CHAP. I.

ON their arrival at Mr. Goldney's houſe, that gentleman introduced him to his lady, "as a noble-minded ſtran⯑ger, with whom he had made an acci⯑dental but a fortunate acquaintance, from diſcovering, that one ſoul united them, one hope animated, and, he truſted, would equally ſtimulate them to ſome glorious and daring acts for the advantage of their country, to preſerve it from thraldom and diſ⯑grace; ſince, to incite his country⯑men to follow the example of their [2] Gallic neighbours was all he wiſh⯑ed for; and to die in this cauſe would give him a far greater degree of ſatisfaction, than to live peace⯑ably but ignobly, ſurrounded by ſlaves and vaſſals."

Mrs. Goldney, accuſtomed to theſe rants, heard him with the utmoſt indifference, and, curtſeying coldly to our hero, ſurveyed him with the moſt ſcrutinizing attention. The fact was, ſhe did not love ſtran⯑gers; and, preſuming on her ſupe⯑rior penetration (a quality in which ſhe was particularly defective), al⯑ways ſuſpected people had ſome hid⯑den motive for their moſt trivial ac⯑tions. [3] The look which ſhe now gave Sir George, if tranſlated, would have expreſſed: "What brought you hi⯑ther? No good, I doubt. I do not love theſe ſudden friendſhips: there is always ſome meaning in them which even my judgment cannot pe⯑netrate."

The Baronet, of whoſe acute diſ⯑cernment we have yet given very little proof, entirely unconſcious of her ſuſpicions, returned her cool ad⯑dreſs with his uſual frankneſs. They were now ſummoned to ſupper, when a more general converſation enſued. That, however, ſoon gave way to their favourite topic; and it laſted until a [4] very late hour. Mrs. Goldney dur⯑ing this ſat quite ſilent, though evi⯑dently wiſhing to talk; but the fol⯑lowing morning afforded her an op⯑portunity of diſplaying both her cha⯑racter and abilities. Mr. Goldney being called out of the room on ſome buſineſs, a poor woman ſoon after came up to the window, with an infant in her arms, and every mark of ſickneſs and poverty on her coun⯑tenance. Mrs. Goldney, throwing up the ſaſh, bade her begone, with a harſh voice; and, on her humble re⯑monſtrances and continued petitions, added, "ſhe muſt apply to the pariſh for relief, as ſhe had nothing to give her;" and was then going to ſhut the [5] window, when our hero, gently pre⯑venting her, threw the poor wretch half a crown; who, invoking every bleſſing on his head, retired with ſome precipitation, as Mrs. Goldney at the ſame moment was threatening to ſend for the conſtable, and have her committed as a vagrant.

When the woman was out of ſight, the lady re-ſeated herſelf; and partly with a view of reproving Sir George's extravagance, and partly to exculpate herſelf from the imputation of un⯑charitableneſs, ſhe began every rela⯑tion of impoſitions that had ever happened to herſelf or her acquaint⯑ance in the courſe of her life. Theſe [6] ſhe kept in her mind for ſimilar oc⯑caſions, and never failed to produce them when required: and they con⯑ſtantly ſerved her for an excuſe; for never was ſhe known to be guilty of the crime of giving to common beg⯑gars—a vice that is preached and talked againſt much more than is neceſſary; for, among the various me⯑thods by which fortunes are ruined and eſtates impaired in this faſhion⯑able age, that of charity is not to be found. I would not have it from this declaration be ſuppoſed I mean to accuſe either the age or nation of a deficiency in this truly chriſtian virtue. On the contrary, when I recollect the infinite number of hoſ⯑pitals, [7] infirmaries, public ſchools, and private charities, with which this kingdom abounds, I exult in the idea of being myſelf the native of a country, that in this reſpect exceeds almoſt all others; and, humbly re⯑lying on the hope that charity will cover a multitude of ſins, truſt that we ſhall be ſupported and defended by a ſuperior power from (as is expreſſed in my motto) ‘The aſſault of foreign or domeſtic crime.’

I only mean ſimply to aſſert, that, as charity was never yet known to hurt its poſſeſſor, I know not why its ardour ſhould ever be damped by [8] the too cold and too rigid hand of ſtrict propriety, which would for⯑bid our ever beſtowing on vagrants, leſt we ſhould ſometimes beſtow un⯑worthily. But ſure this is not acting according to the precepts of our Divine Maſter, who, in telling us to "judge not, leſt we ſhould be judged," certainly meant, that we ſhould not limit our benevolence, or confine it to thoſe objects whom we deem alone to be worthy; ſince, as ſhort-ſighted mortals ourſelves, we can never know what calamities or temptations may have invaded the boſoms, and de⯑ſtroyed the peace, of thoſe who ſo⯑licit relief; and conſequently can [9] never gueſs how far they may be de⯑ſerving of it.

To return:—When Mrs. Goldney had wearied our hero with a long liſt of the impoſtors ſhe had met with, he replied: "But, my dear Madam, this poor creature muſt be a real ob⯑ject of diſtreſs: ſhe had the paleneſs of death on her countenance: that, ſure, could not be aſſumed."

"Indeed, Sir," anſwered the lady, "but it might. Do you not remem⯑ber, a few years ſince, the girl that was found, dying as ſhe pretended, on ſome common, I forget where; and the man who actually feigned himſelf [10] dead, to gain admittance at the Du⯑cheſs of P—'s country ſeat?"

She was proceeding to relate the other circumſtances of this really ſtrange affair, when Mr. Goldney re-entered the room, and aſked Sir George if he would walk with him round his fields. He immediately aſſented, glad to be relieved from the lady, whoſe long and unintereſting details had wearied him. Our hero hoped, during their little ramble, he ſhould find ſome proof that Mr. Goldney's conduct was regulated by his principles, not his paſſions; flat⯑tering himſelf it was only the effect of unguarded warmth that had be⯑trayed [11] him into an act of abſolute cruelty: but he was diſappointed. His labourers, his ſervants, and even his tenants, were evidently in awe of him; and he perceived in his ad⯑dreſſes to them none of that ſpirit of philanthropy of which he had boaſt⯑ed ſo much. Hurt by this convic⯑tion, he returned to the houſe, ſe⯑cretly lamenting he had promiſed to ſtay till the following morning: but, not knowing what plea to make for an earlier departure unleſs he con⯑feſſed the truth (a meaſure not to be taken without forfeiting every pretence to good manners as well as courteſy), he was obliged to be content; and, a neighbouring family joining them at [12] tea, the afternoon went off better than he expected. At ſupper the old and favourite topic was renewed, and the natural equality of man diſcuſſed with even more than uſual warmth; and again at a late hour they retired to their reſpective apartments.

The next morning, about ſeven o'clock, our hero was awakened by a violent uproar, which grew every moment ſo much louder, that he haſted to dreſs himſelf, from a hope that he might have it in his power to aſſiſt the family, as he doubted not but they were in ſome great diſtreſs, though of what nature he was yet to learn: but, on attempting to go [13] down ſtairs, he found his chamber door locked on the outſide. This ſeriouſly alarmed him, and he rang the bell: the noiſe ſtill continued, and for ſome time prevented his hearing a little ſhrill voice through the door, crying, "What would you pleaſe to want, Sir?" "I want the door opened for me to go down ſtairs," returned our hero.

"I am very ſorry, Sir," ſaid the voice in a ſtill more tremulous ac⯑cent, "that I can't unlock it; but maſter has got the key."

"You can aſk him for it, I ſup⯑poſe?" cried Sir George, almoſt an⯑grily: [14] "How long muſt I ſtay here?"

"Only, Sir, till the conſtables are come; and they'll be here in a mi⯑nute."

"The conſtables!" exclaimed he: "For what purpoſe?"

The girl at the outſide was now terrified; and a man running up the flairs, ſhe called him, and deſired he would anſwer the gentleman; and then made her eſcape. Sir George now repeated the queſtion, and aſked him for what purpoſe the con⯑ſtables were ſent for, and what oc⯑caſioned the uproar? The man [15] replied, "he did not know;" and, more frightened than the girl, fol⯑lowed her to the ſcene of action.

The peace-officers now arrived; and the door of Sir George's cham⯑ber being unlocked, they charged him in the King's name as an ac⯑complice in the robbery committed that night on the property of Mr. Goldney.

Our hero, all aſtoniſhment, re⯑quired an explanation, which after ſome time was granted; and he learned, that Mr. Goldney's butler, having broken open his maſter's bu⯑reau, and taken out a conſiderable [16] ſum, had made off with it, leaving a letter behind to excuſe his con⯑duct.

"And did that letter criminate me?" aſked our hero, with that calm dignity which only conſcious inno⯑cence can give.

"No," replied the perſon from whom he had this information (who was a neighbour Mr. Goldney had called in on making the diſcovery); "you are only taken up on ſuſpicion; and the grounds for your accuſation are ſo weak, there is no doubt but on examination you will be inſtantly acquitted."

[17]"I have ſo little reaſon to fear," returned the Baronet, "that I yield without oppoſition; though I muſt ſay, Mr. Goldney's conduct is inex⯑cuſable, and totally unlike a gentle⯑man. May I ſee the letter you al⯑lude to?"

"Yes, certainly," ſaid the man. He then gave him the letter, and he read as follows:

The degree of clever aſſurance in [20] this letter would have made our hero ſmile, had he not felt too much aſhamed and diſconcerted at the re⯑collection, that the liberty of ſpeech he had allowed himſelf was proba⯑bly the cauſe of this action, by which Mr. Goldney was a conſiderable ſuf⯑ferer, and the poor wretch himſelf, in fact, would be more deeply ſo; as it muſt in future prevent him from all honeſt reſources, and oblige him to continue in a way of life which too ſurely would terminate in the gallows. But here a want of knowing the world was again his enemy, or he would have diſcovered, from the ſtyle of the letter, that Mr. Daniel Turner was an old offender; [21] and that equalizing property was his excuſe, but had not been his mo⯑tive: and this diſcovery might have conſoled him. As it was, he return⯑ed it to the perſon, and was going to aſk farther particulars when he was ſummoned to the parlour. His cheek glowed with honeſt indigna⯑tion on entering that room as a cri⯑minal, where he had been received as a gueſt and courted as a ſupe⯑rior.

The firſt fury of Mr. Goldney's paſſion being now abated, he be⯑haved with a conſtrained civility, and apologized for the violent mea⯑ſures he was obliged to purſue; but [22] added, "it was a duty he owed to him⯑ſelf and to ſociety." Our hero made no reply but by an indignant glance; when Mrs. Goldney took up the ſubject, but ſpoke only in dark hints and ambiguous phraſes.

"For my part, I always ſuſpect ſtrangers that come to one's houſe for one knows not what. I think 'tis a mercy we were not all murdered in our beds; but this is only what one may very well expect."

Sir George could no longer remain ſilent. "Is this, Madam," ſaid he, "a proof either of your philanthropy or your juſtice? I came to your [23] houſe a ſtranger, it is true; but I came not unſolicited by Mr. Gold⯑ney, who was as much unknown to me as I was to him. I was a ſingle man unarmed: what, therefore, could I have effected againſt your⯑ſelves and your ſervants? Yet, be⯑cauſe one of the latter has committed an act of violence on your property, you infringe all the laws of hoſpita⯑lity by accuſing me as his accom⯑plice."

"No, no," cried the lady; "we ſhall take care not to infringe the laws, becauſe that might bring us into a ſcrape ourſelves; you are only committed for examination before a [24] juſtice; and, if he acquits you, 'tis all very well."

"If he has any right to the name, he will acquit me," returned Sir George; "nor can I ſee any plea you have for detaining me: though, I would not now accept liberty till my character is publicly cleared."

"Not ſee any plea!" reſumed the lady: "did not the man in his let⯑ter ſay you perſuaded him to rob us?"

"Juſt Heaven!" exclaimed Sir George, "I perſuaded him!"

[25]"Well well, you put it into his head—that's all one—I ſuppoſe."

"The law will determine that," ſaid our hero coldly; "but pray how much longer am I to wait your lei⯑ſure?"

"When I have done breakfaſt, we ſhall ſet out," ſaid Mr. Goldney.

Our hero made no reply; and they all continued ſilent, till the former ordered the carriage. His lady then entreated he would not go in the chaiſe with the villain, leſt he ſhould do him a miſchief. At this the Ba⯑ronet was very near loſing the calm⯑neſs [26] he had hitherto maintained; but, checking his riſing paſſion, he re⯑plied contemptuouſly, "I fear, Ma⯑dam, your apprehenſions may diſor⯑der you; but pray be ſatisfied, I have no farther ill intentions."

Mr. Goldney then ſaid, he meant to walk himſelf; and ſet out directly, leaving our hero to follow in the car⯑riage with his two attendants.

CHAP. II.

