was carrying to his mouth: he had time, however, to +recollect himself before the curate had finished the different +particulars of his intelligence, and summing up all the heroism he was +master of, filled a bumper, and drank to Miss Walton. “With all my +heart,” said the curate, “the bride that is to be.” Harley would have +said bride too; but the word bride stuck in his throat. His confusion, +indeed, was manifest; but the curate began to enter on some point of +descent with Mrs. Margery, and Harley had very soon after an opportunity +of leaving them, while they were deeply engaged in a question, whether +the name of some great man in the time of Henry the Seventh was Richard +or Humphrey. + +He did not see his aunt again till supper; the time between he spent in +walking, like some troubled ghost, round the place where his treasure +lay. He went as far as a little gate, that led into a copse near Mr. +Walton’s house, to which that gentleman had been so obliging as to let +him have a key. He had just begun to open it when he saw, on a terrace +below, Miss Walton walking with a gentleman in a riding-dress, whom he +immediately guessed to be Sir Harry Benson. He stopped of a sudden; his +hand shook so much that he could hardly turn the key; he opened the gate, +however, and advanced a few paces. The lady’s lap-dog pricked up its +ears, and barked; he stopped again— + + —“The little dogs and all, + Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see they bark at me!” + +His resolution failed; he slunk back, and, locking the gate as softly as +he could, stood on tiptoe looking over the wall till they were gone. At +that instant a shepherd blew his horn: the romantic melancholy of the +sound quite overcame him!—it was the very note that wanted to be +touched—he sighed! he dropped a tear!—and returned. + +At supper his aunt observed that he was graver than usual; but she did +not suspect the cause: indeed, it may seem odd that she was the only +person in the family who had no suspicion of his attachment to Miss +Walton. It was frequently matter of discourse amongst the servants: +perhaps her maiden coldness—but for those things we need not account. + +In a day or two he was so much master of himself as to be able to rhyme +upon the subject. The following pastoral he left, some time after, on +the handle of a tea-kettle, at a neighbouring house where we were +visiting; and as I filled the tea-pot after him, I happened to put it in +my pocket by a similar act of forgetfulness. It is such as might be +expected from a man who makes verses for amusement. I am pleased with +somewhat of good nature that runs through it, because I have commonly +observed the writers of those complaints to bestow epithets on their lost +mistresses rather too harsh for the mere liberty of choice, which led +them to prefer another to the poet himself: I do not doubt the vehemence +of their passion; but, alas! the sensations of love are something more +than the returns of gratitude. + + LAVINIA. + + A PASTORAL. + + Why steals from my bosom the sigh? + Why fixed is my gaze on the ground? + Come, give me my pipe, and I’ll try + To banish my cares with the sound. + + Erewhile were its notes of accord + With the smile of the flow’r-footed Muse; + Ah! why by its master implored + Shou’d it now the gay carrol refuse? + + ’Twas taught by LAVINIA’S sweet smile, + In the mirth-loving chorus to join: + Ah, me! how unweeting the while! + LAVINIA—can never be mine! + + Another, more happy, the maid + By fortune is destin’d to bless— + ’Tho’ the hope has forsook that betray’d, + Yet why should I love her the less? + + Her beauties are bright as the morn, + With rapture I counted them o’er; + Such virtues these beauties adorn, + I knew her, and prais’d them no more. + + I term’d her no goddess of love, + I call’d not her beauty divine: + These far other passions may prove, + But they could not be figures of mine. + + It ne’er was apparel’d with art, + On words it could never rely; + It reign’d in the throb of my heart, + It gleam’d in the glance of my eye. + + Oh fool! in the circle to shine + That Fashion’s gay daughters approve, + You must speak as the fashions incline; + Alas! are there fashions in love? + + Yet sure they are simple who prize + The tongue that is smooth to deceive; + Yet sure she had sense to despise, + The tinsel that folly may weave. + + When I talk’d, I have seen her recline, + With an aspect so pensively