THE TRIUMVIRATE: OR, THE Authentic Memoirs OF
A. B.
and
C.
In quibus fuit propositi, semper à nugis
Ad bona transire seria.
Undè Nescio.
IN TWO VOLUMES. VOLUME I.
LONDON: Printed for W. JOHNSTON, in
Ludgate-street.
MDCCLXIV.
TO HIS GRACE THE Duke of
Bedford.
MY LORD,
I TAKE the liberty of laying these Volumes at your feet, as it was owing to your GRACE'S generous and voluntary Patronage, that I have enjoyed either spirits or leisure sufficient for undertaking, or executing a work of this nature.
YOUR GRACE will, I hope, find amusement, at least, in these Writings, and I intreat the Honour of your kind Acceptance of this small Tribute of his Duty, the Services of whose Life, were he capable of performing any which might ever deserve that name, ought in justice, and gratitude, to be dedicated to your GRACE.
I am,
MY LORD,
With the highest Respect, Your
GRACE
'S much obliged And most obedient Servant,
The AUTHOR.
THE PREFACE.
N OTHING has surprised me more than to find that novels and romances still maintain their ground, in the libraries of the Fair. Mistakes and prejudices are wearing daily away in other things, to the great improvement and enlightening of mankind; but with regard to female education, some customs have been abrogated, which had better have remained, as they were on the safe side, even supposing them to have been errors, while this, among others, stands still unrepealed, though the slightest sense or reflection might have exploded it long ago; nay, should have stifled the
chimaera
in its very birth.
What has been urged in favour of these kind of writings, is, that the extraordinariness of the adventures, and the variety of the incidents, are fitted to induce young ladies into an habit of reading, at first, which may afterwards be directed to more profitable studies: that the personages in romances, are of the most exalted ranks, and their characters of the most perfect kinds; and that therefore the conduct and sentiments of such examples, might be proper to imbue young minds with refined precedents, and elevated notions. That novels serve to afford them a general knowledge of life, without the hazard of their own experience; which may teach them a prudent diffidence in their own strength, and a safe caution against the arts and intrigue of the world.
Against this plausibility, I argue, That history supplies us with as extraordinary events, and as entertaining incidents, as any which can possibly be met with in fiction; that the characters in the latter, being but ideal, lose the full influence of example, and that the sentiments consequently, become deficient in the authority of precept. That in the former, there are many real characters, as brave, as noble, and as perfect, as any to be met with in romance; and the sentiments, maxims, and reflections, of persons who did really exist, upon occasions which did actually occur, have infinitely more spirit, beauty and moral, in them, than all the imaginary ones that ever have been framed by the sterile labour, and puerile genius of novelists or romancers. And with regard to the knowledge said to be gained from the study of novels, I cannot imagine what benefit young women may be likely to draw from repeated memoirs of eloping daughters, frail mistresses, or faithless wives.
Nay, if polite readers would have something still more interesting than novels or romances, than even any history or biography already extant, modern writers may well supply themselves with cotemporary materials for such a work, from public annals, and private anecdotes. As far as Orondates is exceeded by Scanderbeg, does not
Frederic
excel him again, in every quality which marks the king, the soldier, the scholar, and the philosopher? The present age has presented us with an heroe who gives the appearance of veracity to antient fable, and will convey the air of fiction to future history. Are not the tales of
Boccace
put out of countenance by the
Lives of the Empresses?
and these exceeded again by the modern memoirs—not yet published —of lady — and lady —? I forget their titles.
It was upon such reflections as these, that I have undertaken, on the credit of an historiographer, to publish the following memoirs; every particular of which, except the names of persons and places, can be authenticated by living testimonies; insomuch that as each separate fact may be in course recorded, one man shall say
openly,
I bear evidence to this; another, I can answer for that; while some ladies shall
tacitly
cry, I could vouch this, that, or t'other— if I durst. And so of the rest. And yet, to the great good fortune of those who delight in fiction, the whole will nevertheless, bear the air of a novel; not from any manner of address in the publisher, but from the incidental circumstances, and extraordinary contingencies of the real story.
But should it be still objected, by any of your over-scrupulous lovers of truth, that many of the characters herein represented, carry somewhat the appearance of
composition,
let them but only reflect a little, upon real life, and they must certainly recollect to have frequently met with genuine peculiarities, contradictions, foibles, and absurdities, among mankind, more
outrées,
or extravagant, than any of the
caracatura
's of the
Dramatis Personae,
even though the stage, like a gallery, is allowed to exhibit figures larger than the life.
How I happened to become possessed of these memoirs, is not at all material to the Public; however, I have really so much complacency for so respectable a body, that I would satisfy their curiosity, even in this trifling article, if I could limit the discovery to that particular only; but it is surrounded and connected with so many, and such various well-known circumstances, that it would be impossible for me to reveal it, without making, at the same time, too full a discovery of myself; which might lay me extremely open to the just censure of the republic of letters, that a person of my deep erudition, extensive thought, and comprehensive judgment, should throw away his genius and learning, so idly and unprofitably, in digesting a parcel of insignificant events, and
obsolete
morals, into a consistent series or digest, while any
hearsay
of the Cabala remains unexpounded; or that the
points
of Hebrew vowels, continue still to be a point in question.
As to the inaccuracies which perhaps some minute critics may observe upon in the following pages, I do not think them worth amending, in a work of this kind. I write always without book, and just as if I was speaking to you. Suppose now, for instance, that you and I were occasionally conversing together, upon some literary topic, or other; would it not be extremely pedantic in me to interrupt the discourse till I went into my study to settle the olympiad of an historic fact? Or would any body now, give a farthing difference, whether it was Augustus Caesar, or Asinius Pollio, that reprehended the
Patavinité
of Titus Livius
See the first note in chapter xxxv.
?
Writing and correcting, like saying and doing, are very different things; and the latter I take to be by much the more tedious and laborious. Now I think that either of them is even full trouble enough for one person; therefore I really never do more myself, than write, and leave the world to correct: they have more dull time on their hands, it relieves their idleness, and gratifies their malice; for some readers would loose half their pleasure, if they did not meet something to find fault with. It sets them, in some sort, above the writer, and I yield them their advantage freely.
Most of these volumes have been wrote at inns, or in the midst of business, or company; and indeed the best way, in my opinion, as well as the easiest too, is never to form any plan for writing, at all; for it gives a constraint and stiffness to the work, which betrays
the lamp
too much. The great beauty of the antient authors, may be owing, perhaps, to their having wrote intirely without rules; while the
modelling
moderns endeavour to cramp even what little genius they have left. In the first, you perceive the free stroke of the pencil; in the latter, is discovered the restraint of the compass. Or compare, if you please, the confined mincings of a
go-cart,
with the unspancelled strides of manhood.
However this formal age may possibly find fault with me for the mixed matters, the
tragi-comic
manner of writing, in these volumes. They urge that all works should be consistent, or of a piece; either serious, or comical; learned, or unlearned; pious, or prophane. But Sir Richard Steele says,
It is the misfortune of our time, that people think it as easy to be critics, as politicians.
Here he spoke ironically, for they are both equally difficult. There are
Arcana Literae,
as well as
Imperii,
which, if a person is not let into the mistery of, he may frequently find fault in the wrong place, in both instances.
In a work like this, designed for the Public at large, there must be something, in allusion to dramatic writings, to entertain the three different classes of auditors; pit, box, and gallery. The stage of Athens, from whence your learned, but ignorant critics, frame their drama, was chaster than ours, because their audience was all of a piece. Insomuch, that Plato being asked by Dionysius, (now I am not certain whether it was Plato or Dionysius) whom he would recommend as a preceptor for his son, replied, Send to Athens, and take the first man you meet with in the streets. But modern readers and audiences are in an unhealthful state, and must sometimes be indulged in unwholesome seasonings, to help them to digest proper food.
This then, may seem to have been the design of that anomalous, heteroclite genius, the author of Tristram Shandy, whose principal end, I hope and believe, was to inculcate that great
Magna Charta
of mankind, humanity and benevolence.
"A tale may catch him who a sermon flies."
'Tis true indeed, that he has given us, according to the vulgar phrase, rather
more sauce than pig,
and this not sufficiently seasoned with
Attic salt,
neither. But he seems to have wrote more for the present age than the future ones; judging like Aurelius, though in a far different sense, that
surviving fame is but oblivion.
What is posthumous fame? Meat blown up in a shamble—A dead body puffed up with the breath of the living. Modern writers seem perfectly indifferent how soon their works die, provided they themselves can live; and may be compared to butchers, who thrive the better, the more they
slaughter.
His third part is better, that is, not so bad as his second. There is a good deal of laughable impertinence in it. He has repeated the same
empty
humour there, of an
unlettered
The marbled paper.
page, and has given us a
carteblanche,
in this last
Page 147, vol. 6.
. Whatever is neither quite sense, nor absolute nonsense, is true Shandeic. However, through the whole, there is some entertainment for a splenetic person, though none at all for a rational one.
Qui Tristram non odit, amet rhapsodias Rablais.
But there are some things in that work, which ought to be more severely reprehended; though it is folly, rather than vice, that tempts people to speak in a gross manner; while others relish it, in general, more for want of
taste,
than virtue. It requires genius to be witty, without being wicked at the same time; but the most
vulgar parts
may serve for obscenity. 'Tis easier to make one
laugh,
than
smile;
and when dullness would be witty, it lets fly bawdry, as it does something else, satisfied to raise a laugh, though it does a stink also. Loose expressions, in a woman, are a double vice, as they offend against decency, as well as virtue; but in a clergyman, they are treble; because they hurt religion also.
But to his graver works—His sermons
Yoric's sermons.
are written professedly, upon the divine principle of philanthropy; and there are two apostrophe's in them, which are both striking and affecting. In the midst of a most moving description of a complicated family distress, he suddenly interrupts himself with this humane exclamation:
Look down, O God, upon their afflictions!
and then proceeds with his narrative
Sermon 2d, page 41.
. Again, he is telling the story of the good Samaritan, and after these words,
by chance there came by a certain priest,
he cries out,
Merciful God! that a teacher of thy religion should ever want humanity
Sermon 3d, page 53.
! For my part, were I a bishop, I would not indeed prefer him to a
Cure,
(though I am glad that he does not want one) because of his
Tristram,
but I would certainly make him my
Vicar-general,
on account of his
Yoric.
As to those few free passages, which the reader may find interspersed throughout these writings of mine, if rightly apprehended, in context with the whole, they may be compared to the
anamorphosis
in painting; which is an innocent art of drawing a picture so equivocally, that, according to the light it is viewed in, may present you either with a satyr, or a saint; or like Minerva's ring, which could render Ulysses handsome or ugly, just as he found it expedient to carry on his purpose.
Vita verecunda est, musa jocosa mihi.
Ov.
Or,
Dixero si quid forté jocosius, hoc mihi Juris,
Cum veniâ dabis—
Hor.
Or,
Sit lasciva licet pagina, vita proba est.
Mart.
All which apologies I do here most cordially invite
Mr. Sterne
to take share of with me; for by all accounts, his private character deserves it.
And really, if I did not interlope, now and then, to the great relief of my readers, what would these two volumes be good for? would they defray the printing? No— Would they lie on the toilet as untoiled as the Bible? Yes—What a preciseness of moral! a decorum of manners! a purity of sentiment! Stuff! mere old-fashioned stuff! truly. One might imagine to himself a parcel of antique portraits suddenly inspired with a faculty of speech, and conversing together through their oval frames; or a set of hewn-stone stoics declaiming from their niches.
Some few, perhaps, who prefer
old books
to new, might buy this—But after all, prithee tell me who are even those few? Why possibly the king might read it—I mean king George the Third—for as he has neither idle, nor ignoble avocations, he can afford leisure from his great public duties, to indulge his taste and virtue in literary and moral amusements. I think too, that the king of Prussia would relish it, (if Voltaire,
doctus utriusque linguae,
would translate it into French) after his brave and rebounding spirit, having restrained the vain ambition of universal monarchy, within the prescribed bounds of ballanced empire, shall have left him at liberty to exalt the heroe,
permutatio foelix!
to the philosopher. Perhaps Mr. Pitt also, might dip into it, after he has resolutely fought out a peace, and given himself leisure to refine politics into morals
This Preface was wrote in the year sixty-one.
.
Here indeed are a
Triumvirate!
whose glory dims the lustre of that antient title. Under such a patronage would that my A. B. C. were placed! But then, in the mean time, prithee what would pay the printer, if it was not for honest Triglyph, who steps in among ye, now and then, with a
slap dash,
that sets fools a staring, tickles the small wits, quickens the sale, and quits all scores, at once?
I am,
GENTLEMEN,
Your obedient Servant, And
LADIES,
Your most devoted Slave,
Biographer Triglyph.
PROLOGOMENA TO THE SUBSCRIBERS.
A S I had never published any book before, I had not attained the least knowledge in the arts of
puffing off
a work; and as I had seldom conversed, except among the learned and good, I had consequently but few acquaintances: I was therefore alarmed at the certain expence of an impression, at my own suit, on the precarious hazard of a sale. Upon which I determined with myself, to have a subscription solicited, in order to defray the charges of printing.
The trouble of this business I left intirely on the hands of my booksellor; upon whose counter also, I laid the manuscript, to be dipt into, here and there, by the subscribers, in order to afford them some specimen of the work. And while this scheme was going on, it has amused me often, to sit unnoticed in some obscure corner of the shop, attending to the questions and observations which the customers used to throw out, when the
proposals
happened to be put into their hands.
The Triumvirate—Very well — Pray Mr. Folio, is this the Triumvirate of Caesar
Augustus Caesar.
, Anthony, and Lepidus? or
—
Neither, Sir.
No, no, I see now it could not be that, for though A. and C. may very well stand for Anthony and Caesar, we cannot possibly squeeze Lepidus out of B. Nay, nor can it mean the former Triumvirate neither, for stronger reasons still, of the same kind.
Caesar, Pompey, and Crassus.
Why really, Sir, replied Mr. Folio, I do not think that there is the least mention of any one of those antiquated gentlemen, from one end to t'other of these writings. The persons here intended, may be walking about the streets every day, for aught I know; and 'tis odds but you might know one or other of them yourself, if Mr. Triglyph would but suffer me to publish their names; for those of A. B. and C. you must understand, Sir, are but their
incog-nomens
—I think that this was the expression Mr. Triglyph made use of.
When people have taken up the manuscript, it has often entertained me to hear the several remarks which have been made, upon looking into it. Some have cried out, Zounds, what a world of moral stuff is here! By the Lord, a man may as well sit down and read the Bible—Every whit, indeed Sir, replied sober Folio. What the devil have we got here? says another, opening in a different place. O, by
Mars, Bacchus, Apollo,
and
virorum
too, this scene licks
Shandy
all to nothing—Nay, now d—n my eyes, Tristram, but this thrusts your nose out of joint, worse than the
forceps.
Another critic, upon looking into the several parts of the book, pronounced with a precise and dogmatic tone, that it wanted the true
simplex duntaxat, et unum,
and that there was such a variety of characters, subjects, stiles, sentiments, and manners, mixed together in this
multifarious
work, it could never be
one man's money,
that's pos—and therefore the impression would certainly never
bring a sale.
Upon this hint I carried home the manuscript, and drew out specimens of the different species of writing, subjects, characters, &c. and gave them to Mr. Folio, to select one or other of them, according to his particular knowledge of the respective genius of each subscriber; who taking it for granted, that the intire work would be carried on in the same strain, might the more readily enter into a subscription.
This device produced a most sudden and lucky effect, and my friend Folio very soon received cash sufficient to put these sheets into the press; to which I think proper to prefix a list of the subscribers, in the very manner I copied it out from his books, when I was settling accounts with him, upon this article. In which catalogue you are to observe, that where he has put down the names, as in the first column, it was of such persons only, who without knowing any thing in particular of the work, subscribed merely at the request of a friend, or to incourage the freedom of the press; to fill up a gap on their shelves, or for the pleasure of seeing their names, or titles, in print: that where the subscribers were too modest to have their names mentioned, or too numerous to be inserted, they are classed under
character,
as in the second column. The specimens, which ingaged their respective patronage, are entered down in the third; and the fourth contains the numbers of the subscribers.
As for Example.
Names.
Characters.
Parts subscribed to.
Numbers
This column must remain a blank, till the fifteenth edition, for reasons that will perfectly satisfy the
then
Public.
All who have faith in the veracity of Burnet's History of his Own Times.
To The Preface
15
The dependents on the
little
Great.
The Appendix
20,000
All the
primitive
bishops, priests, deacons, and presbyters, in England, Ireland, and Scotland.
Mr. Carewe's confession of faith.
10
Every man of true love and honour in these kingdoms.
The story of Mr. Andrews
20
All the witty rakes in ditto.
The character of the condisciple.
15
Every moral rake in ditto.
The story of Mr. Carewe.
5
 
The admirers of Mrs. Slipslop.
The description of Mrs. Benson, the Cornish squire, &c.
5,000
 
All the women in the world, who would banish an amiable lover from their presence, and remain with a disagreeable husband in a bleak castle, on the Cornish coast.
The story of Anadyomene.
00000
 
All the old maids in England, &c.
The chapter on the
Forlorn Hope.
20,000
 
All the old virgins in ditto
Ditto.
0
 
Some of the noble families of Europe.
The chapter on
private relations.
400
 
The admirers of Tristram Shandy.
Some of the chapters where Triglyph speaks in his own character.
20,000
 
 
Total Subscribers
65,465
ERRATA.
Vol. I.
Preface.
PAGE xii. line 4.
read
lose. P. xiii. l. 12.
r.
literarum. P. xviii. l. last but 2.
r.
unsoiled.
r.
Prolegomenon.
Memoirs.
P. 7. l. 3.
r.
virtutum, and next line, last word,
r.
il- P. 46. l. last, 1st word, prefix an
s.
P. 58. last line but 8,
r.
successfully. P. 125. l. 3. 3d word,
r.
his. P. 138, l. last but 1.
after
in.
r.
an. P. 177. l. last but 1.
r.
employ. P. 178. l. 1.
r.
port. P. 192. l. 11.
r.
women, and l. 18. change the period to a semicolon; P. 198. l. 15.
r.
vein. P. 211. l. 14,
r.
Genies.
Appendix.
Dele 1st page, and commence the paging on the back of that leaf, and so go on, 1, 2, 3, 4.
Vol. II.
P. 7. l. last but one, dele the 2d and. P. 12. l. last but 2.
for
buthe,
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after
letters, change the comma to a colon. P. 20. l. 9.
for
to.
r.
the. P. 21. l. 10.
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hur. P. 30. l. 1. dele Kate. P. 58. l. 20.
before
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for
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compose.
THE TRIUMVIRATE: OR, THE AUTHENTIC MEMOIRS OF
Andrews, Beville,
and
Carewe
The initials of
A. B.
and
C.
were objected to in the manuscript, as being too abstracted, and fitter for geometry than novel; that they did not distinguish the persons sufficiently, in the memory, nor impress the ideas of them strong enough on the mind. In compliance therefore with this indolence of attention in my gentle readers, I have embodied thought, and thickened shadow into substance for them, by supplying the above names throughout the remainder of this work.
—Giving to airy nothing
A local habitation, and a name.
.
—Et in medias res,
Non secus ac notus.—
HOR.
CHAPTER I.
H IS horse grew tired before he had earned half his hire; so that it was late at night before Mr. Carewe had reached the inn at Scarborough. The reader must have been a lucky traveller, if he does not know that the beast, whether through sympathy, electricity, contactity, or any other word,
quod exit in
y, communicates its own fatigue to the rider, as if, marriage or Centaur-like, they were but
one flesh.
And, indeed, in many other instances in life, the tedious urging of a Person to an unwilling act, is often more tiresome than the doing twice as much oneself. Mr. Carewe eat a poached egg, drank a pint of negus, and retired to bed.
The next morning he went down early into the kitchen, to order his breakfast, where he met with several persons, on the same errand, and the landlord among them. He enquired of this latter, where or how near the town one Mr. Andrews lived, who he was informed had lately come to reside in that country. The host replied, that he was settled,
as well as he can be settled,
on the northern road, about a mile from the town; that he was but little known in the Country, for that all his neighbours looked upon him to be mad, as he lived intirely at home, and spent all his time in reading
of books.
A gentleman who stood by, and had endeavoured to interrupt this declamation, addressing himself at last to Mr. Carewe, said, You are not to take the character of that gentleman, Sir, from the description of our host here, for he may be one of the many who are incapable of distinguishing between a
common
and a
peculiar
character; and fools, said he, are apt to impute every thing to frenzy, which rises above the ordinary level of dullness.
Mr. Beville then proposed to Mr. Carewe, that they should breakfast together, as he should be extremely pleased to cultivate an acquaintance with any person who might have the least social connection with his amiable friend Mr. Andrews. Mr. Carewe bowed with that ease and complacency that was natural to him, and stretching forth his hand toward the door, said, in effect, Sir, I am ready to attend you.
During breakfast they conversed familiarly together, upon general topics of politics and letters, and did not, like attorneys, proceed immediately to the purpose of their meeting. There is in ingenuous minds, under the advantages of a liberal education, a certain native freedom, and a well-bred ease, which, at first sight, render perfect strangers as familiar, as if they had been old and intimate acquaintance.
At length Mr. Beville said, that he had come that morning from Mr. Andrews's house, as he usually did every day, to drink the waters, and bathe in the the sea, for a disorder which he had been for some time subject to, namely, the scurvy; which
insulars
are generally afflicted with, and is the root whence all the rotten branches of distempers, peculiar to nations surrounded by the ocean, usually spring. He then asked Mr. Carewe where, and how long he had been acquainted with Mr. Andrews.
He told his name, and was proceeding to give him a particular account of his acquaintance and attachment to Mr. Andrews, when he was interrupted by an exclamation, O, Sir, I have you all
by heart,
already; I have frequently heard our friend mention you with the highest fondness and esteem; lament, of late, his not knowing where to direct a line to you, and often wish, after his warm manner, that some fortuitous concourse might happily throw us three together, in some retired scene, where we might mutually know, approve, and rejoice in each other. This fortunate crisis, added he, has at length arrived, and I am impatient to make the welcome present to my friend.
Mr. Carewe bowed, they embraced, discharged their bill, and walked away together to the
farm,
as it was stiled, where they found Mr. Andrews reading in an Arbour in his garden, having just retired from the heat of the day, after pointing out some works to his labourers.
CHAP. II.
I Would here describe the meeting of Mr. Andrews and Mr. Carewe, but for the following reasons. You have seen two friends meet, therefore to you it would be superfluous. Or, more probably, you might never have seen two
friends
together, any way, in your oldest life; so that to you it might appear improbable. For it was not like two merchants meeting upon
Change;
it was not like two justices saluting at a sessions; nor even like two neighbours shaking each other's arms out of the sockets, at a fair. In short, it was not like any thing you may have ever seen, except you have had the extraordinary chance of being present on the meeting of two friends
There was speech in their dumbness, language in their very gesture: They looked as they had heard of a world ransomed, or one destroyed: A notable passion of wonder appeared in them; but the wisest beholder, that knew no more but seeing, could not say if the importance were joy or sorrow; but in the extremity of the one it must needs be.
WINTER'S TALE.
.
But then you are to observe, that, by this expression, I do not mean such connections as the moderns, by way of composition with morals, are reduced to ascribe that high title to; but such friends as may be quoted from among the antients,
"In this dull age scarce understood."
Buckingham upon this subject, in his ode on Brutus.
between whom, and the present race, there is as much difference, as between the man that Diogenes was searching for, at Athens, and those who, ignorant of the reproof, laughed at his extravagance
Diogenes, observing that the whole State of Athens had sunk into debauchery and corruption, and meaning to reproach them for having dwindled from the original dignity of human nature, walked through the city at noon, with a lighted torch in his hand, and being asked what he was in search of? answered, I am looking for
a Man.
. David Simple too
A character in a modern novel.
, who sought through the two great cities of London and Westminster, in quest of
a friend,
proceeded exactly upon the same errand with the philosopher. For a
true man
is a
real friend.
But the qualities which are requisite to constitute this character, have been so long lost in the world, that Cicero cries out, even in his time,
Haec genera virtutem non solum in moribus nostris, sed vix jam in libris reperiuntur: Chartae quoque, quae ilam pristinam severitatem continebant, obsoleverunt.
Epicurus, in his morals, prefers friendship before any other virtue. St. Evremond says, that
justice is only a moral, established for the convenience of human society; it is the work of man; whereas friendship is the work of nature.
One might imagine that the
Saint
had Love rather, in contemplation, in this definition. I carry the subject higher, and deem friendship to be an angelic virtue. Nay, higher still. For friendship proceeds farther than the
having care over us.
It will induce us to sacrifice even ourselves for its sake, and therefore approaches nearer to the excellence of a God—
A God who died for us!
And here I confess, that I feel so strong an impulse upon me, to acquaint my readers with my own situation in life, with regard to this particular, that I cannot refrain from letting them know, one and all of them, which I hope, in other words, will be every one who can read English, that I have sufficient reason, from a long experience of my own, joined to the accounts I have occasionally received from others, to affirm, that I have been all my life placed under the patronage of all the real and disinterested friends in these kingdoms.
And as a just sense of my obligations, upon this account, calls on me here, for proper acknowledgements, the
thread
of my story pressing me, at the same time, not to discontinue its
weft,
I shall beg leave to refer the curious reader to my appendix to this volume, pages first and second, for a full and true account of this matter; and in the third and fourth pages, ditto appendix, he will find a catalogue of the many and great benefits which I have myself received, and which others may also derive, from such advantageous clientcies.
CHAP. III.
AFTER the usual questions and unusual transports were over, Mr. Carewe desired Mr. Andrews to shew him his demesne, his husbandry and improvements, which he replied he would do, without stirring out of the spot; and taking out a pocket-book, he opened a map,
of forty perch to the inch,
in which he shewed him the whole farm, neatly laid down, divided and denominated, as the
wheatfield,
the
meadow,
the
pigeon-park, &c.
After Mr. Andrews had fully instructed him in the topography of the draught, you may be surprised perhaps, said he, at this concise and figurative manner of answering your request; but, in general, people propose this question, more out of complaisance than curiosity, while others accord it out of ostentation, rather than good-will. And, as vanity is ever more active than civility, I have sometimes known an old gouty fellow fatigue his grandson, in leading him round an improvement of his own making. And yet, after all his sweat and toil, think you, added he, that he would know so much of the matter, or be able to describe the place so well to others, as he might from such a diagram as this, without moving any thing more than a finger or an eye.
But with regard to the plan now before you, continued he, I must observe one thing to you, which otherwise might require your going to the several closes, to inform yourself of. You would naturally imagine, from the different denominations, that the pigeon-park had a dovehouse in it; that the meadow supplied my stables with hay; the wheatfield supported my family with bread; and so of the rest.
But not one syllable of all this, I assure you, Sir. These divisions indeed, I suppose had been originally named from respective merits of the kind; and, like other
titles,
these are still retained, though the qualifications which formerly gave rise to them have long since surceased. And in truth, added he, I have generally considered all the parade of heraldry, in the same light; for, respecting
qualities,
not
quality,
I am apt to stile some
peers of the realm,
in allusion to my own demesne, by the
cognomens
of
pigeon-park, meadow, wheatfield, &c.
who, as Sir Richard Steele says of a Grubstreet paper, can produce no merit beyond the
title. Titles
which distinguish not merit, are but
nick names;
as a deformed man or woman are in derision stiled my lord or my lady.
CHAP. IV.
THE house was situated exactly as the learned Dr. Cheyne recommends, in his Essay on Health and Long Life. Fronting the east, to receive the full benefit of the first sun: on the side of a gravelly hill, that the foundation may be dry: over a running water, to give a motion to the air; and unincumbered with trees, which are apt to confine the damps, and keep them hovering about the mansion.
The house was what was stiled
a Batchelor's Lodge,
but so well contrived, that, if Mr. Andrews should ever
double
his condition, he might, at the same time, double his house too, without having occasion to alter any part of the building; for his was not a small
house,
but rather
half a large one.
I here freely make a present of this distinction, to the ingenious modern architects of
Chinese orders;
and as terms of art are necessary toward the conciseness of sciences, I shall dub it with the technic of
dimagdomé,
which I have most learnedly compounded from the words
dimidium magnae domûs, vel domi.
A neglect of this sort of oeconomy, is too generally seen in most of the villa's of young men of fortune; who are apt seldom to frame any purpose beyond the present expediency; which subjects them frequently, as future contingencies may happen, to the aukwardness of disproportioned additions, the inconvenience of
returns,
or
traps for whirling eddies,
the expence of altering what has been already built, or of rasing the whole, to begin again anew. In oeconomy, as well as morals, the frolic of the season, should never be inconsistent with the scheme for life.
The furniture was perfectly
simplex munditiis,
and, according to the precept of Marcus Varro, in his Essay on Entertainment,
rather neat than fine, elegant than rich.
The bedsteads, chairs, and tables were all of oak or walnut, because of our own growth; and the curtains, seats, and hangings, of stamped linnen; because, said Mr. Andrews, it is our own manufacture, looks handsome at first, and, that the being obliged to have it washed sometimes, renews its freshness, and
gives employment to the poor.
Such was Mr. Andrews's expression, and quite in his manner, who constantly took advantage of every opportunity of inculcating the god-like virtue, and soul-saving moral, of charity and benevolence. Here now, had I been inclined to have swelled my volume by notes, I might have introduced the word
philanthropy,
in this place, instead of
benevolence,
which would have afforded me the opportunity of informing the generality of my
polite readers,
that
philanthropy
is a plaguy hard Greek word, which in downright plain English means nothing more than
a love of mankind.
But in the first place, the writer of these memoirs, is far above such
bibliopolist
arts; and, in the next, the word
philanthropy
would not have sufficiently comprehended the full scope of Mr. Andrews's benevolence; for his was not confined to human nature alone, but extended itself throughout the whole animal creation, from the Leviathan of the deep, to the emmet of the field. And, in order to awaken such sentiments among his domestics, along with other devices for the same purpose, he had placed this text over his stable door,
A righteous man regardeth the life of a beast.
CHAP. V.
WHEN they came into the parlour, they found dinner served; which was a true
monastic
meal; only one joint of mutton, and a sallad. But they were all in health, eat heartily, and conversed chearfully together. Mr. Andrews observed upon the frugality of his board, but assured his friends, that this oeconomy proceeded more from Epicurism, than parsimony; for that he had always perceived an higher relish to one dish, than to many; and that various meats were apt to perplex the choice, and weaken the appetite, by dividing its taste.
Mr. Beville took occasion, from this hint, to philosophize upon this subject, by remarking that single objects are better observed by the eye, than plural ones; that variety in prospect, like many angles in architecture, distracts the vision, instead of filling the sight; and that the sea engages the attention of the mind, as much from its uniformity, as its vastness. In fine, that variety in general rather diverts, than satisfies the eye.
Mr. Carewe wrought the subject still higher, by running the analogy into a moral, saying, that in love, as well as food, a craving for variety was the certain sign of a sickly appetite; that temperance and constancy were the best preservatives of health and vigour; and that, as providence pursues its several purposes by uniform means, it might not be unreasonable to conclude, that a fondness for change was more consonant to a state of depravation, than of nature.
After this manner did they coverse together, in the spirit of antient symposiac's, during their meal, a bottle of wine, and a pot of coffee. After which Mr. Andrews asked Mr. Carewe, whether he chose to play cards; to which he replied, that he had no particular inclination to any amusements of that kind, but was always ready to comply with the disposition of his company; and desired Mr. Andrews, as
master of the revels,
to appoint the entertainment for his guests. No, Sir, interrupted Mr. Andrews, I do not understand the punctilio in that sense; for I consider a man in his own house, to be a master to his domestics only, but to his friends a vassal. However, as you say, Sir, added Mr. Beville, that you are ready to comply with the humour of the company, I shall make so free as to acquaint you, that neither Mr. Andrews, nor I, chuse play of any kind.
Agreed, replied Mr. Carewe, for my part, 'tis compliance, and not choice, that ever induces me to sit down at a card-table. There are three things requisite to a gamester; a love of play, a knowledge in its
mysteries,
and a fortune to support it—or better, no fortune to lose. In every one of which, I am myself deficient. Nay, I must always play at a
disadvantage,
even upon
equal terms,
for the winning of fifty guineas could not make me happy, and the losing of them might render me uneasy. I have portioned out my income in a certain even proportion, and think that it would be extremely indiscreet in me to stake any part of it upon a hazard, which might injure my oeconomy, without improving my fortune: for fifty guineas are more than I want, and are, at the same time, more than I can spare.