MR. Cameron the juſtice having been previouſly informed that a rob⯑ber was coming before him to be ex⯑amined, and the ſtory gaining ſome addition from every perſon who re⯑lated it, it was at laſt currently re⯑ported that a highwayman was ap⯑prehended, who had ſtopped two gentlemen's carriages and a ſtage coach: and this intelligence draw⯑ing together all ranks of people, Mr. Cameron's hall was filled before the criminal and his accuſers arrived.

[28]What various emotions aroſe in the heart of our hero, when, amidſt the ſtupid gaze of an unfeeling po⯑pulace, he was led in, followed by Mr. Goldney! The attorney to whom he had given the five guineas for the uſe of the poor family hap⯑pening to be preſent, on ſeeing him, exclaimed: "Is that the gentleman accuſed as a highwayman? He is an angel rather: he is no more a high⯑wayman than I am!"

"If you had ſaid a rogue," re⯑plied a pert young ſpark with a loud laugh, "perhaps you might have been right, and the gentleman's character not vindicated neither; for [29] it is ſaid that lawyer and thief are ſynonymous terms."

"As the law is a profeſſion," an⯑ſwered another gentleman, "where perhaps (according to the ideas how⯑ever of worldly-minded men) it is eaſier and more profitable to cheat than to maintain a perfect integrity, it is the more honour to thoſe who maintain in it a firm uprightneſs of character which nothing can ſhake; and then not even the intended ſar⯑caſms of the wittieſt or the ſillieſt of men can fully it even for a mo⯑ment."

[30]The young man, abaſhed at this reproof, ſat down and was ſilent.

Mr. Cameron now aſked Mr. Goldney what he had to accuſe the priſoner of; and he replied in the following manner:

"That gentleman, as he appears to be, I met two days ſince in the coffee-room at the King's Arms. His ſentiments pleaſed me, becauſe they accorded with my own; and I learnt from his converſation that his name was Warrington, and that he was going up to London with a view of joining ſome of the republi⯑can [31] parties there; and from thence intended to ſet out for France, to be an eye-witneſs of the glorious Revo⯑lution, and to form a friendſhip with ſome of the heads of the nation. I invited him to ſpend the two or three following days with me; and, he con⯑ſenting, we ſet out together. I had no reaſon, during his ſtay with me, to ſuſpect him of being any thing but what he appeared, till this morn⯑ing, when, riſing earlier than uſual, I went into my ſtudy, and there found my bureau broke open, and above two hundred pounds taken out in caſh and notes. On the firſt alarm, I called in a neighbour who happen⯑ed to paſs by; and then ſummoning [32] my family, diſcovered the butler was abſent, and ſoon learnt he had not been ſeen ſince laſt night. My wife ſaid, it was well if the ſtranger had no hand in it, and that I had better ſecure him. I followed her advice, and, ſtealing ſoftly up ſtairs, locked his chamber door on the outſide. Whilſt I was gone, Mr. Parker ſaw a letter addreſſed to me lying on the floor, which, in my confuſion, I had overlooked; and, on reading it, I thought I had acted very properly in preventing Mr. Warrington's eſ⯑cape, as it contains an accuſation of him; and I inſtantly determined to bring him before you."

[33]"Very well, Sir," ſaid the juſtice, "you acted in this reſpect much more prudently than your gueſt, who, if really an acceſſary in your butler's guilt, was moſt extremely unwiſe in going to bed again in your houſe, and not flying with his aſſo⯑ciate. What have you, Sir (turn⯑ing to our hero), to ſay in your de⯑fence? and how, after committing ſuch a crime, could you fall aſleep, when you muſt be ſenſible a diſco⯑very would take place in the morn⯑ing?"

He ſpoke in a tone of ironical pleaſantry that convinced Sir George he ſaw things in a right point of [34] view; and he immediately replied, "I ſlept, Sir, becauſe, as I perceive you have already found out, I was ignorant of the whole affair; but I beg you will read the letter alluded to, as I truſt that will ſtill farther clear me in your opinion."

Mr. Cameron now deſired to ſee the letter; and, when he had finiſhed it, burſt into a hearty laugh, ex⯑claiming, "I thought it would prove ſo." Then ſuddenly aſſuming a graver aſpect, he addreſſed our hero:

"I am ſorry, Sir, to diſappoint you by declaring you are not ſtill far⯑ther cleared in my opinion, as you [35] hoped to be; for, from the firſt moment Mr. Goldney had given his reaſons for accuſing you, I thought them ſo weak, that I was immedi⯑ately convinced of your innocence of the crime laid to your charge. This letter proves it more fully, as it does not imply you either ſuggeſted, or perſuaded the butler to commit an action for which he is amenable to the laws of his country; though he plainly ſays, you put it into his head, by ſpeaking in terms which an ignorant mind or a baſe heart may eaſily wreſt to their own pur⯑poſes. Thus far you are guilty, though perhaps unintentionally ſo; and I flatter myſelf it will be a caution [36] to you in future not to make public, ſentiments that can do you no honour, can be of no ſervice to your hearers, and may, as in the preſent inſtance, be of eſſential diſſervice, not merely to individuals, but to the world in ge⯑neral. And now, Sir, you are at li⯑berty."

Sir George bowed, and thanked him for his candour and liberality; at the ſame time declaring he would be very cautious in future of what he ſaid, though he truſted his prin⯑ciples were ſuch as he might avow without a bluſh; ſince he could ſo⯑lemnly aver, he had no wiſh but for the general happineſs of mankind, [37] which he had lately been taught was only to be effected by a general equa⯑lity.

"You have not properly conſider⯑ed this matter, Sir," ſaid Mr. Ca⯑meron; "when you have, you will be convinced that the liberty which in all reſpects Engliſhmen at preſent enjoy, under our excellent King and glorious Conſtitution, gives us as much happineſs as we have any right to expect, unleſs we were more per⯑fect ourſelves."

He now addreſſed Mr. Goldney, who was much confounded at this unexpected termination of the affair, [38] as it proved both his folly and vio⯑lence, and begged to know from whence he had taken the ſervant who had robbed him, and how long he had been in his ſervice; adding, as a reaſon for the enquiry, that he imagined, from the ſtyle of the letter, it was not the firſt offence of the kind he had committed.

Mr. Goldney replied, that "the laſt place he lived in was Sir John Harborough's, with whom, as Mr. Cameron knew, he had long been at variance: therefore he would not ap⯑ply to him for a character, but took him without any;" and added, "he had only been with him five weeks."

[39]"Then, Sir," returned the juſtice, "I can give you ſome information: about that time Sir John Harborough told me he had parted with a man up⯑on a ſtrong ſuſpicion of diſhoneſty, but without ſuch proof as could afford a reaſon for committing him. Had you not ſuffered an ill-founded re⯑ſentment to prevent your making proper enquiries, you would at this time have been two hundred pounds in pocket."

The crowd who had aſſembled now began to diſperſe; when a gen⯑tleman making his way into the room, on ſeeing our hero, ſtarted with ſur⯑priſe, and exclaimed: "Zounds, Sir [40] George! is it you who have been taken up? What, you have been treſpaſſing upon ſomebody's manor, I ſuppoſe? But if ſo, I'll clear you, for I can ſwear to your qualification." Then haſtily ſhaking him by the hand, he accoſted the juſtice: "Sir, this gentleman is as honeſt a man as any in all the county of Northumberland. His name is Sir George Warrington, and he is in poſ⯑ſeſſion of a clear eſtate of ſix thouſand a year; and any thing farther you may require as to his character, I will anſwer to your ſatisfaction and his own."

Mr. Cameron bowed, and anſwer⯑ed, "he was now more proud of his [41] own diſcernment, as, from the inſtant he beheld him, he believed him per⯑fectly innocent, and on examination found he was right."

This gentleman, whoſe name was Warbourne, was a neighbour of our hero, who, coming to K — on ſome buſineſs, accidentally paſſed by the juſtice's door, and, ſeeing an un⯑uſual crowd aſſembled, inquired what it meant. A beggar-woman, with an infant in her arms, was the firſt to reply: "that it was a perſon com⯑mitted for a robbery, but ſhe was ſure he could not be guilty, for the day before he had ſaved her and her infant from ſtarving, and that ſhe [42] prayed he might be cleared from all ſuſpicion." Mr. Warbourne though a rough was a generous character, and, throwing the woman a ſhilling, entered the houſe from a motive of curioſity; and when he ſaw in the priſoner his neighbour and friend Sir George Warrington, he could not conceal his ſurpriſe, but addreſſed him in the manner that has been al⯑ready mentioned. When the whole affair was related to him by our hero, who felt no little pleaſure at ſeeing a man of his reſponſibility, who was known to moſt of the company aſ⯑ſembled, vouch for his reputation, Mr. Warbourne indulged himſelf in a hearty laugh, and, going up to Mr. [43] Goldney, aſked him how he could poſſibly take Sir George for a thief? That gentleman was already ſuffi⯑ciently mortified at the recollection of his own conduct; and, the addreſs of Mr. Warbourne adding to the irri⯑tation he already felt, he replied ſo warmly, that Mr. Cameron, fearful of the conſequences, contrived to draw their attention to the attorney, who was happy in an opportunity of thanking Sir George for his libera⯑lity to the poor family, which he ſaid had ſaved them from ruin. Mr. Cameron then added, that what Mr. Mitford had told him of this liberality had previouſly given him an idea that [44] Mr. Goldney's accuſation was ill-founded as well as ill-judged. He then requeſted that theſe gentlemen would favour him with their com⯑pany at dinner, and, our hero con⯑ſenting, Mr. Warbourne would not refuſe; and Mr. Mitford gladly join⯑ed them, as he already felt ſo ſtrong a prepoſſeſſion in favour of Sir George, that he wiſhed to cultivate his acquaintance; nor was the latter leſs inclined to return his regard.

As our hero left the room, he was followed by the acclamations of the multitude, and the bleſſings of the poor beggar-woman, who, on Mr. [45] Warbourne's relating the ſhare ſhe had in his entering the juſtice's hall, experienced his bounty in a ſtill higher degree.

CHAP. III.

WHEN they reached the King's Arms, our hero, who had yet taſted nothing that day, ordered ſome cof⯑fee, over which he and his friend en⯑tered into converſation, and mutually enquired of each other by what ac⯑cident they met at ſuch a diſtance from their reſpective homes. Mr. Warbourne firſt replied, "that he was on a viſit to a gentleman who lived near St. Albans, but that ſome buſineſs had brought him to K— the preceding day, that would be [47] ſettled in the evening, and the next morning he meant to return."

Sir George next recounted his ad⯑ventures, and the motives by which he had been induced to quit War⯑rington Caſtle, and the plan he had formed in conſequence of his newly-entertained principles. Mr. War⯑bourne ſtarted at this confeſſion. He was a man of ſound judgment and good ſenſe, though unpoliſhed man⯑ners: he inſtantly ſaw the precipice on which his young friend ſtood, and ſought to lead him gently from it, not by contradiction but perſuaſion, as he well underſtood his character, and was aware he would, in his pre⯑ſent [48] humour, fire at the leaſt oppo⯑ſition.

"Well," ſaid he, "and you re⯑tain your intentions, in ſpite of all you have met with to damp your ar⯑dour?"

"I do not underſtand you," re⯑plied Sir George.

"Why," anſwered the other, "I mean the unpleaſant ſituation you have juſt been releaſed from, and which you certainly were drawn into by ſo public an avowal of your prin⯑ciples; and the elopement of Mr. Benjamin Potter and Miſs Thornton; [49] an event undoubtedly the conſequence of theſe new-fangled notions of equa⯑lity, as the man himſelf confeſſed. I ſhould think theſe would convince you that the old way is the beſt, ſince you have had no proof of the contrary. But however, we will talk this over ſome other time; and now ſuppoſe you were to go back with me to Mr. Digby's, and ſtay a few days; you will find him a pleaſant man, and the family particularly agreeable, and, as my friend, I will inſure you a wel⯑come reception."

"I thank you," returned our hero; "I ſhould be happy to pay my re⯑ſpects to any one you value; but at preſent I am engaged. But let me [50] ſpeak a moment in defence of my own principles. You conſider every event I have met with in my journey as the conſequence of miſtaken ideas, either in myſelf or others; but you forget that perfection is not to be ex⯑pected from any thing; that in the infancy even of the Roman republic, it was ſupported by ſtratagem and vio⯑lence; and becauſe a few men have availed themſelves of the general prin⯑ciples of the nation, to commit ac⯑tions ſuggeſted only by their own baſe hearts, you unjuſtly condemn a whole party. Conſider alſo, my dear Sir, as our great poet expreſſes it,

[51]"Ay ay," replied Mr. Warbourne laughing, "I dare ſay it is ſo; for I am certain the diſcord in France is harmony that Engliſhmen cannot underſtand; and I hope their emiſ⯑ſaries will not endeavour to teach us." He now ſaw the folly of con⯑tending with a young man who was glowing with the ardour of liberty, and gave up the point; though not without an earneſt hope that ſome event, more ſtriking than any he had yet experienced, would at length cure his infatuation, and give him a proper idea of the ſentiments he had imbibed. The converſation then took a more general turn, till it was time for them to adjourn to Mr. Cameron's; where, [52] in addition to the party, they found a Mr. Wilmot, of whom it will be neceſſary to ſpeak more fully.

