CHAP. I.

AS Sir George Warrington was following the chace with his uſual avidity, one fine morning in the year one thouſand ſeven hundred and ninety-two; his horſe, in attempting to leap a five-barred gate, threw him to the ground with ſuch force that he remained for ſome time inſenſible. Always the firſt in the purſuit, it was ſeveral minutes before he was over⯑taken by his companions, who, when they lifted him up, immediately per⯑ceived his leg was broken. One of [2] his attendants then ſet off full ſpeed for the village, and immediately re⯑turned with a ſort of litter, on which he was borne to Warrington Caſtle; and as a ſurgeon from the next town had been ſent for at the ſame time, he arrived almoſt as ſoon as the Ba⯑ronet; and having ſet his leg, and de⯑clared the fracture by no means a dangerous one, he took leave, deſir⯑ing his patient might be kept as quiet as poſſible.

The character of our hero might more properly be termed a mixture of good qualities and foibles, than of virtues and vices: as he had more of the latter in his compoſition; and the [3] former, from the peculiarities of his education, though numerous, were inactive. To account for this, it will be neceſſary, before I enter on the events of his own life, to mention ſome particulars of his father.

Sir Thomas Warrington was a mere country ſquire, without abilities and without improvement. Rough and unpoliſhed in his manners, and violent in his diſpoſition, he had yet the good fortune to gain the hand and approbation, if not the heart, of Miſs Hamilton, a young woman of high birth, who was elegant, accom⯑pliſhed, and beautiful. Perhaps Sir Thomas would not have been the [4] man of her choice, had her ſituation been either an independent or a happy one; but the tyranny of a mother-in-law, and the certainty of compara⯑tive poverty on the death of her fa⯑ther, whoſe vices and extravagance had equally impaired his fortune and his conſtitution, induced her to com⯑ply with the Baronet's propoſals, who, it muſt be obſerved, appeared to her in a very different light at that time; as his perſon was handſome, and his addreſs, though far from elegant, had in it more of ruſticity than vulgarity; and the cheerfulneſs of his conver⯑ſation concealed in ſome meaſure the inferiority of his underſtanding. Af⯑ter a ſhort courtſhip, Sir Thomas [5] carried his bride to Warrington Caſ⯑tle, where ſhe had ſufficient leiſure to diſcover the faults of her lord and maſter—for ſuch in every inſtance he proved himſelf.

Lord Milbanke, extremely happy in the opportunity of parting with his daughter to ſuch advantage (for Sir Thomas Warrington poſſeſſed a conſiderable eſtate), promiſed to give her five thouſand pounds—when he well knew he could not command ſo many hundreds; and his failure in this promiſe ſo completely diſguſted the Baronet, who himſelf wanted nei⯑ther generoſity nor ſincerity, that he forbade Lady Warrington's keeping [6] up any connection with her own fami⯑ly; and as ſhe was too timid to reſiſt the commands of an abſolute huſ⯑band, and her father had not a ſuffi⯑cient degree of affection for her to requeſt her breaking through the re⯑ſtrictions impoſed, they met but once after her marriage; and the Viſcount dying in a few months, all intercourſe between them ceaſed. Her only bro⯑ther was at that time abroad; and on his return, being prejudiced by the Dowager Lady Milbanke both againſt her and the Baronet, made no enqui⯑ries for them.

The duplicity of the Viſcount, who had a place under Government, in⯑creaſed [7] the natural diſlike Sir Thomas had to courtiers, as he called them; and with an inveteracy by no means juſtifiable, he often declared his utter diſlike to all who bore the name. In all elections he voted only for thoſe who ſupported the country intereſt; and in fact quarrelled with all the neighbouring gentlemen who were on the other ſide. Thus Lady Warring⯑ton was not only deſerted by her own relations, but excluded from almoſt all other ſociety; as the general vio⯑lence of her huſband's diſpoſition prevented even the families whoſe political opinions coincided with his own from forming any intimacy with him; and a few annual viſits were all [8] that paſſed: and the converſation of thoſe who were termed the gentry of Bellingham, the neighbouring town, was ſo little ſuited to Lady Warring⯑ton's taſte, and ſo totally different from what ſhe had been accuſtomed to in the earlier part of her life, that ſhe avoided it as much as poſſible, without appearing either haughty or ill-humoured. Her time therefore was chiefly devoted to the education of George, our preſent hero, the only child ſhe ever had; and ſhe impreſſed on his tender mind thoſe ſentiments of generoſity, humanity, and religion, which he never loſt, though the ad⯑vice and example of his father for ſome years prevented their effects. [9] He was ſcarcely twelve when this exemplary mother was taken from him; and he felt her loſs as ſeverely as ſuch a child could feel. Sir Tho⯑mas, who, in his way, really loved her, lamented her at firſt with that violence ſo natural to him, and which always exhauſts itſelf: of courſe, when the firſt emotions of grief were ſub⯑ſided, he not merely grew calm, but ſuffered himſelf to be conſoled by the reflection, that, had ſhe lived, Lady Warrington would have made a milkſop of his boy. And in conſe⯑quence of his idea of the proper mode of education, he initiated him at once into all the ſports of the field.

[10]Thus, at an age when other boys are ſtudying Greek and Latin, he was following the hounds; and that ardour and warmth of diſpoſition which, added to a naturally ſtrong genius, would, if turned into a proper channel, have rendered him the de⯑light and ornament of ſociety, now ſerved only to lead him the fore⯑moſt in the chace; and that extreme ſweetneſs of temper which he inhe⯑rited from his mother, only made him the little patron of all the village amuſements, which in a leſs limited ſcene would have diſpoſed him to be the general friend and benefactor of mankind. His mind however was not wholly uncultivated. Mr. Thom⯑ſon [11] the vicar had a handſome ſalary for devoting a few hours every day to his education: and as he learned very quickly, his taſks were ſoon per⯑formed; but they left no impreſſion on his mind, though his memory was naturally ſo good, it could have given him very little trouble to recollect all he had been taught. But a new horſe or a new dog engroſſed his whole attention ſo much, that they never failed to drive Horace and Ju⯑venal, Livy and Tacitus, out of his head: in fact, in every conteſt of this kind, the modern Pompey or Caeſar fairly conquered all the heroes of an⯑tiquity.

[12]I have now given my readers ſome account of Sir George in his earlieſt days; let me next deſcribe him at the period where this hiſtory begins. He was juſt twenty-one, and, having loſt his father about eight months, was in full poſſeſſion of an unincumbered eſtate of ſix thouſand pounds a year. His countenance was open, animated, and intereſting: his eyes expreſſive of more good ſenſe than his tongue had ever yet uttered: his complexion would have been too fair, but that the glow of health, added to the effects of the ſun, to which he was conſtantly expoſed, gave it a darker ſhade; and his features, though not exactly re⯑gular, were ſuch as no one could [13] obſerve without pronouncing him a handſome young man. His air had ſomething in it of natural grace, as his addreſs had of natural courteſy, which it was eaſily perceived a few months intercourſe with the great world would convert into elegance, as, though ruſtic, he was by no means vulgar; for that politeneſs which ſprings from an innate wiſh of pleaſ⯑ing, and that dignity which is ever the reſult of conſcious worth and na⯑tive integrity, require but little arti⯑ficial poliſh to render their poſſeſſors not merely eſteemed but admired.

His father's unſocial diſpoſition to all but his brother ſportſmen had con⯑fined [14] our hero's acquaintance in the ſame degree; but, when his own maſ⯑ter, he extended it to a few families in Bellingham, where he alſo attended the monthly aſſembly. An acquired rather than an habitual ſhyneſs pre⯑vented him from ſeeking the ſociety of thoſe gentlemen, who were in fact only his equals; but he knew not how to begin, and they were deterred from making an acquaintance with him, by ſuppoſing he ſet out in life on his father's plan. At the Bel⯑lingham balls, he danced moſt fre⯑quently with Miſs Kettering (the daughter of the ſurgeon who, as mentioned before, was ſent for to ſet his leg), as the prettieſt girl in the [15] place; of whom it will be neceſſary to give a ſhort deſcription.

Miſs Nancy, as ſhe was called by her mamma, or, as ſhe called herſelf, Miſs Anna Maria Kettering, had been educated at a provincial boarding⯑ſchool, where ſhe was taught to dance a little, play a little, work a little, write a little, but to dreſs a great deal; and the latter accompliſhment was what ſhe moſt ſtrictly attended to, as it had made the deepeſt im⯑preſſion on her mind. She was not very wiſe, but ſhe had a very high opinion of herſelf, not only with re⯑ſpect to her perſon, but her accom⯑pliſhments and abilities; and, from [16] the attention Sir George Warrington had paid her, conceived a hope, and not a very unnatural one, that in time ſhe might make ſuch an entire con⯑queſt of his heart, as to induce him to offer her his hand: and this hope extending itſelf to the reſt of the fa⯑mily, our hero always met with ſo flattering a reception at their houſe as tempted him frequently to repeat his viſits; and, as a ſlight return for their attentions, he uſually requeſted the favour of Miſs Kettering's hand at the aſſemblies, to which he now became a ſubſcriber. But though he actually preferred her, he ſome⯑times, to avoid particularity, danced with the Miſs Bells, the clergyman's, [17] or the Miſs Bennets, the attorney's daughters, who were highly gratified by the honour, though they often envied Miſs Kettering the more fre⯑quent opportunities ſhe had of at⯑tracting his notice; as, though they had not themſelves the leaſt preten⯑ſions to beauty, they could diſcover no other reaſon for his preference.

This was the ſtate of affairs in Warrington Caſtle and its neighbour⯑hood, at the time when this hiſtory opens.

CHAP. II.

MRS. Kettering had ordered her beſt carpet to be laid down in the drawing-room, the fringed covers to be laid on the mahogany chairs, and had taken out her beſt china, in ex⯑pectation of a party that evening, invited purpoſely to meet Sir George Warrington, who had promiſed his attendance; when all her views were diſconcerted by the arrival of a meſ⯑ſenger on horſeback, who, haſtily re⯑lating the accident that had hap⯑pened, deſired Mr. Kettering to return inſtantly to the caſtle on his horſe.

[19]The univerſally known, but uni⯑verſally reprobated, maxim of Roche⯑foucault, that "in the diſtreſs of our beſt friends we always find ſome⯑thing that does not diſpleaſe us," (of which at times all feel the truth, though all deny it) was now, though it muſt be allowed an ex⯑traordinary inſtance, contradicted by Mrs Kettering and her fair daugh⯑ter: the misfortune of the Baronet could not afford them a ray of con⯑ſolation; they loſt his ſociety for the preſent, and feared they ſhould loſe the conſequence his frequent viſits gave them among their neigh⯑bours. No more could Miſs Anna Maria triumph, over her female ac⯑quaintance, [20] or her devoted lovers, by declaring an engagement for the evening to Sir George Warrington. Thus was ſhe at once deprived of the firſt privilege of beauty, and the firſt gratification of friendſhip. What the other belles thought and ſaid on the ſubject, we ſhall not at preſent diſcuſs; but, leaving the in⯑habitants of Bellingham to their va⯑rious opinions, return to Warring⯑ton Caſtle.

When the firſt violence of the pain was abated, and our hero had leiſure to reflect on his ſituation, the idea of ſo long a confinement as Mr. Kettering had aſſured him muſt [21] be the conſequence of the fracture, though it was by no means a dan⯑gerous one, inſpired him with a gloom his mind was before a ſtranger to; and having in vain endeavoured to fix on a plan to render it leſs te⯑dious, he reſolved to conſult his ſur⯑geon when he next viſited him. Ac⯑cordingly, that gentleman having felt his pulſe, and declared him more free from fever than he could have expected, our hero replied a little peeviſhly:

"What ſignifies being free from fever? The bone muſt have time to grow together, and what ſhall I do [22] in the interim? I ſhall die with wea⯑rineſs."

"But ſurely," returned Mr. Ket⯑tering, "you will allow, the leſs fever you have, the ſooner your recovery will be perfect?"

"True," ſaid Sir George, a little aſhamed of his impetuoſity: "but how can I amuſe myſelf? My good friend, what ſhall I do?"

"Do!" repeated the other: "why, you muſt—you muſt—'faith, you muſt do what you pleaſe." And with this decided advice, much re⯑ſembling [23] Parſon Barnabas's definition of chriſtian forgiveneſs, he took leave of his patient more haſtily than uſual, leſt he ſhould again be called upon for his opinion.

Our hero, unuſed to controul, and always having had ſomething on which to fix his thoughts, and the activity of his mind having never been before reſtrained, found the preſent vacuum dreadful to a degree. Compelled not merely to give up his favourite amuſements for the preſent, but unable to aſcertain the period when he might again enjoy them, he found it neceſſary to think on ſome ſubſtitute to fill up the vacant hours. [24] Converſation in the country is not always attainable; he had no friend or relation who could become an in⯑mate in his houſe; and his common acquaintance were too much engroſſ⯑ed by their own purſuits, to ſpend any time in a ſick chamber. Mr. Kettering's profeſſion engaged him entirely; and his old tutor, Mr. Thomſon, attended too ſtrictly to the duties of a clergyman to have much leiſure. He had, indeed, promiſed Sir George, whom he loved with the tenderneſs of a parent, to devote to him all he could ſpare from his more eſſential avocations: but this our hero was ſenſible could not be more than an hour or two in the day; and [25] how he ſhould fill up the intermedi⯑ate ſpace was a point he could not determine. Ringing the bell haſtily, he ordered a ſervant to run to the parſonage, and tell Mr. Thomſon he deſired to ſee him immediately. The ſervant obeyed: and when he had delivered the meſſage, the good Vicar enquired with much concern if he was worſe; and being anſwered in the negative, and informed that Sir George only wanted to talk to him, he ſmiled, and bade John tell his maſter he would wait on him when he had gone his daily rounds in the village.

