﻿
THERE cannot be any thing 10 fallacious as the cavils of those authors who complain of being unjustly treated by the public. The judgment of the public, like those laws to which they owe their existence, as a respected and a happy people—spite of the factious few, whose impotent clamour serves, as its shadow, to display the light of reason—never fails to decide firmly, yet indulgently; and nothing can more completely confirm character and security, than the dispassionate determination of the one, and the unbiased decision of the other.
But, though the judgment of the public and the laws of the land contain in themselves all we know of reason and equity, yet nothing can be so difficult as to make a fair appeal to either. The sons of chicane, in both, so clog up the course, and so poison the air, that the career is fatiguing and dangerous;

and thus many, with fair pretensions, turn back, their pursuits and purposes unaccomplished, and rather resign the honours of the race, than strive to reach a delusive goal, to obtain an unavailing victory.
Perhaps the painter, who had been ruined by going to law, without bringing any thing to issue, had these ideas in his mind when he drew a picture of justice, supported by hunger and thirst.
But I shall leave those laws which the prudence of our forefathers has established for the security of property—which are, in this country, a monument of sober reflection, sound wisdom, and solid judgment; which are, at this moment, dispensed by men of brilliant talents, correct information, and invincible integrity, and which are only inconvenient because they are abused, inefficient because their essence is perverted, and oppressive because they are held out as snares for the good and the worthy, by the wicked and the worthless—and speak of those other laws which civilization has established

for the security of fame, and which, being of a wider extent, and without so decided a criterion, are productive of much more sportive mischief than the others; both because the scribbling pettifoggers have warmer imaginations than the legal ones, and because their nefarious freaks, though full as rascally, may be exercised with impunity.
According to this, illicit lawyers—for I really ought to make this distinction—so they possess a plentiful stock of cunning and craft, need not be overburdened with intellects; but this is not the case with the other class. Illicit writers cannot combat opinions without some stock of general information; their competitors being men of abilities: and thus it happens, that as you may call a lawyer a dunce and welcome, so you do not call him a rogue, so you may call a scribbler a rogue and welcome, so you do not call him a dunce: which is like Foote's stroke at a society who sometime ago set themselves up as reformers, under the appellation of The Christian Club.

Having talked of hanging, and being told that such an insinuation would give offence, for that a brother of one of the members had been hanged, he changes his ground, and talks of damning.—
'That is right,' says the other, 'damn as much as you please; for though the Christian club may have some fears of the gallows, they do not value damnation of a brass farthing!'

The truth of this distinction which I have made will, I think, be pretty clearly established, by a consideration that the traffic of the lawyers depends on certain things called goods, chattles, houses, hereditaments—in short any thing that can be conveyed—whereas the scribblers cannot always convey the object of their traffic, even in idea. A lampoon is not attachable; or, if it were, it would be of no value. There is nothing tangible in a modern Pindaric ode; or, if there were, as Shakespeare has it,
'Those that touch pitch will be defiled.'
Nor can poor Priscian bring his action of battery, though we see his head broken every day.


Thus, while they steer clear of hitting the man, they may discharge whole vollies of their pointless arrows at the writer with safety. He has no objection to their picking up their crumbs at his expense. The sun nurtures myriads of insects, that at once inhale poison and preservation from his genial influence.
As I certainly allude to the abuse with which, in my life, I have been so foully bespattered, it should seem as if I had drawn this conclusion with a view to announce myself a man of genius. Were I so weak, I should be in a lamentable error indeed. For an author, with the smallest pretensions to fame, I ought by this time to have been abused ten times more than I have; unless indeed I rate the quality of the abuse in addition to the quantity, and so, by throwing one lump of invidious rascality into the scale, make it preponderate in my favour.
I am afraid however I am not so lucky; for, in this case, I must take in the idea that the slander

of a rogue is a compliment to an honest man: and I have already said, that every thing beyond literary defamation is here out of the question. I have therefore nothing left for it but a comparative view of that abuse which has been levelled at others and myself, and, upon that enumeration, I shall be driven to estimate my own labours at that humble rate which the public will always give its due praise, but which aspires at nothing more.
To begin with the ancients. Has any writer sustained more rank and foul abuse than Homer? who, after all, is so justly styled the father of poetry: and if they began with the father, no wonder they have so completely gone through all the family.—It has been said that the muses themselves set him up a rival in Hesiod, whom they invited to reside with them on Mount Helicon, and, that they might initiate him into all their mysteries, actually took him into their service, and endowed him with their own celestial genius. Tutored thus by his heavenly instructresses, he is said to have won a tripod from Homer at a poetical controversy at Chalcis; but

Alexander laughs at this business, construing it into a compliment to Homer, and saying that Hesiod might well win a prize from Homer, when not kings, but peasants were the judges.
When you come to Virgil, these candid reporters allow nothing more than that he was the translator and imitator of Homer; to prove which, they instance his sending Aeneas to hell, in positive imitation of the Odyssey, the conversation of the gods, the games, the ships, and many other things. But what sort of an imitator of Homer must he have been if it be true, as Le Mercier informs us, that Homer wrote neither the Iliad nor the Odyssey!—but that they were compiled from the works of all the eminent writers of that time; impressing very strongly an idea that Homer was merely a ballad singer, and that he invented nothing, but only promulgated the Grub-street doctrine of Greece.
It is said also that Virgil imitated Hesiod in his georgics, and Theocritus in his pastorals. Terrence too is said to have been no more than the

translator of Plautus, Livy the imitator of Herodotus, and Sallust of Thucidides, who had before been imitated in his writings—which, after all, were obscure—by Zenephon, and in his orations by Demosthenes. Horace, they report, stole his art of poetry from Aristotle's rhetoric; and, as to Aristotle himself, some have gone so far as to question whether we have any thing genuine of his at all, and they offer the following circumstance as a notable proof of this vague and strange opinion.
Theophrastus received, as a legacy, the writings of Aristotle. The heirs of Theophrastus buried them in the ground, at Scepsis, a town of Troas, to hide them from King Pergamus. Here they lay concealed a hundred and sixty years, and were, at the end of that time, sold to one Appellicon, a rich citizen of Athens. They fell afterwards into the hands of Sylla; after that they were possessed by Tyrannian, a grammarian; and next they became the property of Andronicus, of Rhodes, who first made them public about two hundred and fifty years after the death of Aristotle.

Thus, we have a Virgil who imitated a Homer, who never was a writer!—and we have a Horace who stole from the works of an Aristotle, which works it is insinuated are spurious! But neither is Zoilus himself, of Philadelphus, nor Le Mercier, the Zoilus of France, to be put in the smallest competition with Father Ardouine, who, determined to put the matter out of doubt, roundly asserts, upon his own single authority, that Homer, Virgil, and Horace were all forged by monks, in the twelfth century!! Perhaps it was upon some occasion like this that Pascal said it was easier to find monks than reasons.
Thus go on these Aristarchuses in criticism. The defenders of Virgil, assuming great candour, tell us that they subscribe to those charges brought against him, above mentioned, but that he certainly excelled Hesiod. Justice however obliges them to confess that he fell short of Theocritus in the same proportion as the Latin is inferior to the Greek. They confess too that he stole from Lucretius; but this, they add, was a proof of his esteem

for him. They then candidly hint that it was little better than receiving stolen goods, for that Lucretius himself is suspected of having taken some of his works from Empedocles and others, and yet, in the same breath, they say that Lucretius ranks before all other Latin authors. They defend Virgil from a charge that Lucan was a greater poet, combating the opinions of Heinsius, Corneille, Heron, and Fielding, who all give the palm to Lucan; but, to make this defence as left-handed as possible, they allow that the Pharsalia is more complete than the Aeneid, because there is a fault in the chronology; which anacronism, however, to gloss over, they insist that Virgil intended it as a beauty, and then follow up this cold compliment by saying that Lucan, though an original, was an original of no value. The deduction therefore is, that it is doubtful whether Virgil was not a worse poet than Lucan, who, after all, has no great merit himself. But a modern critic has gone a great deal beyond this; asserting, that though the whole reputation of Virgil stands upon three specimens of imitation, though he has no invention, no originality,

no creation, yet he deserves all his fame:—and how does he make this out? Why, truly, by attributing this fame to his style, which he calls the
'pickle that has preserved his mummy from corruption.'

Were I to advert to the long catalogue of opposite opinions which will very easily occur to any man of reading, who has a faithful and retentive memory, it would be an intrusion on the patience of every intelligent reader. I have instanced abundantly enough to prove that cavillers find it difficult to convince; that Envy beholds pigmy imperfections, and neglects giant beauties; and that fools, in search of defects and contradictions, deprive themselves of that pleasure and improvement with which heaven permits men of superior talents to adorn the world.
It is with me a matter of infinite concern, that if candour be the criterion of genius, the ancients possessed more genius than the moderns. When Euripides died, Sophocles went into mourning;

and yet, to prove that Sophocles was fond of applause, he died with joy at the success of one of his own tragedies. What can be more noble than the declaration of Theodore Gaza, that if all the works then extant were to be thrown into the sea, the last that would merit such a fate would be the works of Plutarch! Or the forbearance of Zenophon, who might have had the writings of Thucidides attributed to him, but he disdained it!
If the cotemporaries of Terence acknowledge that he has imitated Plautus, they never fail to add that it was making gold out of dross. By one it was said, that the very prostitutes of Terence speak with more modesty than the honest women of Plautus. Cicero, speaking of the purity of Terence, calls him the regulator of the Latin tongue. Alexander, when he sacked Thebes, spared the house and posterity of Pindar. Plato was called the divine. Zenophon, from his sweetness and beauty, is called the bee, and the attic muse. His works are said to have inspired Scipio, the African, and

Lucullus, in like manner as those of Homer fired the mind of Alexander.
When do we hear, in these times, such warmth and candour as that of Appolonius Molus? who, on hearing Cicero harrangue, exclaimed—
'Poor Greece! Now thou art utterly undone!—The Romans had before conquered thee in arms: now they have conquered thee in eloquence!'