He was a man of a mild and timid character, and reſerved manners, but of inflexible obſtinacy. Having lived many years without forming any po⯑litical opinion, and ſpending the greateſt part of his time in the coun⯑try, he was thought a very proper object to work upon by a Mr. Da⯑venport, who occaſionally reſided in his neighbourhood, and who was himſelf crafty to a degree ſcarcely credible. Having nothing to loſe, and depending ſolely on his patrons for ſubſiſtence, he of courſe follow⯑ed [53] them in their adherence to the party formed in favour of the French Revolution, and was by them deputed to gain as many votaries as poſſible to their ſide. He therefore attacked Mr. Wilmot, who eaſily yielded to the firſt impreſſion; but that once fixed on his mind, nothing was able to eraſe it, and he became a firm though not a violent republican; and in every other part of his cha⯑racter was a very amiable man and uſeful member of ſociety. As he ſat during dinner next to Sir George, their ſentiments were ſoon made known to each other, and they be⯑came mutually pleaſed. Mr. Ca⯑meron, Mr. Mitford, and Mr. War⯑bourne, [54] were evidently on the other ſide; but, finding their arguments availed not, and fearing a quarrel might enſue, they turned the con⯑verſation to the occurrences of the morning.

Mr. Wilmot's curioſity was ex⯑cited and ſoon gratified by our hero, who related, with much humour, all that had happened to him in conſe⯑quence of his accepting Mr. Gold⯑ney's invitation. Mr. Wilmot re⯑plied, "It was very unfortunate for him, that Sir George had been ſo ill-uſed by a new acquaintance, as he feared it would deter him from ac⯑cepting his offered friendſhip." Our [55] hero anſwered, "By no means: that meeting Mr. Wilmot in ſuch a circle was a ſufficient introduction; and in future he meant to avoid all appear⯑ance of myſtery himſelf, by openly acknowledging his title as well as name; ſince his accidentally meeting Mr. Warbourne convinced him it was a vain hope to conceal himſelf, although he ſhould be one of the firſt to relinquiſh voluntarily a diſtinction which was merely a nominal one." Mr. Wilmot applauded his reſolu⯑tion, and then aſked if he would ac⯑company him to his houſe, to afford him an opportunity of cultivating an acquaintance from which he hoped to derive ſo much pleaſure. After [56] ſome heſitation our hero aſſented, and promiſed to attend him the next day. Mr. Warbourne, in an accent of re⯑proach, reminded him that he had re⯑fuſed him a ſimilar requeſt; but Sir George, though with ſome confuſion, excuſed himſelf by ſaying, "his viſit to Mr. Wilmot would, he hoped, facilitate a plan he had ſo much at heart, and therefore truſted his friend would pardon his apparent incivili⯑ty." Mr. Warbourne only anſwered by ſhaking his head; and the gentle⯑men ſoon after parted, as the latter had ſome buſineſs with Mr. Mitford in which the Juſtice was alſo con⯑cerned; and Mr. Wilmot returned to the family he was with.

[57]Our hero was of courſe obliged to retire to his inn, which he did with a heart exhilarated by the latter occur⯑rences of the day, as he exulted in having at length found a character ſimilar to his own, from whom he might expect advice and aſſiſtance, and from whom he could fear no danger. He knew not whether moſt to pity or deſpiſe Mr. Goldney for the extreme folly and impropriety of his conduct, and rejoiced that his new friend Mr. Wilmot had reſcued from undeſerved opprobrium the principles by which he was actuated; ſince it proved, in ſpite of Mr. War⯑bourne's hint, that it was not owing to them Mr. Thornton had been ſo [58] unfortunate, or Mr. Goldney ſo vio⯑lent, but from evident faults in their hearts or heads; and this conſidera⯑tion wholly reconciled him to his late formed plan, reſpecting which he had begun to waver in the morning: but now in his breaſt,

CHAP. IV.

WHILST our hero waited for his ſupper, he amuſed himſelf by walking up and down the room, and looking at the prints by which it was adorned; when a folded paper caught his eye, lying under one of the chairs. He took it up; and, obſerving it had no addreſs, opened it, and read as follows:

"With reſpect to his perſon, he was a thin and ſpare man; which was the more extraordinary, as he loved [60] good eating, and had a remarkable appetite. I ought, however, to add, he was not nice in his diet, as a ſhoul⯑der of mutton with onion ſauce was his peculiar favourite; as he prefer⯑red it to a haunch of veniſon: yet I have been told he would ſometimes quit that for a boiled pig's face, which, I once heard him ſay, was, with greens, the greateſt of all dain⯑ties— a ſhoulder of mutton only ex⯑cepted. He had the neateſt hand at ſlicing a cucumber I ever met with, and was fond of the employment— which was the more diſintereſted, as he never touched it himſelf; and on theſe occaſions uſed to ſay with a hearty laugh, he would as ſoon eat [61] ſo much ice with pepper and vi⯑negar.

"He did not love riding on horſe⯑back, but would walk, when his bu⯑ſineſs permitted it, ſeveral miles a day; and, what was extremely odd, he always choſe the turnpike road, whether winter or ſummer, preferring either duſt or mire to green fields and ſhady lanes. When his ſon was old enough to accompany him in theſe rambles, they generally parted at the end of the town, the lad croſſing a ſtile into the meadows, where he in⯑dulged the firſt efforts of a genius ſince ſo conſpicuous to the whole world. Here the beauties of nature [62] firſt engaged his attention; the ſong of the linnet, the verdure of the graſs, and the variety of wild flowers he occaſionally met with, were by turns the ſubject of his early muſe. I have ſtill by me ſome of theſe juvenile compoſitions, which would not diſ⯑grace his latter productions; but a natural fear of his father, who was of a ſtern inflexible character, prevented him from ſhewing theſe effuſions of fancy at home: but to me he con⯑ſtantly communicated them; and be⯑ing a few years his ſenior, he readily relied upon my ſuperior judgment, which was always proved by my ap⯑probation. This formed a perfect intimacy between us; and I believe I [63] may ſay without vanity, it is owing to my encouragement that the world has been ſince favoured with the works of this wonderful genius. His mother was a woman of no very marked cha⯑racter, but good-humoured to a de⯑gree, and as proud of her darling boy; though ſhe was no great reader indeed, for, excepting a ſermon on a Sunday, ſhe never read any thing but news-papers and magazines: but ſhe wrote a very decent hand, under⯑ſtood accounts particularly well, and excelled with her needle. To ſum up her talents in one word, ſhe was a notable wife and a kind mother.

"The following anecdote. I had [64] from her own mouth, which ſuffi⯑ciently proves the exquiſite diſcern⯑ment of him whoſe life I am about to relate. One evening after a walk in the fields, he came home and wrote down an ode he had juſt com⯑poſed on a bramble—a barren ſubject it is true, but what is there a great genius cannot effect? He then gave it to his mother to read aloud juſt before ſupper: and whether he did not point it properly, or that ſhe did not very well underſtand her ſtops, I cannot take upon me to decide: however it was, ſhe made abſolute nonſenſe of one verſe; which ſo en⯑raged the young Apollo, that, in the agony of literary mortification, he [65] daſhed his hand on the table; broke two plates, the ſplinters of which fell into a diſh of minced veal and a half apple pye that the ſervant had placed on the table; and cut the fourth fin⯑ger of his right hand in ſuch a man⯑ner, that perhaps many who only knew him in the latter part of his life may have ſeen the ſcar, which he always conſidered as a mark of li⯑terary glory, and contemplated with that pleaſure a hero experiences when he views the mark of a bullet gained in the fields of victory.

"To return: His mother was much ſhocked at the loſs of her ſupper and the deſtruction of her plates; but his [66] father, who now for the firſt time felt the warm glow of paternal ten⯑derneſs that reflected from the bright luſtre of his ſon's expanding genius, caught him to his breaſt, and ex⯑claimed, 'Oh my noble boy!'

"There are ſome ill-natured people to whom I have related this circum⯑ſtance, who do not ſcruple to aver, the father's approbation was in mere contradiction to his wife, becauſe ſhe was angry: but if ſo, which nobody can aſcertain, he had ſome reaſon for it, as I have heard it hinted: he wiſh⯑ed that evening for a hot pork ſteak for his ſupper, but ſhe inſiſted that the cold veal ſhould be minced, as it [67] would not keep till the next day. To be ſure, in this reſpect ſhe ſhewed her prudence, as their income was li⯑mited, and required much oeco⯑nomy: but my own decided opinion is, that the father's tranſport was wholly unconnected with this cir⯑cumſtance, and aroſe merely from ſurpriſe and pleaſure at this firſt proof he had received of the talents of his ſon."

Here the paper ended; and our hero, though wholly at a loſs to gueſs the purport, was much amuſed by its contents; but, unable to form any opinion of its intention, he folded and laid it on the table. The waiter, now [68] entering with his ſupper, told him a gentleman who had been in that room the preceding day begged to be admitted for a few moments, to look for a paper of conſequence he had loſt. Sir George, conſidering that he had peruſed as of no poſſi⯑ble conſequence, feared his ſearch would be fruitleſs, but deſired he would walk in; and on his entrance, taking it from the table, enquired with his uſual courteſy if that was what he meant. The ſtranger acknow⯑ledged it immediately, and, giving him a profuſion of thanks, prepared ſlowly to quit the room; at the ſame time caſting many an enamoured glance at the roaſt fowl and egg ſauce [69] which were ſmoking on the board. He was rather a meagre than a thin looking man; and our hero, fancying he appeared hungry, addreſſed him with infinite benevolence. "Per⯑haps, Sir, you will do me the hono [...]r of partaking my little repaſt, which, as I am now alone, will be otherwiſe an unſocial meal? I ſhall be really glad of your company."

The ſtranger waited not to be aſked twice; but, advancing with a low bow, laid down his hat, and took a place at the table. Very little converſation paſſed during ſupper; the gentleman was otherwiſe employ⯑ed; and Sir George, obſerving he ate [70] as if he had ſeen no meat for many days, ſaid with a ſmile, "one fowl was not enough for two people," (though he had himſelf only taken a wing) and ordered the waiter to bring up ſome veal cutlets or a beef ſteak, aſking the ſtranger which he prefer⯑red; and he replying, a beef ſteak if agreeable to Sir George, the man left the room, and ſoon returned with it. This laſted very little longer than the fowl; and our hero thought, if he had not obtained an agreeable compa⯑nion, he had certainly done an act of charity, as it was evident his gueſt was extremely hungry. When the table was cleared, which was not till the diſhes were emptied, and the wine [71] ſet on it, he told our hero he had conferred an unreturnable obligation on hi [...]. Sir George with much ſur⯑priſe [...]nquired in what way. Had he ſpoken the whole truth, he would have acknowledged the ſupper as well as the reſtoring him his loſt pa⯑per; but, though at that moment he probably felt the former more ſen⯑ſibly, he only mentioned the latter; adding that Sir George had behaved with the moſt diſintereſted generoſity, as, had it fallen into any other per⯑ſon's hands, they might have uſed it to his diſgrace and their own advan⯑tage.

Sir George with difficulty con⯑cealed [72] a ſmile at this ſpeech, not conceiving of what uſe it could poſ⯑ſibly be to any one; but politely re⯑plied, "As it could be of no ſervice to him, there was little merit in re⯑ſtoring it to the owner, to whom it might be of conſequence: but pray, Sir," added he, "may I take the li⯑berty of requeſting to know what it means?"

The other, drawing his chair to the fire, and taking up the bumper which was placed before him, anſwered in a half whiſper: "Why, Sir, I'll tell you as a great ſecret; but firſt ſuffer me to aſk if you have copied it."

[73]"Oh no indeed," cried our hero, laughing at the very idea.

"Yes, Sir—I thought you were a man of too much honour; now you ſhall know all. In the younger part of my life, I was very intimate with a lad who is now a great man as well as a great genius: but he has forgot⯑ten me, Sir, entirely, though, as I ſaid in this paper, I was the firſt perſon who even thought of encouraging his talents: but ingratitude, Sir, is the vice of the age; and I cannot expect to avoid the evils which fall indiſcri⯑minately on all mankind: and ſo, Sir, as I am not very rich, indeed (for I may as well tell the truth) I have [74] but little to depend on, I have been thinking, as my former friend will not give me any money, how to make money of him; and, to effect this, I have collected all I can remember of him in his youth, and all I have heard of his maturity, to form ma⯑terials for his life, which I will pub⯑liſh at his death, and doubt not but I ſhall make a pretty good ſum of it. The work is already in great forward⯑neſs."

"He is far advanced in life, then, I preſume?" ſaid our hero.

"Oh no, Sir, a few years my ju⯑nior."

