ALWYN:
OR THE Gentleman Comedian. IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
In nova sert animus—
OVID.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR FIELDING AND WALKER, PATER-NOSTER-ROW. MDCCLXXX.
CONTENTS TO THE SECOND VOLUME.
LETTER XVII. Mr. WESTWOOD, to H. HANDFORD,
Esq
The Surprize Mr. Alwyn occasioned at Kendal, and the Satisfaction he gave. Anecdote of 'Squire Bullhead, and the Player, 1
LETTER XVIII. T. STENTOR, to J. DRUMSHANDRUGH. Envy disappointed. More Stratagems to ensnare the Unwary. Mrs. Vincent. A theatrical Anecdote, 10
LETTER XIX. Mr. STAMFORD, Junior, to Mr. ALWYN. Delighted with the Scenery round Maitlandhall. Verses. Philosophy a Source of Pleasure, 21
LETTER XX. Mr. ALWYN, to Mr. STAMFORD, Junior. The Assembly. Reflections on the Conduct of the Public towards Players, and the Injustice of the Laws. Mrs. Vincent's Passion. Favourable Opinion of Stentor. Thoughts on Health, and the Shortness of Life, 29
LETTER XXI. Mr. STENTOR to his WIFE. Mrs. Vincent becomes violent, and Alwyn alarmed. The Scheme of the PocketBook. A dangerous Species of Imitation hinted at, 42
LETTER XXII. Mr. STAMFORD, Junior, to Mr. ALWYN. Maria's ill Health. Obstacles to the Match between her and Maitland. Hopes and Congratulations, 46
LETTER XXIII. Miss STAMFORD, to Miss GOWLAND. Dejected Ideas, and melancholy Prospects. A Conversation that brings great Relief, 52
LETTER XXIV. Mr. STAMFORD, Junior, to Mr. ALWYN. Good News for Alwyn, 58
LETTER XXV. Mr. STAMFORD, Senior, to Mr. SELDON. Concerning young Maitland, and Maria, 61
LETTER XXVI. Mr. STENTOR to his WIFE. A Robbery. A Discovery, and a Forgery. Reasons for being a Rogue. Mr. Staple, a Person more addicted to private Revenge than generous Courage. The Ignorance and Blunders of a certain Player no Miracles, 64
LETTER XXVII. Mrs. VINCENT, to Mr. STAMFORD, Senior. Wherein may be seen that a fair Mask may hide a foul Face, 73
LETTER XXVIII. Is the Sequel of the foregoing, 78
LETTER XXIX. Mr. ALWYN, to Mr. HILKIRK. The Effects of Mr. Staple's Revenge. An alarming Situation. Courage and Innocence are stronger than a threefold Cord. The Pusillanimity of Vice, 82
LETTER XXX. Mr. STAMFORD, Senior, to Mr. ALWYN. This Letter contains an Allegation which is more intelligible to the Reader than to the Hero of the Piece, 95
LETTER XXXI. Mr. ALWYN, to Mr. STAMFORD, Junior. An earnest Desire to come to a right Understanding, which, yet, does not happen, 99
LETTER XXXII. Mr. ALWYN, to Mr. HILKIRK. Extreme Anxiety, vague Conjectures, and patient Resignation, 103
LETTER XXXIII. Mr. STAMFORD, Junior, to Mr. ALWYN. A Corroboration of Misfortune, 109
LETTER XXXIV. Mr. MAITLAND, Junior, to STAFFORD OSBORNE,
Esq
Various Whims. Ignes Fatui. Pursuit and Accident. The Dog Pompey exhibits, and puzzles the Learned, 111
LETTER XXXV. The SAME, to the SAME. Pompey, though in general tolerably acute, is sometimes a dull Dog. A dreadful Accident, which occasions a melancholy Conclusion, 117
LETTER XXXVI. Mr. STAMFORD, Senior, to Mr. SELDON. A further Account of the Fire. A Stranger preserves Maria. Aeneas emulated. Traits of Benevolence in a Servant. A severe Loss, which brings the Marriage between Maitland and Maria once more upon the Tapis, 121
LETTER XXXVII. Mr. ALWYN, to Mr. HILKIRK. Arrives in Oxfordshire. Intrepidity and Love. The obscure Parts of the last Letter elucidated, 131
LETTER XXXVIII. Mr. SELDON, to Mr. STAMFORD, Senior. Thoughts on the Conduct of Alwyn. Misfortunes in Youth, said to give Fortitude in Age, 142
LETTER XXXIX. H. HANDFORD,
Esq
to Mr. WESTWOOD. A Portrait. Observations variorum. Enquiry after Alwyn. Oriental Philosophy nearly approaching to the Pythagorean. Its Consequences when reduced to Practice, 146
LETTER XL. Mr. STAMFORD, Senior, to Mr. SELDON. Tom Maitland's Illness, and his Father's Grief, 160
LETTER XLI. Mr. WESTWOOD, to H. HANDFORD,
Esq
Alwyn's Panegyrick, Remarks on Hospitals for Brutes, 168
LETTER XLII. H. HANDFORD,
Esq
to Mr. WESTWOOD. The Effusions of a benevolent Disposition oddly expressed. The Pythagorean Institution is destroyed by its Effects, 176
LETTER XLIII. H. HANDFORD,
Esq
to Mr. WESTWOOD. Alwyn again makes his Appearance in the Sphere of Action. He saves Mr. Handford's Life, who finds additional Reasons for regarding him, 184
LETTER XLIV. Mr. STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. MAITLAND. The Offers of a Friend. Good News, 197
LETTER XLV. Mr. WESTWOOD, to H. HANDFORD,
Esq
Congratulations. Intelligence of Consequence, relating to the Forgery, 202
LETTER XLVI. Mr. SELDON, to Mr. HILKIRK. An Invitation to come to Town and be happy, 209
LETTER XLVII. H. HANDFORD,
Esq
to Mr. WESTWOOD. The Reconciliation, 212
LETTER XLVIII. Mr. STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. MAITLAND. Mr. Maitland's Loss is recovered. A short Recapitulation of some leading Circumstances, 220
LETTER XLIX. Mr. ALWYN to Mr. WESTWOOD. The Conclusion, 228
ALWYN: OR THE GENTLEMAN COMEDIAN.
LETTER XVII. Mr. WESTWOOD, to H. HANDFORD,
Esq
Dear SIR,
I RECEIVED your favour of the 14th inst. and shall proceed to give you an account of a phaenomenon that has lately appeared here. A young fellow is arrived from London, to join a brotherhood of players, who usually make us a periodical visit at this season of the year. His person is compleat and elegant, his voice remarkably sweet and articulate, and his deportment that of a perfect gentleman. It is impossible to look on him without feeling an immediate prepossession in his favour, which increases the more he is seen and heard. He played Romeo last Friday evening. It was his first appearance, yet I never beheld a performance that gave me so much pleasure; such pathetic tenderness; a voice so sweetly plaintive and amorous, attended with an air of so much sincerity, that it was imposible for any one who did not feel, or had not felt, the passion of love to have been so expressive. But, from what I have observed since, I have taken it for granted that
he is,
at this instant, under its influence. Whether
he is
or no, I am certain all the women in Kendal, young or old, that have seen him,
are;
and the rest soon will be. For there is more gazing after him when he makes his appearance in the street, than there was at the last comet. No wonder, he is master of every accomplishment, without any seeming knowledge of superiority.
I prevailed on him to sup with me after the play. His conversation and behaviour more than confirmed every thing I had conceived in his favour. His abilities seem to have no bounds, and, after supper, we furnished him with a fresh opportunity of displaying them, by introducing a little concert, in which he might be said to be the only performer, since he was the only one that was listened to. He sung and played, and with so much taste, passion, and expression, that every body was amazed, as well as delighted. I dare say you think I am drawing a very extravagant picture, but, I can assure you, all, who have seen him, speak of him as the most agreeable and extraordinary young fellow they have ever known.
YOU must understand I had occasion to do him a little service, by rising up his champion on the night that he played. He is so sensible of this trifling favour that he thinks he cannot enough admire my generosity. It was thus: Notwithstanding the surprize and pleasure the spectators were under, when he came upon the stage, at the beauty of his figure, there issued from some part of the gallery a loud hiss. The effect this had upon him was very extraordinary; the blood forsook his cheeks, his limbs tottered, and his whole frame was thrown visibly into great disorder. I was so shocked at their rudeness and injustice, that I could not conceal my rage, but jumped upon one of the seats in the pit and harangued the mob, pretty much, I believe, in that kind of language to which they were accustomed; and, as I am rather a favourite, with some of them, my declaring on the stranger's side soon overturned the party that was formed against him; for, I am certain, that ill-judged attack could proceed from no other cause. From this time to the end of the play, nothing but the loudest marks of applause were heard at every opportunity, which were not bestowed upon an ingrate; the effect that this encouragement had upon him was visible, and the disorder, which the ignorance and malice of the dissentients had put him into, was a strong proof of his modesty and sensibility.
HE received an invitation to our assembly, which, he has since told me, he believes, from motives of prudence, he must be obliged to decline. It seems the last time the comedians were here, and while I was at college, one of them, who, from his behaviour and talents, was entitled to respect, not supposing it any deviation from the rules of decorum, came, one evening, to the assembly, upon which two or three coxcombs, led on by 'Squire Bullhead, a contemptible, overbearing puppy, whom you have heard me speak of, finding themselves affronted, insisted upon his being turned out of the room. Bullhead was the spokesman, and, coming up to the comedian, said, in a very insulting manner,
Pray friend, does strolling actors ever larn to dance?
The abruptness of this impudent question, for a moment, disconcerted the comedian, but, recollecting himself, he answered,
Some of them, Sir, and as easily as some rich country boobies learn insolence.
Do you call me booby, Sir?
—
Why Sir, to be sure I mentioned something about Booby, or Bullhead, it is not material which, I believe they are synonimous.
—Nonimus! Sir, you are a nonimus vagabun, and so I desires that you will quit this here room.
That I shall without farther ceremony, Sir,
said the player,
and
I desire
you will do me the favour to follow me.
Bullhead either did not, or would not understand this intimation, but remained, amidst the titters and sneers of the company, muttering something about
teaching such impudent vagabun rascals to trude themselves into the ciety gentlepeople.
The comedian was not so satisfied, but wrote a card, the next day, requiring Bullhead to meet him, and either bring his sword, or a case of pistols. This paper terrified the fool out of his wits, and he ran blubbering with it to his wife. She posted away to shew it to her father, who is an acting justice. The man of the quorum sent immediately for the manager, and threatened to throw him and the whole troop in jail if he did not interfere, and prevent this affair from going any farther. The comedian, at the intercession of his brethren, dropt his revenge, but not till he had procured a paper, signed both by this redoubted 'Squire and his father-in-law, the purport of which was, a promise not to molest the players, nor, by any means, endeavour to prevent their coming to Kendal as usual. A night or two after this affair happened the Beaux Stratagem was played, and the audience burst into an uproar of laughter, when Scrub says,
If our masters in the country receive a challenge, the first thing they do is to tell their wives,
&c.
and 'Squire Bullhead became the jest of the town.
NOTWITHSTANDING this, I hope we shall overcome the scruples of our young Romeo. The girls are all dying to see him dance, and have protested they'll none of them refuse him for a partner; one or two of the Bullhead connection excepted, who affect to turn up the nose at this extraordinary complaisance to a player.
Adieu, dear Sir, And believe me sincerely your's, G. WESTWOOD.
LETTER XVIII. T. STENTOR, to J. DRUMSHANDRUGH.
Friend JAMES,
I PROPHESIED what would come to pass. I knew well enough how it would be. This Alwyn leads the people in a string. I foresaw it.—Old servants are forgot.—I hate such curst ingratitude, but I never met with any thing else from the public, even in my youth, so I must not be surprized at it now. I have been their slave long enough for nothing, and now I may starve and be damned, for what they care.—Not but I planned matters pretty well too. The youth was staggered. He was not used to stand fire, and would have given ground at the first discharge, if he had not been supported by the pit. I have been tolerably cautious, and he has not the least suspicion it was I who directed the battery of hisses that was played off at him; though some of my good friends in the company took abundance of pains to persuade him to such a belief.—He's a greenhorn, a gull that will dive at a red rag instead of a herring. I can do what I will with him, for he believes me to be his best friend. I would have him continue in that mistake, while he continues in this company. If I am not deceived, I have already found a proper bait for the gudgeon. He thinks me so faithful that he will say any thing to me, trust me with any thing, except one. I cannot get out of him, hitherto, what he grieves about. I observe he is always melancholy, loves to be alone, and take solitary walks; sighs oftener than a weaver at a Methodist sermon, and looks as mournful as a friar on Good-Friday. Perhaps he is in love, if so I'll find it out.
BE that as it may, there is a certain lady, of this town, in love with him. She sent for me, t'other night, to bribe me to assist her, so you may think she is pretty far gone. It seems the youth is shy, and the lady impatient; I'm glad I am called in, for, since I am to prescribe, I'll take care not to neglect my fees. She may prove a valuable patient, and promises to bleed freely, if I can accomplish her design, which is to find out who the youngster is in love with; for that he is in love, she takes for granted; and, as I hinted, I'm very much of her opinion. She has given me a troublesome task, but I have undertaken to perform it, and it shall go hard but I will keep my word. Nevertheless, as there is no knowing what turn affairs may take, I have sent my wife off to join your company, and thank you for the trouble you have taken in the matter. She will give you this, and my best wishes. The Kendalians are all running wild after this Alwyn, and come in shoals every night he plays. They would be d—d before they would come to see a better actor. I may play to the benches, now the whim has taken them. A parcel of senseless sheep, that will follow any bell-weather, if some fool only starts up and bids them admire his bleating. He was invited to the assembly, and I took great pains to persuade him to go; I knew how it would turn out. Some among them are affronted, and though he's supported in his vanity by a few of what they call the heads of the town, I'm devilishly cheated, if he don't get a rap of the knuckles. The party that is displeased, talks pretty confidently of his vanity and assurance. It was at the assembly he made the conquest I have mentioned. They say he dances to admiration, and some are piqued because they thought themselves neglected and him too much admired. The fellow is handsome enough, and better bred than the boors of this place; who, notwithstanding, fancy themselves great beaus, and have as many ridiculous airs as any other petits maitres; which, with their aukward rusticity are laughable enough.
ONE of these sparks, a Mr. Staple, is a lover of the lady who is enamoured of our youngster; and I shall take measures to inform him what a dangerous rival he has. He was obliged to be out of town the night of the assembly, and Alwyn by dancing with his mistress, ingratiated himself so far in her favour, that the absentee will stand a fair chance to have his congé. He is one of those brutal, head-strong animals that are very apt to kick, even before they feel the lash, and two or three cuts will most likely make him quite resty. Let me alone to give them, I'll take care they shall sting. As for the lady, she does not seem one of your timid dames; she is a widow, a West-Indian, with all the fire of the climate in her constitution; and appears to have contracted a mighty strong antipathy to bashfulness in men. If she can but attain her purpose, she does not seem to be troubled with any conscientious scruples about the means. —I have provocations enough, and materials are not wanting; therefore, if I don't make him pack up his boxes, I'll forswear politics, and go into leading-strings. Now I talk of provocations, I must tell you, that our d—d fly-by-night rascal of a manager made me descend from Hotspur to Worcester, t'other evening; and because I ventured to remonstrate, swore I should not play another night in the company; aye, and was mighty positive about the matter too, till the young favourite, Alwyn, inlisted on my side, and then the old yelping hound was soon silenced. This fellow, who, because he has had art and roguery enough to scrape together a few tinsel rags, and a little daubed canvass, is become as impudent and as consequential as a petty constable, or a new made justice, and much about as wise too. He takes upon him to instruct the actors; decides dogmatically upon any difficult passage, without being able to read it; settles the business of the scene, without a thought concerning propriety, and swells at the recollection of his own sagacity and importance, like an alderman saying grace after meat.—A blunder of his, the other night, in the play of Harry the Fourth, will give you an idea of his capacity.
HIS eldest son Daniel, who looks as stupidly good-natured as a half grown mastiff, played Sir Walter Blunt, and his fat-headed father personated Douglas. The termagant Scot, as Falstaff calls him, is to kill Sir Walter; but when our pudding-headed director entered, instead of slaying the knight his son, he only stood to receive one thrust from him, then tumbled upon the stage, like an overfed porpoise, gave a belch, instead of a groan, and pretended to expire. It would have done your heart good to have beheld the stupid look of the cub Daniel, who knew
he
ought to have fallen. The prompter began to swear the people behind the scenes to laugh, and the mother, who lisps delightfully, hearing an uproar, waddled to see what was the matter; she found the mistake, and clapping her mouth to the side of the scene, began cursing her husband Roger in curious and well-chosen language:—"Get up," says she,
Godth cuth your showl, you old r
gething rathcul, get up, don't you know the child ith to die?
—"You lie you b—," says Roger, "I am to die."
Godth cuth your thoul, I thay, get up, the child ith to die. Dothn't the child do thir Walter, and ith n't Douglath to kill him?
—Roger, however, persisted, that he was to die, and swore he would not get up. After a while the spectators began to smoke the blunder, and listen to the curious dialogue that was passing between the dead man and his persecuting wife. You may be sure they enjoyed it, and the house was presently in an uproar of laughter; this rouzed the butter-brained Roger's recollection, when, finding himself in the wrong box, he opened his eyes, and, after a tolerably stupid stare, which again incited the risibility of the audience, assayed to get up. But this was a task that he was not able to perform, for he was little less than dead drunk, so, after two or three unsuccessful efforts, he cast a maudlin look towards the wing, and called, in a kind of dismal hollow tone,
Moll! Moll! I can't get up, Moll!