sweet,— + Tho’ I spoke what the shepherds opine, + A fop were ashamed to repeat. + + She is soft as the dew-drops that fall + From the lip of the sweet-scented pea; + Perhaps when she smil’d upon all, + I have thought that she smil’d upon me. + + But why of her charms should I tell? + Ah me! whom her charms have undone + Yet I love the reflection too well, + The painful reflection to shun. + + Ye souls of more delicate kind, + Who feast not on pleasure alone, + Who wear the soft sense of the mind, + To the sons of the world still unknown. + + Ye know, tho’ I cannot express, + Why I foolishly doat on my pain; + Nor will ye believe it the less, + That I have not the skill to complain. + + I lean on my hand with a sigh, + My friends the soft sadness condemn; + Yet, methinks, tho’ I cannot tell why, + I should hate to be merry like them. + + When I walk’d in the pride of the dawn, + Methought all the region look’d bright: + Has sweetness forsaken the lawn? + For, methinks, I grow sad at the sight. + + When I stood by the stream, I have thought + There was mirth in the gurgling soft sound; + But now ’tis a sorrowful note, + And the banks are all gloomy around! + + I have laugh’d at the jest of a friend; + Now they laugh, and I know not the cause, + Tho’ I seem with my looks to attend, + How silly! I ask what it was. + + They sing the sweet song of the May, + They sing it with mirth and with glee; + Sure I once thought the sonnet was gay, + But now ’tis all sadness to me. + + Oh! give me the dubious light + That gleams thro’ the quivering shade; + Oh! give me the horrors of night, + By gloom and by silence array’d! + + Let me walk where the soft-rising wave, + Has pictur’d the moon on its breast; + Let me walk where the new cover’d grave + Allows the pale lover to rest! + + When shall I in its peaceable womb, + Be laid with my sorrows asleep? + Should LAVINIA but chance on my tomb— + I could die if I thought she would weep. + + Perhaps, if the souls of the just + Revisit these mansions of care, + It may be my favourite trust + To watch o’er the fate of the fair. + + Perhaps the soft thought of her breast, + With rapture more favour’d to warm; + Perhaps, if with sorrow oppress’d, + Her sorrow with patience to arm. + + Then, then, in the tenderest part + May I whisper, “Poor COLIN was true,” + And mark if a heave of her heart + The thought of her COLIN pursue. + + + +THE PUPIL. +A FRAGMENT. + + +* * * “BUT as to the higher part of education, Mr. Harley, the culture of +the mind—let the feelings be awakened, let the heart be brought forth to +its object, placed in the light in which nature would have it stand, and +its decisions will ever be just. The world + + Will smile, and smile, and be a villain; + +and the youth, who does not suspect its deceit, will be content to smile +with it. Men will put on the most forbidding aspect in nature, and tell +him of the beauty of virtue. + +“I have not, under these grey hairs, forgotten that I was once a young +man, warm in the pursuit of pleasure, but meaning to be honest as well as +happy. I had ideas of virtue, of honour, of benevolence, which I had +never been at the pains to define; but I felt my bosom heave at the +thoughts of them, and I made the most delightful soliloquies. It is +impossible, said I, that there can be half so many rogues as are +imagined. + +“I travelled, because it is the fashion for young men of my fortune to +travel. I had a travelling tutor, which is the fashion too; but my tutor +was a gentleman, which it is not always the fashion for tutors to be. +His gentility, indeed, was all he had from his father, whose prodigality +had not left him a shilling to support it. + +“‘I have a favour to ask of you, my dear Mountford,’ said my father, +‘which I will not be refused. You have travelled as became a man; +neither France nor Italy have made anything of Mountford, which +Mountford, before he left England, would have been ashamed of. My son +Edward goes abroad, would you take him under your protection?’ + +“He blushed; my father’s face was scarlet. He pressed his hand to his +bosom, as if he had said, my heart does not mean to offend you. +Mountford sighed twice. + +“‘I am a proud fool,’ said he, ‘and you will pardon it. There! (he +sighed again) I can hear of dependance, since it is dependance on my +Sedley.’ + +“‘Dependance!’ answered my father; ‘there can be no such word between us. +What is there in £9,000 a year that should make me unworthy of +Mountford’s friendship?’ + +“They embraced; and soon after I set out on my travels, with Mountford +for my guardian. + +“We were at Milan, where my father happened to have an Italian friend, to +whom he had been of some service in England. The count, for he was of +quality, was solicitous to return the obligation by a particular +attention to his son. We lived in his palace, visited with his family, +were caressed by his friends, and I began to be so well pleased with my +entertainment, that I thought of England as of some foreign country. + +“The count had a son not much older than myself. At that age a friend is +an easy acquisition; we were friends the first night of our acquaintance. + +“He introduced me into the company of a set of young gentlemen, whose +fortunes gave them the command of pleasure, and whose inclinations +incited them to the purchase. After having spent some joyous evenings in +their society, it became a sort of habit which I could not miss without +uneasiness, and our meetings, which before were frequent, were now stated +and regular. + +“Sometimes, in the pauses of our mirth, gaming was introduced as an +amusement. It was an art in which I was a novice. I received +instruction, as other novices do, by losing pretty largely to my +teachers. Nor was this the only evil which Mountford foresaw would arise +from the connection I had formed; but a lecture of sour injunctions was +not his method of reclaiming. He sometimes asked me questions about the +company, but they were such as the curiosity of any indifferent man might +have prompted. I told him of their wit, their eloquence, their warmth of +friendship, and their sensibility of heart. ‘And their honour,’ said I, +laying my hand on my breast, ‘is unquestionable.’ Mountford seemed to +rejoice at my good fortune, and begged that I would introduce him to +their acquaintance. At the next meeting I introduced him accordingly. + +“The conversation was as animated as usual. They displayed all that +sprightliness and good-humour which my praises had led Mountford to +expect; subjects, too, of sentiment occurred, and their speeches, +particularly those of our friend the son of Count Respino, glowed with +the warmth of honour, and softened into the tenderness of feeling. +Mountford was charmed with his companions. When we parted, he made the +highest eulogiums upon them. ‘When shall we see them again?’ said he. I +was delighted with the demand, and promised to reconduct him on the +morrow. + +“In going to their place of rendezvous, he took me a little out of the +road, to see, as he told me, the performances of a young statuary. When +we were near the house in which Mountford said he lived, a boy of about +seven years old crossed us in the street. At sight of Mountford he +stopped, and grasping his hand, + +“‘My dearest sir,’ said he, ‘my father is likely to do well. He will +live to pray for you, and to bless you. Yes, he will bless you, though +you are an Englishman, and some other hard word that the monk talked of +this morning, which I have forgot, but it meant that you should not go to +heaven; but he shall go to heaven, said I, for he has saved my father. +Come and see him, sir, that we may be happy.’ + +“‘My dear, I am engaged at present with this gentleman.’ + +“‘But he shall come along with you; he is an Englishman, too, I fancy. +He shall come and learn how an Englishman may go to heaven.’ + +“Mountford smiled, and we followed the boy together. + +“After crossing the next street, we arrived at the gate of a prison. I +seemed surprised at the sight; our little conductor observed it. + +“‘Are you afraid, sir?’ said he. ‘I was afraid once too, but my father +and mother are here, and I am never afraid when I am with them.’ + +“He took my hand, and led me through a dark passage that fronted the +gate. When we came to a little door at the end, he tapped. A boy, still +younger than himself, opened it to receive us. Mountford entered with a +look in which was pictured the benign assurance of a superior being. I +followed in silence and amazement. + +“On something like a bed, lay a man, with a face seemingly emaciated with +sickness, and a look of patient dejection. A bundle of dirty shreds +served him for a pillow, but he had a better support—the arm of a female +who kneeled beside him, beautiful as an angel, but with a fading languor +in her countenance, the still life of melancholy, that seemed to borrow +its shade from the object on which she gazed. There was a tear in her +eye—the sick man kissed it off in its bud, smiling through the dimness of +his own—when she saw Mountford, she crawled forward on the ground, and +clasped his knees. He raised her from the floor; she threw her arms +round his neck, and sobbed out a speech of thankfulness, eloquent beyond +the power of language. + +“‘Compose yourself, my love,’ said the man on the bed; ‘but he, whose +goodness has caused that emotion, will pardon its effects.’ + +“‘How is this, Mountford?’ said I; ‘what do I see? What must I do?’ + +“‘You see,’ replied the stranger, ‘a wretch, sunk in poverty, starving in +prison, stretched on a sick bed. But that is little. There are his wife +and children wanting the bread which he has not to give them! Yet you +cannot easily imagine the conscious serenity of his mind. In the gripe +of affliction, his heart swells with the pride of virtue; it can even +look down with pity on the man whose cruelty has wrung it almost to +bursting. You are, I fancy, a friend of Mr. Mountford’s. Come nearer, +and I’ll tell you, for, short as my story is, I can hardly command breath +enough for a recital. The son of Count Respino (I started, as if I had +trod on a viper) has long had a criminal passion for my wife. This her +prudence had concealed from me; but he had lately the boldness to declare +it to myself. He promised me affluence in exchange for honour, and +threatened misery as its attendant if I kept it. I treated him with the +contempt he deserved; the consequence was, that he hired a couple of +bravoes (for I am persuaded they acted under his direction), who +attempted to assassinate me in the street; but I made such a defence as +obliged them to fly, after having given me two or three stabs, none of +which, however, were mortal. But his revenge was not thus to be +disappointed. In the little dealings of my trade I had contracted some +debts, of which he had made himself master for my ruin. I was confined +here at his suit, when not yet recovered from the wounds I had received; +the dear woman, and these two boys, followed me, that we might starve +together; but Providence interposed, and sent Mr. Mountford to our +support. He has relieved my family from the gnawings of hunger, and +rescued me from death, to which a fever, consequent on my wounds and +increased by the want of every necessary, had almost reduced me.’ + +“‘Inhuman villain!’ I exclaimed, lifting up my eyes to heaven. + +“‘Inhuman indeed!’ said the lovely woman who stood at my side. ‘Alas! +sir, what had we done to offend him? what had these little ones done, +that they should perish in the toils of his vengeance?’ + +“I reached a pen which stood in the inkstand dish at the bed-side. + +“‘May I ask what is the amount of the sum for which you are imprisoned?’ + +“‘I was able,’ he replied, ‘to pay all but five hundred crowns.’ + +“I wrote a draft on the banker with whom I had a credit from my father +for 2,500, and presenting it to the stranger’s wife, + +“‘You will receive, madam, on presenting this note, a sum more than +sufficient for your husband’s discharge; the remainder I leave for his +industry to improve.’ + +“I would have left the room. Each of them laid hold of one of my hands, +the children clung to my coat. Oh! Mr. Harley, methinks I feel their +gentle violence at this moment; it beats here with delight inexpressible. + +“‘Stay, sir,’ said he, ‘I do not mean attempting to thank you’ (he took a +pocket-book from under his pillow), ‘let me but know what name I shall +place here next to Mr. Mountford!’ + +“‘Sedley.’ + +“He writ it down. + +“‘An Englishman too, I presume.’ + +“‘He shall go to heaven, notwithstanding;’ said the boy who had been our +guide. + +“It began to be too much for me. I squeezed his hand that was clasped in +mine, his wife’s I pressed to my lips, and burst from the place, to give +vent to the feelings that laboured within me. + +“‘Oh, Mountford!’ said I, when he had overtaken me at the door. + +“‘It is time,’ replied he, ‘that we should think of our appointment; +young Respino and his friends are waiting us.’ + +“‘Damn him, damn him!’ said I. ‘Let us leave Milan instantly; but soft—I +will be calm; Mountford, your pencil.’ I wrote on a slip of paper, + + “‘To Signor RESPINO. + + “‘When you receive this, I am at a distance from Milan. Accept of my + thanks for the civilities I have received from you and your family. + As to the friendship with which you were pleased to honour me, the + prison, which I have just left, has exhibited a scene to cancel it + for ever. You may possibly be merry with your companions at my + weakness, as I suppose you will term it. I give you leave for + derision. You may affect a triumph, I shall feel it. + + “EDWARD SEDLEY.” + +“‘You may send this if you will,’ said Mountford, coolly, ‘but still +Respino is a _man of honour_; the world will continue to call him so.’ + +“‘It is probable,’ I answered, ‘they may; I envy not the appellation. If +this is the world’s honour, if these men are the guides of its manners—’ + +“‘Tut!’ said Mountford, ‘do you eat macaroni—’” + + * * * * * + +[At this place had the greatest depredations of the curate begun. There +were so very few connected passages of the subsequent chapters remaining, +that even the partiality of an editor could not offer them to the public. +I discovered, from some scattered sentences, that they were of much the +same tenor with the preceding; recitals of little adventures, in which +the dispositions of a man, sensible to judge, and still more warm to +feel, had room to unfold themselves. Some instruction, and some example, +I make no doubt they contained; but it is likely that many of those, whom +chance has led to a perusal of what I have already presented, may have +read it with little pleasure, and will feel no disappointment from the +want of those parts which I have been unable to procure. To such as may +have expected the intricacies of a novel, a few incidents in a life +undistinguished, except by some features of the heart, cannot have +afforded much entertainment. + +Harley’s own story, from the mutilated passages I have mentioned, as well +as from some inquiries I was at the trouble of making in the country, I +found to have been simple to excess. His mistress, I could perceive, was +not married to Sir Harry Benson; but it would seem, by one of the +following chapters, which is still entire, that Harley had not profited +on the occasion by making any declaration of his own passion, after those +of the other had been unsuccessful. The state of his health, for some +part of this period, appears to have been such as to forbid any thoughts +of that kind: he had been seized with a very dangerous fever, caught by +attending old Edwards in one of an infectious kind. From this he had +recovered but imperfectly, and though he had no formed complaint, his +health was manifestly on the decline. + +It appears that the sagacity of some friend had at length pointed out to +his aunt a cause from which this might be supposed to proceed, to wit, +his hopeless love for Miss Walton; for, according to the conceptions of +the world, the love of a man of Harley’s fortune for the heiress of +£4,000 a year is indeed desperate. Whether it was so in this case may be +gathered from the next chapter, which, with the two subsequent, +concluding the performance, have escaped those accidents that proved +fatal to the rest.] + + + + +CHAPTER LV. +HE SEES MISS WALTON, AND IS HAPPY. + + +HARLEY was one of those few friends whom the malevolence of fortune had +yet left me; I could not therefore but be sensibly concerned for his +present indisposition; there seldom passed a day on which I did not make +inquiry about him. + +The physician who attended him had informed me the evening before, that +he thought him considerably better than he had been for some time past. +I called next morning to be confirmed in a piece of intelligence so +welcome to me. + +When I entered his apartment, I found him sitting on a couch, leaning on +his hand, with his eye turned upwards in the attitude of thoughtful +inspiration. His look had always an open benignity, which commanded +esteem; there was now something more—a gentle triumph in it. + +He rose, and met me with his usual kindness. When I gave him the good +accounts I had had from his physician, “I am foolish enough,” said he, +“to rely but little, in this instance, upon physic: my presentiment may +be false; but I think I feel myself approaching to my end, by steps so +easy, that they woo me to approach it. + +“There is a certain dignity in retiring from life at a time, when the +infirmities of age have not sapped our faculties. This world, my dear +Charles, was a scene in which I never much delighted. I was not formed +for the bustle of the busy, nor the dissipation of the gay; a thousand +things occurred, where I blushed for the impropriety of my conduct when I +thought on the world, though my reason told me I should have blushed to +have done otherwise.