[75]"In ill health, then?"

"By no means: he is as hearty as I am."

"How then," rejoined Sir George, ſcarcely able to preſerve his gravity, "are you ſure you ſhall have an op⯑portunity of publiſhing it?"

"Oh, Sir, of that I muſt take my chance; but, if not, I ſhall leave it to my heirs. It will be a jointure for my wife, an eſtate to my eldeſt ſon, it will portion out my girls, and ap⯑prentice my younger boys."

"You have great dependance on [76] it," cried Sir George; "but for what purpoſe have you introduced this gen⯑tleman's father and mother?"

"Why, Sir, do you not know that when a man of genius has left this world, all thoſe who remain in it are anxious not only to be acquainted with what he has done himſelf, but to hear of his father, his grandfather, and his great grandfather: and if one hiſ⯑torian gives an epitome of their lives, another will take up the pen and re⯑late it in full: and if fifty authors were to write the ſame life, they would all be read, becauſe every perſon is ſuppoſed to relate different anecdotes; and it was for this reaſon, Sir, I was [77] ſo apprehenſive leſt that invaluable and original anecdote of the broken plates ſhould fall into the hands of any other author; but I preſume, Sir, you do not write, by your ap⯑pearance?"

"No, really I do not," replied Sir George ſmiling: "But pray tell me, for I am quite unacquainted with theſe ſort of things, if this is the be⯑ginning of your work."

"No, Sir, it is the fifth chapter: if you pleaſe, I will to-morrow wait on you with the other four, and per⯑haps you may not object to honour⯑ing [78] me with your name as a ſub⯑ſcriber."

Sir George had not the leaſt wiſh to accept this kind offer, yet he would not refuſe the requeſt; and replied: "I leave this place early in the morn⯑ing; therefore ſhall not at preſent have time to attend to it; but, that I may in future profit by a work of equal utility and erudition, I ſhall be glad if you will ſet down my name. Pray what is the ſubſcription?"

The author with ſome heſitation anſwered: "I do not exactly know till the book is finiſhed, but I think it cannot be leſs than a guinea."

[79]Our hero, whilſt untying his purſe, obſerved, "it muſt take ſome time to write a book of that ſize and con⯑ſequence."

"Oh, Sir," returned the other, "I mean to have it all ready to ſend to the preſs, the moment it is in my power; for, were I to delay it, I doubt not but half a dozen garret writers would foreſtall me."

"That would be a pity indeed," cried Sir George, giving him a cou⯑ple of guineas, and deſiring he would put him down for two ſets.

The author in the humbleſt man⯑ner [80] returned the moſt unbounded thanks for this goodneſs; and, on hearing his name, exclaimed as in a tranſport of joy, "Sir George War⯑rington! Oh, good Sir, that name will ſecure my book a favourable reception from the world, and an honourable liſt of ſubſcribers: for who that ſees Sir George Warrington at the head of it—the patron of the arts and ſciences, the defender of injured merit, the ſupport of litera⯑ture—will refuſe to add his own?"

This flattery was by far too groſs for our hero. Conſcious how little he deſerved it, it appeared almoſt like a reproof; and, looking ſternly at the [81] affrighted author, he replied, "No more of this, Sir, if you pleaſe; I deteſt flattery at all times; but now, when I am convinced you never heard the name of Warrington till this moment, it diſguſts as well as diſpleaſes me."

The man looked terrified at this unexpected check; and ſtammering out ſome apology for having miſ⯑taken him, Sir George felt his na⯑tural good humour return with his pity, and, fearing he had been too rough, again addreſſed him:

"As it may yet be ſome years be⯑fore you can poſſibly publiſh the [82] book in queſtion, why do you not try your genius in ſome other way in the mean time?"

"Why yes, Sir, ſo I intend: I have now a volume of eſſays at the book-ſeller's; but he does not give me much encouragement. Few people, Sir, read eſſays, I am afraid."

"Well then, novels I am told are in high repute."

"Yes, Sir, very high indeed; but, Sir, the trade is overſtocked; there are now as many novel writers as novel readers; old ladies, young la⯑dies, every body indeed, gentle and [83] ſimple, as people ſay, write novels now. I wiſh Parliament would take it into conſideration, and forbid the rich from engaging in it to the de⯑ſtruction of the poor."

"Why, ſurely you would not check the efforts of genius," return⯑ed Sir George, "be it in what line of life it may? No: rather let us ſtop the pens of thoſe who waſte their own time in writing, and their fel⯑low creatures' in reading, their miſe⯑rable productions, or thoſe who, by painting vice and folly in their moſt gaudy colours, allure the innocent and ſeduce the unwary."

[84]"Why yes, Sir, you are quite right, to be ſure," cried the author; "I wiſh with all my heart it was ſo." And now having finiſhed his bottle, and fearing a more minute criticiſm on the part of our hero, he roſe up, and, repeating his thanks for all fa⯑vours, took leave with a low bow.

Sir George had been much di⯑verted by the converſation of his new acquaintance, who had given him an inſight into things unknown before, as this was the firſt time he had ever been in company with an author. He remained for ſome time meditat⯑ing on what had paſſed, yet ſtill at a loſs to comprehend of what uſe it [85] could be to the world, to know that the father of any great genius pre⯑ferred roaſt ſhoulder of mutton and pig's face to a haunch of veniſon. Not in the leaſt able to reconcile this with his ideas of real knowledge, he retired to reſt, reſolving to perplex himſelf no farther with a problem apparently more difficult to ſolve than any one in Euclid.

CHAP. V.

ON riſing the next morning, he recollected it was Sunday; and, having always made it a point never to travel on that day, determined not to ſully his firſt entrance into life by violat⯑ing an eſtabliſhed principle; but reſolved to ſend an excuſe to Mr. Wil⯑mot, and promiſe to follow him the ſucceeding day. But this trouble he was ſaved by the entrance of a waiter, who brought an apology from that gentle⯑man for not attending him immedi⯑ately, but that he was unexpectedly [87] detained till the next morning, when he ſhould be happy to accompany him to Violet Hill, the name of his place. Our hero, perfectly well ſa⯑tisfied with his new arrangement, ſent an anſwer expreſſing that it would be ſtill more agreeable to him; and then, having taken his breakfaſt, ſet out for church.

Thoſe who have lived in a coun⯑try town know very well, that a handſome and elegant young ſtranger is the object of univerſal attention; and various were the conjectures his appearance in this place gave riſe to: but, when he was ſeen there again in the afternoon by two or three old la⯑dies, [88] it was a received opinion he went for no good; and, in ſome of their Sunday evening aſſemblies, it was debated what could induce him to go to church, at a time when only the lower claſſes of people, and a few ſuperannuated beings like them⯑ſelves, ever frequented it.—"I never knew a young man of faſhion," cries one, "go to church only to ſay his pray⯑ers." "No no," rejoined another, "depend upon it, there was ſome bet⯑ter reaſon; he went to look at ſome pretty girl he had ſeen in the morn⯑ing; a lady's maid or a tradeſman's daughter." "I believe you are right," exclaimed a third; "for, now I think on't, he ſat in a pew very [89] near Tim Jenkins the ſhoemaker's; and I am pretty ſure Sukey Jenkins was in the ſeat, and I ſaw him peep that way every now and then."

"I rather think," replied the firſt, "'twas Mrs. Bromfield's maid Grace, who was on the other ſide of the aiſle."

Whilſt all theſe opinions were forming at K—, our hero was not leſs perplexed to find out why the church was leſs full in the after⯑noon than the morning; for never before having been ſix days together abſent from Warrington, where Mr. Thomſon always preached to as nu⯑merous a congregation as the village [90] afforded, he was yet to learn, that to pray in an afternoon was equally unfaſhionable and unneceſſary; for that going to church more than once on a Sunday was a work of ſuper-erogation, and conſequently incon⯑ſiſtent with our religion. He was himſelf the ſimple child of nature, and had been taught both by Mr. Thomſon and his father, and the for⯑mer had particularly enforced it, that a conſtant attendance on public ſer⯑vice was a very principal duty of religion; and he never forgot the precepts once inſtilled into him. Be⯑ſides, as the dinner hour at Warring⯑ton Caſtle on a Sunday was always regulated by Mr. Thomſon, who, [91] indeed, generally partook of it, he had no idea that people of demi-faſhion in a country town conſidered it a reflection on their dignity, to be ſeen at church at an hour when they ought to be at table, as they muſt in⯑cur the diſgrace of being ſuppoſed to dine at the ſame time with their more humble neighbours.

Not able to ſettle this point to his own ſatisfaction, our hero walked ſlowly to his inn; and, it being too late to ramble about the town as he had done in the morning, he employ⯑ed himſelf till the tea was brought up in recapitulating the events of the week, which had given him more [92] knowledge of the world than he had ever before acquired. The variety of characters he had ſeen in the Thorn⯑ton and Goldney families amuſed him on the recollection; but the idea of Louiſa inſpired him with love and hope; and he could have dwelt on her image for ever. Loſt in a thou⯑ſand gay reveries and pleaſing day dreams, he was diſturbed by the en⯑trance of the waiter with the tea; and, unable to recover the ſame train of thought, he ſat down penſive and melancholy to his ſolitary table. When he had finiſhed, he aſked the man if his maſter could lend him a book for the evening. He replied, "he would enquire;" and ſoon returned [93] with one of thoſe ſeditious, yet dan⯑gerous becauſe plauſible, publica⯑tions with which the preſs at this period groaned. This ſuited his taſte, completely engaged his atten⯑tion, and again renewed all the he⯑roiſm of his breaſt, which the gentler attacks of love had for a few mi⯑nutes ſuppreſſed, but not ſubdued. He only finiſhed it when it was time to retire to reſt; and, on laying it down, reſolved to ſtay no longer at Mr. Wilmot's than would be neceſ⯑ſary to form ſome plan for his future conduct.

The next morning that gentleman ſummoned him to perform his pro⯑miſe; [94] and they ſet out at an early hour, travelling many miles acroſs the country, yet in a direction that brought them towards London, from whence Violet Hill was diſtant only thirty miles. At the cloſe of day they arrived, and our hero met with a very polite reception from all the family; and, for the firſt time in his life, found himſelf under the roof with four ladies, of whom it will be neceſſary to give a particular deſcrip⯑tion.

Mrs. Wilmot was a woman of a very peculiar kind: ſhe had no character at all: though this aſſertion o [...] mine is in direct oppoſition to that line of [95] Pope which declares it to be the fate of moſt women: but this I deny; nor will any of my readers contradict me. Let them recollect whether, among their own acquaintance, the generality of the fair ſex do not be⯑long to ſome of the following claſſes: the gay, the witty, the learned, the pedantic, the reſerved, the capricious, the extravagant, the covetous, the vain, the haughty, the humble, or the fantaſtic. But Mrs. Wilmot had a claim to none of theſe characteriſ⯑tics: ſhe was equally free from vir⯑tues and from vices; the moſt ex⯑treme and unconquerable indolence was the only prominent feature of her mind. However, as, by a ſort [96] of mechanical management, without much exertion, ſhe contrived to pre⯑ſide in the family and to regulate it without extravagance, Mr. Wilmot was very well contented. He knew ſhe did not ſave ſo much as the wives of ſome of his acquaintance, but then he was well aſſured ſhe did not ſpend; and, on an average, he thought him⯑ſelf more fortunate than many of his friends whoſe ladies decorated their own perſons with what they ſpared from the houſe and table. But the moſt unpardonable effect of her ne⯑gligence was, the little pains ſhe took to adorn her daughters and ſet them forward in the world. Unlike all mothers, ſhe never conſulted their [97] perſons or their appearance in the pattern of a new gown; was never ſolicitous to chaperon them to pub⯑lic places, or contrive ſchemes to draw in young men to dance with them; never was anxious to invite gentlemen of fortune to their houſe, and then entertain them with the ſu⯑perior merit of her children, ſaying, "what a good wife the eldeſt would make! and how well ſhe underſtood the oeconomy of a family! hinting that the Miſs Beechcrofts and the Miſs Anneſlys knew nothing but the faſhions: that the youngeſt was ſuch a mild-tempered creature, ſhe muſt never marry unleſs ſhe met with a man as amiable as herſelf; and [98] that the ſecond was, in any kind of ill⯑neſs, the beſt nurſe imaginable."

It is remarkable, that, when mo⯑thers are thus tacitly recommending their daughters, they dwell chiefly on their mild and prudent perfections, ſeldom ſpeaking of their wit, viva⯑city, talents, or accompliſhments. The reaſon is obvious: they are not always acquainted with the taſte of thoſe they are addreſſing, and are conſcious that every man wiſhes for a ſweet-tempered and prudent companion in his weary and often turbulent pil⯑grimage through life; and that many fear ſuperior talents, keen wit, and unbounded vivacity—knowing how [99] frequently they lead to great incon⯑veniencies, particularly if not bleſſed with the ſame advantages themſelves. The Miſs Wilmots, obſerving their mother's inactivity in this reſpect (which hurt them the more ſenſibly as they ſaw none of their female ac⯑quaintance labouring under the ſame misfortune), determined to act for themſelves, and perhaps had ſucceed⯑ed better than moſt of their young friends.