These few instances, among many that occur to me, prove that the ancients possessed every merit that has been attributed to them, and show that the greatest effort of the human mind is to rise superior to envy.
The influence of this fiend, however, lay only dormant till the inestimable works of these great men were universally diffused. The moment that opportunity occurred, she shook off her torpor, awoke, walked abroad, and looked so terrible, that modest reason sighed, blushed, and retired.

To be plain. It is remarkable that the more modern we get, the more the number of cavillers increases; and, really, as cavilling is a very ungracious thing, this is lucky for them; both because the task becomes every day more and more difficult, and because the dunces become every day more and more stupid. Thus the labour, by being given into so many hands, is infinitely less tremendous.
The quantum of abuse must be always the same, and how hard it is to fall to the lot of one man, wholly to employ himself in searching out the faults of his neighbour, when, by an honest appropriation of his time, he might manifest some perfection of his own. This feat of hardihood, however, we see Milbourn, almost single-handed, attempt against Dryden, though the portion of abuse is as great, and the quality as malevolent, as all that vast cargo of Grub-street filth with which Pope was bespattered, by all the heroes immortalized in the Dunciad; and, if we want a climax, we have nothing to do but look at that flock of critical crows

who, even yet, have not left off gorging on the literary carcase of Doctor Johnson.
But, if I were to go into that large field of observation which it would be necessary to traverse to get at the divers schisms that have, at times, distracted the state of literature, I should make it the field of battle between the moderns and the ancients. In France I should set Corneille and Racine against Sophocles and Euripides; Malherbe against Pindar; Moliere against Menander and Aristophanes, nay Plautus and Terence. The Countess De la Suse and Madame Dacier would pull caps with Sapho. In Italy, Petrarch and Guarini would attack Ovid and Tibullus; Tasso would menace to their teeth Homer and Virgil; Camoes, Lopez de Vega, Calderone, and Cervantes, would single out their respective antagonists, for the honour of Spain and Portugal; and I should involve literature in that chaos of prejudices and opinions, from which men of the best learning find it so extremely difficult to separate its constituent parts.

Did I extend the scene to England, instead of the preface to a work, I must necessarily make this a work of itself. So many, so extraordinary, so vague, so diversified have been the real or affected opinions in this country, as to what constitutes the essence of literary perfection, that you have only to transmute them, as you ring changes upon bells, and every English writer, at different times, has, and has not, possessed it.
I shall therefore, by way of corroborating my assertion, that no man is entitled to any large portion of literary fame till he has been handsomely abused, only instance some of that prodigious load of foul and slanderous filth which—as good sometimes grows out of evil—procured the world those two monuments of genius and justice, Mac Flecnoe, and the Dunciad; and I the more readily do this, to show that one specimen is as good as a thousand: because, were I to produce a thousand, nothing could be said in them but what is already said here; nay, nor even in one of these that is not said in the other.

Milbourn, as I before mentioned, is the author of nearly all the calumny against Dryden.—Pope's calumniators are Dennis, Theobald, Oldmixon, and a variety of others, who, one should think, were more than adequate to the task; for they had nothing to do but copy what had been written before. Dryden, upon this single, and Pope, upon this complicate authority, are every thing that can be said of the worst men and the worst writers.

"Dryden is a mere renegado from monarchy, poetry, and good sense!"
'Pope is an open enemy to his country and the commonwealth of learning!'

"Dryden is a true republican, son of a monarchical church, and a republican atheist!"
'Pope is both a roman-catholic whig, and a protestant tory!'

"Dryden has notoriously traduced the king, the queen, the lords, the gentlemen, and libelled

the whole nation and its representatives!"—
'Pope has abused the persons of the king, the queen, both houses of parliament, the privy council, the bench of bishops, the established church, and the ministry!'

"Dryden looks upon God's gospel as a foolish fable, like the pope, to whom he is a pitiful purveyor. His very christianity may be questioned. He ought to expect more severity than other men, as he is more unmerciful in his reflections on others. With as good a right as his holiness, he sets up for poetical infallibility."

'Pope is a popish rhymester, bred up with a contempt of the sacred writings. His religion allows him to destroy heretics, not only with his pen, but with fire and sword; and such were all those unhappy wits whom he sacrificed to his accursed popish principles. It deserved vengeance to suggest that Mr. Pope has less infallibility than his namesake at Rome.'


"Dryden's libel," meaning Mac Flecknoe, "is all bad matter: beautiful (which is all that can be said of it) with good metre. Mr. Dryden's genius did not appear in any thing more than his versification, and whether he is to be ennobled for that only is a question."

'Pope's smooth numbers, in the Dunciad, are all that recommend it; nor has it any other merit. It must be owned he has got a notable knack of rhyming and writing smooth verse.'

"Dryden's Virgil is so called to show it is not that Virgil so admired in the Augustan age, but a Virgil of another stamp: a silly, impertinent, nonsensical writer. None but a Bavius, a Maevius, or a Bathyllus, carped at Virgil, and none but such unthinking vermine admire his translator."

'Pope's Homer does not talk like Homer, but like Pope, and he who translated him one would swear had a hill in Tiperary for his Parnassus,

and a puddle in some bog for his Hypocrene. He has no admirers among those who can distinguish, discern, and judge.'

"Dryden deserves to be whipped for his ignorance of Greek."

'Pope undertook to translate Homer, from the Greek, of which he knows not one word, into English, of which he understands as little.'

"Dryden imposed upon his subscribers, by holding out a partially and unseasonably celebrated name; which imposition extended even to the picking of their pockets."

'Pope's subscribers have been deceived in their expectations, in proportion as he has drained their pockets.'

The epithets which have been bestowed on these great men are still more curious. Milbourn

thus calls Dryden an ape.
"A crafty ape, dressed in a gaudy gown. Whips put into an ape's paw, to play pranks with. None but apish and papish brats will heed him."

Dennis is just as kind to Pope.
'Let us take,' says he, 'the initial letter of his christian name, and the initial and final letters of his surname, viz. A P E, and they give you the same idea of an ape as his face.'

Dryden, according to Milbourn, is also an ass.
"A camel," says he, "will take upon him no more burden than is sufficient for his strength; but there is another beast that crouches under all."

Pope is ingeniously paid the same compliment, by Dennis.
'It is my duty,' says he, 'to pull off the lion's skin from this little ass.'

Dryden is, after this, a frog.
'Poet Squab,' says Milbourn, "endued with Poet Maroe's spirit:

an ugly croaking kind of vermine, which would swell to the bulk of an ox."

Dennis, imitating his preceptor, says almost the same thing of Pope.
'A squab, short gentleman: a little creature, that, like the frog in the fable, swells, and is angry that it is not allowed to be as big as an ox.'

Dryden is, after this, and so is Pope, a knave, a coward, a fool, and a thing; which indeed—if a pun may be pardoned—seems the only thing left for them to say.
If then ignorance, imposition, cowardice knavery, profligacy, irreligion, and treason are requisite attributes to establish the same of Dryden and Pope,
"why what a vile and peasant slave am I!"
My calumniators have gone but a very little way indeed towards ascertaining my merit by this criterion. I beg therefore they will bestir themselves; and as, in this novel → , I have given them new opportunity—especially as they may find in it a mirror that will

reflect some of their own faces—I assure them they cannot afford me a more sensible pleasure than to avail themselves of it, as usual, unawed by truth, candour, or consistency.

Having indubitably proved that it is my interest to be abused, I shall now, for the advantage of those who, though they intend enmity, confer kindness, show in what way it may best, or rather most expediently, be done.
First, I would have them keep no sort of measures, but indulge their rancour as much as possible. Let their method be to hold such trifles as probability, propriety, and decency in contempt; to use perpetually epithets which are appropriate to rage, disappointment, and vexation, to enforce terms that imply candour, ingenuousness and liberality.—Thus, in proportion as they are bursting with envy, so, at least in their own opinions, they will conceal it: like the silly bird, that thrusts its head into a hedge, to hide its body from its pursuers.

