THE HISTORY OF SIR GEORGE WARRINGTON; OR THE POLITICAL QUIXOTE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE
FEMALE QUIXOTE.
IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR J. BELL, OXFORD-STREET. MDCCXCVII.
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 overtaken by his companions, who, when they lifted him up, immediately perceived his leg was broken. One of his attendants then set off full speed for the village, and immediately returned 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 Baronet; and having set his leg, and declared the fracture by no means a dangerous one, he took leave, desiring 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 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, accomplished, and beautiful. Perhaps Sir Thomas would not have been the 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 comparative poverty on the death of her father, whose vices and extravagance had equally impaired his fortune and his constitution, induced her to comply 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 conversation concealed in some measure the inferiority of his understanding. After a short courtship, Sir Thomas carried his bride to Warrington Castle, 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 neither generosity nor sincerity, that he forbade Lady Warrington's keeping up any connection with her own family; and as she was too timid to resist the commands of an absolute husband, and her father had not a sufficient degree of affection for her to request her breaking through the restrictions imposed, they met but once after her marriage; and the Viscount dying in a few months, all intercourse between them ceased. Her only brother was at that time abroad; and on his return, being prejudiced by the Dowager Lady Milbanke both against her and the Baronet, made no enquiries for them.
The duplicity of the Viscount, who had a place under Government, increased 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 Warrington was not only deserted by her own relations, but excluded from almost all other society; as the general violence 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 that passed: and the conversation of those who were termed the gentry of Bellingham, the neighbouring town, was so little suited to Lady Warrington'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 advice and example of his father for some years prevented their effects. 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 Thomas, 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 subsided, 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 consequence of his idea of the proper mode of education, he initiated him at once into all the sports of the field.
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 delight and ornament of society, now served only to lead him the foremost in the chace; and that extreme sweetness of temper which he inherited 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. Thomson 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 performed; 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 Juvenal, 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 antiquity.
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 regular, were such as no one could 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 pleasing, and that dignity which is ever the result of conscious worth and native integrity, require but little artificial polish to render their possessors not merely esteemed but admired.
His father's unsocial disposition to all but his brother sportsmen had confined our hero's acquaintance in the same degree; but, when his own master, he extended it to a few families in Bellingham, where he also attended the monthly assembly. An acquired rather than an habitual shyness prevented 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 Bellingham balls, he danced most frequently 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 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 boardingschool, 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 impression on her mind. She was not very wise, but she had a very high opinion of herself, not only with respect to her person, but her accomplishments and abilities; and, from 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 conquest of his heart, as to induce him to offer her his hand: and this hope extending itself to the rest of the family, 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 sometimes, to avoid particularity, danced with the Miss Bells, the clergyman's, or the Miss Bennets, the attorney's daughters, who were highly gratified by the honour, though they often envied Miss Kettering the more frequent opportunities she had of attracting his notice; as, though they had not themselves the least pretensions to beauty, they could discover no other reason for his preference.
This was the state of affairs in Warrington Castle and its neighbourhood, 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 expectation 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 messenger on horseback, who, hastily relating the accident that had happened, desired Mr. Kettering to return instantly to the castle on his horse.
The universally known, but universally reprobated, maxim of Rochefoucault, that "in the distress of our best friends we always find something 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 extraordinary instance, contradicted by Mrs Kettering and her fair daughter: the misfortune of the Baronet could not afford them a ray of consolation; they lost his society for the present, and feared they should lose the consequence his frequent visits gave them among their neighbours. No more could Miss Anna Maria triumph, over her female acquaintance, 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 inhabitants of Bellingham to their various opinions, return to Warrington 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 be the consequence of the fracture, though it was by no means a dangerous 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 tedious, he resolved to consult his surgeon when he next visited him. Accordingly, 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 in the interim? I shall die with weariness."
"But surely," returned Mr. Kettering, "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 resembling 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. Conversation in the country is not always attainable; he had no friend or relation who could become an inmate in his house; and his common acquaintance were too much engrossed 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 how he should fill up the intermediate 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 young Baronet put the same question to him he had before so ineffectually addressed to his Surgeon; but the reply 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, conscious he deserved it; but resolving to take it as it was meant, good humouredly, he thanked his old tutor a thousand times for the hint, declaring it had not occurred to him before, or he should not have been so 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."