On his arrival at the Caſtle, the [26] young Baronet put the ſame queſtion to him he had before ſo ineffectually addreſſed to his Surgeon; but the re⯑ply was rather more ſatisfactory: "I will," ſaid the Vicar laughing, "put you in a way to amuſe yourſelf. Read, if you have not forgotten how; and if you have, I will again take ſome pains to teach you."

Sir George coloured for a moment at the ſarcaſm of this ſpeech, con⯑ſcious he deſerved it; but reſolving to take it as it was meant, good hu⯑mouredly, he thanked his old tutor a thouſand times for the hint, declar⯑ing it had not occurred to him be⯑fore, or he ſhould not have been ſo [27] long at a loſs for amuſement. "And now," continued he, "condeſcend to direct my ſtudies."

"Nay," returned Mr. Thomſon, "chooſe your own ſubject; and from either your (I beg your pardon, I mean your grandfather's) library, or my own, I may chance to ſatisfy you."

"Oh!" replied Sir George, "I am at this inſtant a ſtrong proof of the caprice of human nature. Confined as I now am to my bed, I feel a martial ardour glowing in my heart, and could wiſh myſelf a ſecond Alexander."

[28]"I hope not," interrupted the Vicar: "you are much better as Sir George Warrington."

"Well, my good friend! But, ſe⯑riouſly, give me the hiſtory of wars and conqueſts. Let me have the Liad for the preſent, and to-morrow ſend me ſomething elſe."

"In the original, I preſume?" re⯑turned Mr. Thomſon.

"Pſhaw!" ſaid the Baronet, half peeviſhly, yet half laughing.

"Well," replied the other, "you ſhall have Pope's tranſlation; and I [29] will look for it directly: if not in your houſe, I know it is in mine." He then took leave, and, going to the library, found it with ſome trouble; but it was entirely covered with duſt, as well as the reſt of a very valuable collection. He would not permit the ſervant to wipe it, but requeſted he would take it firſt to his maſter, hoping the appearance would ſtrike him with ſhame—as it really did. Mr. Thomſon, however, returned home well pleaſed with this proof, that our hero had not, as he once feared, loſt all reliſh for ſtudy; and endeavoured to ſelect ſuch books as would both amuſe his mind and form his manners, and at the ſame [30] time give him a taſte for polite literature. Accordingly, he that af⯑ternoon looked out ſuch authors as were beſt adapted to his purpoſe, and ſent them up to the Caſtle, re⯑ſolving to call the following day to obſerve how his pupil went on.

To dwell no longer on a part of the hiſtory deſigned merely as an introduction to the reſt, I ſhall only obſerve, that our hero made the beſt poſſible uſe of his confinement, by well cultivating his mind, which had been too long neglected; but, though he attended in turn to every branch of ſcience, the ſubjects that moſt engaged his attention were the [31] deſcriptions of wars, particularly where the hero had emancipated his country from ſlavery and ſubjection. Paſcal Paoli was the object of his warmeſt admiration; nor were the characters of the elder and younger Brutus leſs reſpected and eſteemed; and he ſighed to render his own name equally famous to poſterity.

One day, ſpeaking on the ſubject to his Surgeon, that gentleman ſeri⯑ouſly adviſed him to go into the militia; ſaying, there was a cap⯑tain's commiſſion to be had, and that, as he did not mean to be in Parlia⯑ment, he ought to ſerve his country in ſome way; and added as a farther [32] reaſon, a red coat and cockade would become him extremely, as all the young ladies of Bellingham agreed. Our hero ſuppreſſed a ſmile with ſome difficulty, and then turned the converſation.

Whilſt his mind was in this ſtate, Mr. Thomſon received ſome new pub⯑lications from a friend in London, which without peruſing himſelf he ſent inſtantly to the Caſtle, where they were received by Sir George with particular ſatisfaction; and he read them with avidity and delight, as unfortunately they were too well adapted to the preſent frame of his mind. Among them were Paine's [33] Rights of Man, a Hiſtory of the French Revolution, and a variety of books written evidently in its favour; ſome of them containing a deſcrip⯑tion, and I fear too juſt a one, of the cruelties practiſed on the people by thoſe in power. The narrative of Henry de la Tude fired his breaſt with an honeſt indignation; and the idea of reſtoring liberty to an op⯑preſſed nation excited in him the ſtrongeſt wiſh of joining ſo noble, ſo diſintereſted a party. Till now he had never concerned himſelf with the politics of the day, and indeed ſcarcely ever beſtowed a thought on the national welfare, though he had been early taught by his father to [34] deteſt courtiers, and all their train of ſervile flatterers; but at this time, when his mind was filled with mi⯑litary ardour, the ſubject of his ſtudies was well calculated to make a deep impreſſion on his mind. A deſire of aſſiſting the patriots with advice and money was his firſt idea; but univerſal liberty and ge⯑neral equality next taking poſſeſſion of his imagination, he became al⯑moſt mad to forward a plan that promiſed ſuch unbounded good to ſociety.

He communicated theſe new ſen⯑timents to his good friend the Vicar, who ſilently lamented his infatua⯑tion, [35] and could not forgive himſelf for being the cauſe, though the in⯑nocent one, of theſe wild intentions: but knowing, "though you may turn the current of a rivulet, you cannot check the progreſs of a torrent," he determined to give way to this fury of liberty, truſting it would prove only the impulſe of a moment. But here he was miſtaken: Sir George never gave up a cauſe in which he embarked, till its impropriety was clear to his own feelings; and he now lamented the years he had paſſed in inglorious eaſe and blamable in⯑activity; determining at the ſame time, the moment he was allowed by his Surgeon to undertake the journey [36] and voyage, to go over to Paris, and then act as he ſhould think proper. Having fully ſettled this with him⯑ſelf, he imparted his intention to Mr. Thomſon; who, after vainly en⯑deavouring to diſſuade him from it, at laſt entreated him in the moſt ſo⯑lemn manner not to think of going to a country like France, torn with inteſtine commotions, at leaſt with⯑out a companion better acquainted with the language and manners of the country than himſelf; and this, after ſome heſitation, he promiſed, ſaying he would firſt go to London, and there enquire for ſome gentle⯑man to accompany him in the capa⯑city he required.

[37]Mr. Thomſon was obliged to be ſatisfied with this promiſe: but he took leave of his young friend in a very different frame of mind from that in which he had entered the Caſtle; alternately accuſing himſelf and his democratic correſpondent in London, who had ſelected theſe books evidently with a view of converting our good Vicar, to whoſe honeſt and loyal principles he was no ſtranger. But in this he erred: Mr. Thomſon's judgment was too clear, and his principles too excel⯑lent, to be perverted by arguments of the moſt fallacious kind, that tend only to deſtroy the happineſs Britons have ſo long enjoyed, under [38] a conſtitution more beneficial to ſo⯑ciety in general than that of any other nation in Europe.

CHAP. III.

WHEN Mr. Kettering paid his next viſit to our hero, for he now only attended him occaſionally, he entered upon his favourite topic with all the warmth which his heart expe⯑rienced. The other liſtened with attention and ſurpriſe; for the idea of ſacrificing the leaſt convenience himſelf for the benefit of another man, or even a whole ſociety, was not among his liſt of chriſtian duties. Sir George having expatiated on his intended tour, and the advantages all the nation might receive from his [40] new reſolutions, and the exertions he ſhould make in conſequence of them, the Surgeon replied:

"Why, as for the matter of that, Sir George, I do not ſee why you ſhould go abroad among them there French people, to be cut to pieces perhaps, and the like of that, as they are now doing to one another, when you might ſtay here in Northumber⯑land, and ſleep in a whole ſkin. To be ſure, if you pleaſe, you may make ducks and drakes of your money; becauſe you have enough of it, and that there's no body to call you to an account; but I know what I know: if I had an eſtate of ſix thouſand a [41] year, why I'd ſtay and ſpend it all in old England; and enjoy myſelf, and live as I liked, and, if I pleaſed, marry the prettieſt girl in the coun⯑ty; for what ſignifies money, when there's enough on one ſide?"

Mr. Kettering here ended his cu⯑rious harangue, of which our hero underſtood not the whole force; for, totally ignorant of the ways of the world, he overlooked the kind hint with reſpect to his daughter, and continued explaining his future intentions. The doctrine of equa⯑lity was by no means unpleaſing to his companion, who, like moſt other people who indulge this idea, only [42] conſidered that Sir George would be reduced to his level, without re⯑collecting that his inferiors would be raiſed to it. Indeed, at this mo⯑ment, he thought of nothing but the probability of the Baronet's mar⯑rying his daughter, if he continued in theſe ſentiments; and reſolving, according to the old ſaying, ‘to ſtrike while the iron was hot,’ he contrived before they parted to hint, that, as he was now able to get into the drawing-room, he would bring over his wife and daughter to drink a diſh of tea with him, if agreeable. To this Sir George politely aſ⯑ſented, ſaying, the ladies would do him great honour; and, ſoon after, [43] Mr. Kettering took leave, impatient to communicate the Baronet's inten⯑tion to his family.

But Mrs. Kettering received this intelligence with a leſs degree of plea⯑ſure than he expected; for, though equally pleaſed with the idea of be⯑ing conſidered on an equality with him, and delighted at the intended viſit, yet his meditated excurſion diſconcerted all her views; as ſhe too rationally feared a farther knowledge of the world might leſſen the regard ſhe at preſent hoped he felt for her fair daughter, who herſelf, too gay and too careleſs to look beyond the paſſing moment, thought only on [44] what dreſs ſhe ſhould wear to the Caſtle; and in the intermediate time made a point of calling on the Miſs Bells and the Miſs Bennets, on purpoſe to give them notice of her viſit: but, not chooſing to do it in expreſs terms, ſhe contrived to hint a wiſh for fine weather; and this draw⯑ing on the queſtion ſhe hoped for, ſhe replied, her papa was that af⯑ternoon to drive her mamma and her⯑ſelf over to Warrington Caſtle, to ſee poor Sir George, who had parti⯑cularly requeſted their company.

Whatever ſurpriſe theſe young la⯑dies might feel, they choſe not to re⯑veal it, leſt they ſhould add to the [45] triumph that was ſo evidently painted on her countenance; and therefore coolly replied, "After ſo long a con⯑finement, it was no wonder Sir George wanted a little variety." Diſ⯑appointed by their manner of receiv⯑ing her intelligence, ſhe returned home to prepare for her little excur⯑ſion; fully proving, that an envious and little mind is incapable of feel⯑ing true ſatisfaction, as her own plea⯑ſure was leſſened, if not deſtroyed, by her ineffectual endeavours to give pain to others.

It is a general and too true an ob⯑ſervation, that more quarrels ariſe in families from trifles than from things [46] of conſequence; as every creature ſuppoſes the others may give up what is ſo immaterial, though they are themſelves too tenacious to yield in a ſingle point. When Miſs Anna Maria entered the parlour, ſhe found her papa and mamma engaged in a violent diſpute on their method of travelling: Mr. Kettering inſiſting on driving them in their own whiſky, as he was to viſit a patient a few miles farther, and intended to leave them at Warrington Caſtle, and call for them on his return; and Mrs. Kettering remonſtrating that, as the day was ſhowery, it would be more comfortable as well as more genteel to hire a poſt-chaiſe; but ſhe [47] remonſtrated in vain. Mrs. Kette⯑ring had reaſon on her ſide, but we daily ſee that reaſon does not always conquer; ſhe was obliged to yield: but ſhe did it with a very ill grace, and ſat down to table, muttering, "it was very hard that people would ſcrape and ſave for a farthing, when they need not be ſo ſtingy, as all the world knew they could do very handſomely if they would." Her huſ⯑band either did not or would not hear this obſervation, but helped him⯑ſelf to ſome mutton, and for a few moments peace was reſtored; as Miſs Nancy, though evidently on her mamma's ſide, did not dare take a de⯑cided part in the diſpute: but, before [48] the cloth was removed, it was renewed with more violence on another ſubject.

Mr. Kettering deſired the ladies would be ready early, as he wiſhed to go on to ſee his patient. Mrs. Kettering replied, it would be ex⯑tremely vulgar to be at the Caſtle before ſix o'clock, and, if he choſe to be there earlier, he might go by himſelf. Here Mrs. Kettering had not reaſon on her ſide; yet ſhe pre⯑vailed. "I will not," is a ſentence ſometimes of great power; and Mr. Kettering, tired of oppoſition, and perceiving, as he had gained one point, the other would not be yielded without more trouble than he choſe [49] to beſtow, at length, after a little more argument, gave it up. Per⯑haps ſhe might have compounded, had he offered the poſt-chaiſe: but here ſelf-intereſt prevailed, as it al⯑ways did in his boſom; and he ra⯑ther choſe his patient ſhould remain perhaps an hour or two longer with⯑out relief, than pay a few ſhillings extraordinary in chaiſe-hire. He now left the room to prepare his me⯑dicines; for, as is the caſe in moſt provincial towns, in him the pro⯑feſſions of apothecary and ſurgeon were united.

Miſs Anna Maria now deigning to conſult her mother on ſome points [50] of her dreſs, ſhe deſired her to wear a riding habit, as moſt proper for the carriage they were to go in: and here let me digreſs a moment to ob⯑ſerve, that Mrs. Kettering had, ge⯑nerally ſpeaking, more ſenſe as well as judgment than the reſt of the family, though ſhe had ſeldom the good fortune to be able to make uſe of it, for a reaſon the reader will readily gueſs. Miſs Nancy flatly refuſed; and, when her mother inſiſted on it, flounced out of the room, ſaying, "indeed, at her age, ſhe thought ſhe might at leaſt dreſs as ſhe pleaſed." Here Mrs. Kettering was a ſecond time right, though her advice was again unattended to. She had, [51] however, the ſatisfaction of know⯑ing ſhe had gained one point in three; and though reflection told her ſhe was in that inſtance wrong, a wiſh of keeping up all the autho⯑rity ſhe could, prevented her from owning it. Nor is this an un⯑common inſtance: thoſe who are conſtantly contradicted ſometimes take up the wrong ſide of an argu⯑ment, and maintain it with the more poſitiveneſs, from reſentment at be⯑ing generally oppoſed, and a deſire of obtaining their own way for once, though even by wrong means.