CHAP. VI.
UPON which they retired to the library, where, after some general conversation, which the scene both hinted and inspired, Mr. Carewe repeated to Mr. Andrews the discourse which had passed in the morning, at Scarborough, between the host and him. Mr. Andrews smiled, and replied, that most of his present neighbours, as well as some former acquaintances in life, had conceived the same notion of him, because he had generally sequestered himself from the world, and mixed not in their sports or entertainments, their races, cock-fightings, hunting-matches, or play.
In all things of an indifferent nature, said he, one should certainly conform to the manners of the world, in order to avoid the unsociable and affected character of singularity; but in reality, added he, these things are by no means indifferent to me, and I am so far from having any manner of taste or passion for such amusements, that I rather feel a disrelish to some of them, and an absolute aversion, even to horror, to others.
I have, continued he, made experiments upon every article in life, which bears the name of pleasure; and the first thing that disgusted me was a crowd. I ran headlong into all manner of public places, with that giddy eagerness of youth, which is natural, before one has given themselves leisure to enquire either into the ends or motives of their actions. But, after having sustained much squeezing, sweating, and jostling, at balls, feasts, shews, and masquerades, for many years, I began to find out the true definition of a crowd, to be,
a certain combination of an indifinite number of persons, to render each other mutually uneasy.
Henry, in the series of letters, says, I will forgive none but a
pick-pocket
for loving a crowd.
And besides, with regard to the boisterous and unmeaning mirth one is generally stunned with, in large companies, which may be stiled, not the
conversations,
but the
convulsions
of society, I have always looked upon laughing, without sentiment, to be merely histerical, and needed the aid of
assa foetida.
I have sometimes imagined, that, in the days of antient philosophy, when men used to give rational rebukes, but after an absurd manner, as in the instance of Diogenes and his torch, mentioned just now, and many others, one of the Sages would have brought a wet mop into such a merry-making assembly, and have twirled it in their faces, as supposing them to be falling into fits. Risibility has been made a character of rationality; the conclusion then must be fairly this, that none should laugh without a reason; otherwise,
looking asquint
might be as distinguishing a mark, as some philosophers have made it.
With regard to horse-racing, besides the crowd and noise which attend it, there is something much more abominable in it. For, not to insist merely upon the cruelty of straining a beautiful and useful creature beyond the extent of its powers, and running the poor animal with whip and spur for many miles,
in blood,
which is the jockey's expression, is it not an encouragement to the idleness of the lower classes of people, who are the riches of a nation? are not the bettors generally either dupes or sharpers? and is not the immorality of such proceedings freed, by custom, even from the restraint of shame? For, are not the most flagrant impositions qualified by the title of
a jocky stroke,
and justified by
the laws of the turf?
&c.
Cock-fighting too, makes a barbarous sport of courage, wounds, and death! Does the generous animal win an hard fought battle, at the expence of blood, or limb; what is his reward?
To have his head wrung off,
after his bravery has rendered him unfit for fighting any more But
the tryal,
or
cutting down
of cocks, is too shocking for humanity to describe!
As for hunting, I have always thought that the only
rational creature
that pursues this sport, is the hound; for he follows his
instinct:
I excuse the huntsman, because he is acting in his profession: I pity the horse, as he is pressed into the service; but I despise the 'Squire, having neither compulsion, vocation, or natural impulse to plead. The only plausible apology I ever heard given, in defence of this diversion, is, that it conduces to health, by inducing to exercise. But is not this rather worse than giving up the argument intirely? Is it not, in effect, to say, that a man cannot do a
rational
thing, without having an
irrational
motive for it?
Gaming I need not expatiate upon; many writers, of sense and morals, have already done so, and without effect. Even in its most simple state, it cannot be said to be
innocent,
but merely
idle.
It is a misapplication of
accountable time, pereunt, & imputantur;
and apt to awaken passions, which had much better remain asleep. Herodotus tells us, that play was invented first in Lydia, at the time of a great famine, by way of diverting the pressing calls of hunger: And hath it not, long since, returned back again to its primitive institution, by supporting an infinite number of persons, who have no other trade, merit, profession, or visible fortune to keep themselves from starving, without the relief of such
handicraft,
or
moyens de vivre?
The conversation here took another turn, and was carried on for the remainder of the evening upon various topics, till they were called in to supper, where the same frugality appeared as at dinner. A roasted fowl, and a bottle of whitewine, which they diluted with Spa-water, compleated the repast. They parted at eleven, and retired to bed.
CHAP. VII.
THE next morning Mr. Andrews and Mr. Carewe met at breakfast; but Mr. Beville had gone off, as usual, to drink the waters at Scarborough. After they had taken a few turns in the Garden, and returned into the study, Mr. Carewe put Mr. Andrews in mind of a promise he had formerly made him, on their parting at Islington, of relating to him the history of his life, if ever they might happen to meet again.
Mr. Andrews acknowledged the debt, and said that he would take the lucky opportunity of Mr. Beville's absence, to discharge it, as it would supply him with an occasion of introducing his friend's most excellent character, and also of mentioning some circumstances which would revive his grief, as they will necessarily do my own, added he, with a sigh! his tears flowing fast at the same time. He remained for some minutes unable to compose himself, and then, after having made Mr. Carewe acknowledge that the obligation was mutual between them, in this particular, he proceeded thus:
The story of Mr.
Andrews
and Mr.
Beville.
WHEN I was at school, said he, I had conceived a particular attachment toward one of my condisciples, for an odd reason indeed, but it is such a one as makes mothers often fond of sickly or ungracious children, merely for the trouble they give them. He happened, however, to be my chum, which first accidentally led me to distinguish him from the rest. He was arch, lively, and idle; but, as his humour had a peculiar charm for my gravity, I used frequently to make his
exercises
for him, furnish his
themes,
and assist him in the construction of his
lessons.
As he was quick of resentment, and well-spirited, he had frequent
boxing bouts
upon his hands, and seldom waited to consider the odds against him; but, whenever I saw him overpowered, I used to enter the lists in his defence; and, as I was by much the biggest and strongest boy in the school, none of the rest would venture to cope with me, but used to cry out,
Class, class,
upon such occasions, and then a whole form would rush down
pell-mell
against me.
You'll pardon me, Sir, said Mr. Andrews, for this puerile detail; but one has naturally a fondness for dwelling upon those early scenes of life, and renewing their youth, as it were, by the recollection of past aera's.
Haec olim meminisse.
But I shall now pass on to our riper years, after having made this philosophic reflection; that it must certainly be
nature,
and not
habit,
which has given men a greater bravery than women, for boys universally decide their quarrels by boxing, even before education can have pointed out their distinguishing characteristic; and girls shew their resentments by frumps, or scoldings, only.
CHAP. VIII.
THE intimacy, between this friend and me, continued after we had quitted school. I still retained the same fondness and attachment toward him, though without any manner of esteem. He was a character, he had wit and humour, but was dissolute and capricious. He had chearfulness and good-nature, but was passionate and ill-tempered. He would sacrifice his fortune for you to day, and to-morrow refuse you a guinea. In fine, he was a good companion, but a bad friend; and one of those whom one is generally pleased at meeting with, but never regret the parting from.
Our different manners of life, not less than our separate vocations, would frequently divide us from each other, sometimes for many months together; but whenever his frolic or extravagance, as was often the case, happened to involve him in any difficulty, his first resort was to my counsel and assistance. I have bailed him out of goals, released him from the watch, and redeemed him out of bagnio's. I have been his
second
in some encounters, and his marshal of honour in others.
In fine, his giddiness and debaucheries drew upon me so much trouble, hazard, and scandal, that I have frequently resolved to withdraw myself intirely from any manner of connection with him, and should certainly have done so, but that I knew he had no other friend, either willing, or sober enough, to guard him from scrapes, or to relieve him out of them; his other associates being at least as idle and thoughtless as himself, and some of them even more so: And yet, he generally kept what the world is too apt to stile
the best company.
He was placed by his guardians at a college in Cambridge, where he loitered away his time for about three years, and used to make frequent elopements to London, where I resided at that time, with my father. While he remained at the university, he used to write often to me, and, as there was some wit, spirit, and whim in his letters, I have kept most of them by me, which I shall entertain you with, some other time, added he, looking out at the window, for I now perceive our friend Mr. Beville returning from Scarborough, and we'll go out and meet him, if you please, and inquire what news he may have pickt up in that gay, idle scene of dissipated life.
These three friends passed the remainder of that day in the same kind of liberal converse as before, and the next morning, after Mr. Beville had walked away to town, in course, and, as soon as breakfast was over, Mr. Andrews reassumed as follows:
CHAP. IX.
WE were interrupted yesterday, said he, just as I was going to shew you some of my condisciple's letters, which I here present you with, in an heap together, without regard to dates, as of no manner of consequence in writings of this kind. So saying, he put a parcel of papers into Mr. Carewe's hands, and the first he took out to read was the following.
LETTER I.
Dear Andrews,
Cambridge.
THE grace they repeat here, is about five minutes long. How much must the gross ideas of beef and pudding impure the hungry student's devotion, during that interval? I have often thought the marriage ritual too tedious, for the same pious reason. But, to make a ceremony of a thing, which in itself is the farthest from ceremony of any thing in the world, is most catholic nonsense, surely!
Long prayers, vigils, fasts, and penances, are certainly most dangerous institutions. If the devotee be a cool person, they abate his zeal to
lukewarm;
and, if one of strong passions, he is inflamed to
enthusiasm;
which are either above or below the proper temper of true devotion. Religion is love; and all its acts should be
short and exstatic..
I was hurried into this expression, my dear Andrews, and would have corrected it for your prudery, but that I happened to recollect doctor Taylor, in his severe treatise on
holy living and dying,
speaking on the imperfection of all human pleasures, introduces, among his instances, the married virgin led by her paranymphs to
uneasy joy.
Bridemen or bridemaids, indifferently used.
A certain reverend dean also, in his
christian philosophy,
keeping up to the same strain of
arch piety,
in order to fix our affection, I suppose, upon things above, and not upon
things below,
says, that the highest of mortal pleasures is attended with a
sort of fainting.
But, indeed, were you to read St. Austin, St. Ambrose, St. Bernard, and others of the
saintly
fathers, you would find them somewhat more than
arch;
for, in truth, they often speak not only like
fathers,
but like
mothers
too. You must not however think me so
stupidly learned
as this last paragraph seems to hint me; for all I know of these
rums,
is from the several curious passages selected out of their works, by lord Bolingbroke, in his philosophic writings. That's a charming book! I think I am now a match for a parson at least.
Adieu.
I perceive from this letter, said Mr. Carewe, the briskness of your correspondent's character. He enters upon the subject without preface, and quits it again as abruptly. Is he not in the right of it? The limits of a letter afford no room for exordium, or peroration. One may compare most modern epistles to a frozen flask of wine—cold at both ends, and all the
spirit
in the middle. I love the
con spirito
in wit, as well as music. I thank you for these letters, I like his writing, and am sure the remainder will entertain me. Let us see the next to hand.
CHAP. X.
LETTER II.
Cambridge.
I AM impatient to acquaint my dear Mentor, how well I have extricated myself out of a difficulty, for the first time, without his assistance. You may remember the Cambridge lass I used to toast to you when I was last in London, and prefer to all your belles on the Mall. Since my return, my love, my constancy, have been amply rewarded. I called her
Amaryllis,
she stiled me
Celadon.
I vowed, and she believed.
Our amour remained not long a secret. Between
unguarded innocence
on one side, and giddy youth on the other, we suffered some indiscretions to escape us,
leading to the door of truth,
which alarmed her father, an huge hulking fellow, who dwelt on Gogmagog Hills, with a sour beetle in his brows, a stoop in his shoulders, a stride in his gait, and a damnable swing in his arms.
Methought, when he rushed into my chambers, he appeared as tremendous as my own
Quinbus
Quinbus Flestrin, or the man-mountain, in Gulliver.
, when he used to pour down in my defence at school. However, this was too difficult
a point of honour
to suffer me to cry out
class
upon; so I listened with
most Christian resignation and patienee,
to his charge, but wishing ardently, all the while, that you were standing by my side. Though, to what purpose? You would not lye for me.—No, damn it, and I scorn to lye for myself, either—But for a simple equivocation, in defence of
passive innocence,
where is it forbidden?
Thus fortified in my moral, I immediately made the father this reply. If the account yon are come to call me to, Sir, be of
satisfaction,
my sword shall
answer your waked wrath;
but if of
justification,
my oath is at your service. Dear Sir, answered
old Six foot high,
taking advantage of my own distinction, if you
justify
her honour, you perfectly
satisfy
mine. Right, Sir, cried I out, and taking him by the hand, you seem to have the true moral sense of this matter, and I here tender you my oath, that your daughter is a very
vestal
for me.
My
equivoque
lay here—There was a temple at Athens, dedicated to the goddess Vesta, where the fire was preserved by widows alone; virgins being excluded from administering the fuel, as they did in the one at Rome, erected to the same divinity. Is not this same learning a fine thing? He accepted my terms—they satisfied him—but, I don't know how, the whole of this business, not indeed any part of it, does not quite satisfy myself. It vexes me sometimes, to find that I can neither be perfectly good, nor perfectly bad. From which
imperfection,
I can be neither compleatly happy in this world, nor the next; but feel, in my present
Hell-militant
warfare, as if I was serving the devil
upon half-pay.
A plague on your musty morals, which has raised this struggle in my nature.
Farewel, however, my worthy philosopher.
CHAP. XI.
LETTER III.
Cambridge.
YOU know how ill I left London, with a nephretic cholic. I reached my first stage with difficulty, in writhing pain. I detest drams, they are dangerous anodynes; they are apt to captivate, and their effect is so sudden, that one has not leisure to make a compromise with their senses. Wine gives sufficient warning—This proceds by
sap,
the other by
storm. Drinking
is only simple fornication, but
dramming
is—the devil—
However, having soon got a surfeit of martyrdom, I was prevailed on by mine hostess, to swallow a large glass of geneva, as she told me she did herself every now and then, whenever she found herself
choleric.
Well! 'tis an ill wind,
&c.
as the proverb says, for this cordial very soon afforded me ease enough to mount my horse, carrying on its carminative and diuretie operations all the way, till I reached college.
I think it might be an excellent expedient to carry a provision of this liquor to sea, in case of our being at any time becalmed; and the fable of Ulysses having got the winds tied up in a bladder, may be literally understood of a
borachio
filled up with your right, good, Aeolic, Holland gin.
Una Eurusque notusque ruunt.—
Now, between you and me, Monsieur Rollin, this interpretation of that story is not one bit more strained than yours, where you say, in your life of Hannibal, that the article of his having cut a passage through the Alps, with the help of vinegar, is to be figuratively understood to mean only, that he recruited the strength and spirits of his army, during that cold and difficult march, by frequently priming his soldiers with drams of vinegar.
Among the lives of Plutarch, which are said to be lost, was Hannibal's, and Mr. Rollin has supplied it. But in the king's library,
vide
Casley's catalogue, there is a translation of Plutarch's life of Hannibal, by Henry Parker, lord Morley, written in the reign of Henry the eighth. Surely the original cannot have been lost since that aera, when literature was beginning to revive in England.
Farewel.
Mr. Carewe was extremely entertained with the spirit and humour of these letters, and spent the rest of this morning in perusing the remainder of the collection, while Mr. Andrews walked about his grounds; but I shall not insert any more of them here, because I would not interrupt Mr. Andrews's story any longer, and that I design soon to publish the rest of them, in a distinct volume from this work, if I shall find that my readers give me sufficient encouragement, by their relish of the foregoing specimens.
Just as Mr. Carewe had finished the reading of these letters, Mr. Beville walked into the room. The remainder of the day was passed in family incidents not of sufficient consequence to relate, or in conversations which the generality of readers, preferring narrative to sentiment, would excuse the recital of, that I may be the more at liberty
to file the thread of my story,
without any further interruption. Therefore, I shall just dine them, sup them, and put them to bed, and to-morrow morning, after I have sent off Mr. Beville to Scarborough, messieurs Andrews and Carewe shall retire to the library, of which I have myself a
master key,
and will suffer the reader to slip in after them,
incog.
and overhear their whole conversation;
For be it unto all Men known,
I keep no secrets—but my own.
CHAP. XII.
ABOUT a year before my friend became of age, continued Mr. Andrews, he quitted college, and came up to London, to consult the physicians about his health, which appeared, at that time, to be in a dangerous state, inclining to a decay. While he remained in town, he lived intirely with me, at my Father's; and restrained himself within a very regular and abstemious course, which I complimented him upon, as his then invalid condition had been brought upon him by free living and riot. To which he replied, after his lively manner, that there was a moral in excess, as it induced sobriety, more than a folio upon temperance.
When he began to recruit a little in London, the physicians ordered him down to Windsor, for the air. Here his health was established in about six months, most of which time I spent with him there, administering his medicines with my own hands, and restraining him within the bounds of his regimen; which was no easy matter, after his strength began to be restored again.
I took the advantage of this interval, to inculcate some sober reflections, with a due sense of religion, into his heart and mind; and my lectures seemed to produce their proper effect, so far as they could support themselves upon philosophic principles. But whenever I happened to touch upon
faith,
or
system,
he would cut me short, by crying out, more of your
argument,
good Mr. orthodox, and less of your
doctrine.
In vain I used to urge, that
faith
was necessary to religion, as well as
works,
and that
system
was framed upon articles of
belief.
Not at all, would he reply, after his quick manner, faith is merely constitutional, and a man can no more
believe,
than
lift a weight
beyond his natural strength. And what are your systems after all, added he, but the visionary fabricks of metaphysical dreams? Divines take a
text,
as Dido did a
hide,
and, by quibbling, slicing, and straining, force it to inclose an area large enough
to build a city upon.
But
delenda est carthago
is my motto, as well as Cato's.
The
occult qualities
in physics, are laughed at, he would run on; in metaphysics the
entities
and
quiddities
are exploded also; the heart is placed right in anatomy, and all science has been purged by the reasonings of the latter philosophy. 'Tis in religion alone, that prejudice still keeps its ground, which makes it in danger of losing its own; and, that error is sanctified, even to blasphemy. Addison says, very justly,
that an ignorant devotee affronts the Divinity more than an atheist; for 'tis better to disbelieve a deity intirely, than to form any notions of him unworthy of the infinite perfection of his nature.
In fine, concluded he, there can be no merit in ignorance, nor any virtue in error; and whatever contradicts the common principles of sense or science, can never be any part of a divine revelation. For philosophy, like
Jacob's ladder,
mounts us up, step by step, into the very presence of the Deity; but metaphysics resemble the
Laputan
method of building a house,
from the top to the bottom.
Here Mr. Andrews and Mr. Carewe entered into a disquisition upon these subjects, Carewe taking part with the condisciple, and Andrews arguing in support of system; but, as their conversation on such topics would not much edify or entertain the reader, I shall here leave Mr. Andrews at leisure to continue his memoirs, without any further interruption.
CHAP. XIII.
SOON after we had gone to reside at Windsor, pursued he, we happened to become acquainted with a young lady who lived in the town; of a good family and character, but of no fortune. Her father had an employment at the palace, of about three hundred pounds a year; had a wife, this daughter, and a son, who is our worthy friend here, Mr. Beville. I passed most of the evenings at their house, that I could spare from my invalid, and, when he was able to go abroad, he used to come along with me, and frequently accompanied us upon little parties about the country.
Miss Beville's stature was rather below the middle size, but she was finely made, and well fashioned; she had a clear brown complexion, fine hair and teeth, a lively eye, with a great air of sensibility through her whole countenance. She had read most of the polite English and French writers, and was perfectly accomplished in music and dancing: Her sense was of the right feminine kind, for it consisted rather in a quickness of apprehension, and a delicate taste, than a strong judgment.
She had a great ease and freedom in her manners; but at the same time such a nicety and decorum in all her behaviour, that our invalid, upon receiving a rebuke from her one day, for some liberties he had attempted,
upon his returning health,
stiled her a
rake-trap,
and, with his usual briskness, asked her,
How the devil shall a man know how to conduct himself toward such a woman as you are, who, like a cunning gamester, leads one in by suffering a trick or two of no consequence, to pass, and, when he thinks the stake his own, pops the
ten-ace
upon him?
Good breeding, Sir, replied Miss Beville, should conduct you— whoever has arrived at that polite character, will need no formal rules; and, without it, the whole
academy of compliments
will not be sufficient to instruct you.
They had frequent squabbles of the same kind together, while I continued always to behave toward her, both in speech and action, with that propriety and respect, which modest women of all ranks have a right to challenge, from the prince to the peasant. Which conduct apparently gained me the preference in her regards and esteem, before my friend, though he was younger, handsomer, more lively, and had a very considerable fortune.
As soon as he perceived himself restored to health, he retired down to his estate in Cornwall; and from that time several years elapsed, before I heard any thing more of him; he residing all the while at his seat in the country, without making the least overture toward a renewal of our former correspondence; having, it seems, less leisure to spare from his
sports,
than he had from his
studies.
But, though he had a lively warmth and earnestness in his manners, he had a certain coldness and indifference in his nature, which rendered him insensible to fond or friendly attachments; chance, caprice, or convenience, forming and dissolving all his connections.
CHAP. XIV.
WHEN we were parting, continued Mr. Andrews, he to go take possession of his estate, and I to return to London, our fair friend gave me some slight commissions to execute for her, among which I received a letter to deliver to her brother, who was then in town, and in whom I had before met with all that I had ever wished in man: A sobriety of manners, a refinement of moral, a liberal mind, a spirited heart, and an universal benevolence of affections. Besides which, a perfect agreement in all our general notions, of philosophy, politics, or religion, united and stampt us friends for life. The approbation and esteem which I had marked toward his sister, rendered our union still more tender. I loved him yet more, because he was her brother, and he became fonder of me for the polite regards I had always paid to her.
When I had executed Miss Beville's commissions, I took the liberty of giving her an account of them, by letter. I wrote to her with gaiety and galantry, but kept quite clear of the least hint or expression tending toward passion. In the first place, my affections had not arrived to such an height as might have excused a freedom of that kind; and next, my fortunes depended too much upon the caprice of another person, to suffer me hastily to form attachments on my own sentiments.
In this letter, however, I endeavoured to court her into a correspondence, merely to exchange the news of town and country, with each other. But this she declined. She answered my civilities in a letter to her brother, and paid some compliments to my character, and manner of writing; adding, that she would be both pleased and flattered with a continuance of my epistles; but that, as there ought never to be any kind of mystery between us to which Mr. Beville need be a stranger, she hoped that I would always accept of her acknowledgments, in paragraphs of her letters to him.
I was pleased at her delicacy upon this point, and continued the correspondence, on her own terms, while Mr. Beville remained in London; and, when he returned to Windsor, she was prevailed upon so far, at his instance, as sometimes to write paragraphs to me herself, in his letters.
CHAP. XV.
WE both of us found this amusement extremely pleasant, for a time, and exerted, upon those occasions, the highest spirit and address we were capable of, on each side, but without any other view than what we might have had on playing in concert together, to preserve time and harmony, and mutually exchange compliments upon each other's performance.
But I would never advise any person to enter into such an intercourse with the other sex, before some farther consequences shall have been fully weighed and considered of. The having one object constantly in contemplation, is even more dangerous, than the having it always in view. We are not apt to keep such a strict guard over our reflections, as we do upon our actions; and, when the mind once surrenders itself up to the fond persuasion of a separate pleasure, the heart soon begins to grow jealous; and if it should happen to be a fit object for its occupation, steals slily in for its share.
I made frequent excursions to Windsor, and perceived that each time I returned from it with more and more regret. My passion commenced unknown to me, and increased by such insensible degrees, that its empire was established in my breast, before I even suspected its invasion. Nay, such is our blindness, or our vanity, that I actually began to perceive her regards arise, before I discovered my own. And when her marked preferences, her
petits soins,
her manners free to others constrained towards me, had first alarmed my honour, I forthwith determined to withdraw myself from an intercourse which might perhaps end fatally to one or other of us, possibly to both.
I formed this resolution on the instant, one morning at Windsor, and returned to London with that precipitation with which one is apt to execute an irksome purpose; hurrying away, to have it over; and it was on this retreat, and not before, that I first perceived my affections to have been a long time
prae-engaged.
However, frequent reflections upon the expediency of the measure I had resolved upon, helped to support me through the difficulty of it.
I considered that I had no fortune independent, nor any profession to render myself so; and that all my prospects in life were founded on the will of a severe father, who having made his own establishment by a lucky marriage, might be the more apt to resent an indiscretion, with regard to this particular, than in any thing else. Especially, as he was wont frequently, in some of his elevated moods, to vaunt himself highly, upon his own success; and hint often before me, that a man of spirit and address might meet with many opportunities of pushing his fortune more easily and expeditiously by marriage, than by the slow means, and dull labour of any trade, art or profession whatsoever. I therefore opposed prudence to passion, and ballanced duty against romance.
CHAP. XVI.
WHEN I arrived in London, I told my father that I was weary of spending an idle dissipated kind of life, and begged he would purchase some commission for me in the army. He replied, that since he found I was inclined to that profession, he was in hopes, as fresh troops were then levying every day, of being able to obtain me one by the interest of his friends, without the expence of buying.
I appeared satisfied with this answer, at the time, not so much from any sanguine expectations I had conceived, either from the good-will, or exertion of any of his friends, but it afforded me an occasion, which I thought it became me to lay hold of, for taking leave in form, of the too dear miss Beville, whom I thought it extremely ungalant to withdraw myself from so abruptly and intirely, without any apparent reason, or necessity. Accordingly, I wrote her a letter, conceived in cool, but civil terms, acquainting her with my present destination; representing it in a more forward situation than it was likely soon to be, by saying, that I expected, every day, to be commanded over to Germany; and so concluded my letter with taking leave,
perhaps for life,
which was my expression.
About this time, a friend of mine, who had been my schoolfellow, came into the possession of a large fortune, by the death of his father, and had also a considerable interest in a certain county, which gave him a weight with some persons in the ministry. I soon after paid my compliments to him, upon his accessions, and was received with great politeness and friendship by him. He asked me some questions with regard to myself, and I let him into my present scheme of life, without or hope or design.
In a few days after, I received a letter from this gentleman, acquainting me that he had obtained a cornetry for me, from his friend the minister, wishing me success, and assuring me of every future service in his power. I was much elated, at first, and still continued to be so, but from a more generous motive. I considered that I had two younger brothers, who, having never received any manner of education, were but in an hazardous situation in life. Their helpless and unprovided state lay heavy on my mind, as well as my own, and apprehending that I might have better advantages than they, to push my fortune, I determined to cede the commission to the eldest of them, I waited on my patron accordingly, the next day, expressed my gratitude, and urged my sentiments upon this subject. He appeared much surprised, at first, but afterwards he applauded my motives, and had my brother immediately nominated in my stead.
About half a year after this event, my good friend called upon me one morning, and told me that he had been just appointed to a considerable patent-employ, in which he had the power of naming a deputy, with a salary of one hundred pounds a year, and had been so struck with the
generosity,
as he was pleased to term it, of my former motion, that he was resolved to ease my mind of the second incumbrance also; which was accordingly done.
CHAP. XVII.
MY friend, Mr. Beville, continued Mr. Andrews, had taken a farm in Hertfordshire, soon after I had quitted Windsor; and was so wholly occupied about it, that all intercourse of letters, as well as visits, had dropt between him and me, for about eight months. During which time I had not the least opportunity of hearing any manner of account about his dear, still dearer sister, which afforded me full exercise for my usual resorts in every difficulty, or uneasiness of the mind—books and philosophy.
After this interval, I happened, one morning, accidentally to meet a neighbour of Mr. Beville's, in London, whom I had often seen at his house in Windsor, and asking him, in a seeming careless way, about that Family, I was told that miss Beville's manners and behaviour had been remarkably alter'd of late, that from gay and chearful, she had grown grave and retired; that she never stirred abroad, except to church, where she attended indeed, rather more stictly than usual, and spent her time mostly in reading, shut up in her chamber; which account he concluded, in a laughing way, by telling me a reflection about her, that was made by the curate,
that either love, or learning, he was afraid, had turned poor miss's head.
These particulars rendered me extremely uneasy, I began to apprehend that what I had imagined in her to have been only the slight tokens of a commencing passion, might have been rather the certain proofs of a confirmed one. May not my charming Fanny, said I to myself, have been unwarily led into the same error in this particular, that I had fallen into myself? might she not have perceived my passion, before she had suspected her own; and thus have ennobled her affections, by the generous principles of gratitude and compassion?
I then began to blame the indiscretion of my own dalliance, lamenting the effects of it in her breast, as well as in mine. My philosophy had bravely withstood my own passion, but was overborne by hers. All considerations of father, fortune, or expediency, dwindled into mere words, upon this just sentiment, that though prudence should restrain our affections, it ought never to controul our honour. After these reflections, I repaired immediately to Windsor, in order to satisfy my scruples, upon this truly interesting occasion.
It was at this interval, continued he, while I was struggling both with my heart and fortune, that I had the happiness of becoming acquainted with you, my dear Carewe. I tried, approved, and admired you. There was something besides, in your whole air and manner, which resembled the person of my favourite condisciple, but with a nobler moral, and a more liberal soul. Mr. Carewe bowed, and blushed at this encomium, and was just going to return the compliment, when Mr. Beville happened to come into the room, and gave a new turn to the conversation.
CHAP. XVIII.
AS Mr. Andrews most certainly will not divert his narrative, in this place, by repeating to Mr. Carewe, particulars which he had been acquainted with before, and that the reader may possibly, by this time, begin to feel himself somewhat interested in any material circumstance relating to these gentlemen, and that this little anecdote will also furnish out a very pretty episode in the context of their lives; I shall undertake to relate this extraordinary story myself; but this in so succinct a manner, that I will engage to have it quite finished, by the time that Mr. Andrews, who is just taking horse in London, shall have alighted at Windsor; which I hope will be a sufficient apology to you, Ladies, who always keep such a fidgetting, upon being interrupted in any part of a love adventure.
The Episode of
Andrews
and
Carewe.
ONE evening, as Mr. Andrews was returning home to his father's house, in London, he observed, at some distance, as he was passing through Ludgate-hill, a gentleman defending himself with his sword, against four mean, ill-looking fellows, who drove furiously at him with staves and cudgels. Mr. Andrews's spirit and humanity made him instantly take part on the weaker side, and running up quick to his assistance, drew his sword, and entered immediately into the lists. He sustained several strokes, and returned some passes at the assailants, till they fled, upon seeing an indignant crowd come rushing down the hill, to the support of the gentlemen. They put up their swords, and Mr. Andrews led off the stranger as fast as they could walk together, directly to his father's house.
As soon as they had got into the parlour, Mr. Carewe embraced his gallant
second,
and thanked him for the generous aid he had afforded him; adding, that he had even more than life to thank him for, as his
liberty,
which he prized dearer, had been then at stake, in the hands of those ruffian bailiffs, who were attempting to arrest him upon a debt of five hundred pounds; which alone, indeed, continued he, would not have long confined me; but the consequences of it, in bringing some other demands, more pressingly upon me at the same time, might perhaps have rendered me
tenant for life
to the
Marshalsia.
But, added he, as soon as it is dark, I shall quit this asylum and London together, this night, and retire into the country, till some better oeconomy, or other lucky incident of fortune, may hereafter place my present involved affairs in a proper state of defence.
Mr. Andrews called for a bottle of wine, which they drank chearfully together, without any interruption. Mr. Carewe then desired a chair to be sent for, which was directed round to a back door, leading into an unfrequented lane, and he retired, after acquainting Mr. Andrews with his name, and assuring him that the first instant he should be at liberty of returning to London, with safety, his brave
volunteer,
as he stiled him, should be the first person he would pay his bounden duty to.
CHAP. XIX.
MR. Andrews was a good deal pleased with this adventure, at first, both on account of the service he had rendered, even to a stranger in distress; and that there was something in this gentleman's person, manners, and appearance, which had attracted his simpathy, at first fight, and prepossessed him with a desire of being further acquainted with him.