"I hope not," interrupted the Vicar: "you are much better as Sir George Warrington."
"Well, my good friend! But, seriously, 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?" returned Mr. Thomson.
"Pshaw!" said the Baronet, half peevishly, yet half laughing.
"Well," replied the other, "you shall have Pope's translation; and I 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 time give him a taste for polite literature. Accordingly, he that afternoon looked out such authors as were best adapted to his purpose, and sent them up to the Castle, resolving 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 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 seriously advised him to go into the militia; saying, there was a captain's commission to be had, and that, as he did not mean to be in Parliament, he ought to serve his country in some way; and added as a farther 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 publications 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 Rights of Man, a History of the French Revolution, and a variety of books written evidently in its favour; some of them containing a description, 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 oppressed 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 detest courtiers, and all their train of servile flatterers; but at this time, when his mind was filled with military 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 general equality next taking possession of his imagination, he became almost mad to forward a plan that promised such unbounded good to society.
He communicated these new sentiments to his good friend the Vicar, who silently lamented his infatuation, and could not forgive himself for being the cause, though the innocent 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 inactivity; determining at the same time, the moment he was allowed by his Surgeon to undertake the journey and voyage, to go over to Paris, and then act as he should think proper. Having fully settled this with himself, he imparted his intention to Mr. Thomson; who, after vainly endeavouring to dissuade him from it, at last entreated him in the most solemn manner not to think of going to a country like France, torn with intestine commotions, at least without 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 gentleman to accompany him in the capacity he required.
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 excellent, to be perverted by arguments of the most fallacious kind, that tend only to destroy the happiness Britons have so long enjoyed, under a constitution more beneficial to society 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 experienced. 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 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 Northumberland, 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 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 county; for what signifies money, when there's enough on one side?"
Mr. Kettering here ended his curious 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 equality was by no means unpleasing to his companion, who, like most other people who indulge this idea, only considered that Sir George would be reduced to his level, without recollecting that his inferiors would be raised to it. Indeed, at this moment, he thought of nothing but the probability of the Baronet's marrying 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 assented, saying, the ladies would do him great honour; and, soon after, Mr. Kettering took leave, impatient to communicate the Baronet's intention to his family.
But Mrs. Kettering received this intelligence with a less degree of pleasure than he expected; for, though equally pleased with the idea of being 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 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 drawing on the question she hoped for, she replied, her papa was that afternoon to drive her mamma and herself over to Warrington Castle, to see poor Sir George, who had particularly requested their company.
Whatever surprise these young ladies might feel, they chose not to reveal it, lest they should add to the triumph that was so evidently painted on her countenance; and therefore coolly replied, "After so long a confinement, it was no wonder Sir George wanted a little variety." Disappointed by their manner of receiving her intelligence, she returned home to prepare for her little excursion; fully proving, that an envious and little mind is incapable of feeling true satisfaction, as her own pleasure was lessened, if not destroyed, by her ineffectual endeavours to give pain to others.
It is a general and too true an observation, that more quarrels arise in families from trifles than from things 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 remonstrated in vain. Mrs. Kettering 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 husband either did not or would not hear this observation, but helped himself 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 decided part in the dispute: but, before 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 extremely 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 prevailed. "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 to bestow, at length, after a little more argument, gave it up. Perhaps she might have compounded, had he offered the post-chaise: but here self-interest prevailed, as it always did in his bosom; and he rather chose his patient should remain perhaps an hour or two longer without relief, than pay a few shillings extraordinary in chaise-hire. He now left the room to prepare his medicines; for, as is the case in most provincial towns, in him the professions of apothecary and surgeon were united.
Miss Anna Maria now deigning to consult her mother on some points 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 observe, that Mrs. Kettering had, generally 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, however, the satisfaction of knowing 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 authority she could, prevented her from owning it. Nor is this an uncommon instance: those who are constantly contradicted sometimes take up the wrong side of an argument, and maintain it with the more positiveness, from resentment at being generally opposed, and a desire of obtaining their own way for once, though even by wrong means.