—It was a scene of dissimulation, of restraint, of +disappointment. I leave it to enter on that state which I have learned +to believe is replete with the genuine happiness attendant upon virtue. +I look back on the tenor of my life, with the consciousness of few great +offences to account for. There are blemishes, I confess, which deform in +some degree the picture. But I know the benignity of the Supreme Being, +and rejoice at the thoughts of its exertion in my favour. My mind +expands at the thought I shall enter into the society of the blessed, +wise as angels, with the simplicity of children.” He had by this time +clasped my hand, and found it wet by a tear which had just fallen upon +it.—His eye began to moisten too—we sat for some time silent.—At last, +with an attempt to a look of more composure, “There are some +remembrances,” said Harley, “which rise involuntary on my heart, and make +me almost wish to live. I have been blessed with a few friends, who +redeem my opinion of mankind. I recollect, with the tenderest emotion, +the scenes of pleasure I have passed among them; but we shall meet again, +my friend, never to be separated. There are some feelings which perhaps +are too tender to be suffered by the world.—The world is in general +selfish, interested, and unthinking, and throws the imputation of romance +or melancholy on every temper more susceptible than its own. I cannot +think but in those regions which I contemplate, if there is any thing of +mortality left about us, that these feelings will subsist;—they are +called,—perhaps they are—weaknesses here;—but there may be some better +modifications of them in heaven, which may deserve the name of virtues.” +He sighed as he spoke these last words. He had scarcely finished them, +when the door opened, and his aunt appeared, leading in Miss Walton. “My +dear,” said she, “here is Miss Walton, who has been so kind as to come +and inquire for you herself.” I could observe a transient glow upon his +face. He rose from his seat—“If to know Miss Walton’s goodness,” said +he, “be a title to deserve it, I have some claim.” She begged him to +resume his seat, and placed herself on the sofa beside him. I took my +leave. Mrs. Margery accompanied me to the door. He was left with Miss +Walton alone. She inquired anxiously about his health. “I believe,” +said he, “from the accounts which my physicians unwillingly give me, that +they have no great hopes of my recovery.”—She started as he spoke; but +recollecting herself immediately, endeavoured to flatter him into a +belief that his apprehensions were groundless. “I know,” said he, “that +it is usual with persons at my time of life to have these hopes, which +your kindness suggests; but I would not wish to be deceived. To meet +death as becomes a man, is a privilege bestowed on few.—I would endeavour +to make it mine;—nor do I think that I can ever be better prepared for it +than now:—It is that chiefly which determines the fitness of its +approach.” “Those sentiments,” answered Miss Walton, “are just; but your +good sense, Mr. Harley, will own, that life has its proper value.—As the +province of virtue, life is ennobled; as such, it is to be desired.—To +virtue has the Supreme Director of all things assigned rewards enough +even here to fix its attachment.” + +The subject began to overpower her.—Harley lifted his eyes from the +ground—“There are,” said he, in a very low voice, “there are attachments, +Miss Walton”—His glance met hers.—They both betrayed a confusion, and +were both instantly withdrawn.—He paused some moments—“I am such a state +as calls for sincerity, let that also excuse it—It is perhaps the last +time we shall ever meet. I feel something particularly solemn in the +acknowledgment, yet my heart swells to make it, awed as it is by a sense +of my presumption, by a sense of your perfections”—He paused again—“Let +it not offend you, to know their power over one so unworthy—It will, I +believe, soon cease to beat, even with that feeling which it shall lose +the latest.—To love Miss Walton could not be a crime;—if to declare it is +one—the expiation will be made.”—Her tears were now flowing without +control.