He was a young man, of about twenty-three years of age, tall, genteel, and well proportioned; his features were remarkably handsome, and he had a sensible countenance, quickened with spirit and vivacity. He was richly dressed, and had, altogether, the air, address, and mien of a person of quality, and fashion.
In his conversation he shewed a lively wit, a readiness of conception, and a quickness of reply; in his expression, there appeared the ease, stile, and correctness of a liberal education; and on the few topics which the short interval of their
tête á tête
had afforded them the occasion of introducing, his judgment and sentiments denoted a competent knowledge of men, manners, and things.
But, after he had leisure for
his own reflections,
his nice moral began soon to render him uneasy, at having wrested a person out of the hands of the law, and defrauding, perhaps, a fair creditor, of a just demand. He deliberated upon this scruple for some time, and then determined it within himself, that this debt had, in justice, now become his own, as truly as if he had originally contracted it; and upon this punctilio resolved, without the least regard to consequences, to tender himself as collateral security, to the creditor, as soon as he should be able to inform himself of the person.
Accordingly next morning he repaired to one of the sheriffs of the city, with whom he happened to be intimately acquainted, and inquired from him who the plaintiff was, in the writ lately issued against Mr. Carewe. The sheriff carried him to the office, and, upon examining the books, found him to be an eminent banker in the city.
Upon this information Mr. Andrews immediately waited upon the banker, at his house, told him who he was, acquainted him with the adventure of the evening before, declared his scruples upon it, and, at the same time, offered to pass a counter-security to him, to make that debt his own, if Mr. Carewe should not discharge it within a year. Old
Cent. per cent.
stared at him, for some time, with astonishment; the thing perhaps might have been a
new case,
and might possibly not have fallen within the ordinary course of his dealings. But throwing off the surprise, as quick as he could, he replied, Why, really, Sir, you act but the fair and honest part, it is just what I should have done myself, or indeed what any body else would do, in like circumstances. No, no, Sir, there is no trifling with money matters; a very serious thing are your money matters, Mr. Andrews. Therefore, Sir, pray, good Sir, walk into my office till I write a note to my attorney, who must certainly be well acquainted with precedents of this sort, and he will forthwith attend and draw up the proper article between us, Sir.
CHAP. XX.
THE attorney appeared soon after, and, taking his place at a table opposite to Mr. Andrews, addressed him thus:
Your Christian-name, pray good Sir?
Henry— but pray don't you require my Sir-name also?
O! that I suppose is Carewe—Are you not a brother of Mr. Carewe's, Sir?
No, Sir, I am not, nor any manner of relation to him at all, that I know of.
The money though, I presume, must have been for your use?
Not one penny of it, I assure you, Sir, nor did I ever see Mr. Carewe before, or know any thing, in the least, about this matter, till after the incident which happened yesterday evening on Ludgate-hill.
Here the attorney laid down his pen, and was beginning to elevate his eyebrows, when the banker, growing alarmed at this conversation, winked at him, and begged he would proceed with the instrument, without any further loss of time, which, after asking Mr. Andrews his Sirname, he drew up immediately, and it was perfected accordingly.
After the tremendous sound of
sign, seal, and deliver,
was pronounced, Mr. Andrews rose up, made his bow, and retired, the banker and attorney attending him to the door; where, on a
hem
from the latter, he was laid hold of by four ruffians in arms, arresting him for the
riot,
as they termed it, on the night before, in which they said that one of the bailiffs,
as worthy a citizen as ever broke the world's bread,
had been wounded by his
complish,
one Carewe,
a mere stape-grace of a fellow,
and that his life was despaired of.
Mr. Andrews, according to that philosophic complexion which added a lustre and a dignity to all his actions, submitted himself without the least resistance, or even a murmur, to the arrest, only just turning his eyes, for a moment, on the attorney, to see whether he still retained an human form, and directing a chair to be called, in order to be conducted unseen to prison. In the interim,
the man of money
expostulated thus, with
the man of law,
that such a proceeding might possibly be very injurious to him; for, if the gentleman should happen to be hanged, said he, which very probably may be the case, must I not certainly lose part of my security, for the five hundred pounds? and this, if you'll but weigh it well, Sir, you must allow to be a very unlucky circumstance for me.
I cannot help that matter, replied the attorney, for these honest gentlemen the bailiffs, are my clients, as well as you are, Sir; nay, the king himself, who is higher than ye all put together, is my client also, in this suit, as plaintiff against the prisoner, and
currat lex
is the rule of my life, Sir, as you may see it is the motto of my coach too, said he, pointing to an equipage which stood at the door; and stepping into it at the same time, drove away, after having concluded his moral with this expression, That, according to his way of thinking, a man who was fool enough to go bound for another's debt, deserved to be hanged for another's crime. The chair arrived, Mr. Andrews went into it, attended by the bailiffs, and the banker returned into his house again.
CHAP. XXI.
AS soon as Mr. Andrews had been lodged in confinement, he sent a message to his friend the Sheriff, to
come unto him,
which he immediately obeyed. He acquainted him with the unhappy consequences of his romantic honour, and inquired in what condition of danger the wounded bailiff was, at that time. He replied, that the Surgeon had just then made a report at his office, on that morning's dressing, that the wound, though dangerous, was not mortal; and therefore, added he, you may yet be admitted to bail, which I would advise you to procure immediately, before this hazardous affair may take a more unlucky turn, or afford the surgeon cause to pronounce less favourably, about his patient.
Mr. Andrews then dispatched a messenger to the banker, to inquire who Mr. Carewe was, where he had lodged in London, and what town or county of England, an express might have the best chance of finding him in? To which he was answered, that all he knew of that gentleman, was his having become bound for the five hundred pounds then in suit, along with a certain merchant, who had since become bankrupt; and absconded; and that he was a lodger at the widow Benson's, a milliner, in Dukestreet, Grosvenor's Square, at the time of his arrest.
Mr. Andrews, upon this information, sent off an intelligent person to this lodging, to make a particular inquiry about him, but received as little satisfaction from that quarter, also. The landlady said, that Squire Carewe had lodged
under her roof,
for about the last six months,
past,
and had discharged her the
very
night before,
on the sudden,
without the least manner of
previous
warning,
before hand,
except only the sending a person to her with the rent, who whispered Mr. Carewe's servant where to follow his master, with his trunks; which makes me
timorous,
said she, that all is not right with the poor gentleman. Adding, that she knew not where his fortune lay, of what family he was, or what connections he had, either in city or country, having never seen any person come
anear
him, from whom she could have picked up any sort of intelligence, of this kind.
She concluded her account of him, with saying, that to be sure and certain he was a dear gay soul of a lad, but a little
rake-hellish,
or so, she believed, like the
best of them;
for that he sometimes kept late hours, and would at other times stay abroad whole nights together,
successively,
one after another. But that, without all manner of
gainsay,
or
peradventure,
she never beheld
with her eyes,
a more
good-humourder affability
gentleman; for that he would frequently joke and romp with her daughter Cicely, just
for all the world like one of ourselves;
and sometimes in good truth, that a body
would
scarce
hear their own ears,
for their noise.
But indeed, added she, the good
naturesome
cretur left off his
gamiorum
a little, for the last three or four weeks
before he went away,
being
timbersome
of hurting the poor girl, who has been for some time apprehended to be falling into a dropsy, and the
poticary
tells me lately, continued she, in a whining tone, that he is much afraid my dear child has got an
impostor,
in her belly. But to be sure it was the Lord's will that it should come there, and who can help sickness, I say?
After this scrap of religion and philosophy, she recovered her voice again, and putting a bundle of papers into the person's hands, said, Here Sir, I give you some
malescripts
that I found scattered about Mr. Carewe's closet this morning, which I suppose are no
signifies,
by their being left behind. But perhaps you, Sir, continued she, may be able to find out some hints or
antidotes
among them, which may serve to direct your search after Mr. Carewe; and, dear Sir, added she, if ever you should happen to get the least tidings of my worthy guest, I prithee acquaint me with it; for poor Cicely there within, is breaking her heart after him, just like a child that had lost its play-thing, because of his
good-humouredness
and
comicality.
And in truth, Sir, concluded she, even myself thinks the house itself begins to appear but
pure
and
lonesome
after him, all this morning.
CHAP. XXII.
WHEN Mr. Andrews had got these papers into his hands, he looked eagerly through them, to see if he could receive any manner of information about his dear bought friend, but was disappointed. They were only a collection of reflexions and observations, upon
life, pleasure,
and
virtue,
as they were intitled on the back, thrown together after the manner of Paschal's thoughts, without order or digestion.
However, the admirable turn of moral which appeared throughout these notes, afforded poor Mr. Andrews some hope in Mr. Carewe's honour, that he would redeem him, as far as the laws might admit, from the twofold difficulties he had been involved in upon his account. But then, how to come at him, or acquaint him of them?
But it at last occurred, that though he did not know where to convey a private notice to him, a public hint might reach him, in any part of the kingdom. Upon which thought he immediately directed a paragraph to be inserted in all the news-papers, setting forth,
that a person, who had accidentally rescued a gentleman from an assault on Ludgate-hill, on such an evening, had been, the next day, involved in a severe misfortune, upon that account; and that if his unknown friend should be inclined to afford any assistance, toward relieving him out of his present difficulties, he might send a line to Mr. H. A. at the
Woodstreet Compter.
He then sat himself down to recollect all those persons in London, who had ever received obligations from himself, or his family, or who had ever declared particular friendships for him, through life; and, after he had formed a list of about three or four and twenty names within such connections, he dispatched a letter to the first upon his paper, setting forth his situation; not in the least doubting his ready assistance, as he was a young gentleman of considerable fortune, to whom Mr. Andrews's father had been guardian, and acquitted himself of the trust, to the perfect satisfaction of all his friends, with regard both to his health, education, and estate; and with whom he had himself lived in a fond and free manner, even from their earliest years to that time.
The answer he received to this letter, was, that as a person of his fortune in life, must necessarily have
a large number of friends,
he thought it would be an imprudent step in him to afford a precedent for so many others to call upon his
good-nature,
in like circumstances; he therefore begged to be excused. He acknowledged indeed some few obligations to his father, but concluded, at the same time, with saying, Prithee what, after all, has he done for me, more than the law would have exacted from him?
If the sins of the father's be visited upon the children, why not their merits also? But it seems that, do all we can, we shall be deemed still but
unprofitable
servants, here, as well as hereafter. This, too truly, is no uncommon reasoning, among men; and
nothing for nothing,
is this world's motto.
CHAP. XXIII.
THIS disappointment shocked poor Mr. Andrews, but did not discourage him. He sat down again, and wrote a letter directly, to the second upon his list; who was a gentleman every way qualified to serve him, at this crisis, both from affluence, credit, and interest in the city. He had these reasons to expect it too, that they had been schoolfellows together, that an intimate friendship had ever since subsisted between them, and that he had lately, at the hazard of his life, rendered him a most signal piece of service. The story was this:
They had supped together, at a tavern, one night, with several other persons, when an absurd, ill-tempered fellow in company, took it into his head to
fasten
(I think that is the phrase) upon this gentleman, without any manner of provocation, but solely to indulge his own spleen; and, finding him to be too slow of resentment, proceeded to
bear him down,
in the most bullying manner.
Mr. Andrews felt compassion for his friend, and taking advantage of his looking toward him, though with a most timorous countenance, rose up, saying,
Yes, Sir, I understand you, but I can by no means suffer this matter to become personal. That gentleman's behaviour is an equal insult to the whole company, and, as all tavern reckonings are paid
by club,
I expect that every man here will join me in obliging this disturber of the peace to ask pardon of the whole room, or in treating him as a person whose manners have placed him below the character of a gentleman.
Reader, don't you think that this would be the proper method of dealing with your
bucks,
or
bears;
to make a general rising against them, at once? For, surely, it is an hard case that one man must venture his life, merely because another does not value his.
The whole company, one and all, some through spirit, and others through shame, rose up in arms, at the word, poor
sneaker
now as forward as the best; and insisted on his making a general submission, or leaping out of the window. The easier conditions were accepted of, and all was peace and harmony for the rest of the night.
It is now full time to acquaint you with the answer which Mr. Andrews received to his second embassy, which in few words was this:
That he would be extremely glad to oblige his dear friend, in any other way he could require, but that he had made it an invariable rule to himself, upon his first entrance into life, never to become a bondsman for any person whatsoever.
—Concluding his letter with this passage out of Proverbs,
He that hateth surety, shall be sure.
Cowardice betrays a narrowness of soul; and a man can no more be generous, than brave, under such mean circumstances of heart and mind.
CHAP. XXIV.
I Have now, said Mr. Andrews to himself, had repeated ill luck, by proceeding in a regular course, and taking
my friends
one after another, as I had noted them down in the roll. Perhaps I may meet with some success, by selecting them here and there, according to the rank they hold in my opinion of their virtue, or the degree which I think myself intitled to, in their regards.
Upon this reflection he moved his eye slowly and considerately, over the list, and at last fixed upon a person whose character, life and fortune, had at once been attacked, by popular slander, suits at law, and criminal prosecution. Mr. Andrews, unknowing him, and without any other connection, except the ties of humanity and benevolence, but persuaded of the malice and injustice, at that time raging against him, had generously became a volunteer in his cause; retrieved his character by public writings, and defended his life and fortunes, from the virulence and oppression of his enemies.
He dispatched a billet to this
obligée,
and waited, in perfect acquiescence of his justice, honour, and gratitude, till the messenger—say rather the friend himself, returns. It would be impossible to convey an adequate idea of this correspondent's response, to the reader, without giving him a literal transcript of the letter, which was
verbatim,
as follows:
My dear Andrews,
HOW cruel is it in you to put my
assured friendship
for you, to so severe a shock! How irksome to the
generous mind,
to be asked what it must deny. A
burnt child,
they say,
dreads the fire;
and my own danger is still too recent in my mind, to suffer me to run the hazard of incurring so soon again, the public censure, and the resentment of the
courts,
by thus openly abetting a person who has had the
misfortune
(for my
friendship
will not suffer me to call it by an harsher title) of violating the laws of his country, in two such flagrant instances, as a rescue and a murder.
This would be to involve myself in your
imputed guilt;
and, by looking too like a mutual compact to support each other in iniquity, be apt to endanger anew, that injured character, which you have already so generously, and successfully defended.
I wish you, however, both safety and happiness, and am, as in duty bound, my dearest Andrews, your
truly sincere friend, and most obliged humble servant.
Gracious heaven! that a person should attempt to forge arguments for his ingratitude, out of those very incidents of his life, from whence arose a claim to the highest demonstrations of friendship! Should it not rather have excited a transport,
almost bordering upon vice,
of rejoicing at so lucky an occasion of acquitting oneself of such pressing obligations! Ingratitude is a detestable thing; for, besides the vice, there is a meanness in it also, which disgusts.
There is certainly a most
hellish
turn of wit, in the above letter, and I could wish, with all my heart, that the story was not quite so abominable, lest the indignant reader may suspect its veracity. But, upon the faith of history, I affirm it to be fact, in every the minutest circumstance; and, whenever I shall be at liberty to publish a
key
to this work, and declare the real personages throughout the whole, I do hereby promise that the original letter shall be lodged in Mr. Folio's hands, with the names subscribed at length, in order to be perused by the curious, along with several other choice manuscripts, which I hope soon to have the permission of communicating to the public.
CHAP. XXV.
WELL! what's to be done now? Mr. Andrews was a good deal cast down, upon this third, and least expected disappointment; and now, despairing of success, resolved to make no farther essays, of this hopeless kind. I have already, said he, made experiments upon three of the strongest
anchors
I had, and they have failed me. To pursue the trial longer, would be to betray less reason than a dog, which, foiled in one or two attempts to get at food, will ne'er again assail the latticed grate
Philosophers urge this article, among the instances of that animal's rationality; whereas, say they, were he guided by appetite or instinct, merely, he would still continue the attempt, till his strength failed him.
.
However, as he had always a way, in any matter of consequence, of trying every method, probable or improbable, possible or impossible, to compass an end, (not, indeed, acting from his own judgment, but in order to satisfy the
officious
queries of
unassisting
friends,
Why did you not do so and so? or this, or that, or t'other?)
he sent a person round to the remainder of his list, inviting them all together, to come and spend the evening with him; but without giving the least hint of the request he had a design of making to them; imagining that, though one or two might think the obligation too great, a
score of friends
might possibly join to divide the load among them.
His messenger had the good fortune of meeting every one of the guests, at home, and having acquainted them that their friend Mr. Andrews had desired their company respectively, to consult together upon a certain difficult matter, which he would communicate to them at meeting, they each of them most readily accepted of the invitation. What, honest Andrews, cried one, no business on earth shall detain me from him. I would run an hundred miles, on foot, to serve him, says another. He deserves every act of friendship in the world, from me, cried a third. And so went on the rest.
But when the suspicious scene of appointment came to be named, their brisk countenances were overcast, on the sudden. They made some kind of inquiries, how it was, and how it happened; and then dismissed the messenger with their condolements and best wishes to their worthy friend Mr. Andrews, who might rest assured that nothing,
except some business or other, of consequence, might chance to intervene,
should prevent them the pleasure of waiting upon him, in the evening.
This answer began to revive his drooping spirits, and he said, in soliloquy, that one should always make use of every kind of means, in difficult cases; as it sometimes happens, that the most unlikely ones succeed, where the best concerted may sail. He walked about his chamber for an hour or two, in longing expectation of seeing
a groupe of friends
rushing together into the room; and his honest heart sprang with joy, at hearing the sound of a number of hasty steps come ecchoing up the stairs. He threw open wide the door, and his arms, at the same time, but received into them only a parcel of sweaty porters, with each a billet in his hand.
You have read the story of the
invited
guests, in scripture—if not, I beg you will immediately turn over to it. My wife says 'tis in Luke, the fourteenth chapter, and eighteenth verse, first paragraph. For this will save me the trouble of repeating a score of apologies to the unfortunate Mr. Andrews, from so many
modern friends.
CHAP. XXVI.
A Person thus forlorn of all foreign aids, generally betakes himself to philosophic resources; that is, with deference to the
porch,
to melancholic reflections. For, what are all the arguments of Seneca or Epictetus, (though in truth this last advises sometimes, to hang oneself,
The door is open,
says he) that fate is inevitable; that what will be, will be; that we must submit, where we cannot defend; that the best have suffered; and that life itself, is but an appointed state of trial—and so forth—What is all this, I say, but holding our misfortunes the more stedfastly under contemplation, and superadding a further weight from despair? Would a physician mean to raise your drooping spirits, by pronouncing you past hopes?
I heard once of a French surgeon, who most happily expressed the whole spirit of stoicism, in one word; for, upon probing a wound, and being asked by the patient, his opinion of his case, replied,
Courage, courage, Monsieur—for begar you die in one half hour.
This I take truly, to be but an epitome of
inevitable fate, what will be, will be; where we cannot defend, we must submit,
&c.
Courage, cries old
Forceps,
for begar you die in one half hour.
But Mr. Andrews had a much better manner of conducting himself, upon all such occasions: for whenever he felt, or even apprehended any kind of difficulty, he immediately sat himself down to ruminate on every means, which prudence or activity could supply, to obviate or remedy the evil: But from the moment that he had digested and applied his expedients, he directly applied himself also to reading, with such an attention of mind and study, that he could, for the time, exclude all thought or reflection, either upon the misfortune or the means, till the crisis or the cure, had awakened his recollection again.
And this method of
avocation,
I take to be a much better way, than to sit brooding over misfortunes, or the hardiness of attacking them,
to take arms against a siege of troubles,
with the weapons of philosophy. For what is generally imagined to be a
strength of mind,
is often little more than
a command of features,
which enables us to put a good face upon bad matters, and only suffers misfortune, like the most dangerous wound,
inwardly to bleed.
Zeno, founder of the stoic sect, hanged himself at ninety, for a
whitloe.
It certainly was not so trifling an ailment that overcame his temper; but his mind might be compared to a
ballance,
with philosophy in one scale, plumb, and misfortunes dropping into the other, one by one, till they came both to poise in
equilibrio;
and then a feather turned the
beam.
I have always thought stoicism both an absurd and a mistaken pride. Expressions and demonstrations of grief, are as natural, as those of joy; and arise often from nobler sentiments, and more generous motives. And yet, we manifest the one, without reserve, and conceal the other till our proud hearts break
Shakespear has given us a beautiful image of this unequal struggle between philosophy and misfortune, in his Twelfth Night.
—She never told her grief,
But let concealment, like a worm i'th' bud,
Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought,
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief.—
. To weep is womanish weakness, they cry, but there are tears which become the bravest man. Sighs are the effect of sorrow, as well as laughter is of mirth; and both equally designed by nature to discharge certain humours in the mind, springing from their respective sources, which, if not suffered to evacuate themselves, might ultimately affect the body. If you backen a tumour, you corrupt the blood.
There is another vulgar error too, which has often surprised me; that
gravity
should still impose upon the world, as a sign of wisdom. Is it because an
owl
was the arms of Athens, and the bird of Minerva? We seem to have accepted the emblem literally, which the mythologists tell us was designed rather as a caution against being imposed upon by outward appearances. Gravity generally proceeds from a defect of natural spirit in youth, or a decay of it in age. When real, it is the effect merely of constitution, or stupidity, and, if assumed, it is either to conceal weakness, or to cover pride.
That gravity is an imperfection may fairly be deduced from the natural causes of it, grief, misfortunes, sickness, or old age. But sense is the parent of chearfulness—Addison joins virtue; for to the wicked may justly be applied that sarcasm of Solomon's,
They are mad when they are merry;
In fine, good-humour is to morals, what the sun is to nature, whose light not only gilds the objects, but whose warmth improve their virtue also. And in imitation of
Carneades,
who stiled beauty
Royalty without force,
I shall define chearfulness to be
philosophy without reflection.
CHAP. XXVII.
MR. Andrews remained in this irksome situation, during almost four days, when, on the last of them, about seven o'clock in the evening, a person came limping into the room, and delivered him the following letter, dated London, two o'clock; the hand unknown.
MY gallant, generous, but unhappy friend, how shall I accost you! I met with a paragraph in one of the public prints, last night, about twelve o'clock, and above fourscore miles from hence. It shocked and alarmed me so extremely, that I instantly took horse, and have rode post hither, where I lie concealed at my attorney's house. He has informed me of both the particulars relating to your distress—I cannot go on—I leave him to say the rest—For none but a person
hackneyed in the ways of men,
can speak without emotion, upon such a subject as this. Adieu, Adieu.
Charles Carewe.
This letter, said Mr. Andrews to the person who had delivered it to him, refers me to you, Sir, for those particulars which relate to the business of it; and, as time presses hard upon us at present, I beg that you will execute your commission without any manner of preface, or delay. I shall obey you, Sir, replied the attorney, and will deliver myself in as few words, as the nature of the subject may admit.
Pray proceed.
You must know then, Sir, that my first acquaintance with Mr. Carewe, was—Dear Sir, cried Mr. Andrews, since I
must know
that
very interesting
particular, I promise you to attend to it any time you please, when we shall be more at leisure. It cannot possibly be necessary to relate, at present; therefore, pray good Sir, proceed.
And so I would, Sir, if you had not stopt my mouth. Then, as I was saying, my first acquaintance with Mr. Carewe
—Indeed, Sir, I require not the least account of your first acquaintance with that gentleman, all I want to know, at this time, is, what your last conference with him was? Why, really Sir, replied the attorney, I was coming to that point directly, if you had not twice interrupted me; and if a man of law is once shuffled out of the regular course of business, d'ye take me, Sir, he will not readily again be able to bring on matters properly to
an hearing;
d'ye mind? I ask your pardon, Sir, replied Mr. Andrews, I pray you go on, Sir, in your own way—
For, I was born to suffer!
[aside.
Well then, as I said before, Sir, continued old
Tautology,
my first acquaintance with Mr. Carewe, (who, by the by, is a very worthy client of mine, and indeed in other things, too, the man bears a good sort of character) was his lodging five thousand hard pounds in my hands, with directions to purchase for him into the
four per cent.
funds. To make short work of the matter, for I perceive that you don't love long speeches, Sir, I actually did lay out this same five thousand pounds sterling for him, in the said
four per cent.
funds, as I told you before, he had given me commission to do.
Well, Sir—Upon my presenting him with the debentures, what consideration he gave me for my honesty, diligence, trouble, and dispatch—for I did not keep him long in suspence, Sir—is not, by any manner of means, d'ye mark me, material at present, but I believe, Sir, that I may venture to let you so far into the secret, as to inform you that it was no trifle. No trifle, I assure you, Sir. For indeed Mr. Carewe, as I think I told you already, is a very worthy gentleman—A gentleman every inch of him, believe me, Sir—And he was certainly, much in the right of it too; for there is no surer thing in the world, than that if you would have your business well done, you must pay for it well.
Live and let live,
is the true maxim in trade, Sir. But that is neither here nor there, d'ye mind, to the present matter in hand; therefore, you'll give me leave to have done with that part of the story, I presume, Sir—
Most willingly, indeed, good Sir.
But to make a long story short, in order to have done with it, quite and clear, and not to detain you any longer from the business in agitation, Sir, there was one thing, and only that one thing, I ever knew him guilty of, which gave me but a slight opinion of him. I speak above board, Sir, for they call me
old Tell-truth,
among my friends, and those that are free with me—And that same thing, Sir, in a few words, was this:
Oh!
[aside.
CHAP. XXVIII.
MR. Carewe employed me once, continued he, to prosecute his servant man, or man servant, as it is termed in the law books, for robbing him of a good new spic and span suit of cloaths, some shirts, and other moveables, to a considerable value. For Mr. Carewe, Sir, was always a most tearing beau. I had the villain set and taken, as nimble as he was, and lodged him in this very house, as safe as you are yourself, Sir, at present.
But what would you have of it, Sir, when the rogue was brought upon his tryal, no Mr. Carewe appeared to swear to the goods
found upon him.
Not in the very least, Sir. No Mr. Carewe appeared, though
called upon his recognizance,
three several times, by the cryer, with a
laudible voice,
Sir. And when my younker did not
come and appear, to save his fine,
the judge immediately ordered his forfeited recognizance to be forthwith
estreated
into his majesty's exchequer, and the rogue was discharged, for want of prosecution.
I went off, Sir, hot foot, from the court, to Mr. Carewe's lodgings, to see whether he was alive or dead, and who should I find there, but my young dilly dally gentleman, in his night-cap and slippers, sitting by the fire, and reading some conjuring book or other, that I could make neither head or tail of. Upon which I up, and told him a piece of my mind, very roundly, asking him why the devil he had not come to court, and done justice against his hang-dog Tim? But all the satisfaction the dainty gentleman gave me, was, that a woman, with a parcel of children at her heels, had kept bawling and roaring in the hall, all the morning, and that as he had ever a mortal dislike to the crying of brats, he could not possibly think of stirring out of his room while they remained below. Pray did you ever hear now, so foolish a reason, in all your life, Mr. Andrews, for not going to do what the law directs?
I believe you might not have understood him, Sir
—Not I truly, Sir, nor could any body else, I think, who had either sense or reason. But so this foolish affair ended, after having cost us a good round fine of fifty pounds, sterling, in shining cash, Sir, besides my own bill of costs, which I warrant me totted to ten or twelve pieces more. A pretty business this truly, you'l say, Sir!
I say nothing, Sir, and could wish, for charity sake, that you had done saying, also!
I must have done now, Sir, for I have nothing further to add upon this subject, that I can now recollect, said he, pausing.—
Oh, Sir! for mercy sake, proceed immediately to the business you have been sent about, or I shall be obliged to dispatch a messenger directly, to Mr. Carewe, to get that part of his letter, which relates to your errand, explained by himself, Sir.
There need be no manner of occasion for all that hurry, Sir, replied the attorney, for I will deliver it every word to you myself, from first to last, without the least delay, or adding to, or diminishing from, Sir—But first, I must beg you will be so kind as to order me up a bottle of wine, Sir; for I don't know how it is, but I am a little dry and hoarse, at present. But I was hurry scurry, there, Sir, and hurry scurry, here, Sir, and then talking away so fast, to get plump to the matter in hand, that this may be the occasion of it, perhaps, Sir—
Very likely, Sir.
CHAP. XXIX.
THE wine and glasses were laid upon the table, and after the attorney had swallowed down half a dozen bumpers running, Well Sir, continued, or rather
commenced
he, the upshot of the matter is this. Mr. Carewe came to my house about two o'clock, or rather before, this day, muffled up in a chair; and without staying even to ask me how I did, inquired of me whether I had heard any thing, so and so, as how he had been arrested on Ludgate-hill, had been rescued by a gentleman, what was the consequence? and so forth.
I told him that the whole story was then current in the courts, for that the plaintiff's attorney, a very acute creditable man, had told every body he met with, as how one Mr. Andrews, who I presume was you, Sir, after having delivered him from the bailiffs, was fool enough, I ask pardon, Sir, to go to the creditor, and join himself in security for the money in suit; and how he nabbed him there, in the very fact, on account of one of the honest fellows that had been desperately wounded in the fray, and that he was then held to two thousand pounds bail; which was the restriction the court had laid him under, in resentment for their affronted laws.
Poor Mr. Carewe, said he, dropt tears, at the first part of this story, though I really saw no such crying matter in it; but he turned pale, and fell into a chair, by the time I had come to the latter part of it; overcome, I suppose, by the fatiguing journey he had told me he had rode all the last night and this morning. Mr. Andrews was much affected at this recital— Mr. Carewe's distress augmented his own; for his compassion extended itself even to the person through whom his own misfortune had fallen, upon him. However, he quick recollected himself, and intreated the attorney to proceed, who thus went on:
As soon as Mr. Carewe had a little recovered himself, he pulled the very identical five thousand pounds worth of four per cent. debentures out of his pocket, and putting half of them, to the amount of just two thousand five hundred pounds, into my hands, Run, fly, said he, in a perfect agony, to my generous and unhappy friend Mr. Andrews, summon the sheriff on the instant, deposit with him, instead of bail, two thousand pounds of these securities, to set that worthy gallant man at liberty— and oh! send him quick as lightning to my grateful arms—I have have intrusted you before, cried he, all in a breath, with my whole fortune—And there indeed, perhaps he was right—How much higher a confidence do I repose in you now!—But this last expression I could not,
for the very blood of me,
comprehend the meaning of, when I had actually but half of the debentures in my hands, at the same time.
But he really seemed to be a little
non com
himself, the man did, while he was speaking to me; for you verily never did see any creature in such a
hurry combustion,
in all your life. Just for all the world in such a
twitter,
as a girl going to be married, exactly. Run—fly—was the word at every hand's turn—Nay, he would not even suffer me to stay to eat a poor morsel of dinner, neither, which was just then coming upon the table; an, excellent fowl, bacon and greens, with a piping hot shoulder of mutton, Sir, all of the very best meat that the markets could afford; for my
crest
has always been, Sir,
Win gold and wear it,
i'faith. Nothing less, Sir, as I was saying, would serve my gentleman, but out I must go directly, or there would be no living in the house for him.
So after I had settled a few papers in my desk, Sir, and had put on my hat, gloves, and cloak, looking for my cane for some time, which my son Tommy had carried up to the nursery, for a
hobby horse
—Young things will play, Mr. Andrews—Mr. Carewe fidgetting and fidgetting about the parlour, all the while, I sallied out of the door,
without any manner of delay,
exactly as it struck three o'clock, Sir.
CHAP. XXX.
THREE o'clock! cried out Mr. Andrews, and looking at his watch—'Tis now just eight, and allowing an hour for your coming to this point,
without any manner of delay,
since you came in, what, in the name of prolixity and the law, could you have been doing, Sir, during the other four hours?
Why there now, again Sir, you may easily perceive from hence, the hurry and confusion that both Mr. Carewe and you had thrown me into; for it had made me near forgot one very material article of my errand, which this question of yours, now started, has made me recollect again. I told you before, Sir, that Mr. Carewe had given me debentures to the amount of two thousand five hundred pounds sterling—The first two thousand you know already, how that is to be applied; but now for the odd five hundred—Why this, Sir, Mr. Carewe desired me, as soon as I should have dispatched you off to him, to post away to the banker with, to release his bond, with your counter-obligation, and bring them to him directly; that he might have the
honest pleasure,
as he expressed himself, of delivering them up cancelled to you, himself, Sir.