CHAP. IV.
AT the appointed time Mr. Kettering'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, having handed in his wife and daughter, found some difficulty in seating himself in a carriage by no means calculated for family parties. Slowly and heavily, therefore, the old mare dragged them up the hill going out of the town; and before they had proceeded three miles of the five, which separated Bellingham from Warrington 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 misfortune never to be believed, though they were always in the right."
The spirit of contradiction, which some authors very cruelly, as well 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 labours.
The fair Anna Maria had more cause to dread a shower, being dressed in a thin muslin jacket and coat over a dyed purple silk, a sash and bonnet of the same colour (the latter 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 certain 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 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 completely 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 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 resemblance to that of the ancient lady well known by the name of Medusa; 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, continued 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 undistinguishable. Angry with herself for not taking her mother's advice, but more angry with her mother for some occasional sallies of triumph which had escaped her lips; mortified at the idea of being seen by Sir George in so lamentable a state, yet not knowing 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 immediately dispatched the housekeeper to assist them in repairing the accidents 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 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 exaggerations, as he had been an unsuccessful candidate for her favour, and attributed this to her penchant for the Baronet.
When the ladies were a little refitted, they entered the drawing-room; where Sir George received them with all possible politeness, and many expressions of concern for the misfortunes of the day; which he also endeavoured to counteract, by sending Mr. Kettering to his patient on one 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 Kettering 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, which neither outs nor dazzles; consi
ing chiefly of quaint sayings, not very unlike Swift's polite conversation; 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
Every white will have its black,
And every sweet its sour:
for Miss Anna Maria could scarcely enjoy this pleasure, from recollecting it would not be visible to their neighbours, as it must be dark before they could arrive at home. This, 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 civilities, 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. Kettering hired a post-chaise, they would have escaped the rain wholly; had Mrs. Kettering consented to set out an 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 journey; and, not unmindful of his promise, sent a message to Mrs. Kettering, 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, 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 continued there for several years in credit and comfort; as her brother, who was married to a very amiable woman, resided constantly at the mansion-house, where she was always a welcome guest; and in her own circle 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 enquiry; 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 arrived at that period when the term "young lady" was dropped by all who knew her, except her milliner and 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 Carruther had one foible, which frequently led her to think and act in the most ridiculous manner: this was a horror of growing old unmarried, and consequently a desire of youth. She had never been a handsome, though always what the world calls a well-looking woman; and her fortune, though a genteel independence, not sufficient, according to the 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 unhappily 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 lace treble ruffles? Oh! how I envied 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. Sometimes 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.
On these unhappy occasions, Miss Carruther acted according to the impulse of the moment. Sometimes she had forgotten the circumstance, and instantly changed the conversation: and sometimes she would endeavour to laugh; but her efforts were like those of an incognito author 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 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 always handed first; she was led to the upper part of the table; and, in parties of pleasure, her company was often requested with particular earnestness, and enforced by the young ladies' 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 when prudence is become a more valuable virtue than it once was, from its present scarcity, that any one should disclaim its possession? "Yet such things were;" and the term "prudent woman" never failed to give Miss Carrtuher a head-ach, or some other illness, which prevented her compliance. From the frequency of her refusals, 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 manner. This succeeded for them; but Miss Carruther was still doomed to perpetual mortifications, either from design or accident: for the honour 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 denied.
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.
Miss Carruther tried Bath and London in vain: she had been too much in the world not to meet with a variety of her old acquaintance in either place; which did not suit her plan: therefore, after rambling three years, she at length discharged an old servant 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 Bellingham, hired a small house, and resolved to continue there, unless, as 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 voluntarily to forfeit the title of prudent women, may esteem themselves particularly fortunate; since instances 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. Kettering'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 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 consequently, 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 chagrin from each other, entertained themselves with laughing at the object.