Godth cuth your old rogethin rathcul's thoul,
answered Moll,
Then lie there till the day of resurrection for what I care.
Moll, Moll,—do send the Prompter on, and let him give Dan a lift with me.
Godth cuth your thoul, I'll crack your th'kul, I will,
replied Moll, irritated at the shouts that were heard through the house.—The prompter, however, went on, and Dan and he once more set him on his feet; after which another battle ensued between Douglas and Sir Walter, to the great diversion of the beholders; and Dan was slain, amidst the clamour and acclamations of canes, hands, heels, and voices.
AS Mrs. Stentor is but a very indifferent scribe, and not the best reader in Europe, I must beg of you to take the trouble of assisting her; and, sometimes, writing for her in the correspondence which it may be necessary for her to hold with me, and place it, on the debtor page, to the account of friendship. In return, she, perhaps, may be able to do some little matters for you, any thing that she is able I know her too well to doubt of her being willing; for, notwithstanding that she has her whims and freaks, as what woman is without them, she has been a good wife to me, and lent me many a lift. She will be with you at the beginning of the week.
Your's, T. STENTOR.
LETTER XIX. Mr STAMFORD, Jun. to Mr. ALWYN.
Dear HARRY,
I HEAR, with great pleasure, though without surprize, of the favourable reception you met with at Kendal; and hope that you will pass your time very agreeably, during the stay of the company at that place. The party formed against you on your first appearance, for a party it certainly was, gives me some concern, as I apprehend, that the little malice of your rivals is capable of affording you more real uneasiness than misfortunes of a much more consequential stamp. Fortitude can bear up against the latter, but petty insults, and mean, cowardly injuries are, too often, able to ruffle and sour the best turned disposition. Pray let me have the satisfaction of hearing that I am mistaken, and that you laugh at the mean tricks of your enemies.
THIS solitary retreat affords very little matter for a letter, unless I was to relate my excursions, which, though without variety of adventure, are, to me, exquisitely pleasing. In these delightful scenes I indulge the flow of fancy which the solemnity and stillness of the groves tend greatly to promote.
Here, melancholy, give me oft to rove,
And oft on ancient times the thought employ;
Here let me every pensive pleasure prove,
And far exclude each false, each glaring joy.
Ah! what avails the strong, the patient mind,
That wooes coy science thro' the silent night;
The sage's noble thirst, ah, why refin'd,
In vain he toils to reach the envy'd height.
What boots it tho', with patriot virtue fraught,
The gen'rous hero for his country dies;
He gives a life for those not worth a thought,
And on the crimson field neglected lies.
Were it not better, in the secret shade,
By fancy wrapt, on shadowy scenes to dwell,
To wander, musing, thro' the sylvan glade,
Or sleep secure within the bushy dell?
In simple guise are nature's wants supply'd,
By many a plant, the pale Recluse is fed;
The chrystal stream will purest drink provide,
And lonely caves afford the mossy bed.
O grant, ye pow'rs! the cool, the peaceful grot,
Where waving cyprus sheds a solemn gloom;
There let me live unknown—By all forgot,
Till weary age conducts me to the tomb.
Thus sung the Muse, by discontent inspir'd,
Whose sickening presence ting'd the groves around,
False woes she sung, with indignation fir'd,
And, for each virtue, still an evil found:
When lo! Aglaia, heav'n-born, smiling, maid,
Serenely chearful, fill'd the ravished sight,
In waving robes of radiant hue array'd,
And shone in all the majesty of light.
Virtue, said she, nor haunts the gloomy cell,
Nor, joyless, seeks the dark Cimmerian wood;
'Tis not for man in solitude to dwell,
To brood o'er woes, or nurse the pensive mood.
The smiles of plenty beam on nature's face,
The shady alder props the burthen'd vine;
For thee they bloom, for thee the feather'd race,
In chearing song, their various notes combine.
Man, selfish man, the object of thy scorn,
Behold, for thee, his toil prepares the feast,
His culture 'twas that did these groves adorn,
For thee, far hence, he chas'd the savage beast.
The hero dies—But not for sordid hire;
His soul, aethereal, asks a better meed,
A social motive feeds his gen'rous fire,
Nor love of fame, alone, that makes him bleed.
Whence did bold Curtius snatch the noble flame,
That, low, in earth immers'd the glorious youth?
Was it to purchase, after death, a name,
Bestowed by chance, more frequent than by truth.
Say, did firm Regulus, severely great,
Acquire his virtues in the hermitage?
Or, was that resolution fix'd as fate,
Gain'd from the precepts of some cloister'd sage?
No;—these the hermit knows not, taught to dose
In torpid apathy his useless hours.
He, truly selfish, seeks his own repose
In lonely caves, and dark sequester'd bow'rs.
Had all men pass'd their lives in sloth, recluse,
We ne'er had heard the poet's raptured verse;
Silent had been the great Miltonian muse,
And Shakespear ne'er had rival'd nature's force.
Newton had never traced the comet's round.
Nor e'er the varied threads of light unwove;
The force aërial Boyle had never found,
Nor Franklin seiz'd, unharm'd, the bolt of Jove.
'Twas not in indolence, supine, retir'd,
These, greatly daring, scann'd the azure dome;
Their god-like minds, with vast ambition fir'd,
Long'd to anticipate their future home.
Cease then of visionary bliss to dream,
Let superstition seek the darken'd cave,
The midnight cell, or slowly-winding stream,
Where shadowing cyprus boughs, funereal wave.
While, swell'd with every social thought, the mind
Public with private good, delighted, blends,
With glad expansion, seeks the bliss refin'd,
And, like the sun, its influence extends.
I MAKE no apology for inserting such a length of verse in a familiar epistle. I think I have a sufficient one, when I acquaint you, that this retirement affords few ideas, but those of poetry and science. I seem to be scarce an inhabitant of this world—or, at least, I fancy myself on the verge of another. The past scenes of hurry and business strike my imagination as feebly as a dream; and those speculations, which the bulk of mankind regard as visionary, appear to me, in my present disposition, the only things that have reality. Sometimes, with Mr. Maitland, I visit the planetary regions, and admire the conjectures which his creative fancy makes of their uses or inhabitants. From thence, according to the enlarged idea of those great men, who, in a less enlightened age would have been deified, I grasp in thought the amazing number of systems that fill the immensity of space, and lose myself in the grandeur of the conception. The vast field of natural philosophy, is a constant source of amusement, which, in these silent vales, wears an aspect, not dry and scientific, but, sublimely pleasing.
BUT such elevations bear the mind so much beyond its natural pitch, that it is impossible they should be continual. Relaxation is necessary, and in that relaxation I spend most of my time.
Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori
Hic nemus, hic ipso tecum consumerer Evo.
Adieu, C. STAMFORD.
LETTER XX. Mr. ALWYN, to Mr. STAMFORD, Jun.
Dear SIR,
I HAVE had several adventures since my last to you, which, without any apology, I shall take the liberty to relate, from a supposition, that, as heretofore, they will not be disagreeable to you; having always observed, with pleasure, the part your passions took in the most trifling events, when they any way influenced the affairs of those for whom you professed an esteem.
I THEN informed you of the invitation I had received to go to the assembly; I must now tell you of my weakness in suffering their persuasions to overcome the resolution I had made not to comply with this invitation. I believe I do wrong to ascribe it all to the force of persuasion. The human heart has its foibles; mine has, however, which I cannot always conquer. I ascribed the remonstrances of my brother comedians to their little jealousies at the preference which had been given me; this preference was flattering, and, though I endeavoured to combat that selfish idea, yet, it triumphed, even while I despised it. Not that I think any servile respect is due from the comedians to the inhabitants; the case is, the laws have, unjustly, empowered the daemon of persecution to assault the profession of a player. Narrow-minded people have taken advantage of this injustice, and placed the professors at a distance, which ignorance and arrogance, at all times, suppose they have a right to preserve; and the want of principle and abilities in the player, too frequently, justifies this usurpation. The most uncultivated among the comedians get, habitually, and from the mere repetition of their parts, refined notions, which are several degrees beyond the sphere of the lower orders of the people, with whom they are obliged either to associate, or to seek the society of the dissolute and abandoned among the higher, the respectable part of whom are stigmatized with want of decorum, if they are known to hold any converse with men whom the law calls vagabonds. Though this is a kind of life, to which I already perceive I should by no means give the preference, except, as at present, from motives of convenience; yet my residence among these, frequently unfortunate sons of the muses, interests me greatly in their behalf; and I have reason to hope, from that philosophical liberality of sentiment which prevails, and so nobly dignifies the present age, to see the time when none shall have the power, and few the inclination, to oppress those people, who, under proper regulations would be our best moral teachers.
I DISCOVERED an additional proof of my weakness the instant I entered the assembly-room. It is necessary for every one, in such a place, to wear a face of mirth, on the contrary, my heart reproached me. There is a delicacy in the sensations of a pure and respectful love, to which the light sports of a mind, not under its influence, is often disgusting. When I heard the sprightly notes of the pipe and tabor my feelings revolted against such quick vibrations, and I felt an unconquerable inclination towards the penseroso. I had consented to go upon no other terms but those of forbearing to dance, if I chose so to do: Mr. Westwood, therefore, who introduced me, had not provided me a partner, lest she should be disappointed. As my evil genius ordained, there was a lady, whose partner had by some accident been detained, and who could not dance for want of one; I, not knowing her motive for sitting still, had entered into a slight conversation with her, which had not continued long before the master of the ceremonies, supposing, probably, I had an inclination to dance, came and presented her hand to me; and, the lady not expressing any reluctance, I could not be so unmannerly as to refuse; though I believe I accepted the compliment with such an awkward, and absent air, that she must certainly perceive it. The minuets were not over; we were called forth, and the lady, though not the youngest in the room, moved gracefully enough, and acquired a share of admiration equal to those who had gone before. I perceived she was not entirely satisfied with my languor, and made several good-natured efforts to inspire me; for, indeed, a heavy partner, in dancing, is a dull companion, but they were ineffectual. I was wandering through the haunts of Maria, was discoursing with her, gazing at her, sighing for her, and all the fiddles in England could not persuade me to leave such delightful company. The lady's name, who did me this honour, is Vincent; she is a widow, a native of the West Indies, and almost as great a stranger here as I am; she is very handsome, has an easy air, a good shape, and appears to be about thirty.
DO not laugh, dear Charles, nor think me vain for what I am going to say; I wish it were otherwise, but, in spite of my
ennui,
I had the misfortune to please Mrs. Vincent. There is no danger to the lady's character from saying this to you; and the remembrance of one, whom I shall never forget, reproaches me for suffering her passion, although it is a thing out of my power to prevent, except by a precipitate flight, which I shall certainly make, if I hear any more upon this theme. After all, it is an aukward situation for a man, to whom love is tenderly and forcibly declared. It seems exceedingly unnatural for him, and almost shameful, to reject the advances of a fine woman. I believe it impossible, except where, as in my case, the affections are totally pre-engaged; for this reason, when I have read the story of the young Israelite, and the amorous Egyptian, I have been apt to conclude that, beside the sin of ingratitude to his master, which, doubtless, has great influence over a virtuous mind, yet, considering the force of the temptation, which was almost too much for nature to support, Joseph had certainly a mistress of whom he was enamoured.
YOUNG Westwood appeared somewhat chagrined about my dancing, though he endeavoured to hide it. He told me, that had I not professed a desire, little short of a resolution, not to partake of the amusement, he would have provided me another partner.
THE report that Mr. Stentor was the person who was principally concerned in the opposition I met with on my first appearance was, I am fully convinced, without foundation. His partiality and attachment to me are evident; and I find myself greatly in arrear to him for the attention he pays to my interests, by every assiduity in his power. I perceive the sneers of the other members of the company when he does me any little kindness; and understand their sarcasms, which imply, that he has a farther design than is apparent; but, as he has no point to gain, the supposition, besides its malignancy, is ridiculous. I see no reason that we have to construe a friendly desire to please into officiousness; and we all find, in some degree, a satisfaction in being loved and respected, even though the object is beneath any claim of reciprocal affection. But this is not Mr. Stentor's case; his understanding, though clouded and embarrassed by a life of poverty, is much above the level; his temper is tractable, and his address insinuating; not, it is true, without a small proportion of flattery, and has, at times, the aspect of cringing; but the first he corrects, where he finds it displeasing; and the latter is not to be wondered at, when we consider the state of dependence in which he has constantly lived.
I CAME here for country air, and the improvement of my health; but, I fear, I shall never become the rival of old Parr, none of my waistcoats get too tight for me. My cheeks improve, rather in length than breadth; and though the colour has not entirely forsook them, yet it seems like an ambassador on the eve of a war, in hourly expectation of departing. I ought to beg pardon for speaking with so much levity, upon a subject which, though my situation renders it a light one, to me, yet is one that your goodness and prejudice in my favour have made interesting, on your part. But forgive me; suffer the smile of resignation and melancholy to, sometimes, steal a visit. Yes, Charles, I will own, life has no charms without Maria. Death opens a friendly door for a harrassed fugitive, and welcomes him to the mansion of repose. Why then should I dread to enter? Even Maria, the lovely Maria, whom all hearts doat on, all eyes adore, must soon take refuge there. What is an hour, a year, a century? They are all equal, and Socrates and Shakespear are, now, no longer the conscious vehicles of wisdom and delight. Where is the difference between a moment, and a million of ages, if the cold hand of death must, at last, put out the lamp? Nothing, but Maria, could bribe me to wish for life; and death, as Dryden says,
Is but
a black veil, covering a beauteous face,
Fear'd, afar off, by erring nature,
tho'
But a harmless lambent fire!—
GOD bless you all. I am going with this letter to the post-office, and then to take my usual, solitary walk among the wilds of Westmoreland, where pomp and luxury never, yet, had residence. There is such a mixture of the grand, terrible, and beautiful, and in so rich a style, among these vales and mountains, that I sometimes imagine I behold the spirit of Salvator Rosa, sitting on a rock, and contemplating the wonders of the scene.—Shakespear is, you know, my favourite poet; and I never read him with more enthusiasm than in this place; the scenery is so suitable to the elevation and grandeur of the subject that it seems enchantment, and produces every possible effect.—I have played Hamlet, and am shortly to appear in Macbeth, &c. &c. &c. Adieu,
H. H. ALWYN.
LETTER XXI. Mr. STENTOR to his WIFE.
My DEAR,
I AM much obliged to my friend, Drumshandrugh, for informing me of your arrival. I told you it would be Tuesday night before you could get there, but you always would be positive.
MRS. Vincent is as violent as ever, and meets no obstruction capable of impeding her career. She has had another tender scene with Monsieur Alwyn; but he is made of strange metal,
no penetrable stuff,
according to her account. He expresses himself differently, and fairly owns that, if it had not been for a lucky interruption, he is fearful his passions would have vanquished his resolution. But he has escaped, and seems determined to avoid, from what he calls a consciousness of weakness, such melting interviews for the future. Though I can't help laughing at his stupidity, I encourage his
virtuous whims,
because they answer my purposes, every way. He wrote, the next morning, to the dying lady, who has shewn me his billet. It is a mighty genteel one, full of compliments on her person and accomplishments; but concludes with informing her, that his affections are unalterably fixed; and, that he is fully resolved to quit Kendal the moment he hears any thing more about an affair, which were he to pursue, would sink him, even beneath contempt. Mrs. Vincent finding what she suspected was true,
videlicet,
that he is in love with another, sent for me to consult upon the means of discovering who this other could be; and we could hit upon none, but that of purloining his pocket-book, in which he keeps his letters, and which I have often observed tossed in a careless, unsuspecting manner, among his things. I pretended to start at an action like this, and stated the ingratitude, and almost impossibility of it, though I believe it to be easy enough; nor did I seem much more flexible, when she mentioned a gratuity of ten guineas; but when she afterwards came up to twenty, I found my virtue mollified, and pity pleading strongly in her behalf. Accordingly, upon the aforesaid conditions, I have engaged to make the attempt, and, you may be assured, I shall not fail to magnify the difficulty of the task. I do not, for my part, yet, foresee what advantage it will be to her, if she should make the discovery; but she is a bold designer, and revolves vast projects in her head.—She desired to see my writing, and, after comparing it with Alwyn's, asked me, if I thought I could not imitate his hand. You can't help remembering, what a devilish situation I brought myself into, the last time I practised this manoeuvre; and to tell you the truth, I have been plaguily startled at the recollection ever since. Not that this ought to have too much weight with me, for it is a trick that I have frequently practised before, and with remarkable success. I don't yet know her intention, however, I shall consider circumstances with some cautition, in this case, and take my measures accordingly.
Adieu, T. STENTOR.
LETTER XXII. Mr. STAMFORD, Jun. to Mr. ALWYN.
Dear HARRY,
YOUR'S of the 24th, was brought by the servant, who conveyed my last to the post-office. Not having, at that time, any thing to communicate relating to my sister, or the intended marriage, I was silent on that point. She and my father arrived here last Thursday; he in good health, but poor Maria very much altered. The physicians have advised the country air, and my father intends to leave her for some time, as business requires his presence in town, next week. Her disorder, it is feared, will terminate in a consumption. 'Tis of the mind, and medicine vainly attempts to relieve, while the source of discontent remains. A calm languor, a settled melancholy has overspread her features, and, I am too well convinced, will, shortly, convey her to the last state of repose, if means be not found to prevent a union to which she is so averse.