CHAP. IV.

AT the appointed time Mr. Ket⯑tering's one-horſe chaiſe, or rather whiſky, drove up to the door; for, as it was principally intended for him to viſit his patients, when diſinclined to mount his horſe, it was built in the lighteſt manner, and without a head, that it might move with the greater expedition. That gentleman, hav⯑ing handed in his wife and daughter, found ſome difficulty in ſeating him⯑ſelf in a carriage by no means calcu⯑lated for family parties. Slowly and heavily, therefore, the old mare [53] dragged them up the hill going out of the town; and before they had pro⯑ceeded three miles of the five, which ſeparated Bellingham from Warring⯑ton Caſtle, the ſky was overcaſt, and threatened a hard ſhower. It was now that Mrs. Kettering exulted in her ſagacity; and, looking alternately at her huſband and daughter, ſhe would have compared herſelf to Caſſandra of Troy, had ſhe known the ſtory; but, as ſhe did not, was contented with ſaying, "it was ſome people's miſ⯑fortune never to be believed, though they were always in the right."

The ſpirit of contradiction, which ſome authors very cruelly, as well [54] as very unjuſtly, aſcribe peculiarly to the fair ſex, now, however, did take poſſeſſion of the lady; and ſhe wiſhed for rain, almoſt as earneſtly as a farmer in a drought. Indeed ſhe had little reaſon to fear it on her own account; as ſhe had equipped herſelf for the purpoſe in a rich ſilk gown and petticoat, over which ſhe wore a camblet ſafeguard, and had farther ſecured herſelf by a calaſh and long cloak, made of hatband ſilk, the fruits of her huſband's la⯑bours.

The fair Anna Maria had more cauſe to dread a ſhower, being dreſſed in a thin muſlin jacket and coat over [55] a dyed purple ſilk, a ſaſh and bon⯑net of the ſame colour (the lat⯑ter edged with a deep veil of Britiſh lace), and a black gauze cloak. She therefore viewed the approaching ſtorm with very different ſenſations; and, when the rain firſt came on, put up an umbrella, which was her ſole dependance. In times of diſtreſs and danger, we ſhould be very cer⯑tain of the ſteadineſs of that friend for whom we have diſclaimed all other protection; leſt, like the fair Anna, we ſhould, by their deſertion, be left to ſtruggle alone with the bitter winds of adverſity. Boreas, that day unfortunately recollecting his contention with Phoebus, in which [56] the latter conquered, now in a rage reſolved to muſter all his forces, and attack the firſt mortal who fell in his way, determined not to be again vanquiſhed. Unhappily the firſt object was Miſs Kettering; whoſe umbrella, like a faithleſs ally, made no reſiſtance, but yielded at the firſt attack, and left her expoſed to "the pelting of the pitileſs ſtorm:" and pitileſs indeed it was, for it com⯑pletely deranged every part of her attire. Her bonnet was the firſt victim of its fury; the rain ſpotted the lilac ſilk, and ſhrunk up the Britiſh lace veil. Her gauze cloak and muſlin petticoat received ſeveral mortal wounds, from her endeavours [57] to keep her umbrella from abſolute flight; and, in other places, the rain, drawing out the purple dye, marked the muſlin with enſanguined ſtreams. Her black pins and powder, like cowards, fled from the field of battle; but the pomatum ſtill adhered: which gave her head no ſmall reſem⯑blance to that of the ancient lady well known by the name of Medu⯑ſa; though it muſt be allowed her face was not one that would turn the hearts of beholders into ſtone, though it had often the power of ſcorching them to cinders.

The conteſt between Boreas, the umbrella, and Miſs Kettering, con⯑tinued [58] till they were within ſight of the park gates; when an accident decided the victory, or rather put an end to the battle: in ſhort, going over a very rugged piece of road, one of the wheels gave way, and, though it did not abſolutely overturn them, it obliged the whole party to proceed on foot: and this put the finiſhing ſtroke to the young lady's appearance; as the dirt in a very few minutes formed a black border to her white dreſs, and rendered the yellow ſtripes in her ſlippers undiſtinguiſh⯑able. Angry with herſelf for not taking her mother's advice, but more angry with her mother for ſome oc⯑caſional ſallies of triumph which had [59] eſcaped her lips; mortified at the idea of being ſeen by Sir George in ſo lamentable a ſtate, yet not know⯑ing how to avoid it; ſhe burſt into tears of mingled paſſion and grief: when the footman, who had been ſent by his maſter, opened the gate to receive them. Sir George himſelf ſtood at the window, watching their progreſs, which was very ſlow; and when, from their advancing nearer, he diſcovered their ſituation, he imme⯑diately diſpatched the houſekeeper to aſſiſt them in repairing the acci⯑dents of the afternoon. To add to Anna Maria's vexation, young Mr. Bennet, who had been at the Caſtle on buſineſs, paſſed them on horſeback [60] juſt before they entered the houſe, and was conſequently a witneſs of their deranged appearance; which ſhe was very conſcious he would not only enjoy, but report with exagge⯑rations, as he had been an unſucceſs⯑ful candidate for her favour, and at⯑tributed this to her penchant for the Baronet.

When the ladies were a little refit⯑ted, they entered the drawing-room; where Sir George received them with all poſſible politeneſs, and many ex⯑preſſions of concern for the misfor⯑tunes of the day; which he alſo en⯑deavoured to counteract, by ſending Mr. Kettering to his patient on one [61] of his own horſes, and offering them the carriage on their return. The delay occaſioned by this accident, and their conſequent change of dreſs, added to Mrs. Kettering's etiquette of not arriving too early, made it conſiderably paſt ſeven when the tea was brought in; and, as the carriage was ordered at half paſt eight, the evening was not too long. Nothing material occurred; except that Sir George, whoſe mind was now in a ſtate of improvement, was ſurpriſed he ſhould have conſidered Miſs Ket⯑tering in any other light than that of a pretty girl; for, in fact, ſhe had no pretenſions to wiſdom, and her wit was of that innocent ſpecies, [62] which neither outs nor dazzles; con⯑ſi [...]ing chiefly of quaint ſayings, not very unlike Swift's polite converſa⯑tion; and this was natural to her, and not acquired by any ſtudy of the book in queſtion. He alſo promiſed to return their viſit before he left the country; and this, added to the delight of going home in his coach, ſeemed to atone for every paſt evil. But

for Miſs Anna Maria could ſcarcely enjoy this pleaſure, from recollecting it would not be viſible to their neigh⯑bours, as it muſt be dark before they could arrive at home. This, [63] however, ſhe conſoled herſelf for, by reflecting ſhe could tell it the next day; for, in fact, ſhe conſidered it as only preceding the offer of his hand.

They took leave of the Baronet with a profuſion of thanks for his ci⯑vilities, and reached their own houſe in the utmoſt harmony: but this was ſoon at an end; for, reviving the events of the day after ſupper, they each accuſed the other of having in ſome degree cauſed their misfortunes, not reflecting they were equally to blame themſelves. Had Mr. Kette⯑ring hired a poſt-chaiſe, they would have eſcaped the rain wholly; had Mrs. Kettering conſented to ſet out an [64] hour earlier, they would have been ſafe at the Caſtle; or, had Miſs Nancy yielded to her mamma's entreaties, ſhe might have been free from the mortifications ſhe ſo deſervedly met with. Thus, reproaching each other's conduct without correcting their own, they paſſed the hours till they parted for the night.

CHAP. V.

IN the mean time our hero, who was now perfectly recovered, ſettled all his affairs previous to his intended jour⯑ney; and, not unmindful of his pro⯑miſe, ſent a meſſage to Mrs. Kette⯑ring, to inform her he would wait on them the following afternoon; and that lady immediately wrote cards to her principal acquaintance, inviting them to meet the Baronet. At the uſual hour the party aſſembled in her drawing-room, conſiſting of the Bells, the Bennets, the Browns, the Jones's, [66] an officer or two who were quartered in the town, and a Miſs Carruther, of whom it will be neceſſary to ſpeak more fully.

This lady was the daughter of a gentleman of good eſtate in a county ſouth-weſt of London; but, at his death finding herſelf miſtreſs of only five or ſix thouſand pounds, ſhe took a handſome lodging in the town near which ſhe had always lived, and con⯑tinued there for ſeveral years in credit and comfort; as her brother, who was married to a very amiable wo⯑man, reſided conſtantly at the man⯑ſion-houſe, where ſhe was always a welcome gueſt; and in her own circle [67] was equally reſpected and eſteemed. It was therefore a great ſurpriſe to her friends, particularly to her brother, when, all on a ſudden, ſhe formed the reſolution of leaving her native place, and ſettling in ſome diſtant ſpot. No creature could gueſs the reaſon, and it became the ſubject of univerſal en⯑quiry; but in vain: ſhe had the ſenſe to conceal it in her own boſom, and it was not to be diſcovered. Miſs Carruther, excluſive of a few annual excurſions to Bath and London, had lived two-and-forty years within a circle of five miles, and was now ar⯑rived at that period when the term "young lady" was dropped by all who knew her, except her milliner and [68] mantua-maker; who, it has been often obſerved, beſtow the epithet "young" more liberally on thoſe who have loſt all proper claim to it, and who ſeldom hear it from their general acquaintance: thereby ſhewing their extreme benevolence and charity. Among a thouſand virtues, Miſs Car⯑ruther had one foible, which fre⯑quently led her to think and act in the moſt ridiculous manner: this was a horror of growing old unmar⯑ried, and conſequently a deſire of youth. She had never been a hand⯑ſome, though always what the world calls a well-looking woman; and her fortune, though a genteel independ⯑ence, not ſufficient, according to the [69] ſtyle in which ſhe had been educated, to ſecure her any advantageous offers: ſhe was therefore not merely ſingle at this time, but likely to remain ſo. Her plan was now, to quit a place where her age was ſo well known, that ſome accident diſcovered it in every company; and perhaps the ill-natured of her own ſex, who unhap⯑pily are too numerous, had diſcerned her foible, and delighted to avail themſelves of it.

Sometimes a lady, with a tall daughter of fifteen at her elbow, would exclaim: "Talking of dreſs my dear Emily, do you remember that beautiful negligee you had of pink and white ſattin, and your Bruſſels [70] lace treble ruffles? Oh! how I en⯑vied you, and how angry I was with my aunt for keeping me in a robe coat, when, though your junior by a year or two, I thought myſelf as well entitled to a ſacque as yourſelf!"

Sometimes their tall daughters would remind the unfortunate Emily of frolics with their mammas at the boarding-ſchool, and expreſs a wiſh of equalling their exploits. Some⯑times a dear friend would entreat her opinion of a player who had quitted the ſtage above five-and-twenty years, or beg her to recollect the celebrated ſong of Signor, or Signora, at the ſame period.

[71]On theſe unhappy occaſions, Miſs Carruther acted according to the im⯑pulſe of the moment. Sometimes ſhe had forgotten the circumſtance, and inſtantly changed the converſa⯑tion: and ſometimes ſhe would en⯑deavour to laugh; but her efforts were like thoſe of an incognito au⯑thor who hears his works burleſqued, and is obliged to join in the ridicule leſt the company ſhould ſuſpect they were indebted to him for the preſent occaſion of ſhewing their wit.

Miſs Carruther now fled the ſociety of her old friends, and joined the younger people; eſpecially thoſe who, from having only lately ſettled in the [72] town, could not know the date of her birth: but here ſhe experienced new troubles from the reſpect they paid to ſeniority. Her tea was al⯑ways handed firſt; ſhe was led to the upper part of the table; and, in par⯑ties of pleaſure, her company was often requeſted with particular ear⯑neſtneſs, and enforced by the young la⯑dies' ſaying: "Oh, dear Madam, pray do not refuſe us; my mamma cannot be with us to-day, and ſhe will not conſent to our going, unleſs you will take us under your protection: for ſhe ſays you are ſuch a prudent woman, ſhe may truſt us ſafely."

Is it not ſtrange, that at an age [73] when prudence is become a more va⯑luable virtue than it once was, from its preſent ſcarcity, that any one ſhould diſclaim its poſſeſſion? "Yet ſuch things were;" and the term "pru⯑dent woman" never failed to give Miſs Carrtuher a head-ach, or ſome other illneſs, which prevented her compli⯑ance. From the frequency of her re⯑fuſals, the truth was at laſt ſuſpected by ſome ſaucy girls of ſeventeen; who, aware of their paſt indiſcretion, now reſolved to atone for it, by wording their invitations in a different man⯑ner. This ſucceeded for them; but Miſs Carruther was ſtill doomed to perpetual mortifications, either from deſign or accident: for the honour [74] of the ſex, I will hope it was the latter: and, from theſe events, ſhe reſolved to quit her "pleaſant native plains," where no longer "wing'd with bliſs the moments flew," and ſeek at a diſtance that peace ſhe was there de⯑nied.

Here let me digreſs a moment to obſerve, that at every age women are not only reſpectable, but eſtimable, when they act in character; but, if a lady bordering on forty-five will condeſcend to wear feathers, flowers, &c. and in other reſpects dreſs like a girl who has juſt left boarding-ſchool, ſhe cannot hope to meet with any thing but contempt and deriſion.

[75]Miſs Carruther tried Bath and Lon⯑don in vain: ſhe had been too much in the world not to meet with a va⯑riety of her old acquaintance in either place; which did not ſuit her plan: therefore, after rambling three years, ſhe at length diſcharged an old ſer⯑vant in London, who had almoſt brought her up, leſt ſhe ſhould ſay, "I love my miſtreſs, and have lived with her near forty years;" and took a young girl, a ſtranger, hired a new footman, and with theſe attendants ſet out for Northumberland, where ſhe determined to fix her reſidence; and, being much pleaſed with Bel⯑lingham, hired a ſmall houſe, and reſolved to continue there, unleſs, as [76] ladies ſometimes expreſs it, ſhe ſhould alter her condition.