Well Sir—when I had now gotten into the middle of the street, safe and sound out of his clutches, and found myself at liberty of thinking and acting according to my own judgment or experience of matters and things, I began to consider with myself, that my best way, undoubtedly, would be first to hye me to the banker's, before I came to you, Sir; arguing the point pro and con, in my own mind, thus: Should I defer this business till the evening, I may possibly miss of my chap, for he may be gone abroad; but as for Mr. Andrews, I shall be sure of finding the gentleman at home, at any hour; for he must necessarily stay till I call upon him. Ay, ay,
bonum securum
is the word there. At dinner is the surest time of meeting with a man of business at his own house, and I can also by this means,
kill two birds with one stone,
and pick up a meal for myself, at the same time, in spite of all Mr. Carewe's
hurry and fluster.
I judged the thing for the best, I thought, taking every circumstance together; and so, without any more
ifs or ands,
away I hied me to the bank, as fast as my legs, which are none of the best, could carry me. I found the gentleman at home, as I surmised, I told him my errand, he was overjoyed, invited me to sit down at table with him, and indeed, to do him justice, made as much of me, as man could do.
While we were at dinner, continued he, the banker sent one of his clerks to the attorney, acquainting him with the business, and desiring him to attend immediately, and see very thing performed according to law. He came on the summons, and after I had paid the money, and that we had taken our jolly bottles apiece, and a
peremptory,
I acquainted them with the other commission I was going to transact; and so came off hither, without stop or stay, only just calling upon a client of mine, for about half an hour, as it happened to lie directly in my way. Business must be done, you know, Sir. But for all my hurry, I did not neglect the main chance, you see, added he, throwing two papers on the table, for there are the
girth and circingle,
my boy—Five hundred pounds sterling, with interest and costs, (which latter, by the bye, Mr. Carewe owes me yet) was a plaguy dear purchase truly, for such dirty scraps of paper—But law is law, Sir.
Mr. Andrews lost all manner of patience, by this time, and ringing the bell, sent off directly for his friend the sheriff, intreating him to come immediately, and take the securities from the attorney, as he dare not venture to let this
tedious impertinent
go to the office to make the deposit himself, or suffer him one moment out of his sight, till he might be at liberty also, to issue forth along with him.
CHAP. XXXI.
THE sheriff returned with the messenger, on the instant, but brought this unwelcome piece of news, at the same time, that about half an hour before, a certificate had been lodged in the office, by the surgeon who attended the bailiff, that upon that evening's dressing, he had found the wound to have proved mortal; after which notice, added he, I am sorry to acquaint you that it is not in the power of our office, to accept of bail, without a special order of court.
Mr. Andrews then turning toward the attorney, said with a grave, but dejected air, I thank you, Sir, for this; and I hope that Mr. Carewe will reprove you too, with the same temper. I understand you, Sir, replied he, but having done every thing for the best, as I told you before, I am not to be chargeable with the consequences, d'ye mark. Business, let me tell you, Sir, (because you really seem to be a perfect stranger to it) business, I say, is not to be scuttled away, as fast as this man, or that man, or t'other man, take it into their
wise noddles;
as if they thought of nothing all the while, but their own convenience, forsooth. But I find that I have no more business here, at present, Sir, and as I hate loitering where I have nothing to do, I shall e'en
pack up my awls,
and return home to Mr. Carewe, again, with his two thousand pounds, safe and sound, out of all manner of
jeopardy
—I am sure my delay was lucky for him, at least. So saying, he took up his
hat, gloves, cloak, cane, girth, and circingle,
filled up a brimmer, drank the
clerk of the crown's prayer
to Mr. Andrews, and hobbled down stairs.
The sheriff, who was really a very good kind of man, staid for an hour behind him, to console his friend; and told him he had hopes, even if the bailiff should die, from former instances of the same kind, that upon its appearing to be a sudden thing, merely accidental, and without any manner of malice praepense, on your part, said he, together with the remarkable sobriety and excellence of your character, the crown may be induced to make a favourable distinction, upon the representation of the court, between the accessory and the principal.
I thank you, Sir, replied Mr. Andrews, for your kind wishes; but, free from guilt, I am devoid of fear. I would not yet die, because nature seems yet unwilling to release me—but, if providence shall think fit to supersede her laws, heaven's will be done, and I shall submit, without repining.
The spirit and virtue of these expressions, drew tears from the sheriff's eyes—and so they would have done from the hang-man. Farewel, most excellent young man, said he, embracing him, and retired.
CHAP. XXXII.
JUST after he went away, the following letter was delivered to Mr. Andrews:
My dearest friend,
THIS vile attorney has rendered me a most shocking account of his principal commission. But who can one trust, who depend upon! A common porter would have been a better, though not so proper an agent. I could have stabbed him, but your danger has made a coward of me. Fear not, however, notwithstanding the unpromising appearances of this night, I have a scheme in resolve, which may set you free to-morrow. My life, and fortunes, are dedicated to you. Farewel, Amen!
C. C.
This letter appeared quite enigmatical; but Mr. Andrews read, prayed, and went to bed, in expectation of the next day's event. No measure rested upon himself, and his anxiety was therefore less, than it would have been had any issue depended upon his own conduct.
The next morning he was informed, that, as soon as the King's Bench had met, a counsel, on the part of Mr. Carewe, had moved the court, setting forth the whole story of Mr. Andrews's accidental and unmerited misfortune, confessing that Mr. Carewe himself had wounded the bailiff, before Mr. Andrews had come up, and offering, on condition that Mr. Andrews should be admitted to bail, to surrender Mr. Carewe into custody, to take his tryal, should the bailiff die. The court was extremely struck at the generosity of the proposition, but saying that the laws admitted of no commutation in in such cases, dismissed the motion.
Mr. Andrews himself, notwithstanding the greatness of his own soul, was astonished at the magnanimity of Mr. Carewe's; and wept then, for the first time since his confinement; crying out, this is a man, indeed, worth living for! yet I may die, perhaps, without the happiness of any farther commerce with him! Say, say, ye learned in the philosophy of nature, is there on earth a transport higher than the embrace of such a friend! But I cannot fly to his arms, nor dare he venture into mine.
Just as he had finished this expression, Mr. Carewe, with a flow pace, and dejected air, entered the room, moving up toward Mr. Andrews, who upon seeing him, sprang back from his chair, crying out, Gracious heaven, Sir, what has brought you into this horrid place? My own extravagance and vice, and your virtue and misfortune, replied he, throwing himself at his feet, embracing his knees, and intreating his pity and forgiveness. Mr. Andrews, endeavouring to raise him, sunk into his arms.
CHAP. XXXIII.
I WAS obliged to close the last chapter somewhat abruptly, because I began to perceive my generous reader too much affected, myself not less so, to suffer me to continue the rest of the story, in
description.
Therefore, for the mutual ease of both our
nerves,
I shall conclude the remainder of it, in simple
narrative
only.
Upon Mr. Carewe's having heard that his motion had been rejected by the court, he walked about his room, for some time, like a distracted person—Then sitting down, for a while, composed in thought, started suddenly up again, and, on the instant, rushed out of the house, surrendered himself to the sheriff, and was immediately conducted to the
Compter.
The principle, upon which he took this extraordinary step, was this: He feared that if Mr. Andrews should be tried alone, he might, in all probability, suffer, as being the only delinquent taken for the fact. But that should the principal take his tryal along with him, he hoped that the punishment of the chief aggressor, might be deemed sufficient satisfaction for justice, and incline the court to extend its favour toward the innocent and accidental accomplice. Oh! should this gallant friend suffer for my crime, cried he out, what a legacy of life would he leave me! I can die with courage, but I cannot live with ignominy—Death is but an instant—Infamy is immortal! I ask pardon of my readers. But I am not
describing,
I am only
repeating.
These pair of extraordinary friends passed some minutes together, in mutual admiration of each other's worth, not knowing how to express their heart-felt sentiments of such unmodern virtue, when they were relieved from their difficulty, by the hasty entrance of the sheriff, who running up and embracing Mr. Andrews, cried out, in a transport of congratulation, Joy, joy, my dear friend, and to you, Sir, also, turning to Mr. Carewe, for two of the most eminent surgeons in London, whom I called in myself, to attend the bailiff's dressing, this morning, have pronounced him absolutely out of danger, and even in a condition to walk abroad.
While the two friends attended earnestly to this discourse, he thus went on: I confess, said he, that I was much surprised, last night, upon finding such a notice served upon my office, so shortly after my having been informed in the courts, just as I was going home to dinner, that the bailiff had been pronounced to be in a fair way of recovery. I began to suspect, from this circumstance, that there had been some foul play intended, from some quarter or other, in this affair, and therefore resolved within myself, for the sake of justice, humanity and friendship, to call in two of the ablest surgeons in the city, at my own expence, to attend the dressing of my patient, this morning. However, I did not mention any thing of this purpose to you last night, added he, turning to Mr. Andrews, thinking it not proper to amuse you, lest the success might not have answered my hopes and expectations.
CHAP. XXXIV.
THE former surgeon, continued he, who was by at this report, appeared to be extremely confounded, and sneaked immediately after out of the room. This strengthened my suspicion, and running hastily after him, down stairs, just as he had gained the threshold of the door, I seized him by the collar, pretending to have a warrant for him, in my pocket, upon an information of a collusion with some certain person, to impose his patient's danger on the court, for some sinister purpose or other.
His fright betrayed his guilt, and upon a promise of indemnity he immediately confessed to me, that the banker's attorney had called upon him in a great hurry, the evening before, and prevailed on him, with a fee of twenty guineas, to make a false return upon his patient's case; with a design, as I apprehend, said he, to skrew money out of the prisoner, in order to be admitted to bail.
I was transported with joy, said the sheriff, at this fortunate discovery; but resolving not to suffer it to rest here, I sent immediately for a coach, and carried him, with the two other surgeons, along with me, to court, ordering the wounded bailiff, by their permission, to follow us in a chair.
I got a counsel then to move the bench, on your behalf, and after a thorough examination into this iniquitous affair, and our producing the patient on the table, the court directed a prosecution against the attorney, at the suit of the crown, and granted me permission to come immediately and set you both at liberty, the bench having been just at that instant informed, that you, Sir, said he, and turning to Mr. Carewe, had surrendered yourself up into the sheriff's office, this morning, upon the dismissal of your extraordinary, and unprecedented motion.
They all mutually embraced each other, and Mr. Andrews and Mr. Carewe made the most grateful acknowledgments to the sheriff, for his generous and active services; intreating the enjoyment of his company, for the remainder of the day, in some safe and retired scene, beyond the city wards, upon Mr. Carewe's account; where, by the help of friendly converse, they might endeavour to forget the irksomeness of their late adventure.
The sheriff excused himself, on account of the business of his office, and Mr. Carewe, at parting, put a bill of fifty pounds into his hands, desiring him to discharge the compter fees, to reimburse himself his own expences of surgeons, counsel, &c. and to give the remainder to the bailiff. He answered that he would certainly execute the first and last of these commissions, but begged to be excused from performing the second, saying, that he was no attorney, and that providence had blessed him with a fortune which could afford
to treat him
to such acts as these. Mr. Andrews and Mr. Carewe then took a coach, and drove out to Islington together.
CHAP. XXXV.
NOthing can possibly demonstrate the veracity of these memoirs, more than my two last chapters; for the sudden transition, from the danger of the two friends, to their safety, is certainly against all rules of novel, whatsoever. But so it happened, and so I was bound to relate it. It is a common
thesis
of school declamation, whether or no it would have been a prudent measure in the Carthaginians, immediately after the battle of Cannae, to have marched up directly, to the gates of Rome? But then surely, that class which should assert the affirmative, must point their
court martial
censure against Hannibal alone, who was at liberty to have done as he pleased, and not at Livy, who was restrained by an historic fact.
Livy and I, 'tis hoped the courteous reader will please to observe, are perfectly alike, in three very remarkable particulars—In being equally slaves to truth, in the beauties of our writings, and where the same courteous reader, I am sure, would least of all have suspected any manner of resemblance, even in the very
defects
of them. Asinius Pollio
Some historians say it was Augustus Caesar.
arraigns him of a
Patavinité,
as he phrased it, in his stile, a sort of impureness of language, contracted at
Patavium,
the place of his nativity; and as I confess myself to have been born in
Ireland
—For what Irishman is ashamed? I hope that the
Critical Reviewers,
or
self-named Athenians
A set of self-sufficient persons once erected themselves into a tribunal, which they stiled the
Athenian Oracles
proposing to answer every question, or solve any difficulty, in wit, morals, or physics—several ridiculous queries were proposed to them, and one of them begins thus:
Self-named
Athenians pray let it be shewn,
For sure 'tis obvious to such mighty wits,
Why, &c.
, will candidly impute the
Hibernicities
in
this here
work, to my having been
indigenated
in
that there
place.
Had I been at liberty to have suffered events to wait upon the leisure of invention, how pleasant would it be to have locked up the reader in the goal with them, for a week or ten days longer? The turnkey bringing them accounts, from time to time, of the still increasing danger of the bailiff? At length, he is given over, and then he dies, and then they are both instantly loaded with irons.
After which, I might have related,
how,
as they were transmitting from the
compter,
to
Newgate,
they were interrupted by a funeral procession, which, upon enquiry, they found to be the aforesaid bailiff, going to be buried— And
how,
upon its taking wind, no matter
how,
among the populace, that these pair of unfortunate friends were the culprits for the fact, they were first insulted, and then pelted so furiously with stones, or brick-bats, no matter which, that if it was not for the guard, most
luckily
coming up in the nick, firing among the mob, and killing seven or eight poor innocent men, women, and children, who had taken no manner of part in the fray, but only stood gaping on—I say, that was it not for this same unexpected and
timely relief,
which
favoured their escape,
they would never have
lived to be hanged,
you may depend upon it.
Well, but after their
rescue,
I might have lodged them,
safe and sound,
in the dungeon, for a week, on ten days longer, till their tryals are brought on; during which interval, I could have highly
entertained
the reader, (who has voluntarily confined himself to the same
condemned hold,
along with them) with the histories of the several criminals, neck-yoked in the same place; which they might have
amused
themselves with, to
while away the time,
till their
executions.
As
how
one man finding another in bed with his wife, did,
contrary to his majesty's peace, his crown and dignity, and contrary to the statute, in that case made and provided,
blow out the cuckolder's brains, with a
charged
pistol, which he happened
luckily
to have in his hand,
at the very time.
That the adulteress had prosecuted, and convicted him for the fact; notwithstanding it had been
specially
argued, by his counsel, that jointure-wives should never be admitted as evidence against their husbands, because they are to be
gainers by the success of the suit.
How
another hang-dog, having
cogged a die
upon a
young
heir,
just come of age,
and stript him of a large sum of money, upon being charged by the loser, with the fraud, and being a person of
nice honour,
but
not having the fear of God before his eyes,
whipt him through the guts,
upon the very spot.
With several other such extraordinary occurrences in life, as swell and embellish the most of our modern novels.
And after I had held the reader in pain, for his two friends,
quantum sufficit,
had brought them into the dock, and arraigned them at the bar, I might have introduced the
officious
sheriff, aforesaid, leading in the supposed dead bailiff, by the hand, and making a discovery of the whole sham, contrived by, &c. There is a
twist
for you now, which would be the
more delightful,
because it was
quite unnatural
to expect it.
I say, that if I had not tied myself, too scrupulously, down to the very facts themselves, as they really did occur, (which forces me on a digression, now and then, to give a scope to fancy) I could have made this work infinitely more ingaging, both to my
fair
readers, and to my
foul
ones too; for I could have exchanged
sentiment
for
incident,
and have forced moral to give place to —
But, have a little patience, good people, for I hope soon to rid my hands of the confined work I am now upon; and then I promise you to give myself a loose to all the
extravaganza
of invention; and to present the public with a
novel,
though nothing
new,
which shall at once
distress
and
delight
all hearts—I have here already, in this very chapter, afforded them a sketch, both of the stile, and manner I mean to conduct it in; which I have picked up out of several successful modern performances.
For it shall be a most dismal series of adventures, without language, reflection, or sentiment, but rendered perfectly easy and familiar, by the
il modo basso
An Italian phrase, for low-life expressions.
; for one must humour the public, like a child, by telling them
a story,
of what kind no matter, so you
keep going;
for the motto of them all may be, that
one is good, till another is told.
But methinks, our novelists treat the
old babes
worse than one does the
young ones,
for they give them
the fable
only, but neglect
the moral.
And really, after all, what use would the embellishments of thought or expression be of, to a work of this kind, except to take up too much of one's attention, from the narrative, or action? which would be just as absurd, as if you were conducting a gentleman or a lady,
for example sake,
to see an
execution,
and should suffer them to loiter at a bookseller's, or a picture-shop, by the way.
The principle, upon which our fabulous biographers proceed, is certainly a very just one. That this world is so brimful of happiness, that it quite surfeits us; and it is therefore become absolutely necessary, to invent tales of difficulty, and distress, to relieve our satiated minds, with a little variety
A fellow in London, who hawked the daily papers about the streets, upon finding them to lie on his hands, toward the latter end of the day, while he cried only
Great News,
suddenly bethought himself to change his tune, and roaring out
Bad News,
sold more in an hour, than he had been able to do the whole day before.
. And therefore, since readers have taken up such an
unnatural passion
for crying, I think proper to acquaint them that I have framed the plan of a novel, which, if it does not blind their eyes with tears, first, shall break their hearts with grief, at last. The story, in short, shall be this:
I will join Clarissa Harlowe, and Sidney Bidulph, both in the same piece; and, after I have ravished Clary, and married Biddy, I will pack them off on a voyage together, no matter why, or where, but in order to have them taken by pirates, and sold into slavery; where, after they have been re-ravished, and re-married,
to the end of the chapter,
they shall attempt making their escape from
Algiers,
and be taken in the fact; tried, condemned, but not executed all at once—not so fast, good Sirs—This would be putting the reader
out of pain,
too suddenly, either for
his pleasure,
or my profit, by cutting me short of just forty
entertaining
chapters, exactly.
For, in the first, I will only lop off a finger, and in the next, a toe; and so proceed, alternately,
as often as they have fingers and toes.
Oh! oh! oh! till
finis
shall bring us an account of their
tedious
deaths and burials. These Algerines, you know, are a merciless sort of people, and it is no matter, in the least, how many lies a good Christian may tell, of Turks, Jews, or Infidels.
But after all,
what signifies lying?
might it not do as well to print off any old story,
of a cock and a bull,
in onion juice; which, I warrant you, will oblige the strongest
Cabletonians
Cabletonians—Persons whose nerves are as tough as cable ropes; and who have no
feelings,
but what are simply natural to animal nature; who are sensible of
pain,
but not
grief,
of
pleasure,
but not
joy.
, in Europe, Asia, Africa, or America, to
"Drop tears as fast, as the Arabian tree
"Its medicinal gum"—
for certainly, that kind of sorrow, which arises neither from the truth of the fact, nor the art of the representation, must be imputed rather to
a weakness,
than
a tenderness
of heart; and may properly enough be distinguished from
compassion,
by the denomination of
eye grief.
N. B.
This work shall consist of nine volumes, in octavo. Subscriptions to be taken in by the printer hereof, at five guineas, in hand, and a guinea, on delivery of the first eight books. The ninth to be delivered
gratis.
The first volume to be put into the press, as soon as one thousand setts shall be subscribed for.
CHAP. XXXVI.
MR. Andrews and Mr. Carewe dined, supped, and lay, at
Islington,
that night, Mr. Carewe not thinking it prudent to return to London, for the reasons he had already given to Mr. Andrews, for quitting it immediately after his rescue. They were sensible of a mutual satisfaction in each other's converse, and several polite expressions were exchanged between them, during the course of that evening.
But when Mr. Carewe began to compliment his friend, upon the generosity of his late behaviour, Mr. Andrews interrupted him, by saying, that it would rather humble him, in his own opinion, to be praised for what, in honour of human nature, he hoped were but common merits. My first act, said he, was but the usual impulse of manhood; and the second, but the result of common honesty, only—Your conduct, indeed, upon this occasion, has been truly noble.—
Hold, interrupted Mr. Carewe, since you will not indulge me, Sir, in the real pleasure of dwelling on your praise, spare me, at least, the aukward uneasiness of listening to my own. Let us, rather, added he, since we are, I hope, from this day, cemented friends for life, contrive, after some sort, to commence our acquaintance earlier, by mutually relating to each other, the private history of those aera's, which have preceded our first meeting; so as, in a manner, to retrieve past time, and thus take hands, as it were, together, from first to last, through life.
With all my heart, replied Mr. Andrews; but as the evening is now too far spent, that you have declared your purpose of retiring farther into the country, to-morrow, and that I must necessarily return to prosecute my fortunes, at London, let us defer entering upon this proposition, till we may hereafter, be more at leisure together; and, for the present, we'll pass the short remnant of our contracted span, in a more general converse.
The next morning, they parted; and their different avocations keeping them still at a considerable distance from each other, the first place they ever happened to meet in, after their separation at Islington, was the
farm,
as before recited, in the first chapter. And now, ladies, I have fairly kept my word with you, for Mr. Andrews has but just alighted at Windsor, and I shall leave him to continue his narrative to you, which I took the liberty of interrupting, at the end of the seventeenth chapter.
CHAP. XXXVII.
The continuation of the story of Mr.
Andrews
and Mr.
Carewe.
I Dined, said Mr. Andrews, at the inn, and, after I had changed my dress, I went immediately to pay my compliments to miss Beville. I met Mrs. Beville in the hall, ordering some wine into the parlour, where I heard a great noise of rustic mirth, going forward. I saluted her, and enquired, with earnestness, how her daughter was? She sighed, and replied, that she had been, for a considerable time, ill of something like a slow fever on her spirits, had loathed food, and declined company; that a physician had been called in, several times, but that it had been with great difficulty she could be at all persuaded to use any of his prescriptions; and that the few which she had been prevailed on to take, had yet produced no visible effect upon her health.
She added, that, for a week past, she had confined herself intirely to her chamber; and that, though this was her birth-day, upon which occasion her father had invited some friends to dinner, in order to tempt her down stairs, to do the honours of the table, she had declined it, by saying, after her present low-spirited manner,
that it would be insincere in her to affect rejoicing at her birth.
Mrs. Beville then pressed me to go into the parlour, but I refused it, telling her that I always avoided every occasion of drinking; and that since miss Beville had refused rejoicing, upon the present one, it would certainly be extremely ungalant in me, to make merry on it.
After this, she kindly asked me where I had been
this age,
as she was so obliging to term it; which inquiry I happily took advantage of, by replying that I had been studying physic, ever since; adding, with an affected spirit, that as quacks sometimes succeed, where the
faculty
have failed, perhaps I might be in possession of some
nostrum,
or other, which might possibly restore the fair invalid to her health and spirits again. She replied, that she really believed poor Fanny would be glad to see me, for that she had always seemed pleased with my company, and had also distinguished me with particular regards, as her dear brother's friend. I bowed, and she led the way up stairs, to her daughter's apartment.
When I entered the room, I saw her sitting at a table, with a pen and ink, and a paper just written, lying before her. She appeared pale and languid, and had a certain air of melancholy diffused over all her features. She did not perceive me at first, as her mother walked in before me, I advanced to salute her, and she seemed struck with surprise; she rose to receive me, trembled when I took her hand, faltered in attempting to speak, and instantly fainted in my arms.
I carried her to the couch, loosed her stays, and bared her lovely bosom, while Mrs. Beville sprinkled water on her face and neck; she at length opened her eyes, with a great sigh, but quickly perceiving the situation and disorder she was in before me, she fell into the utmost confusion; which her mother endeavoured to qualify, by saying never mind it, my dear child, for this gentleman has become a physician, since you saw him last, and a
deshabille,
you know, is nothing between doctor and patient.
I turned immediately aside, toward the table, to leave her at liberty to compose her handkerchief, which while her mother and she were adjusting, I was tempted to run my eye hastily over the manuscript, that lay open before me, in which I read the following lines:
CHAP. XXXVIII.
On my
BIRTH-DAY.
THO' sorrow fills my swelling heart,
And care sits heavy on my brow,
Yet shall I with my utmost art,
Hail and applaud the instant
now.
This day, in time's extended line,
Was mark'd the aera of my birth,
It was God's gracious will, not mine,
That I should then first visit earth.
What tho' my cup be
dashed with gall,
Nauseous and irksome to the taste,
Do I not know that soon I shall
Be from the
bitter draught
released?
Then let me welcome this glad day,
With choral song and festive mirth,
Which steals from life a year away,
And brings me near my second birth.
The soldier placed in time of war,
Where mines lie hid beneath his feet,
Welcomes the coming guard afar,
But 'till relieved, dares not retreat.
The sensations which affected me on reading this paper, are not to be described. I was very near wanting the same assistance myself, which had been just supplied to her. Where I expected to meet a birth-day ode, as the title had promised me, I was shocked with a funeral elegy, rather. Sadness, at other times, may arise from some sudden loss, or transient misfortune—The grief may be but temporary — But when a season, otherwise of joy, shall supply occasion of melancholic reflection, it betrays the ingrained complexion of the mind. Throughout the whole poem she prefers death to life, and seems to have restrained her impatience, by the consideration in the last line, only.
I did not appear to have taken any manner of notice of the paper, which, the moment she recollected, she sprang forward, turned upon the table, and blushed at the same time; which quick restored her suspended beauties, and made her seem, at that instant, more lovely to my eyes, than methought I had ever seen her before.
I asked her about the state of her health; how long she had been ill, after what manner affected; and at the same time made a physical pretence, of feeling her pulse, for the natural one, of touching her hand. She answered me every question, with as much gravity as she would have done to a regular physician, only that she seemed to seize, with a certain quickness, an opportunity from thence, of accounting for her late emotion, by adding, that she had dreamed, the night before, that I was dead, and the tediousness of her disorder had reduced her mind, as well as her body, to such a state of weakness, that the suddenness of my appearance before her, so little expected, had struck her, some how, as if it had been a vision.
CHAP. XXXIX.
MRS. Beville,
on hospitable cares intent,
frequently quitted the room, to order in wine to the company below stairs, and give the necessary directions about her houshold affairs; which left her charming daughter and me, at greater liberty to entertain each other. Miss Beville, in one of these intervals, asked me what was the whim of her mother in stiling me a physician, just now? I repeated our conversation below stairs, and told her that this was a pretence I had luckily framed, extempore, in order to intitle me to the privilege of being admitted to visit her in her present retired and invalid state. However, added I, the science of physic is not so deep a mistery, neither, as that common sense need be at a loss upon every occasion, how to prescribe; and in your case, Madam, said I, it is not impossible, at least, that I may be able, without a
diploma,
to retrieve your health, e'er long.
She answered that she was very willing to submit to my prescriptions; adding, that if faith in the doctor, was an help to medicine, no physician could possibly meet with better success, in a patient. This she pronounced with a smile, but a blush at the same time—The highest charms of female beauty, joined at once in one!
She then inquired of me, with a modest, down-cast look, and hesitating voice, to what fortunate crisis she was indebted for the pleasure of my present visit? Then raising up her head and voice, a little, hoped that I had returned from Germany, loaded with laurels, and brought home trophies to add to the antient and present glory of England; with other railleries of the same kind.
I smiled at her humour, and told her, as was in truth, the case, that I had been trifled with by my father, who, after several vague schemes for my establishment in life, had at length, left me at liberty to seek out my own fortunes; but that my disappointments were, at present, greatly qualified, by the extreme pleasure I received in being allowed to behold and converse with her once more. That I began now to look upon myself to be my own
master,
but would willingly exchange that vain prerogative, for the higher privilege of becoming her slave, if she had not already engaged one more worthy to be commanded.
She turned her eyes quick upon me, with a regard of emotion and surprise; but collecting herself again, in an instant, replied in a low and softened tone of voice, that politeness afforded men great advantages, because it indulged them the privilege of speaking in a kind of equivocal stile, which none but women who had been bred at courts, could possibly have address enough to answer. I replied, that though galantry might possibly admit of such hollow language, it had never yet obtained a currency, in friendship; and that, if she would but grant me permission, I would explain myself more explicitly, upon this subject, to her brother. She blushed, and bowed—I kissed her hand, and retired.
CHAP. XL.
I HAD come down to Windsor, you may remember, continued Mr. Andrews, in order to satisfy myself more fully, about my scruples of love and honour; but perhaps you may think that I had here drawn too hasty a conclusion, from the premisses. Possibly too, there may appear at least as much of vanity as of generosity, in this precipitation.
But you'll indulge me, I hope, in the most favourable construction on this passage, by supposing rather, that the strength of my own passion, might have super-added a degree of evidence to her's; and that having thus wrought the matter up to a moral certainty, at least, it would have been most indelicate, besides seeming to rate my purchase too high, to have required a more explicit declaration.
A delicate lover will never force his mistress, to a
confession
—She loses a good deal of her price, by such a frankness; and too
categorical
a certainty, if the expression may be allowed, lessens also considerably, the refinement of his own pleasures. There is
a subordination
in love, of that nice and peculiar nature, that, if once destroyed, can never be restored; and the state, thenceforward, either becomes anarchical, without any order at all, or inverted, by inferiors bearing sway. Until the avowal, a woman reserves to herself, the privileges of her sex, but at that instant resigns her whole prerogative. Nature seems to have from the first, endowed them with this empire, and a salique law here, would be dissolute rebellion.
The confession
humbles a woman too much, and a polite, or prudent lover should never suffer his mistress to abate the opinion of her own value. The conferring of favours, preserves the whole spirit of this passion, which sickens and dies away, whenever they come to be challenged as a right.
Besides, is not
the confession
either needless, or uncertain? are there not surer tokens of a passion, even than words or actions? Is the love which declares, or the one that
betrays
itself, the strongest? And is a premeditated speech or motion, or an involuntary sigh or emotion, the most certain sign? Love is the great purpose, and pleasure of our lives, and yet how few of either sex, are capable of that oeconomy, delicacy, or address, which are requisite to heighten or confirm its joys, by zest or permanency?
CHAP. XLI.
THE next morning, I sent a card, with my compliments to the family, desiring to know how they all were, particularly miss Beville; adding, that I should wait on them immediately after breakfast, to learn the route to my friend's
lodge,
in Hertfordshire. This message was answered by Mr. Beville's coming down to the inn, and inviting me to dinner; calling me doctor Andrews, in a laughing way, and saying that his daughter had been so much recovered, by my friendly visit, that she would venture down stairs that day, to receive me.
I readily accepted the invitation, but upon this condition, that
my patient
should not be suffered to quit her apartment so suddenly; for that it had often proved fatal, the having mistaken spirits for strength—That as I had accidentally assumed the character of a physician, I would humour the title a little farther, by directing the proper meats to be sent up to her from table, and should do myself the pleasure of waiting on her in the evening, to drink tea, feel her pulse, and receive her commands to the
lodge.
These preliminaries were agreed to, and I went to dine with the father and mother, at the appointed hour.
I directed some broth, and a little white meat, to be carried up to my patient, and then ordered her a large glass of wine, with very little water in it; which latter part of the prescription Mrs. Beville objected to, saying that it might perhaps inflame her blood, as she had not tasted any thing stronger than tea, for a considerable time. 'Tis for that reason I direct it, said I, for in all depressions of the spirits,
we of the faculty,
madam, usually prescribe high cordials, in order to raise a fever, and then any dispensatory can point out the cure; which admirable expedient saves
us,
madam, a world of trouble, in certain difficult cases.
We thus amused the time during dinner, which I thought a most tedious meal, as I was become then more impatient of returning to my charming Fanny, than ever I had been before. I began to consider her now, in a more interesting light; no longer as one who might merely fill up the vacancies, or amuse the intervals of life, but as the sole person who was both to inspirit the business, and relieve the cares of it—at once to heighten and refine its pleasures.
I soon rose from table, saying that, like a Turk, I preferred coffee to wine, and that a physician should always preserve his blood in an equal temperature, for fear of sometimes mistaking his own pulse for his patient's. Then taking Mrs. Beville by the hand, I led her up stairs, to her daughter's apartment.
CHAP. XLII.
MISS Beville was dressed with the nicest elegance and gaiety, and seemed extremely recovered since the evening before, both in her looks and spirits, though still weak and pale. I therefore, in order to save her the fatigue of exerting herself to entertain me, engrossed the discourse mostly to myself, by repeating to her every incident which had happened to me since we parted last, to which I added all the articles of news, both foreign and domestic, which were then current in London. Among the rest, I related to her the story of our adventure, my dear Carewe, said he, and she wept, and wondered, both at the virtue, and the vice of my recital.