INTIMATE as our friendship has ever been, I am apprehensive of shocking her delicacy, if I should press her to a discovery of her passion; but I am resolved to communicate my sentiments on this subject to my father, who can, with much more propriety, enquire into the state of her mind. His tenderness can surely never bear to see her miserable, but will rather favour her inclinations, when fixed on so truly estimable a character as that of my dear friend.
Wednesday Night.
THIS morning, Mr. Maitland being deeply engaged in his studies, Maria very ill, and Tom Maitland gone a shooting, my father and I were left to entertain ourselves; for which purpose we walked out together in one of the adjoining woods. I had predetermined to reason with him on the subject of Maria's illness, but he prevented me by introducing it himself.
MY friend Maitland and I, said he, have long pleased ourselves with the hope of one day seeing our families united in Maria and his son. But I now begin to be apprehensive that heaven has decreed otherwise. Our inclinations are not always in our power. The cool voice of reason may put a negative on the motions of passion, if not applied to too late, but the will cannot cause an inclination where passion is absent. Maria, if I can judge, dislikes Tom Maitland. I do not wonder at it, for I must confess that the more I see of him, the less reason I find to admire him. The levity of his mind, which does not seem so much the effect of youth as of emptiness, his disregard of every thing serious, and that want of delicacy, which appears in his ideas of domestic pleasures, make me suspect him to be a libertine; which, if true, would be enough to make me break off the treaty, even if Maria was as strongly prejudiced in his favour, as I believe she is against him. But, whether that be true or not, it is sufficient that he is a person with whom my child can never be happy; and, in consequence, I have resolved to defer their marriage till further circumstances shall either confirm or refute my suspicions of his real character, and the state of Maria's mind, whose filial obedience I shall never take advantage of to make her unhappy.
I ENTIRELY approved of his sentiments and resolution, which I impart to you, that you may share the satisfaction I find in the event. I assure you I receive no small pleasure in anticipating the time that will make you both happy; for such a time, I am persuaded, will come, and that I am pleased at the thoughts of the joy the perusal of this will give you.
I CONGRATULATE you on the conquest you made at the assembly, which, to any but you, would afford either a ground for vanity, or a prospect of interest. But you are above either of these, and I hope, notwithstanding all obstacles, to see the constancy of your love rewarded. I remain,
My dear Alwyn,
Your real friend, C. STAMFORD.
LETTER XXIII. Miss STAMFORD, to Miss GOWLAND.
My dear JULIA,
MY papa and I arrived here last night. Ever since we parted, my health has been on the decline. I am much altered, since I had the pleasure of your company in town. A listless dejection, which I am incapable of overcoming, has entirely sunk my spirits, and makes every amusement tedious and disgusting. Even music affords me no pleasure, and my only consolation is, that a very short time will put an end to my sufferings. I am constantly haunted with the idea of Alwyn, whom my fancy represents as pining with hopeless love. Alas! perhaps I flatter myself, and the remembrance of Maria is, long since, blotted from his mind. I know your friendship will make you pity, and not blame, my hapless infatuation.—And sure, to die is an atonement sufficient for my imprudence.
MY papa will come to town next week. He leaves me here for the benefit of the air, as well as for the promotion of that union I tremble but to think of. Young Mr. Maitland is here, but does not much trouble me with his company. I believe he thinks it is disagreeable, and I am willing he should, if that would tend to prevent our marriage. My dear brother is always with me. If I walk out he accompanies me, and, by the happy turn of his mind, makes these woods and lawns appear to the greatest advantage. If I am confined to my chamber, he is continually there, and, by the tenderness of his behaviour, gives me, every day, additional reasons to esteem him. I see he wishes me to communicate to him the cause of my disquiet, but forbears to ask, lest it should make me uneasy. And why should I not repose the secret in his faithful bosom? I never had, till new, a thought that I did not share with him. He is all mildness, and I am sure would rather soothe than chide me.—Adieu, my dear, for the present. I am quite tired, and will finish this in the afternoon.
Five o'clock in the evening.
I WALKED out, after dinner, with my brother, who seemed so particularly thoughtful that I could not help enquiring the reason. You, my dear Maria, replied he, are the cause of my uneasiness. I cannot bear to see you consuming with secret grief. Is it the approaching change of life you fear? Is Maitland disagreeable to you? If so, I am sure, my father will never constrain your inclinations. Is it love? If it is I wish to know the secret only for your advantage; if I cannot relieve your anxiety, at least, permit me to share it. He spoke this with such a tender earnestness, and my heart was already so full, that I could no longer contain myself, but burst into tears. My dear sister, said he, leading me to an alcove, compose yourself. Unbosom your griefs, and rely on me as your sincere friend; there is nothing I shall not be happy to do, to restore your peace. When I had a little recovered from the agitation, into which his address had thrown me, I acquainted him, without reserve, with my love for Alwyn. He told me he had long since observed it, and was not without hope that a future time would give Mr. Alwyn those advantages his merit deserves; but, that, for the present, he could, in confidence, assure me, that my papa was averse to making Mr. Maitland his son-in-law, and had resolved to break off the treaty, the first opportunity.
MY joy at this agreeable intelligence was excessive. I thanked him for it, with an emotion that evinced how pleasing it was to me, while he enjoyed that pleasure which a generous and sympathetic heart receives from an occasion of exercising its benevolence.
THE remainder of our walk was consumed in discourse about Mr. Alwyn; concerning whom he told me strange things. He is not at his mother's, as we always understood he was.—But I will relate these matters some other opportunity. I find myself much recovered in spirits since the morning. I seem to myself as if just awakened from a long dream, and, already, begin to enjoy the beauties of this enchanting retirement.
OLD Mr. Maitland has a number of particularities, but is, notwithstanding, a very good man. I shall have a thousand things to tell you about him when I see you. I am,
My dear Julia,
Your's affectionately, MARIA STAMFORD.
LETTER XXIV. Mr. STAMFORD, Jun. to Mr. ALWYN.
Dear HARRY,
I HAVE not mentioned my suspicions of Maria's regard for you to my father; his disinclination to the present match having rendered it unnecessary. Besides, I was apprehensive of the consequences, which there is no foreseeing, in an instance of this critical nature. But I have other news to acquaint you with, that will, I am convinced, afford you much pleasure. Our friendship, and the high opinion I have ever entertained of your honour, makes me tell you, without scruple, that Maria loves you, and has confessed it. No longer able to see her pining with secret anguish, I pressed her to disclose the secrets of her bosom. She has owned her love, and the apprehensions she was under from the present treaty. I could not disapprove of a passion which I have always wished to see crowned with success; but, on the contrary, informed her that her father was really averse to concluding the business with Mr. Maitland, and would take the first opportunity of breaking it off, with honour. This assurance has had a happy effect: she has already began to recover her spirits, and is quite another person, compared to what she was a day or two ago.
THE gloomy appearance of affairs begins to clear up. Heaven, that sees your mutual worth, will not suffer it to languish without success. I am elated with the hopes of calling my Alwyn by the endearing name of brother, and of seeing my sister in the possession of him, whom of all men I most esteem. My next letter will, I doubt not, contain more certain information; and in the mean time I must assure you, that no circumstance can place you higher in the estimation of
Your sincere friend, STAMFORD.
LETTER XXV. Mr. STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. SELDON.
Dear SIR,
I THOUGHT to have had the pleasure of seeing you in town, previous to my setting out for this place; but my daughter's health, which was daily declining, obliged me to hasten my departure. I shall be with you in a few days, as Maria, already, begins to improve; and, in the mean time, if you should be inclined to adventure with me, in the way I mentioned in my last, our clerk, Mr. Simpson, has instructions to do the needful on my part.
THE connection I was desirous of completing between the son of our old friend Maitland, and my Maria, does not bid fair to produce those good effects I hoped would arise from it. The young man has many foibles, and, I fear, faults; all which are of that
omplexion that do not seem likely to wear off with time. He has been at college, where, if I can judge, he employed his time▪ more in distinguishing himself among the bucks of that place, than in acquiring useful knowledge; and he seems to think, that the greatest merit consists in singularity, and the power of raising a laugh. In short, he is a very empty young fellow; and the more he is known, the less he is esteemed. Maria does not like him at all, and, as I am resolved not to force her inclinations, I intend to decline forwarding the business; though I must own it gives me much concern, especially when I think how much my good friend Maitland will be hurt by it.
MY son is well, and seems delighted with this pleasant country. He makes his respects to you, And I remain,
Dear Sir,
Your most obedient Friend and Servant, J. STAMFORD.
LETTER XXVI. Mr. STENTOR to his WIFE.
My DEAR,
I HAVE a budget of news for you. The pocket-book has been rifled, and we have made the fatal discovery. I did it mighty neatly; I watched our youngster's time for his long walk, which is customary with him every day, then went up to his room, on pretence of looking for him, but with intent to see if he had left his cabinet of secrets behind him; I mean his pocket-book, and had the good fortune to find it.
I RAN with my prize to my employer, and she read, while I wrote extracts and memorandums. We were so expeditious that I had replaced the book before the youth returned; and, I believe, so carefully disposed the papers, that it is not probable he should have any suspicion. It was exceedingly lucky, for I had gone several times before, when he was out, and could not find it. I am of opinion that he usually takes it with him, for it is an observation, made by several in the town, that he is often seen musing, in the fields, over letters and papers, and the purport of what we have read confirms the conjecture.
IT appears, he is in love with his master's daughter, with whose brother he holds a correspondence. He has retired hither without the knowledge of his master, who believes him to be with a relation for the recovery of his health. These particulars known, Mrs. Vincent resolved to strike a bold stroke, and inform Mr. Stamford, Alwny's master, of his love; but, lest that should rather retard than forward her scheme, as, from the milky temper of the old gentleman, there is no knowing what turn the affair might take, she has accused him of infidelity to the young lady and love to her; and, as there was no way so positive as that of shewing it under Alwyn's own hand, she has bribed me, rather unwillingly, I confess, to write a counterfeit love-letter, as coming from Alwyn to her. It is done in a bold stile; and, as she has managed the affair, cannot fail of producing the desired effect; which is, to break off all connections between the Stamford family and Alwyn, for the future.
SHE has wrote an anonymous letter to old Stamford, and enclosed the counterfeit love-letter; which is so happy an imitation, that Alwyn himself would not by the writing disown it for his. You will hardly suppose it was compunction for the youth that made me averse to the task; my own, personal security was the only motive of any weight with me; and this kicked the beam, when put in the scales of interest. I am now the proprietor of sixty guineas, a sum that the frowns of that presecuting bawd Fortunè, who procures only for idiots, has taught me to look up to with as much wonder, as an ignorant sailor would at a gilt pagoda. Some people, perhaps, who are gravely lolling at their ease, would preach to me about conscience; though, at the same time, if I wanted a morsel of bread, would have the
conscience
to eat their dinner with a good appetite, and let me starve. The world has continually assaulted me, and I have a right to make reprisals; all men that I have ever heard of agree, that self-preservation precedes every other consideration; it does, however, with me. This Alwyn came here, and deprived me of my bread, at least of my fame; and must I be the pimp to his triumph, let him look to himself, he is mistaken in his man, if he imagines me so foolishly tame.
I HAVE another rod in pickle for him; I told you I would take measures to inform Mr. Staple, the lover of Mrs. Vincent, what a rapid progress the youth has made in the affections of his mistress. I have accomplished this business, and it has had that kind of effect which I supposed. Staple is bent upon mischief and revenge, but he is none of your foolish hot-headed blockheads, who, because they have received an injury, seek satisfaction in what is ridiculously called an
honourable way.
He is aware, that the armour of honour was never yet found to be bullet-proof. He, therefore, goes me a wiser way to work, and hires me two or three stout fellows, who are to bestow the knout, or the bastinado, or some, equally mild, discipline upon him; nay, perhaps, proceed a little farther, if there should seem a necessity for such a procedure. My emissary, who tells me all this, is to be an assistant and Ward, the Town Bully, who, you know, is the terror of the Kendalians, the captain of the Blackguards, and the leading man at elections, is another. They are to be reinforced by Staple, and their plan is to hide themselves among the rocks, where he usually resorts; one of them is to be upon the scout, and give notice of his arrival; they are then to steal upon him, unawares, knock him down, if he makes any resistance, bind him, and punish him as their leader shall direct. They are provided with disguises, and intend to leave him bound, after they have broken a few of his bones. I hope there will be no murder; because, I confess, that would be carrying even
my
revenge too far. Not that I would have them tender upon the subject. If he keeps his bed three weeks, or a month, he will find we shall be able to play without him; and our booby of a manager will be obliged, then, to come cap-in-hand, once more, to me.
I CAN never mention this last fool without recollecting some of his absurdities. He wants to have Shylock, the Jew, in the Merchant of Venice, spoken in the dialect of Duke's-place, and swears
Shakspur
intended it so. He is seldom perfect enough in his part to be able to repeat two lines together, without the assistance of the prompter; and, when he blunders, always lays the blame upon others.
YOU know what a happy knack he has at mutilating. The other night, instead of
angels,
he wanted
anglers
to visit his Cordelia's dreams.
HE told the duke in Othello, a messenger was arrived from the
gallows,
instead of the
gallies.
AGAIN, instead of saying to Posthumus, in Cymbeline,
Thou basest thing avoid; hence from my sight
—He came spluttering on, and bawled out,
Thou bass string, hence in a fright.
HE seemed in an excellent mood in this play, for discovering his talent; for, when he should have said to Cloten,
Attend you here, the door of our stern daughter?
he asked,
Attend you here, our daughter's stern door?
—But this to you, who are so well acquainted with the booby, is superfluous.—Adieu,
T. STENTOR.
LETTER XXVII. Mrs. VINCENT, to Mr. STAMFORD, Sen.
SIR,
THOUGH I have not the honour of a personal acquaintance with you, yet, as I have, from many circumstances, reason to think highly of your character, I deem it a duty incumbent upon me to inform you, how much your reputation is injured by one, whom, if I am not deceived, it ill becomes to speak with disrespect of any part of your family.
THE person alluded to is Mr. Alwyn, who boasts of connexions and interests with your children, particularly your daughter, which, even if true, are of that nature, which neither prudence nor gratitude admit of revealing. His ingratitude is, indeed, too apparent; and, though want of prudence is almost venial, in youth, yet, when it affects the peace and reputation of families, the person who, from motives of concern, shall warn the unsuspecting of their danger, will act consistently to those ties which ought to regulate society.
I HAVE an additional reason for my conduct. Being a party concerned, I think myself insulted by the folly and vanity of this young man.
THAT you may not suspect me of having any private pique, any sinister design, or mean resentment to gratify, I have sent sufficient proof of the charge I make. The enclosed letter, addressed to me, under his own hand, is an irrefragable witness. His ingratitude in offering to expose the letters of his friend, your son, for which he had no reason, but to convince me that your daughter was, as he termed it, dying for him, put me beyond all patience. Not that I am surprized at the young lady's partiality in his favour; he has many specious qualities, and art enough to ensnare the affections of an inexperienced heart, especially one, whose own rectitude will not let it mistrust the sincerity of others. Before I was aware of his character, or intentions, I suffered him to visit at my house, in consequence of the protection his plausibility had gained him among the young gentlemen of Kendal; and supposing him, from what observations a first, or second interview had furnished me with, deserving of better fortune than his connexion with a company of travelling players could afford. I am sorry, since, by his own account, you have an interest in his welfare, that I was so soon obliged to alter my opinion. Indeed I did not imagine that, because I treated him with respect, he would, therefore, declare himself my lover; nor, when I found him so audacious, that he would, by such ungenerous means as those of pretending to sacrifice another, and, perhaps, far more deserving lady, to me, endeavour to recommend himself to my favour.
I DO not mean to write a dissertation upon his conduct; but as I have, from what I deem proper motives, undertaken to inform you of it, I thought it necessary to give my reasons for so doing. His letter will best direct your feelings, and a consciousness of having discharged my duty will satisfy mine.
I SHOULD have subscribed my name, but that I think it a disgrace to have any future knowledge of such an affair, and would avoid all transactions, of every kind, hereafter, with Mr. Alwyn; neither is there any necessity, where the circumstances are so full and obvious. For the same reason, I have erased the superscription from the enclosed letter.—I am, Sir, as I would wish to be, till a more eligible opportunity offers, your unknown, but, respectful, humble servant.
LETTER XXVIII
The forged Letter.
. To Mrs. —.
Dear MADAM,
WHY will you suffer the humblest, the most sincere of your adorers, to languish in despair? The repulse you, last night, gave my ardent and ungovernable passion has, almost, deprived me of reason. Why, too cruel fair, do you delight in the misery of your faithful slave? Yet, why do I complain? Had I ten thousand lives, I would surrender them, in obedience to your commands. Suffer me to hope for an abatement of your rigour.
IS it possible that my passion can be a matter of surprize to you? To you, who are formed to inspire the most ardent love? Can you reproach me with baseness, in sacrificing another to the influence of your matchless charms? Is not your irresistible beauty an excuse for a breach, even of the most solemn engagements? Ah, cease, angelic creature, to blame me for the effects of a passion that is too strong for opposition.