If they would detect nonsense, I would have them write nonsense themselves; because this will show practically what it is. Ignorance of their subject is a good thing; because it serves to exercise the ingenuity of the reader. Ill manners is not amiss; for it often bullies the reader into a fancied comprehension of what in reality is incomprehensible.
I would have all their outworks of criticism fortified with threats, denunciations, and menaces. I would have these supported by impudence, arrogance, and cruelty. I would have them place about fascines of hints, insinuations, and conjectures; and when, by a powerful onset of truth and conviction, they were driven from these, I would have them take shelter in their strong hold of ipse dixit; that anticipater of argument, that reconciler of absurdity, that friend of ignorance, that vehicle of malevolence, that poisoned arrow, that coiled snake, that baneful flower, that smiling precipice!
Ipse dixit!—the skulking retreat of the shuffler,

the hypocrite, the villain, the traitor, and the rascal! Ipse dixit!—that shall blast the faith of honour, that shall fully the purity of virtue, that shall pervert truth, sanctify mischief, emulate murder, annihilate order, reprobate morality, dignify sacrilege, profane the throne, and defy heaven!
Let them utter ipse dixits then like so many fiats, but never let them presume to argue; lest, detected by ignorance, forsaken by truth, and exposed to scorn, they betray frontless impudence and scowling envy, hidden by a filmy veil of candour.
There are some subjects however with which I would not advise them to tamper. In particular, let them not risk the awkward predicament in which they would stand if they were hardy enough to censure the public for the warm and liberal reception afforded to my labours. Let them not venture to slander those men of worth and honour who approve in me, in opposition to them, a life of regularity, sobriety, and industry: and, above all, as it is impossible for human invention—not even their invention—to

give any other motive to the honourable and generous support by which I have the happiness to be distinguished by that nobleman who presides over public amusements, than unexampled and transcendant benevolence; let them, instead of attempting to describe it, scowl, bite their malignant quills, gnash their teeth, and hang their recreant heads in sullenness and despair.
With these instructions, I think they can hardly miss their way. If there should be any danger of it—as it would be a pity that such charitable intentions should reap nothing but shame and confusion—by way of consummating their noble and manly purpose, let them boldly assert that I have written none of this book. Let them be so ungratefully severe as to say it is not I who have given them this friendly advice, but some outcast from society; and, as novelty in slander is as catching as in any thing else—having gone every other length—suppose this time, by way of variety, it were to be attributed to some murderer. I think, as Mr. Bayes has it, the circumstance would elevate and surprise. But this,

after all, I leave to themselves; for it is impossible I should be an adept in an employ the motives of which I scorn, and the malignity of which I detest.
If, by officiously pointing out their readiest road, it should appear to them that I have, by anticipation, betrayed the cloven foot, and they should be therefore induced to forego their intentions, from an apprehension of detection—for assassins are always cowards—let it be remembered that I shall set it down for a sulky perverseness; and, even though no single word of abuse shall be breathed against me, I shall take very comfortably to myself the same portion of fame as if such advantageous circumstance had really happened, and set it down, with all the composure in the world, as a large figure to go towards that aggregate of slander which I have so plainly shown is necessary to constitute the fame of a writer, and which, upon that ground of argument, I am so ambitious to merit.
Having gone through the painful part of my duty—for there is nothing so painful as that which

is unavailing, and there is nothing so unavailing as giving advice to the incorrigible—a few words will bring me to the end of this preface. A few very pleasing words! They are these: that in this, as in every other instance where I have offered any production to the public, having portrayed vice in its ugliest form and filthiest colours; having hunted craft and art to the toils; having invited the broad laugh against vain and insuperable folly; having excited the admiration, and commended the practice, of virtue and honour, I fearlessly trust my book to its fortune, safe in the criticism of the candid, and secure in the indulgence of the liberal; for the moral I inculcate is the folly of wickedness, and the wisdom of rectitude: a doctrine which shows, that while irritated vice multiplies deformity, by breaking the mirror of nature, it remains entire and unfullied to the eye of virtue, that consciously reflects its own unspotted loveliness.


As it very often happens that readers get half through a work without knowing its drift—not unfrequently because the author does not know it himself—I hold it necessary to preclude all possibility of any such thing in the perusal of this work, by premising what, according to my conception, ought to be the tendency of productions similar to this, and what I here mean to inculcate in particular.
A novel → , as the word is now understood and established, is a general title for any work which

springs solely from the imagination, yet so delineates men and manners as to place all its events within view of probability. It is a kind of mean betwixt history, which records mere fact, and romance, which holds out acknowledged fiction.
As, however, pleasure and instruction are the only end that any admitted exercise of the imagination can propose, these all labour, with different materials, to produce the same effect. History not only teaches mankind to shun vice and imitate virtue, by instancing those events which are most condusive to so laudable an end, but shows the propriety of the doctrine it enforces, by authenticating the possibility of such conduct.
The novelist, who is the biographer of an imaginary hero, chooses, for his source, manners in general. His margin cannot swell with authorities, nor can he—by way of notes—cite the contrary opinions of great men concerning the vices or virtues of those characters he celebrates. So they possess the same qualities in common with the rest of mankind, and the events brought about by their means are such as our observation points out to be natural, his task is completely performed; and he has a right to expect as much credit for relating circumstances that might have happened, as he

who—as far as he can clear his narrative from the cobwebs of tradition, and disentangle it from the labyrinth of contradictory authority—records facts that did happen.
Romances are, figuratively, in nature; and, literally, fictitious. They are intended, by lifting the mind above probability, to enforce moral by figure and allegory: and they attain their end—and indeed laudably—for they rouse those torpid minds into action which cannot relish writings that are kept within the bounds of simple nature.
This species of composition is remarkably gratifying to weak minds. It is—if I may be permitted so to express myself—an honourable fraud; for, exaggerate the beauty of virtue how you can, it will still be lovely; whereas vice, being ugly in itself, becomes more hideous when it is caricatured.
These three different vehicles for the conveyance of truth and morality, seem to require different conductors; and indeed it has seldom happened that any one man has equally succeeded in them.—Romance seems to require a poetic soul: strong in conception, fertile in invention, and various in expression. History wants nothing but a perspicuous

style, authentic information, and invincible veracity.
He who writes novels must partake of all these qualities. He must unite in his imagination the glow of poetry with the steadiness of narrative.—The latter must be as a curb to the former: not, however, to damp its spirit, but to prevent it from running away:—like the alderman, who, at a lord mayor's feast, would have made himself sick if his physician had not sat by the side of him.
Thus I think it becomes pretty evident that ← novel → writing holds a very respectable stand in literature, and I sincerely believe that men of considerable talents would very often practise it, were it not for those spurious productions with which the press teems under the appellation of novels, which means any love story calculated to madden the minds of sentimental country ladies, to trouble the domestic happiness of old gentlemen who marry young girls, and to overturn the purity imbibed at boarding schools.
These are sure to make their way into all the circulating libraries in the kingdom, provided they are sufficiently stuffed with dying lovers, inexorable parents, and impertinent chambermaids; with the

addition of three or four elopements, half a dozen duels, and an attempt or two at a rape; to which may be added, a little suicide, or a smattering of incest—especially if it be written by a lady—by way of zest, to make it go down the more glib.
Being about to give a ← novel → to the world, I thought it incumbent on me to say thus much; from which the reader will naturally conclude that I intend, throughout this work, to keep nature and probability in sight, to reject that which is frivolous and impertinent, and to adopt only what, by means of amusement, may bring about instruction.
It will nevertheless be necessary to say further, that, in portraying nature, I shall make her neither a flattering likeness, nor a caricature. Nor is it necessary; for, let her sit for her picture ever so often, she never will exhibit the same face twice, yet shall the general resemblance always be striking; for it has been well observed, that she takes every various hue of the camelion, yet, torture her how you will, her form is as constant as the polypus. No two human faces, though composed of the same features, ever were known to be correctly alike, and the luminous mind of LAVATER, did he attempt the arduous and absurd task of searching for any such would exactly resemble the lanthorn of AESOP.

To these general remarks—which I conceived it expedient to place here—I shall add particular ones whenever they appear to be necessary, and now I invite the reader to the examination of a faithful, though a bold, representation of human life, for I declare upon my word as a man, there is not a character or circumstance in this whole work which I do not experimentally know from a close observation and mankind, to have virtual existence.


A BRIDGE thrown over the high road, at the entrance of a village in Warwickshire, called Castlewick, is the separation of two estates, one of which had been, at the period this history commences, for half a century in the possession of the family of Hazard, and the other, for almost treble that space, in the family of Roebuck.
Nature had been equally bountiful in the distribution of her favours on either side of the road, which fortuitous advantage art had been industriously called in to improve. If a neat hamlet and a white spire gave a more modern termination to the view, through a group of pines and cedars, from Hazard lawn; an old market town and a contiguous mouldering castle became visible, through an avenue of elms, from Roebuck park.
Every Chinese temple, urn, or statue, on one side, erected to fancy, consecrated to friendship, or dedicated to the arts, had, on the other, its rival

grotto, cavern, or hermitage. Here was seen a clump of elms, there a row of oaks; while the meandering avon—lest the lord of one mansion should be jealous of its favours lavished on the other—not only by the advantage of a distant height, plunged up a rocky cliff to delight one favourite with the awful concussion of a beautiful cascade, which falling, lessened into a gurgling rivulet; but, also, opening its smooth, capacious bosom, moved on in majestic silence, through the possessions of the other; stretching out on one side a small, irregular stream, which supplied the house, watered the garden, and turned the village mill.
Old Rust, the grandfather of Lord Hazard, was a skinner in the city. His profession unluckily made him rather a bye-word; for he had such a voracious thirst, or hunger, after money—for gold can be both eaten and drank—that it was archly said he would skin any thing for profit. Nay, some are of opinion that, from this very remark, originated the epithet skinflint. Be that as it may, he certainly amassed a very large fortune, and having run through the regular progression of livery-man, common council-man, deputy, alderman, sheriff, and lord mayor, he married in his seventy-first year, a girl of sixteen, without a sixpence, who bore him—or somebody else—a son, portioned three of

her sisters, granted a pension to an Irish relation, set up a coach, and bought a villa; till at length, having expostulated, stormed, threatened, prayed, and entreated, to no purpose, poor Rust—think of it with horror ye antiquated Adonises—died raving mad in St. Luke's hospital.
Previous to his insanity, however, he took care to make a will, vesting his whole possessions in the hands of trustees, for the use of his son. His remains were, therefore, scarcely laid in the earth, when the widow, with a moderate annuity, was obliged to sink into retirement; and of her it will not be necessary to say more than that she died when her son, who was purposely kept from her by his guardians, came to be eighteen years old.
Young Rust, besides the possession of uncommon talents, was wonderfully calculated for commerce. Before he was thirty he considerably augmented his deceased father's wealth; and, a few years afterwards—having bought a large estate which gave him the entire nomination of four members of parliament—he became so material an object to the minister, that he was made one of those peers which it was then expedient to create, lest the balance of power in the constitution should be found to lean too much to the side of the people.