At Bellingham ſhe had been ſix months, and was now bordering on that fatal yet happy time, which puts a period at once to the hopes and fears that for ten years before float in the female mind: for who is there that, when they have ſeen half a century in this world, will not endeavour to reconcile themſelves to their ſtate of old maidiſm, as Mr. Hayley terms it? And thoſe who have paſſed that barrier, without doing any thing vo⯑luntarily to forfeit the title of pru⯑dent women, may eſteem themſelves particularly fortunate; ſince inſtances [77] daily occur, where every advantage of life is bartered to avoid the hated name of old maid.—To return to our hiſtory—

Miſs Carruther, as a woman of ſenſe, conſequence, and fortune, was viſited and courted by all the inhabitants of Bellingham, and now, at Mrs. Kette⯑ring's, ſhone, in all but youth and beauty, eminently ſuperior to the reſt: and there was ſomething in her manner ſo ſtrikingly faſhionable, that our hero, who no longer thought like a mere ruſtic, was ſtruck with it; and beginning a converſation with her, in which ſhe diſplayed much good ſenſe and knowledge of the world, he ſat [78] by her the remainder of the evening. It is true, the peculiar eaſe of Miſs Carruther's behaviour was owing to her having heard the current report of the town, that the Baronet was engaged to Miſs Kettering; and con⯑ſequently, imagining his attentions to her were either accidental, or aſſumed to conceal the ſtate of his heart from the reſt of the company, endeavoured to amuſe, without ſeeking to attract him. The young ladies, particularly Anna Maria, were much piqued at his preference; but, to hide their cha⯑grin from each other, entertained themſelves with laughing at the ob⯑ject.

[79]It is the part of a faithful hiſtorian to relate the bad as well as the good traits in every character; or I would keep it a ſecret from the world, that Miſs Carruther was, from her dreſs that evening, too juſt a theme for ri⯑dicule. She had ſtudied ſimplicity. Her gown was a white muſlin che⯑miſe, extremely long every way: her ſaſh, pale pink; her ſlippers had flat heels; and, in the prevailing mode of the year ninety-two, her hair was combed on her forehead, and hung on her neck in light curls, without pomatum, and ſcarcely any powder. Her cap was of muſlin with a nar⯑row ſtripe, which a ribbon, the colour of her ſaſh, bound tight to her head. [80] Altogether, as ſhe was a tall woman, ſhe gave an idea of a Brobdinagian infant, half tucked, and juſt learning to walk.

Could our anceſtors riſe from their graves, they would not, as ſome peo⯑ple fooliſhly imagine, have any cauſe to reproach the preſent age with ex⯑travagance in their dreſs; as thoſe who have ſtudied the manners of old times aſſure us, that they were more guilty in thoſe points than ourſelves; nor were their faſhions leſs eccentric or ridiculous, as the high pointed ſhoe, faſtened to their girdles with chains, ſufficiently evinces. But to the ladies of the eighteenth century it [81] has been reſerved, to dreſs like in⯑fants in long frocks: diſdaining the foreign aid of gold brocades and ſilver tiſſues, they ſeek to charm by native ſimplicity, and endeavour to recall the ideas of each beholder to that period, when innocence was their only characteriſtic; binding their "baby brows," not with "the round and top of ſovereignty," but with a gay ribbon or a muſlin band.

This new mode of dreſs, having only been conveyed to Miſs Carru⯑ther in a letter from a faſhionable correſpondent, had not yet publicly reached Bellingham, and therefore excited ſurpriſe in all the young la⯑dies [82] of that place, who were them⯑ſelves attired in ſtiff calendered gowns and ſilk petticoats, with their hair in full friz, and very much powdered: yet, whilſt all pretended to laugh at, they all ſecretly reſolved to copy her, each hoping to be the firſt in the fa⯑ſhion.

The events of the evening were not numerous, and indeed ſcarcely worth recording: a ſummons to the card-table put an end to the tête à-tête be⯑tween the Baronet and Miſs Carru⯑ther, as well as to the remarks of the reſt of the company. The game was commerce; and all the young people ſat down to it. Miſs Kette⯑ring, [83] reſolving to ſtrike one bold ſtroke to attain her purpoſe, called to Sir George, and aſked him where he would chooſe to ſit? and he of courſe replying, "by her;" when the firſt deal was at an end, and that lady was de⯑clared to be the winner, young Ben⯑net with a loud laugh ſaid, he ſup⯑poſed Sir George cheated for her. Sir George, unaccuſtomed to com⯑pany, and ſcarcely ever playing cards, did not take this in the light it was intended, merely as a jeſt (for he was yet to learn that cheating for the ladies is an honourable action), but thought it a reproach, and re⯑ſented it accordingly. Mr. James Bennet, frightened to death, made [84] very humble conceſſions, which ſoon appeaſed the wrath of the Baronet; and this taught the young attorney a leſſon he never forgot, namely, not to jeſt with his ſuperiors. However, for ſome time it diſturbed the peace of the whole party.

When the pool drew towards a con⯑cluſion, it was only diſputed between our hero and Miſs Carruther; and the former, throwing away purpoſely a wrong card, decided it for her. Miſs Kettering, who witneſſed this tranſac⯑tion, was extremely piqued at what ſhe eſteemed a mark of diſtinction in Miſs Carruther's favour, though it was merely the effects of a natural [85] courteſy of manners; and had the folly to exclaim, in a loud whiſper to Miſs Bennet, that her brother was in the right, for Sir George now cheat⯑ed for Miſs Carruther. That lady ſmiled diſdainfully; and Sir George replied coolly, yet half laughing, that "he had always underſtood he might cheat himſelf when he pleaſed."

His carriage was now announced; and with a general bow to the com⯑pany, and a particular addreſs to the Kettering family, intimating, as he was ſoon to quit the country, that he ſhould ſcarcely have the pleaſure of ſeeing them again, and therefore wiſhed them health and happineſs, he [86] took leave; and they remained in a ſtate of utter aſtoniſhment and diſ⯑may, as they had no idea his plan was to be put into immediate execu⯑tion. The fair Anna Maria was par⯑ticularly agitated, and was for ſome time uncertain whether ſhe ſhould not fall into hyſteric fits; but hap⯑pily recollecting it would only be a means of informing the company of the extent of her mortification, wiſely, and without much difficulty, ſup⯑preſſed them; and contented herſelf with mental accuſations of the Ba⯑ronet, whom ſhe thought the baſeſt of his ſex.

In the mean time, Sir George was [87] wholly unconſcious of having de⯑ſerved theſe reproaches: he had, it is true, during the few months after his father's death viſited at their houſe occaſionally, and ſometimes danced with her: he had behaved, when they mer, with the gallantry due to a pretty woman, but had never by word or action given her reaſon to believe he was attached; nor during his long confinement had expreſſed any wiſh to ſee her, till Mr. Kettering of⯑fered him a viſit from his family; and, on that evening as well as this, had acted conformably to his ſenti⯑ments, which were thoſe of perfect indifference. In fact, the only thing even Miſs Kettering herſelf could [88] accuſe him of miſleading her hopes in, was the offer of the carriage, which was merely civility, though, in her high-flown ideas, ſhe had given it a ſtronger motive. But her expec⯑tations were by this viſit wholly cruſhed; as the leaſt ſhe hoped for was, that, by a marked attention, he would convince all the company of his preference, and that before his return he would requeſt a private interview with her papa and mam⯑ma, to make his propoſals in form. Thus do we overthrow the happi⯑neſs we might enjoy, from raiſing our wiſhes to an unattainable height: for we daily experience, that an infe⯑rior gratification loſes all its value, [89] when contraſted with that on which we had fixed our hopes and expec⯑tations.

CHAP. VI.

IN leſs than a week from this time, our hero having taken a tender and affectionate leave of Mr. and Mrs. Thomſon, and ſettled his affairs with his ſteward, ſet out from Warring⯑ton Caſtle on horſeback, on Monday the — of — unattended, and determined to drop his title, and be known only by the name of Mr. Warrington. His route was acroſs the country to Newcaſtle, from whence he meant to proceed towards London, and there fix his future [91] plans. The good Vicar, conſidering his youth and inexperience, would have recommended him to a friend he had in the metropolis; but he was afraid of the conſequences, knowing that friend (for he had but one in Lon⯑don), though otherwiſe a worthy man, to be a perfect convert to the new and abſurd ſyſtem of equality: it was in deed from him he had received thoſe books, which had perverted the mind of his beloved pupil.

Our hero rode ſlowly along, medi⯑tating on his new ideas, and, as he beheld the labourers in the field toil⯑ing for the ſupport of others, ex⯑claimed with the Scottiſh bard:

Here he ſtopped: but he ſhould have proceeded to the next verſe, which adds,

[93]And it is too true, that though fancy has miſled many, till they have loſt peace as well as happineſs, in a thouſand previous inſtances, yet ne⯑ver has ſhe precipitated ſuch numbers to utter deſtruction, as ſince ſhe has aided the dreams of falſe philoſophy: and it is moſt earneſtly to be hoped, that ſhould the demon of diſcord diſguiſed in, but not concealed by, the robe of liberty, fly to this happy iſle, every true Briton will exclaim:

As the evening drew to a cloſe, our hero arrived at a village about three parts of the way between Bel⯑lingham and Newcaſtle; and, per⯑ceiving [94] a ſign on which was written, 'Entertainment for man and horſe,' re⯑ſolved, if he could be decently accom⯑modated, to proceed no farther that night, being already much fatigued. As he ſtopped at the door, he was accoſted by the landlord, who, like Boniface, promiſed all he required; but, following him into the kitchen, he was ſurpriſed to find that was de⯑ſtined for his reception.

Though general equality was his favourite topic, the idea of ſitting down with oſtlers, blackſmiths, ploughmen, and ſoldiers, by no means ſuited his pride, of which, how⯑ever he endeavoured to perſuade him⯑ſelf [95] of the contrary, he had a proper ſhare: in ſhort, ‘He thought as a Sage, but he felt as a —’ Baronet; and, ſurveying the com⯑pany (who were ſitting round the fire, and who made no way for him) with ſome aſtoniſhment, he aſked the landlord if he had no other room.

"Why, yes," replied the man, "I have a little bit of a parlour, to be ſure, but there is a gentleman in it."

"A gentleman!" returned our hero: "Then pray give him my compliments, and ſay, as a brother traveller, I ſhould be obliged to him if he would admit [96] me to partake of the comforts of his fire-ſide. But, after all, can you give me a bed?"

"Oh yes, your honour, a very good bed. To be ſure, young Miſs has got the beſt; but you will have as ſoft a one as ever you ſlept in, if you were the biggeſt ſquire in the county."

Our hero ſmiled. "What lady do you mean?" ſaid he.

"Why, the gentleman's ſiſter that he has juſt been to fetch from boarding-ſchool, and is going to carry her home: but the poor child is tired, and gone to bed; ſo the gentleman is alone, and [97] I dare ſay will be very glad of your company."

Here, however, his conjectures were ill-founded. The ſtranger received the meſſage with a very ill grace, and ſwore handſomely at him for his in⯑truſion: but on reflection, and hav⯑ing a glimpſe of the Baronet through the window, as he went to give ſome orders about his horſe, he conſented to admit him.

On his entrance, our hero apolo⯑gized for his intruſion, and the other replied: "'Pon my ſoul, Sir, I am moſt amazingly happy in your company; but, d'ye ſee, when the old man gave [98] me the meſſage, I did not know who it might be; and, in travelling, ſo many people aſſume the name of gen⯑tlemen, who have no pretenſions at all, that I am vaſtly cautious, not chooſing to ſit down among your riff raff."

"You are perfectly right," return⯑ed Sir George, rather gravely, and at a loſs how to reconcile the manners of his new acquaintance with thoſe of a gentleman, according to his idea, though he had known but few; at length, recollecting his total igno⯑rance of the world, ſuppoſed the perſon before him to be ſimply a real coxcomb; a tribe, of which he had only ſeen two or three humble [99] imitations at the Bellingham aſſem⯑blies: and the dreſs of the ſtranger correſponding with the idea, he was ſatisfied with this opinion, nor did his converſation contradict it. When the ſupper was removed, and the gen⯑tlemen left over their wine, our hero began a converſation on the ſpirit of the times, and gave his own ſenti⯑ments in the moſt unequivocal man⯑ner. His companion, though he threw no new lights on the ſubject, coincided with him ſo entirely, that Sir George, who in his arguments with the Vicar and the Surgeon had al⯑ways been oppoſed, was now delight⯑ed; and expreſſed his pleaſure ſo frankly, that the other began to [100] throw off all reſerve, and talk as free⯑ly as himſelf.

"Why, yes, Sir," cried he, "I think that there as you mention will be the thing at laſt. Oh, what lives we ſhall lead, when we ſhall all be on a foot! There will be jolly doings: no caning ſervants for getting drunk; but we ſhall all have money in our pockets to ſpend as we like, and nobody to call us to an account for it."

Sir George looked grave: theſe were not the advantages he hoped to reap from equality, and the other con⯑tinued:

[101]"There was once a cuſtom, ſome⯑where abroad—in France was it? No no, it could not be France, becauſe the uppermoſt there were always up⯑permoſt till now: but hang me if I can hit upon the name, though 'twas but laſt week at dinner I heard my maſter tell it to a gentleman that —"

"Your maſter!" interrupted our hero much ſurpriſed.

His companion coloured: "A— a—, my maſter, yes my, my, old ſchool-maſter. When I went to fetch home Charlotte, I dined with him at the ſame town where ſhe boarded."

[102]"I beg your pardon," returned Sir George—"pray proceed."

"Well then," continued the other, —"ſomewhere abroad, among the Heathens, or the Turks, or the Americans, I cannot exactly ſay which, where upon ſome great days, when they had a dinner for the Para⯑phernalia, they uſed to make their footmen and butlers ſit down to table, and wait upon 'em themſelves. But this will be for ever; ſo, Sir, here goes Liberty and equality:" filling and drinking off a bumper as he ſpoke.