I CONFESS, I was, once, slightly enamoured with a girl; but never knew the force of love, till I beheld your unrivall'd perfections. She was the gentleman's daughter with whom I resided in London; but she was forward, and I was foolish. It was a silly affair that, I was apprehensive, might become too serious; for which reason, I pretended that my health was declining, and made that excuse to avoid a persecution from the poor thing, who, I found, expected me to tie an Hymeneal knot with her, to which, till this instant, I have ever had the utmost aversion.
IT is no wonder that I now feel myself all love, all constancy, all ecstacy and truth. Who can think of another that looks upon you?
TO convince you of my sincerity, I will shew you, this evening, extracts, or whole letters if you please, from the brother of the above lady, from which it will appear how easily I might succeed, were fortune the only object of my pursuit. Do but look with pity on my passion, and I will instantly let this brother know how much he is mistaken, when he fancies I love his sister; which I should have done long ago, but for some prudential reasons.
I AM unhappy till I hear my doom from your dear lips; and, surely, if they pronounce it, I cannot doubt its kindness. They were formed for pleasure, and cannot, twice, give pain.
THE bearer of this is my friend, and of approved fidelity. By him I hope to receive your permission to cast myself at your feet, and to prove how entirely I am,
Your most humble and sincere adorer, H. H. ALWYN.
LETTER XXIX. Mr. ALWYN to Mr. HILKIRK.
Dear HILKIRK,
NOTWITHSTANDING the depression of spirits which I labour under, an adventure has happened to me, which has surprized me so much, that I find an impulse strong enough to make me thus soon resume my pen, and send you an account of it.
THE romantic scenes which are so numerous in this country, being exceedingly delightful, and in unison with that kind of temper, which I, more particularly at present, possess, it had become customary with me to ramble among them, usually, every day. This I find has been taken notice of.
WANDERING, this morning, by the side of a rivulet, my accustomed haunt, that washes a thousand rocky fragments, and is kept in almost perpetual agitation by the obstruction it meets with, I observed a natural cave, in a rock upon its bank, which had a winding, narrow entrance. The warmth of the day, the gloom of the cavern, and my inclination for repose, all invited me to rest, and I sat down in it. Appearances made me conjecture this had, heretofore, been the silent retreat of some one, who, like me, was devoted to melancholy. In the spot that fronted it the bed of the brook was deep, and its waters unruffled; within was a seat upon the shelving of the rock, a little worn, where one might recline, unseen, and listen to the warblings of the inhabitants of the lonely valley. The light, through several cavities, just found sufficient entrance to enable me to read; the roof permitted me to sit, or stand, upright, and I began to regret that I had not sooner discovered a place so consonant to my taste.
I HAD amused myself, here, for some time, when I heard the voices of men; and, as I had no desire to be seen, I sat still, supposing they would soon be past. They approached nearer, and their language became distinct. Judge of my surprize, when I found myself the subject of the following conversation.
DAMN him, I'll be the death of him—I'll murder him.
WHOY, if we murder him, he'll be sure never to foind us out; dead men, you know, tell no tales.
NO, no, I'll ha no consarn in murder, noather. Yow say he has affronted you; and if yow want to be even with him, by giving him a good, sound beating, why so, I'll lend you a hond, an I think he'll scarce be an overmatch for us aw three.
AW three! dom thee for a coward, whoy I, mysel, would spin him tween my finger and thum, loike a two-penny top. An, I suppooas, if we were to give him two or three hard knucks, that should chance to do his business, thou ast sich a queeazy conscience thou'dst peach.
NO—dom the liars.—But, howsomdever, I doan't ought to be consarn'd in his death, cause he gum me a guinea to pay my quarter's rent, and boy my woife a pare a-shoon, t'other day; and which, thou knowst, thou holp me spend, cause my landlord, here, promised to forgee me th'rent, and sumat beside, for this job.
AYE, aye—I'll forgive thee th'rent, provided thou dost not spare his bones; for by — I'll scarce leave life in him—I'll teach him to come to assemblies, and dance with other folks mistresses, an make love out of playbooks; damn him, I'll 'noint his carcase.
AS soon as we see him cumin, we'll put creeap o'er our feaces, and hoide till we can fall on him; and then, if we think he kens us, weest coot his tongue out, to mar his telling who hurt him.
HIS tongue! what matters his tongue, he can write, can he not?—I'll warrant he can write love-letters— Make an end of him, damn him, make an end of him—I'd stick my knife to his heart, for a farthing. I'd kill him with a better heart than ever a butcher kill'd a calf.
FROM two or three circumstances in their discourse it was that I discovered myself to be the subject of it. I looked through an aperture of the rock, and perceived they were armed with short bludgeons, which, I suppose, they had precaution enough to hide under their coats, while they thought there was any danger of being seen; and, considering the intentions and strength of the enemy, I concluded myself happy in being thus secreted from their sight. This, however, was no security; they were acquainted with the place; and one of them perceiving somebody coming, along the winding of the valley, which they supposed to be me, they proceeded to enter the cave. What added to the horror of my situation, was, that their leader, being intent upon an evil action, and subject, I suppose, to a thousand apprehensions, drew a large knife, and was the first that approached the cavern.
THE moment I beheld my enemy advancing, my anger at the perfidious manner in which he sought revenge, for a supposed injury of which I was innocent, added to the abhorrence of being murdered, made me forget all fear, and darting from my seat, I seized the knife, and with one effort laid him at my feet. The guilt of his conscience, and my unexpected appearance and assault, terrified him so much, that, instead of giving any proofs of ferocity, he roared for mercy in the most abject manner.
I DID not stay any longer with him, but, snatching his club, attacked his associates, and, by a successful blow, levelled one of them with the earth. The more desperate talker, and him who was so ready to accuse the other of cowardice, took to his heels. He did not escape thus; I sprang over the fallen assassin, and pursued him, and his foot tripping, I caught him almost instantly. He rose, and endeavoured to make some resistance, but I had the good fortune to prove victorious.
I HAD scarce made this conquest, when I perceived young Mr. Westwood, with his fishing rod; who seeing me thus engaged, ran, immediately, to my assistance. I desired him to guard this ruffian, while I went to secure Mr. Staple, the leader of this glorious enterprize: the other associate, I perceived, had fled out of my reach, and has not been heard of since.
AS I came to the cavern, I heard Staple groan, shockingly; I, therefore, desired Mr. Westwood to come up, and assist me in bringing him from the mouth of the cave, he being just in that part of it where there was not light enough to discover in what condition he was: accordingly, having bound the other with a rope, which was tied round his own waist, and which, I suppose, was intended for my use, we went to Staple, who continued utttering groans, and exclaimed that he was a dead man.
WHEN we had brought him to the light, we found he had a contusion on the eye, which, from the violence of the blow, had swelled, prodigiously; but, what was worse, in falling, his arm was broken, by pitching in the crevice of a rock.
I NOW found all my anger turned to pity, and, therefore, forebore to upbraid him. I was not inclined to be quite so merciful to the accomplice. I knew if I accused him before a magistrate the affair must become public; I, therefore, bestowed a little discipline upon him, though not quite to the satisfaction of Mr. Westwood, and suffered him to depart.
WE conveyed Staple almost to Kendal, in the best manner we were able; and he made so many mean concessions, and begged of me to forgive him so often, that I told him he might invent what tale he pleased, and tell it his own way, for that I should not contradict it; and prevailed, at last, on Westwood to make the like promise; accordingly, I hear, he reports that he has been robbed and ill treated by a thief, among the mountains.
JEALOUSY, it seems, prompted him to commit this outrage; I had danced with his mistress at an assembly, and she has been unkind to him since, which he attributes to her partiality for me; but, as I have by no means encouraged her in such a partiality, I am not to be accountable for her caprice; however, as it is an affair that I did not wish to hear any thing about in the presence of Mr. Westwood, I did not ask for any explanation, nor did he offer any, unless his apologies for his conduct may be so termed.
I AM not so violently attached to my present employment as I imagined I should be. There is so much of the labour of a school-boy requisite, that, before the words are learnt by rote, the imagination is wearied, the enthusiastic fire, which the first reading of the poet inspires, is evaporated, and the fancy becomes jaded by repetition. The false, or dull conception, too, of the generality of the performers, is exceedingly teizing. I do not think to continue here, long, and the above adventure will rather quicken than retard my departure. I have flattering accounts from young Mr. Stamford, that would almost make me think of returning to the family. My heart is with them, but I dare not indulge my hopes: should they prove false, it would only increase a disorder that is, already, too violent. Adieu.
H. H. ALWYN.
LETTER XXX. Mr STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. ALWYN.
SIR,
IF I were conscious of having ever acted, in the least respect, otherwise to you than as a father, I should have been less surprized at the transaction that compels me to trouble you with this. Your father was the worthiest of men, and the thought that I was repaying, in a slight degree, the obligation I owe to his friendship, added to the merit, I fancied, I saw in you, gave me a satisfaction, that more than amply counterbalanced the benefits you received from my protection and care. I can never express the pleasure I daily experienced, in beholding the image of my dear Alwyn renewed in his son. With a truly paternal joy, I perceived the seeds of every virtue unfolding themselves under my instruction, and cherished the fond hope of seeing them come to maturity. But I am forced to give up the expectation.
THINK, Alwyn, if your soul is not grown callous to every sentiment, to every feeling that dignifies mankind— Think what I suffer in relinquishing the darling wish. I am now old; my connexions drop off; few of the friends of my youth remain; but I indulged the hope of seeing Alwyn among my children, one of the supports of my age. I can ill afford to lose the blessing; but perfect felicity is not attainable in this life, and I must submit. But I must confess, that I submit with pain and reluctance.
OH, Alwyn, much rather would I have followed thee to the grave than seen the proofs of yesterday! When did I injure you? What has Maria done? Base, ungrateful wretch! To wound me in the tenderest part! If I had not fostered you in my bosom you had wanted power to sting! Could not your vile schemes be carried on without sacrificing your father and your friend!
MY children are distracted at your perfidy; and nothing but the most direct, the most positive proof of your baseness could have prevailed on me to adopt the belief.
OH, thou fair outside, painted shew of every virtue, but real sink of every vice! In future, no villainy, however great, shall shock my belief; for, if Alwyn can smile at the fond credulity of the friend that loves him—If he can blast the fame of an innocent girl, whose greatest fault is to esteem him— If he can wound the heart of an old man, whose solicitude for his welfare has equalled that which he had for his own children, what wickedness will he not readily accomplish?
GO, false wretch, if thou hast a conscience, hell is within thee; and if that monitor exists not, proceed in thy career. Heaven is just, and hypocrisy and ingratitude, so complete, cannot, long, miss their proper reward.
J. STAMFORD.
LETTER XXXI. Mr. ALWYN, to Mr. STAMFORD, Jun.
FOR God's sake, my dear friend, let me know what I have done? Have I really lost every friend I esteemed in the world? Pray send me word without loss of time. This stroke exceeds the utmost misery my imagination ever painted. O, rather, far, rather would I have chosen the silent grave, and my dear, more than father's lamentations, than this dreadful, this mysterious letter. I am sure 'tis his hand—He calls me base, ungrateful wretch. But heaven is my witness how much he is deceived. Can I wrong your angel sister? The man lives not that could do it.—Her native virtue is a guard not to be sinned against. And, Oh my friend, is it possible for me to smile at your simplicity? Believe me, I could weep at your misfortunes, I could give my life to serve you; but never was capable of deriding the friend of my heart.
BE faithful to me in this excruciating instance. Explain to me the dreadful
proofs of yesterday.
I HAVE read the letter so often, that the intensity of the thought has quite overcome me, and yet can make nothing of it.—If your father is angry at my becoming a player, still the crime is unequal to the reproach.—Maria!— My friend!—My father!—Sacrificed! Is it possible? Oh, no, no. I am distracted with the hurry of passion in my breast. Love, friendship, gratitude, have I offended all? Miserable wretch that I am! If the most unremitted ardour, the most respectful, silent, suffering passion, be to blast the fame of the divine Maria—then, alas, I am guilty. If perfect esteem, and the confidence of every, the least, movement of my soul, be to betray my friend, then have I done it. And if daily to implore heaven to shower its choicest blessings on the head of my benefactor —if that be to wound his heart, then am I ungrateful.
NEVER did I think, my dear Stamford, to receive so keen a torment from the hand of my dearest friend and patron. The lightening of heaven would have been a more welcome visitant. Let me hear from you; if friendship has no plea, at least for pity let me have a line.
I am, Your real and grateful friend, ALWYN.
LETTER XXXII. Mr. ALWYN to Mr. HILKIRK.
Dear HILKIRK,
I AM overwhelmed with misfortunes, I have received a letter, a fatal one to me, that informs me, I have totally lost the friendship of the Stamford family. I am unacquainted with the cause, and bewildered in amazement and sorrow. It is wrote by Mr. Stamford, senior, and complains bitterly and pathetically of my ingratitude. Nothing could add to my unhappiness but a consciousness of guilt. God only knows my heart, and how much I would undertake to serve, or convince them of my affection, or how industriously I would avoid injuring, or giving them pain. I am accused of breach of friendship, and want of love and delicacy for Maria, but in such a vague and enigmatical, though possitive stile, that I am at a loss in what manner to interpret it. Perhaps the old gentleman is offended at my becoming a comedian, without informing him of my intention. Yet surely this offence could not merit, nor authorize the accusations I have received.
THE more I reflect, the more I am surprized and afflicted. Mr. Stamford is cautious, to a degree, how he believes any thing to the disadvantage of another; and, when convinced, is ever ready to make the most generous allowances for the infirmities of human nature. He has found out my love for his daughter, perhaps: this, doubtless, is disagreeable to him; but I am certain, this, nor no other motive could induce him to swerve from the path of integrity; nothing but positive conviction could make him accuse me in the manner he has done, and yet it was impossible he should have that. What can be the cause? I have no enmity to any one. I obstruct no one in his prospects of happiness or pleasure. I am not of importance enough, in this ambitious world, to annoy any one, sufficiently to make him my enemy: or, if I were, who could give malice a colour strong enough to convince the good, the generous Stamfords, of the reality of my supposed guilt? It is the utmost weakness to harbour such a suspicion, and nothing but my present incertitude and distress could excuse me in making such reflections.
I HAVE wrote to Mr. Stamford, junior, but, as I am certain of the justice of his father's proceedings, and how thoroughly he believes himself convinced of the truth of his assertions (by what strange means I know nor) I expect only a further confirmation of my misfortunes. — Oh Maria! — Forgive me dear Hilkirk — my tears will not let me proceed.
I COULD not finish this letter yesterday. I found myself so ill, and my brain so near a state of frenzy, that I was obliged to use my utmost endeavours to calm my disturbed imagination. I am little better to day. I have received a letter, from young Mr. Stamford, in answer to mine, that thoroughly confirms my prediction. The thing that I am most uneasy at, is, they have not told me what their allegations are founded on. Perhaps the explanation is what they seek to avoid; and I will rather suffer in silence, than urge them to any thing that would give them pain. It is enough for me that I am innocent. I shall soon have no remembrance of injuries, or the injured. I find myself in the road that leads to everlasting rest, and this, only, is my hope, my consolation. It is impossible I should ever possess the only object that could make the small remainder of time, my youth might promise, glide away in tranquillity and joy; and, surely, to be released from misery is a pleasure.
I SHALL quit this place directly, and travel, on foot, across the country to my dear mother in Oxfordshire. I am daily receiving proofs of her maternal tenderness, and I wish to die in her arms; I shall endeavour to hide my griefs from her, and from the world; in which, while I continue, you, my dear Hilkirk, shall be certain of a place in the grieved heart of
H. H. ALWYN.
LETTER XXXIII. Mr. STAMFORD, Jun. to Mr. ALWYN.
SIR,
WHY do you continue to laugh at us? You cannot, surely, pretend to say that my father's letter is enigmatical to you. It is not necessary to inform you by what means we received the intelligence of your perfidy: it is enough that you cannot but be conscious of having betrayed your friend; and that in the point on which the peace of our family, in a great measure, must depend.
YOUR proceedings are discovered. You can, therefore, have no end to serve; and an attempt to deceive must, now, be the effect of mere wantonness. But the peace of families is not a thing to be sported with; especially after such transactions as have passed between you and us. It hurts me to be reduced to the necessity of noticing this, which nothing, but the shamefulness of your behaviour, could have forced from me: but, to prevent any correspondence on so disagreeable a subject, I am to inform you that my father and myself desire to have no farther connexion with, or application from you; and that Maria is possessed of strength of mind enough to blot from her remembrance so unworthy a character.
C. STAMFORD.
LETTER XXXIV. Mr. MAITLAND, Junior, to STAFFORD OSBORNE, Esquire.
Dear OSBORNE,
I AM much concerned to find that your letter, in answer to my two long ones, is not come to hand; and can attribute it to no other reason than
its not being yet wrote.
If that is the case, I must make bold to inform you, that I shall not turn historian
gratis
but shall expect an ample return for the narratives I transmit to you from time to time. But I don't believe I shall trouble you with many, while I continue in this place. We hold scarce any sublunary intelligence. I could favour you with an account of the number of patches the sun had on his face when he rose this morning, or let you know the length of Venus's horns; which, by the bye, shews how different the mode in that country is from ours. I should have expected to have seen the patches upon Venus, and the horns upon Mars.
BUT, if these sublime disquisitions are above your comprehension, you are to know that we are not always
super ethera.