No longer Mr. Rust, then, but Baron Hazard, he pulled down the old mansion on the estate he had purchased, and built that very chateau we have already commemorated. As he had a towering ambition, he now married into an honourable family, not overburdened with riches; was shortly blessed with several children; and had made some rapid strides towards an improvement in both church and state; but—so transitory is the felicity of lords, as well as inferior beings—he did not live long to enjoy that success his hopes seemed to promise:—for, sitting up a whole night to compose a speech, which was to have introduced a plan to destroy pluralities, and root out corruption, he caught a cold, which being followed by a fever, he was hurried out of the world, having scarcely time to settle his affairs.
The young lord—but here, kind reader, let us both give a sigh to the memory of Lord Hazard, and admire that the wisest designs in this sublunary existence are liable, like a grain of sand, to be scattered at the will of providence!


THE young lord—for we shall have no occasion for the rest of the family—saw himself his own master at a very early period of life; a circumstance which, together with dissipated company at the university, and a profligate tutor, contributed to form in him the strongest principles of debauchery and libertinism.
When he became of age, his licentiousness made him the terror of the neighbourhood. It is true he was a little checked in his wild career by the wise and wholesome counsels of his mother, to which he at first affected to listen; but, becoming more and more hardened, her precepts and conduct were altogether disregarded; till at length, worn out with preaching to no purpose, she retired into the bosom of her own family, with a firm determination to consider herself entirely alienated from her disgracious son.

Lord Hazard being now left to the unbridled influence of his headstrong passions, stopped at nothing to gratify them. The farmers' wives and daughters, if they had the smallest pretensions to beauty, were sure to become objects first of his generosity, then his gratification, and afterwards his neglect: or, if they durst dispute his impetuous wishes, his unalterable resentment. But, as the swiftest cannon ball, which neither edifices of wood nor stone can oppose, may be stopped in its very strongest velocity by the dull resistance of a wool pack, so were the vehement pursuits of Lord Hazard effectually checked by that dullest of all dull things, according to the bachelors—ay, and many of the married men too—a wife.
My lord's tutor, whose name was Viney, and who, as I hinted before, had the highest ascendancy over his pupil—having ever been cnofiderably more useful to him in the conduct of his love affairs than in his study of the classics—had also another pupil. Indeed his attention to this last mentioned scholar, on whom he had expended a large part of that money which the bounty to Lord Hazard—for his lordship was liberal to excess—had lavished on him, would appear very enigmatic did we not derive it from its natural motive.

This scholar then was no other than his sister, who, without a penny, had married an Irish fortune hunter, and was very shortly saved the trouble of breaking his heart by a kind friend of his, who killed him in a duel. Viney had connived at this marriage, which, soon after it was consummated, was found to be a mutual bite. However, as his sister was left a blooming widow of twenty-two, he easily comforted himself by considering her market as not yet over. In a word, he had long in idea married her to Lord Hazard. This will account for his generosity: nor, when it is considered how completely this same Mr. Viney ruled his pupil, will it appear very unaccountable that the lady should become at length in reality what she had long been in imagination.
Marriage stopped for a while the excesses of Lord Hazard. He doted on his wife; and, having taken this step, Viney became his privy counsellor in a stronger degree than ever. His tone, however, was soon changed. He found her a mixture of arrogance, meanness, bridled wantonness, and ignorant affectation. Nor is it difficult to divine where it might have ended if he had not accidentally discovered, after having been about three months blessed with an heir, that she had an intrigue with his valet de chamber.

This roused him at once. She was properly detected, the necessary steps were taken, and a divorce obtained. She recriminated, indeed, but he was a lord, and his success certain. Thus, having received satisfaction for the injuries he had sustained, he legally banished her for ever from his presence, granting her only a decent provision for life.
Any one experienced in the human heart will easily see the part Viney took upon his sister's detection. He exclaimed against her with the greatest violence, and was the forwardest in procuring his lordship that redress which he knew it was not in his power to prevent.
This conduct established him more firmly than ever in the good graces and household of Lord Hazard; the first of which advantages he often declared—loudly to the world—was the ultimate end of all his wishes; because, said he—softly to himself—it brings about the other.
I have already shown that marriage proved a pretty tight curb to the excesses of this young nobleman, and one would think his divorce had given him a reasonable surfeit of marriage; but, I know not how it is, some men seem to be the bubble of their own arts: their whole study is to overreach

themselves, and if they stumble on tolerable content, it is because things take a different turn from what they designed.
Thus it happened with our peer. Every resolution he took, in consequence of being a widower, was wrong; and yet he hit upon happiness when he only meant revenge.
This was his argument. He had married a woman of spirit, who had injured him in the strongest degree, and, for this indignity, he was determined to take vengeance on her whole sex; idly forgetting that this was revenging himself on a whole hive, for the sting of a single bee. Besides, he himself was to blame: the fault lay in his own want of discernment. Had he fairly examined the ground of the business, he would have plainly seen that it originated with Viney, who had taught him nothing but what disgraced his birth, and deprived him of the use of that valuable goodness of heart which he really possessed, and which, had he fallen into proper hands, might have induced him to have dispensed the gifts of fortune nobly instead of licentiously.
To put this worthy project in execution, Lord Hazard resolved once more to try the married state, resolutely vowing to conduct himself in so authoritative

a manner to his second wife, that she should not dare even to think without his previous permission. He had scarcely come to this resolution, but his uneasiness on his late disgrace vanished. He looked round for a wife with the greatest eagerness, till at length, with Viney's assistance, who was still consulted, he thought he had found one to his wish.
But how was he astonished when he plainly saw it would be impossible to avail himself of any one of those prudent determinations, those ingenious precautions he had been so long and so industriously arming himself with. He had now such a wife that to control her was impossible; to advise her, useless!
If my readers think he was again caught, after so much wary and cautious resolution, after such anticipation of success, I hope it will be confessed he deserved it.
Certainly he was disappointed, but in that satisfactory way that a man would be at finding a lawyer who, taking a brief, should refuse a fee. Lady Hazard could not be controlled, advised, or entreated; for she had so high a sense of her duty, such equanimity of temper, and such sweetness of

manners, that she anticipated her lord's very wishes. He had received her from her father, a wealthy country neighbour, who wanted to aggrandize his family. The young lady, who had all her life made it her study to please her father, found it no irksome task to watch and comply with the tempers of her husband:—so true it is that a dutiful daughter has gone a great way towards becoming a good wife.
If ever an extraordinary event new moulded a man's mind, this unexpected merit in his wife had that effect on Lord Hazard. He saw in an instant that his whole life had been one delusion; that while he had sought for pleasure, he had neglected happiness; and, therefore, resolved doubly to cherish it, since it had complacently condescended to come home to him.
Nobody had ever dared to tell him he was a dupe to Viney: he now saw it himself. He did not, however, think proper to withdraw his protection from him, but contented himself only with giving him a handsome rectory, to which that worthy incumbent shortly removed.
In about a twelvemonth after this second marriage—but hold, all great events should be ushered in with cautious preparation.

A watchmaker would have called the circumstance I am about to celebrate the main spring of this history; a sailor would have said it was its helm; and an alderman its marrow.
It is something, therefore, of material consequence; and, of course, proper to be given in a new chapter, and with a particular introduction:—all which ceremony, though it may be the limbs and outward flourishes of writing, is not without its use; and though more than PHEDRUS have said that a tree should be estimated by its fruit, and not by its leaves, yet it must be considered, that, without the proper shelter afforded by the leaves, no fruit could arrive to perfection.


IT falls out sometimes at the theatre, that, at the very moment the audience are sitting with expectation on its utmost stretch, an actor, with a woe-begone countenance, comes on the stage to announce the indisposition of the principal actress.
This once happened of Desdemona; and, as there was no lady in the company competent to the part but her whose name was in the bills, a gentleman undertook it at a very short warning. The spectators were, as usual, content per force; but, after waiting a considerable time, the apologizer was a second time obliged to come on, who assured the audience the play would soon begin, but at present Desdemona was not shaved.
I hope it will not be thought, by mentioning this case in point, that I mean to introduce in a ludicrous way, a matter of such eminent importance as that I now take the liberty of presenting to the

reader's notice; but, my amour propre is wounded: for being forced—at the very critical moment I considered myself happy beyond all example in the mode of introducing my hero—to stopped short, and put my readers in the exact situation of the spectators above described, I am obliged to exculpate myself from any intentional offence by fairly laying the truth before them, and humbly appealing to their candour: or—according to the language of the standing theatrical apology—their usual indulgence.
I was going to begin this chapter in a most lovely style, by saying that the bees came about somebody's cradle, and left their honey on his lips; giving proof that he would be sweet and eloquent in discourse. But, casting in my mind who this somebody could be, it presently struck me—for I
"do bear a brain"
—that the point was not settled.

This prodigy is related of ST. AMBROSE of Milan. Doctor JOHNSON, who ought to have known something about the matter, says it was PINDAR; but FENELON affirms it was said of PLATO by his preceptor SENECA, who, while the circumstance was warm in his mind, dreamt that a cygnet flew to his bosom, which, by degrees, became covered with feathers of a most beautiful and dazzling whiteness;

and which, taking wing, flew with a force and rapidity superior to an eagle:—and these prodigies were so strongly verified in this great man, that CICERO said of him, when he grew up,
"If JUPITER had condescended to speak like man, he would have used the language of PLATO."

Now it cannot be denied but that here is proof upon proof on the side of FENELON; and, as he gathered this intelligence for the improvement of princes, one would think that he must have made a point of collecting his materials from the best authorities. But as there is no court of criticism to appeal to from the fiat of Dr. JOHNSON—his ipse dixit being always final upon these occasions—if the reader please it shall stand for PINDAR: not for the living PINDAR, because every body knows that, instead of honey, he deals in nothing but gall.
In this case it is melancholy to lose the beautiful dream of SENECA, and the fine saying of CICERO, but ornament and flourish must give way to truth and Dr. JOHNSON. Besides, Mr. BOSWELL informs us that the Doctor had but a pitiful opinion of FENELON, for that he would not allow Telemachus to be written more than
"pretty well."