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 ridicule. She had studied simplicity. Her gown was a white muslin chemise, 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 narrow stripe, which a ribbon, the colour of her sash, bound tight to her head. 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 people foolishly imagine, have any cause to reproach the present age with extravagance 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 has been reserved, to dress like infants 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 Carruther in a letter from a fashionable correspondent, had not yet publicly reached Bellingham, and therefore excited surprise in all the young ladies of that place, who were themselves 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 fashion.
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 between the Baronet and Miss Carruther, 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 Kettering, 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 declared to be the winner, young Bennet with a loud laugh said, he supposed Sir George cheated for her. Sir George, unaccustomed to company, 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 resented it accordingly. Mr. James Bennet, frightened to death, made 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 conclusion, 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 transaction, 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 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 cheated 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 company, 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 took leave; and they remained in a state of utter astonishment and dismay, as they had no idea his plan was to be put into immediate execution. The fair Anna Maria was particularly agitated, and was for some time uncertain whether she should not fall into hysteric fits; but happily recollecting it would only be a means of informing the company of the extent of her mortification, wisely, and without much difficulty, suppressed them; and contented herself with mental accusations of the Baronet, whom she thought the basest of his sex.
In the mean time, Sir George was wholly unconscious of having deserved 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 offered him a visit from his family; and, on that evening as well as this, had acted conformably to his sentiments, which were those of perfect indifference. In fact, the only thing even Miss Kettering herself could 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 expectations 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 mamma, to make his proposals in form. Thus do we overthrow the happiness we might enjoy, from raising our wishes to an unattainable height: for we daily experience, that an inferior gratification loses all its value, when contrasted with that on which we had fixed our hopes and expectations.
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 Warrington 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 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 London), 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, meditating on his new ideas, and, as he beheld the labourers in the field toiling for the support of others, exclaimed with the Scottish bard:
Sweet were your shades, Oh ye primeval groves!
Whose boughs to man his food and shelter lent,
Pure in his pleasures, happy in his loves,
His eye still smiling, and his heart content.
Then, hand in hand, health, sport, and labour went,
Nature supplied the wish she taught to crave:
None prowl'd for prey, none watch'd to circumvent,
To all an equal lot Heaven's bounty gave;
No vassal fear'd his lord, no tyrant fear'd his slave.
Here he stopped: but he should have proceeded to the next verse, which adds,
— th' historic muse has never dar'd
To pierce those hallow'd bowers; 'tis fancy's beam
Pour'd on the vision of th' enraptur'd bard,
That paints the charms of that delicious theme.
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 never 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:
Hence, horrible shadow!
Unreal mockery, hence!
As the evening drew to a close, our hero arrived at a village about three parts of the way between Bellingham and Newcastle; and, perceiving a sign on which was written, 'Entertainment for man and horse,' resolved, if he could be decently accommodated, 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 destined 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, however he endeavoured to persuade himself of the contrary, he had a proper share: in short,
He thought as a Sage, but he felt as a —
Baronet; and, surveying the company (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 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 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 intrusion: but on reflection, and having 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 apologized 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 me the message, I did not know who it might be; and, in travelling, so many people assume the name of gentlemen, who have no pretensions at all, that I am vastly cautious, not choosing to sit down among your riff raff."
"You are perfectly right," returned 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 ignorance 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 imitations at the Bellingham assemblies: 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 gentlemen left over their wine, our hero began a conversation on the spirit of the times, and gave his own sentiments in the most unequivocal manner. 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 always been opposed, was now delighted; and expressed his pleasure so frankly, that the other began to throw off all reserve, and talk as freely 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 continued:
"There was once a custom, somewhere abroad—in France was it? No no, it could not be France, because the uppermost there were always uppermost 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."
"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 Paraphernalia, 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 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 companion became as perfectly inebriated. 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 following 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. This liberty and equality is glorious work for me, my boy! A few days ago, I was footman to Squire Thornton 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 liberty 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 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 emotions, that he might form some plan to restore the lost girl to her unhappy parents; and, to do this more effectually, he feigned a curiosity to know how he had executed a scheme which required no little contrivance. The other, pleased at the request, proceeded:
"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 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 fortnight'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 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 breakfast, 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 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 loquacity 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 story he had just heard, and asked his advice what measures to pursue. The old man blessed himself on hearing 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 promise to convey the lady safe to her father's."