We have a hen or two that are constantly employed in the business of incubation, by whose assistance, though we are not sanguine enough to hope we shall ever arrive at the art of making chickens, yet, we think much may be done by way of meliorating the species. My father thinks it necessary to proceed
usque ab ovo,
on account of a difficulty he found, last winter, in attempting to produce hair, instead of feathers, on their bodies. To accomplish which desirable effect, they were divested of their natural habiliments, and kept, for some weeks, in a room, on a grass diet; a regimen that is said to have produced the same phaenomenon in the person of king Nebuchadnezzar. But whether to the inclemency of the season, which prevented the experiment succeeding so well here as at Babylon, or to what other cause the failure might be attributed, certain it is, that they all died, just at the time when there was all the reason in the world to expect a favourable conclusion of the business.
THESE are misfortunes, you'll say, and so they are; but we bear them with philosophic resignation.
MY father has made a capital acquisition in young Stamford, who accompanies him in all his projects and enquiries; and I assist, very often, for want of better employment.
A LITTLE below our house, on the other side of the river, the bank rises with an ascent, rather steep, and is covered with hazle and other trees. At this time of the year, after rain, the
ignes fatui,
or
will-with-the-wisps,
are frequently seen descending towards the water, and, you may be sure, do not pass unobserved by us. The other night we were all three standing on the bank, when a particularly brilliant one made its appearance. My father, who is very active for his years, skipped from stone to stone, and was on the other side in a trice. Mr. Stamford followed; and I, not willing to be singular, went after; but my evil genius had so contrived it that, stepping on a smooth stone, I slipped into the water over head and ears. This sudden immersion effectually cooled the ardour of our pursuit, Stamford helped me out with some trepidation; and my father, returning, assured me, that my misfortune was entirely owing to a due equilibrium of the center not being preserved. However happy this elucidation might be, I did not find myself disposed to admire it, but walked home, rather out of temper, resolving to set his philosophical acumen to work on other business. For which purpose I ordered Sam to accommodate my dog Pompey in the stile of an
ignis fatuus,
and lead him about the lower grove at the time my father generally repairs to his observatory. He, accordingly, fixed six small lamps to a kind of saddle, which he fastened to the dog's back, and made a most shining appearance.
GADSO, says my father, turning the large, reflecting telescope towards it, a very peculiar kind of meteor!
WHAT is it like, says Stamford? There seem to be three, distinct lights, following each other at a very small distance apart.
LET us go to it, said I; and thereupon we sallied forth.
OUR pursuit lasted full two hours, at the end of which we pressed Sam and his meteor so hard that he was under the necessity of extinguishing his illuminations, which, of course, obliged us to return home unsatisfied.
YOU see what shifts I am reduced to, to keep myself alive, and, likewise, the difficulty of furnishing matter for a letter; but you, who are in the midst of whim and jollity, can have no excuse for delaying to write. Adieu.
Your's, &c. T. MAITLAND.
LETTER XXXV. Mr. MAITLAND, to STAFFORD OSBORNE, Esquire.
Dear OSBORNE,
WE have several times hunted the meteor since my last, and are, now, just returned from the chace, which has been unsuccessful, more ways than one.
THOUGH Pompey may be justly called a dog of a liberal education, and some genius, which is evident from his peculiar address at fetching, carrying, and other operations of that nature; yet it must be confessed, that his talents are by no means universal. For this reason it was, I suppose, that he did not succeed, capitally, in exhibiting the
ignis fatuus.
I am even inclined to suspect that Sam was the superior agent of the two; or, to express myself more scholastically, he was the soul of the machine, and Pompey the body, or
visible substance.
The learned tell us, souls and bodies are sometimes apt to fall out, and this remark was exemplified in the present instance. In spite of Sam's attention and care, his animal part, to wit, the dog, was actuated with a strong desire to emancipate itself from controul, which it has accordingly effected.
I AM apprehensive that he will come home with all his meteorological apparatus about him, and, by that means, discover our plot; but have ordered Sam to wait an hour for his arrival. Adieu. Supper waits. I'll finish the rest in the morning.
Friday Night.
I AM distracted—lost—undone, and have involved my father in my misery! That infernal dog came home and set fire to the house. Maitland-hall is now a heap of rubbish, and my father's strong box is lost. Good God! The torture of reflection is intolerable! I am torn by a thousand passions at once! My poor father is quite calm and resigned—He does not blame me—But his lenity cuts my heart more than the keenest reproaches. I am astonished at the folly of my past life.
CAN it be possible that a being, possessed of reason, should pass whole years in worse than indolence? Yes, 'tis too true; for I am that being! The conflict of passion is too violent for nature to support. It must end in the loss of reason, or of life. Be it so; for existence is burthensome.
THE only good act of my life was the cultivation of your friendship. Your virtues engaged me; and even now, despairing, sick of the world, and quitting it, the last effort of my mind is employed in bidding you an eternal farewel.
Your lost friend, T. MAITLAND.
LETTER XXXVI. Mr. STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. SELDON.
Dear SIR,
A TERRIBLE accident has prevented my coming to town this week, as I intended. Maitland-hall is burnt to the ground. Happily, no lives were lost; but Mr. Maitland has suffered very much in his property, to the amount of, nearly, all he was worth. The fire began in his elaboratory, by Tom Maitland's means, but in what particular manner I have not yet had time to enquire.
ABOUT one o'clock in the morning we were alarmed by a neighbour, who was providentially crossing a foot-path that leads by the house. I started up, immediately, but the suffocating smoke, with which my chamber was filled, overpowered my senses, and I fell, again, on the bed. What followed I was unconscious of, but, about an hour after, I found myself in a chamber at the vicar's, and Charles sitting beside me.
THE idea of the fire was still predominant in my mind; but I was unable to determine whether I had dreamt, or the misfortune had really happened. Where am I, exclaimed I, where's my Maria? Let me know, Charles, is my poor child lost? How came I here? Compose yourself, dear Sir, replied he, Maria is safe, a stranger preserved her life at the risque of his own.
AND where is this heavenly stranger? Bring him to me. Let me at least acknowledge the debt, since I never can repay it. He knows not the value of the blessing he has bestowed. But tell me, Charles, how all this happened. I remember the alarm of fire, when the smoke overcame me, but have no knowledge of the rest.
I WAS rouzed, said he, by the outcries of the servants, and the thought of your danger rushed, instantly, into my mind. I flew to your chamber, one side of which the flames had already seized. The urgency of the occasion gave me a strength, which, at another time, it would have been impossible for me to have exerted. I seized you in my arms, and conveyed you hither. When my terror and apprehensions, for your safety, were, somewhat, subsided, I recollected Maria, and, in the utmost anguish, hastened back to the scene of desolation. Two of Mr. Moreton's servants, accompanied by my man Will, were bringing her to this place, in a chair. My dear Will, said I, in a transport, how can I reward you for saving my sister.
No, Sir,
replied he,
it was not I. It was an angel that snatched her from the middle of the fire; for, to be sure, he was sent by heaven to save my mistress. The roof fell in the moment after. I asked him to stay, but he would not, he went away towards next town
. Will is now gone, by my order, to intreat him to return.
WHILE Charles was speaking, his servant entered the room.
"HE won't come," said Will,
he won't come. I told him my master long'd to see him, but he hung his head, and sighed as if he would break his heart. Poor, young gentleman! I thought, mayhap, he believed somebody was burnt; so I told him all was safe, and that 'Squire Maitland was safe, and you, Sir was safe, and every body was safe; but, for all that, he would not speak. At last he said it was impossible, and that he was a wretch, and had lost all his friends, but that he hoped he should die soon, and forget his miseries. And so I believe he will, for he looked so pale, and so thin, and his eyes were so hollow, that my heart aches to think of it. I could not help crying, when he walked away, he seemed so disconsolate. What a pity he should be sad or sorry! I wish I could help him! I'd go to the end of the world to help him.
POOR Will's heart was full. He could not proceed; and Charles, who had sat, silent, with the tears in his eyes, seemed lost in the sympathy of his affections.
MERCIFUL heaven, exclaimed he, rising, are the severest calamities reserved for thy favourites! O that he had returned! How happy we should have been to have supplied the place of his lost friends, and alleviated his sorrows!
TO prevent his dwelling on an object which afflicted him, without being of service to our benefactor, I desired him to enquire how Mr. Maitland and his son did, while I rose and went to Maria. She was sitting in the arms of Miss Moreton, and her maid, who, with some difficulty, kept her in bed.
"WHERE's my papa?" Cried she, struggling,
you would let me see him if he were safe. No, no, he is dead, and I will die too. We will go together.
"MY child," said I, sitting down, beside her,
look at me, I have escaped the flames.
"IS it true?" Replied she, looking at me with great earnestness,—
no, you deceive me, you are not my papa.
A seasonable flood of tears ensued, which restored her so much that she knew me, and enquired after Charles. I related the particulars of the event, as concisely as possible, and, advising her to rest, left her in the care of Miss Moreton.
I, THEN, walked to the site, on which Maitland-hall had stood, where I found Mr. Maitland and Charles surveying the ruins. From the composure which appeared in the countenance of my old friend, I did not apprehend his loss to exceed that of the house and furniture; but, on enquiry, he informed me his strong box, containing notes and securities for upwards of fifty thousand pounds, being almost all he was worth, was missing. But, said he, to a philosopher, this is of little consequence. I can bound my appetites, and enough is left. If I lose my tranquillity, it will be a greater loss than that I have just now sustained. Tom must choose one of the professions to live by; and it is not impossible but the employment of raising a fortune, may prove much more innocent than that of spending one.
I TOOK this occasion to tell him, that I had no intention of breaking off the treaty, on account of the alteration this misfortune would make in his son's circumstances; and he, in answer, said, he expected no less, from the confidence he reposed in my integrity. When I consider the sincerity of his friendship to me, and the proofs he has given me of it, I cannot bear the thought of refusing my daughter, at this time. It carries with it a mark of baseness not to be endured. Perhaps, this disaster may give a new turn to Tom's mind, and make him more worthy of my girl. If so, all will be well, and this shocking circumstance will bet productive of good. I hope to hear that your affairs go on to your satisfaction, and am, with perfect esteem, Sir,
Your most obedient Friend and Servant, J. STAMFORD.
P. S.
My son is gone to town, to give notice of Mr. Maitland's loss at the public offices, and will be with you before this letter comes to hand.
LETTER XXXVII. Mr. ALWYN to Mr. HILKIRK.
Dear HILKIRK,
I ARRIVED at my dear mother's this day week, and, if I were capable of pleasure, should receive it from the joy and tenderness she expressed, and her assiduity to make me happy.—You can scarce imagine what my feelings are, or what such a mother deserves. I am afraid she should remark the gloom that possesses my mind. I know how much it would distress her. I, therefore, make very severe struggles to smother my sighs, and am resolved, as much as is in my power, to carry my griefs abroad, and, without a figure, complain to the pitiless winds.
MY life seems fruitful in adventures, and strange incidents. I am, at this moment, oppressed and agitated with the recollection of one, which has happened to me on my journey. I know you will excuse my impertinence in continually talking thus of myself. I am not, at present, in a state of sufficient tranquillity to make observations on objects which used to amuse me. I find myself, at moments, not many degrees from insanity; and the affliction this would cost my mother, even more than the horror attending it, makes me use my utmost endeavour to forget my troubles, and ward off the blow. My efforts, I fear, will be ineffectual; though, I assure you, I have tried every method. I read, I run, I walk, and make various efforts, to divert my ideas from the channel in which they so constantly flow. My mother appears distrustful, at times; tells me how frequently I talk in an incoherent manner, especially in the night; and I have caught myself, more than once, singing, aloud, without any meaning. I hope, however, I shall conquer this disposition. —Could I forget Maria!—Alas!—It is impossible!—Oh, memory!—Oh, Maria!—
I WILL endeavour to tell my story; Maria has a part in it.
I DEPARTED from Kendal, on the day, and in the manner that I had proposed. I travelled four days without being, scarcely, able to recollect, whether I had passed through towns or villages, had met men, women, or other objects, except such as immediate necessity had obliged me to notice; and was walking very late on the fifth, I suppose it might be almost midnight; for I knew the country, and was so lost in thought, that I did not think of rest; when, casting my eyes accidentally up, at the noise of an owl, that flew by me, with a dismal howl, I perceived, at a less distance than a quarter of a mile from the roadside, a house in flames. I had forgot, at that moment, where I was; but made the best of my way towards the place. The shrieks of the people were piercing, and made the natural stillness of the night awfully shocking. It was exceedingly dark, and the wind rather tempestuous, with a sharp cutting rain; while the blaze cast a horrid gleam upon every object around. I don't remember to have ever been struck with so much terror. I ran, I flew, I intermixed with the frightened sufferers, who were running to and fro, in the utmost confusion; and, I thought, I saw, by the pale glare, some faces that I knew.
IMAGINE what my sensations were, when I beheld a young gentleman bearing an old one, in his arms, through the flames, and, immediately, knew them for young and old Mr. Stamford; but how was my horror increased, when I heard a voice crying, aloud,
OH, my mistress, my mistress, my poor young mistress, she will be burnt, she must be burnt, her chamber is on fire!
—
"WHOSE chamber," said I,
Maria's chamber?
—
OH, yes, yes, my poor, dear, young lady
—
"WHERE is it? shew me the way," said I, in the most horrid agitation.—
THE servant flew to conduct me; and, regardless of the flames, which had spread over the apartment, I burst open the door, darted through them, snatched up my dear Maria in my arms, and, without feeling any thing from the fire, bore her down stairs, harmless, and out of danger.
OH God! how can I describe what I felt?—I could hardly persuade myself, at first, that she was safe.—I viewed the spreading blaze! I turned to Maria! I sighed with excess of emotion! I held my Maria in my arms!—She had swooned in the fright, and did not know me; no one was near us, the servant had ran for water.—In the transport of my joy and passion, I imprinted a kiss upon her lips.—How could I support it?— I was under the power of a wild and tumultuous extacy, and surely the sin was venial.—Oh that I had died at that instant!
THE servant returned, Maria began to revive, I was unwilling to be known and committed her to his care. I had preserved the jewel of my soul, and perceived I could be of no farther service. I heard the younger Stamford uttering distracted cries for his sister, and resolved that he should not know his benefactor, if I could prevent it; I, therefore, made the best of my way into the high road again. His sister was restored to his arms, and he was impatient to thank, and reward, the author of her safety.—I am acquainted with his grateful disposition.—He dispatched the servant, who had observed the route I took, and who presently came up with me. The poor fellow had an honest, and a tender heart, and begged of me, with tears in his eyes, to go back with him to Maitland-hall.
"DEAR Sir," said he,
come with me, do, Sir—Let my old master, and my young master thank you—My dear, young mistress will thank you too—I am sure she will—She is the dearest, best, young lady in the world.
MY eyes overflowed—I uttered something incoherently, about impossibilities, and unhappiness; and the honest servant appeared very much affected with my manner, which, I dare say, was rather wild.—I was agitated—I wished ten thousand things, that I perceived the folly of; and the tumults of my mind occasioned me to betray some weakness.
IT was not without difficulty, that I persuaded the servant to return; and, when he parted from me, he said, he was sure, his young master, and his old master, and his dear lady, too, would be very sorry; for they had charged him to bring me back, if he could find me.
I FELL into so profound a reverie in ruminating upon this accident, that, when I came into the road, I never observed which way I turned; and, instead of proceeding on my journey, travelled back again. I did not discover my mistake till day-light appeared, and I had got near twelve miles; when finding the servants up at a waggoner's inn, and myself exceedingly weary, I went to bed, and rested myself till eleven the next day. The news of the fire was, presently, spread all over the country, and, almost, every one told a different tale. They all, however, agreed in some particulars, namely, that Maitland-hall was burnt to the ground; that old Mr. Maitland had lost an iron chest, in which was contained bank notes to a great amount; and, that a stranger had saved the daughter of Mr. Stamford from being burnt alive, by carrying her down the stairs, when they were all in a flame of fire. You may be certain I took all the precautions, in my power, to avoid being known; and, for that purpose, left the road, and travelled, along, by a path, among some villages, on the contrary side from Maitland-hall. Adieu, dear Hilkirk,
And believe me to be Your sincere friend, H. H. ALWYN.
LETTER XXXVIII. Mr. SELDON, to Mr. STAMFORD, Sen.
My dear Friend,
YOUR account of the dreadful fire at Maitland-hall, affected me exceedingly. I rejoice, however, to observe, that you all escaped safe, as the other misfortune admits of a remedy, in affording which I shall be happy to assist. Please to let Mr. Maitland know how sincerely I condole with him on this unhappy business, and that I only wait his directions to do all in my power for his service.
I AM in your debt for a former letter, in which you deplore the baseness and ingratitude of young Alwyn. It is a piece of news that I assure you I heard with some regret, for I always entertained the highest opinion of the young man's principles. But you and I have lived long enough in the world to be surprized at nothing. It might have been better, but useless grief can only make it worse, therefore, let him go unlamented. If conscience has no power to torment him, yet, we may take it for granted that, in the end, his ingratitude will meet its reward.
YOU say he is become a player. A profession that, in my opinion, contains the extremes of good and bad. The sublime and forcible lessons of morality with which our dramatic pieces abound, scarcely permit the inculcator to stand neuter. He must either assent to them, with that warmth which characterizes the good and great man, or, by a most despicable excess of hypocrisy, counterfeit, and
seem
to feel, that virtue to which his mind is a stranger. According to this latter mode, Alwyn, I believe, will make a good player; and, I think, it is fortunate that this situation in life will not allow him to exercise his talents for deception in a sphere of greater consequence.