Having established this important point, I shall

regularly proceed to the business of introducing my hero, who having set the poets together by the ears before he was born, will be allowed to have given a pretty good specimen of the work he was to cut out for them afterwards.
Many and various are the portents and omens that are said to have announced the births, deaths, and marriages of great men and women; and I could muster up a long catalogue of them, from the lady who made so handsome a deluge as to swallow up all Asia, to Tom Thumb—which is a pretty touch of the bathos—who was swallowed up by a cow; but that it would insensibly draw me into an imitation of certain authors, who are fonder of showing their reading than their good manners.
I shall be forgiven however, since a great man and a prodigy are almost synonimous terms, if I lament that nature did not go a single step out of her road to introduce our hero: neither his father nor his mother having dreamt any thing prodigious on the occasion.
Viney indeed had a confused idea in a dream of a basilisk which kept continually in his way, and the nurse, as she nodded by the fire side while Lady Hazard was in labour, dreamt that her young master—

for she always said it would be a boy—spoke the moment he came into the world, and that he believed any thing you said to him; which she sagaciously interpreted as a sure sign that he would be very learned, and very much imposed upon:—the truth of which observation the reader may perhaps have occasion to admire before he and I part.
Lady Hazard's being brought to bed of a son, to the great joy of that honourable family, seems then to be the event I hinted at in the third chapter. It really took place about a twelve month after the marriage, and three years and a quarter—for I love to be exact—after the birth of the first son, whom Lord Hazard called Zekiel, after his grandfather, and this, our hero, Charles, after himself.
The happiness of Lord Hazard would now have been complete, had it not been imbittered by a consideration that the whole estate being willed away with the title, he could not do his youngest son the justice he wished. To amend, however, this deficiency, he resolved to make him a paragon of learning; and, as he knew very well that had not the former part of his own life been devoted to idleness, it would have been less given to dissipation, he resolved to add a complete study of the arts to his son's education.

In the contemplation of this plan he took great delight. At length, when Zekiel had attained his eleventh year, he was sent to Eaton school, to leave the coast clear for a proper attention to the education of Charles, which his lordship was determined to superintend himself.
Many essays were made upon his tender intellects, which gave very promising hopes; and now the difficulty was to get him a tutor. Lord Hazard fairly owned he despaired of finding one to his wish. He declared he had himself witnessed so much ill conduct in men of that description, that he should be very cautious indeed how he made a choice.
These doubts he often imparted to Lady Hazard, who said she had mixed very little in the world, and therefore was happy whenever he was so good as to give her his opinion, in order that she might form hers. She could not help thinking, however, that he was warmer on that subject than he otherwise would have been, had not an ill choice been made in a tutor for him. She hoped he would be able to find a man who should have talents, and yet be honest.

'If,' said my lord, 'I could form a tutor, he should be ingenuous above all things; not ashamed

if he found any of those trivial vices creeping on him to which human nature is subject, to confess and amend them. Such a kind of man cannot design to do ill, because he is sorry for his own infirmity. Ingenuousness has a tendency to gratitude, which is with me the first of virtues. I declare if I was obliged to accuse a man of a crime, and he could prove his motive to be in the smallest degree similar to any thing I had ever forgiven in myself, I should instantly feel an inclination to pardon him. It is the sneaking, underhand villain I hate; the hypocrite, the deceiver, who studies to be a rascal; who stings while he fawns. But he who acts from mere intuitive principles, may correct his frailty by his judgment; and, at any rate, you have a declared enemy, and know how to be on your guard. One stands some chance with a lion, but who can provide against the venom of a slow worm?'

Thus ended a conversation which the reader may hereafter think I had a reason for inserting.
Very little passed in this family worthy relation till Master Charles was twelve years old, when one day my lord brought a gentleman who, he said, answered, in every particular, that description of person he had so long and so fruitlessly sought for, as

a tutor for his darling son. As to Zekiel, he did not believe him to be his son at all, though he had in vain tried to prove him legally illegitimate. He therefore took very little further notice of him than to remit him money; nor did he express either astonishment or dissatisfaction at being told he was both an arrant dunce and an arrant puppy. On the contrary, he sarcastically observed
"he would do well enough for a lord."

Having brought matters in the family of Lord Hazard to a sort of stand still, the reader and I will now, if he please, take a walk across the bridge into Roebuck park. But, upon recollection, being come now to the centre which commands a view of the whole village of Castlewick, and its inhabitants making a part of our dramatis personae, we will take a short view of that little community, which had really something to recommend it to our notice.


THE village of Castlewick contained about five hundred inhabitants. About half the men and boys were generally employed at the trade of wool-combing; part of the women and girls in carding, spinning, twisting, and knitting; the more intelligent and experienced of the men in journeying to large towns to purchase sheep, and supply factors, clothiers, and hosiers with wool, yarn, worsted, stockings, nightcaps, socks, and such other articles as they manufactured. The lower order of the men and boys were employed in tilling, manuring, and enclosing; and the remainder of the women busied themselves in household affairs, buying and selling the necessaries of life, and such other occupations as the vicar—for this parish had no curate—pointed out to them.
The vicar had two deputies, the clerk and the schoolmaster; and these three were all the persons in the village who did no bodily labour:—for Castlewick

could boast neither lawyer, exciseman, nor apothecary.
Their good pastor undertook to regulate the temporal, as well as spiritual, concerns of his flock; and, by a scrupulous discharge of his duty as their treasurer, showed them more than by a thousand precepts how much it was their interest to act with truth and integrity towards each other. Not that his preaching was not of a piece with his example, for every Sunday they heard some new lesson of sweet and comfortable morality from his mouth; for he, instead of describing religion as a denunciation of vengeance, and the deity as delighting in punishment, softened that high duty into a gentle and intelligent system of morality, by inculcating the principles of social virtue and brotherly love, and representing the creator as an indulgent father watching with anxious and tender care over the interest and happiness of his children, and regarding their virtuous endeavours with a smile of celestial benevolence:—thus troubling his hearers with nothing beyond the reach of that capacity which had fallen to their share, and leaving the discussion of dogmas to larger communities, who better understood cavilling.
The clerk and the schoolmaster kept an account

of the receipts and disbursements throughout the parish. These were faithfully audited by the vicar. Ten of the most considerable of the inhabitants, who acted as a committee for the rest, were called in every week to the vestry, where the books were always forth coming for general inspection.
Every other regulation for the pleasure and advantage of this happy community was proportionably wise and salutary. Thus cheerfulness smiled on their labours; content converted their pittance into plenty; health, ease, and good humour accompanied their steps, and they passed their time in the exercise of as much moral rectitude as would have immortalized them—had they been born ancient Spartans—without dreaming they did more than a common duty, for the sake of general convenience.
By this time I believe the reader begins to suspect that the vicar, however well disposed to lend a helping hand towards the regulation of this little commonwealth, as well as the clerk and the schoolmaster, who kept the account of their finances, were but subordinate actors in this performance, and here introduced, like the sentinels in Hamlet and the servants in the Orphan—both of which circumstances VOLTAIRE is very angry at—only to usher in the capital

personage, who, having once made his appearance, is to receive all the applause.
It must be owned that the motions of Castlewick appeared to be as regular as those of its church clock, which clock, though any blacksmith could wind it up, and set it a going, must have required a much better mechanic to have invented it originally. If there should be a hidden first cause for this, it will be announced in its proper place. In the mean time I cannot prevail upon myself to repent my having introduced these sons of industry, insignificant as they are. The mind is often both improved and amused by the most trifling objects: the smaller the mite the more worthy the curiosity of the philosopher.


MY reader and I having passed through the rookery that received us as we left the bridge, are now within sight of the mansion of Sir Sydney Walter Roebuck, lord of the manor of Castlewick, and member of parliament for the borough of Neitherside.
The grandfather of this gentleman—for were I to trouble the reader with any thing anterior, my description would resemble a game of chess, where bishops, knights, castles, and the king and queen are continually crossing each other. Indeed I have two other reasons for not going farther back; one is, that in the course of this history Sir Sidney will talk to us a little about the fame of his ancestors himself; and the other, that, for ought I could ever learn, their lives were, take them all in all, such a uniform mixture of morality, loyalty, and brotherly love, that the description of one would serve for the whole. Their tempers might not be unaptly

compared to a bowl of punch, for though made up of the same contrariety of ingredients in common with the rest of their fellow creatures, the mixture was so happily blended, that they diffused comfort and cheerfulness to all around them.
The grandfather then having taken umbrage at court for being turned out of the cabinet, only because he maintained that the Lancashire witches were harmless old women—for which indeed Dr. JOHNSON would have been as angry with him as the council were, for he tells us he will not say there never was any such thing as witchcraft, for that probably there might have been, but that it had ceased—retired to the mansion of his forefathers, which gothic and stately structure the reader and I are looking at.
There having sat contentedly down, with a quiet conscience, an active mind, and a princely fortune, he considered—which was nothing more than his daily custom—how he might best be serviceable to his fellow creatures.
He had not deliberated long on the subject before he determined to build the village of Castlewick, and, like another Bishop Blaze, set up the trade of wool-combing. Nor was this, would he argue, a

project unworthy his rank; wool was the staple commodity of that country he so dearly loved, and for which his ancestors had so gallantly shed their blood; the wool sack was the emblem of honour, for it sustained the leading member of the house, and took place in that assembly of every thing but the throne. He had yet a better reason: his scheme would give employment to his tenants and other poor neighbours, and he should be sure to receive the daily blessings of many families who would owe a subsistance to their honest labours, under the auspices of his bounty.
This gentleman lived to see his benevolent plan carried into execution, and he enjoined his son to pursue it. This injunction was faithfully complied with, but the present Sir Sidney considerably increased the number of houses and inhabitants, altered the former rules and orders into a more regular and digested set of laws, and called in the vicar and his adherents, as the reader has already seen, to assist him in their execution.
Thus, burning the Lancashire witches was productive of one public benefit at least; for, had not the humanity of good old Sir Sidney taken fire at the cruel proposition, in all probability the village of Castlewick would never have been built.