"You will?" cried the landlord, eyeing 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? 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: however, 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 censure.
"Well well," returned he impatiently, "do as you please; only secure the villain, and do not, at least till the morning, 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 determined to send a person on whom he could depend, to return her safe to her father. The constables soon arrived; and, on the testimony of the Baronet, Mr. Benjamin was committed, 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 fatigue had thrown her; though he bestowed the bitterest curses on the rascal 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, and went to rest with that innate satisfaction 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 many 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 entertained no hopes, but of rising themselves by the destruction of others. Like the fox in the fable, they entice 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 returning from Newcastle; and the man addressing him by his title, and expressing 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, though till now unacquainted with his person. The Baronet accepted his apologies with his usual sweetness; and, having returned his tenant's address 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 degree of confusion in the house: but 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 continued, "what would have been your feelings, had you married this wretch. Disowned by your own family, despised by your former acquaintance, and regarded with contemptuous pity by those who are now your inferiors, how would you have borne all these 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."
"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 confessed 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 moment, 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 himself from the charge, had it been possible, and at once acknowledged himself a gentleman. And suffer me to add, had he proved this clearly, however I might be concerned at your clandestine proceedings, I should not have thought myself justified in preventing your journey."
Conviction now flashed upon Miss Thornton, though yet too proud to confess it; and her tears flowed rapidly. 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 drove up to the door, with more composure than Sir George expected.
During their journey he had an opportunity of developing her character, which was to a degree romantic and sentimental, and of learning that her education had been such as in some measure to excuse her conduct. He sound from her conversation, that her mother was a gay woman, 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 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 company; 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, Augustus Clinton; a name too consonant to her ideas not to have the desired effect. The consequences were such as might be expected; and Miss Charlotte was indebted to her good genius for counteracting her intentions.
By the time they drew near Thornton Park, the young lady was quite reconciled to her cruel persecutor, as she termed Sir George: but that appellation was now changed into her amiable deliverer; nor would he have found it very difficult to insinuate himself into the same place in her affections Mr. Benjamin had previously filled: but he was perfectly unambitious, and sought no recompense but the applauses of his own conscience. 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 enquiring for Mr. Thornton, he was shewn into a parlour where that gentleman was sitting. After some little preparation, he opened his commission, and by degrees informed him his unhappy daughter was, with deep contrition, 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 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 behaviour, 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 running 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 herself, her having seen little of society induced her the more readily to credit him, as she had not the power of distinguishing that his manners contradicted his assertions."
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 before as vehemently justified and approved, 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 informed her of the whole, and claimed her pardon for her unhappy child. Without altering a muscle of her countenance, 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, said "she would save him the trouble," and ordered her own woman to go to the carriage, and acquaint Miss Charlotte that she would be received. In less than a minute the poor girl sprang into the room, and, falling at her mother's feet, burst into an agony of tears. She very composedly bid her rise; and then calling Wilkins, commanded 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 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 attractions, 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, returned with the most studied politeness her thanks to the Baronet for his fortunate 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 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 assimilate with his own.
CHAP. VIII.
FROM what has been already related the reader must discover, that Mr. and Mrs. Thornton were of very opposite 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 gentleman 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 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."
Mr. Thornton's lips again quivered: he turned pale with anger; but, commanding 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 gentleman.
This altercation lasted for some time, till the object of it made her appearance, when she was most unreasonably caressed by her father, in entire opposition to the mother. Our hero, though rejoiced at having gained his point by her reception, was concerned 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 appeared to forget her own imprudence, and to hate her mother, whose contemptuous 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 resolved 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 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 chamber; 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 examining the side of the room occupied by the shelves for their books; and here he found still more reason to excuse Miss Charlotte. There had been a large collection; but the greater part were soiled and torn. Rousseau's Eloise, and several other French novels of the worst tendency, and some English ones, appeared to have been much read; whilst Telemachus, the Spectator, Madame Genlis's works, Advice to a Daughter, Mrs. Chapone's Letters, 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.