Myrtilla, the eldeſt—Here let me digreſs a moment from this part of my hiſtory to inform my readers, that Mr. Wilmot, when firſt married, [100] had an aunt who was deeply read in paſtoral romance, and fondly at⯑tached to him. She therefore pur⯑chaſed the houſe and grounds where he now lived, and preſented it to him on condition that it was called Violet Hill. Of courſe he made no objection to the terms; but gladly took poſſeſſion of a place, which, with the lands around it, was worth at leaſt five hundred a year. She alſo promiſed to leave a conſiderable ſum to all his children who were named according to her fancy; and aſſenting as willingly to this, his three girls (for he had no ſon) were called Myrtilla, Roſetta, and Fidelia: and [101] on the old lady's death they found themſelves entitled to four thouſand pounds each.

To return to Miſs Wilmot:—She was every thing her name expreſſed: as her good ſenſe, her cheerful and ſweet diſpoſition, proved ſhe would be, like an evergreen, always loved, always admired, even in the winter of her exiſtence; whilſt her fair and florid complexion, dimpled cheeks, blue eyes, and light brown hair, made every one who ſaw her pronounce her at preſent a myrtle in full bloom; and by that epithet ſhe was often toaſted in her native county, where her me⯑rits [102] were as well known as her beauty.

Myrtilla had been for many months attached to a young officer, who well deſerved her regard. In fact ſhe was engaged to him, though ſhe had not yet made it known to any of her fa⯑mily. He was at this time many miles diſtant from Violet Hill; but, relying on his conſtancy, ſhe had none of thoſe tender jealous appre⯑henſions which often diſturb the tranquillity of young ladies when abſent from their ſoul's delight. On the contrary, ſhe was remarkably cheerful; from a conviction that her [103] own heart was well beſtowed, and that ſhe poſſeſſed one in return worthy her trueſt affection.

Roſetta, or Roſe as ſhe was uſually called, was of a mind and character totally the reverſe of Miſs Wilmot's. In her perſon ſhe was much ſuperior, as her figure was fine and her face uncommonly beautiful; her eyes black and ſparkling; her complexion a clear brunette, with a bloom that by her lovers was often ſaid to exceed the bluſhes of her vegetable nameſakes: and this was as little of an hyperbole as poſſible: but, alas! like them ſhe had only her bloom to depend on, having few mental attrac⯑tions [104] and few real virtues. In fact, ſhe was a complete woman of the world, who doted on diſſipation, courted admiration, loved herſelf ex⯑tremely, and cared for no one elſe. Such was her rage for unbounded triumph, that, had ſhe led the world in chains, like Alexander, ſhe would have ſat down and wept there were no more worlds to conquer. In ſuch a caſe, I believe ſhe would have glad⯑ly mounted the griffin horſe behind Aſtolpho, when he viſited the moon: but not, like that hero, to reſtore the wits of her acquaintance, who had proved their folly by their extreme attachment to her; rather to ſteal thoſe of the inhabitants of the lunar [105] ſphere, if they were vulnerable to ſuch mortal weapons as ſparkling eyes, white teeth, and coral lips.

Fidelia, the youngeſt girl, reſem⯑bled neither of her ſiſters. With much of the romance of her great aunt, ſhe had ſome of the indolence of her mo⯑ther; and, though generally ſo oppo⯑ſite, had contrived to blend theſe qualities in her own character. She knew it required more exertion to be a woman of faſhion than ſhe loved, and was alſo ſenſible that ſhe had fewer perſonal attractions than either Myrtilla or Roſetta, and conſequently would ſhine leſs in the great world. Convinced of this, ſhe affected ſim⯑plicity [106] —loved the country—courted ſolitude—invoked the zephyrs—ſtroll⯑ed for hours in woods and ſhades with a volume of poems in her hand— liſtened to the long of the nightin⯑gale or the ruſhing of the caſcades— rambled among ruins—explored caves—cheriſhed the young birds— cultivated the garden—and was al⯑ternately a floriſt, a botaniſt, and a naturaliſt.

Her dreſs was always ſuited to her ideas and avocations: white jackets, ſtraw hats tied under her chin with roſe-coloured or blue ribbons, were her principal decorations; and ſhe was well aware that this ſtyle of dreſs [107] ſuited her perſon better than any other, for her complexion was rather white than fair, her eyes ſmall light grey, and her hair, which ſhe wore in ringlets without powder, was ra⯑ther yellow than flaxen: but as her features were tolerable, the extreme ſimplicity of her dreſs and the appa⯑rent languor of her countenance gave her an intereſting appearance, which ſeldom failed to pleaſe; but as, like Mrs. Cornelia Lizard in the Guar⯑dian, ſhe thought even a ſhady grove or a meandering ſtream could be im⯑proved by the preſence of a Cory⯑don, the introduction of our hero gave her an object of attention as well as her ſiſter Roſetta, who at firſt [108] ſight marked him for her own; and, learning he was a Baronet of conſi⯑derable and independent fortune, be⯑gan to think it was not impoſſible but ſhe might in his favour reſign that liberty ſhe had ſo fondly che⯑riſhed. Miſs Wilmot was glad of his arrival as a pleaſant addition to their family-circle, and Fidelia re⯑ſolved to ſteal into his heart unper⯑ceived: indeed, had ſhe done ſo, it might have been totally without his knowledge. This young lady was as proud of her chriſtian name as if it ſtamped on her heart the virtue it expreſſed; for faithfulneſs is the quin⯑teſſence of a heroine of romance; and ſhe piqued herſelf on it not a little; [109] though frequently mortified when her ſiſters were addreſſed by the names of Myrtle and Roſe, when ſhe was only diſtinguiſhed by that of Miſs Fiddy, as from cuſtom ſhe was always called by her father and mother, as well as the ſervants of the family.

CHAP. VI.

OUR hero had been only a few days an inhabitant of Violet Hill, when his extreme anxiety to learn ſome intelligence of the fair Louiſa determined him to go to London; but, on mentioning it at dinner, it was ſo ſtrongly oppoſed by the whole fa⯑mily that he found himſelf obliged to yield; Mr. Wilmot having ſug⯑geſted to him that he might eaſily ſend for the letter as well as his port⯑manteau, both of which were direct⯑ed to the — coffee-houſe; and [111] in conſequence of his following this plan, they arrived in ſafety the following day. He was walking with Mr. Wilmot in the park, but, happening to return alone, was ſtruck with ſurpriſe at hearing a violent debate among the ladies: not chooſing to retreat leſt it ſhould be imagined he had liſtened, he opened the door inſtantly, and ſaw Miſs Wilmot with a letter in her hand, which ſhe held high as if to preſerve it from inſpection. Roſetta and Fidelia walked towards the win⯑dow in evident confuſion; but Myr⯑tilla, recovering inſtant compoſure, addreſſed Sir George with a good-humoured frankneſs, calculated to take away all ſuſpicion that ſhe had [112] ſeriouſly quarrelled with her ſiſters— which was really the caſe.—"Oh!" cried ſhe, "I am glad you are come, to ſecure your own property. Here is the precious long-expected letter, which theſe idle girls would have taken from me to ſee if the direction was in a female hand; for they ima⯑gine nothing but an attachment could have made you ſo anxious for its arri⯑val." The young ladies, relieved by their ſiſter's ſpeech, now reſumed their ſeats; and Sir George, taking the let⯑ter, replied gallantly, "he was much flattered by their curioſity, which he would immediately gratify:" then breaking the ſeal, he ſhewed them the ſignature was William Thomſon. [113] They attempted to laugh it off; but the extreme agitation of his counte⯑nance whilſt he peruſed the contents ſtrengthened their ſuſpicions, which the name of Thomſon had not leſ⯑ſened; as in fact they had all ſeen the direction, and were well aware it was from a gentleman; but, imagining it concerned a lady, had attempted to hold it open, and peruſe it in part: but Myrtilla, whoſe integrity would have ſcorned ſuch a ſtep even if ſhe had been intereſted in it, immediately prevented them; and it was this which had occaſioned the high words our hero had overheard, though on his abrupt entrance ſhe gave it a more favourable turn, and treated it as a [114] mere jeſt, and as ſuch Sir George re⯑garded it.

When Mr. and Mrs. Wilmot en⯑tered the room, the former, obſerving he was much agitated, enquired the cauſe, adding, "he hoped the letter had brought him no bad news." Not wiſhing to make it a ſecret in a fa⯑mily whoſe kindneſs and hoſpitality had induced him to regard them as old friends, he related in a few words his accidental meeting with Miſs Moreland, added a ſhort ſketch of her hiſtory, and then gave to Mr. Wilmot the letter he had juſt receiv⯑ed, who read aloud as follows:

[117]Various were the comments on this letter. Mrs. Wilmot ſaid "ſhe did not know what to think," becauſe in fact ſhe gave herſelf no concern about it. Mr. Wilmot expreſſed his fears that "Mr. Thomſon's ideas were too well founded." The two younger girls joined very warmly in his opi⯑nion, and declared they had not the lead doubt of her being an impoſtor, and that ſuch things were now ſo common as ſcarcely to afford a mo⯑ment's wonder. Myrtilla oppoſed them earneſtly, ſaying, "a thouſand accidents might have prevented her immediate arrival, and at leaſt they ought to ſuſpend their judgment till better convinced of her unworthi⯑neſs." [118] Sir George, in his heart and with his eyes, thanked her for her candour, and expreſſed his own ſen⯑timents ſimilar to hers. Roſetta gave her head a toſs; Fidelia hung hers down, heaved a deep ſigh, and ap⯑peared to ſtifle her riſing emotion; but this little gentle artifice was wholly loſt upon Sir George, who now admired Myrtilla more than he had ever done before, though, from the moment he entered the houſe, ſhe was his favourite: and at this in⯑ſtant he was contemplating her fair and open countenance with a degree of pleaſure that might have ended in love, had not the ſtill more beautiful Louiſa taken her ſtation in the cen⯑tre [119] of his heart, from which neither his own doubt [...], Roſetta's ill-natured ſuſpicions, nor Fidelia's pretended paſſion, had the power to remove her. Sir George, finding only Myrtilla on his ſide, dropped the ſubject, and ſoon after quitted the room to write to his old friend, rejoicing, as he ex⯑pected to hear again, that he had ta⯑ken the precaution to ſend his pre⯑ſent addreſs to the coffee-houſe, with a requeſt that all letters might be immediately forwarded to him. And the next morning brought him ano⯑ther from the good Vicar, containing only a few lines, to acquaint him "Miſs Moreland was juſt arrived at Warrington, and that whilſt ſhe was [120] laid down to recover from the fatigue of her journey, he had ſeized the pen to apologize for his unjuſt ſuſpicions. He added ſhe had been detained by a ſevere illneſs; but that Sir George ſhould not be uneaſy, as her counte⯑nance retained no trace of indiſpoſi⯑tion. He concluded by aſſuring him that every poſſible attention and re⯑ſpect ſhould be paid to her both by himſelf and Mrs. Thomſon."

Our hero immediately communi⯑cated the contents of this letter to the family. Myrtilla received the intelligence with pleaſure; her ſiſters with infinite mortification, though they endeavoured to conceal it by [121] declaring "they were extremely happy that the poor young lady was ſafely arrived at Warrington."

The following day Violet Hill was enlivened by a new gueſt—the Mr. Davenport who has been already mentioned. Mr. Wilmot introduced him to Sir George with particular ſa⯑tisfaction, conſcious from the ſimila⯑rity of their ſentiments they would eſteem each other; for Mr. Wilmot, who was a man of plain rather than ſhrewd underſtanding, ſaw nothing in his inſidious friend but a warmth of heart that led him to act in a right cauſe for the good of his country [122] and the univerſal benefit of man⯑kind.

Mr. Davenport immediately diſ⯑covered in our hero that openneſs of temper, that frankneſs of heart, and generoſity of ſpirit, which rendered him a conſiderable acquiſition to their party—and a ſimplicity of character that he thought would render it eaſy for them to lead him to their own purpoſes: at the ſame time obſerved he acted from principle and right feeling; that his underſtanding was ſo good they muſt behave with cau⯑tion, and his heart at once ſo pure and ſo benevolent, that, till he was too deeply intangled in their ſnares [123] to extricate himſelf, they muſt care⯑fully conceal their own motives, and as much as poſſible the horrible con⯑ſequences which had enſued, and would ſtill enſue, from the French Revolution. For this purpoſe, in their firſt political converſation, which took place when the ladies were with⯑drawn from dinner, Mr. Davenport perſuaded our hero to give up his intended excurſion to France: too ſenſible that at this period the waters of the Seine, as it was wittily expreſſ⯑ed in one of the newſpapers, had a powerful effect in curing the repub⯑lican mania when it attacked Eng⯑liſhmen. His plea for this was, that it would be more proper and more [124] uſeful to ſtay at home, and endea⯑vour to emancipate his own coun⯑trymen from the degree of ſlavery which, even under the name of liberty, oppreſſed them; to reduce the taxes, and to equaliſe mankind.