The surviving gentleman of this family I now take the liberty of introducing in form to the reader. He had many singularities: one I have already hinted at: another was a fixed aversion to cards and dice; yet he was a strenuous encourager of all athletic sports. He would sometimes pitch the bar himself, and was allowed to be the best bowler at cricket within ten miles. He was an admirer of the arts, and never failed to bring with him from town, at the end of every sessions, a poet, a painter, and a musician, who were obliged—and so indeed were all others who wished for his esteem—to accompany him in the different departments of his duty, as he called the regulation of his little commonwealth. Nay sometimes he would set them to work, on which occasion he enjoyed their awkwardness.
Seeing once the wig of a counsellor catch in the girt of a twisting mill, as he was unhandily turning it round, it afforded no small diversion to the baronet, who facetiously exclaimed,
"My good old friend, you let your learning fly about at a strange rate."

No man was more admired, nor sought less to be so, than Sir Sidney. Even the boobies, with whom he could not mix, because he never swore, gamed,

nor drank pint bumpers, declared he was a gruffish odd sort of a hearty cock. In short, his heart was benevolent, his means were ample, he was in the prime of life, surrounded with hundreds of sincere friends—which is a bold thing to say-respected, valued, esteemed, adored, almost deified, and yet he was not happy. I could tell the reader why, but shall only so far indulge him as to say that, according to Sir Sidney's own account, his unhappiness was occasioned by a phantom he had seen, which had so possessed him, that he could not rest in his bed till he had opened his mind to it:—for, were I to unriddle the whole secret of this ghost, the spirit and the reader's curiosity would vanish together.
I shall therefore collect together all the leading circumstances, that I may the more adroitly introduce the time when, the place where, and the manner how, it appeared. And this has been a privilege to authors and old women time immemorial; a climax having ever been allowed the proper moment to introduce a catastrophe, and the candle's burning blue a signal for the approach of a hobgoblin.
As soon, therefore, as I shall have terrified my readers into a belief of the proper prognostic, the

ghost shall stalk forth. To suffer this sooner would be inartificial, and consequently an impeachment of my capacity of tantalizing the reader, which would be an indelible disgrace to the fraternity of ← novel → writers, some of whom have excited no other sensation.
I hope, however, I shall be forgiven if I differ in the main from this mode of constructing my work, and not deemed an innovator if I endeavour to make satisfaction keep pace with expectation.


I MEAN to lead the reader on, chapter after chapter, through this history, in the same manner as we are led, day after day, through life. They who experience the largest portions of human happiness, are sure to have some unpleasant moments in every four-and-twenty hours; whereas the same degree of misery will not so far overcome the fortitude of others: but they find now and then a transient gleam of pleasure, which, like an accidental creek through the wall of a dungeon, magnifies the light of comfort, by peeping in upon obscurity.
At the close of every dull day, we naturally look forward in hopes of finding the next more agreeable. Thus people comfort themselves with
"tomorrow is a new day;"—"we shall see how matters will go to-morrow;"
and thus cherish a laudable expectation, though it end perhaps only in disappoinment.


I am led to these remarks by the recollection of my having promised to tell the reader what Sir Sidney wanted to make him completely happy. To do this suddenly, and without preparation, would seem to show that I know not the way to elevate and surprise; a mystery which more than Mr. Bayes have thought the most essential requisite of an author.
As no reader, therefore, can reasonably desire me to violate a standing rule, I shall now proceed to unfold a nice chain of circumstances, which will lead directly to the main event.
In the description that has been given of Castlewick, I more than doubt I have been shrewdly suspected of that kind of embellishment in which heroes are said to deal when speaking of their exploits, and lovers when extolling the charms of their mistresses. In fact, to suppose a body of nearly five hundred people, of different sexes, ages, and complexions, could be perfectly secure from evil in themselves, or guarded against the temptations of others, would be to suppose an order of beings that certainly shall not intrude themselves here, my intention being to treat of human creatures, the best of whom, I am afraid, are not exempt from frailty. I would only have it understood that vices

existed in Castlewick no longer than till they were found out; at which time the parties were, for the first offence, reprehended; for a second, mulct; for a third, condemned to have no intercourse with their neighbours; and, for a fourth, considered as incorrigible; and, without favour or affection, banished from the place, and deprived for ever of any claim to its advantages.
When this happened, which I will say was very seldom, the offenders generally took refuge in another village, about three miles distant, called Little Hockley, the inhabitants of which place were mostly tenants of Lord Hazard; and, as that nobleman had found no great difficulty in bringing over the men, and the women too, to any of his purposes, it may easily be supposed they were a very likely people to afford such a left-handed asylum.
Little Hockley then was as famous for springes, trammel nets, and pitched battles, as Castlewick was for cricket, quoits, and tranquillity; and if one was without an attorney, that a proper number of that worthy fraternity might be kept up, the other maintained two. Nay, a spruce young man, who indeed had been porter to an obscure druggist, in a blind alley near Rosemary-lane, established himself there as an apothecary, who, when Lord Hazard

first began to reside at his seat, ordered a new sign, and added to his former qualifications surgeon and man-midwife.
One great pleasure of the wicked wights of Little Hockley, was to torment their more fortunate neighbours of Castlewick, This they effected by certain railings and backbitings; to which exploits of their fancy, they added others, which were achieved by means of their fingers; for scarcely a week past but some hog was hamstrung, horse lamed, or house dog hanged. Sucking pigs and chickens disappeared from their sties and roosts, without the assistance of a fox; the cows were milked in the night by two-handed urchins, and lambs ran away with by two-legged wolves.
These depredations ceased now and then, upon Sir Sidney's application to Lord Hazard, but they constantly broke out again. In the mean time, certain defiances were breathed, and sometimes a few blows exchanged.
The vicar was not without frequent apprehensions that some of his parishioners, meeting with so many insulting provocations, and being healthy, spirited men, would once for all take such a revenge as might involve the community in trouble; for one

or two of them had been already cited to the quarter sessions, where it required the whole interest of Sir Sidney to prevent their paying heavy damages, though what they did was perhaps in resentment of some insult offered to a wife or daughter.
At the time Lord Hazard petitioned the lords for his divorce, Sir Sidney was attending with great earnestness his duty in the lower house. Taking advantage of this opportunity, a month had scarcely passed before the Hockley men, grown more audacious than ever, had irritated their peaceable neighbours so often, that three stout bruising matches had already been the consequence; and though the Hockley boxers would have cut no contemptible figure in the learned Mr. MENDOZA's school, yet it so happened—perhaps because a right cause is half the victory—the men of Castlewick were the conquerors.
Seeing matters at this extremity, and unwilling to trouble Sir Sidney, the vicar determined to pay a visit to the curate of Little Hockley, for that parish, which was a rectory, had not been blessed with a sight of its incumbent for ten years. Indeed that worthy member of the church, who was also a member of a gaming club, commuted for the tithes and all other immunities of his living, and had given up,

among other advantages, the right of appointing a curate.
The gentleman who made this purchase lived in the neighbourhood, and was called Major Malplaquet. He had distinguished himself in the wars of the low countries, when very young, under the famous Duke of MALBOROUGH, and was now late in life in quiet possession of his paternal seat, and a very fine fortune.
The Major had a chaplain, who, it must be confessed, did not look much like a clergyman. He had been in the wars too, and indeed he fought much better than he prayed. I will illustrate his character by an anecdote.
A clergyman being on a visit to a captain of a man of war, a smart gale sprung up so suddenly that the vessel parted her cable, and was hurried out to sea. No harm happened, but it gave the crew a great deal of trouble. The boatswain, who in the language of his messmates, was a dry hand, coming upon the forecastle, cried,
'Sink me if I did not think as this would be the case. I will be keelhauled if we have had a bit of good luck since that there parson came aboard. Of all the fish that swims, I cannot abide a parson. I never sailed

but once before with a parson, and then we had not a fair wind the whole voyage.'

'Never but once!' said one of his companions, 'why a chaplain's parson, 'ent he?'

'Avast that slack chatter,' said the boatswain, 'a chaplain a parson, hey!'

'Why I tell you he is,' says the other, 'he wears black, and says prayers.'

'Why then I suppose,' retorted the boatswain, 'the devil's an alderman because he wears horns.—All the chaplains I ever knew were honest hearty cocks: good fellows, who would not mind making a curtain of their black gown, to hide a pretty lass. None of your grave thinking gentlemen; but roaring boys, who showing you what they are, and telling you what they ought to be, leave you to your choice whether you'll go to heaven by their preaching, or to the southward by their example.'