Whilst he was thus employed, the young people, attended by their governess, 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 summons 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; recommending to the former to shew some lenity in his prosecution of Benjamin 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 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 accommodated 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 falling 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 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 carriage 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 riding 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 impression 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 experienced more uneasiness from the moment her bright blue eyes darted accidentally 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 received the money due to him, he turned his horses' heads, and set out 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 evident marks of anxiety on her countenance, 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 addressed 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 wishes to speak with him? and in the mean time let me have a room to myself, 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 unknown; 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 heaven the same—" Here her feelings over powered her, and she sunk into the chair in a state of utter insensibility. Our hero now rushed out, and, lifting her in his arms, brought her from the gaze of the vulgar multitude, 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 remedy the house afforded. This, however, proved efficacious: for in a few minutes she opened her beautiful eyes, and, turning them on our hero, attempted to express her thanks for his attention; but her voice failed her, and she burst into tears. This gave her 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 almost 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 Protector 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 situation, and unprotected state, forbid me to accept."
Sir George put his hand to his breast, and answered, with a frankness 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 confidence 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 farmer Garland and his wife was so particularly lamented by her.
"I am at this moment," said she, addressing our hero, "so utterly unable to decide for myself, so distracted by my past sufferings and immediate disappointments, 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 neither long nor eventful. My father, 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 remainder 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 reliance in this world; and, when he was 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 bigot, offered to receive me as a constant boarder at a very moderate salary. Indeed 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 in the French funds, and suffered to accumulate for my use. This was my sole dependance, and even this little I was prevented from receiving by the distracted 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 disappointment had so sickened him of the world, he had little inclination to seek it, and he was too poor to be sought by it. Thus were my hopes, and almost my wishes, bounded by one narrow 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 almost without money, and totally without 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 knew I might here meet with protection from a woman who had been my nurse, and with whom I had constantly corresponded till within a few months, when receiving and sending letters became hazardous, if not dangerous. 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!— stretched on a bed of straw, and almost 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 pretence of seeking for her some relief, 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 melancholy state I would never leave her. They gave me a trifle for present subsistence; but declared the impossibility of their waiting for me, as the period of her life was uncertain. I could make no reply to this: but their going without paying her one farewell visit shocked my feelings; for she had been an universal friend to the whole community, and as such I thought she was universally beloved: and this gave me the 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 declared 'they should suffer so much in an interview, that they could not attempt it.' Disgusted with them, I returned to St. Cecile, with some provisions I had purchased with their bounty: but it did not last long; and I was then reduced to solicit precarious 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 my attentions, tha
I could not but perceive I softened the close of her melancholy existence; and this reflection 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 ceremonies which the more rigid of the Catholic Church deem almost essential 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 some success. Perhaps, though a Protestant, I was better able to calm her mind than one of her own religion; since, according to my faith, I could, without acting against conscience, assure her, that that Being whose mercy equals his justice would accept 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 followed her, I began to turn my thoughts to my own situation; but could fix on nothing that afforded me a prospect of support: my own little pittance had been long since exhausted, and I had now no means of reaching England. I rambled into the country to assist the peasants in their labours; but the vineyards were destroyed, 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 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 compassion that might have induced me to persist, but for the fear of exciting her anger. Nor was I deceived: as I walked slowly to the cottage where I had remained from the death of St. Cecile, I was overtaken by his servant, who, in a language ever grateful to my ears, 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 human beings. I promised acquiescence; but joy so entirely overcame me, I burst into tears. The man was affected; his honest English heart expanded 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, 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 lady'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 convey 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 moments! At length he appeared; and, telling me he had settled every thing with Mrs. Clerke, bade me follow him. I was then introduced to this good young woman, who, with a degree of kindness I could not expect from a stranger, told me, 'as far as she was to go I should share her comforts, if I could but be concealed from her lady, whose unhappy disposition would not approve of such an addition to their suite.'