NOW I talk of players, you are to know that I have received a very good account of my youth in the country; which helps to convince me that my plan is good, though it has had the misfortune not to meet with your approbation. Weak plants, you say, must be brought forward with care. The keen blast of adversity blights them, and they never come to maturity. My philosophy says otherwise; it is that very care that makes them weak, both in mind and constitution. My boy will arrive at affluence, with a mind that has withstood the shocks of misfortune; and will enjoy his independence with the more pleasure, as he is better acquainted with its value. I am impatient to see him, and to make Julia happy. Her ready acquiescence, in every thing I proposed for her advantage, deserves whatever recompense I can bestow, and her merit will secure the happiness of my son.
I am, dear Sir, Your real friend and servant, R. SELDON.
LETTER XXXIX. H. HANDFORD,
Esq
to Mr. WESTWOOD.
Friend GEORGE,
WHAT right had you to impose such a tax upon your good-nature, as to promise to hold correspondence with, and pay visits to an old humourist. A fellow who has taken it into his head that all the world, himself excepted, are little better than blockheads, jostling in the dark, running their noses in each others faces, and swearing there is no room for them to walk, with ease and dignity, as it befits their worships; nay, who confesses he himself cannot see, because of a profusion of light; but like an owl, can fly farthest by twilight. You have some degree of rationality. How could you be such a booby? I am a techty old batchelor, Sir, and you knew it. I have neither wife nor daughter for you to seduce. I am rich; but I told you, and I tell you again, I shall never give to those who don't want.
I WONDER what such fellows as I do crawling between heaven and earth.
No child, no relation to flatter my old age, and make me believe I shall exist after I am dead.—If I were to build churches, or endow hospitals, men would swear vanity was my only motive.—Well, if they did— there would be no perjury—I wish they could always indulge their envy with as little danger to their consciences.—Between you and me, we are little better than a set of sad dogs—Rascals—Liars —I'll take my oath to hypocrites.— You are a young man, and by what I have observed—damn flattery—one of the best of the age you live in.—But, mind what I say—You'll find yourself out, in time—I reiterate—you'll discover, by and by, that you are little better than a sad dog.—I have made this comfortable observation upon myself for some years past.—A parcel of curst, mean, pitiful, paltry passions, teazing, teazing my heart out.—One wants one thing, another another.—Build me a palace, says pride.—Kill me some fifty thousand beggars, in red coats, says ambition, and get me a name.—Pull this bully by the nose, says revenge.—Take away that man's character, says envy.— Get to the Devil with you all, say I.
I LIE—I lie—as you may perceive— I listen to them—I sooth them—I promise to satisfy them, if they will but let me alone, aye and I have been rascal enough to keep my promise, more than once—Why, hey day!—What the Devil am I about?—Writing my own panegyric?— Stuffing myself with my own praise? —Glib—Glib—I can swallow it as easily as blanc-manger, and digest it faster than a ploughman does hasty-pudding. —Now would I, in a fit of most Anti-Mussulman rage, destroy the paper that bears such marks of my weakness; but that I am rejoiced to procure fresh evidence against myself.
BUT, hark you, Sir, what is the reason that I have never received a syllable from you, for upwards of three weeks? —If you imagine you are to treat me thus, with impunity, I must be so free as to inform you, you are mistaken. Therefore, on Tuesday next, the 17th of the present month, I order and command you, after mending your pen, putting small-beer to your ink, traversing your room five minutes and fifteen seconds, and scratching your head, not less than half a score times, to take a folio sheet of plain ten-penny writing-paper; and, without compliments, which are only wasting of time, and being, moreover, little better than lies, stuff me three sides of the said sheet of plain, ten-penny writing-paper, as full as it can hold, of the first materials your prolific brain shall offer.—I'll have no picking and chusing—No battering of brows, no wrinkles in the forehead, when you once begin. — Strait forward—Helter skelter—Shandy for ever—The more unstudied the more natural.—If I should discover one erasure, be it ever so trivial, with knife, or pen, dread the consequence.—I'll pester you with nonsense, worse than a mad poetess does her husband.
I HAVE left the old pedants of Oxford to correct their pride and their pupils at their leisure; yet am I much mistaken if either undergo any considerable reform, in a hurry.—I wonder what could possess my foolish brain with the supposition of finding genius and learning, combined, in this place.— I might as well have searched for chastity in a brothel, or reason in a Methodist sermon.—But this was among my whims.—I will go and live in the seat of the Muses, said I, on the banks of the Isis, more famous than the mount of Parnassus, or the waters of Helicon.—What a booby!—I will spend my substance among the sons of philosophy, I shall be delighted and informed —they are enlightened and dispassionate, open to conviction, and in love with truth.—What a numskull!—I shall find, among these sons of genius, some one who wants a patron, and a friend, to bring his merits forward, and shew them to the world. I shall be happy to produce the fruits of ingenuity in the mart of science.—It will atone, in some degree, for my own want of talents, or misapplication of them.—What a dunderpate!—
I SHOULD be sorry, rashly, to affirm, that there are no such persons as I was in search of amongst these learned and reverend wranglers; but this I will affirm, that, instead of finding the teachers devoted to the discovery of truth, I found them dogmatical to disgust, and resolved to maintain what they have once advanced or believed, though refuted to silence.—These were the fellows, who encouraged every author that opposed our divine Newton—not because they believed him wrong, but because he was educated at Cambridge.— As for their pupils, instead of being in love with study, vigilant, and ingenious, they are lost in riot and debauchery—
BUT I have left them, and am, now, at Swanley; where, dear George, I expect shortly to see you, who are a valuable compensation, by the friendship I contracted with you, at Oxford, for the disappointment my sanguine temper led me into.
PRAY what is become of your favourite comedian, in whose praise your last was so eloquent?—What, you are deceived?—Come, confess—You are ashamed of a too hasty prepossession?—Aye, aye—I have suffered that kind of chagrin fifty times in my life.—A fellow with a good address, a placid countenance, and a certain knack at saying no, and yes, could get into my good graces presently; I would idolize him, become his trumpeter, or, as a certain noble author has it,
his puff;
swear to all my acquaintance, he was a miracle of virtue; recommend him, and assist him in his pursuits; presently, Sir, when my gentleman imagines he has neither much to hope or fear from me, he becomes proud, despises my friendship, ridicules the peculiarities which his narrow mind is capable of observing, and, as far as he is able, makes me the jest of those who are as shallow as himself.—But I have done with them —I have an oath—an oath in heaven —I'll be no more the dupe of fools and knaves.—
I MUST be exercising my pity upon some distressed devil or another—I have taken a fresh freak—I know you'll laugh, but I don't care—I have turned my house into an hospital.—For what, say you?— The lame or the lazy?—I'll tell you, Sir—I have at this instant—nine dog-horses, seven of them blind, forty young puppies, almost as many kittens, a tolerable flock of rotten sheep, which the rascally owners made me pay as much for, when they found my humour, as if they had been sound ones; an infinite number of young birds, which I was obliged to purchase, or see them devoted to destruction, besides one and twenty old cows, that are past calving.—
YOU have, doubtless, heard of the humanity of the good Indians of Bombay, who have erected and endowed an hospital for reptiles and insects, and give any man a gratuity, who will consent to be bound down, and suffer these insects to feed upon him for the space of a night. —What a blest institution!—With what pleasure would I devote my blood to their service, in my turn, were I there!— Indians are rational beings, whereas, in this Christian country, as it is called, I am laughed at for undertaking something of a similar nature, though upon a much more confined plan. They have raised a report that I am insane, and my name is become a by word to frighten children with.—But, no matter—If a man were to be laughed out of virtue, I know not what would become of even those which they have dignified by the name of cardinal.
I HAVE had this scheme in agitation for some time, but I would not tell you, because I knew you would immediately have set your wits to work to put me out of conceit with it; and my temper is so open to conviction, that I dare not defend a good cause against such an antagonist.—I see but one side of a question, at one time, and it is always that which is represented, at the instant, to my imagination.
MY family increases daily. The sick, the lame, and the blind are brought to me from all quarters; and I have the satisfaction to hear the poor people bless me, when I have made a new purchase of them.—Since I have wrote this last paragraph, and while I was at breakfast, I have had three litters of blind puppies, and an old boar-stag that's past service, added to my stock.—The venders have all gone away satisfied, and praying heaven to prosper me.—One wicked, young dog, indeed, who has brought me a broken-legged cat, tittered while I was paying him, and burst into a laugh, as soon as his foot was over the threshold; but how can I expect a boy to make just reflections, when so few men are capable of them.—I fancy myself sometimes the patriarch Noah, surrounded with my beasts in the ark; and the whim pleases me so much, that I have employed the barber of the village to weave me a white beard, that shall reach down to the waistband of my breeches, and give me the true antediluvian lock.—I don't intend to use this in concert, it shall be a solo instrument, for my own private amusement— or to indulge a very particular friend.
I AM still in some pain about your player.—You had fired my fancy, and I began to have hopes there was really some foundation for your praise.—If you have had no occasion to alter your opinion write directly—send me a letter express—I would rather hear this news than that of ten battles, all fought by another Bajazet, or any other grand Turk.
Vale,
H. HANDFORD.
LETTER XL. Mr. STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. SELDON.
Dear SIR,
MY Maria is much better, but Tom Maitland has been very ill, ever since the fire: it is not thought he will live. This dreadful accident, occasioned by his giddiness, is a great oppression to his spirits, and he discovers much contrition for his past follies. As he believes his end to be approaching, he laments, in the most pathetic manner, the waste he has made of the best part of his time. I sincerely wish he may recover, and make my girl happy. This stroke has opened his eyes. The calmness with which he expects the close of life, the strong flow of good sense that appears in his conversation, and the sensibility he expresses for his afflicted father, convince me that I was mistaken in attributing his faults to a depravity of mind, instead of a levity of disposition.
MR. MAITLAND, who was perfectly superior to the loss of his fortune, is unable to withstand this second calamity. Yesterday morning we were sitting together by Tom's bed-side: his languid eyes were fixed on his father, whose countenance expressed the struggle between his grief and the firmness of his mind. His son grasped his hand, and looked at him with a tenderness that seemed to intreat him not to grieve, but which, naturally produced the contrary effect.
I understand you, Tom, said he, I will compose myself—I will endeavour to bear my afflictions, and submit to the decrees of heaven with fortitude—but I must feel that I am a father.
So saying he rose, and went out, being no longer able to conceal his emotions. The dying youth followed him with his eyes, and then turning to me, with a deep sigh,
Oh Mr. Stamford,
said he,
'tis I that have done this—I have oppressed my father's age with want and sorrow— Oh that my death would restore his peace! with what pleasure should I welcome the gloomy power! Your friendship may do much — go, dear Sir, follow him, and prevent his wasting the hours in useless grief. 'Tis a satisfaction to me when I think, your friendship will assist him to bear his afflictions.
I LEFT him, and went in search of Mr. Maitland, whom I found, sitting, with his head reclined, in a musing posture. His mind was so intent on his misfortunes that he did not, at first, perceive my approach.
"AT length," said he, looking up,
I have conquered, and can submit to join in the general order of the system, without reluctance. Whatever the all-wise Regent of the universe permits to be is best. His attributes, which we discover by a process of reason, as nearly approaching to demonstration as our faculties will admit, immensity of power and goodness, cannot admit of the existence of
real
evil. It is from the errors of beings, necessarily, imperfect, that the appearance of
partial
evil arises; and that partial evil is, doubtless, constituted as the means of acquiring a greater, and, otherwise, not attainable, good. The retrospect on past life adds experiment to proof; and, in some future age, I shall rejoice at what is now considered as the greatest calamity. Then, my son, we shall look back with pleasure on our present separation. But, ah my child
said he, his voice softening as he spoke,
'Tis not with tranquillity, I can bear thy loss. O my friend, my Stamford, how vain is the reliance we place on the fortitude of our minds! Can it be philosophy to bear the torture of the soul with indifference? Are the tender affections faults which a wise man ought to endeavour to overcome? Are they not, rather, the distinguishing characters of humanity, which to erase is to become worse than inanimate? I am convinced they are. The arguments of the understanding are too weak to check the flow of the heart. I feel their insufficiency. O, my boy, how are my hopes blasted! I must grieve. Never, again, shall I delight in the sportive vivacity of my dear child. O, thou great power,
continued he, raising his hands, in an agony of passion,
I am become a blank in the universe. Misery is my lot. Remove me from this hated scene. Let me accompany my son, or restore him to me.
AFTER a little pause, growing more calm, "I thank you, my dear friend," said ne, addressing himself to me,
you sympathise with me. I am perplexed, I am bewildered in doubts. The object of my cares, of my affections, is snatched from me, and I want fortitude to sustain the loss. The scheme of providence, which I vainly thought to have comprehended, is fled, and darkness hangs over the prospect. Why are we taught to regard delicacy of sentiment and sensibility of mind, as marks heaven's of benevolence to man? Are they not bestowed to render us more completely wretched?—to make us capable of pain, infinitely more intense than that which arises from external causes— that we may envy the happier brute? Yet, such is my state. At once deprived of my fortune, my son, and the chearing view of a benevolent first Power, I find myself seated in the midst of a dreadful void. Every support, on which my soul reposed, is removed, far from me; and I wish for annihilation to ease me from the burthen of existence.
I WAS glad to observe that the activity of his mind had not forsaken him, at this crisis, and that he was able to reason so abstractedly on the subject. I assumed the bright side of the question, and attempted to prove him wrong in relinquishing the idea of universal order. The conversation having restored his tranquillity, in a great degree, we went to see Tom. The physicians had prognosticated his death on this day; instead of which, to our great joy, he was just awakened from a found sleep, as we entered. The effect was so considerable that we have some hopes of his recovery, though the danger is far from being entirely removed.
I CANNOT think of leaving my friend, so long as the probability of his losing his son remains; but shall come to town as soon as he is thought out of danger, which, I hope, will be in a day or two.
I am, with perfect esteem, Your friend and humble servant, J. STAMFORD.
LETTER XLI. Mr. WESTWOOD to H. HANDFORD,
Esq
Dear SIR,
I SHALL attempt no apology for the silence you charge me with—It is sufficient excuse, to you, to say, I was lazy, or stupid, or both, which, you know, are no uncommon accidents in life.
YOUR player, that I interested you so much about, is gone.—Don't be alarmed—He has been guilty of no meanness, committed no outrage—His character is sacred to virtue—His exit has been with greater eclat than his entrance— But I have lost him—I never conceived a greater partiality for any man, I will not even except yourself.—What a world would this be were men all like him and you!—Don't be angry—You must must permit me to speak the truth.
I TOLD you the women were all in love with him; I'll now tell you the consequence; the men were all jealous of him.—One of them, a mean rascal, who yet bears the title of gentleman, attempted, I believe, to assassinate him. —Be that as it will, he hired two ruffians to assist him in taking that revenge, which he had not the courage to attempt by himself.—With this innocent view did these three worthies waylay him; and God knows what would have been the consequence, had they had any common man to deal with; for the assistants were fellows remarkable for their prowess.—But our hero fairly vanquished them all.—I happened to come up just as he was finishing his conquest.—I beheld him deal some half dozen blows.—Never, before, did I see such firmness and agility, nor so much lenity, after the victory, to such vile rascals.—
IT was this affair that occasioned his departure, I suppose.—He supped with us on Sunday evening, when, in spite of his endeavours to the contrary, he appeared exceedingly dejected.—He told us, it was probable, he should never have that pleasure again; and was so much affected, while he said this, that the tears gushed into his eyes, and he was obliged to turn his head away.— I perceived the shame and confusion that these emotions excited in him, and delicacy obliged me to desist from enquiring into the cause of his grief.— He seemed rather to wave any hints that were thrown out to him, to tell where he was going, and I was loath to urge him.—My mother, who almost doated on his company, could hardly be restrained from asking him questions, which, I perceived, would have embarrassed him.—But he promised, at parting, that if ever he were happy once more, which he believed impossible, he should take great pleasure in communicating it to us.
SINCE he has been gone, we have heard several particulars, which only serve to increase our admiration.—Two or three poor families have declared that he has given them assistance; and among the rest, the wife of one of the assassins confessed he gave her a guinea, upon hearing she was distressed for her rent.—The rascal, her husband, has fled the country.
I HAVE never found you offended, when I have happened to differ in opinion with you; I shall, therefore, venture to dissent from your picture of that seminary where I had the good fortune first to become acquainted with you.—That the outline is just, I will readily grant, but the shadings are too deep. This is only momentary with you, and while you recollect particular instances.—Neither have we any cause to wonder that learned men are not always rational men.—There is a degree of genius requisite to this, which falls to the share of a few only.—The memory may be capable of bearing a greater burthen than the imagination, and this produces plodders.—The reverse of the proposition is equally true, and from hence springs enthusiasm.—I beg pardon—I lift the ferula, when I ought to kiss the rod.—I assume the tone of a a teacher, when I ought to look up at the master.
THE impracticability of your hospital, at least, the impositions you are liable to sustain, are so evident, that I shall not attempt to reason with you concerning, it. Time will prove the best logician in this case. The motive does honour to your heart; and, if I did not see the inconveniencies attending your scheme, should wish to assist you in the pursuit.
I SHALL be at Oxford next term, and, you may be certain, shall not fail to pay you a visit. By that time your
ménagerîe
will either be demolished, or considerably augmented. I shall rejoice in the length of your beard; the hint of which, I presume, you borrowed from some of your family appertaining to the antient fraternity of goats. I think I see your puppies gnawing your shoes, and your kittens wantoning round you, while the senior cats enjoy the privilege of reposing in the venerable shade of your beard. Though, perhaps, that patriarchal implement may be the destined asylum for animals of another species,
à la mode de Bombay.