I wrought out an occasion, from some part of my discourse, of comparing with disadvantage, all the pleasures I had experienced in London, united together, to the single one I had left behind me at Windsor; adding, that even this, tho' the same, was far transcended by the present enjoyment, as the total exclusion of every wandering thought, of every alien scheme of pleasure, had now left this favourite one at liberty to occupy my heart and mind intire.
Oh! my dear Carewe, cried he out in a rapture, there is somewhat in the rich endowment of a chaste woman's love, which exceeds all human bliss—How low is ambition, how poor are riches, how insipid is pleasure, when void of this enlivening spirit! Love cannot be deemed a distinct passion, but rather the informing soul of every other sentiment or affection in the human breast. It refreshes labour, relieves care, and gives enjoyment to pleasure. It not only inspirits our moral, but even religion is but cold philosophy, without it. I ask pardon, said he, for this enthusiastic digression, for without experience, all this rapture must appear but Platonic vision.
My dear friend, replied Mr. Carewe, you rave not to me, and perhaps I may have conceived still an higher relish for such
hallowed pleasures,
even than you, as I have had an opportunity, which your purity may have denied you, of comparing transient and libertine joys, with chaste and solid transports. Some minutes now passed in sighs and silence, on both sides, after which Mr. Andrews thus proceeded:
After tea was over, continued he, I offered to read to her, which she accepted, and I chose to take up a play, as it afforded me opportunities, in the love scenes, of addressing myself
more personally
to her, giving me pretences for sometimes seizing her hand, or catching her in my arms. She would oppose my transports, and defend herself by saying, that she must certainly acquit herself but aukwardly of a part, which she had never even rehearsed before. To which I replied, that love was a play, contrary to all others, where the best performers were those who had practised least.
After this chearful and galant manner we conversed and passed away the evening together, till I thought it time for my dear patient to retire to rest. I then bowed and withdrew, calling upon Mr. Beville in the parlour, to inform myself how to direct my course to the
lodge.
I then retired back to the inn, got up early the next morning, and rode post to my friend's house, about four miles beyond Hertford, where I arrived before dinner, the same day.
CHAP. XLIII.
HE was rejoiced to see me, my pleasure was double. I was affected with a two-fold emotion, both of love and friendship. I asked him a number of questions, about the nature of his farm, his interest in it, his oeconomy in the management of it, &c. I questioned him after that vague and hurrying manner, in which people are apt to inquire about things they have no personal concern in, and received his answers with that inattention which is natural, when one's mind is occupied by reflections that relate solely to themselves.
After dinner we fell into a more settled and deliberate conversation. I gave him an account of my scheme and conduct, since our last interview. I declared my passion for his sister, but with that polite reserve, that I did not afford the least hint of my fond suspicion about her reciprocal affection. I told him of my late visit to her at Windsor, that I had urged my love and wishes, and had happily, though only in a tacit way, obtained her permission, to speak more fully to him, upon that subject.
He seemed transported at the overture, and acknowledged that he had perceived a growing passion in his sister's breast, toward me, for some time past, and that this observation had rendered him a good deal uneasy, with regard to the situation of her mind; as it was certain that love always produces a more powerful effect in chaste, than in dissolute minds; for delicacy of sentiment, like the pureness of gold, increases its weight, while vice, like alloy, renders it at once both light and fragile.
He concluded this reply, however, with this reflection, that though his mind had been now made easy with regard to that particular, he apprehended some difficulties in others, relating to our mutual security and happiness, together. For my sister, said he, has no fortune, and I am afraid that your father has as ridiculous a notion of
knight errantry,
as ever
Cervantes
had.
I replied, that this danger might be guarded against, for a time, by his being the only confidant in this affair, until I might be able to induce my father into a settlement, at least
post mortem,
upon the merits of having provided for two of his family already, and at my own expence too. But that if a discovery should happen to occur, before I might be fortunate enough to bring matters to a safe crisis, I did not apprehend that his resentment would extend itself beyond the present emotion; for that though his character was not, in some things, such as I could wish it, yet I hoped and believed that he had proper notions of justice; for that his few failings had always appeared to me to be rather faults of error, than of vice. Upon the whole, I concluded that if he would risque the hazard for his dear sister, I would adventure it myself, for my still dearer wife. We embraced, and set out the next morning for Windsor.
CHAP. XLIV.
MR. Beville rode up directly to his father's house, while I alighted at the inn, in order to shift my dress to one more seemly for a courtier, and as soon as I was equipt I followed him. I found miss Beville in the parlour, with her mother and brother; I welcomed her down stairs, and wished the world joy of her returning into it again. She bowed, and Mrs. Beville replied, with a smile, that she wished her dear Fanny had been a person of higher consequence in it, for my sake; that the fame of the patient's cure, might make the doctor's fortune. In a short time after, my friend led his mother out of the room, upon some pretence or other, whispering these words to me in French, as he passed by,
L'amour, et l'occasion.
When we were thus left alone, I told her that I had waited on my friend, according to her permission, and had intirely explained away all ambiguity of expression, in my late address toward her; and that, in return, he had given me leave to tender her, in more explicit terms, the future services of my life; which I here, madam, in the fondest and most earnest manner, intreat you to accept of, added I, taking hold of her hand, and throwing myself at her feet.
She raised me up with precipitation, expressing these charming words, at the same time,
that thenceforth, submission should be not only her duty, but her practice also,
which, while she pronounced, a crimson glow added a warmth and richness to her beauties, which inspired me with the following reflection:
How ill advised are women who banish blushes from their cheeks! They are equally ornamental, to the sinner and to the saint, and supply those advantages which either vanity or virtue would desire, at once both charm and awe, allure the lover, and rebuke the libertine.
Just at this instant, a crisis, when a polite lover and a delicate mistress wish equally to be relieved from each other, Mrs. Beville returned into the room, to search for some keys. I took advantage of this interruption, to retire, on pretence of seeking out my friend and confidant, whom I found in his study, employed as usual, in catching the flying moment to improve himself in literature or morals. I acquainted him of my success, expressed my gratitude for his mediation, and consulted with him upon proper measures to perfect my happiness, and to conceal it at the same time.
I dined at Mr. Beville's that day, and we spent the remainder of it in conversation and reading. In the evening Beville took his sister aside, to settle preliminaries, and appoint the day for our nuptials, which he told her it was necessary for herself to do, as the expediency of keeping the affair a secret, for some time, left us not at liberty to communicate it even to her father or mother.
She replied that it would, by no means, be decent for a young woman to go upon such an errand as this, without the guardianship of some matron or other; and that since it was necessary, which she did insist upon, that some person in that character, should be confided in, her duty and respect both, required that her dear mother should become the party. Beville mentioned this to me, I was highly pleased with her delicacy, and consented to the proposition. We then desired miss Beville to communicate the matter to her mother, who received the proposal with joy, and in a few days I was rendered compleatly happy.
CHAP. XLV.
SOON after our marriage, my friend returned to the
lodge,
and invited his sister home with him, on pretence of adjusting the oeconomy of his little houshold, making an apology to his father and mother at the same time, on account of the smallness of his accommodation. I took a formal leave of the family, the same day, and returned to London, to examine into the situation of my affairs there, which finding just in the same hopeless state I had left them, I repaired immediately to the
lodge,
summoned at once by love and friendship.
In this charming retreat we spent some months together, in the highest enjoyments of mortal bliss; love, friendship, conversation, music, and letters. My dear Fanny was an excellent performer on the harpsichord, and had a voice and taste so very expressive, that she could almost turn sound into sense; her brother played finely, on the fiddle, and I had been well practised on the violincello. What an harmony here, of sound and soul!
We secluded ourselves from all other society at this place, except the minister of our parish, whose merit you shall hear of; and were attended by
dumb-waiters
at our meals; so that we might converse of books, without the imputation of pedantry, and philosophize, freely, without
giving offence to weak minds;
for 'squires were excluded from our table, and servants from our side-board.
The pleasures I enjoyed in my new state of life, are not to be imagined but by one who has had the happiness both to love, esteem, and possess a woman of sense, beauty, and virtue. I was then sensible, for the first time of my life; of a certain solid and permanent joy; for the happiness of marriage, like the interest of money, arises from a regular and established fund; libertines squander the
principal,
and so become bankrupts.
I happened to rally my wife, one day, about her
birth-day elegy,
as I stiled it; upon which she smiled, and said, that she had quite dismissed
Melpomene
from her toilette, and called down
Thalia
into her place; adding, that as there were to be none but her first and second self by, (bowing to her brother and me) her third one being to quit the room, she would communicate one of her hand-maid's handy works to us immediately. So saying, she took a paper out of her pocket, threw it on the table, and quick retired. For her modesty was not confined to chastity alone, but formed the bloom and complexion of all the words and actions of her life.
Ode on
CUPID.
PHOEBUS is stiled the god of wit,
But I his influence deny,
None e'er the mark of fame has hit,
Who could love's pleasing power defy.
The poet's and the lover's rays
Are sparks from one congenial flame,
True passion must allume the blaze,
Which warms the heart, then mounts to fame.
'Twas Lydia's charms raised Horace' verse,
Lesbia that made Catullus write,
'Twas love that decked fair Laura's herse,
And brought the nut-brown maid to light.
From Eloisa's plaintive tongue,
Such tender accents ne'er had flowed,
Nor had we wept, nor had she sung,
But for the little pur-blind god.
Ask Hagley's muse
I was going to supply a note upon this passage, but having neglected to mention Petrarch or Prior, when Laura and Emma were introduced above, I thought I might, for the same reason, omit the name of Lyttleton here.
, whose love-lorn tears
Fell melting soft as feather'd snow,
If Titan's shafts have pierced our ears,
Or Cupid launched the heartfelt bow?
To Venus' son I tune the lyre,
Who first inspired my soul to write,
He kindled my poetic fire,
And not the feebler god of light.
CHAP. XLVI.
IN order to enjoy the pleasures of this dear society without interruption, or alarming my father, I, soon after our marriage, took a large farm in the neighbourhood, which I set again in divisions, to a considerable advantage, reserving one of the inclosures in my own hands, to lay out my profit-rents upon. About the same time my friend took some other farms also, and obtained several agencies which enabled him to inlarge his house, and encouraged his father to rent his employment at Windsor, to a deputy, and remove with his wife and family, to settle at the
lodge.
Soon after this, my father summoned me up to London, to assist him in raising my sister's portion, who had lately received a proposal from a gentleman of good fortune, in Surry. Our sole capital stock had been derived from my mother. It was a sum of ten thousand pounds, in the funds; but her father dying when she was a child, her guardian and trustee had involved it in the intricacies of the law, by borrowing some money for his own use, upon it, before my mother had come of age.
From the time of my father's marriage, to this aera, the difficulty about proving the
trust,
had continued in chancery; which prevented his getting an absolute dominion over the principal, though the court had permitted him, all along, to receive the interest. And though his claim became finally ascertained in the preceding term, yet the time requisite to make up the decree, with some other common forms, or
usual delays
of law, obliged him to borrow the money, wanted upon the present occasion.
This he had engaged from a banker in the city, who happened to be our former acquaintance, my dear Carewe, said he, and who, having conceived a good opinion of me, from my former transaction with him, and which he related to my father, insisted upon my joining in the bond, as counter security. I readily concurred; but when the deeds were brought to be signed, I confess that I was both shocked and surprised to find that his old attorney was the person who was employed to transact this affair. I hinted it to the banker, and the answer he made me was, that the man was perfectly acquainted with the business of his profession, and that this article was all the concern he had with him. But as for morals, and all that stuff, said he, 'tis a mere jest, in things of this sort, for attorneys will be true to their clients, for their own sake, and what matter is it to us, how they play the rogue with all the world besides? Were we to enter into enquiries of this kind, added he, what would become of half the trade of London? A person may be a
good man,
on the Change, who is a very bad one, in his own house. Whores and rogues must live, concluded he, or the world would be too thinly peopled—I signed the deeds, and returned to the country.
Mr. Beville and I gave our whole application toward the improvement of our farms, which was an exercise, both to body and mind, equally pleasant and healthful. The constant succession of business, relieves the fatigues of labour, and the rich and various fruits of the earth, ripening one after another, present us still with something new, to hope, or to enjoy, preventing all satiety; so that the farmer may say, with Milton,
"All seasons and their change, each please alike."
CHAP. XLVII.
WHILE Mr. Beville and I lived together at the
lodge,
we became acquainted with the clergyman of our parish, of whom I hinted to you before. He was a man of sense, learning, and humanity, a person of strict morals, and exemplary piety; but at the same time so easy in his manners, and polite of address, that all who conversed familiarly with him, would have taken him for a mere
man of the world;
the divine or philosopher never appearing, but in his actions, or devotions. My Fanny said wittily of him one day, that he certainly did himself a sort of
injustice,
by being so
agreeable,
for that the love and esteem which his worth alone had intitled him to the whole of, was by this means divided, and each merit thus defrauded of half its due.
His first appointment in the church, was to acuracy of forty pounds a year, during which time, his sister was left a dowerless widow, with a great number of unportioned children. He immediately fled to their relief, took a house to accommodate this helpless family, and opened a Latin school in the parish, in order to maintain them.
While he was labouring under these difficulties, and life wasting away in celibacy, some of his friends proposed the scheme of matrimony to him. But he declined it, saying, that, till he had made provision for his
present children,
he could neither think it just, or prudent, to incumber himself with any
future ones. "Why, man alive, these children are none of your own, surely"
—
Not in a natural sense, indeed, answered he, but in a
moral
one, I consider them in the same light. Children are the gift of Heaven, added he, and since Providence has thought proper to ccmmit these orphans to my charge, I will, like Jacob, endeavour to wrest a blessing from the struggle, by striving to perform the duty of a parent, toward them.
Well, but doctor, are there not warm widows, or snug old maids enough, in your parish, to feather your nest withal, and no danger of incumbering yourself with a second brood, as you term it?
But, gentlemen, sometimes ladies, he would reply, I will not mock the church's rites, and to marry, without a lover's wishes, or a father's hopes, is the basest prostitution, surely; nor would I grasp another's wealth to enrich an alien. 'Tis enough that I forego my pleasure for my charge, but too much to expect that I should sacrifice my moral also.
His virtue was applauded by all the
bishops,
and afterwards rewarded, by a
lay patron,
who promoted him to the benefice of that parish, which is computed to be worth about five hundred pounds a year—Exactly the income of
the man of Ross.
CHAP. XLVIII.
HIS church was always crowded; for there was, in his manner of preaching, something which caught the attention and fixed it, without either
action, or grimace;
so that many passages in his sermons used to be remembered again, and quoted in conversation; and often urged as
authorities,
upon more serious occasions. I shall endeavour to recollect, said he, some of them which my Fanny used to repeat, for your entertainment, and to make you, in some sort, better acquainted with our worthy pastor:
The poor man's
scrip,
is the rich man's treasury.
The perception of virtue is a sixth sense.
If, among the questions of scholastic philosophy, it should be asked,
what is the strongest thing, in nature?
I should answer,
Piety. It subdues this world, and wins the next.
Religion is not a stoical habit of penance and self-denial, but a physical regimen for pleasure and self-enjoyment.
God is the
spring
and
ocean
of our thoughts and actions. Every wish, every purpose, every deed, as they arise
originally
from him, should refer
finally
to him. Whatever design, though ever so virtuous, falls short of that great
ultimate,
unphilosophically makes the
means
the
end
—This reaches not up to true religion, but terminates in moral heathenism, only—
The exercise of virtue upon the mere score of intellectual pleasure, has no more merit than the practice of temperance to give a zest to Epicurism. As neither of them make any part of the Christian religion, they cannot be entitled to the promises of the gospel.
To rejoice at rain,
without an acre of land;
to redeem a debtor,
remaining still unknown;
to quench the fire-brand in others haggart,
without a boast;
to wrest the dagger from an assassin's hand,
and ne'er inform the victim;
the secret transport of such acts as these, can never be described equal to the feeling. In this sense alone,
stolen pleasures are sweet,
in any other, bitter.
There is a moral precept obligatory upon all mankind,
to do good,
as well as to
abstain from evil.
Suppose that all the world should refrain from absolute ill, and yet perform no positive good? in what state should we remain then? But, in reality, there can never be such a supposed circumstance in society, for the declining of actual virtue, is the incurring of negative guilt;
Qui succurrere perituro potest, cum non succurrit, occidit;
says Seneca,
de beneficiis;
but we have an higher authority, in scripture, for, were not the
priest
and
levite
both censured, for
passing over on the other side,
though they took no part with the assassins?
It was the opinion of the stoics, long before Christianity, that all crimes were equal, and that an offence against any one moral, was the same with a breach of the whole ethic. Can philosophy then complain against the severity of this text?
He who is guilty of the breach of one part of the law, is guilty of the whole.
Epictetus, in the 24th chapter, of the third book, has these remarkable words:
My children's children will bear the punishment of my disobedience, and fighting against God.
Compare with this, part of the second commandment,
and visit the sins of the fathers upon the children, unto the third and fourth generation, of them that hate me.
CHAP. XLIX.
THIS most excellent person both ornamented and enriched our little society; and my dear Fanny, added he, with an heavy sigh, seemed to receive a more particular satisfaction, in his company and conversation. She said to me, one evening, just after he had left us,
How amiable is virtue,
in the sacred character!
Is it not remarkable that it should strike us with an higher beauty here, where it must be most expected, than in any of the other conditions of life, where it might appear more extraordinary? Is it perhaps, that in proportion as the deficiency of a character might offend, the perfection of it may please? Is it not for this reason, said she, that
modesty
is most charming in woman, because it is their peculiar characteristic? Is it that virtue seems more immediately derived from heaven, in them—That in the clergy, it appears
inspiration;
in the laiety, but
instruction, only?
What an advantage, continued she, must such a pastor bring to morals and religion, in whom the purest virtue, and most exemplary piety, are shewn not to be inconsistent with the easiest manners of a gentleman? For it is the formality of parsons, and the stiffness of mere good men, which disgust the world, and not their strictness, or sanctity.
All which she concluded, with this ingenious allusion, that as
matter,
indued only with its
necessary properties,
would be a
lifeless mass of uniformity;
so virtue without
manners,
would be as
morally unamiable..
The intervals of all these transactions which I have recited to you, are not at all material; and indeed, continued he, sighing, Though I have dwelt long, with pleasure, upon the former part of my relation, I shall now make amends, by shortening the sad remainder of it, the principal event of which, I shall comprehend in the exclamation of Brutus—
Portia is dead!
He attempted to pronounce this sentence in the spirit of ancient philosophy; but he was no
actor;
and, few as the words were, his heart, if I may use the expression, failed him in the middle of them. A torrent of fond and grateful tears, gushed suddenly to her memory, a generous sympathy affected Mr. Carewe, and Mr. Beville coming just then, into the room, quick joined a brother's sorrow to an husband's grief.
CHAP. L.
MR. Carewe, in order to change the subject, and give a new turn to their thoughts, asked Mr. Beville what general news he had brought home from Scarborough, and what adventure had detained him so much longer in town that day, than usual? He replied, that every thing of a public concern, was comprehended in the London prints, which he took out of his pocket, and that he was delayed by taking leave of some friends of his, who were setting out from Scarborough, for the York races, which had carried off most of the company out of town, and left the rooms extremely thin.
Suppose, said Mr. Carewe to Mr. Andrews, that you and I should accompany our friend, in his walk, to-morrow? It will serve to shift the scene a little, and diversify our ideas. The emptiness of the place, continued he, will be lucky enough for you, but, for my own part, I would be content to bear a little more
crowding,
for a little more company, to-morrow.
Why truly, I could be satisfied with it, myself too, replied Mr. Andrews, upon your account; for I would sacrifice my own
ease
to a friend's
pleasure,
at any time. Nay, I will do more for you, added he, I will sacrifice even my
pleasure
to yours also, by setting you at liberty to go off to the races, to-morrow; and Mr. Beville, I hope, will be so kind as to accompany you thither, for a few days, as I really think that both his health and mind require a little more exercise and amusement, than he takes, or can possibly meet with, at the farm. Beville bowed assent toward Carewe.
No, gentlemen, replied Mr. Carewe—But first, let me thank ye both, for your politeness, upon this occasion. However, as well as I love company, I would not ride thirty miles to seek it in a crowd. Besides, your sentiments upon horse-racing, said he to Mr. Andrews, have much abated my relish for that sport, which I confess I was
formerly
very fond of; as, in truth, I was
once,
of every thing that had gaiety, spirit, and hurry in it.
Formerly,
and
once,
upon a time, you should have added, my dear Carewe, replied Mr. Andrews, these are expressions too antiquated to be uttered by a young, handsome fellow, of five and twenty. Oh! my dear friend, answered Mr. Carewe, with a sigh, and grasping his hand, at the same time, you have loved— and must therefore know that true passion renders us philosophers to all other pleasures, and an eunuch to every other desire.
The starting of this subject, sent each of the three friends home to their own thoughts, for the rest of the day; which not supplying us with any thing to entertain the reader, who is, I assure you, my principal concern throughout this work, I shall conclude this chapter with just acquainting him, that they read the newspapers, conversed upon general topics, till supper, made a slight repast, and then retired to bed.
CHAP. LI.
THE next morning, Mr. Beville called upon his two friends, to take a walk with him to Scarborough, according to the purpose of the night before; but their spirit for the frolic had subsided in sleep, and they suffered Mr. Beville to pursue his course alone. After breakfast, Mr. Andrews led his friend to take a walk with him, along the sea beach, and thus re-assumed his memoir.
I had brought my story to a short period, yesterday morning, continued Mr. Andrews, for two reasons. The first, because it gave me pain to dwell, for any time, upon a circumstance, that whatever has already, or may hereafter befal me, of loss, or sorrow, I may venture to stile, by way of eminence, the only misfortune of my life. And next, that as I had turned toward the window, to hide my eyes from from yours, I perceived Mr. Beville coming up the avenue, and I would spare his grief, as well as my own.
But as there remain some particulars yet to be mentioned, to compleat my own history, I shall relate the last article again, more at large, during our present leisure, and the sorrows which it must necessarily renew, will, in some sort, be relieved by the pride and pleasure I shall at once receive, in letting you a little farther into the beauty and delicacy of that amiable woman, my lost Fanny's character.
Our marriage had been kept still a secret from her father, till my wife had become with child; and, as he then lived in the house with us, it was not possible, at least my nicety about her same rendered it improper, to make a mystery of it to him, any longer; and he was therefore, admitted to be a member of our privy-council. He received the news but coolly; he was naturally warm and proud; he, at first, resented his not having been made a confidant, from the beginning; and then seemed mortified at the necessity his daughter was reduced to, of carrying on a clandestine commerce, to the hazard of her reputation, and the humiliation of his own pride.
He had a precipitate manner of resolving, and acting. He took his resolution on the instant, and, without communicating his design, wrote a letter, that very evening, to my father, informing him of our marriage, saying, that he had been a perfect stranger to it himself, until a few hours before; adding, that he had already pardoned the breach of duty, on his daughter's part, hoping that he might do the same on his son's; and concluded his letter with saying, that he would readily join his interest with my father's, to compass some preferment, or civil employ for me, to make amends for his daughter's want of fortune; which he, with justice indeed, affirmed to be the only merit in which she could be deemed deficient.
To this indiscreet epistle he received no answer, but I did. My father inclosed it back again to me, with a few lines in the cover, declaring that he had that day made and perfected his will; and had cut me intirely out from all chance of inheritance, for ever, of any part of his present, or future fortunes.
CHAP. LII.
I happened to be at my farm, when the post came in, and as I had always indulged my dearest Fanny in the amusement of opening my letters, in my absence, she had the unhappiness of receiving this shock, which I would have saved her from as long as it might have been in my power, if the letter had fallen first into my hands.
When I returned to the lodge, that day, I perceived a remarkable alteration in her countenance, though she received me with the same tenderness as usual. I appeared alarmed, and taking her fondly by the hand, asked her, with some emotion, whether she had been taken ill, during my absence. The softness of my manners affected her, she fell into tears, and took the letters out of her pocket. I read them hastily over, and after making this short reflection, that the indiscretion of a friend, may sometimes do one as much mischief as the malice of an enemy, I caught her eagerly in my arms, crying out with hope and fondness,
that Heaven had, for virtue, more fathers than one.
We then agreed not to mention any thing of this affair, to her father or mother, in order to preserve peace and harmony at home. Her brother had been accidentally made acquainted with it before, as he happened to be by when she opened the letters, and snatched them up as they fell from her trembling hand. I endeavoured to re-assure her spirits, for the present, by this philosophical reflection, that as I had long despaired of any manner of assistance from my father, during his life, it was too soon to grieve, till we should first feel the effects of his resentment.
Such turns of thought as this, have frequently assisted me to parry, or postpone several uneasinesses in life; but my dear Fanny had not the least particle of stoicism in all her composition. She was all delicacy, feeling, and sentiment. This event therefore, preyed constantly on her spirits, and, finally, affected her health; and mine also, in a great measure, along with it. For though I am an excellent philosopher,
for myself,
I am the worst in the world,
for another.
My mind; indeed, is masculine, but my heart of the true feminine gender. My sympathy is stronger than my nerves, and I feel misfortunes, as one does heat, weak in the
direct line,
but forcibly from
reflection.
CHAP. LIII.
SHE laboured under a depression of spirits, till she delivered a son to my arms, and then fell into a fever; from which, however, she recovered, but with so slow a progress, that I was alarmed about her declining into a decay; and, to increase the danger of which, her fond mother, her first connection in life, both of duty and affection, expired in her arms, of a disorder she had contracted by her constant watchings, and assiduous attendance upon her beloved child, during the course of her late and present illness.
About this time Mr. Beville, the father, received an account from Windsor, that his deputy had failed, and imbezzled his revenues; which obliged him to return, and try what measures he could pursue, in order to vindicate his right, and recover his employ again. My wife remained with her brother, who spared no manner of expence, in physicians or medicine, for the re-establishment of her health; while I did every thing, on my part, that tenderness, love and duty could suggest, to assist her remedies, and expedite her cure. For, oh! I loved her, to the last moment of her existence, with tenfold the ardour with which I first received her virgin sacrifice to my longing arms. For where true virtuous passion is, the torch of Hymen but
singes
the wings of Cupid, and
anneals
his arrows.
Our difficulties were, soon after, considerably increased, by the falling away of Beville's agencies, one after another, by minors coming of age, and others, for whom he was employed, returning from abroad, to reside upon their own estates; while, in the midst of these streights, and gloomy prospects, my family was increased by the birth of a daughter; which threw the dear mother back again into her former weakness, from which she had, for some little time, appeared to be tolerably well recovered.
Just at this interval, her aunt, by the mother's side, became a widow, with a good jointure. She had been made acquainted with our marriage, as soon as the veil of secrecy had been withdrawn; and as she lived within twenty miles of our residence, we had had frequent intercourse of visits, while my dear wife was able to ride abroad.
Soon after her husband's death, I waited upon her to pay my compliments of condolance; and, on my informing her of our apprehensions about her niece's relapse and danger, she very kindly offered to carry her with her to Spa, whither she was advised to repair immediately, on account of her daughter, and only child, a very handsome young woman, about twenty years of age, who had been, for some time, in a very precarious state of health.
I expressed my thanks, in the most grateful and affectionate manner, and returned directly to the lodge, to acquaint my dear wife of this kind and opportune invitation. She, at first, declined accepting of it, but, after some reluctance, and her being informed by her physicians, that those waters were absolutely necessary, toward the recovery of her health, with a religious exhortation too, upon this subject, from her favourite divine, she was at length prevailed upon, to prepare for her journey.
In a few days after, her aunt and cousin called upon her—I put her into the coach—I saw her then, for the last time!
CHAP. LIV.
I Returned to her apartment, threw myself on the bed, and felt infinitely more wretched than at any interval of my confinement in the
compter;
for now, I had
her life
to fear for. As my eyes wandered about the room, I perceived a manuscript paper lying on her table, which, apprehending to be some necessary memorandums she had forgot to take with her, I hastily arose, read, kissed, and wept over the following lines:
A Soliloquy.
I HAVE been the child of sorrow, or of care, e'er since my first reflection's dawn. My heart was early taught to melt at other's woe, by feelings of its own. In my first spring of youth, I sought for wisdom, and dulled the roseate bloom upon my cheek, by searching for her sacred lore. The midnight taper oft has been extinguished by the radiant sun, which found my sleepless eyes unwearied.
Yet then did vanity intrude, and youthful spirits mounting to my heart, whispered that all this philosophic pride was fruitless, the
means
were pleasant, but the
end
was endless; and that in love alone, was happiness supreme. The trial soon was made—I loved, and was beloved again. But, oh! what anguish did that passion cost my timerous heart! Fear entered with it, and held the alternate empire of my breast, for many a tedious day. Without the latter, how unsafe the first; and with it, what a slavery to sustain!
At length, what can be found of happiness in love, was mine. The object of my choice, with generous tenderness and reciprocal flame, approved me his, and left me no ambition. Sorrow and fear now vanished for a while, but to return with allied strength. Attended by pale poverty they came, and, to extend their cruel power, have with a double barbed arrow pierced me. For on their iron darts are graved the tender names of husband, and of children!
How then can I defend my unshielded heart, or vindicate the empire of my soul, when these dear ties, the nearest and the best, give added force to every wound, and rise auxiliaries against me! Yet sure there is a strength, superior still to theirs, and, oh! endow me with it, Heaven! A resignation to thy all-wise decrees, a calm dependance on thy paternal providence, and grace to say,
Thy will, my God, not mine, be done.
Amen.
F. A.
CHAP. LV.
Enter Mr.
Beville
in a hurry.
The chidren are come.
(springing from his seat)
My children!
Let us fly to embrace them.
Exeunt
A. B. and C.
Manent
Triglyph
and the
Reader.
PRAY now, Sir, shan't we follow them too, and have the pleasure of seeing the dear little
prate-a-paces
also, which I must confess I long to do extremely, from the affection and esteem you have taught me to conceive for their father and mother.
I do not chuse it, at present, Sir, and I'll tell you why. I have been all my life afflicted with a certain
praecordial
weakness, which the
Cabletonians,
before mentioned, stile
nervous
See the last note, chapter xxxv.
. I saw Mr. Andrews and his children meet once —that was enough for my disorder. Believe me, Mr. Reader, that, for all the money I expect to make of you and your whole fraternity, I would not review such another scene—To see the
storgé,
to perceive the workings of the father, when he placed little Harry on his knee! But the looks, the emotions, the tears, when he snatched up
la petite Fançhon
in his arms!
So like her mother! Eternity, I have bought you, with her loss!
And then we should be plagued, at the same time also, with the nonsense of the nurse. This is daddy's eye, and that is mammy's lip. This is daddy's this thing, and that is mammy's t'other thing. Now, master Harry, walk up strait to your uncle, there—Ah! Mr. Beville, is'nt he the very gunter-part of his father? And miss Fanny, too, pray hold up your head, miss, and drop a daisy there, for the gentleman—The mother's air, as I am a sinner, to a tilly—
You are a whimsical man, Mr. Triglyph, and shift so suddenly sometimes, from serious to comical, that I declare one does not know how to accommodate themselves to your humour; for you possess a certain art, of setting the upper part of the face a crying, and the lower a laughing, so histerically, at the same time, that I am sure I must, at this instant, make as drole an appearance as a whipped school boy eating a tart, while tears with syrup mixed, run down his chaps, together.
Indeed, Sir, you happen to mistake both my talent, and my character. My cast is intirely grave, nor do I mean to jest, even in those parts of my writings, where I sometimes speak in humourous images; but I happened to have learned my philosophy in the
porch
of Democritus; and it is a certain, though a ridiculous truth, that, after one has been taught to laugh at the follies of mankind, it becomes
morally
impossible for him, ever after, to preserve a serious countenance. But then, Mr. Reader, this is not mirth, nor is my moral the less severe, upon this account; for human frailties do not
divert,
but
tickle
me; and extort a smile, through pain.
CHAP. LVI.
THE next morning Mr. Beville staid from Scarborough, to play with the children; and Mr. Andrews was as great a romp as the rest. But, lest this particular might be apt to sink the characters of these philosophic gentlemen, with a certain class of readers, I think proper to acquaint them, that Agesilaus used frequently to amuse himself, with riding
hobby-horses
with his children, in the nursery. Some have
hobby-horses,
and others have
hobby-asses.