This worthy member of the church militant, whose name was Standfast, had, in his younger days—for he was now near fifty—performed as many exploits of the buckish kind as ever distinguished

the Mohawks, Sweaters, or any other set of desperados who used formerly to parade the streets of London, to the terror of every decrepid watchman, and the demolition of his lanthorn. He was the very man who once proposed to give the waiter of a coffee-house a rouleau, to see how he would look.
Besides all this, he had killed his man; and, having absconded to Flanders, he ran away with a nun from a convent, married her, spent her fortune, set her adrift, and entered a volunteer in the army, where the officers—finding him a genteel man—being informed of his function, procured him a chaplaincy.
In this situation Standfast was particularly noticed by Major Malplaquet, who being a man of singular credulity, so attached himself to his new acquaintance, that he soon became his all in all. Indeed the chaplain had many qualities that rendered him agreeable to the major. He would drink claret, play at put, and beat a reveille, with any man in the corps. Besides these winning accomplishments, he had other accommodating methods of endearing himself to his patron. He often complimented him with the possession of some yielding female he had himself grown tired of, and never failed, if husbands or fathers grew impertinent and troublesome, to

brazen the matter out. In short, having gained a consummate knowledge of the world, by a scrupulous hardness of belief, a total want of every feeling but self-interest, and a critical exercise of observation, he penetrated every man's characteristic foible, and worked upon it as he pleased.
Such was the Rev. Mr. Standfast, private chaplain to Major Malplaquet, and curate of Little Hockley. To this person I am going to introduce the vicar of Castlewick, who, conscious of the rectitude of his own intentions, was indulging himself in the flattering hope that his efforts, in conjunction with those of the curate, would effectually make up every breach between the two contending parties.


To the qualities already celebrated in Tiger Standfast—for so had he been nicknamed by his companions, from the utter impossibility of taming him—I shall add, that, let him converse with whom he might, he, as the phrase is, knew his man; and was always provided with so many shifts and turns, that come what would he was never off his guard. Besides he had an admirable knack of siding with his enemy, the better to laugh at him,
I thought it necessary to premise this, lest the reader should wonder how it came about that the moment he saw Mr. Mildman he should not only welcome him with all imaginable courtesey, but declare he intended, the next morning, to have paid him a visit, in order to consult with him on the very subject which had now brought them together:—adding, as he took the good old vicar by the hand, that he had a hard time of it indeed, but bad examples were terrible things, and if Lord Hazard

would encourage his tenants in idleness—which Mr. Mildman's experience must have long taught him is the corner stone of the temple of corruption—of what avail were all his prayers, nay his tears, in enforcing either their duty towards God or their neighbour.
The astonished vicar could scarcely credit his ears. He had not to learn the general character of Standfast; but, on the contrary, had both heard and believed much ill of him: and indeed, on his way, had uncharitably, as he now thought, conjured up a number of difficulties in his mind, which he expected would be thrown in the way of his beneficent plan.
This Standfast well knew, and as the first blow in argument, as well as boxing, is a manifest advantage, he had the inward satisfaction—I say inward because his features betrayed no such sensation—of seeing his antagonist struck aghast.
To pursue this first blow, therefore, he thus went on.
'I see Mr. Mildman you are shocked to find I have no more influence over my parishioners.'

The vicar, to whom truth was as habitual as perjury

is to an attorney, with the utmost simplicity of heart immediately answered:
'You have not at all divined the subject of my astonishment. I was admiring that the world could be so unnecessarily slanderous to have described you as a dissolute and immoral character, and one who—pardon me for using the expression, was a scandal to your cloth; whereas you appear to me—'

'Ah,' cried Standfast, 'poor deluded wretches I forgive them. But what do they say? It is of consequence that I should clear my character to you. Their slander I smile at, but your ill opinion! What do they say, dear Mr. Mildman?'

'Why Sir,' replied the vicar, 'since I see you bear it with a proper firmness, I will tell you.'—
'Sit down sir,' said Standfast.

The vicar having complied with his request, proceeded to inform him that, in the first place, it was said he drank very hard for a clergyman.
'Not a drop more, in general, than two bottles at a sitting,' said Standfast, 'and never more than four.'
'Four bottles!' exclaimed the vicar.
'Why what is that;' cried Standfast very calmly, 'if, my dear sir, you had been in countries where I have, you must have drank. Ay, ay, it is better to be carried

off to bed in liquor than in an ague. Then, between ourselves, the major is a notable toper; never stirs till the sixth bottle, though there should be only he and I to drink it: and I dare not disoblige my patron: I hate ingratitude. I only ask you Mr. Mildman if any thing could induce you to thwart the will of Sir Sidney?'

'Sir,' cried the vicar, with a look of extreme sensibility, 'it is the study of my life to deserve his bounty.'

'That was spoken,' said Standfast, 'too warmly not to have come from the heart. You must, my dear sir, pledge me in a glass to Sir Sidney's health. Here bring some wine.'

The vicar, who, though he never was drunk in his life, could take a glass or two, and very frequently did at Sir Sidney's table, made no great difficulty to comply.
Two bottles of wine were immediately brought, two glasses poured out, and soon emptied to the health of the vicar's patron. Standfast asked Mr. Mildman if he liked his port as well as Sir Sidney's? at the same time excusing himself from drinking any, saying that nothing but claret agreed with him.

The vicar commended the wine, but said it had a dryish sour smack after it.
'Goute de la terreinne, nothing else,' said Standfast, 'it is the very excellence of it.'

'Perhaps so,' said the vicar, 'but to our business.'
'No sir,' said Standfast, 'you shall purge me of all my secret faults. It has long been my ambition to be known to you, and I promise most truly, if you can use any fair argument before you go, to convince me of the least impropriety in my conduct, I will amend it immediately.'

'Sir,' said the vicar, 'it is handsomely said; and, after this declaration, I will not believe you the man you have been represented to me. You a murderer!'

'A murderer!' echoed Standfast, 'I abhor the idea.'

'I dare say you do sir,' cried the vicar, 'and yet the wicked world says you killed a man in a duel.'

'Oh is that all!' said Standfast, 'I was compelled to it. Poor Ned—he was a worthy fellow—

I had a great regard for him, but he would insist upon it, so I ran him through the body.'

'Mercy on us,' cried the vicar, 'and do you feel no remorse for having the blood of a fellow creature upon your head?'

'Not in an affair of honour,' said Standfast. It was impossible to be avoided.'

'Honour!' cried the vicar with great vehemence, 'it is a prostitution of the word. Can it be honour, because a man has perhaps unwittingly affronted me, to shed his blood, and desolate his family? Is it honour, because there are men of desperate fortunes, with whom it is safer to face a pistol than a halter that I must either fear to detect their villainy, or put my life upon a footing with theirs.'

'Spoken like an oracle, my dear sir,' said Standfast, 'but it will sometimes unavoidably happen that two men of perfect honour, who wish one another extremely well, shall suddenly dispute, till, grown warm, one or the other shall use an opprobious epithet, which his friend cannot brook. What is to be done?—the man must be knocked down you know.'


'Knocked down!' hollowed the vicar, 'and so make the breach too wide for all possibility of reparation. No sir, the highest courage is to pity passion, not take advantage of it. Convince a man into a concession, and your triumph is doubly noble. Why should a fally of passion be sooner resented than the sally of a madman? Besides, according to your own rules, not to speak of its wickedness, can any thing be so silly as duelling? A man receives an injury: what is the satisfaction he asks? why truly he invites the aggressor in terms of perfect politeness, to meet him at a certain time, where he requests, as an attonement for the wrong, that his adversary may exert all his skill to take away his life.'

The vicar, who had now drank two glasses, made the above declaration with uncommon vehemence. Standfast, in a pretended rapture embraced him, confessed he was become his convert, and filling the glasses for the third time, gave the major for a toast.
This the vicar could not avoid drinking. He determined however it should be the last; three glasses being at any time his utmost stint. He had scarcely drank when, whether it was owing to the goute de la terreinne, or being warm upon the subject, or what I shall not now take upon me to say, but certainly

he gave manifest signs of being disordered from top to toe. His eyes sparkled, his head became dizzy, and his chair was of the same use to him as a pole is to a rope-dancer; for, without it, he assuredly would have tumbled down. Nor could he help testifying some applause at the end of a little chansonette, which Standfast had been negligently singing. At this the latter declared, with a violent oath, that he was the heartiest companion he ever knew.
The vicar blamed him severely for swearing, but, stamping his foot to enforce the rebuke, he trod upon the leg of a dog that lay before the fire. The cur having received a private intimation from his master, flew at the vicar, who, with great difficulty, and an exclamation of
'damn the dog,'
got out of his way.

Standfast now fell foul of the vicar; telling him that he might plainly see there were provocations that might induce a man to swear; that the words themselves were no more than other words; and that men used indiscriminately God bless you, and its opposite expression, when neither a benediction nor a curse was in their hearts: which he was sure was the case in relation to the vicar, as the exclamation

against the dog was certainly uttered without the smallest premeditated malice.

'Oh sir,' said poor Mildman, whose speech now became affected, 'I would not wish the destruction of the smallest reptile. As to the poor dumb creature, what he did was natural. I trod upon him, and he flew at me: I did him an injury, and he resented it.'

'Just my case,' said Standfast, 'in the affair of the duel.'

'Oh no,' cried the vicar; as to the duel—the duel—you see in relation to the duel—a man that is intoxicated with passion—'
'is as bad,' interrupted Standfast, 'as a man intoxicated with liquor.'