Our hero, though now in utter aſtoniſhment, could not refuſe the [103] toaſt; but he repeated it in a fainter tone than uſual. Though always temperate, he was more ſtrictly ſo ſince his accident, and now mixed every glaſs with water; ſo that, whilſt perfectly compoſed himſelf, his com⯑panion became as perfectly ine⯑briated. We all know, at ſuch a time no man has the command of himſelf; and the ſtranger fully proved it, by addreſſing our hero, after a hearty ſhake by the hand, in the fol⯑lowing manner:

"I'll tell you, I ſee you are a jolly fellow, ſo I don't care if I tell you all, for you won't 'peach, I'm ſure. [104] This liberty and equality is glorious work for me, my boy! A few days ago, I was footman to Squire Thorn⯑ton of Yorkſhire, and now I'm a gentleman. My maſter was always preaching about the rights of man, and the like: ſo I have taken the li⯑berty to run away with his eldeſt daughter, and conſider myſelf quite upon a footing with him; and, to be ſure, he will think the ſame. We are going to Gretna Green upon the wings of love; and, as ſoon as the little blackſmith has done his duty, I won't give way to any man in the county, let the other be who he will; for Miſs Charlotte has ten thouſand [105] pounds when ſhe comes of age, left by her grandmother. What d'ye think of my contrivance, eh?"

Our hero during this ſpeech felt his indignation riſe to ſuch a degree, that he could not have concealed it, had the other been in his perfect ſenſes: but he was too much engroſſed by the ideas of his future conſequence, to attend to the manner in which Sir George received this intelligence; who ſtruggled to ſuppreſs his emo⯑tions, that he might form ſome plan to reſtore the loſt girl to her unhappy parents; and, to do this more effectu⯑ally, he feigned a curioſity to know how he had executed a ſcheme which [106] required no little contrivance. The other, pleaſed at the requeſt, pro⯑ceeded:

"Why, whilſt I was waiting at table, my maſter was always talking about one Tom Paine, who, though only a ſtaymaker, he uſed to ſay was the firſt man in the kingdom; and that, as to all the reſt, they were alike; he was as good as the firſt Duke in the land, and had as much a right to do what he pleaſed, and ſo he ſaid had the ploughboy. Upon this thinks I, it is very hard if I may not do as I like; ſo I took the firſt opportunity to ſpeak to Miſs Charlotte, who uſed to walk about the Park all day long [107] reading French novels: ſo I followed her, and told her that my birth was equal to hers, and, if ſhe would but conſent to marry me, I would adore her for ever; and then I uſed to ſay I was dying for her, and if ſhe would not liſten to me I ſhould throw myſelf into the great pond, and that, when my father came to hear of my death, he would go diſtracted; for that I ran away from him to hire myſelf to Squire Thornton purely for her ſake, for that I had a very good eſtate in my own country. So in about a fort⯑night's time ſhe conſented; and I got a double horſe, and, when the family were aſleep, ſhe crept down ſtairs and got out of the hall window; and [108] we travelled acroſs the country all night, and about morning came to a brother of mine, who is a farmer. There we ſtopped to take ſome break⯑faſt, and I got another horſe, and we ſet out again, ſtill going croſs roads, that we might not be purſued, for I knew my maſter would ſend after us when we were miſſed. When that horſe was tired, we were pretty well ſafe; ſo I hired a poſt-chaiſe and came here this evening, making Miſs Charlotte paſs for my ſiſter, juſt come from ſchool, that we may not be ſuſpected. Now this being quite out of the road, I think to go to Gretna Green by round-about ways; and when we are married, I'll go [109] boldly to Thornton Park, and demand her fortune."

"Take care," ſaid our hero almoſt ſternly, "that you are not circumvented in the mean time." "Aye, aye," cried he, "never fear; if I do not ſucceed, my name is not Benjamin Potter."

Sir George, now finding his loqua⯑city increaſe, and that during this confuſion it was impoſſible to fix on any thing, pretended wearineſs, and ſaid, as he was to purſue his journey the next morning, he meant to retire early: then wiſhing Mr Benjamin a good night, he left him, and, calling for the landlord, imparted the vile [110] ſtory he had juſt heard, and aſked his advice what meaſures to purſue. The old man bleſſed himſelf on hear⯑ing it, and ſaid they could ſend for a conſtable to ſecure him; but what ſhould they do with young Miſs?

"Why," replied Sir George, "if you will take care of the man, and ſee he does not eſcape, I will pro⯑miſe to convey the lady ſafe to her father's."

"You will?" cried the landlord, eye⯑ing him earneſtly; "but pray who are you, and who knows whether you may not take Mr. Benjamin's place, and carry her to Gretna Green yourſelf? [111] No, no, you may go too, if you pleaſe; but I will ſend ſomebody beſides to ſee you both ſafe."

Sir George, whilſt he could not but allow the propriety of the man's behaviour, felt himſelf much hurt at being the object of ſuſpicion: how⯑ever, he reſtrained his indignation, conſcious that as a ſtranger he was not to be relied upon, and, as he had evidently wiſhed to conceal his name, he was the more liable to cen⯑ſure.

"Well well," returned he impatiently, "do as you pleaſe; only ſecure the vil⯑lain, and do not, at leaſt till the morn⯑ing, [112] let the poor girl know any thing of the matter."

The landlord promiſed aſſent, and left the houſe inſtantly. He was an honeſt and worthy character, who had long lived in a gentleman's family as butler; but, when he married, left his place to ſet up in this little inn. He had therefore ſeen too much of the world to truſt appearances; and the extreme anxiety of Sir George to ſave the young lady from ruin did not ſeem to him ſo diſintereſted as it really was; and he was deter⯑mined to ſend a perſon on whom he could depend, to return her ſafe to her father. The conſtables ſoon ar⯑rived; [113] and, on the teſtimony of the Baronet, Mr. Benjamin was commit⯑ted, and lodged in a ſecure place, till he could be ſent to the county gaol; and all this was executed with ſo little noiſe, that Miſs Charlotte awoke not from the heavy ſleep into which fa⯑tigue had thrown her; though he be⯑ſtowed the bittereſt curſes on the raſ⯑cal who he ſaid had betrayed him: but this made no impreſſion on the minds of any preſent. Sir George liberally rewarded the men who ſeized him, and promiſed them a farther gratuity, if in all points they did their duty; and this was a ſtill ſtronger motive for them to behave as they ought. When all was quiet he retired to his own room, [114] and went to reſt with that innate ſa⯑tisfaction which ever ariſes from a conſciouſneſs of having performed a good action.

CHAP. VII.

"AND it is villains like theſe," cried Sir George mentally, as he aroſe in the morning, "who diſgrace a cauſe that is ſo noble in itſelf!" Alas! he was yet to learn, that, among the ma⯑ny who adopted his favourite ſyſtem, there were but few who, like himſelf, thought only of the general good that might ſpring from it; as far the greater part of its adherents enter⯑tained no hopes, but of riſing them⯑ſelves by the deſtruction of others. Like the fox in the fable, they en⯑tice [116] the goat into the pit, to eſcape from it themſelves by her means.

On going down ſtairs, he walked through the kitchen into the parlour he had quitted the night before, where, to his great ſurpriſe, he was accoſted by one of his tenants, who was re⯑turning from Newcaſtle; and the man addreſſing him by his title, and ex⯑preſſing that pleaſure at meeting him which thoſe who knew him ever felt, the landlord apologized to his honour for his rough behaviour the evening before, and declared he ſhould think the young lady perfectly ſafe under his protection, having long known the character of Sir George Warrington, [117] though till now unacquainted with his perſon. The Baronet accepted his apologies with his uſual ſweetneſs; and, having returned his tenant's ad⯑dreſs with the ſame cordiality, went into the room where breakfaſt was prepared, and deſired Miſs Thornton might be called, intending to diſcloſe to her, with all poſſible gentleneſs, the events of the preceding night. But this trouble was ſpared him by the officious kindneſs of the landlady; who, unable any longer to conceal it in her own boſom, had informed the poor girl of the whole, a few minutes before, and ſhe was then in a violent hyſteric fit. This made no ſmall de⯑gree of confuſion in the houſe: but [118] the uſual remedies being applied, the diſorder ſoon gave way; and, with her eyes ſtill inflamed with weeping, Miſs Charlotte entered the room. Sir George addreſſed her with the utmoſt mildneſs, and requeſted her not to grieve at an event, for which at ſome future time ſhe would have reaſon to rejoice.

"Conſider, dear Madam," he con⯑tinued, "what would have been your feelings, had you married this wretch. Diſowned by your own family, deſpiſed by your former acquaintance, and re⯑garded with contemptuous pity by thoſe who are now your inferiors, how would you have borne all theſe [119] evils, added to the conſciouſneſs that you had drawn them upon yourſelf, by giving your hand to a common ſervant?"

"I beg your pardon, Sir," returned the young lady angrily; "he was no ſervant; he only wore a livery to gain admittance to my preſence; nor is it the firſt time by many, as I have often heard and read, of gentlemen going in diſguiſe to obtain the firſt wiſh of their hearts. I ſuppoſe alſo, you think his name was Benjamin Potter: no, Sir; it is Auguſtus Clinton; the other was only aſſumed to carry on his purpoſe."

[120]"Say rather, Madam, the latter was aſſumed to carry on his purpoſe: indeed I am too well aſſured of it. In this very room, laſt night, he confeſſ⯑ed the whole plan to me; unſolicited on my part, he owned the deception practiſed on you, and the motives that led him to it. Reflect a mo⯑ment, Miſs Charlotte; uſe the good ſenſe you undoubtedly poſſeſs; and you muſt know, had he been really a man of independent fortune, he would have applied to your father; and, when I accuſed him of duplicity and impoſture, would have cleared him⯑ſelf from the charge, had it been poſſible, and at once acknowledged himſelf a gentleman. And ſuffer me to [121] add, had he proved this clearly, how⯑ever I might be concerned at your clandeſtine proceedings, I ſhould not have thought myſelf juſtified in pre⯑venting your journey."

Conviction now flaſhed upon Miſs Thornton, though yet too proud to confeſs it; and her tears flowed rapid⯑ly. Indeed the fear of returning to her family in ſome degree occaſioned them. Our hero ſoothed her with every expreſſion of benevolence, and promiſed to intercede with her father for that forgiveneſs, which, as her deliverer, he had a right to claim. A little comforted by theſe aſſurances, ſhe got into the poſt-chaiſe, when it [122] drove up to the door, with more com⯑poſure than Sir George expected.

During their journey he had an opportunity of developing her cha⯑racter, which was to a degree roman⯑tic and ſentimental, and of learning that her education had been ſuch as in ſome meaſure to excuſe her con⯑duct. He ſound from her converſa⯑tion, that her mother was a gay wo⯑man, who ſpent more than half the year in London, where ſhe entered into every kind of diſſipation; that during theſe periods ſhe was left in the country with her ſiſters, who were all younger than herſelf, and a French governeſs; and that their only [123] amuſement was reading novels, as they had no neighbourhood in the winter; and in the ſummer, when their own family were aſſembled, and they entered into all the ſociety the country afforded, ſhe was ſtill confined with her governeſs whenever they had com⯑pany; as, though near ſixteen, her mother thought her too young to be brought into the world. Having formed her mind upon the principles ſhe had met with in her ſtudies, ſhe had for ſeveral months expected ſome adventure would befall her, and of courſe was neither ſurpriſed nor angry when Benjamin Potter announced himſelf as her deſpairing lover, Au⯑guſtus Clinton; a name too conſonant [124] to her ideas not to have the deſired effect. The conſequences were ſuch as might be expected; and Miſs Char⯑lotte was indebted to her good genius for counteracting her intentions.

By the time they drew near Thorn⯑ton Park, the young lady was quite reconciled to her cruel perſecutor, as ſhe termed Sir George: but that ap⯑pellation was now changed into her amiable deliverer; nor would he have found it very difficult to inſinuate himſelf into the ſame place in her af⯑fections Mr. Benjamin had previ⯑ouſly filled: but he was perfectly un⯑ambitious, and ſought no recompenſe but the applauſes of his own con⯑ſcience. [125] When the park gates opened for their reception, Miſs Thornton's apprehenſions increaſed ſo much, that our hero, mindful of his promiſe, bade the poſtillion ſtop; and, alighting, walked on towards the houſe. On en⯑quiring for Mr. Thornton, he was ſhewn into a parlour where that gen⯑tleman was ſitting. After ſome little preparation, he opened his commiſſion, and by degrees informed him his un⯑happy daughter was, with deep contri⯑tion, waiting his forgiveneſs, in the park, too timid to proceed till aſſured of a favourable reception.

Mr. Thornton, whatever gratitude he might feel, aſſuredly did not at this [126] time expreſs any to the protector of his child; but received his intelligence with rage and execrations: but when theſe had exhauſted themſelves, he recollected the impropriety of his be⯑haviour, and apologized for it. Sir George coldly anſwered, "he was ſorry to ſee him ſo ill diſpoſed to grant that forgiveneſs, which the youth and in-experience of his daughter (he might have added, her improper mode of education) gave her a claim to, and that he was the more concerned, as he had, to induce her return, promiſed his influence to ſecure her pardon."

Mr. Thornton replied, "he could have forgiven her any thing but run⯑ning [127] away with a footman. Had he been but a gentleman," continued he, "and had not a coat to his back, nor a ſhilling in his pocket, I ſhould not reſent it thus; but a ſervant, my own ſervant too—"

Sir George interrupted him: "Then, Sir, I will exculpate the young lady; the man impoſed on her by an artful tale, and led her to believe he was a gentleman; and, as I learnt from her⯑ſelf, her having ſeen little of ſociety induced her the more readily to credit him, as ſhe had not the power of diſ⯑tinguiſhing that his manners contra⯑dicted his aſſertions."