Mr. Carewe assisted in the tumult, for a while; but, not being actuated by the same parental feelings, his spirit soon began to flag, and he retired alone to the sea-shore, where he spent the rest of the morning in walking with folded arms, and musing in deep melancholy, till he was called in to dinner.
There was something in this charming young man's distress, that had a nobleness, a generosity, a virtue in it, which, in my opinion, must interest the mind, even more than the misfortunes of either Mr. Andrews, or Mr. Beville. For I shall just hint here, that the latter had some to lament, distinct from those of the former; but the reader must suspend his curiosity about these matters, till the regular course of this history shall, in their proper places, introduce the several stories, both of Mr. Beville, and Mr. Carewe.
Their conversations for the rest of that day, and indeed all their evening entertainments, were extremely ingenious, and polite. I must confess that I have been several times tempted to interrupt the narrative, in many places, where I thought that I could make the reader sufficient amends, by introducing him to amusements of a more refined nature. But those who may have a true relish, for such reading as this might afford them, will be perfectly capable of imagining to themselves, in a more lively manner than I could possibly represent it, what an elegant, and elevated society, three such persons of talents, virtue, literature, and taste, whose minds had been softened by adversity and disappointments, and who were mutual friends to each other, must be capable of forming together.
O noctes, caenaeque Deûm!
And as for the rest of my readers, who may not have been blest with a genius for such delicate enjoyments, they will very readily excuse the
interludes,
in order to pass more immediately on to the
catastrophé
of the action. I shall therefore, suffer the representation to proceed, without intermission, except where I shall think that any of the passages in the story may need to be illustrated, or explained.
The next morning every thing went on, as usual, Mr. Beville walked away to Scarborough, the two other friends retired themselves after breakfast, into the library, and Mr. Andrews thus pursued his adventures, in context with those of Mr. Beville.
CHAP. LVII.
ABOUT a year before this event, my worthy friend, Mr. Beville, who, though a reading and contemplative man, had a great spirit for adventure, had engaged himself in a certain manufacture; in order to carry on which, with effect, it was necessary to borrow a considerable sum of money; and for which purpose I recommended him to our old banker, before mentioned, my dear Carewe; who, in order to judge of his security, sent his
same
attorney down into the country, who staid a week with us, to inquire into the circumstances of Mr. Beville's fortune, the interest of his farms, the nature and progress of the manufacture, with the responsibility of his character. About all which particulars having received sufficient satisfaction, he drew up the deeds, paid the money for his client, and returned back to London.
While he remained with us in the country, he appeared extremely pleased with all the improvements made both upon Mr. Beville's farms, and mine; but said that it was a pity they were not held jointly, by the same tenant; for as one was moist, and the other dry, they would yield a double profit and convenience together, to the value of both, separately occupied.
He seemed to be charmed with the situation of the lodge, the gardens, orchards, fish-ponds, and the accommodation of his offices; and said, that it would be an happy scene of retirement, for any wearied citizen, from the hurry and bustle of a town, there to pass, in peace, and religion, the remainder of his days; rejoicing in the fruits of honest industry, and enjoying the fulness of a well-earned fortune.
Some time after my dear wife had gone off to Spa, leaving her brother and me in the highest of human afflictions, despairing, from the many symptoms of her disorder, with some dark expressions dropt by her physicians, of ever seeing a person return to us, again, whom we so tenderly loved, and so deservedly esteemed; we received a private intimation, one day, from the sheriff of our county, that executions against our bodies, goods, and lands, had been lodged in his office, that morning, by the banker's attorney, aforesaid.
We then, both of us, too late, perceived the unguarded weakness of putting ourselves, or fortunes, into the power of a person who lay under the dangerous, and wicked influence of one, whose malice and revenge, we had reason to apprehend, might have instigated his avarice and extortion, to injure and oppress us. But we soon exchanged reflection for action, having but just time enough to secure our persons from arrest, by flying up to London, together, with what bills and cash we could muster up between us, at that time, and of which we made one common purse, amounting to about an hundred pounds.
CHAP. LVIII.
OUR farms, stock, and furniture, were soon after put up to sale, and in these difficulties we —Nonnulla desunt.—
The above
hiatus
shall be supplied in the second, or third edition; for there is a peculiar nicety in this article, which requires some time to be able to accommodate for public view.
Biographer Triglyph.
I wrote also, to my father, continued Mr. Andrews, intreating that he would take some speedy measures to stop the execution, and relieve my slight and
unpatrimonial
fortune, from the heavy weight of a
family debt,
which rested solely upon him to provide for. This letter I sent to him by his own attorney, who informed him likewise, of the banker's malice, in this affair.
His answer was perfectly calm and temperate, for he was a great philosopher,
in his own way.
He replied, that I had very romantic notions, in some things, but vulgar ordinary ones, in others. That my first dealings with the banker, and my marriage, were instances of the former; and the seeming now to consider my sister's portion, for whom I was, by the laws of reason and virtue, equally obliged to provide, as his sole debt, was an instance of the latter. But that, as the laws of the land had made the same distinction that I did, I was welcome to recover the debt against him, as soon as I should have discharged it myself, and had the judgments assigned over to me; by which time he hoped, by the finishing of his own suit, to be in a condition to answer mine: —Multa desiderantur.—
Here the three following chapters, in which are contained some curious anecdotes, must sleep some time in manuscript, for the reason already given above; so I shall pass on to
CHAP. LXII.
AFTER these disappointments, I wrote to the principal tenant on my own farm, to come up to town, and give us an account of the transactions which had passed in the country, with regard to our unhappy affairs. He was an intelligent person, and had attended the sheriff's sale, both of poor Beville's effects, and mine. He told us that every thing had gone off, at a third or fourth of their value, as they always do upon such unhappy occasions; except my wife's picture, and mine, which, having been bid for, by our honest friend the clergyman, dropping some indiscreet expressions of regard, at the same time, were raised upon him to a considerable price, by the attorney, who was present at the sale, and took the hint from his earnestness.
He then added a large encomium upon our friend, and concluded with an expression, the simplicity of which forced a smile from both Beville, and me, even in the midst of our distress, that the doctor was certainly a
primitive Christian, if ever there was one.
He told us also, that the attorney had purchased the interests of both our farms, at a very trifing value; as the sub-sheriff immediately declared the sale, as soon as he began to bid for them.
I settled accounts with this man, for his rent, and the ballance in my favour, which was forty pounds, I directed him to pay into the hands of his worthy pastor, to whom I also wrote a letter of thanks, begging him to keep that deposit in his hands, to defray the current expences of my dear children's nursing, who were rearing in his parish. I offered him the money he had paid for the pictures, and told him where he might find us
incog.
if his occasions should summon him up to London, before we might have determined upon any scheme of life, or rather
of living.
About a week after, a carrier called at our lodgings, left a letter for me, with a large deal box, and went away directly, without waiting either for payment, or an answer. The letter was from our friend, the clergyman; and I give it to you here to read, added he, just as I received it, excepting a bill for forty pounds, which was inclosed in it. Mr. Carewe took the letter, and read
Dear Sir,
ACcording to your order, I have received the money from your tenant, which I take the liberty of returning into your hands again, because I think that you are a much fitter trustee for your children, than I can be. Besides, as their nurse is my tenant, it will be time enough, in all reason, to discharge her wages, when I call upon you for them.
I have also, sent up the portraits you desire; but must beg the favour of being excused from accepting payment for them. Did I part wholly with these dear relicts, I might, perhaps, be induced to settle a more sterling account with you, on this article; but while you intrust the living miniatures of these prized originals, to my care, I shall, by looking stedfastly to that precious charge, be overpaid for parting with these faint resemblances.
Pray make my most affectionate compliments to my amiable friend Mr. Beville; and here let me most cordially intreat you both, that, as soon as the situation of your affairs may admit of your returning into this country, you will both of you accept of my roof, till you shall be able to establish yourselves in some happier scheme of life; for, by assisting me in my endeavours for the good of mankind, you will be justly intitled to a right of sharing that income, which Providence and the church have vested in my hands, for no other purposes.
Adieu.
CHAP. LXIII.
AFTER Mr. Carewe had made proper reflections upon the polite address, and truly Christian spirit of this letter, Mr. Andrews re-assuming his story, with an heavy sigh, a flowing tear, and hesitating voice, I am arrived now, said he, to the last period of my life—To my first death, at least—To the last event that can ever be of moment to me hereafter, except so far as I have revived again in my dear children, and renewed my fondness on those living relicts!
I wrote every pacquet to my dear Fanny, but without giving her the least account of our misfortune, for fear of disturbing her mind, in the present state of her body, and had received some letters from her, in which she informed me that she had got a severe cold in her voyage, which had greatly increased her disorder; but that the physicians at Spa, had put her into a regimen, and that she would do every thing in her power to keep up her spirits, and assist her medicines.
In the midst of these difficulties, while poor Beville and I remained in privacy together, mutually assisting each other's philosophy by moral reasonings, and religious arguments, scheming from day to day, some new project, or untried adventure, toward rescuing us from our present forlorn condition, I received a letter from our aunt, at Spa, that my dear Fanny's cold had fallen so heavy on her already exhausted strength and spirits, that the physicians had almost despaired of her recovery.
The next pacquet brought me a black seal!
CHAP. LXIV.
AS Mr. Andrews will not be inclined, for some minutes, at least, to continue the remainder, and less interesting part of his story, I shall make use of this interval to verify the authenticity of these memoirs, by observing to the reader, that no writer in the world, who had either sense, taste, humanity, or virtue, could possibly think of dispatching the amiable Mrs. Andrews off the stage, so abruptly, without bringing about any other
catastrophé,
but her own. To be at such expence of beauty, wit, sentiment, love, and delicacy, merely to render a man of worth miserable, during his surviving life!
Sed parcae vocant,
the relentless fates have snatched her from us; and the severity of history admits of no redemption.
You have now before you two unhappy men of virtue and merit, labouring under a complication of misfortunes, which, so far from having been incurred by any vice, or folly of their own, were brought upon them rather by their very sense, and virtue; and therefore may more properly be stiled
afflictions,
by way of contradistinguishing them from
inflictions;
being such as neither forecast could foresee, nor prudence might prevent.
The changes of this life, have been frequently observed to be so extraordinary, so contrary to the allowed designs of Providence, so much beyond even the mere fortuitousness of events, that the antients were induced to worship a deity, under the title of
Fortune,
quite distinct from Providence; an intelligence of
caprice,
only—I think it was
a goddess
Timoleon built a temple, and dedicated it to her.
.
Thus one man shall be attended with a constant series of success, during his whole life,
Quibus dormientibus Dii omnia conficiunt,
while another, employing the same means, diligence, and virtue, shall be unlucky through the whole course of his. Some are fortunate, or unfortunate, during certain periods of time and the changes are seen frequently to shift, without any manner of alteration in the person's own conduct. Even at play, where every thing seems to be left to blind hazard alone, how often have we seen ill luck stick to one particular seat, for a whole evening together; while, at other times, it has pursued one person quite round the table, in spite of all the shifting, cutting, and shuffling of the night?
This subject has just now brought to my memory, a speech that I once heard pronounced by a certain fellow, of a certain college, as he was
common-placing
on the changes, and chances of this mortal life, at the university:
Single misfortunes,
said he,
seldom
come
alone,
and the
greatest
of evils are attended by
greater.
This person was afterwards made a bishop, and died an archbishop. Must it not be to
chance
alone, for it was not in
Gotham,
that he owed his preferment?
CHAP. LXV.
POOR Beville, continued Mr. Andrews, restrained his sorrow, and did every thing in the power of good sense, religion, and friendship, to strengthen my mind, and support my spirits under our mutual calamity; while I, in tenderness to him, used to turn aside to mourn, and endeavour to conceal a woman's heart, under a stoic's mask. And this generous attention toward each other's grief, was of more real service to us both, than all the bravery of philosophy.
But, one day, after I had brought myself tolerably well, to the preserving of appearances, at least, an unlucky incident happened to occur, which occasioned me to relapse again, into all my former
indecencies.
After dinner Mr. Beville drank off a glass of wine to my health, and taking me by the hand, at the same time, Dear
brother,
said he, this is your
birth-day.
The first expression conjured up, almost to view, my blushing Fanny, in her bridal robes, and the last brought instantly to my mind, that triumphant, that transporting scene, which I had exulted in at Windsor, upon such another aera. Memory, like lightning, shot quick through every interval of bliss, till the last fatal close. My spirits were hurried on too fast, I grew sick, my manhood failed me, I fainted suddenly into my friend's arms.
When he had recovered me to sense again, I just hinted to him, without daring to dwell upon it, the groupe of thoughts which had overpowered me. He lamented his expression, though innocent, and we passed the remainder of the evening together, in mutual silence, sighs, and tears.
We immediately removed the wine, after my emotion, being both of us of opinion, as well from our own experience, as from a general observation upon others, that there never was a more fallacious maxim, than that which has been too often imposed upon the already too unhappy, that wine is serviceable to banish care. When the body is oppressed by fatigue, sickness, or pain, high cordials may relieve, or asswage; but where the mind has caught the infection, water is our safest potion. Wine but augments the disposition it encounters; sinks dulness into stupidity, raises mirth into madness, and aggravates melancholy to despair.
CHAP. LXVI.
TOward the hour of rest, having composed my spirits a little, a kind of parallel still running in my mind, between the two
birth-days,
I took the pen, and wrote these lines, said he, opening his pocket-book, and presenting a paper to Mr. Carewe, which you will find to be expressed in the very same gloomy strain of thought and sentiment, with those I repeated to you before, of my dear Fanny's.
On my
BIRTH-DAY.
ON each revolving year, I'm pleased to see,
That hour approaching which by fate's decree,
Is doomed the last of my mortality.
Life is a race, still verging to a post,
Which he who soonest reaches gains the most,
But, if precipitate, the prize is lost
Compare this line with the last of those upon the same subject, in chapter xxxviii. "But, till relieved, must not "retreat."
.
Men should with years, as hosts do at a feast,
Welcome the coming, speed the going guest,
Till night comes on, and then rejoice in rest.
Then farewel nonage, welcome ripen'd years,
Which but emancipate, and make us heirs,
Instead of earthly, of coelestial spheres!
I could not close my eyes, all night, and the next morning I found myself in an high fever. I continued ill for about three weeks, ten days of which my life was despaired of. During the whole time Mr. Beville lay on a pallet, by my bed-side; and our worthy friend the clergyman, upon receiving an account of my danger, by a letter from Mr. Beville, came up immediately to London, and staid in town till I was quite recovered; visiting, praying, and reading by me, every day.
How often, and how ardently, my dear Carewe, continued he, have both Mr. Beville and I wished for the high relief of your friendly converse, during our confinement here! But I knew not where to enquire for you, nor dared I venture abroad, to search for you in coffee-houses, or on the public walks.
And this restraint was perhaps not the least part of my difficulties in this situation; for so great is my love of liberty, that though I seldom stir from home, and usually, through choice, pass most part of my time in my study, I believe that there are few persons alive, who can brook
imposed
confinement, less than I could.
CHAP. LXVII.
THE clergyman remained in town for a few days after my recovery; he had taken a lodging near ours, and spent most part of his time with us. Among other subjects of conversation, happening to speak about our late misfortune in the country, he told Mr. Beville that, as is generally the way,
a few
pitied his distress, but
many
blamed his conduct; for with mankind, said he, it is
crime
enough to be
unfortunate;
and, in your present unhappy circumstances, censure has pursued you, even for
merits,
because
unsuccessful.
This is by no means uncommon, replied Beville, for the world, like women, never pardon an attempt—
if you fail
—But prithee, dear Sir, said he, what are the charges produced against me, and in what particulars is my conduct reproached in the country?
Why, in the first place, answered the clergyman, that you turned your mind to extravagant
projects, animum habuit semper ingentia, semper infinita expetentem.
Secondly, that you had once an opportunity of establishing your fortunes, by the
management,
as they term it, of seven or eight thousand pounds a year
His agencies.
, and yet have
nothing to shew for it,
as is the expression. And lastly, that you have lived above your fortune, till you finally ruined it.
In answer to the first of these
indictments,
replied Mr. Beville, I hope it will be accepted as a sufficient
plea,
that as I never had patrimony, profession, trade, or employ, my life, of necessity, must have been a life of
adventure. Project, or starve,
was certainly, in this case, my motto. In such a situation as mine,
to live,
itself, required
a scheme—Necessitas ante rationem.
For life hath long since ceased to be a
sine-cure
—Spontaneous fruits rise not, at present, from the earth, as in
The Garden;
nor does manna now drop from the heavens, as in
The Wilderness.
With regard to the second charge, I do confess that I have known many persons
thrive,
forgive the expression here, upon far less advantages; who have raised fortunes, by purchasing some their
neighbour
's, some their
employer
's estates, and sprung from dung-carts into a coach and six. All this indeed, I know to be true—I had like to have said
too true
—Too true, alas! for themselves, I fear.
To take advantage of one man's misfortunes, to over-reach another's weakness,
To wring
From the hard hand of peasants, their vile trash,
By any
indirection,
were arts my pride disdained, my moral started at. I have a sympathy in my nature, which, like the cameleon's hue, catches the complexion of occurring objects—I rejoice, and mourn for feelings not my own—What should I gain then by another's distress, when by augmenting his I must increase my own! With what a ravening hunger must that wretch be seized, who eats one morsel in another's wrong! I should deem myself unhappy to have inherited a fortune, so dearly earned—How much more wretched then, to be the guilty purchaser! Yet much I fear, there are, who could revel in a sacked city, and reckon plunder among the goods of fortune!
The last objection, said he, I need give but a short answer to—It has been urged, that I have lived above
my fortune
—But in reality, I never did, I never could do so. I never had any—I have, therefore, only lived above
no fortune,
which the most thrifty person alive must do, in like circumstances.
I entered the world—I must repeat it—without patrimony, profession, trade, or emyloy; I have unportioned, and unpensioned, maintained the post and character of a gentleman, ever since I have entered into life; and, had I not experienced the miser's gripe, had I not felt oppression's weight, I could now walk uncaptioned on the
Exchange,
with a thousand pounds in my pocket. Let any man first shew a better oeconomy, and he shall then be free to censure mine.
I cannot chuse my life, continued he, all that rests upon me is to make the best of it, as it occurs. My desires are reasonable—above dependance, but below ambition, and I despair not of Providence. Should even this whole world fail me, my hopes remain unabated still, nay rise in measure to my disappointments here. The business of life is so to live, as not to fear to die. This once secured, anxiety is o'er— The rest be Heaven's care. Amen!
CHAP. LXVIII.
MR. Carewe appeared charmed with the spirit and virtue of Mr. Beville's justification, and acknowledged to Mr. Andrews, that the generous warmth, with which that gentleman had expressed himself, upon this occasion, had stampt an higher character for him, in his mind, than any thing he had yet seen, or heard of him, till then, had been able to raise.
In fine, said he, I think that both he and you have revived the credit of the antient philosophy, and restored to poverty its former dignity, in your single and singular characters.
Regum aequabat opes animis.
I wish you could also, added he, bring back the golden patronage as happily, that some Pollio, or Macaenas, might seek you out amidst sequestered groves, and
"Beckon modest merit from the shade."
In the mean time, as Pliny says,
Est quidam vera felicitas, felicitate dignum videri.
Mr. Andrews bowed, and returned him equal thanks for his encomiums both upon his friend, and himself; and then replied, that he had never considered poverty in the abject light that the world is too apt to do. There are two sorts of pride, said he, with regard to this point. One, the antient and philosophie spirit, which chose, and gloried in it; the other, the modern, and beggarly one, that avoids, and is ashamed of it.
But poverty, in itself, is so far from being mean, that it requires certain accidents, to render it so. Ignoble birth, servile office, low condescensions, vulgar manners, dishonest actions, or poorness of spirit. Any of these particulars, indeed, may debase poverty to meanness; but will they not, at the same time, diminish the grandeur of riches?
Poverty, continued he, hurts our credit, only on the
Change,
yet even there, character alone, has raised a fortune; but considered singly, excludes us not from a
court.
The opulence of Plato enriched not his philosophy, but the indigence of Socrates has reflected a lustre upon his. Is there then a soul so poor, as not to prefer a pedigree from the latter, to the whole lineage of Attalus?
Just as Mr. Andrews had finished this expression, Mr. Beville and the children came rioting into the room, to acquaint them that dinner was on the table. They passed the remainder of this day more chearfully together, than any of the former, except a sigh or furtive tear, which would often escape involuntarily from Andrews, and sometimes from Beville, also.
CHAP. LXIX.
HERE give me leave, Mr. Reader, to offer you a further proof of the authenticity of these memoirs, from an observation I shall make upon some parts of the two preceding chapters. And first, there is a very obvious
personality,
perceivable in the warmth, feeling, and lively resentment, which Mr. Beville has expressed in his defence, so different from the natural coldness of
composition,
that must certainly, to a critic, manifest some real and peculiar adaption in it, and sufficiently evince these writings to be genuine.
But the particular which most eminently points out the ingenuousness of this whole performance, is the high encomiums which Mr. Carewe bestows upon the characters of both Mr. Andrews, and Mr. Beville. Supposing this triumvirate to be three real, and distinct persons, such politeness might very fairly have passed between ingenious persons, and friends; but, upon the hypothesis of its being merely a novel, where every thing that is said, in whatsoever character, is to be directly imputed to the author, such
self-applause,
admissible in no case whatever, except the testimony of a clear conscience, would certainly be most abominable.
For though the commendatory verses, which one often sees prefixed to the works of several modern writers, seem to savour a good deal of this vanity, yet still they are but the compliments of others,
though published by themselves.
And notwithstanding the express eulogies, which some of the antients have left us of their own works, as the
Non usitatâ nec tenui ferar
Pennâ biformis per liquidum aethera
Vates,—
of Horace;
The
Exegi monumentum aere perennius,
Regalique situ pyramidum altius,
of ditto;
The
Jamque opus exegi, quod nec Jovis ira, nec ignes,
Nec poterit ferrum, nec edax abolere vetustas,
of Ovid;
What Hesiod tells us,
that the muses had given him a white wand, and a branch of laurel; had breathed into him a divine song, and taught him to celebrate things past, and prophesy things to come.
What Homer, in his hymn to Apollo, boasts of,
that when it shall be inquired who is the sweetest singer among men, you may make answer, (dictating to the god) it is the blind bard who dwells in
Chios,
and whose songs excel all human harmony.
Nay, even the modest Virgil has his
Ille Ego
too, with other similar passages of flattering authority, might seem to warrant a presumption of this kind, yet these are to be considered as
prophetical vaunts,
or
poetical licences,
only, which have never yet been indulged to
vulgar prose,
and therefore can by no means be justified in an humble writer of simple memoirs, who pretends not the least claim to
inspiration,
of any kind. For I speak as I think, and I think as I please.
CHAP. LXX.
JUST about this crisis, and after an interval of five years silence, I received the following letter by post, directed to my father's, from my old acquaintance and condisciple, whom I mentioned to you before. Dear Andrews, cried Mr. Carewe, you cannot imagine what pleasure it gives me to have that careless lively fellow brought upon the stage, once more. He comes in critically here too, said he, to relieve your mind, and give a new turn to your thoughts; and will, at the same time, treat me too, with a little variety, and satisfy my longing to be somewhat farther acquainted with this irregular genius. But the letter, the letter—
The Letter.
Old Friend,
I MAY well call you so, for it really seems an age, since we parted. I never forgot you, however, but thought of you as often as I could of any thing, in the dissipated kind of life I have ever since led. It was what you would have stiled perfect
squirely.
But I have lately taken one thought into my head, that will probably last for life; and am very busy, at present, in collecting my scattered affections together, to place them all upon a single object.
In fine, I am to be married, without reprieve, on the tenth day of next month; and, as it is usual for the dearest connections to attend the departure of a friend, I intreat the favour of your flying to me directly, on the receipt of this summons, to accompany me at my approaching execution.
Here now, I expect that you will throw one of your
systems
at my head. What! to open the solemn nuptial scene, at once, without an amorous prologue? But methinks, in this instance, I act the philosopher's part better than you would do—You guided by your passion— I governed by my reason. I wanted her fortune to improve my estate; and her alliance to strengthen my interest.
The deeds are engrossing, and I expect you.
Adieu.
P. S.
My affectionate compliments attend our Windsor friend, Will Beville, and I beg the favour of him to accept this postscript as an invitation to afford me the pleasure of his company, along with you.
The same man still, I find, said Mr. Carewe; Not the least alteration, replied Mr. Andrews. On the receipt of this letter, my former fondness for him began to revive, I needed exercise and amusement, myself, in my then weak and solitary state, and was also pleased at an opportunity of releasing poor Mr. Beville from his heavy confinement. So we both of us agreed, in his own phrase,
to attend him,
took leave of our amiable friend, the clergyman, and accordingly set out together, in about a week after the receipt of this letter.
CHAP. LXXI.
HE received us with his usual briskness, and seemed particularly pleased to see me. His character ran through his whole oeconomy. His living was extempore. A market, at six miles distance, supplied him with every thing in his house, and his demesne was over-run with deer and horses. Within, all hurry, and no order; and without, a number of improvements begun, but nothing finished.
For his way was, whenever he resolved upon any thing, he immediately commenced it; and, if any other whim came into his head, before he had compleated the first, he took off his
hands,
directly, to enter upon that also, for fear he should forget it. So that his whole demesne was but a confused heap of
memorandums,
and might not improperly be stiled
Notes for improvements.
Before his house was laid out a
mile
avenue, of
fifty yards
long; behind it, a
Caspian Sea,
with
an hogshead of water
in it; on one side, was an obelisk, three feet high; and on the other, a
rialto,
of
half an arch.
His garden was but half inclosed, in one corner of which stood the
four seasons,
huddled together in
a groupe,
as in the
chaos;
and in the midst of them were seen
time,
and a
sun-dial,
lying
in wait
for their pedestals.
I found my friend much impaired since I last saw him, both in his looks, health, and manners. His face was emaciated, his hand shook, and instead of that free, disengaged air, which used to give the grace of youth and fashion to all his words, and actions, he had contracted a stiffness in his gesture, a constraint in his address, and a certain
mediocrité
throughout his whole appearance.
I essayed him a little, upon literary topics, but he soon cut me short, by acknowledging that he had not read one
crabbed line,
as he termed it, ever since we had parted. And why, after all, said he, should we idle away our time, after the concerns of the
past world,
when
the present
supplies us with sufficient occupation, for our whole lives? I perfectly agree with you, my dear friend, replied I, that the
current world
may very wisely employ the full measure of our time, provided that we consider it,
not as a distinct interval, but as a commencement of the next.
I know,
doctor,
said he, smiling on me, that theological philosophy is always for
blending of systems;
but I hope that I do not separate these two, myself, when I declare that I take the whole duty of man, both absolutely and relatively considered, to consist in these three things: Fear God, honour the king, and pay twenty shillings in the pound. Which, in my opinion, added he, fully comprehend the scope of all our religious, civil, and moral obligations.
Beville and I strolled into his study, the morning after our arrival, and took a survey of his books. They were but few. About a dozen volumes of plays, novels, and miscellanies, Bolton's Justice, with Hobbe's, Woolston's, Tindal's, and Chubb's works, Shaftsbury's Characteristics, and Bolingbroke's philosophical writings, composed his whole library.
At length the nuptial morn arrived. Our friend dressed himself in the gayest manner, for the occasion, and we all took coach together, to wait upon the bride—To commence that fatal course of the supremest bliss, or deepest misery.
CHAP. LXXII.
WE got thither about two o'clock, at noon, and were accosted with a great deal of rustic hospitality, by the parent squire, and two
familiar cousins
of the family. Sack and cakes were immediately called for, and the father, filling up an half-pint rummer, presented it to the bridegroom, crying, Pop down this
primer,
my young soldier, for a man must make but a feeble assault on't, that has not a
dram
of courage in him. Ha, ha, ha! good, good! damn'd good, that! cried the cousins.
My friend excused himself from the draught, saying that he needed no such auxiliary, that he should not be found bashful on the field of battle, that he had seen
Pharsalia,
&c. Pharsalia, Pharsalia, cried the old gentleman, why that is not my wench's name, d'ye mind me; she was christened
Ethelinda,
I remember very well— Her godmother was an old romantic maiden lady, and had picked up that unchristian name, out of some heathenish book, or other.
That may be, Sir, said I, winking at my friend, but lovers claim an ancient privilege, stiled
Poetica Licentia,
of giving their mistresses a sort of poetical baptism, and of borrowing names from history, or romance.
Very good, very good, replied the squire; but, prithee, says he, who was this same—what's the word? Pharsalia, replied I. Ay, this same Pharsalia, that I find is now become my daughter's
nick-name?
That is a name, replied I, well known in antient story, at whose relentless feet many thousands have died, in strife to win her. A cruel jade, a cruel jade, quoth the squire—The beauties of your
outlandish times,
continued he, were terrible people, terrible people, indeed, Sir. But, thank our stars, they are all of them
distinct,
now. Dead and gone, and rotten too, for all their conceit, I dare say, long before this. And there is no dying for love now-a-days, not in the least, not in the least, Sirs; no more dying for love, I assure you, gentlemen. So my gallants, you may
set your hearts at rest,
for the future, believe me. Ha, ha, ha!
Don't you think, continued he, addressing himself more particularly, to me, that we are much wiser now, than your
old people
were
formerly?
I cannot tell, Sir, said I, for I never was in company with any of them, and I never pretend to judge of persons characters, by
hearsay.
Very right, very right, good Sir, replied the squire, as they are not
heretofore,
to answer for themselves, it would not be
quite fair
to be too hard upon them. You really seem to have good notions, right notions, indeed, Sir, added he, taking me by the hand, and bruising my knuckles, when luckily a servant came in to my relief, by annoncing us that dinner was upon the table.
CHAP. LXXIII.
THE squire led the way, and we followed him into the parlour, where we saluted the ladies, and took our places. I was struck with the whole air, and person of the bride, altogether, but did not fix my eyes upon her attentively enough to distinguish her beauties, out of regard to good breeding; as the looks of a stranger might have thrown her into confusion, at such a delicate crisis as this.
And indeed, this politeness I soon found to be but common humanity toward her; for she had a world of
sorry mirth
to sustain, from the vulgar facetiousness of her father, and cousins, who exhausted all the common-place jests, and railleries, that are usually thrown out by
merry dulness,
upon such occasions.
The bridegroom too, joined in the same
stupid humour,
though I said every thing I could to restrain him from it. I hinted to him, in French, that though, in the rest, it might be ill breeding only, in him it was indecent, also. He replied that he had a design in it, for coyness was troublesome, and that he always observed when womon once became familiar with
ideas,
they were seldom apt to start at
things.
I answered that he must not only be an indelicate, but an indiscreet husband too, who would desire to lessen a wife's modesty; but to call in foreign aid, for that purpose, added I, is gross indeed!
The father still went on, blundering in sense, and mistaking in expression. While the
familiar
cousins made more than amends, by speaking rather
too plain,
arresting every innocent word that was uttered, by any of the ladies, and torturing it to confess a
double entendre.
Among all the improper behaviour of men toward women, I think that the wresting a single to a double sense, is the most inexcuseable. A rape upon their persons, may have some temptation, but one on their words can possibly have none; and the violating an innocent expression into an immodest sense, may justly be censured under this harsh appellation.
There is certainly, in some men, such a malady, as
grossness of ears,
which, like a dull medium, gives a bluntness to the acutest sounds. I would have the
aures asini
affixed to such an head, which, like Midas, prefers a satyr's voice, to the melody of Apollo; and that may be compared to blisters, which extract only the foulest humours. Immodest wits may be resembled to beggars, who betray their poverty, by exposing their
nakedness.
CHAP. LXXIV.
DUring the entertainment, the parlour door was left open, to stun us with the noise of shrill fiddles, and hoarse hautboys; which supplied still fresh occasion of insipid mirth, by affording opportunities of calling for certain tunes, with arch names; but, at the same time, they served to drown a good deal of the ribaldry that was bandied about, while the dinner lasted, which therefore, in some sort, reconciled me to the interruption, for that time.
But I have generally thought the introduction of music, at meals, to be a most absurd entertainment. Friends are more particularly selected, and assembled at these times, to be chearful and sociable together; 'tis therefore, most highly improper to suffer any kind of avocation to intrude upon such jovial occasions, which may either divert the attention, or lay the free circulation of familiar converse, under any manner of difficulty, or restraint. Is there a scold, an evil spirit, or a
tarantula,
in company!