"Not to dwell longer on this part of my narrative, we set out; and arrived at Montreuil in safety, and undiscovered 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 opportunity: and this in a few days offered; as two nuns, unhappily like myself liberated from their convent, which was situated in the neighbourhood, were also like me going to seek an asylum with their English friends. We soon settled the plan of our journey; 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 family they were in search of; and I coming on to this spot, hoping in the bosom of my good old nurse to repose 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 concluded 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 having a feeling heart. He paused a few minutes; and then, his countenance beaming with hope, he addressed the fair fugitive in the following manner:
"I flatter myself, Miss Moreland, I have thought of a scheme which may lessen, if not obviate, your misfortunes, without involving me in any suspicion of being biassed by other motives than those the purest virtue, the most unfullied honour, might dictate. 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 happiness, till you can fix on a more eligible scheme. Your society will give 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 continued—
"It may not, perhaps, be a disagreeable 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 very much her inferior both in point of age and fortune: and that they were soon coming to England to reside at Barclay Manor, which is only seven miles from Warrington Castle."
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, seemed to promise a termination to her calamities; 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 recommend her to some family as a 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 retired to rest, she enjoyed for some hours a quiet and undisturbed slumber. Our hero, the moment he was alone, called for pen, ink, and paper, and wrote the following letter to Mr. Thomson:
DEAR SIR,
FROM the knowledge of your universal benevolence, I shall make no apology for the trouble I am going to give you and Mrs. Thomson, conscious I cannot afford you a higher gratification than an opportunity of doing good. The bearer of this letter is a young lady whose name is Louisa Moreland, and whose misfortunes have been such as to entitle her to every consolation humanity can bestow. Her story is short and melancholy: her father lost his estate by a law-suit in her infancy, and then taking her abroad educated her in a convent in the south of France, where but for the difference of religion she would on his death have taken the veil. Soon after this, the destruction of the convent, where she remained as a boarder, compelled her to seek another asylum; and she came as far as Montreuil with the servants of your neighbour Mrs. Saxby, but, I believe, without the knowledge either of her or her husband. At that place she had the good fortune to meet two fugitive nuns, whom she accompanied to England. They parted in London; and Miss Moreland set out for this place, expecting to reside with her old nurse, who was married to a farmer in the neighbourhood. Judge then of her horror and grief, on finding this woman and her husband were both dead, and that in her native country she was alone, friendless and unprotected. Fortunately I witnessed her sufferings, and have it in my power to remove them by recommending her to your care. She is too young and too beautiful to owe an obligation to a man of my age, without incurring suspicions fatal to her reputation, and of course her repose; but through your means I may safely offer her a present support, as I trust you know me too well to imagine I have any wish but for her happiness. Therefore, my respected friend, let Mrs. Thomson procure for her every accommodation in her power; answer every demand she may make; oblige her with any sum of money, which I promise to repay: and give her, for a time at least, an asylum under your own roof, where she will be safe even from the shafts of calumny, and will enjoy every comfort her pitiable situation can admit of. I already feel an interest in her welfare I know not how to describe, and can have no higher satisfaction than learning from your observation, that her merit is equal to the opinion I have formed of it. I would accompany her to you, but fear lest the offer should wound her delicacy, and I have told her I mean to be absent perhaps many months: at the same time, I am apprehensive that her total want of knowledge of the world unfits her for travelling alone; therefore I shall be most anxious to hear of her safe arrival at Warrington. Give me, dear Thomson, this intelligence as early as possible; direct to me at the—coffee house, as I yet know not where I shall be, and you will add to the numerous obligations already conferred on
Your gratefully attached GEORGE WARRINGTON.
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 residence with Mr. Thomson, on whose acute judgment and quick penetration 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 rescuing 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 exhausted, as to leave her no prospect of reaching the spot pointed out by the 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 reduced to poverty, but not to meanness: 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 degree, 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.
When the first morning compliments were past, he gave her a pocket-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 distance 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 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 (holding up her purse) are left me of all that Mr. Saxby's charity afforded. Nor perhaps ought I to blush whilst I make this confession, since it is neither 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 defenceless sex from their sacred, their peaceful abodes, and forced them into a dependance on the world they had voluntarily resigned."