[128]Mr. Thornton's rage again roſe to its firſt height; but Mr. Benjamin Potter was now the object. When he once more grew cool, our hero continued:

"Yet he was not totally to blame; he heard you ſo frequently declare, that all men were upon an equality, that he determined, if poſſible, to raiſe himſelf to your level, by an union with your daughter: therefore—"

Sir George would have gone on: but, a third time, the fury of Mr. Thornton vented itſelf in ſuch oaths and imprecations againſt levellers, and all ſupporters of a cauſe he had be⯑fore [129] as vehemently juſtified and ap⯑proved, that our hero was riſing to quit the room; when a meſſage from Mrs. Thornton ſummoned him into another parlour. This lady, who had heard a confuſed account from the ſervants of the cauſe of his viſit, now begged to know the truth with much earneſtneſs. Though half afraid of exciting her wrath alſo, he inform⯑ed her of the whole, and claimed her pardon for her unhappy child. With⯑out altering a muſcle of her counte⯑nance, ſhe granted it in the fulleſt manner: and our hero, delighted at ſucceeding with one of the family, roſe up to acquaint his young charge; but Mrs. Thornton, ringing the bell, [130] ſaid "ſhe would ſave him the trouble," and ordered her own woman to go to the carriage, and acquaint Miſs Char⯑lotte that ſhe would be received. In leſs than a minute the poor girl ſprang into the room, and, falling at her mo⯑ther's feet, burſt into an agony of tears. She very compoſedly bid her riſe; and then calling Wilkins, com⯑manded her to take Miſs Charlotte into the back garret, and lock her up, with a ſlice of bread and a cup of water for her ſupper; adding with a ſneer, "that before ſhe had been Mrs. Potter three months, ſuch fare would have been a luxury to her."

The unhappy Charlotte obeyed [131] this ſtern order without a murmur; but through her faſt falling tears turned her really beautiful eyes with an imploring look towards our hero, who was inſenſible to all her attrac⯑tions, yet too much intereſted in her cauſe not to deteſt the coldneſs and even hardneſs of her mother. When ſhe had quitted the room, the lady enquired farther particulars, return⯑ed with the moſt ſtudied politeneſs her thanks to the Baronet for his for⯑tunate interpoſition, and then requeſted to know to whom they were ſo much obliged. He informed her without reſerve; and her reſpect and civility increaſed with the certainty that his rank at leaſt deſerved it. At her [132] earneſt entreaties, he conſented to ſtay till the next day; but more from a hope of mediating in Miſs Thornton's favour, than experiencing any pleaſure from converſing with a family, whoſe minds he already ſaw would not aſſi⯑milate with his own.

CHAP. VIII.

FROM what has been already re⯑lated the reader muſt diſcover, that Mr. and Mrs. Thornton were of very oppo⯑ſite characters. The former in fact was violent even to fury, but generous and forgiving; the latter, cold-hearted and reſentful, but always calm. When ſupper was announced, the gentle⯑man entered the room; and, his rage being now entirely at an end, he went up to our hero, and, with all that warmth ſo natural to him, preſſed his hand, apologized for his paſt conduct, aſſured him how deeply he felt the [134] obligation, and begged to know how he could return it.

Sir George anſwered, "he wiſhed for no return, but a frank and entire pardon for the young lady, on whoſe future behaviour he thought they might rely."

"Forgive her!" cried he: "Aye, to be ſure; I have been enquiring for her, and expected to ſee her here. Why does ſhe not come to ſupper?"

"She is ſupping upon bread and water in the garret," anſwered Mrs. Thornton, "and that is too good for her."

[135]Mr. Thornton's lips again quivered: he turned pale with anger; but, com⯑manding himſelf, only ſaid, "I inſiſt on her being brought down inſtantly."

"If you can open the door, you may," cried the lady tartly.

"If the key cannot be found, I will break it down," ſaid the gen⯑tleman.

This altercation laſted for ſome time, till the object of it made her ap⯑pearance, when ſhe was moſt unrea⯑ſonably careſſed by her father, in en⯑tire oppoſition to the mother. Our hero, though rejoiced at having gained [136] his point by her reception, was con⯑cerned that the oppoſite and equally blamable conduct of her father and mother would probably prevent her reformation. The conſequence of the father's kindneſs was, that ſhe ap⯑peared to forget her own imprudence, and to hate her mother, whoſe con⯑temptuous treatment in ſome degree juſtified the poor girl's diſlike, though it could not excuſe her behaviour. Sir George was extremely rejoiced when it was time to retire, and reſol⯑ved to leave Thornton Park after breakfaſt the following morning. Some converſation on politics had taken place; but our hero, finding Mr. Thornton was now as furious on one [137] ſide, as he had formerly been on the other, purpoſely changed the ſubject, reſolving not to be influenced by a man who had no fixed principles, but who veered according as his intereſt or paſſions were affected.

Early the next day he left his cham⯑ber; but, finding the parlour not yet ready for the reception of the family, he was going to take a ſtroll in the park, when the footman, throwing open the door of another apartment, aſked him to walk in, ſaying it was the room belonging to Mademoiſelle and the young ladies; but they were now walking. Curioſity tempted him to enter; and he immediately began exa⯑mining [138] the ſide of the room occupied by the ſhelves for their books; and here he found ſtill more reaſon to ex⯑cuſe Miſs Charlotte. There had been a large collection; but the greater part were ſoiled and torn. Rouſſeau's Elo⯑iſe, and ſeveral other French novels of the worſt tendency, and ſome Eng⯑liſh ones, appeared to have been much read; whilſt Telemachus, the Specta⯑tor, Madame Genlis's works, Advice to a Daughter, Mrs. Chapone's Let⯑ters, with many others of the ſame kind, ſeemed perfectly new, but were covered with duſt; and in ſome places even cobwebs proved they had not been removed from their ſituations for many months.

[139]Whilſt he was thus employed, the young people, attended by their go⯑verneſs, returned from their morning's ramble. They were all fine girls, but received his addreſs with ſuch an air of awkward ſhyneſs, that he could not but lament where nature had done ſo much, parental care ſhould do ſo little. Mademoiſelle was much more eaſy and diſengaged, and, with all the vivacity natural to her nation, entered into converſation with him: but a ſum⯑mons to breakfaſt put a ſtop to it; ſoon after which he ordered his horſe, which had accompanied the poſt-chaiſe, and took a cold but polite leave of Mr. and Mrs. Thornton; re⯑commending to the former to ſhew [140] ſome lenity in his proſecution of Ben⯑jamin Potter, and gently hinting to the latter, that the moſt probable method of ſecuring Miſs Charlotte's future obedience was to ſhew her a little more of the world, that ſhe might diſtinguiſh between people of real merit and pretenders to it, and alſo teach her to ſet a juſter, if not a higher, value on herſelf.

As Thornton Park was ſituated in the eaſt riding of Yorkſhire, and not very diſtant from the coaſt, our hero was many miles from the great northern road, which he ſought to regain, but in a direction that would not lengthen his journey. The evening therefore [141] drew to a cloſe before he reached it, and he was again compelled to ſpend the night in a village inn. But this was no great hardſhip to a leveller; one who from principle, romantic it is true, but yet benevolent, wiſhed to ſee all mankind on an equality. He ſoon found himſelf comfortably ac⯑commodated in a ſmall parlour, with a good fire and a diſh of tea; and he was ſcarcely ſeated, when the wind riſing almoſt to a ſtorm, and the rain fall⯑ing in torrents, made him ſecretly rejoice that he had gone no farther.

Whilſt he was ruminating on the events of his journey, and reflecting that, if no good accrued to himſelf, he [142] ſhould at leaſt have the ſatisfaction of knowing he had been the means of perhaps ſaving an innocent girl from deſtruction, his attention was attracted by the ſound of wheels; and, going to the window, he ſaw a car⯑riage ſtop, and a young lady alight from it, who at the firſt view ſtruck him as the moſt beautiful object he had ever beheld. She appeared about nineteen, was dreſſed in a black ri⯑ding habit, and a beaver hat of the ſame colour. Her hair, which was light brown, hung on her neck, as if diſhevelled by her journey, and her face preſented ſuch an aſſemblage of attractions, as made an inſtant impreſ⯑ſion [143] on his heart. To ſay he loſt it wholly at this glance, would be an abſurdity. In a mind well cultivated and well regulated, love at firſt ſight is a doctrine always reprobated; but truth obliges me to confeſs, he expe⯑rienced more uneaſineſs from the mo⯑ment her bright blue eyes darted ac⯑cidentally upon him, than he had ever felt from the repeated and intended attacks of Miſs Kettering's ſparklers.

The beautiful ſtranger now entered the houſe; and the poſtillion, having taken out a ſmall trunk, delivered it to the landlady; and then, having re⯑ceived the money due to him, he turned his horſes' heads, and ſet out [144] immediately. Sir George could not reſiſt the curioſity he felt to ſee more of this young lady; and going back to his ſeat, the door, which happened to be a-jar, favoured his wiſhes. She was ſtanding in the kitchen, with evi⯑dent marks of anxiety on her counte⯑nance, awaiting the landlady's return, who had run up ſtairs to fetch her a better chair than the room afforded. When ſhe came down, inſtead of availing herſelf of her civility, ſhe ad⯑dreſſed her in the following manner: "Pray, can you tell me how far it is from hence to farmer Garland's?" "A little better than a mile, Madam," ſaid the woman.—"Will you then ſend ſomebody to inform the farmer a lady [145] wiſhes to ſpeak with him? and in the mean time let me have a room to my⯑ſelf, and a diſh of tea."—"Bleſs ye, Madam," returned the landlady, "why, he has been dead theſe three weeks." "Dead!" repeated the ſtranger: "Heaven forbid!"—"Aye, Madam, he caught the ague and fever going to his wife's funeral, about a month before: ſo now—"

Here ſhe was interrupted by a low ſcream, but one expreſſive of the deepeſt diſtreſs, from the fair un⯑known; who caught hold of her arm, and, with a wild agony that terrified her, exclaimed, "Tell me once more, are they indeed both dead? Oh would to [146] heaven the ſame—" Here her feelings over powered her, and ſhe ſunk into the chair in a ſtate of utter inſenſibi⯑lity. Our hero now ruſhed out, and, lifting her in his arms, brought her from the gaze of the vulgar multi⯑tude, who ſurrounded her with all the apathy of unfeeling curioſity, into the room he had occupied, and aſſiſted the landlady in rubbing her temples and hands with vinegar—the only re⯑medy the houſe afforded. This, how⯑ever, proved efficacious: for in a few minutes ſhe opened her beautiful eyes, and, turning them on our hero, at⯑tempted to expreſs her thanks for his attention; but her voice failed her, and ſhe burſt into tears. This gave her [147] a more permanent relief; and, when ſhe was compoſed enough to liſten to him, he aſked if it was in his power to aſſiſt her.

With a deep ſigh, that appeared al⯑moſt the laſt effort of a heart breaking with repeated misfortunes, ſhe replied: "There is now no human being on whom I have a claim; but the Pro⯑tector of innocence will not, I hope, deſert me in this hour of diſtreſs. Your advice, Sir, may perhaps guide me: beyond that, my youth, my ſitua⯑tion, and unprotected ſtate, forbid me to accept."

Sir George put his hand to his breaſt, and anſwered, with a frankneſs [148] and earneſtneſs not to be miſtaken but by thoſe ſo hackneyed in the ways of the world as to be ſlaves to diſtruſt, or thoſe whoſe own boſoms afford them proofs of that deception, as common as it is generally fallacious: "May every good power forſake me, may every hope of happineſs deſert me, if I betray or deceive you!"

She looked up with more confi⯑dence at this aſſurance, and again thanked him: and being now almoſt recovered, he led her to the table; and, giving her a diſh of tea, ſhe ſoon became ſufficiently compoſed to enter into the particulars of her preſent ſituation, and the reaſons why the death of far⯑mer [149] Garland and his wife was ſo par⯑ticularly lamented by her.

"I am at this moment," ſaid ſhe, ad⯑dreſſing our hero, "ſo utterly unable to decide for myſelf, ſo diſtracted by my paſt ſufferings and immediate diſap⯑pointments, that I cannot refuſe your polite and benevolent requeſt, though I know not but I am guilty of a great impropriety in thus—" Her tears again checked her utterance, and it was ſome minutes before ſhe could proceed: at length ſhe continued:

"Forgive me, Sir, for troubling you with a relation of my misfortunes; but my ſtory, though melancholy, is [150] neither long nor eventful. My fa⯑ther, whoſe name was Moreland, had a large eſtate in this neighbourhood; but, a law-ſuit commencing againſt him, he loſt it all with arrears when I was juſt eight years old. My mother died before my remembrance. I was his only child; and the little remain⯑der of his fortune being inſufficient to ſupport him in his native country, he reſolved to retire with me to a town in the ſouth of France. Soon after our arrival, he placed me in a convent for education, where I remained till the hand of death tore him from me. He was my only friend, my only reli⯑ance in this world; and, when he was [151] taken from me, I felt I was alone in the univerſe. My religion (for I had early received the ſtrongeſt impreſſions in favour of the proteſtant faith, which had been confirmed by an old lady whom I frequently viſited during my ſtay at the Convent) forbade my taking the vows—a plan which I ſhould otherwiſe have gladly embraced, as an aſylum from miſery: and I knew not where to go, when the Abbeſs, who, though an excellent woman, was no bi⯑got, offered to receive me as a conſtant boarder at a very moderate ſalary. In⯑deed a moderate ſalary was all I could afford to pay. My father, whoſe little income ceaſed at his death, had ſaved annually from it a trifle, which he placed [152] in the French funds, and ſuffered to ac⯑cumulate for my uſe. This was my ſole dependance, and even this little I was prevented from receiving by the diſ⯑tracted ſtate of the French nation. But the good Abbeſs St. Cecile (and a ſaint ſhe was, in every ſenſe of the word, if the ſtricteſt piety, the pureſt faith, the moſt extenſive charity, can conſtitute that character) declared ſhe would never forſake me. I had no friend, and ſcarcely an acquaintance, beyond the Convent walls: the old Engliſh lady died before my father; and his retired way of life ſecluded him from all ſociety: indeed diſap⯑pointment had ſo ſickened him of the world, he had little inclination to ſeek [153] it, and he was too poor to be ſought by it. Thus were my hopes, and al⯑moſt my wiſhes, bounded by one nar⯑row circle: but even that little ſpot was torn from me. An order for the deſtruction of the convent came down from Paris. Let me not dwell on that day: its horrors were too much for memory: the old, the ſickly, the infirm, wandering for ſupport they could not obtain; the young ſubjected to every inſult the brutality of the multitude choſe to inflict. I was al⯑moſt without money, and totally with⯑out friends, except among my fellow ſufferers: but a few of the younger nuns, intending to eſcape to England, offered to take me with them, as they [154] knew I might here meet with protec⯑tion from a woman who had been my nurſe, and with whom I had con⯑ſtantly correſponded till within a few months, when receiving and ſending letters became hazardous, if not dan⯑gerous. Delighted with this proſpect, I haſtened to St. Cecile, to inform her of it; but gueſs my emotion, when I was told ſhe had quitted her lodgings, and the people of the houſe could give me no intelligence of her! Diſtracted with my fears, I ran wildly about the town; when I accidentally learnt that an old nun had taken refuge in a miſerable hovel without the walls. To this place I directed my ſteps, and found her; but in what a ſituation!— [155] ſtretched on a bed of ſtraw, and al⯑moſt dying, without aſſiſtance and without nouriſhment. She told me, 'the woman with whom ſhe had lodged, diſcovering her poverty, had the night before turned her into the ſtreet; and that this ſhock, added to her previous ſufferings, had deprived her of the uſe of her limbs; and ſhe now lay expoſed to all the horrors of ſickneſs and ſorrow.' Could I have quitted her in this ſituation—her who had been more than a mother to me; who had afforded me a refuge when in the wide world I had no other reſource—I muſt have been a brute. I concealed the offer I had met with; and, under pre⯑tence of ſeeking for her ſome relief, [156] left the cottage, with a heart torn by a variety of diſtracting emotions, and ſought my friends. I informed them of the ſituation of the Abbeſs, and implored them to aſſiſt her; adding, that whilſt ſhe remained in that me⯑lancholy ſtate I would never leave her. They gave me a trifle for pre⯑ſent ſubſiſtence; but declared the im⯑poſſibility of their waiting for me, as the period of her life was uncer⯑tain. I could make no reply to this: but their going without paying her one farewell viſit ſhocked my feel⯑ings; for ſhe had been an univerſal friend to the whole community, and as ſuch I thought ſhe was univer⯑ſally beloved: and this gave me the [157] firſt ſad proof, that ſelf-intereſt too often overcomes every principle of gratitude and every ſentiment of humanity. Some of them deigned not even to make an apology for their conduct; whilſt the others de⯑clared 'they ſhould ſuffer ſo much in an interview, that they could not at⯑tempt it.' Diſguſted with them, I returned to St. Cecile, with ſome pro⯑viſions I had purchaſed with their bounty: but it did not laſt long; and I was then reduced to ſolicit pre⯑carious and accidental charity. I had, however, the ſatisfaction of knowing my exertions were not thrown away: the Abbeſs, though every day weaker, was ſo ſenſible of [158] my attentions, tha [...] I could not but perceive I ſoftened the cloſe of her melancholy exiſtence; and this reflec⯑tion gave me the higheſt gratification. She lingered three weeks, and then without a ſigh reſigned her pure ſoul to its Creator. Only one circumſtance during this period ſeemed to leſſen the cheerful reſignation with which ſhe bore up againſt diſeaſe and poverty: this was the idea of dying without a Confeſſor, and without thoſe ceremo⯑nies which the more rigid of the Catholic Church deem almoſt eſ⯑ſential to ſalvation. But the prieſts were all fled to ſeek an aſylum in this happy country: and I uſed my weak endeavours to conſole her, and with [159] ſome ſucceſs. Perhaps, though a Pro⯑teſtant, I was better able to calm her mind than one of her own re⯑ligion; ſince, according to my faith, I could, without acting againſt conſci⯑ence, aſſure her, that that Being whoſe mercy equals his juſtice would ac⯑cept the pious yet humble effuſions of her ſoul, though only offered by her own lips. But I have before ſaid St. Cecile was no bigot.

"When my maternal, my revered friend was laid in that grave, to which I could joyfully have follow⯑ed her, I began to turn my thoughts to my own ſituation; but could fix on nothing that afforded me a [160] proſpect of ſupport: my own little pittance had been long ſince exhauſt⯑ed, and I had now no means of reach⯑ing England. I rambled into the country to aſſiſt the peaſants in their labours; but the vineyards were de⯑ſtroyed, the villages depopulated, and there was not ſufficient employment for the few who remained. Hungry and hopeleſs, I returned to the town, and, paſſing the principal inn, I ſaw an Engliſh carriage: hope again took poſſeſſion of my heart. I enquired for the owners; and was ſhewn into a room where ſat an elderly lady and a young man, whom I ſhould have conſidered as mother and ſon, but from their converſation ſoon learnt [161] otherwiſe. I began my melancholy tale; but was checked by the lady, who ſaid ſhe had met with impoſtors enough of her own country already, and could relieve no more: then throwing me a crown, ſhe bade me leave the room. I curtſeyed my grateful thanks, and obeyed her: though in the countenance of my countryman I read a degree of com⯑paſſion that might have induced me to perſiſt, but for the fear of ex⯑citing her anger. Nor was I de⯑ceived: as I walked ſlowly to the cottage where I had remained from the death of St. Cecile, I was over⯑taken by his ſervant, who, in a lan⯑guage ever grateful to my ears, [162] though I had been long a ſtranger to it, told me his maſter had ſent me five guineas; but that, if I met them on the road, I muſt not expreſs my thanks, leſt his lady ſhould know it, as ſhe was the moſt jealous of hu⯑man beings. I promiſed acquieſcence; but joy ſo entirely overcame me, I burſt into tears. The man was af⯑fected; his honeſt Engliſh heart ex⯑panded with charity; and, putting his hand into his pocket, he drew out a guinea and held it to me; but I was already in poſſeſſion of a fortune, and refuſed it. He then enquired how he could aſſiſt me. I replied, my only wiſh was to reach England, where I had friends who could receive me, [163] though too poor themſelves to ſend me the means of travelling; but that the bounty of his maſter would do much towards the accompliſhment of my plans. He pauſed a moment; and then ſaid that himſelf and his la⯑dy's woman were to follow their maſter and lady to Montreuil, where they ſhould remain ſome weeks; but that ſo far he could contrive to con⯑vey me, if I would ſubmit to ſome inconveniencies. To this I joyfully aſſented; and, bidding me ſtay where I was till his return, he left me in haſte. How tedious were theſe mo⯑ments! At length he appeared; and, telling me he had ſettled every thing with Mrs. Clerke, bade me follow [164] him. I was then introduced to this good young woman, who, with a de⯑gree of kindneſs I could not expect from a ſtranger, told me, 'as far as ſhe was to go I ſhould ſhare her com⯑forts, if I could but be concealed from her lady, whoſe unhappy diſ⯑poſition would not approve of ſuch an addition to their ſuite.'

"Not to dwell longer on this part of my narrative, we ſet out; and ar⯑rived at Montreuil in ſafety, and un⯑diſcovered either by Mr. or Mrs. Saxby. There my good friend James hired me a lodging, where I was to remain till their departure, unleſs I could meet with an equally eligible [165] opportunity: and this in a few days offered; as two nuns, unhappily like myſelf liberated from their convent, which was ſituated in the neighbour⯑hood, were alſo like me going to ſeek an aſylum with their Engliſh friends. We ſoon ſettled the plan of our jour⯑ney; and, taking an affectionate leave of my kind and charitable friends, James Bever and Lucy Clerke, and giving them my direction to this place, I quitted Montreuil with theſe ladies, and reached London without any accident. Here we ſeparated; they remaining at the inn where the Canterbury coach had brought us, waiting for ſome intelligence of the fa⯑mily they were in ſearch of; and I [166] coming on to this ſpot, hoping in the boſom of my good old nurſe to re⯑poſe all my troubles. You cannot therefore wonder, Sir, at my agitation on learning I had loſt my ſole reliance in this world, where I am now not merely a ſtranger, but apparently an outcaſt from ſociety."

CHAP. IX.

LOUISA Moreland here con⯑cluded her melancholy narrative, and then gave vent to her tears. Some parts of it had almoſt unmanned our hero; who, though he poſſeſſed a brave ſoul, was not aſhamed of hav⯑ing a feeling heart. He pauſed a few minutes; and then, his counte⯑nance beaming with hope, he ad⯑dreſſed the fair fugitive in the follow⯑ing manner:

"I flatter myſelf, Miſs Moreland, [168] I have thought of a ſcheme which may leſſen, if not obviate, your miſ⯑fortunes, without involving me in any ſuſpicion of being biaſſed by other motives than thoſe the pureſt virtue, the moſt unfullied honour, might dic⯑tate. In the village of Warrington in Northumberband, near which I own I reſide, but I at preſent intend going abroad to remain perhaps for many months, lives a Mr. Thomſon, the Vicar of the place, and his wife a moſt amiable woman. With them, if you will condeſcend to be the bearer of a letter from me, you may reſide with comfort, if not with hap⯑pineſs, till you can fix on a more eli⯑gible ſcheme. Your ſociety will give [169] them pleaſure, and you may there enjoy that peace which has been ſo long a ſtranger to your boſom."

Miſs Moreland bowed her thanks: ſhe could not immediately expreſs the gratitude ſhe felt; and he conti⯑nued—

"It may not, perhaps, be a diſ⯑agreeable circumſtance to you, that you may have an opportunity of again ſeeing your reſpectable though humble friends, James and Lucy; as, from your deſcription, I imagine Mrs. Saxby muſt be a lady I once knew by the name of Barclay, who, I was told ſome little time ſince, was married to a Mr. Saxby, a gentleman [170] very much her inferior both in point of age and fortune: and that they were ſoon coming to England to re⯑ſide at Barclay Manor, which is only ſeven miles from Warrington Caſ⯑tle."

Louiſa now returned her warmeſt acknowledgments for the intereſt he took in her friendleſs ſituation, and joyfully accepted an offer, which, in the ardency of youthful hope, ſeem⯑ed to promiſe a termination to her ca⯑lamities; as ſhe flattered herſelf, if Mrs. Thomſon was the amiable being Sir George had deſcribed, ſhe would contrive ſome plan for her future eſtabliſhment, and perhaps even re⯑commend her to ſome family as a [171] governeſs; for which ſituation ſhe was particularly well qualified, by her perfect knowledge of French, drawing, and fine works: and this hope ſoothed her tortured mind into ſuch compoſure, that, when ſhe re⯑tired to reſt, ſhe enjoyed for ſome hours a quiet and undiſturbed ſlum⯑ber. Our hero, the moment he was alone, called for pen, ink, and paper, and wrote the following letter to Mr. Thomſon:

Our hero that night ſlept little: his mind was agitated and diſturbed with a thouſand hopes and fears: the beautiful Louiſa had made no trifling impreſſion on his heart, though too prudent to avow it to her: but he flattered himſelf a few months reſi⯑dence with Mr. Thomſon, on whoſe acute judgment and quick penetra⯑tion [177] he knew he could rely, would confirm him in ſuch an opinion of her mind and principles, as would render the offer of his heart and hand an act of no imprudence. Fired with this thought, he gave way to all the luxury a benevolent mind ever feels from the proſpect of reſ⯑cuing merit from undeſerved diſtreſs; and, when he met her in the morning, his countenance beamed with hope and animation.

Far different and leſs cheering ideas had engaged her attention. Her little pittance was ſo nearly exhauſt⯑ed, as to leave her no proſpect of reaching the ſpot pointed out by the [178] friendly hand of our hero, without another application to his bounty; and this her heart revolted at with all the dignity of a noble mind re⯑duced to poverty, but not to mean⯑neſs: and the uncertainty of how ſhe ought to act in this dilemma had awakened every acuter feeling of her ſoul, and haraſſed her to ſuch a de⯑gree, that ſhe retained no appearance of being benefited from the peaceful ſlumber the earlier part of the night had afforded her. This diſtreſs was, however, ſoon obviated by Sir George, who, well aware of the circumſtance, meant to remove it, but in the moſt delicate manner.

[179]When the firſt morning compli⯑ments were paſt, he gave her a poc⯑ket-book, which he ſaid encloſed the letter he wiſhed her to preſent to his friend; and added in a heſitating manner: "Do not, Miſs Moreland, accuſe me of preſuming on your goodneſs, if I acknowledge that in this pocket book you will alſo find a bank-note of a trifling value, which I muſt entreat you to conſider as your own. You are at a conſiderable diſ⯑tance from the place where I truſt you will find a comfortable aſylum; and, unaccuſtomed to travelling, may perhaps meet with impoſition, which may render it neceſſary for you to have an addition to that ſum." He [180] pauſed, not well knowing how to go on; as in fact he was very certain ſhe could have no part of Mr. Saxby's bounty yet remaining.

Tears of gratitude burſt from her eyes; but, ſtruggling for compoſure, ſhe replied: "I ſhould have little profited by the leſſons of adverſity, if one ſpark of pride were yet alive in my boſom. I will not pain your noble heart, by refuſing this ſecond proof of your humanity; ſince, to confeſs the truth, without it your firſt would have availed me not, as only theſe few ſhillings (hold⯑ing up her purſe) are left me of all that Mr. Saxby's charity afforded. [181] Nor perhaps ought I to bluſh whilſt I make this confeſſion, ſince it is nei⯑ther the faults nor the errors of my own conduct that have reduced me to this diſtreſs; but the crimes, the barbarity, of thoſe who have driven ſuch numbers of my defence⯑leſs ſex from their ſacred, their peace⯑ful abodes, and forced them into a dependance on the world they had voluntarily reſigned."