When a person treats his guests with music, at meals, he should always provide each of them with a
speaking trumpet,
to fill the concert, lest the
vocal
should be found too weak for the
instrumental.
At least, I think that the company ought to converse together in
recitative,
only.
I met with a sign once, in Ireland, that was perfectly emblematical of such an absurdity. It was a cat eating a mouse, and playing on the bagpipes, at the same time. Is this an Irish blunder? No—It is there only, that it is not one. For music may not improperly be blended with conversation, where most people speak
with a tune.
Pere Le Compte, describing the manners of the Chinese, says that they eat and drink to a certain measure, which is marked by a person who stands at the side-board, and
bea
during the dinner. He farther adds, that they never speak a word during meals, but that their whole address of compliment, is performed by gesture, and grimace, only. Music would not be impertinent at such festivals as these; and might likewise, have not been improperly introduced at Belshazzar's impious feast, where all the guests were struck dumb at once.
Socrates, in the Protagoras, reprehending the
sophist,
for quoting poetry in a philosophical argument, compares it to
certain ignorant people, who, for want of sense to entertain their company, have their feasts accompanied by music.
CHAP. LXXV.
ABOUT six o'clock in the evening, we were summoned into the drawing-room to tea, where we found the parson ready to perform his office. After the ceremony was over, every one saluted the bride, in course; and when the squire gave her his blessing, perceiving that she trembled a good deal, he cried out, Hey girl, are you falling into a
panatic?
Look ye there, look ye there, said he, pointing to her mother, she had the same
frantics,
in her time, wench, and yet you see that she is still alive, to tell the story—The cousins, the parson, and the footmen laughed.
After tea the music struck up again, and the ball began; the father and mother led up, I excused myself from mirth, Beville danced with the bride, the bridegroom with one of the paranymphs, first cousin with the other, the parson with
my lady's woman,
and second cousin with a chair.
These six couple
jigged it away,
as one of the cousins termed it, for the rest of the evening, with a great deal of rustic mirth and jocularity; the only part of which that I remember, was what the parson said, on their first setting out. Exulting at the preference he had obtained over poor second coz, who stood next under him, What, Mr. Tom, said he, are you tired already? Tired, Sir, tired! prithee how came such a crotchet into your
nobb,
Mr. Parson? Why really, Mr. Tom, replied he, is it not natural to suppose that a man is so, when he
takes a chair?
Here a loud laugh—Ay, but doctor, doctor,
parson upon Dorothy,
I have this advantage over you, again, that when I am tired, I may rest myself in my partner's lap, which is a liberty you dare not take for your cassock, doctor—Here a louder laugh—
Mr. Beville entertained his fair partner with his usual good breeding. He talked to her of indifferent matters, in the gay and polite world; of plays, music, and dress—Not upon any particular modes of the latter, but treating it only as a general topic, and exposing the improprieties, and extravagancies of certain fashions, where caprice reigned alone. From whence he took occasion of comparing taste and wit together, which, however they may strike upon the fancy, at first, are equally false, said he, if one be not founded in sense, and the other in nature.
He found her extremely attentive, intelligent, diffident, and modest. He treated her like a rational creature,
notwithstanding her youth, and beauty;
and was so perfectly polite all the evening, as to keep quite clear of every subject, hint, or expression, which might even glance, or seem to allude to the circumstances of her present situation.
During supper, he and I both concurred in the same sentiment, and endeavoured, as much as possible, to parry all the rude merriment that was thrown out, upon this occasion. The chaplain though, pressed us hard, for he shewed himself indeed, most truly orthodox—in all the mysteries of weddings and christenings—which, by the warmth of his imagination, he joined so close together, in his expressions, that in a bottle or two more, I believe he would, like the projector in Tristram Shandy, have proceeded to baptize the infant,
slap dash, in potentiâ rerum.
Our difficulty, with regard to this gentleman, lay here; that we could not tell how to reprimand a person, under his
character,
without saying some things, at the same time, too severe for good breeding, or the laws of hospitality. We contented ourselves, therefore, with taking him in the groupe, and giving a turn to their
prolific ein
of conversation, by entering into country politics, in which none of us were in the least concerned, or abusing the ministry— because they had never provided for any of us, with such other squirely topics; in which the rest of the company ingaged with
modern
patriot warmth
In some manuscripts the expression is
party rage,
and in others
pet-valiant fury.
; to moderate the ardour of which, we frequently interluded with quibbling upon words, or retailing
Joe Miller's Jests.
Chusing rather, to be silly, or stupid, than loose, or profane—And in this turn too, they equally joined us, with
native
humour, and most
mortifying
applause.
The stocking thrown, we retired.
CHAP. LXXVI.
WHEN Mr. Beville and I were lest alone, we commented upon the incidents of the day; and agreed together, that none of the men wanted understanding, within their own sphere, but yet, from an ignorance of the rules of good breeding and decorum, had rendered themselves either ridiculous, or absurd, during the course of the whole entertainment.
We then pursued this subject up to a general reflection, and Mr. Beville very justly observed, that some of the characters which had distinguished the antients, seemed to be quite lost among us, at present. We have neither a Socrates, nor an Alcibiades now, said he. The good are formal, the wise severe, and the learned pedantic: while the young shew little spirit, but against religion, the gay are profligate, and the unlettered unmannered also.
Abroad, continued he, we hear that
appearances
at least, are still preserved; and as charity is said
to cover a multitude of sins,
so politeness has the address to conceal a number of faults; and 'tis some merit, certainly, to be able to palliate a defect in morals, with the decent substitute of manners.
From this reflection we carried our observations up to the British constitution, both of church and state; by taking notice that the freedom which we are too apt to indulge ourselves in, of framing the councils both of our God, and king, gives a certain bravery perhaps, to our speech and actions, which may possibly render us greater heroes in a state of war, but are quite incompatible with a state of peace. Our ebullient spirits become impatient of inactivity, and where a foreign enemy does not unite our prowess, we are too prone to create a sort of civil discord among ourselves, and set one half of the nation at strife against the other; either by the sword, or by the pen.
By this means, the ingenuous arts of life become neglected, the generous emulation of genius subsides, all civil commerce is interrupted among us, that traffic chiefly encouraged, which tends merely toward luxury and profuseness, and merit is allowed no other test, but that of
party,
only. Thus do we grow invalids from too much health, and even our wealth but furnishes us with means of impoverishing ourselves again.
We then parted, and retired to rest. The next morning, we escorted the bride home to her new empire; the father, mother, paranymphs, first, and second coz, with the parson, forming our cavalcade; who all returned back again, the next day.
CHAP. LXXVII.
WHEN we had passed a week together, Mr. Beville and I attempted to take our leave, but were pressed by our friend, to pass, at least,
the honey-moon,
with him, as he stiled it; in which invitation, the fair
Ethelinda
joined him, with such an air of hospitality, and politeness, that we readily consented to their request.
She was tall, finely proportioned, fair, and of most captivating beauty; she had a grace and decency in her air, motion, and gesture, with so remarkable a mildness and modesty in her countenance, that one might imagine nature had infused no more blood into her body, than what was just sufficient to blush in her cheeks. In fine, there was something in her look and manner, altogether, which won one's friendship, at first sight; and I may pronounce that whoever saw her even once, with a heart not preingaged, could scarcely have it to offer, but at second hand, to another.
I attended to her sentiments and conduct, during the time I remained in the house, and observed that she was possessed of a disposition singularly compassionate, and humane. Her charity was extensive; but I have known it sometimes restrained, by the fear of having it taken notice of. Her moral was curbed by her modesty alone.
My friend and condisciple was a most unfit character to be yoked with hers. He was very inconsistent, had a princely grandeur in some things, and a pedling meanness in others. His mind might be compared to an old
mansion-house,
with a few large rooms, but crowded with closets.
His temper too, was incertain; for caprice, good-humour, and passion, used to shift so quick upon you, that there was no prescribing to oneself any certain measure of conduct toward him. His chearfulness resembled the air pent up between two hills, which in the calmest day is subject to be disturbed by
squalls.
He had no steady principle of action, neither. He would strike his dependents this hour, and make them presents, the next. He often gave charity, but repented of it as often, so that he impoverished his purse, without enriching his soul.
He was indefatigable at all country diversions, without understanding any of them; and might literally be said to be
a slave
to his sports, for he was
master
of none. So that I have sometimes known him to
lounge
away whole evenings on the couch, like a tired post-boy, lamenting the fatigue, without resenting the pleasure. He used to drink hard, though it always made him sick; and seemed generally to prefer inferior company, which appeared too visibly in his manners. He who ever affects to be the highest of his company, will probably become, in time, to be the lowest of it.
He had been but little conversant in polite life; for want of which he had contracted an uncouthness in his manner, and a freedom in his speech and behaviour, that must be extremely disgusting to a woman of delicacy, or breeding. Joined to all which, he had fallen under the common prejudices of weak, or vulgar minds; namely, a gross suspicion of female chastity, and an ignorant contempt of all women's understandings. The fair and polite Ethelinda, soon saw, felt, and mourned her disappointment.
CHAP. LXXVIII.
SHE had no visitors while we staid in the house, for it was in the months of November and December, the nights dark, and the roads impassable; so that all the compliments she received upon her coming into the country, were only cards of congratulation on her marriage, and postponing visits till the spring.
Her husband used to spend his mornings in hunting or shooting, and his evenings in carousals, or sleeping on the couch. So that her whole time was left intirely at her own disposal; which she used to divide between working, reading, painting, and music; during which occupations, Mr. Beville and I would relieve, or assist her, by turns.
We used to read to her while she was employed at her pencil, or her needle, and accompany her at the harpsichord, which concert she much improved by the addition of a fine voice. We used at first, to call upon our friend, to take his part, as I remembered he had formerly been a good performer on the violin; but he had only one in the house, which he resigned to Mr. Beville, and shewed so little relish to an entertainment of that elegant nature, that he would not even send into the neighbourhood to borrow one.
In these amusements though, he would sometimes interrupt us. He would stride across the carpets, with dirty boots, give his wife a rustic smack, then a stroke of his whip over her petticoats, and cry,
these jessamin philosophers, girl, will turn your head. Knitting and pastry are fitter occupations for a housewife. Knowledge was the first thing that destroyed your sex, my dear, and the devil has never so sure an hold of a woman, as when he makes her learned.
With other such common-place sarcasms as these.
The greatest difficulty that Mr. Beville and I had at first, to struggle with here, was to get ourselves excused from drinking; but as our host had remembered that we had both of us always declined the least excess of this kind, he would
after this glass, or that bottle, or clear the deck, or just take what is in the room,
with such other dalliances of debauchery, suffer us to
make our escape;
which I take to be the justest expression, in all the peculiar phraseology of drinking.
CHAP. LXXIX.
AFTER this manner did we pass the
honey-moon
together; till toward the latter end of it, Mr. Beville began to grow silent, thoughtful, and disturbed; neglected his favourite studies, and used to take long and solitary walks in the wood. I quickly perceived the change, and spoke to him upon it. He replied, that he had lost his spirits, rest, and appetite, of late, and apprehended that some disease was undermining his constitution, by slow degrees.
His danger, together with a languid and dejected look which he cast upon me, at the same time, resembling the last view I had had of his dear sister, produced such a sudden effect in me, that I could not recover myself again, for the remainder of the evening. I retired soon to my apartment, and passed the night in fruitless tears, and vainer wishes.
The next day my dear friend found himself unable to leave his room. I sent immediately for a physician, but he was with difficulty prevailed on to see him. He prescribed some medicines, which he refused to take with an obstinacy which I had never before observed the least symptom of in him. In two days he was confined to his bed, in a raging fever.
I got a pallet into his room, and attended him solely, myself, not suffering even a servant to enter his chamber, on pretence of the danger of communicating his distemper to the family; but more on account of some symptoms in his disorder, which greatly alarmed me with regard to the cause of it.
He raved much, and in his deliriums would frequently repeat the name of Ethelinda. Sometimes he would cry out in an extasy, O she is all angel! nothing but air, voice, and colour! we can but see, hear, and breathe her!
An Anadyomene
Have a little patience, reader, and I'll answer you to that question, by and by. But in the mean time, I must caution both my belle and beau readers, not to mistake this word for
Anno Domini,
for I do assure them that it was in being, long before that aera.
!
an Anadyomene!
O! had Ulysses seen but such a sea-nymph, or Scipio taken such another captive! At other times, Well! I am a a king now, but where is my queen? What is a world without her! with many other extravagancies of the same kind.
The physician attended regularly, but I always took care to keep him waiting in the ante-chamber till I found my dear unhappy friend was composed to rest, that he might have an opportunity of feeling his pulse, and prescribing for him, according to the changes in his disorder, without the hazard of suffering a secret to escape which had already given me such complicated uneasiness, and might farther be attended too with such unhappy consequences.
In a few days he began to recover his reason, and in ten more was pronounced out of danger, though his spirits still continued extremely low. I constantly kept up the appearance of chearfulness in his company, and whenever I found my art begin to fail me, I used to select books of the highest wit and humour I could meet with in the fair Ethelinda's study, to entertain him. Serious or religious writings would have been improper for him, at that time.
I took not the least notice of his raving hints to him, nor did he remember any thing of the matter, himself, or let me any farther into the secret, except by such involuntary intimations as sighing at the sound of her name in a message to inquire his health; or by a visible emotion upon hearing her voice as she walked under his window; with such other
unequivocal
signs of love, more certain than the most explicit declarations of passion.
CHAP. LXXX.
AS his fever was not inflammatory, I did not confine myself so closely to his room after his delirium had ceased, but used to go down to meals, and during the intervals of his rest. I found the tender and humane Ethelinda extremely concerned at Mr. Beville's indisposition, and very assiduous about his cure. She measured the proportions, and compounded the medicines herself, and appointed her servants to relieve each other, by turns, in sitting up every night in the ante-chamber.
She also intreated the favour of her husband not to bring home any of his
jolly blades,
during Mr. Beville's illness, as his chamber happened to lie directly over the dining parlour. He complied indeed with her request, by staying generally abroad with one or other of them.
The first two or three days after I had used to come down out of the sick room, the weather happening to be unfit for sports, the condisciple and I passed most of our time in her dressing-room, which he employed chiefly, in discountenancing her from reading, holding lectures upon huswifry, and passive obedience, or in speaking or romping with her after too free and course a manner, before her maids, or me.
I quickly perceived how much she was disgusted at such sentiments and behaviour, and using the privileges of long and early friendship, I reprehended him for it, sometimes in private, and sometimes before her, as the occasion happened to urge, or that I found her to be affected.
This piece of good breeding rendered her at length, so much at her ease before me, that she used to speak to me with the same freedom as she might to a brother; which, joined to the open and ingenuous frankness of her nature, without the least reserve in her manners, but what modesty, or politeness had inspired, led her to address me thus, one evening, just after my friend, having thrown her into confusion by speaking to her somewhat too indecently before me, had quitted the room and was rating at a footman in the hall.
Pray, Sir, said she, what is the reason that there should be so remarkable a difference in the manners of men? While I am in Mr. Beville's company, or yours, I am sensible of both the pleasure, and the pride of considering myself as a rational and independent creature, a person of some rank, or character, in life; but in the presence of my father, or my husband, I feel the humiliation of finding myself dwindling by turns, into an house-keeper, or a
puppet-doll.
I have, continued she, had but little opportunity of becoming conversant with polite life. I have, indeed, sometimes read the characters of it in books; but in comparing them with those of my father, cousins, the chaplain, and our neighbouring squires, though all of them very good sort of men, in the main, I have hitherto been apt to impute the descriptions I had met with, intirely to the wanton imagination of romance, and used to rank such chimeras in the class of genii's and centaur's. But some observations which I have lately had an occasion of making, added she, and bowing toward me, have convinced me that good breeding is not purely ideal, and that men may be possessed of sense, manners, and virtue, without being above the stature of others, or having the power of rendering themselves invisible.
I bowed, in return, thanked her for her too polite compliment, and replied, that the disadvantages of not being born to rank or fortune, were sometimes compensated by advantages in other things; for that the observations and decorums which were necessary to conduct such persons upon equal terms through life, were things which their superiors in these articles, too frequently looked upon themselves dispensed with from paying a sufficient attention to.
I instanced this matter in courts, where it has been observed, that the most polished manners were generally met with among the second or third classes, rather than in the first. I quoted also from history, that the most shining characters had often risen from privacy to the
purple;
and then concluded this
climax
of heroes with his present majesty of Prussia, who though born a prince, was bred a private man, till his accession to the throne.
However, added I, this observation is not universal, as in the instances of the chaplain, and your cousins, for it is not every one who is born with elasticity enough to spring under a weight; but they, on whom this
gifted
energy may have been bestowed, should only with humble gratitude enjoy the
blessing,
and not with arrogance assume a
merit
from a
grace.
Your argument is just, and fine, replied she, but though your modesty may reduce the
merit,
it can never abate the
excellence,
of such a character.
CHAP. LXXXI.
ONE evening after Ethelinda and I had dined alone, and that Mr. Beville had sat up for two or three days, she proposed to me that we should drink tea together in his apartment. This alarmed me. I did not think that his state, either of health or mind, was sufficiently valid at that time, to stand such an interview.
Besides, the kindness and condescension of it too, might possibly, I feared every thing, have too much flattered his hopes. I knew his honour, and his moral perfect, and had conceived as high an opinion of her innocence and virtue. But then again, he had
passion,
and she
sensibility.
Upon these considerations I declined the proposal, saying that Mr. Beville would be extremely distressed at receiving a visit from a lady whom he had so much respect for, in his present
deshabille.
Never mind a punctilio of that kind, she replied, I have visited the sick often before; my father's gout has made nurse-tending familiar to me, and if I am willing to dispense with forms, said she, surely neither of you can possibly have any reason to be difficult about them.
I then thought it proper to assume an higher key, and told her that my apprehension was by no means, that Mr. Beville would not be pleased with the honour of her visit, but that I feared he might perhaps be
too well pleased
with it. Which last words I pronounced with a look and emphasis, that sufficiently marked their import.
The lovely Ethelinda blushed, and cast down her modest eyes, at this expression. I found myself too far advanced to retreat, I therefore hurried on as fast as I could, to rid myself of a subject which I so little cared to dwell upon. I gave her then an account of every particular, since my having first observed the change in Mr. Beville, just in the same manner I have now recited them to you.
She was silent for some minutes, and then replied with a sigh, I confess, Sir, that I am both concerned and surprised at this misfortune of your friend; but as Mr. Beville has shewn so much good breeding and respect toward me, as never to have given me the most distant hint of his improper passion, it would be injustice in me to express any manner of resentment upon an accidental discovery of so unhappy an event.
But your own good sense and prudence, Sir, continued she, lifting up her head, must certainly think it extremely proper to remove your friend, as far as may be, from this unlucky scene, whenever the safety of his health may permit. I wish him every success and happiness that his merit deserves, or his virtue can desire; I approve his manners, and esteem his character—My circumstances in life forbid me to say, or even to think more; but even thus far, Sir, said she, with a severer air, you must not be at liberty to pronounce; for what has escaped me, in justice to your friend, might not perhaps, in honour to myself, be proper to repeat.
I bowed respectfully, and having passed my word that I would never suffer the least hint of this conversation to transpire to Mr. Beville, I went up to his chamber and found him moving about the room by the assistance of the tables and chairs, trying his strength, as he told me, with a design of beginning his journey on the next day, if possible.
I was pleased at this motion arising from himself, but told him that I was afraid his health would not permit him to set out so soon. To which he replied, that he was pretty certain he should be able to perform the first day's journey, in our friend's coach, and that if he should not have strength enough to continue his route on horseback, he would much rather linger at an inn, than where he was, for that he began to feel himself extremely uneasy at the trouble and difficulties his disorder had subjected the family to. Adding, that he had stronger reasons still, for removing himself, even at the hazard of his life, from that too fatal scene of his present misery.
These words he pronounced with an heavy sigh, and faltering accent, which however, I did not seem to take the least notice of, but replied, that I would speak for the coach as soon as our friend should return home that evening. Then shifting the discourse to general topics, I remained with him till he retired to rest, and then went immediately down stairs.
CHAP. LXXXII.
WHEN I came into the parlour I found our friend just returned home. He was much fuddled, told us that he had spent a jovial day among a parcel of
, of the first head,
but was somewhat afraid that the wine had not been quite sound, for it began to make him sick already, and that he would, with my leave, retire immediately to bed.
I advised him to take an emetic first, which he promised to do, and went away, desiring his wife to stay and entertain me at supper, which just then came upon the table. But she excused herself, saying that duty should ever take the lead of civility. Then desiring me to drink the healths of all my sick friends, walked up stairs to her chamber, along with him.
I had no manner of inclination to sit down alone, and would have declined it, but from a nicety about giving offence to the hospitality of my hosts. I therefore went through the supper with an appearance of appetite, and then filling up a bumper, drank, with a truly sincere heart, the double toast which our fair landlady had recommended to me, joining her health and happiness along with it.
Thus left alone, I began to reflect, as usual, upon the unhappy circumstances of poor Beville's fortunes, and my own. I revolved many schemes in my mind, but what signifies reasoning, without premisses? At length I resolved upon this measure, that we should both join our little fund and application together, toward assisting Mr. Beville, the father, in vindicating his rights against his deputy, and then live with him till my father should have extricated his fortune out of the courts; and afterwards, enter jointly into some project of life, together, upon the fund of two thousand pounds, which I had paid for my sister's portion, and which was confessedly my due.
While I was revolving these thoughts in my mind, the post arrived, and the packet of letters was laid upon the table, among which I saw one directed to myself. I opened it, and found it to be from our worthy friend, the clergyman, before-mentioned; the contents of which were these, continued Mr. Andrews, taking a letter out of his desk, and presenting it to Mr. Carewe to peruse.
CHAP. LXXXIII.
The Letter.
London.
Dear Sir,
I Staid a few days here, after my good friends, Mr. Beville and you, had left it. The minister of St. Martin's, in whose parish I found out that your father lived, was my old acquaintance, and cotemporary, at Oxford. I paid him a visit, renewed my intimacy with him, entered into the subject of your situation and circumstances, and got him, very readily indeed, to concur with me in jointly employing our good offices and address, toward bringing your father into a proper sense, both of your merit, and his own duty.
My friend invited me to dinner, the next day, and introduced me to your father, without dropping the least hint of my profession, having before directed me to lay aside my clerical habit, upon that occasion; telling me, that Mr. Andrews, though a most rigid churchman, had, from some personal disgust, conceived a strong prejudice against the
private character
of a clergyman; and that one moral sent
, spoken by a
lay-man,
would have more weight with him, than fifty, pronounced by an
hireling,
as he is apt to stile
a parson.
We spent the day very chearfully together, and I played off his own character, so successfully against himself, by helping him to
roast the parson,
who pretended sometimes to be serious upon it, in order to heighten the sport, that I won his affections so far as to be invited to dine with him the following day, which I most readily accepted of.
The next day, after dinner, I asked your father what had possessed him with such a resentment against the clergy, considered personally, while he appeared, at the same time, to have a very orthodox belief of their appointment, and a just sense of the high importance of their office?
He replied, that his father and brother had been both clergymen; the first disinherited him, in favour of a second wife's children, and the latter had left him involved for five hundred pounds, which had given him a mortal aversion to the
cassock.
This story I had been apprised of before, by my friend, and only led him into it, in order to supply an occasion of exclaiming loudly, against the injustice of his father, toward him, which I did.
Yes, Sir, said he, and if you'll consider at the same time, that I was not, on my part, guilty of any one act of disobedience, to provoke him to such a
diabolical partiality.
No, Sir, I replied, that is a circumstance, which I can by no means admit into consideration, in such a case as this; for no conduct of a child, which does not contradict the laws of God, or man, can possibly be pretended, as a palliation, for so unparental a severity.
I pressed this subject no farther, at that time, because I did not chuse to let him perceive my design, too abruptly; so I shifted the subject to indifferent matters, and soon after took my leave; having first ingaged him to spend a few days with me, in the country, telling him that the
parson
there, would escort him. I fixed the time afterwards, with my friend, and left London the next morning.
They both of them came down to me, according to agreement, and we passed our time pleasantly enough, as I exerted myself to the utmost stretch of hospitality, toward my new guest. I still concealed my
parsonship,
during the remainder of the week, for though we had prayers, as usual, morn and eve, I appointed my friend of St. Martin's, to the office of chaplain, during that time.
I had your lovely children, my dear Andrews, in the house with me, all the while, and frequently called them into the parlour to fondle with before him, letting them pass for relations of my own. He was struck with their beauty, and used to take them often on his knee, by turns. I have sometimes felt myself a little aukward, on account of my disingenuousness toward him; but then I quickly solved it again, by thinking that if ever a
pious fraud
was allowable, it must be in so virtuous a cause as this.
At length, Sunday morning arrived. I sent off my guests to church before me, and when I had put on my proper garb, I followed them, walking through the isle, directly into the desk, where my friend the clergyman had taken his place before me, after having seated Mr. Andrews in a pew opposite to the pulpit. St. Martin's read prayers, and I preached that day, upon a text selected for the occasion, namely, the fifth commandment.
In this discourse, I carried the duty of children up to the highest degree, by shewing first, the general sense of mankind, upon this article, from the earliest account of nations, and among even the most savage race of men; and then wound up my doctrine, by confirming this great natural, and moral obligation, with the express command of God.
I then proceeded to consider, on the other hand, the great and alarming duty of parents toward their children; which point I carried even higher than the former. For after having first inculcated it from nature, morals, and universal concurrence, I pleaded even the silence of the decalogue, in this article, as an argument to confirm it.
We have, said I, a command, not
to kill;
but none against
suicide.
We have also a precept to
love our neighbour;
but none to
love our child.
And this, because it was thought superfluous to frame injunctions, for, or against things, whereof the passion, or aversion, had been so strongly rooted already, both in our reason, and our nature.
Upon the whole, I concluded, that an unkind parent must be considered as a reprobate both to reason, to nature, and to
grace;
and I preached the sermon, with that natural, and most persuasive kind of eloquence, exceeding all the arts of oratory, with which a person is indued upon a subject where his mind is convinced, and his heart affected.
During the duties of this morning, I did not attend to any particular, which did not relate immediately to the offices of the day; therefore, I could not perceive what manner of effect, either my unexpected appearance, under a new and solemn character, or the arguments of my doctrine, might have produced, upon my most immediate object, next to God; but, on my descending into the isle, and saluting Mr. Andrews in the midst of the congregation, he seemed to be in a sort of confusion, and received my address with a certain distant respect, and awed obeisance, which gratified me extremely— not from
cleric pride,
but
christian charity.
As we walked home together from church, he asked me why I had concealed my profession from him, all this while? To which I answered, that in general, I neither took pains to reveal, or conceal it, but would however, rather chuse to suffer that particular, always to remain a secret, among strangers. Because, said I, should they happen to be
good, and formal,
epithets too frequently joined, the awe of it might, possibly, throw some restraint upon the freedom of conversation; and if
profligate, and ill-bred,
which are terms as often coupled, it might tempt such characters to become rather too free. We should be
Christians,
every where, said I, turning toward our friend of St. Martin's, but
parsons,
only in our pulpits.
During the remainder of the day, I behaved toward your father, with the same ease and freedom as usual, but perceived that he, on his part, seemed to hold a greater reserve over his speech and manners, than before. I took notice of this particular to him, and he ingenuously confessed to me, that he could not readily got the better of the surprise which had seized him, upon seeing me walk through the isle in the sacred habit, and take my place at the desk, before he had been in the least apprised of my profession; and that the suddenness of the transition, from my supposed, to my real character, had struck him somewhat like a divine vision, and impressed his mind with a certain religious awe, which he could not, for that day at least, nor desired, during his life, ever to get the better of.
In the evening, I brought your dear infants into the parlour, in my arms, and placing them on their little knees before him, said, Since this has been a day for discovering of secrets, Sir, I shall now acquaint you with one, which is of infinitely greater moment to you, than that which you were let into this morning—Here, Sir, are your grandchildren—whose mother your cruelty has already sent weeping to the grave, has reduced their father to a wandering exile, and driven these lovely
innocents, these peculiar favourites of our redeemer,
crying to a stranger's gates for bread.
The strength of my expression, with the sternness of my look, and the voice of authority, which I thought proper to assume upon so justifiable an occasion, threw Mr. Andrews into the utmost confusion; and I could perceive a certain mixture of shame, horror, and self-condemnation, in his countenance, at the same time.
I turned carelesly aside, to leave him at liberty to collect himself, and indeed in order to hide my own disturbance, also. Upon which, he hastily laid his hands on the children's heads, crying, in an hurry, God bless you, God bless you both. Then saying he was not very well, he suddenly quitted the room, and retired to his chamber. I then snatched up the children in my arms, kissed them, and wept; while the sportive innocents sat smiling at each other, and clubbing their little mischief together, to throw off my wig upon the floor.
Mr. Andrews came in to supper, and after the cloth had been removed, he addressed himself to me thus: You accosted me this evening, Sir, said he, with such a suddenness, and severity, that I must confess myself to have been totally deprived of all power of vindicating my character, from so heavy a charge.
I am truly sorry for the fatal consequences you have mentioned to me; but then, Sir, I hope you will admit, that these have arisen solely from my son's own undutifulness, and cannot, therefore, be in the least imputed to my
cruelty,
as you were pleased, just now, to stile it. He married, without my consent, and
without a portion;
and as my fortune is in my own power, I have but exercised my right, in making a will, which, in proper time, may shew the
gentleman
my just resentment, against so high an act of disobedience.
Sir, said I, whatever the tenour of our lives may be, we ought to be more particularly careful of the last, than about any other act of it. A will, Sir, though perfected at any time of our lives, as it is not to take effect, till after our death, ought certainly to be considered in this most interesting light; and we should therefore, never attempt to sit down to so tremendous a work, but in such a temper of charity and forgiveness, as we would perform any other action in our latest moments
This point was enough for the clergyman to insist on, upon this occasion; but Marcus Aurelius carries the moral farther, by advising to consider
every
action of our lives, as if it were to be our last.
.
Sir, said he, all this may be very ingenious reasoning, for any thing I know, but as the laws of the land have invested me with an
absolute dominion
over my fortune, I think that no person whatsoever, can possibly urge
a claim of right,
against me;
a petition of favour,
is the utmost they can pretend to, and my eldest son, by disobedience, has forfeited even this pretence.
Dear Sir, I replied, we are not here litigating this point, according to law, but merely debating it agreeably to justice. Your
absolute dominion
I dispute not, but Heaven is not a court of
law,
but of
equity;
before which dread tribunal, a suppliant is required to do justice first, himself, before he can be intitled to receive it. And, believe me, Sir, continued I, with a stedfast look, that whoever has not virtue sufficient to distinguish between a
right,
and a
power,
is a casuist for the devil.
These last expressions seemed to startle him; he immediately appeared to retire into his own thoughts, and a dead silence ensued on all sides, for some minutes; till the bell rang for family prayers, which I administered myself; and had the sincere pleasure to observe that Mr. Andrews joined in them with a more emphatical devotion, than usual.
Our supper passed away in general subjects, but a good deal constrained; and the next morning, Mr. Andrews took his leave, and returned back to London. I desired my friend to found him, on the road, and try what effect my lectures and experiments, might have produced upon him.
He did so, and wrote to me, the next post, acquainting me that Mr. Andrews seemed to have been a good deal awed, was more thoughtful than usual, had several times repeated to himself, the words
right,
and
power;
and had treated him, all along, though a
parson,
with somewhat more of decorum, than he was wont to do. But that with regard to the point in question, his only answer, when pressed to it, was, that resentments which had been gradually growing warm, must be allowed time to become cool, by the same degrees, again.
Thus far, my dear Andrews, had I written to you, a month ago, but delayed sending the letter, upon my friend's last hint, in order to wait the final result, either to be able to afford you a successful account of my interposition, altogether, or not to interrupt your resignation and philosophy, with fruitless hopes.
Last Monday I came up to London, in order to feel my patient's pulse again, and accordingly waited upon your father, the next day. I found him in an high fever, but perfectly in his senses, and much pleased to see me. He told me my reasonings had wrought a most salutary effect, upon his too hasty notions of right, and wrong; and that if I would but take the trouble of drawing up a few lines, according to my own sentiments of justice, he would most chearfully subscribe to them. This was immediately performed—I prayed by him, and took my leave— The next day, and the following, his fever increased; and last night, —
I have left every thing in charge with my good friend of St. Martin's, and am just returning to the country again, to embrace my dear little adoptions.