This tacit accusation of the Democratic 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 allowed that 'partial evil' is 'universal good;' and therefore, though some few may regret their cloistered walls, yet how many thousands, in succeeding generations, will have cause to rejoice at the destruction of edifices to which ambition or avarice often consigned their wretched victims; whilst pining for the world, and sighing for the variety of public life, they silently imprecated curses on those who devoted them to the service of religion; and employed those hours in fruitless murmurs, which, dedicated to social virtues, might have added not merely to their own happiness but to that of all around them!"
"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, attempting to give the conversation a more cheerful turn, he said:—"At all events, Madam, I have unreturnable obligations to the Patriots for the destruction of the convents; as, but for that, I should probably have never enjoyed the happiness I now experience from seeing you."
She bowed in return to this compliment: but a heavy sigh proved to him, her heart beat not in unison with his; and the conviction mortified him. Hastily changing the conversation, 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 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 acknowledgments 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 recapitulating 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 discovery hurt him, as he imagined it a proof of instability; the two instances he had met with of the evil consequences arising from the opinions he defended having damped his ardour without altering his principles; and he therefore, as still acknowledging the justice of the cause, thought himself inexcusable in growing 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 guileless mind, whose first principle was benevolence, he had an idea of equality corresponding with the manners of the golden age. In such a state, in the wildness and vivacity of his imagination, he formed pictures of bliss that never really existed, and only in Arcadia even ideally: he fancied all vice would be banished society; and that every man, sitting under the shade of his own oaks, would cultivate those virtues alone which distinguished 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 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 Baronet'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 granddaughters of an Earl and the daughters of a Baronet contended so violently for the first places in a country-dance, that their milliners were greatly benefited by the battle; the 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 merchant'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 country town assembly, the Lawyer's and Clergyman's wives give way without hesitation to the 'Squire's family: by the same rule the tradesmen'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 superiority prevails; and the farmer's daughter, who can view without repining, 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 Sundays to her rural friends: but, should 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 situation still lower than that they were originally intended for.
Early in the afternoon, our hero 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 history, expressed the interest he felt for her, and requested an immediate reply. When this letter was dispatched, and his slight repast concluded, he began to grow tired of his own reflections, and enquired of the waiter if there were any company in the house. The man replied in the negative, 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 coffee-room below, to which the gentlemen of the town and neighbourhood 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 engaged 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 paper and shaking his head, said, "He was sorry there were still so many persons disaffected to Government, 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 measures."
"Ay ay," cried a little thin man, whose countenance bespoke discontent, "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 preaching and praying. You're in the right to praise the Bishops, and the Lords, and them there sort of people; 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 composedly 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 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 whip, Jack has the place in a week: but I'll be stout yet, that's what I will."
"I am sorry," returned the clergyman, "you have no better reasons to urge in defence of your principles, 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 gentleman at the other side of the room.
"To be sure," returned he; "do you think I'd do like that foolish fellow you was a-talking about here last week? What do you think, gentlemen, Mr. Goldney said? That, a good many years ago, one Squintus Squirtous jumped into a pit for the sake of his country: but I'd never jump into 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 contemptuously; "but let me tell you, Sir, you will never fill your pockets with the profits of your trade, whilst you avow sentiments which would 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 reproof, became silent, or only conversed in a low tone with his next neighbour, whilst the other continued:
"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 mere nothings in the scale; universal benevolence is my religion, and universal 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 benevolence 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 speaking on, and that with so much animation as entirely won the other's heart; and a long conversation passed 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 accepted 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 mentioned by them with admiration and respect; which the little man overhearing, it gave him a new subject for declamation.
"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 fellows; there is not among them one who knows what he is talking about."
Sir George assented; when at the door they were stopped by a real gentleman of the law, who with much unfeigned concern told Mr. Goldney "he had not put an execution into the house of the man he had mentioned to him, as the uncommon distress of the family had excited his utmost compassion. The wife, he added, was lying-in, and almost in want of common necessaries; therefore, at such a time to take from her the few comforts she possessed would be the height of cruelty."
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 poverty."
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."
"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, putting 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 principles and the practice of his companion agree so little; but he comforted himself by reflecting, that this was owing to the infirmity of human nature, 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 naturally unfeeling qualities of his heart.
END OF VOL. I.