This tacit accuſation of the De⯑mocratic party rouſed every heroic ſentiment in the boſom of Sir George; but his pity for the unfortunate Louiſa checked his violence, and he calmly anſwered: "It is always al⯑lowed [182] that 'partial evil' is 'univerſal good;' and therefore, though ſome few may regret their cloiſtered walls, yet how many thouſands, in ſucceed⯑ing generations, will have cauſe to rejoice at the deſtruction of edifices to which ambition or avarice often con⯑ſigned their wretched victims; whilſt pining for the world, and ſighing for the variety of public life, they ſilent⯑ly imprecated curſes on thoſe who de⯑voted them to the ſervice of religion; and employed thoſe hours in fruitleſs murmurs, which, dedicated to ſocial virtues, might have added not mere⯑ly to their own happineſs but to that of all around them!"

[183]"There is ſome juſtice in your aſſertion," replied Miſs Moreland: "but you do not conſider how many ages might have paſſed before an equal number had ſuffered from the oppreſſion you allude to, to thoſe who are now miſerable and wandering exiles: beſides, there have been many to whom, like myſelf, a convent was a reſource from miſery; and there will be many more."

Our hero now felt he had hurt her, by defending a cauſe from which ſhe had ſuffered ſo much; and, attempt⯑ing to give the converſation a more cheerful turn, he ſaid:—"At all events, Madam, I have unreturnable [184] obligations to the Patriots for the deſtruction of the convents; as, but for that, I ſhould probably have ne⯑ver enjoyed the happineſs I now ex⯑perience from ſeeing you."

She bowed in return to this com⯑pliment: but a heavy ſigh proved to him, her heart beat not in uniſon with his; and the conviction mortified him. Haſtily changing the conver⯑ſation, he began ſpeaking of the weather, concerned at obſerving he had undeſignedly given her pain. She ſaw through his motive, and, grateful for it, exerted her ſpirits, and endeavoured to be cheerful; but ſhe was unequal to the ſtruggle; and the [185] carriage which had been ordered coming up to the door, the moment breakfaſt was over he led her to it, and before ſhe had repeated the ac⯑knowledgments ſo much his due, it drove off whilſt ſhe was ſpeaking; and ſhe could only wave her hand in reply to his earneſt wiſhes for her ſafety.

The moment ſhe was out of ſight our hero ordered his horſe, and, when it was brought to him, reſumed his journey.

CHAP. X.

OUR hero, as he rode along reca⯑pitulating the events of his journey, was concerned to find the cauſe which had induced him to quit Warrington Caſtle was not ſo deeply fixed in his mind as at the firſt; and the diſ⯑covery hurt him, as he imagined it a proof of inſtability; the two in⯑ſtances he had met with of the evil conſequences ariſing from the opini⯑ons he defended having damped his ardour without altering his princi⯑ples; and he therefore, as ſtill ac⯑knowledging the juſtice of the cauſe, [187] thought himſelf inexcuſable in grow⯑ing cool. To animate his ideas, he now recalled all he had ever thought or read upon the ſubject; and before he reached — was once more in all the fury of patriotiſm.

From a total want of knowledge of the world, and of the general character of men, and from a guile⯑leſs mind, whoſe firſt principle was benevolence, he had an idea of equa⯑lity correſponding with the manners of the golden age. In ſuch a ſtate, in the wildneſs and vivacity of his ima⯑gination, he formed pictures of bliſs that never really exiſted, and only in Arcadia even ideally: he fancied [188] all vice would be baniſhed ſociety; and that every man, ſitting under the ſhade of his own oaks, would culti⯑vate thoſe virtues alone which diſ⯑tinguiſhed our firſt parents before the fall. But, alas! a re-entrance into Paradiſe is denied us on this ſide of the grave, and conſequently the hope of perfect happineſs in this world is as vain as it is impious.

But nothing can more ſtrongly prove the abſurdity of the idea, than the daily proofs we ſee, that a ſtate of equality is a ſtate of envy, anarchy, and confuſion. The woman of rank ſubmits to royalty, becauſe ſhe has been early taught it is her duty: but [189] to her equals ſhe will not abate an inch of her prerogative; and would rather die, than yield the precedence to a lady whoſe huſband was created a Peer an hour after the anceſtors of her own Lord.

The wife of the Baronet yields to the Peereſs, but over a younger Ba⯑ronet's lady or an Honourable Mrs. exerts all the privileges the Court Calendar will allow. It is reported, that, in the rooms at Bath, the grand⯑daughters of an Earl and the daugh⯑ters of a Baronet contended ſo vio⯑lently for the firſt places in a coun⯑try-dance, that their milliners were greatly benefited by the battle; the [190] floor being ſtrewed with the trophies of conqueſt alternately gained by either party.

And it is the ſame in the Court, the City, or the Country. The mer⯑chant's wife at a watering-place is too wiſe to ſeat herſelf, at a ball, on the forms placed for people of rank; but if the maſter of the ceremonies omits the diſtinctions ſhe thinks her due, and pays them to the relatives of another inhabitant of Crutched-Friars or Seething-Lane, her boſom glows with all the fury of inſulted dignity.

To deſcend a little lower: In a [191] country town aſſembly, the Lawyer's and Clergyman's wives give way without heſitation to the 'Squire's fa⯑mily: by the ſame rule the tradeſ⯑men's wives yield to them, but, among each other, maintain an obſtinate conteſt for the beſt ſeat, or the firſt cup of tea.

In a village, the ſame love of ſupe⯑riority prevails; and the farmer's daughter, who can view without re⯑pining, though not perhaps without wiſhing, the gay bonnets and hats from the manor-houſe, anxiouſly diſplays the finery procured at the market-town at church on the Sun⯑days to her rural friends: but, ſhould [192] one of them eclipſe her, from that moment ſhe becomes an object of hatred, and the ſtruggle between them never ceaſes.

Is it not evident from this picture, which nobody can controvert, that a ſtate of equality can never exiſt? We all think it an eaſy ſtep to riſe above thoſe who are now on a level with us; and whilſt every one thinks the ſame, it is plain that ſtrength and abilities will conquer, whilſt the weak and illiterate will be puſhed into a ſitua⯑tion ſtill lower than that they were originally intended for.

Early in the afternoon, our hero [193] ſtopped at the King's Arms at K—, and, having ordered his dinner, ſat down to write a ſecond letter to his friend Mr. Thomſon, which he ſent by the poſt. In this he gave another ſlight ſketch of Miſs Moreland's hiſ⯑tory, expreſſed the intereſt he felt for her, and requeſted an immediate re⯑ply. When this letter was diſpatch⯑ed, and his ſlight repaſt concluded, he began to grow tired of his own re⯑flections, and enquired of the waiter if there were any company in the houſe. The man replied in the ne⯑gative, except a few haſty travellers, who were only waiting for a change of horſes; but added, "if he wiſhed for ſociety, there was a kind of cof⯑fee-room [194] below, to which the gen⯑tlemen of the town and neighbour⯑hood reſorted, where he might have ſome very learned converſation among the politicians." This was exactly what he wanted; and he followed the waiter to an apartment below ſtairs, which was then empty, but he ſaid would not be ſo long. He took up the papers; and, after reading about half an hour, his attention was en⯑gaged by the gentlemen who now entered very faſt, and, forming their uſual circle round the fire, began an intereſting diſcourſe.

One, who by his dreſs appeared to be a clergyman, laying down the [195] paper and ſhaking his head, ſaid, "He was ſorry there were ſtill ſo many perſons diſaffected to Govern⯑ment, when ſo much pains had been taken by thoſe whoſe talents fitted them for the taſk, to convince them of the propriety of the preſent mea⯑ſures."

"Ay ay," cried a little thin man, whoſe countenance beſpoke diſcon⯑tent, "it is all mighty well for you, Sir, to talk in this here manner, when you've got three hundred a-year in your pocket, only for a little preach⯑ing and praying. You're in the right to praiſe the Biſhops, and the Lords, and them there ſort of people; [196] but I knows better, and I reads as much as e'er a man in the town, and knows as well what's a-going forward; but 'twon't do—Liberty and Equality is my motto."

The other gentleman looked at him with much contempt, and com⯑poſedly replied: "I fear, Sir, you will in the end find yourſelf in an error. Liberty, beyond what Engliſhmen already enjoy, is an airy viſion, and equality a wild chimera."

"I don't care," retorted the other angrily, "about hairy wiſions and vile kimmerays; I ſay 'twill be a fine thing to have nobody no higher than one's [197] ſelf; and I'll ſtand to it. Such a fuſs indeed here about the Mayor!— I don't ſee why I was not choſe this year, inſtead of Mr. Pipkins; but I'll let 'em know my mind, and they ſha'n't hear the laſt on't for ſome time. Ay ay, next election I'll vote againſt the Miniſter, I'll warrant, and then ſee who'll come bowing and ſcraping, with My dear Mr. Taylor, you were always a good friend to Government, and you won't now deſart us: but I ſays, ſays I, Sir, I won't be duped no more; haven't you promiſed my ſon Jack a place in the Cuſtoms, for I don't know how long? And then I'll make my bow, and go into my ſhop, and [198] whip, Jack has the place in a week: but I'll be ſtout yet, that's what I will."

"I am ſorry," returned the cler⯑gyman, "you have no better rea⯑ſons to urge in defence of your prin⯑ciples, Mr. Taylor, than ſelf-intereſt: for that is no proof in favour of your cauſe; it rather militates againſt it."

"I don't care what it militates," anſwered the other. "What do I care for my country? 'Tis myſelf I thinks about."

"So it ſeems," cried a fat gentle⯑man at the other ſide of the room.

[199]"To be ſure," returned he; "do you think I'd do like that fooliſh fel⯑low you was a-talking about here laſt week? What do you think, gentle⯑men, Mr. Goldney ſaid? That, a good many years ago, one Squintus Squir⯑tous jumped into a pit for the ſake of his country: but I'd never jump in⯑to a pit, unleſs 'twas a mine, where I could ſtuff my pockets with gold and come out again alive."

"Nobody imagines you would," replied Mr. Goldney contemptu⯑ouſly; "but let me tell you, Sir, you will never fill your pockets with the profits of your trade, whilſt you avow ſentiments which would [200] render you a diſgrace to any party. And I muſt beg you never again to repeat a ſtory of my relating, unleſs you can do it more correctly."

The little man, abaſhed by this re⯑proof, became ſilent, or only con⯑verſed in a low tone with his next neighbour, whilſt the other conti⯑nued:

"I own I am a republican, and glory in the title. I have a Roman ſpirit; and the character of Brutus is my delight and my example. I would ſacrifice, like him, my beſt friend to preſerve my country; and my own life and fortune are as [201] mere nothings in the ſcale; univerſal benevolence is my religion, and uni⯑verſal philanthropy my practice."

Our hero could no longer conceal the delight he felt at theſe words; for he had not yet been informed, that thoſe who profeſs univerſal be⯑nevolence acknowledge no other deity: nor had his own breaſt taught him any diſtinction; ſince, according to his principles, philanthropy was but the fruits of perfect Chriſtianity. He haſtily threw down his paper, and, going up to Mr. Goldney, addreſſed him on the ſubject he had been ſpeak⯑ing on, and that with ſo much ani⯑mation as entirely won the other's [202] heart; and a long converſation paſſ⯑ed between them, which ended in Mr. Goldney's giving Sir George an invitation to return with him to his houſe, which was about a mile from the town, and ſpend a day or two with him. Our hero frankly ac⯑cepted it; and a common obſerver might have imagined, without any diſgrace to his penetration, that theſe gentlemen had been friends, at leaſt intimates, from their infancy. The name of Brutus was frequently men⯑tioned by them with admiration and reſpect; which the little man over⯑hearing, it gave him a new ſubject for declamation.

[203]"Yes, yes, you may talk as you will about your Brutes of Romans; now in my mind they could not beat them French fellows; for inſtance, Mounſeer Eagle-ight, that we reads ſo much about, he's as likely to knock down his couſin for the ſake of his country as t'other was."

Sir George, to whom this man was a new character, began to be amuſed by his abſurdities; but Mr. Goldney had been ſo often wearied by his loquacious ignorance, that he could now bear it no longer, but, ſeizing our hero's arm, exclaimed peeviſhly: "Let us leave theſe fel⯑lows; there is not among them one [204] who knows what he is talking about."

Sir George aſſented; when at the door they were ſtopped by a real gen⯑tleman of the law, who with much unfeigned concern told Mr. Gold⯑ney "he had not put an execution in⯑to the houſe of the man he had men⯑tioned to him, as the uncommon diſ⯑treſs of the family had excited his utmoſt compaſſion. The wife, he added, was lying-in, and almoſt in want of common neceſſaries; there⯑fore, at ſuch a time to take from her the few comforts ſhe poſſeſſed would be the height of cruelty."

[205]The man of univerſal benevolence and philanthropy replied haughtily: "Sir, I will have my money; the poorer they are, the leſs likely am I to get it by any other means. Their diſtreſs is no buſineſs of yours. You do your duty, if you pleaſe, Sir, and let me hear no more of their po⯑verty."

The gentleman's eyes flaſhed with the fire of honeſt indignation at this reply. "Yes, Sir," ſaid he, "I will do my duty, which is, to proceed no farther in this cruel buſineſs: put it into other hands; I will not be your agent in this affair."

[206]"Nor in any other then," replied Mr. Goldney furiouſly.

"As you pleaſe," anſwered the gentleman with a ſlight bow, and then entered the room.

Our hero, infinitely ſhocked at this converſation, followed him, and, put⯑ting five guineas into his hand, begged he would convey them to the family he had ſpoken of—and then vaniſhed. He overtook his new friend in the gateway of the inn, where he was mounting his horſe; and, his own having been previouſly ordered, they ſet out together. Sir George was much concerned at finding the prin⯑ciples and the practice of his compa⯑nion [207] agree ſo little; but he comforted himſelf by reflecting, that this was owing to the infirmity of human na⯑ture, as there were probably few minds in which ſelf-love did not prevail over every other paſſion; and he hoped in time the noble ſentiments he had ſo openly avowed would correct the na⯑turally unfeeling qualities of his heart.