Sir George, ſoon convinced by theſe arguments, at once gave up his plan; adding as an inducement, that "it would give real ſatisfaction to his old friend and tutor in the north, who had ſtrongly oppoſed it." When Mr. Davenport heard this, he judged very prudently he ſhould do well to keep our hero from any interview with this old gentleman, till his principles in their favour were fixed on a firmer [125] baſis; therefore, on his next conver⯑ſation with Mr. Wilmot, he hinted the propriety of keeping their new acquaintance among them for a-while; who the more readily acceded to this ſcheme, from a conviction that the company of our hero was agreeable to his daughters, and not unpleaſant to his wife, as it gave her no trou⯑ble. Female gueſts, unleſs quite young people, ſhe always objected to, from the neceſſity of paying them thoſe attentions which ſuited not her indolence: but Sir George was a real acquiſition to the whole family; and when, at the inſtance of Mr. Daven⯑port, Mr. Wilmot inſiſted on his promiſing to ſtay with them ſeveral [126] weeks, he made no objection: he perceived he ſhould not be idle in the cauſe he had undertaken; and the manner of living and the ſociety he met with at Violet Hill were too well ſuited to his taſte for him to wiſh to leave it.

CHAP. VII.

MR. Davenport now uſed every artifice, every machination, to com⯑plete the infatuation of our hero, and ſucceeded but too well: he relied on him with implicit confidence, follow⯑ed his inſtructions, liſtened to his ſuggeſtions, and obeyed his dictates. Without an atom of extravagance or licentiouſneſs in his own character, he drew for ſuch incredible ſums on his banker in London as made him liable to the imputation of both. Theſe, his falſe friend continually [128] told him, were for the benefit of his country, and they were placed in his hands without enquiry and without ſuſpicion. If any new pernicious idea was to be inculcated, Mr. Da⯑venport put it in the mouth of our hero, who incautiouſly ſpread ſuch opinions as might have rendered him liable to a charge for high trea⯑ſon. And yet in all this time he fancied he was acting in the cauſe of virtue, and conſequently of religion: for he yet knew no diſtinction; Mr. Davenport ſedulouſly avoiding every thing that could open his eyes. In any public meeting, where theſe opi⯑nions were the ſubject of diſcourſe, Mr. Davenport would deſire the gen⯑tlemen [129] to be cautious, for that his friend was very pious, and would take a ſudden fright and run off if he ſuſ⯑pected their party diſclaimed all re⯑ligion. All the bloody maſſacres which had happened in France were by him aſcribed to a murderous ban⯑ditti, and not the general ſenſe of the people—committed by a lawleſs mob, not licenſed by the real patriots. Alas! our hero had not yet conſidered the mob could never have been lawleſs but for the licenſe of their ſuperiors.

Thus was the mind of Sir George continually worked upon for ſome time, till Mr. Davenport, being ſud⯑denly called to London, left him at [130] reſt. He ſometimes thought it was poſſible he might be acting wrong; but theſe qualms were ſoon checked by his friend, who, in the moſt al⯑luring but falſe colours, had paint⯑ed the univerſal advantages of a ge⯑neral reform. Miſs Wilmot, who ſaw things in their true light, was grieved that her father and Sir George ſhould take up a wrong cauſe; but, not knowing how to remedy it, lamented their infatuation in ſilence. Roſetta and Fidelia regretted it on another account, that our hero was now ſo conſtantly engaged as to af⯑ford them little opportunity for their meditated conqueſt. The abſence of Mr. Davenport gave them all more [131] leiſure; but the tranquillity of Sir George was totally deſtroyed by the arrival of a letter from Mr. Thomſon, which I will tranſcribe verbatim for my readers:

CHAP. VIII.

TO deſcribe the emotion of Sir George as he read this is impoſſible. All the fair viſions of love and joy that had ſo long floated in his brain were at once deſtroyed: all the bright illuſions that had animated his mind were no more. Totally engroſſed by the idea of his diſappointment, and forgetting he might be laughed at for his credulity, or, if not forget⯑ting, diſregarding it, he went into the drawing-room to ſeek for that conſolation ſo heart-ſoothing in the [142] hour of diſtreſs, yet ſo ſeldom expe⯑rienced. With that naïveté which his farther acquaintance with the world had not yet robbed him of, he read the letter to the family, begged their pity, and deſired their advice; both of which he received in great abundance—at leaſt it was the ſemblance of the firſt, from all but Myrtilla, who ſincerely felt for him, judging of his heart by her own, and ſenſible how acutely he muſt feel the mortification of ſeeing his beſt hopes vaniſh like a ſhadow; for to her he had confeſſed, "he was as much attached to Miſs Moreland as he could poſſibly be in ſo ſhort a time." Advice ſhe gave him none; [143] obſerving he was in no preſent want of it. Mr. Wilmot ſhook his head and ſaid, "it was a very ſtrange af⯑fair." Mrs. Wilmot, yawning, echo⯑ed his opinion, and was ſilent. Ro⯑ſetta exclaimed, "Miſs Morela [...]d was the vileſt wretch in the univerſe; and, if Sir George wiſhed to act like a man of ſenſe and ſpirit, he would in⯑form his friend that he meant totally to withdraw his countenance from her, and deſire ſhe might be inſtantly turned out of doors, and ſtripped of all ſhe had ſo diſhoneſtly gained." Fidelia recommended a milder me⯑thod. "Let her," ſaid ſhe, "be ſent away from Warrington, but not deſtitute and pennyleſs; let her be [144] brought back to the place from whence ſhe was taken by you, and then ſhe may follow her own inclina⯑tions."

Miſs Wilmot now ſpoke with her uſual animation. "Sir George, it is viſible to us all, you have felt more than a common regard for Miſs Moreland; that regard I ſhould hope would exiſt no longer, ſince, from the account of a friend on whom you can rely, ſhe appears undeſerving of it: but as ſhe has been guilty of no ac⯑tual crime, therefore let us ſuſpend our cenſures; and give me leave to add, ſhould you entirely forſake her, if at any future time you ſhould hear [145] of her certain diſgrace and inevitable ruin, you may be ſorry for your raſh⯑neſs. Your fortune will allow you to part with a trifle; and, as you vo⯑luntarily offered her an aid ſhe did not ſolicit, why do you not reply to Mr. Thomſon, that you will pay any moderate ſum to enable her to get an honeſt and independent livelihood, but that you never meant to ſupport her in idleneſs and diſſipation? If ſhe accepts your offer, you know not how far the benefit may extend: if her pride induces her to decline it, you are not accountable for any of her actions; but Mr. Thomſon may ſend her at once from his houſe, with [146] a few guineas for her immediate re⯑lief."

Roſetta and Fidelia ſneered at their ſiſter's charitable oration, as they called it; but Sir George in the warmeſt terms thanked her for put⯑ting him in a method to acquit his conſcience, and inſtantly wrote his letter. But as they were at ſome diſ⯑tance from the poſt town, they ſent and received their letters only three times a week: the next was not poſt day; and Sir George, knowing it was of no immediate conſequence, did not ſend a meſſenger on purpoſe. On the following, the man arrived [147] from the town with the letters, who uſually returned with theirs; but another from Mr. Thomſon to our hero rendered his written anſwer uſeleſs, and he threw it into the fire.

CHAP. IX.

IT is eaſier to imagine than deſcribe the emotions of our hero on peruſing this letter. Shame, grief, remorſe, diſappointment, and mortification, alternately roſe in his ſoul; and it was long ere he could recover a ſuf⯑ficient degree of compoſure to re⯑join the family. They all, on his entering the room, anxiouſly enquired the cauſe of that diſtreſs ſo viſible on his countenance. He could not reply; but, giving the letter to Mr. Wilmot, ſat down in the window; whilſt the [162] young ladies crowded round their fa⯑ther to learn what new misfortune had ariſen. Their curioſity was ſoon ſatisfied; and, without paying any re⯑gard to the feelings of our hero, Ro⯑ſetta and Fidelia, with all the malig⯑nity of gratified revenge, reproached Myrtilla for her credulity, and plumed themſelves on their own deeper penetration. Miſs Wilmot with great calmneſs only replied, by repeating a maxim from Rochefou⯑cault: "Thoſe who are themſelves incapable of great crimes are not ready to ſuſpect others of them."

They coloured with anger at this tacit reproof, and ſaid "they did not [163] underſtand her; but ſuppoſed ſhe meant to give Sir George an idea that her heart was as pure as an infant's, whilſt theirs was all that was vile: but that perhaps, if the truth were known, ſome people had deeper rea⯑ſons for their affected candour, though other people were condemned for their honeſt indignation and juſt ab⯑horrence of vice."

This ſpeech, kind and ſiſterly as it was, did not in the leaſt confuſe Myrtilla; for the fact was, ſhe had early in their acquaintance given Sir George a hint of her predilection in favour of an abſent lover, that the courteſy ſhe ſeemed inclined to beſtow [164] on him, and the regard ſhe already felt for his virtues, might not be miſ⯑conſtrued.

Our hero, concerned at the diſpute which he feared would ariſe, endea⯑voured, but without ſucceſs, to turn the converſation. Roſetta and Fi⯑delia renewed their dark ſurmiſes and oblique hints, which Myrtilla bore with her uſual patience; till Mr. Wilmot interfered, and inſiſted on peace being reſtored. This even a father's authority could not effect: but a truce was proclaimed; and Sir George took the opportunity of quit⯑ting the room. He retired to his chamber, and, ſtrongly feeling the [165] neceſſity of replying to Mr. Thom⯑ſon, however unwilling he was to at⯑tempt it, ſat down and wrote as fol⯑lows:

When our hero re-entered the par⯑lour, the two younger girls were ab⯑ſent, and all was quietneſs. Mr. Wilmot then told him "they had been talking over the affair, and were [169] unitedly of opinion that Miſs More⯑land, as ſhe called herſelf, had been a complete impoſtor from the begin⯑ning, and had framed a plauſible and pathetic tale to deceive the guileleſs and unwary. And now," continued he, "that ſhe has gained all ſhe can from the effects of your bounty, ſhe is probably gone to ſome other part of the kingdom, to tell the ſame ſtory and act the ſame part."

Sir George aſſented to this opinion, declaring "it reconciled him to her conduct, as the idea of her growing ſo ſuddenly depraved had hurt his mind more than he could expreſs; ſince the amiable Louiſa attending on [170] the dying Abbeſs, and giving up every temporal advantage for her comfort and happineſs, appeared a creature totally diſtinct from the vile intereſted wretch who deceived and betrayed her beſt friends."

"Yes," replied Miſs Wilmot, "I think that is evident; but indeed, Sir George, you muſt loſe her pretended virtues in her real baſeneſs, or the firſt idea you formed of her will dwell on your mind, and render you miſerable; for I now too plainly ſee you are in love with a ſhadow."

Sir George acknowledged the truth of this, and promiſed if poſſi⯑ble [171] to forget her. Miſs Wilmot ap⯑plauded his reſolution, and then, to divert his attention, turned the con⯑verſation on indifferent ſubjects.

In the courſe of the evening, a letter was brought to our hero from Mr. Davenport, requeſting he would come to him to London for a few days, as he wiſhed to make him known to ſome of his friends. He at firſt, from the unuſual depreſſion of his ſpirits, reſolved to refuſe this re⯑queſt; but Mr. Wilmot, imagining change of ſcene would reſtore his mind to its wonted ſerenity, per⯑ſuaded him not to decline it; and, ac⯑ceding to theſe reaſons, Sir George [172] ſet out the next morning, and arrived in town at Mr. Davenport's lodg⯑ings to dinner.

CHAP. X.

DURING the fortnight of our hero's continuance in London, his mornings were devoted to Mr. Da⯑venport, who introduced him to his friends, who were all of the demo⯑cratic party; and who received Sir George Warrington as an auxiliary with peculiar ſatisfaction: but Mr. Davenport, aware of the ſtrictneſs of his principles, gave them a caution not to avow thoſe by which they were actuated, at leaſt too many of them; and leſt he ſhould in their hours of [174] conviviality diſcover what it was ſo much his intereſt to conceal, he avoid⯑ed aſking him to join their dinner parties, under a pretence that they were too diſſipated for him to re⯑ceive any pleaſure from their general ſociety. This Sir George was well convinced of, and not ſorry for an excuſe which afforded him an oppor⯑tunity of ſeeing more of the amuſe⯑ments than he could have done if conſtantly engaged in private par⯑ties. He ſpent every evening at ſome public place, giving the preference to the theatres.