The golden age will, certainly, be renewed in your seminary, provided you can but keep the peace among your subjects. I suppose you have, several times, had your pockets filled with mice, who had fled thither to escape the army of cats you have purchased. The worn-out horse will, I hope, be in the first rank of your favourites. You may condescend to select a rozinante for your own use; and, even if it should have but three legs, I would advise you not to fear. Euclid, for your encouragement, has wrote a theorem to prove that, three-legged stools stand firmest; and, if so, why not horses, which are much nobler animals? I could say a great deal more concerning your project, but do not wish to insult your judgment, by instances so obvious.
I am, Your respectful friend, and very humble servant, G. WESTWOOD.
LETTER XLII. H. HANDFORD,
Esq
to Mr. WESTWOOD.
Friend GEORGE,
I REJOICE that your player has not deceived you, but I am sorry that it is out of my power to become acquainted with him.—Had he continued at Kendal, I would have posted away directly.— I am vexed — Why should the fellow run away from me in this manner?—And yet, perhaps, it is as well as it is.—Want of faith and gratitude are so recent in my memory—There—there, now—You see what a damned, vile dog I am—Condemning a man, whom I have never known any ill of, but heard a great deal of good, because I have met with rascals in my life.—I am always finding myself but at these tricks.—
I WISH I had seen him.—Perhaps he was poor, and too proud to own it — And he relieved some families in distress?—I wish I had known him.—I dare say they did not come to tell their wants to him.—No, no — How should they suppose a poor player had any thing to spare.—I have known those rascals, myself, those players, I mean, for all they have been guilty of some little, paltry tricks, do some very good actions.—And, I have been told that, they are always willing to assist any of their fraternity, who are travelling, or out of employ, although they are as poor as a country curate's horse themselves. —I love the dogs for that.—I dare say this fellow, that you tell me of, had a thousand good qualities that you had not time to discover.—And so he had genius too you say?—Damn him, what did he run away in such a hurry for?— I would have come over to have seen him, instantly.—I would ride a thousand miles to be acquainted with the villain.—Its curst hard, that I should be in continual pursuit of these rascals, who are an honour to us, and that they should, always, steal away from me in such a manner.—But that is the case with them; they are all ashamed of doing good, and, like young sinners, blush at what they love.—They are afraid of being detected, and laughed at.—Well they may—Its a damned vile world, that's the truth on't.—
I AM pestered, plagued, teized, tormented to death.—I believe all the cats in christendom are assembled in Oxfordshire. I am obliged to hire a clerk to pay the people, and the village, where I live, is become a constant fair.—A fellow has set up the sign of the three Blind Kittens, and has the impudence to tell my neighbours, if my whims and my money will only hold out for one twelvemonth, he shan't care a fig for the king.—I thought to prevent this inundation, by buying up all the old cats, and secluding them in convents and monasteries of my own; but the value of the breeders is increased, to such a degree that, I do not believe my whole fortune is capable of the purchase.—Besides, I am made an ass of.— A rascal, who is a known sharper, in these parts, hearing of the aversion I had to cruelty, bought an old, one-eyed horse, that was going to the dogs, for five shillings. Then, taking a hammer in his hand, watched an opportunity of finding me alone, and addressed me in the following manner.—
Look you, master, I know that you don't love to see any dumb creter abused, and so, if you don't give me ten pounds, directly, why I shall scoop out this old rip's odd eye, with the sharp end of this here hammer, now, before your face.
—Aye, and the damned villain would have done it, too, if I had not, instantly, complied; but, what was worse, the abominable scoundrel had the audacity to tell me, when I wanted him to deliver the horse, first, for fear he should extort a farther sum from me, that he had more honour than to break his word.
I PERCEIVE it is in vain for me to, attempt the carrying on this scheme much longer.—My poor invalids must be abandoned.—I suppose, when they are turned upon this most merciful world again, the boys will make hunting-matches with the cats, tie tin-cans, and old kettles to their tails, and clothe their feet in walnut-shells; my poor puppies will be fleaed for their skins, and my old cattle driven to the next kennel of hounds.—No, no, they shan't be so abused neither.—It would have been better, for many of them, had I never interposed in their behalf, than suffer them to be thus tormented.—The cruel rascals would take a delight in inventing punishments, if it were only to torture me.—
A WHELP of a boy, yesterday, had caught a young urchin, and, perceiving me, threw it in water to make it extend its legs; then, with the rough side of a knotty stick, sawed upon its ham, till the creature cried like a child; and when I ordered him to desist, told me he would not, till I had given him six-pence.— Another over-wise fellow, a farmer of the parish, swears he will lay an indictment, next quarter-sessions, against me, for an encourager and breeder of
varmint;
and a pettifogging son of a whore's rascal, of an attorney told me, to my face, that if he could find out my heir, he would persuade him to sue for his inheritance, under the statute of lunacy.
THERE is something worse than all this. The avaricious rascals, when they can find nothing that they think will excite my pity, disable the first animal which is not dignified with the title of Christian; and then bring it to me as an object worthy of my commiseration; so that, in fact, instead of protecting, I destroy. The women have entertained a notion that I hate two-legged animals; and one of them called after me, the other day, to tell me I was an old rogue, and that I had better give my money to the poor, and maintain my own bastards, than keep a parcel of dogs and cats that eat up the village.—Adieu— I have wearied you—and I am certain I have wearied myself.
H. HANDFORD.
LETTER XLIII. H. HANDFORD,
Esq
to Mr. WESTWOOD.
Friend GEORGE,
I HAVE rare news for you—I am impatient till I have related it, but am resolved to begin my story, and tell it methodically.
YOU are not unacquainted with my passion for traversing the fields, and lying about, in summer-time, upon green banks, under trees, or by the side of rivers.—These are my poetical moods, and I delight in indulging them. About a fortnight ago, in the midst of one of them, I was disturbed by the rustling of the leaves, and the sudden appearance of a youth, that leaped, with the utmost ease and agility, over a devilish high hedge, and whisked by me, without noticing me, with the fleetness of a stag that has just broke cover.—I was amazed at the symmetry of the fellow's person, as well as his swiftness; and, my imagination having been warmed by Monsieur Homer's description of the race, in which Clytonius was victor, my fancy ran as fast as his legs.—The spirit of curiosity was raised, and I made twenty fruitless enquiries concerning this apparition.
A DAY or two after it appeared again, but in a quite different manner.—The mercurial spirit was evaporated, instead of l'Allegro, he was quite il Penseroso.— His arms were folded, his eyes fixed, and his cheeks bedewed with tears.—I would give you a description of his person, but that it is needless.—I only say, I never saw one that pleased me so much before. I can't tell what ailed me, but his slow and steady walk, his sighs, which were deep and frequent; the melancholy to apparent in his visage, and the large tears that dropped, unobserved as it were, down his face, gave me sensations of the most forcible kind.—I wanted to discourse with him, in hopes I might have it in my power to alleviate his grief; and, for that purpose, walked by the side of him for the whole length of a meadow, without his taking the least notice of me.—Just before he came to the gate, he stopped, suddenly, for a moment, lifted up his eyes to heaven, uttered a dismal groan, and, after calling out aloud, Oh love! love! started from where he stood, gave a bound over the gate, and vanished again like lightning.
I WISH I could tell you, George, how I behaved.—For some time I remained stupified, entranced, rivetted to the spot. —As soon as I could get loose, I whistled, I danced, I cursed, I prayed, and, at last, fairly cried for vexation.— I never saw so fine a fellow.—His grief, too, was so noble, so manly—It was fixed, rooted—
WELL, Sir, in this condition was I obliged to return home, chagrined enough, you may be sure, and heard nothing of him for several days.—About a week afterwards, as I was going my rounds, I approached a place where a parcel of young villains were bathing. —Before I was got up to them, the whole pack set up a yelping to tell me, one of the puppies, their playfellows, was drowning. I hobbled up to the rascals, as fast as I could, and, though I can swim no more than the leaden goose in my Lord Visto's garden, soused in without dread of danger, or saying one short prayer.—The lying dogs, to be sure, had told me that they did not believe it was out of my depth.—I soon found to the contrary, though, and discovered, moreover, like Falstaff, that I had an admirable alacrity at sinking.—Yes, yes, Sir—I was at the bottom in a twinkling, and there I might have lain, in sure and certain hope of being dragged out by a boat hook, when I had taken in sufficient water for the voyage, had not this—aye, this Alwyn—the individual, identical, player—your Alwyn, my Alwyn— The melancholy youth, the runner— but you shall hear more anon.—He leapt in—Sir, he stood as little upon ceremony as I had done.—But then he is a different fellow—a very different fellow.—A man and a boy drowned, said he, God forbid!— Sir, he brought us up, he landed us with a finger and a thumb!—
WHAT do you suppose I said, when, after some half hour's rubbing and tumbling, for I was old, and presently gone—What, I say, do you think I said when I first opened my eyes, and saw this Alwyn, with a look like an angel over a condemned soul, standing by me, and heard him ask, in the most expressive and softest tone possible, how I did? —I'll tell you what I said Sir—I said nothing.—But I would be content to be drowned every day of my life, to feel what I felt.—
HOW the devil shall I contrive to tell you the rest of this story, to make you caper, and sing, and wipe your eyes, and rub your shins as a Christian ought to do.—Take notice, however, that though I tell you,
now,
it was your Alwyn, the player, the fellow that I would have rid so far to see, I knew nothing of that,
then.
—No, no—I only looked upon him, at that instant, as a kind of heavenly being, a sort of angel of benevolence, and my deliverer—I did not half know him.—Well, Sir, he told me that his mother lived hard by, and begged of me to suffer myself to be put to bed, in her house, and take a little cordial, which she would give me.—And I told him, that though I did not believe I should go to bed, I would go, with his help, that is, and take some of his mother's cordial, with all my heart.—
DEAR George, forgive my weakness —I can scarcely proceed—I can trifle no longer.—Is it any wonder that I am affected, when I tell you that, the moment I put my foot over the threshold, I beheld, in Mrs. Alwyn, the person of a dear, and long-lost sister.
MY joy and surprize at finding the nearest, and, my parents excepted, the dearest relation I ever knew; a sister, whom, in my youth, I had loved with an unbounded affection; to see her the happy mother of such a son; one, too, who, but the moment before, had preserved my life; the effect this had upon me is past my power to describe.—
YES, my dear friend, heaven has sent me a sister and a nephew, to whom riches will be estimable, because they will contribute to their happiness. Not from the value they put upon wealth, they, both, have minds superior to such influence, but from other circumstances. The cause of my poor Alwyn's melancholy, is love—The youth, from too great a consciousness of inferiority, in point of wealth, has not ventured to declare his passion, except to the brother of the lady.—Maria is the daughter of his father's friend, Mr. Stamford, a capital merchant.—He tells me he is in disgrace with the family, and, by what I can collect, has had some foul play.— Not from them—Their character is greatly beyond it; but my boy's health, the exercise of his reason, depends upon this affair being cleared up, and there is no time so be lost.
OH, George, what pleasure do I experience when I pronounce the words
my boy.
—I, who, yesterday, had no friend, no relation, whom I could suppose a part of myself, to find an Alwyn, and to find him mine, the idea is too luxurious!—His account of Maria, too, is so romantic, and so pleasing, that I burn with impatience to see them united. —God forbid that any cross accident should intervene and prevent their union—I hope not.—And yet the terrors of the youth are communicated, in part, to me.—But I will hope the best.
YOU long to know how I and my sister came to suppose each other dead— I will tell you.—
BY my approbation and advice, she married a young officer, a most amiable man, and one of my intimate friends. Alwyn, her husband, and myself, were both young, and both adventurers. He laid out the greatest part of his own, and my sister's fortune, the aggregate of which was no porter's burthen, in purchasing from an ensign to a captain. I crossed the Equinoctial, and, in a few years, without, I flatter myself, deserving the appellation of Nabob, as the word is at present applied, became almost as rich as one. —My sister went abroad with her husband, who was obliged to attend his regiment.—That we might be certain not to lose the knowledge of each other's residence, we determined to correspond by favour of a third person, who was a cousin, and the only relation we had.— Our caution proved our want of prescience, more ways than one.—This cousin was a villain.—He heard I was likely to grow rich, and, instead of forwarding my sister's letters, wrote me an account of her and her husband's death, and of mine to her. I read, in the public papers, of my poor friend Alwyn's fall in the field of battle, and had, therefore, the less reason to doubt the truth of the whole story.—When we, respectively, arrived in England, he found means to continue the deception, and was snatched off suddenly, in the midst of his wicked career, by an apoplectic fit.—She has lived in this retreat for some years. I have only bought the estate, at which I now live, lately, and have not resided here till within this month. 'Tis true, my name is become pretty familiar among the villages hereabout, from circumstances which I have before related; but she lives so retired, and has been under so much concern for her poor Alwyn, that her not having heard of me is no miracle.
MY boy's case will admit of no delay; we must, therefore, be up in London in a few days. This, I am afraid, will deprive us of the pleasure of seeing you, when you come next into Oxfordshire. I need not tell you how heartily you are beloved by your Kendal comedian, your poor player. He will tell it you himself by this same post.—You know the aversion I bear to large professions, but, believe me when I say, no man esteems you— well, well—loves you better than
H. HANDFORD.
MY sister will thank you for herself. —She adores you for the part you took in the cause of her hero, her young Romeo, her dear Harry.
LETTER XLIV. Mr. STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. MAITLAND, Senior.
My dear Friend,
Mark-Lane.
WE arrived here safe, and hope for the pleasure of your company, as soon as your son is in a condition to bear the journey. Our mutual friend, Seldon, desires his respects, and expresses a great inclination to serve you; but I told him, I had a prior claim. 'Tis the highest satisfaction to me, that I have it in my power: not for the selfish view of counterbalancing the obligation I owe you, but, sincerely, out of regard for those virtues that first attached me to you. I assure you, my dear Maitland, I shall think it pride, and not philosophy, if you continue to refuse my offers. 'Tis true, a philosopher can subsist on a little. Exclude artificial wants, and a small income will be sufficient. But there are two prerogatives the rich enjoy, which I am confident you would miss exceedingly. The power of doing good, and the company of people of enlarged understandings. The first you will readily allow to be concomitant with riches; and, though genius and intelligence are not confined to station, it is no wonder that we find they flourish, most, in the soil best adapted to their improvement. Want of leisure, and want of instruction, prevent many a bright mind from unfolding its powers.
BUT, arguments apart, I beg you will recollect, with how little ceremony I requested your assistance, on a former occasion, when my future welfare entirely depended on it. I did your friendship justice. I believed you sincere. I even expected you would rejoice in the opportunity of serving me. Nor was I deceived. I did you a favour in permitting you to exert yourself for my advantage; and I intreat, nay, I insist, that you will let me enjoy the same satisfaction in my turn. I shall think you doubt my friendship, if you refuse me the privilege of rebuilding Maitland-hall; and of adding my little estate to your farm in Essex, to which it is contiguous. I should be ashamed to urge, as an argument, that I can spare it, because that would be the least consideration in the affair: but, however, it is so, and, if that will be any inducement to your acceptance, I beg you will not demur on that account.
WHILE I am writing, a letter is arrived from a Mr. Hilkirk, who is the son of our friend Seldon. He has adopted a strange mode of education for him, which, in my opinion, is rather dangerous. To enhance the value and enjoyment of prosperity, and to give, at the same time, fortitude of mind, and a knowledge of the world, he turned him adrift, some years ago, and the event has answered his expectations; thanks to the natural disposition of the youth, more than to the prudence of the scheme itself.
BUT more of this when we meet. At present I am to acquaint you, the purport of his letter is, that, in consequence of an advertisement, inserted in the papers, he has apprehended your late servant, Stokes, at Taunton-Dean, in Somersetshire, who offered an inland bill of exchange, to discount, to a friend of his. He has sent him under a guard; and we expect him in on Saturday. As for Hilkirk himself, he says, he has reasons to avoid coming to town; which, I suppose, are the mortifications he has experienced here; but his father writes, by this post, to command his attendance.
I AM in hopes that we shall obtain intelligence, which will tend to recover your loss, in a great measure; and shall write again on the subject, if your arrival in town should not render it unnecessary. I am, dear Sir,
Your sincere friend and humble servant, J. STAMFORD.
LETTER XLV. Mr. WESTWOOD to H. HANDFORD,
Esq
Dear SIR,
IT is impossible to describe the effect your last letter had in our family. I never beheld my mother so affected before. You cannot imagine how much Mr. Alwyn is beloved by us all. For my part, I was almost ashamed of my weakness, and was obliged to retire to give a decent vent to my passions.—
MY father and mother, as well as your humble servant, have all wrote to congratulate Mr. Alwyn.—My father is particularly glad, to find himself so good a prophet.—When Mr. Alwyn left Kendal, he gave it as his opinion, that my young friend was a gentleman of a most amiable character, in disguise; and that, from the civilities which had passed between our family and him, we should hear of him again; to which he added, that, he suspected, he was crossed in love. —We have done nothing but talk of you. We have imagined fifty ways in which the groupe was disposed, at the meeting of you and your sister.—My mother is certain you both fainted away, and wishes she had been present, to administer sal volatile. My father, who has been made acquainted with your character, gives it as his opinion, that poor Mrs. Alwyn most assuredly gave a loud shriek, and instantly fell into hysterics, while you whistled and capered; and that Mr. Alwyn assumed exactly, the same attitude that he saw Him in at the appearance of the Ghost, when he played Hamlet.—In short, you hardly felt your own situation, more forcibly, than we have done after you.—But we are all eager to see you, and are exceedingly anxious concerning Mr. Alwyn's love-affair.—We have formed very romantic ideas of the young lady.—If she equals her lover, they will be the most extraordinary pair in the universe.—I am called away—I'll come back and finish my letter before the post goes out.