—“Let me intreat you,” said she, “to have better hopes—Let not +life be so indifferent to you; if my wishes can put any value on it—I +will not pretend to misunderstand you—I know your worth—I have known it +long—I have esteemed it—What would you have me say?—I have loved it as it +deserved.”—He seized her hand—a languid colour reddened his cheek—a smile +brightened faintly in his eye. As he gazed on her, it grew dim, it +fixed, it closed—He sighed and fell back on his seat—Miss Walton screamed +at the sight—His aunt and the servants rushed into the room—They found +them lying motionless together.—His physician happened to call at that +instant. Every art was tried to recover them—With Miss Walton they +succeeded—But Harley was gone for ever. + + + + +CHAPTER LVI. +THE EMOTIONS OF THE HEART. + + +I entered the room where his body lay; I approached it with reverence, +not fear: I looked; the recollection of the past crowded upon me. I saw +that form which, but a little before, was animated with a soul which did +honour to humanity, stretched without sense or feeling before me. ’Tis a +connection we cannot easily forget:—I took his hand in mine; I repeated +his name involuntary;—I felt a pulse in every vein at the sound. I +looked earnestly in his face; his eye was closed, his lip pale and +motionless. There is an enthusiasm in sorrow that forgets impossibility; +I wondered that it was so. The sight drew a prayer from my heart: it was +the voice of frailty and of man! the confusion of my mind began to +subside into thought; I had time to meet! + +I turned with the last farewell upon my lips, when I observed old Edwards +standing behind me. I looked him full in the face; but his eye was fixed +on another object: he pressed between me and the bed, and stood gazing on +the breathless remains of his benefactor. I spoke to him I know not +what; but he took no notice of what I said, and remained in the same +attitude as before. He stood some minutes in that posture, then turned +and walked towards the door. He paused as he went;—he returned a second +time: I could observe his lips move as he looked: but the voice they +would have uttered was lost. He attempted going again; and a third time +he returned as before.—I saw him wipe his cheek: then covering his face +with his hands, his breast heaving with the most convulsive throbs, he +flung out of the room. + + + + +THE CONCLUSION. + + +HE had hinted that he should like to be buried in a certain spot near the +grave of his mother. This is a weakness; but it is universally incident +to humanity: ’tis at least a memorial for those who survive: for some +indeed a slender memorial will serve;—and the soft affections, when they +are busy that way, will build their structures, were it but on the paring +of a nail. + +He was buried in the place he had desired. It was shaded by an old tree, +the only one in the church-yard, in which was a cavity worn by time. I +have sat with him in it, and counted the tombs. The last time we passed +there, methought he looked wistfully on the tree: there was a branch of +it that bent towards us waving in the wind; he waved his hand as if he +mimicked its motion. There was something predictive in his look! perhaps +it is foolish to remark it; but there are times and places when I am a +child at those things. + +I sometimes visit his grave; I sit in the hollow of the tree. It is +worth a thousand homilies; every noble feeling rises within me! every +beat of my heart awakens a virtue!—but it will make you hate the +world—No: there is such an air of gentleness around, that I can hate +nothing; but, as to the world—I pity the men of it. + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{15} The reader will remember that the Editor is accountable only for +scattered chapters and fragments of chapters; the curate must answer for +the rest. The number at the top, when the chapter was entire, he has +given as it originally stood, with the title which its author had affixed +to it. + +{61} Though the Curate could not remember having shown this chapter to +anybody, I strongly suspect that these political observations are the +work of a later pen than the rest of this performance. There seems to +have been, by some accident, a gap in the manuscript, from the words, +“Expectation at a jointure,” to these, “In short, man is an animal,” +where the present blank ends; and some other person (for the hand is +different, and the ink whiter) has filled part of it with sentiments of +his own. 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