As his acquaintance was now chief⯑ly confined to a ſet of people who, [175] having only one point to gain, di⯑rected their views and their conver⯑ſation ſolely to obtaining that end, he ſaw very little variety of character, and met with no adventures: and though this, from the above-men⯑tioned circumſtance, might be eaſily accounted for, he was ſurpriſed— hoping, in ſo large a city as London, to meet with ſome who might af⯑ford him as much pleaſure in the re⯑collection as Mr. and Mrs. Thorn⯑ton, Mr. and Mrs. Goldney, and the poor author who had ſupped with him at the King's Arms: but nothing of the kind occurred, except⯑ing that one morning ſtepping into an ironmonger's ſhop with his friend, [176] who was commiſſioned to beſpeak a regiſter ſtove for a gentleman in the country, he ſaw an inſtance of eco⯑nomy ſcarcely to be credited. Whilſt Mr. Davenport was giving his or⯑ders, our hero leaned penſively againſt the counter; and a lady alighting from a very elegant chaiſe, a curious converſation enſued between her and the foreman, which amuſed him par⯑ticularly. The lady, who was newly ſettled in town, enquired if the braſs plate ſhe had ordered with the name, for her ſtreet-door, was finiſhed. The man replied in the affirmative, and immediately produced it for her approbation. On looking at it, her countenance grew crimſon with anger. [177] "Did I not tell you," ſaid ſhe, "not to put the Reverend upon it—only plain Mr. Cardigan?"

"It was my maſter," replied the man, "you ſpoke to, Madam; and he only told us to get ready a hand⯑ſome braſs plate for the Reverend Mr. Cardigan; and we thought —"

"Your maſter is a fool then," in⯑terrupted ſhe, "to be ſo abſurd, when I gave him the reaſons for it. Why, even the faculty ſay my poor dear Mr. Cardigan cannot live ſix months; and when he is gone, dear creature! what ſhall I do with the Reverend? No no, I'll have only [178] Mr. Cardigan; and then when he is dead, I can have the S added to Mr. with little expence."

"But then, Madam, ſuppoſe, as the plate is now finiſhed, you took it as it is. The Reverend will certainly look more reſpectable; and you can but have the other when the poor gentleman is actually gone."

"Don't tell me," cried the lady, "I will have no ſuch thing: your maſter would then expect me to pay for both; but now, as it is only his fault, he muſt be anſwerable for this, for I will have another my own way."

[179]The man bowed obedience, and the lady left the ſhop.

Sir George could not conceal his ſurpriſe at this extraordinary dia⯑logue; but, advancing, enquired who the lady was? The man replied, not without a ſmile, "that ſhe was the wife of a clergyman, who, though in ill-health, had a good private for⯑tune, excluſive of his preferment which was conſiderable." Sir George was going to make an eulogium on her prudent forecaſt; but his friend, who had finiſhed his buſineſs, now returned, and taking his arm they left the ſhop together. Our hero did not forget to relate the anecdote [180] to Mr. Davenport, who laughed heartily at it; but added, "he had ſeen ſimilar proofs of ridiculous economy, and in people who ſcrupled not throwing away hundreds in the pur⯑ſuit of their pleaſures or the gra⯑tification of their vices."

The night before our hero left town, he had paſſed the evening at the Haymarket theatre, and was juſt ſtepping into a hackney coach, when the ſcreams of a female ſtruck his ears from an adjacent carriage. Ever ready to ſuccour the diſtreſſed, he bade the coachman drive to the end of the ſtreet, and wait for him there whilſt he endeavoured to aſſiſt [181] the lady. Making his way with ſome difficulty, he found the wheel of her chariot was locked with another; the ſhock had thrown the man from his box, and the horſes were plun⯑ging with ſuch violence, that there was every reaſon to fear he was ma⯑terially injured. Whilſt the ſur⯑rounding multitude were endeavour⯑ing to diſentangle him, our hero open⯑ed the carriage door, and, taking out the lady, who was almoſt lifeleſs with terror, bore her reſolutely and ſafely through the crowd to the coach that waited his arrival. When ſeated in that, ſhe recovered ſufficiently to re⯑ply to Sir George, on his requeſting to know her addreſs: "Lord Mil⯑banke's, [182] Portman-ſquare." The name ſtruck him forcibly; but, concealing his emotions, he ſaid nothing of his relationſhip, and began to imagine it might be a good opportunity of in⯑troducing himſelf to the brother of a parent who had been ever moſt tenderly regretted by him. The lady now expreſſed her deep ſenſe of his polite attention, and Sir George in the uſual complimentary ſtyle declared, "he thought himſelf infinitely happy in having rendered her any aſſiſtance." A few mutually civil ſpeeches of this kind brought them to the houſe, when the lady, on enquiring if Lord Milbanke was at home, and being anſwered in the affirmative, deſired [183] our hero to walk up ſtairs, that ſhe might have the pleaſure of introdu⯑cing him to her Lord. He inſtantly complied, and was announced by her Ladyſhip as a gentleman who had extricated her from a ſituation not merely diſagreeable but danger⯑ous.

Lord Milbanke, who was a man of faſhionable manners and ſtriking ad⯑dreſs, received our hero with the utmoſt politeneſs, and, having paid his acknowledgments, requeſted to be informed to whom he was ſo much obliged. Sir George, who at his firſt entrance with difficulty concealed [184] his agitation, which the ſight of his uncle and the ſtriking reſemblance he bore to his mother had excited, now found his embarraſſment in⯑creaſe ſo much, from a doubt of his reception when he confeſſed his name, that he coloured and heſi⯑tated to a degree that might have given a ſuſpicious mind reaſon to be⯑lieve he had ſome motive for conceal⯑ing it: but Lord Milbanke, too open-hearted himſelf to ſuſpect ano⯑ther of duplicity without good cauſe, would not obſerve his chagrin; but, pouring out a glaſs of wine, and taking another himſelf, begged to have the honour of drinking our [185] hero's health; who, reanimated by this inſtance of courteſy, re-aſſumed ſufficient compoſure to reply:

"I ſcarcely, my Lord, know how to anſwer you, leſt you ſhould think me deficient both in duty and reſpect, in being indebted to an accident only for the pleaſure I now experience in an introduction to one who has from relationſhip a claim to every atten⯑tion from me, when I acknowledge my name is George Warrington."

Lord Milbanke's ſurpriſe was ex⯑treme, but his ſatisfaction was equal. He advanced, and, folding our hero in his arms, replied, "Do not, my dear [186] nephew, apologize to me, who am myſelf only to blame. Your dear mother (and his eyes filled with tears) was my favourite ſiſter; but I was taught to believe, on my return from the Continent, that Sir Thomas had forbidden her all intercourſe with our family; and, engaged in conſtant diſ⯑ſipation, I enquired no farther. But ſince the thoughtleſſneſs of youth has given way to more ſerious re⯑flection, I have often lamented the diſtance between us, and that the un⯑kind diſpoſition of your father to⯑wards us prevented all friendly in⯑tercourſe. On hearing of his death, I enquired for you of a gentleman in your neighbourhood who was then in [187] town: the account he gave me was ſo different from the truth, that I bluſh at ever having credited it. He told me you was a mere country 'ſquire, devoted to field ſports, and at once rough and unpoliſhed: that you boaſted of perſiſting in your fa⯑ther's political opinions, and inhe⯑rited all his diſlike to courtiers in general, and your mother's family in particular. This of courſe deterred me from ſeeking your acquaintance, as I fancied it would afford neither of us any ſatisfaction; but, convinced as I now am of my miſtake, I re⯑joice in the fortunate event that has made us known to each other."

[188]Sir George expreſſed equal plea⯑ſure, and regretted that, from his un⯑cle's miſconception of his character, they had ſo long been ſtrangers. Yet feeling that he had deſerved the de⯑ſcription of his country neighbour, he coloured on the recollection, and continued: "Yet, my Lord, I know not, in fact, that I was miſrepreſented to you, ſince, till within a few months, my ideas, my hopes, and my plea⯑ſures, were all centred in the ſports of the field. An accident then con⯑vinced me of the folly of placing my dependence on amuſements which in the hours of ſickneſs and ſolitude could afford me no relief; and I turned my mind to thoſe ſtudies I had [189] ſo long neglected; and, when I reco⯑vered, reſolved to leave my retire⯑ment, cultivate a more general ac⯑quaintance, and endeavour to gain ſome knowledge of men and manners. Indeed I had thought of going abroad; but the preſent diſtractions in France determined me to give up this ſcheme, at leaſt for the preſent."

"You judged very prudently," replied Lord Milbanke; "and in all reſpects I applaud and approve your conduct. But where is the ruſticity of manners I was taught to believe you poſſeſſed? Where the rough, unpoliſh⯑ed country 'ſquire, who gloried in his abhorrence of refinement? Why, Sir [190] George, you will do me credit as your uncle in the firſt circles in this kingdom, where I hope to have the honour of introducing you."

Our hero bowed his acknowledg⯑ments, but replied, "at preſent it would not be in his power to avail himſelf of the honour, as he had pro⯑miſed to return into the country the following day, but would certainly pay his reſpects to him again before he reviſited Northumberland." Lord Milbanke accepted his excuſes, but inſiſted on his ſtaying with them when next he came to London—which our hero ſaid he ſhould do in a few weeks.

[191]The ſupper was now brought in, and a more general converſation en⯑ſued, in which Lady Milbanke bore a part. She expreſſed infinite ſatiſ⯑faction at the reconciliation which had taken place through her means, and with much ſweetneſs ſaid, "ſhe hoped Sir George would be their fre⯑quent gueſt;" and in this wiſh his Lordſhip ſincerely joined. Our hero had now an opportunity of obſerving the countenances of his new-ſound relations, and contemplated them with much pleaſure. In Lord Mil⯑banke he ſaw a ſtriking family-re⯑ſemblance to his revered mother; the ſame expreſſion of ſenſe and be⯑nevolence, with an air of blended dig⯑nity [192] and faſhion. But in Lady Mil⯑banke there was a ſomething which ſeemed to ſtrike on the chords of his heart; in her eyes a vivacity chaſ⯑tened with modeſty, in her cheeks the glow of health, and on her brow an expreſſion of ſentiment which ſeemed congenial to his own. She was not above five-and-thirty, and retained more of the bloom of youth than is uſual at that period.

Sir George remained with them till a very late hour, and they parted with ſincere regret; which however was leſſened by his promiſe of re⯑turning to them as ſoon as poſſible. He did not ſee Mr. Davenport that [193] night; but the next morning, when they got into the chaiſe, he inform⯑ed him of the pleaſant event of the preceding evening, imagining he would participate in his ſatisfaction: but he was miſtaken. Mr. Daven⯑port received the intelligence with much coldneſs, and was in fact ſorry that our hero had found a relation in a man who was from principle as well as party an avowed enemy to the meaſures of himſelf and friends; and, in a very ill-humour which he could ſcarcely conceal, he ſet down our hero at Violet Hill, and, refuſing Mr. Wilmot's entreaties to alight, proceeded to his own houſe to dinner.

CHAP. XI.

AS it is far from my intention to enter into a minute diſcuſſion of po⯑litics, but merely to ſhew the ill con⯑ſequences ariſing from miſtaken prin⯑ciples; inſtead of repeating all the arguments uſed by Mr. Davenport to miſlead our hero, I ſhall only re⯑late the motives by which he was ac⯑tuated. He had been, on ſome occa⯑ſion not worth mentioning, oppoſed with much warmth at a county meeting by a Mr. Anneſley, a man of extenſive property in the neigh⯑bourhood, [195] who had alſo ſome ſhare in a very conſiderable manufacture. For this reaſon he had been marked out by Mr. Davenport, as one who if poſſible ſhould feel the firſt marks of his reſentment, in the exertions made by him in his newly-taken-up character of a patriot; but, fearful of rendering himſelf obnoxious to the generality of his acquaintance, he contrived, with that deep artifice he was maſter of, to make Sir George his agent, and in fact had led him to do all he wiſhed without appearing in it himſelf. He at firſt worked upon the feelings of our hero, by accom⯑panying him to the hovels where the moſt worthleſs of the manufacturers [196] reſided, whoſe poverty was occa⯑ſioned by their licentiouſneſs; and re⯑preſented their miſery as cauſed by the avarice of their maſter, who, though himſelf in poſſeſſion of every luxury of life, denied them the com⯑mon neceſſaries. Sir George, not aware of the conſequences, but alive to the impulſe of humanity, incau⯑tiouſly ſpoke of the wretchedneſs of their ſituation, and adviſed them to demand an increaſe of wages. Idle⯑neſs and extravagance in the lower claſſes of life are ſoon rouſed to re⯑bellion: the ſpirit of diſcontent per⯑vaded their boſoms, and they endea⯑voured to ſpread their principles among their honeſt and laborious [197] brethren. But here they failed. In⯑duſtry and virtue ſeldom liſten to the ſuggeſtions of vice. However, too many of them willingly attend⯑ed to his advice; and a party was formed ſufficiently ſtrong, which Sir George promiſed to head, and en⯑deavour by remonſtrances to prevail on Mr. Anneſley to grant them the wiſhed-for addition to their wages. Our hero meant only to remon⯑ſtrate; but a lawleſs rabble is like a raging ocean, and none but a ſuperior power can ſay, "Thus far ſhalt thou go, but no farther."