I was young, and now am old, yet never did I see the righteous forsaken, nor their seed begging bread.
Adieu.
CHAP. LXXXIV.
THIS Letter, continued Mr. Andrews, affected me extremely, in various ways; I was charmed with the active virtue of my friend, I rejoiced at the proper, though late moral of my father, and do declare that the first and principal pleasure I received from this fortunate event, was in the reflection of his having been brought, at length, to a just and equitable sense, of his parental obligations. I resented the
grant,
more than the
gift,
and was sensible of a certain pious transport, in thinking that this last act of my father's, had retrieved his character, and sealed his merits.
But, oh! my friend, what a torrent of tears rushed from my eyes, at the thought of my dear wife's death, just then occurring to my mind at the instant of these reflections! How did I lament her missing of that virtuous transport, which would have affected her fond heart and generous soul, at seeing her husband and her children thus securely placed beyond the scorn of fools, and spurn of fortune! In fine, I was struck with such a complicated emotion, of filial gratitude, conjugal grief, and parental joy, that it was late before I could compose myself to prayer, or rest.
The next morning I lay so long, that Mr. Beville, impatient to fly that fatal scene, had come into my room, and asked me whether I had prepared every thing ready for our journey. I told him that our host had returned home, the night before, so much out of order, that I did not think proper to mention our going, just at that time; but as I had received a letter from our friend the clergyman, last night's post, with an account of my father's illness, I thought it might afford a fair pretext for quitting the house, so abruptly, and that I would immediately rise, and send in a message to borrow the post-chaise.
Poor Mr. Beville was still so weak, that even his short walk across the gallery to my chamber, had fatigued him so much, that he was forced to lay himself on the bed, by me. I did not think it prudent, in such a state of health, to acquaint him with the full contents of the letter; as the pleasure it would have afforded him, might possibly have had too sudden an effect upon his present low condition of strength and spirits.
I arose immediately, and as soon as I heard my condisciple's bell ring, I sent Mr. Beville's compliments and mine to inquire how he was, acquainting him with the summons we had received, and desiring the favour of his equipage to convey my friend the first day's journey, at least, as his health was not sufficiently established to venture on horseback, so immediately upon quitting his chamber.
He returned his compliments, said he had discharged his stomach by an emetic, the last night, found himself pretty easy that morning, but was just going to take a medicine which would prevent him the pleasure of seeing us. He ordered the post-chaise, wished us a good journey, and added, that he would be glad to see us both again, as soon as our affairs might permit.
The fair Ethelinda too, sent us her compliments, and desired that we should take the chaise on to London with us, if we found it either necessary, or convenient; but, from a very becoming nicety, which confirmed my opinion and esteem for her, neither joined in her husband's invitation, nor came down to breakfast, on pretence that her attendance on him, required her staying above.
Mr. Beville and I breakfasted together, and immediately after, set out upon our journey.
CHAP. LXXXV.
DUring the first day's stage, I avoided all particular conversation with my friend, speaking chiefly upon general topics; pointing out to him the several beauties of the country through which we passed, which were so strong as to manifest themselves, even through December snows.
It was now near Christmas—I made reflections upon that hallowed season, and took notice of the remarkable goodness, wisdom, and oeconomy of Providence, in appointing that great festival to fall upon a time of the year, when the husbandman's labours are suspended, and that nature had already ordained a vacation, to rejoice in! At the most gloomy period of the year, to send us the most
glad tidings,
that ever yet have reached the sons of man!
I do not recollect, Mr. Carewe, said Andrews, that these remarks have been ever made before, by any of our divines. They occurred to my mind, upon this occasion, for the first time; they warmed my heart, amidst December frosts, and I endeavoured to communicate the same fervour from them, to my friend; in order to dispel his melancholy, and elevate his thoughts to a sublimer passion, to a love equally void of satiety, or despair; and which, contrary to all other objects of desire, we are nearer the fruition of, in age, than youth.
He joined in my reflections, with that religious and philosophic turn of mind, which was natural, and habitual to him, and which gave me strong reason to believe that if I could detain him in some distant scene, where he might never see, or even hear the name of the too lovely Ethelinda more, his heart would soon recover its former spring again. For without hope, passion subsists not long; and I knew that his virtue forbad him even to frame a wish, which might serve to keep it alive.
When we had been settled for the evening, at our inn, he asked me what scheme of life I had planned out for us both; for you were more at leisure than I, said he, with a sigh, for such contemplations, during our late visit in the country.
I told him of the purpose which I had framed just before I received the letter, and added, that I had some encouragement from my friend, to hope that all matters would be accommodated between my father and me, as soon as we should arrive in London. How should I rejoice at such an event, replied he, but much I fear that misfortune has marked us for her victims! Such extraordinary incidents! such uncommon adventures!
We made a slight repast, went early to bed, and pursued our journey the next morning, in the chair. He seemed to be much recruited in health, but still too weak to venture to ride, or even drive post; so we travelled together at his leisure, through the whole journey.
This second day I found him continue thoughtful, and melancholic, and imagined from the hint he had given me, when he pressed to quit the country, with some others which he had let drop, the night before, that he would be pleased to be questioned upon this subject, though his delicacy seemed backward to propose it, in a more direct way, himself.
I considered also, that it is a great relief to a mind oppressed, to be at liberty to communicate its uneasiness to a friend; and being myself also, sollicitous to know how high his passion might have arisen, or what kind of sentiments he had himself about it, I resolved to enter upon the subject with him, at our next stage; and accordingly, after dinner, accosted him thus:
CHAP. LXXXVI.
MY dear friend and brother, the disorder which you have been lately affected with, has given me most extreme apprehension, and concern; which is, however, rather increased, than abated, by your recovery; if we may stile it one, while it leaves you still subject to the depressed and melancholic state, which your mind and spirits seem, ever since, to have laboured under.
And yet, even this, is by no means, my principal concern about you; for the most obstinate distempers are still within the dominion of physic: But, I am much afraid, from some expressions which have escaped you in your ravings, with others that you have thrown out, since the recovery of your reason, that your principal malady may be of that nature which Ovid says,
Non est medicabilis herbis.
He blushed, and appeared in confusion; but quickly asked me, with great emotion, after what manner he had exposed the secret, or betrayed his passion, during his delirium? I soon made him easy, with regard to this particular, by assuring him that no ears, but his own and mine, happened to have been within the reach of his voice, on his first extravagance, and then acquainting him of the precaution I had used, during the remainder of his distraction.
O! then, cried he out, in a transport, my alarmed mind is again restored to peace, and this secret shall be now entombed with me; for I may truly say, that it hath not yet escaped me, since you alone, my second self, are the only master of it. Yes, my dear Andrews, I confess the
passion,
but deny the
guilt.
It was not my choice, it is not my acquiescence—It was my fatality, and is my misfortune.
My dear Beville, I replied, the slightest suspicion, either of your honour, or your virtue, has never yet rested on my mind. But, in this unhappy affair, you must give me leave to be somewhat diffident, of your prudence, or discretion, at least. For love, whatever the poets may have written of that passion, is a fair, and open enemy, and always affords us sufficient warning, for a retreat. It is by dalliance alone, that we are conquered; and after we have delivered ourselves over, willing victims, to the soft persuasion, we would defend
our own weakness,
by pleading of
its strength.
The bravest, who stand their ground, may be
o'erpowered,
but the fugitive was never yet
o'ertaken.
I intreat my dear friend, replied he, that you will be so charitable as to suspend your judgment, till you have heard my defence; and though I trust that I shall be found an object of compassion, rather than of censure, yet I must confess, that the fond nicety, which I have ever had, about preserving your favourable opinion toward me, oppresses me, notwithstanding, at present, with a kind of generous diffidence, on my defeat, though conquered by surprise—even as a general, before his mistress, for having lost a day, though the odds a million.
CHAP. LXXXVII.
WHEN first I beheld the fair Ethelinda, continued Mr. Beville, I was struck with admiration at her transcendent charms; her form, her grace, her air, her features. The contemplation of beauty, in whatever subject, is natural to the mind of man; and not defended by the most severe philosophy. I indulged myself, therefore, in this sublime delight, while I found the chaste pleasure not yet descending from, the refinements of
taste.
When I became acquainted with her mind, was conversant with her understanding; had considered her virtues, and observed upon her manners; I found myself affected toward her, with a warmer sentiment indeed, but still of the same platonic kind. For the beauty of morals and of nature, are reciprocally analogous; and we may become susceptible of a sensation for either, quite distinct from passion.
Again, when I began to observe upon the uncouth manners, and indelicate behaviour of her husband toward her, seeming totally devoid of the least taste or sentiment, for her mind or beauty, was it not virtue to lament her fate! This was humanity—not desire. I grudged him an happiness, which he seemed unworthy to enjoy. But this was envy, and not jealousy.
Thus were my admiration of her beauty, my esteem of her merits, and compassion for her misfortune, restrained within the precincts of innocence, and virtue—As disinterested, and pure, as is a brother's love. Under such chaste, and delicate sentiments as these, had I passed the first three weeks of our acquaintance, without receiving the least hint from my passions, which might have alarmed my virtue, or have warned my prudence.
I endeavoured often, though obliquely, to reform his manners, but without preferring my own; and have, upon some occasions, even restrained my own politeness toward her, where I imagined that the contrast might have been too strongly marked. My sole desire was to have reclaimed his conduct, and my warmest wish breathed for their mutual happiness.
A father might have felt such sentiments—an angel might have loved her so—But,
CHAP. LXXXVIII.
ONE morning, I happened to take a long and solitary walk through the woods, ruminating upon our past misfortunes, my dear Andrews, said he, and forming visionary schemes for future life; when returning dispirited and fatigued, I strolled into the green parlour, and there threw myself upon the couch; where, perceiving my wearied senses disposed to rest, I loosened the cords of the suspended curtain, and letting it fall carelessly about me, folded my arms, and resigned myself to slumber.
After some time, I was awakened by persons coming hastily into the room, and from under part of the veil, where the cord had happened not to have run to its full length, I perceived the lovely Ethelinda issuing from the warm bath, which lay within this apartment, attended by her maid, who laying down a parcel of cloaths upon the carpet before the fire, retired immediately out of the room, locking the door, and carrying off the key.
I felt myself in the utmost confusion, upon this adventure; but had no retreat; and before I could possibly have resolved upon what measure of decency to observe, the charming fair let fall her loosened wrapper to the ground, and at once revealed her naked beauties to my ravished view. O, my dear friend! she was
ipsa forma
Induiter formosa est, exuiter ipsa forma.
Ovid.
, indeed! Were the
Anadyomene
A famous picture of Venus, rising naked from the sea.
of
Apelles
but half so bewitching, how happy for the world it was so early lost.
She dressed herself in haste, and every attitude exposed some new, some hidden charm to my racked sense—
In me tota ruens Venus.
I gazed—I doated—A sudden fever rushed through all my frame—My senses were intranced —Reason in vain opposed the fond delirium—I could as well command a dream—Religion was suspended—Chastity swooned away—I quick lost all reflection; and Pigmalion's statue, new informed with life, was equal mistress of its passions.
When she was dressed, she rung the bell for her maid, and retired out of the room, without having perceived me. I immediately arose, and stole out to the woods again. How did I feel! My mind was disturbed, my frame disordered. I walked through the groves like a frantic person; now with a quick, now with a slow pace. The bell tolled—I returned to the house—The dinner was served—I entered the room with confusion—I avoided even your eyes—I dared not look on him. But when she appeared—what a two-fold emotion, equally of shame, and passion! I felt a convict—Imputed a crime to accident; and, like a rifled maid, found myself shocked at the unhallowed pleasure, even of a guiltless deed.
Oh! I could never think of her from that moment, without the most turbulent affections!
My admiration of her beauty, my esteem of her
, my compassion for her misfortune,
were deprived, at once, of all platonics, and became new fuel to my flame. Whene'er I saw her, I felt as if I had injured her—and when her husband happened to occur to my mind, methought I had wronged him too.
Such passion, with such conflict, such desire, with such scruple, soon, my friend, o'ercame me. I pined, I raved, I drooped—I betook myself to my bed. A double fever seized both mind and body—The rest you know—O! spare my weakness, and assist my virtue! Tears forced their passage through his eyes—He threw himself into my arms. We embraced.
CHAP. LXXXIX.
I SHALL really be under a good deal of uneasiness for ye, ladies, while ye are reading the foregoing chapter. You had certainly a
natural right
to have expected somewhat more of adventure, in so critical, and opportune a scene. A young fellow, in health and vigour. A lovely woman,
in flower of youth, and beauty's pride,
naked, and alone—A couch—The door safe locked, and the key in the very bottom of Abigail's pocket! Had mother Behn, or grannam Heywood the handling of this passage, they would have satisfied your curiosity, at once, without even waiting to have raised it.
Now let us frame an
hypothesis
in this very crisis, by way of argument only. Suppose, I say, that the very moment she had slipt her
bagniane,
he had slipt also, into her arms—She could not, in decency, have done less than faint. He lays her on the sopha, and applies his best endeavours to awaken her senses. She revives, and resents his services—by looks and struggles, only—For she certainly, could not have the assurance to have cried out, and expose herself in so suspicious a situation, and such unseemly circumstances.
In all difficult cases, one is apt to govern themselves by
precedent,
and as she was a lady of great reading, she must surely have known, that throughout all history, sacred, or prophane, there are but two examples of
female chastity,
upon record. And between you and I, ladies, queer ones enough, they are.
Susanna's coyness could possibly supply no rule of conduct here, for in the naked Ethelinda's case, there happened to be no
Elder.
Lucretia's story indeed, was the very
case in point.
And how did she acquit herself, I pray ye? Why she first most
heroinely
yielded, to save her fame, and then wickedly destroyed herself, to revenge her adultery. Now, though the chaste Ethelinda's discretion might possibly have induced her to the first, her religion,
Lucretia was an heathen,
'tis to be hoped, would have saved her from the latter
Since I had wrote the above, I have been informed by a lady of
severe example,
that there is a third instance of female chastity, in history, which ought to be taken notice of here, in honour of the sex. This was Margaret, countess of Richmond, and mother to Henry the Seventh; of whom bishop Fisher gives the following curious anecdote, in the funeral eulogy he preached over her remains; and which I shall here present you with, in his own extraordinary words:
She obtained
a licence,
to live
chaste,
from her
third husband;
whereupon, she took upon her the vow of
Celibacy.
So that, according to the bishop's opinion, the dues of marriage, are a breach of chastity—But perhaps, he might have meant second, or third marriages, and in this sentiment, many scrupulous persons agree with him.
.
But poor Mr. Beville was verily, in a most aukward situation, as he describes himself. I mean for such a sort of man as he was. He might truly be compared to
Tantulus,
viewing the
staking font,
and the
forbidden fruit,
with unquenched thirst, and appetite unallayed, And as listeners are said seldom to hear good of themselves, so is there a proverb also, that folks generally
pay for their peeping.
The story of
Acteon
is known by every school-boy—Coventry Tom, too, of
prying memory,
is the second instance in history; and the unfortunate William Beville is now put upon record, as the third
example
of this fatal curiosity.
CHAP. XC.
MR. Andrews, continuing his narrative, said, I really felt a most extreme compassion for my unhappy friend. Sense and virtue add strength to love. The same vigour of mind, which exerts itself in reason, takes equal hold of passion; and refined affections, like purged waters, preserve their properties longer than foul.
I therefore endeavoured to reconcile him to himself, by acquiescing in his justification. I condoled with him upon the unluckiness of his adventure, and concurred in the virtuous and manly resolution, which he seemed to have taken, of exiling himself from the object of his fatal passion, and of excluding from his mind all manner of fuel, which might serve to nourish his unhappy flame.
I then thought it might relieve his spirits a good deal, to let him into the intire secret of my late letter from London, and accordingly laid it before him, for his perusal; saying, My dear Beville, though fortune has used us sometimes for her sport, you see she has not quite
marked us for her victims,
yet.
The reading of this letter had the desired effect; it diffused a chearfulness over his countenance, and he confessed to me, but with an ingenuous shame, that he was sensible of perhaps a quicker kind of pleasure, in having my fortunes established by this sort of revolution, than possibly it might have done to have had them even augmented, through any other medium. For besides my concern for your misfortunes, my dear brother, added he, I have also laboured under a certain delicate distress, from the reflection that your alliance with my family, had been the occasion of them.
I then took an opportunity, from this expression, to mention a sentiment to him, that my heart had, for some days, with difficulty restrained; which was, that the alliance he hinted at, was not dissolved, but devolved only, and that I hoped he would henceforth consider himself as heir, in his dear sister's place, to share an equal benefit in my fortunes.
He bowed, but quick replied, that he could not possibly think of accepting a thing he had no claim to, in a case where even the gift could not confer a title; as his sister, he rejoiced to say it, had left more rightful, and more worthy heirs behind her.
To which I answered, that as I had, in the first instance, already dedicated my fortunes to love, I could not think in the second, of excluding friendship, its younger brother, from its share of the portion; and that as virtue forms stronger connections than nature, the fond tie which had once allied us, would induce me ever to look upon him as a real brother, if that title were not already comprehended, under the higher and nobler one, of friend.
At length, after several days travelling, we arrived in London; he recruited by the journey, and I fatigued with the delay. We passed the evening at the inn together. The next morning he went down to Windsor, to wait upon his father, and I called on the minister of St. Martin's, to settle with him about the effects committed to his charge.
He came with me to the house, and delivered me the will, and keys. The scene affected me. I dropt tears of filial duty, and felt my heart fill at the same time, with pious gratitude toward the great dispenser of all earthly, as well as heavenly blessings.
CHAP. XCI.
UPON looking into the situation of my affairs, I found that the family suit, which had subsisted for so many years, had been ended the preceding term, and the debentures, for ten thousand pounds, were lying on the desk, with about three hundred pounds more, in bills and cash.
The will had bequeathed the intire fortune to me, except two legacies of one hundred pounds, apiece, to each of my brothers; the eldest of whom had been lately promoted to a troop of horse; and the younger, besides his employment, had a little time before, been married to a merchant's daughter in the city, with a fortune of four thousand pounds. My sister had died in childbed, about six months before.
Both my brothers happened to be in London, at this time, and came to condole with me upon our late loss. I had always loved them affectionately, and was much rejoiced to see them. I laid the will before them, and they very generously acquiesced in the disposition of it, without the least jealousy, or murmur. They were both of them already well established in life, and acknowledged the intire merit of it, to be owing to my disinterested, and fraternal kindness.
I then paid each of them their legacy, and made a present, at the same time, to my married brother, of all the family plate; which might be in value, about an hundred pounds; promising the captain also, to pay him a like compliment, whenever he should do me the pleasure to invite me to his wedding.
In a day or two after, my friend Beville returned from Windsor, and told me that he had found his father in the greatest distress; for his attorney had informed him, that the laws could not possibly afford him any manner of relief, for as he had disposed of the income of his employ, during his life, he could not possibly recover his office again; and that, as his deputy had sold his interest, and retired to Holland, there was no remedy to be had, against him, neither.
My friend left his father all the money he had about him, and seemed to be extremely depressed, upon this additional misfortune; though I said every thing that friendship could suggest, to support his spirits, by intreating that he would suffer me to consider us all, as of one family; adding, that in this instance too, I might challenge it as a right; as I had the honour of claiming his father, as mine, also.
CHAP. XCII.
I WAS impatient to see my dear children, and to return my most grateful thanks to my valuable friend, the clergyman; but I could not think of revisiting any of those once happy scenes again, which had prevented me from paying my duty, at Windsor, also. I therefore wrote a letter of acknowledgment to my friend, intreating the favour of a visit from him, at London, and at the same time, sent down a coach and four, to bring him up, with the children.
They all arrived in town, the next day, and in this fond society, the pleasures I enjoyed, were so blended with those I had lost, that I might be said to have truly felt that
"Sad luxury, to vulgar minds unknown."
So that I had but little advantage, in this particular, by shifting the scene, while such strong remembrances stood still before me.
Poor Beville's health and spirits recruited not so fast as I had hoped for. He was frequently absent, in company, and would sometimes suffer a whole morning to pass unmarked away, without books, or music; and when he did play, it was always in the
andante, pastorale,
or
amoroso
strain; and when he read, Ovid, Catullus, or Petrarch, were his studies.
I took notice of this turn of mind, to him, and he seemed so alarmed at it, himself, that he laid aside music intirely, as he acknowledged that harmony, of any kind, might be a dangerous solace, in the present disturbed situation of his mind; for that the soft airs but soothed his passion, and the bolder ones served only to elevate its transports.
He then began to apply himself to his former, and severer studies, but was soon interrupted in them, by an illness which had the appearance of a milliary fever. The physicians were called in, and determined it to be a scorbutic humour, which had been thrown into his blood, by checking his late disorder, too suddenly, and suffering him to come abroad, at so inclement a season, before the dregs of his disease had been sufficiently purged away. They prescribed him medicines, and recommended the Scarborough waters, and sea-bathing, to him, as soon as the weather might permit.
I took a hint from this advice, to propose to my friend, to take a journey with me, immediately, to Scarborough, and fix ourselves in some convenient situation, near that town, before the concourse of
sick and gay,
who are generally so oddly coupled, at all Spa's, might render our accommodation difficult, or inconvenient. He readily accepted my proposal, and after I had set off my house, and disposed of the furniture, by auction, we set out together for this country.
Before I left London, I sent my dear children back again to Hertfordshire, with my good friend the clergyman; to whom, at parting, I made a present of a select collection of books, value about two hundred pounds; which had devolved to my father, from his father and brother, who were both of them persons of learning, and had formed their libraries with judgment and care.
I also wrote an invitation to Mr. Beville, at Windsor, to come and reside with us at Scarborough, during the season; and then to accept of an apartment in whatever mansion I might afterwards fix myself, during our joint lives. He wrote me an answer, full of acknowledgments, and promised to follow us, as soon as he could sell the interest of his house and parks, at Windsor, and dispose of his other effects.
CHAP. XCIII.
MY friend and I took lodgings at Scarborough, and about a month after, old Mr. Beville came to us, with a debenture of five hundred pounds, which he had realised out of the remnants of his reduced fortune. He was very ill on his arrival, languished for some time, and at last expired of a broken heart, as he confessed, occasioned by the loss of his wife, and his daughter, together with that of his fortune.
As soon as we had got to Scarborough, I began to inquire whether there was any place to be let, near the town; for I liked this country extremely well, as we rode through it; and the purpose, which had occurred to my mind, at London, was now framed into a kind of resolution, of settling myself somewhere hereabout.
The only counties I had ever any acquaintance with, were Berkshire, and Hertfordshire; and being now self-banished from these, all other places had become quite equal to me. But this one had obtained a preference, in my election, upon my dear friend's account, because of its extreme distance from the still too charming Ethelinda's residence.
I was informed of several houses and farms to be let, and rode out to see them; but as none of them happened to be situated near the sea, I declined them all. I considered, in the first instance, that they could not accommodate my friend, with regard to one part of his prescription; and I confess also, that in the second, I had all my life the highest relish for sea-prospects, and a desire to fix myself in some situation near the coast.
There is something extremely awful and commanding in a view of the ocean, which enlarges our ideas far beyond the richest landscape; and in the contemplation of its uses, properties, movements, and contents, our minds and hearts become naturally elevated toward the greatness and goodness of Providence, at the same time.
But I own that there is another sentiment, much stronger than this, which had always induced me to such a choice of situation; and it is this, that I might possibly have the good fortune, after some horrid storm, of supplying relief to some poor ship-wrecked voyagers, and of defending them also, from the savage cruelties, and inhumanities, too frequently exercised by the greedy and lawless peasants, upon all coasts, against such unhappy objects of real distress, and commiseration.
At length, I fixed upon this charming spot; the rent of which farm was considerably abated, on account of its not having the accommodation of a house or offices upon it. Which consideration being computed, and added to the savings of alterations and repairs, brings the expences of this building, almost within a saving upon the preference.
I commenced this house on the first day of March last, and, as it was constructed with brick and wainscot, it was rendered habitable by the first day of this month, July, when I entered into possession of it, and shall very probably here fix my station, for the remainder of my life.
CHAP. XCIV.
WHEN Mr. Andrews had brought his story to a conclusion, Mr. Carewe made him a great many acknowledgments for the high entertainment it had afforded him. He said that there were a great many interesting events, in these memoirs, even to an hearer; but as a friend, added he, I could most sincerely have wished that they had been less rich of incidents, by two very affecting particulars.
My story, continued he, which by agreement you are intitled to exact, will by no means return you the same amusement, either in kind, or degree. You are not to expect from me, a continued series; my life has been too dissipated and extempore, to afford much chain, and may rather be stiled a collection of incidents, than a connection of events.
I have been generally too much an
individual
of society, and, till a late crisis—whether happy, or unfortunate, added he, with a sigh, remains yet within the womb of time—there was not any person in the world, who could either direct, or govern, give a consistent tenor, or steady purpose, to my life and actions; which for the matter of them, and following after your's and Mr. Beville's, may be considered as a lively epilogue, or a merry farce, after a moving tragedy.
My dear Carewe, replied Mr. Andrews, the most trifling particulars, relating to one friend, are interesting to another. Their passions, their affections the same, namely, a mutual resentment of each other's pains and pleasures.
But this is a treat which I must not churlishly enjoy alone. We have secluded my dear Beville long enough from our retired converse, already; and if you will be so kind as to suffer him to form
a triumvirate
with us, in our mutual confidence and friendship, it will double my pleasure and satisfaction, by affording to that unhappy man, some kind of amusement and relief from his too fatal passion; which, in spite of time, absence, philosophy, and virtue, seems still to ingross too much his whole heart, mind, and affections.
I most cordially agree to your proposal, my dear Andrews, answered Mr. Carewe, for I should think myself but half your friend, were I not wholly his. Nor do I, in the least, apprehend that the admitting this very worthy person a third in our union of souls, can in a
sort diminish our own mutual fondness toward each other; but that we may then be considered, rather as a
triangle,
whose
angles,
though they exceed not the quantity of two
right ones,
serve however, by this division, to strengthen and support each other.
When Mr. Beville had returned from the Spa, he was made acquainted with this plan of amusement, and received the motion with the utmost satisfaction; for he had conceived an high esteem and affection for Mr. Carewe, from the story of his adventure with Mr. Andrews, which had possessed him with a fond and generous concern in the smallest matters which related to him.
He therefore returned thanks to Mr. Carewe, for his kind concurrence with Mr. Andrews's proposal; and, in order to leave Mr. Beville still at liberty to continue his course of bathing, their future evenings were fixed upon for this entertainment. Accordingly, after dinner, that day, Mr. Carewe commenced his memoir; as you will find it written in the second volume.
CHAP. XCV.
I THINK it full time, here, Mr. Reader, to put a
Finis
to the first volume of these memoirs, in order to give you leisure to digest the matters herein contained; and afford you opportunity also, for a
relection.
For, believe me, dear Sir, that no book is worth reading once, which does not both require, and deserve it twice.
Of writing of books there is no end,
said Solomon —but whether he spoke literally, of
his own times,
as we have no cotemporary account of them, except what he has been so communicative to hand down to us himself, I cannot say; but he has certainly spoken prophetically, at least, of ours; if, instead of
writing,
you will give me leave, after the manner of
scholiasts,
to substitute
copying
in its place.
For, in reality, what are the volumes that load our
presses,
now-a-days, but transcripts, transpositions, or translations? Most of our modern writers have the impudence to
steal,
even in the face of the living, and the most modest of them are but
robbers of the dead.
This imposition on the public, however, is nothing new among us, for our fathers and grandfathers have laboured under the same grievance, before us. Let us but look back into the amass of literature, for half a century past, and we shall hardly meet with any thing new, except the type, ink, and paper. Nothing but former writings dressed up again, and
republished.
No work of genius, no useful discovery; except the hardy, but ingenious attack upon
Longinus,
and one or two attempts toward discovering the
Longitude,
at sea, if demonstrated.
What are
Gassendi
's, or any of the modern treatises on morals, but extracts, or paraphrases on the
Enchiridion,
on
Seneca,
or
Tully?
Or Derham's physics, but compilations, or compendiums of
Galileo, Boyle, Descartes,
or
Newton?
Works of learning, and labour, indeed, but not of talents, or genius.
A person well grounded in a college course, has, at present, nothing new to read, except a very few writings of wit, or humour; and yet, books are printed, or rather
reprinted,
every day, which but vary or transpose the pages written in former centuries; and only serve to puzzle and obstruct all science, by opening different avenues to the same point, and by inducing students to imagine the
Encyclopoedia
to be more tedious, and difficult, than in reality it is.
In fine, we may venture to pronounce that the wisest man, even at present, as was once said by a learned antient, is
he who has read the fewest books
—provided he has but chosen them well. For learning, beyond certain limits, but dulls the genius, confounds the intellect, and multiplies study, without increasing knowledge.
If an ingenious society of men would take the trouble of making a
critical review
of the
Mega Biblion,
or
tautology
of learning, and reduce it all into a
digest,
I dare affirm that the whole compass of science, physical, philosophical, theological, political, metaphysical, and moral; taking in the classics and poetics, in all languages; with all history that is worth reading, for knowledge, stile, or observation, would not compose a library exceeding the purchase of fifty pounds; and the whole study might be comprehended, within a seven years college course.
But then indeed, I shall confess that there must be an intire reform also, among the professors in each several branch, with regard to their present prolix method of instruction. For the proverb of
ars longa
should be more properly changed to
artifices lenti
And the rapid progress which some extraordinary, and uneducated persons have been reported to have made in the arts and sciences, might have been owing to their having instructed themselves more by
reason,
than by
rule.
Nor would this scheme be of the least disadvantage to the world in general; for though some laborious dunces might by this means, perhaps, want bread, unless much better employed in sowing and reaping it, yet the useful and necessary trades of printers, booksellers, and stationers, would still continue to thrive, even better than before. For there would then be a thousand libraries, for one we have, at present; as men are often discouraged from making collections, for want of proper catalogues to direct them where to begin, and where to end.
I know many persons of fortune who have not five pounds worth of books in their studies, at present, and those picked up by chance, or inheritance, and who would not give five shillings for five pounds worth more, and yet would readily lay out fifty, to purchase a
compleat library;
which, if once pointed out, and ascertained, would be then deemed one of the appendages of fortune and grandeur, even to those who cannot read, as many furnish stables of horses, which they cannot ride.
FINIS.
APPENDIX TO THE First Volume OF THE TRIUMVIRATE.
If they will have a
may-pole,
why let them have a
may-pole.
Vide
Tristram Shandy.
Volume first, pages 73 and 74.
Volume third, pages 169 and 170.
Volume sixth, page 147.
I must here ingenuously resign the palm to Mr.
Shandy,
in the
novelty
of this thought; nor shall I in the least, pretend to dispute any merit with him, before
modern readers,
by hinting that my conceit, though poor, has some little
meaning
in it.
A CATALOGUE of the several advantages and benefits, which the publisher of these memoirs hath received, from the patronage hinted at in the two precedent pages.
1. It made me a religious observer of the precept in scripture,
never to put my trust in man.
2. It gave me the benefit of the ninth beatitude
See Pope.
,
Happy is he who expects nothing, for he shall not be disappointed.
3. It made me to depend upon my own industry, and not upon another's favour.
4. It has taught me the safest oeconomy in the world, to trust to my own fortune,
though ever so small,
rather than to another's,
though ever so large.
5. It warned me,
too late,
never to run in debt,
for there are no sureties for the pauper.
6. It has made me resolve never to breed a son to the church, for, without patronage, merit will not avail in that profession, as it may in physic or the law.
7. It has instructed me in this useful lesson, that —
8. It has informed me also, that — with regard to the two last articles, I must be silent for the present; as the reflections upon them point too strongly at certain persons, who though their friendships
freeze under the pole,
their resentments
burn under the line.
Si quid benefacias, levior plumâ gratia est; at si quid peccatum est, plumbeas iras gerunt. There are such characters! But have a little patience, my good readers—I may outlive them, and shall then speak out—For the maxim of de mortuis nil nisi bonum, is not of authority sufficient to controul the privileges of an historian. But enough for the present.