I AM returned, in amazement at the villainy of man, and the concern Mr. Alwyn has in the discovery I have just made! A person of the name of Stentor, belonging to the players, sent for me in a violent hurry. The breath has just departed his body. It was to do Mr. Alwyn justice, in his last moments. A violent fever dried up the small remainder of his blood so fast, that I did but just arrive in time to receive a paper, which he was exceedingly desirous of delivering to me, with his own hands, before he died.—Read the contents, and learn how much you are all interested in them.
To GEORGE WESTWOOD,
Esq
SIR,
IF you are acquainted with the place of Mr. Alwyn's retreat, I conjure you to inform him or the following particulars.
MR. Stamford and Mr. Alwyn are abused, and I am the wicked instrument. —I have forged a letter, imitating Mr. Alwyn's writing, at the instigation of Mrs. Vincent, to serve an amorous purpose for her, and a mercenary, envious one for myself.—I pilfered his pocketbook to procure intelligence.—God forgive me.—I have acted basely, vilely, towards a good, young man, and my conscience torments me.—Mrs. Vincent wrote the anonymous letter to Mr. Stamford.—She is a bad woman.—But she had more excuse.—She was in love. —God have mercy upon my poor soul. I hope Mr. Alwyn will forgive me.—I never knew so good a young man.— I was privy to a hundred of his generous, benevolent actions, yet was a rascal to him.—I am justly punished, in being obliged to own, in my dying moments, God be merciful to me, that I am a rascal.— Perhaps I had been a better man, if I had had better fortune.—God only knows, I hope he will have pity on my poor soul.—I am terrified.—It is a sad thing to be punished everlastingly!—Christ forgive me!—Jesus have mercy upon me!—Oh beg of Mr. Alwyn to forgive me!—
T. STENTOR.
I RECEIVED the above from him, in his last agonies. His countenance was alternately most pitiably expressive of hope and horror.—I have not time to make comments.—The everlasting peace of my friends depends, perhaps, upon a single moment; I, therefore, send it express, and with orders to follow you to London, if you are set our, which is most probable.
Heaven prosper you— G. WESTWOOD.
LETTER XLVI. Mr. SELDON to Mr. HILKIRK.
My dear Son,
I COULD no longer forbear to acquaint you with the reasons that have made us so long strangers to each other. Your own conduct was, indeed, one; but your behaviour, in many instances, since, none of which are unknown to me, has been so becoming and manly, that I rejoice in the events that gave occasion for the exercising your fortitude and virtue. I parted with you with the less regret, as I foresaw the consequence; yet my care and affection has not ceased to follow your steps. Mr. Turnbull has, at intervals, attended your progress; and was witness to the diligence and skill you exerted, in apprehending the villain who had robbed Mr. Maitland. By his intelligence, I find it time to place you in a situation that better becomes you, than your present one. You will have the satisfaction of enjoying, as a consequence of your merit, that affluence, which, had you known sooner, might have proved the means of rendering you idle, debauched, and useless to society. I mean no reproach, when I speak this. It has happened to men of less lively passions than yourself. But, as it is at present, you are possessed of my best opinion. I long to see you, to explain every thing; therefore do not fail to come, immediately, to town. I write, this post, to Mr. Turnbull, who will call upon you, and supply you with money, and every thing you may be in need of.
YOUR Julia, whose coldness to you was the consequence of my positive commands, is, likewise, impatient to see you. If she is still dear to you, you will hasten hither; and I shall be happy to see you united to her, by the most sacred ties.
DO not suffer this unexpected intelligence to deprive you of that fortitude you have acquired. Bear the same, firm mind you have, hitherto, proved yourself master of; and believe me to be, notwithstanding the necessary severity of my conduct,
Your most tender and affectionate, father, R. SELDON.
LETTER XLVII. H. HANDFORD,
Esq
to Mr. WESTWOOD.
HERE we are George!—Here we are!—My dear sister, and I, and my dear Alwyn, and—but no matter for that—I hope to be the happiest rascal alive—sometime within this fortnight, that is—
WE arrived in London, Sir, at five in the evening, and alighted at—pooh —what the plague signifies where we alighted.—Our business was in Harley-street, where Mr. Stamford has a house— You can't imagine how I was teized.— Sir, I could not get that good, graceless dog, Alwyn, along.—I was obliged to collar the fellow in the street, when he found where I was going, and should not have moved him then, had I not called in the assistance of half a dozen chairmen.—The villain's proud—plaguy proud—and yet I love the dog for it.
MR. Stamford had accused him of ingratitude and guilt though he was not conscious of the charge, yet he was too well acquainted with Mr. Stamford's character not to be assured that he proceeded upon conviction.
Why then; my dear Alwyn, says I, it is your duty, sirrah, to go and vindicate your innocence.
Innocence, replied my delicate gentleman, may be too assuming, dear uncle.—To avoid Mr. Stamford, while depressed with poverty, as well as grief, and to run precipitately into his presence, because I have found a protecting uncle—
SIR, he was going on, with his fine reasons, and I was obliged to stop his mouth▪ —I found I should be convinced; and, as I told him, I thought it damned ill-natured of him, to convince a man in spite of his teeth, when he would rather remain in ignorance.—I had decoyed the dear rogue to that end of the town, on pretence of seeing the new buildings. — The dog suspected me, though, and gave me several hints, which I could not find in my heart to understand.—I should have told you, though, for I suppose you don't know it, that the fellow has saved more lives than mine—He rescued his mistress from the flames.—
WELL, Sir, while we were wrangling, who should come by but the footman of young Stamford, a servant, that is lately come to the family, and knew nothing more of Alwyn than that, he had seen him, on the night of the fire, preserve his young lady.—This fellow, this servant, no sooner beheld my boy, than, after staring for a moment, with joy and astonishment, he sprang towards him, seized his hand, and with a convulsive kind of transport, pronounced —God bless you!—God almighty bless your honour!—I am glad I have found you —You are the gentleman that saved my dear lady—I am sure on't—I shall never forget you.—Don't go —Pray don't go, Sir, till I have called my old master, and my young master, and my my lady—They'll never forgive me if I let you go.—
THE fellow did not wait for an answer, but with three strides reached the door, gave a thundering clatter upon the knocker, bounced into the drawing-room, seized young Stamford's hand, and, pulling him along, kept exclaiming, "Here he is, Sir, here he is—I have found him, I have found him, I have found him!"—
WHO?—What's the matter? who have you found?
THE stranger—The angel that saved my young lady, that carried her through the flaming fire.
—
"GRACIOUS God! exclaimed young Stamford,—was it you, Mr. Alwyn, that saved the life of my sister!—Is it possible—It is, it is—I hope it is—I believe it is, I am sure it is."—
WE got them into the house, and then it was, that the pathos of the scene was exhibited.—Maria happened to be in her own chamber: she heard the voice of Alwyn, she flew, she found her hope confirmed, she sunk into the arms of her lover.—
"HOW have we been deceived," said Mr. Stamford, senior!—
Did you save my child, Alwyn?—Was it you, my boy?
continued the old gentleman, while the tears trickled down his face.
Are you the stranger?—It is not possible you could write such letters.
"WHAT letters," said Alwyn.—
NAY, think no more of them, answered he—We will forget them— They were not your's—They could not be your's.—
I DON'T know what you mean, upon my honour, replied the youth —I never wrote any letters to you that
—
NO, no, they were not to me—But let us forget them—If I did not know your hand—And yet—It is impossible! —Why should you risque your life, for one whom you despised?—I have been deceived.—They could not be your's—Your are too amiable—It is to you that I am indebted for my life, for every comfort. But for you Maria had perished
WHILE they were in the midst of this ambiguous discourse, which was entirely incomprehensible to Alwyn, your letter, most fortunately, arrived.—My sister, when she found it came express, sent my man with it immediately.—I opened, and read aloud, the last dying speech and confession of the expert Mr. Stentor.—Shall I describe the effect, or shall I leave you to imagine it?—You can't. —Nor can I describe it.—Language is unequal to the task.—I can add nothing, but that we are happy, and, I hope, you are so.
H. HANDFORD.
LETTER XLVIII. Mr. STAMFORD to Mr. MAITLAND.
My dear Friend,
I RECEIVED your favour, by which I have the pleasure to observe that your son's health is much improved. The natural consequence is that I expect your company in a few days. Perhaps this letter may be too late to find you in Warwickshire, but the news I have to communicate is too important to suffer any delay in sending it to you. In short, your strong box is found, and is, now, in my custody. You will receive, inclosed, an inventory of its contents, which, I hope, on comparison with your accounts, will not appear, considerably, deficient. The manner of its recovery was as follows.
I INFORMED you, in my last, that Mr. Hilkirk, or, more properly, Mr. Seldon, junior, had apprehended your late servant, Stokes. He arrived here yesterday, under the conduct of a Mr. Turnbull; Mr. Hilkirk being prevented from coming up on account of his situation as manager of the company of players, which he cannot quit on the instant, without doing irreparable damage to the concern.
BY Stokes's direction, a party of Sir John Fielding's men were dispatched to a house in Duke's-Place, where, after a strict search, your box was found. It appears, by his confession, that he was connected with a gang of those villains who use their utmost endeavours to gain intelligence, by the means of servants, of the property in any house they are desirous of pillaging. He was but too capable of affording them that information, and, as the number of your people prevented their attempting to break into Maitland-hall, they contrived to set it on fire. We all know the success of their attempt, and, it is to be hoped, the reward will follow; such methods being, now, set on foot, as promise to bring the offenders within the reach of justice.
THE whole story being long, I shall defer it till your arrival, and, in the interim, have another piece of business to communicate, which gives me some pain, though, I am assured, you know me too well to suppose me actuated by any motives but those of the strictest integrity and regard for you.
I DARE say you are surprized at this preamble, and, I am convinced, it is unnecessary; therefore, without more words, you are to know, that it is impossible for our children to be united, as we, once, flattered ourselves. I have discovered that my Maria's affections were fixed before she saw your son, and am sincerely concerned that I was not sooner apprized of it. There is reason to think your son is not violently bent on the match; at least I hope so. I make no apologies for my frankness and sincerity. Your candour will not require them, when you are acquainted with the affair. On the contrary, I rely on having the pleasure of your company, and that of your son, at my daughter's marriage.
IT is now four years since I received into my counting-house a young gentleman, of the name of Alwyn, the son of that Alwyn whom you have so often heard me mention with affection and regret. You may, perhaps, remember seeing him when you were in town, about two years ago. The trifling property his father left, was barely sufficient to maintain his mother in a country retreat; so that I had the pleasure of doing him a singular service, by introducing him to the world. My care was not lost on an ungrateful charge. I had the satisfaction to see him daily improve in every accomplishment, and to behold the virtues of my friend revive in the person of his son. A native sincerity and openness of conduct, added to the most mild and obliging disposition, commanded the esteem of all, who knew him; and, for my part, I regarded him, almost, as my own child. At the beginning of this summer he went into the country, for the benefit of his health, as he then informed me; but, as I now find, to avoid the presence of my daughter, for whom he entertained a passion, that did not, as he rightly judged, suit his circumstances. Maria was, at the same time, equally prejudiced in his favour, which makes his retreat more generous and disinterested. While he was in the country, I received a letter, charging him with a degree of perfidy and baseness, that I should never have credited, had not the proof appeared of the most incontrovertible, nature. I wrote to him, on the subject, as, I thought, the crime deserved; and his innocence would, probably, never have been vindicated, but for a fortunate concurrence of circumstances, that have cleared up the whole mystery.
THE relation is too long to be inserted in this letter, and must be deferred till your arrival. He has been vilely traduced. He is incapable of the least meaness. Come to us, my dear Maitland, I know you will love him. 'Twas he that saved my daughter from the flames, and delivered me from a life of sorrow. She is due to his care. He has merited her. I know my dear friend will think so, and rejoice with us. I am quite elated. We are all happy. My Maria is hardly recovered, from the surprize and joy this event has occasioned. Charles is in raptures to find his Alwyn the amiable character he once thought him; and Alwyn is in a state that can better be imagined than expressed.
THE company of yourself and son will be an addition to our happiness, with which we hope you will soon favour us. For that reason I conclude, without ceremony, by assuring you that I am,
Your most affectionate friend, STAMFORD.
LETTER XLIX. Mr. ALWYN, to Mr. WESTWOOD.
FORGIVE, dear Sir, my having, till now, delayed to write you an account of the completion of my felicity. I have been so long accustomed to consider the present happy turn of my fate as a thing utterly impossible, that I scarce can, yet, believe it real. Thanks to my worthy patron, my kind father; thanks to my honoured uncle, and my dear, dear Maria, I am, at length, convinced. Last Friday was the distinguished day that gave the most amiable, the loveliest of her sex to my arms. I cannot describe the joy which reigns universally among us. I am encircled by friends, by relations, I had almost said, by angels.
FORTUNE seems resolved no longer to let virtue and genius languish in obscurity. This appears by an event which has increased our happiness. My friend, and former companion, Mr. Hilkirk, came to town on Thursday. You may remember, when I was at Kendal, I gave you the history of his adventures, and how much you found yourself interested. You thought the conduct of Mr. Seldon quite aenigmatical: but what will you say when you are informed that he is the only son of that gentleman; that he is beloved with a most parental tenderness; and that his father has contrived, not only to give him a very peculiar kind of education, but that he has, also, brought up Julia with an express intention of her becoming his wife: that their love for each other was, in some degree, the effect of stratagem, on the part of Mr. Seldon, who had nothing so much at heart as the making them both happy; and that he has assisted misfortune, as it were, in the persecution of his son, still taking care to keep, by various contrivances, an eye over his actions, and not permitting him to be entirely depressed? Mr. Seldon had suffered almost every kind of hardship in his youth; but, by the force of good sense and industry, had, with amazing fortitude, surmounted every difficulty, and is, at present, not only a very worthy, but a very consequential member of society. His son, whose name is William Hilkirk Seldon, was born before the old gentleman had emerged from obscurity; and, his mother dying, was placed at a peasant's in the country, and, afterwards, sent to a grammar-school. But, as the father had already resolved upon a plan of education, he did not let even the people with whom his son was know to whom he belonged.
YOU have heard the residue of the story, except that Mr. Hilkirk has been the principal agent in discovering the villain who fired Maitland-hall, and purloined the strong box. Mr. Seldon applauds himself, exceedingly, upon the success of his plan. He beholds him with the combined advantages that education and an active life bestow. He affirms that, if, by any mischance, his son should become poor, he will support the change with fortitude: that the common accidents of life will not have power to deprive him of temper: that his knowledge of mankind will, not only make him discern the motives of their actions, but, likewise, give him an ascendancy over them.—Indeed, he adduces a thousand reasons, which, at least, are exceedingly specious, and, in some instances, true; but, I dare say, you think with me, that, had the experiment been made upon a weaker mind, it would scarcely have succeeded so well.
WHEN my friend Hilkirk, for so I must still call him, arrived in town, his beloved Julia was with us, at Mr. Stamford's, whither he immediately flew. The interview was tender and affecting. The young lady, who had put the utmost restraint upon her inclinations, in obedience to Mr. Seldon, who is her uncle, was incapable of suppressing her emotions. She was fearful, lest her former treatment of Hilkirk, whom she tenderly loved, and which was the effect of her uncle's commands, should be remembered by him, and could not conceal her anxiety. Hilkirk felt the delicacy of her passion, without the power of alleviating her fears, except by repeated declarations of his love.
THE same day that Mr. Hilkirk arrived, Mr. Maitland, the young gentleman who was designed for Maria, and his father, came to town. Mr. Maitland senior, who is a most amiable man, instead of being chagrined at his son's disappointment, expressed the warmest sense of our felicity; and, I assure you, was remarkably liberal of good-natured reflections, in favour of your humble servant. The vivacity of the young gentleman, too, has been of singular service, in giving the conversation, which has been apt to take too sentimental a turn, a degree of ease and brilliancy that have had a very pleasing effect, and which has been much heightened by the benevolent disposition of the father, as well as the friendship and attachment he discovers for the Stamford family, of which I am, now, become a part. He assisted, at the marriage ceremony, with a degree of chearfulness and pleasure that proved the satisfaction he received. Never, before, did I behold so happy a day. My dear Maria, with a profusion of charms, a multitude of virtues, made inevitably mine; my friend receiving the reward of his constancy, the hand of his Julia, at the same time: surrounded by my mother, whose heart was replete with tenderness and joy; by my uncle, whose eyes and actions proved how much he was interested; caressed by my dear friend, the brother of my Maria, and rewarded by her father; it was an excess of transport that can only be imagined.
I MUST forbear. The ideas are too luxuriant, too inexpressible. Pray give my most sincere respects to your worthy parents, and tell them, when they come to town during the approaching winter, they will find a small society, who hope frequently to enjoy the pleasure of their company; of which honour no one is more desirous than,
SIR,
Your happy friend, and humble servant, HENRY HANDFORD ALWYN.
FINIS.