This plan was to have been exe⯑cuted a few days after his return [198] from London; but the following morning he received a meſſage from Mr. Davenport, to ſay Mr. Anneſley was gone into the weſt of England, and would not be at home for ſome time: it was therefore neceſſarily de⯑ferred; and Sir George was now at leiſure to follow his uſual occupa⯑tions. Part of his time was devoted to his followers; repeating the good advice he had before given them, and accompanying it with tokens of his bounty ſtill more welcome. The reſt was given to Mr. Wilmot and his family.

The reception he met with on his return from the younger part of it [199] was prettily varied. Myrtilla met him with a good-humoured ſmile; Roſetta, with a look of diſdainful dignity, intended to make him un⯑eaſy; and Fidelia, with an air of lan⯑guiſhing penſiveneſs: ſhe would have bluſhed, if a bluſh would have ariſen at her command—but advancing to⯑wards him, ſhe hung her head, and trembled with tolerable effect: but on his inſenſible heart it was all loſt.

The next day at dinner, a new ſtratagem was tried by the ſiſters; for Roſetta and Fidelia had entered into an amicable agreement reſpecting our hero: next to their own intereſt with him, they agreed to aſſiſt each other. [200] In purſuance of this plan, the latter with her uſual gentleneſs rallied the former on ſome new conqueſt ſhe had gained. Roſetta's pretended diſtreſs was evident: ſhe coloured, bit her fan, and was in great agitation; but that agitation became real, when her ſiſter hinted that the gentleman had not been unſucceſsful in his applica⯑tion. Here ſhe went far beyond her commiſſion; but a rival is never to be truſted. Roſetta only meant ſhe ſhould awaken his feelings, not his jealouſy: but Fidelia had her own views in this, as ſhe wiſhed to con⯑vince him of her ſiſter's indifference. But it was now her turn to triumph: ſhe drew from her pocket a paſtoral [201] elegy from Delia to Lycidas, that ſhe had picked up under the great oak in the park. This was to have been given to Sir George, with a hint that it was the firſt effuſion of Fidelia's virgin muſe, and addreſſed to him; but Roſetta ſaid not a word, mali⯑ciouſly hoping, and not without rea⯑ſon, that he would condemn it as a ſilly and ridiculous poem, and that ſhe ſhould thus be amply revenged for her baſe conduct.

Our hero, quite unconſcious of the ſnare, began to read it aloud with a mock gravity, imagining it was deſigned as a burleſque; but Myr⯑tilla, aware of the author, from [202] having ſeen Fidelia walk up and down the great gallery by moonlight for two or three evenings, repeating to herſelf with unuſual emphaſis, now trembled for her feelings, and, though not without bluſhing for her folly, at once told Sir George who was the writer. Our hero, particu⯑larly concerned at the miſtake he had made, altered his tone gradually; and, when he had concluded, returned it to Fidelia, ſaying in an embarraſſed manner, that "whoever ſhe meant by Lycidas was too happy in being the object of her eſteem;" and then, unable to recover himſelf, made ſome ſlight excuſe, and quitted the room; leaving Fidelia fully convinced of [203] his attachment, from his heſitation, which ſhe attributed to a ſudden emotion of tender gratitude. Prid⯑ing herſelf on this, and not aware of Roſetta's intentions, as totally un⯑conſcious that her elegy contained any thing ridiculous, ſhe began to diſplay her mean triumph; when Roſetta, who was previouſly enraged, now expreſſed all the bitterneſs ſhe had for ſome time concealed.

Myrtilla, who alone ſaw things in a right point of view, was deeply concerned at her ſiſter's folly, but knew not how to act. Advice they ſcorned; reproof offended them; their mother was too indolent to exert [204] herſelf properly; and ſhe feared that her father, who was a man of plain capacity, would not entirely under⯑ſtand theſe feminine quarrels. At preſent, however, ſhe had nothing to do but to ſeparate the angry combat⯑ants; and, having effected it with much difficulty, perſuaded them to retire to their chambers. She then ſought our hero, who was in the park ruminating on his peculiar ſitu⯑ation, and was now for the firſt time ſenſible of Fidelia's attachment, for ſuch he really thought it; and began to conſider how he could leave the houſe without giving Mr. Wilmot the reaſons. Whilſt debating this point, Myrtilla met him, and to her [205] he mentioned his ſuſpicions. Miſs Wilmot in reply aſſured him "he need not be apprehenſive of wound⯑ing the feelings of her ſiſter," and then gave him her real opinion on the ſubject; for, enraged at the mean⯑neſs and duplicity of their conduct, ſhe thought herſelf juſtified in re⯑vealing it. Surpriſe for a moment took place of every other emotion; for he was till now a ſtranger to thoſe feminine arts which diſtinguiſh the fair ſex, and very far from be⯑lieving himſelf an object of peculiar attention. He was now convinced there was no immediate neceſſity for his quitting Violet Hill, at the ſame time determined to be as little there as [206] poſſible, till he could accompliſh his deſign with reſpect to Mr. Anneſley, which would depend on his return from the weſt. It therefore occurred to him that he might avail himſelf of that gentleman's abſence to pay a viſit to Lord Milbanke; and accord⯑ingly that evening he wrote him a ſhort letter to ſignify his intention of wait⯑ing on him in a week, as he had promiſed the following morning to accompany the young ladies to the county town to ſpend a few days with an uncle who reſided there. This promiſe had been given before the diſtreſſing events of the after⯑noon, and he could not now recall it; though he felt very little plea⯑ſure [207] in the idea of being conſidered as the attendant of Roſetta and Fi⯑delia, for Miſs Wilmot was detained at home by the expectation of com⯑pany. The evening paſſed off awk⯑wardly enough; and the next day at ten o'clock he mounted his horſe, and eſcorted his fair companions to D—.

The following morning was Sun⯑day, and he accompanied the family to church; and Mr. James Wilmot's pew not being large enough to ac⯑commodate the whole party, Fidelia and himſelf were ſhewn into another. The ſervice was juſt begun; and the ſeat before them being empty, our [208] hero having no book, Fidelia gave him one ſhe had juſt taken from it: but what were his emotions, when, accidentally opening the firſt page, he ſaw the name of Louiſa Moreland! The extreme agitation he ſuffered hurt him the more, as it convinced him the firſt impreſſion ſhe had made on his heart her ſubſequent conduct had not been able wholly to ſubdue. It was not unnoticed by Fidelia, who enquiring the cauſe, he ſhewed her the book; but the attention of both was ſuddenly called from that by the door of the next ſeat being opened by the ſexton, and three girls entered, the eldeſt about twelve years old, followed by Miſs More⯑land [209] herſelf. The additional glow on the cheek of our hero immedi⯑ately informed Fidelia of the truth, and ſhe endeavoured, but in vain, to draw his eyes from her. A few mo⯑ments reflection, however, effected what ſhe could not; he fixed his thoughts on Louiſa's late behaviour, and became calm enough to reſtore her prayer-book, which ſhe was then looking for. She had not turn⯑ed her head ſince her entrance; but, on taking the book with a ſlight curt⯑ſey, ſhe caught his eye, and, inſtantly recollecting him, coloured deeply; and her emotion became viſible even to the children, who, pulling her by the cloak, aſked what was the mat⯑ter. [210] She replied in a low whiſper, and immediately ſat down. Her agitation increaſed the diſtreſs of Sir George, and Fidelia was racked with a thou⯑ſand fears leſt the bewitching coun⯑tenance of Louiſa (for bewitching even her rival allowed it to be) ſhould obliterate from the mind of our hero the remembrance of her depravity.

Fidelia was aware of this, and de⯑termined that if poſſible he ſhould not look on her face any more; and indeed, to his honour be it ſpoken, [211] he had made the ſame determina⯑tion.

When the ſervice was ended, Fi⯑delia opened the door, and begged him to follow her; but at the ſame moment Miſs Moreland leaned over the pew, and requeſted he would give her leave to ſpeak to him for a few minutes. Sir George bowed coldly, and made no reply; but Fi⯑delia, dreading the conſequences of an interview, anſwered with a haugh⯑tineſs ſhe could occaſionally aſſume, "that the gentleman was in haſte, and muſt not be detained." Our hero had no time to heſitate, as ſhe ſeized his arm, and begged they might [212] leave the church before the generality of people moved.

When arrived at home, ſhe called her uncle into another room, who, ſoon re⯑turning, aſked Sir George to accompa⯑ny him in a walk; which he gladly aſ⯑ſented to, happy in being relieved from the Miſs Wilmots, whoſe ſociety wea⯑ried and diſpleaſed him. The day in general paſſed off heavily enough, and the following not much better. Our hero was diſturbed by the beau⯑tiful image of Louiſa, which ſtill haunted him; and he wiſhed to en⯑quire reſpecting her preſent ſituation, but dared not; as he knew it would draw on him reproofs he was but too [213] conſcious of deſerving. Tueſday was fixed for their return; and he re⯑traced with particular ſatisfaction the road that led to Violet Hill.

After dinner, when the family were all aſſembled, the converſation turning on the manner of their paſſ⯑ing their time at D—, Fidelia, with much ſolemnity in her voice and manner, addreſſed our hero:

"I ſhould perhaps, Sir George, feel ſome embarraſſment at relating a circumſtance I have too much reaſon to fear will give you pain, did not my conſcience tell me I have acted from the beſt and nobleſt mo⯑tives, [214] and have exerted myſelf in the cauſe of juſtice, at the expence of all my benevolent feelings and a cruel wound to my ſenſibility. Of Miſs Moreland's guilt you can have no doubt; yet I ſaw her preſence diſtreſſed you extremely. On en⯑quiry I learned ſhe had been lately engaged as a governeſs by Mrs. Edgeworth of Bellmour Hall, about a mile and a half from D—; and, conſulting both my aunt and ſiſter, we were unitedly of opinion that a woman capable of acting as ſhe has done was entirely unfit to form either the minds or morals of young people; and that it would be right to inform Mrs. Edgeworth whom ſhe [215] had in her houſe, and leave her to act as ſhe thought proper. In con⯑ſequence of this determination, whilſt you were walking with my uncle, Roſetta and myſelf ſet out and called on that lady. We found her at home; and, after apologizing for the ſtep we were about to take, enquired by what means Miſs Moreland had gained an aſylum with her; and learned from the reply, ſhe had im⯑poſed on them by a ſtory ſimilar to that ſhe related to you. I then men⯑tioned every particular of her conduct at Warrington, where I ſaid ſhe had gone in conſequence of your bene⯑volence. Mrs. Edgeworth was much diſtreſſed, and her huſband enraged; [216] the latter declaring ſhe ſhould not ſleep another night under his roof. As a corroboration of what I aſſert⯑ed, Mrs. Edgeworth, though evi⯑dently concerned (for I perceived the girl has had art enough to ingratiate herſelf with moſt of the family), ac⯑knowledged 'ſhe came home that morning extremely ill; and the chil⯑dren, being called in, declared to the ſame effect; that ſhe was ſo much agitated during the ſervice, they were greatly alarmed; and that, after the gentleman refuſed to ſpeak to her, ſhe was ſo ill they thought ſhe would have fainted in the carriage as they came along.' This confirmed the truth of my ſtory; and Mr. Edge⯑worth [217] ſaid, 'ſhe ſhould quit his houſe directly.' I aſſured them, if they choſe to make an application to you, we would accompany them back to my uncle's with pleaſure; but this they politely declined, ſaying, 'they had no doubt of our veracity, as we could be induced by no motive but a wiſh for their welfare.' I then begged your name might not be men⯑tioned to Louiſa, as I thought you would not feel happy in the idea of being known as the means of de⯑priving her of their protection, and had rather it ſhould be concealed. This they promiſed; and, in the even⯑ing, I received a note from Mrs. Edgeworth to inform us that Miſs [218] Moreland had left their houſe. And now, Sir George, tell me, have I not acted properly?"

Mr. and Mrs. Wilmot both join⯑ed in praiſing the ſpirit ſhe had ſhewn; and Sir George could not deny the juſtice of her conduct: at the ſame time he reprobated the motives; for he well knew both Roſetta and Fi⯑delia were more ſtrongly impelled by jealouſy than any other cauſe. The ſame idea ſtruck Miſs Wilmot, but ſhe did not chooſe to reveal it; and the following morning, our hero, heartily tired of the whole family but Myrtilla, took a friendly leave of her, and ſet out for Lord Milbanke's; [219] where arriving ſome days earlier than he had intended, he was an unexpect⯑ed but not an unwelcome gueſt.