'Oh yes,' cried the vicar, 'that is another terrible evil. When a man is drunk, he feels—that is the liquor mounts to his head—and if the giddiness—which is the effect of—what is the matter with me—I—but it is no such thing—it is—im—im—impossible that—Oh dear me—'

Poor Mildman, sinking back in his chair, now fell fast asleep; which Standfast no sooner saw, than he ordered in two sturdy fellows, who were at

hand, and bid them lay the vicar in a certain field, where some of his flock would be sure to find him.
This was all that Standfast really meant; for, being a perfect school boy at a frolic, and having long indulged a desire of touching the vicar on the side of his sobriety, upon hearing of his coming to consult with him, he had infused a few grains of crude opium into a bottle of port, which caused that goute de la terreine the vicar complained of, and so acted both upon his head and his unsuspicious temper as, at the third glass, to throw him into a complete state of intoxication.
This deception I should have imparted at the beginning of this chapter, but for my constant observance of that necessary etiquette which I hinted to my readers in the beginning of the last.
The two fellows, however, who carried out the vicar, were not so easily contented. To get the parson completely into their clutches, was such a triumph, that they were determined to make the most of it. They therefore stripped him of his coat, put him on an old jerkin, patched with a hundred different colours, set him in the middle of a field, upon a broken chair, propt up by a few stakes, to prevent

him from falling, where he looked exactly like a figure placed to frighten the crows.
Very fortunately for the poor vicar, the clerk and the schoolmaster passed over the field a few minutes after the Hockley men had left him. They were going to Little Hockley with a view to meet the good man, and learn the success of his enterprise; and were scarcely within a hundred yards of the supposed scarecrow when they saw it move of itself, as it appeared, for there was not a breath of wind stirring. Upon this, looking with more attention, it got upon its legs, staggered two or three paces, and fell down.
Perfectly convinced it must be a human being, they went up to it; but what words can describe their astonishment when they heard the voice and beheld the features of the vicar.
The two men who had stood aloof now made their appearance. They were soon afterwards joined by almost half the village, who, seeing the vicar in the hands of his friends, began to open upon them.

'Fine doings indeed,' said one; 'ay, ay, the still sow sucks all the grains.'
'Yes, yes,' cried another, 'there be black sheep at Castlewick as well

as at other places.'
The clerk and schoolmaster retorted, that they were sure some trick had been played.

'Odd rot it,' said a third, 'a reare trick to be sure. Here must your parson cum to zee our parson, and nothing would zarve un, as he zed, but bleeding the zellers, and zo you do zee, after he had got mean drunk, we took and geed un an airing in our veeld, to fright away the crows.'—

'Odds wounds,' cried another, 'your drunken parson makes a mortal good scarecrow!'
at which they all set up a horse laugh.

The clerk and the schoolmaster having asked the vicar several questions, and found, from his utter incapacity to give a rational answer, they stood very little chance of knowing the truth—for as to a single tittle to his prejudice, nothing could induce them to credit it—they contented themselves with demanding his coat, hat, and wig, which were peremptorily refused; the ringleader swearing they should be put upon a figure of the vicar, and that very night burnt in effigy.
Seeing that all their attempts to recover these spoils were in vain, their next care was how to get

home their charge, when, fortunately, a tilted cart happening to go by, they called the driver, who knowing them, with great readiness assisted to convey the vicar to his vehicle, heartily concerned at his deplorable condition, and vowing revenge against those who had reduced him to it.
The cart set off one way, and the crowd another, shouting in triumph as they bore away their trophies, and swearing to exhibit them upon a pile of faggots as soon as it should be dark.
Whether they did so or not will be known hereafter; but not in the next chapter, that being appropriated for another subject. Besides, the reader may wish to be released for a time from the brutes of Little Hockley. Nay it is not impossible but he may, in some small degree, revolt at these latter circumstances. What a shocking indignity to make so amiable a man drunk, let him swear, and afterwards introduce him as a scarecrow!
To these objections—for I own I am myself shocked at the facts—I must beg to plead that I am only the historian of these transactions; but, if I were the inventor, I really think that they are the very cunning of the scene; for the more attrocious

the Hockley men appear, the more lustre will be thrown round the worthies of Castlewick.
As for the swearing, I own I had some idea of smothering it, but I will prove beyond contradiction that it is natural even in the excellent Mr. Mildman.
The reader cannot wish for a more truly moral character to illustrate the position than Doctor JOHNSON. This great man, we are told by Mr. BOSWEL, while on his tour once made use of the words
"what the devil:"
—I forget whether it was on that evening the young lady sat upon his knee, for then there would have been no great improbability in his feeling the gentleman he mentioned a little busy:—but he hastily recalled himself, and corrected his expression.

Now
"what the devil,"
from Dr. JOHNSON, perfectly sober, I insist upon it, is about upon a par with
"damn the dog"
from Mr. Mildman, drunk; for drunkenness has the same effect upon the spirits, whether we fall into it by accident or design. Nay drugs and charms may very likely create a stronger delirium, and I have no manner of doubt but that if Dr. JOHNSON could that evening have been prevailed upon to drink fermented liquor,

it is within bare possibility—for I contend for no more—that he might have whispered to his friend BOSWELL that the lady was a damned fine girl, or some such buckishness.



STANDFAST, as soon as he understood what had been done with the vicar, appeared well enough satisfied, though he did not fail to declare that the matter had been carried a great deal too far. However, at the major's in the evening he gave the story in all its perfection; enlarging a little indeed on one article, which was in saying that the vicar drank like a fish:—
'but,' said he, looking very earnestly at Mrs. Malplaquet, 'few virtues are so practicable as people would feign teach us to believe. The detection of one hypocrite has in it merit enough to atone for fifty sins openly committed. What say you major.'

'Why I say,' replied the major, 'that hypocrisy is a low sin; a kind of rank and file vice; and ought to be drumed out of every regiment of honest fellows. Don't you think so chicken?' said he to his wife.


'Certainly I do,' said she, and as no man alive has less of that meanest of vices than yourself, I may the more freely utter my detestation of it.

'You may be assured the worst of hypocrites is he who covers his deceit with the practice of other vices. All you can do with such a man is not to trust him too far: but how dreadful it is to be always doubting a man you would wish to think well of. You will say he keeps you a stranger to his hypocrisy, and leaves you almost secure he is no such character, by openly avowing his other sins. This very circumstance ought to excite your suspicion of his honesty; for what does he see in one friend more than another, unless perhaps to make him his dupe.'

'This may be all very true, madam,' said Standfast, 'but I must say it appears to me to be a very uncharitable kind of judgment: I hope there are no such persons as you describe.'

'I am sure sir I should be as willing to hope so as you,' said the lady, 'but I cannot give myself that indulgence; for, uncharitable as it may be, I still insist that there is one such character at least in the world.'


'Come, come, I hope not,' said the major, 'if it were only for the honour of the corps of human nature.'

'Well,' said the lady, 'since it has gone so far, I beg that I may have leave to prove what I advance, merely to clear myself from Mr. Standfast's imputation of uncharitableness.

'I will suppose a case: A gentleman shall be in your house, as Mr. Standfast is; receive your protection, countenance, and friendship; and, in the moment you are heaping benefits upon him—in full assurance that you count every thing upon his gratitude—shall harbour dishonourable designs against your wife; shall eternally tease her when she is alone; behave himself so particular to her in company, that she is obliged to force that deportment into constraint which she could wish should be cheerfulness; and, in the mean time, she dreads to make her persecutions known, for fear of ill consequences from the anger of her husband. In what order of hypocrites would you class this man? What would he deserve?'

'Deserve!' cried the major, 'to be flogged till every thread of hemp was worn off the cat o' nine

tails. But pray now chicken do you mean this as mere general conversation, or is there any thing intended by it?'

'Oh that is impossible,' said Standfast, nudging her at the same time under the table.

'Perhaps not,' cried the lady, 'enjoying his confusion; 'at any rate you have no objection to my making it known, I hope.'

'I—no—Oh no madam—I—not the least'—and then recovering himself a little—'not the smallest objection you may be assured.'

'Very well sir,' said Mrs. Malplaquet, 'since it is a matter of such perfect indifference to you, I will take an opportunity when I am tete a tete with my husband, of endeavouring to show him his friends from his enemies. At present,' added she, 'I should be obliged to you to ring the bell, it may recover you from your fright.'

Standfast did as he was desired, the lady's woman made her appearance, and she retired to her chamber, saying, as she went out,
'adieu major; and for you Mr. Standfast, I wish you this and every

night as sweet a repose, with all your virtues, as that of Mr. Mildman, with all his hypocrisy.'

The two gentlemen being left to themselves, a silence of a few minutes ensued. At length the major got up suddenly, and having shut the door, and locked it, advanced to Standfast in a most determined stride, and uttered, in as determined a tone,
'Look'e Sir—if I thought I harboured a rascal in my house, I would not wait for a court martial—his ears!—dam'me his ears should in two minutes be nailed against the wall, in terrorum to all scoundrels who dared to come as spies into a gentleman's camp! That my wife meant something is evident; that she would not run a risk of exasperating me without cause is as evident; tell me, therefore, what you know of the matter; for fire me, Mr. Standfast, but it shall be explained.'

Standfast, who had taken good time to sort his cards, began now to consider how he should play his game; and knowing the major's credulity to his strongest suit, after stipulating for a patient hearing, he thus began.

'You very well know, major, you are upwards of seventy; whereas your lady is not more than twenty-five. She married you against her will,

out of mere filial piety; and I sincerely believe has been as faultless in her conduct as she is beautiful in her person. You have often said our souls were congenial; and, that though there were no consanguinity between us, nature made us brothers. Is it wonderful then I should admire what you do? When the desertion of a recreant pin has displayed her spreading bosom, bursting like a lily from its pod, or a friendly stile betrayed her taper leg to my view, I will not deny but it has fired my imagination, and in the sweet madness of that delicious moment, I have been a rascal!—have loved your wife!—have told her of it!—

'Oh major! you do not know what it is to cherish a hopeless passion: you are happy: you possess the object of your wishes, while I pine in despair.'

'In despair! ay, and so you ought,' cried the major; 'what the devil would the man have? Han't you my friendship, my credit, my purse?'

'None of which I deserve,' said Standfast.

'Why no I think not indeed,' returned the major, 'if you cannot be content without my wife into

the bargain. No, no, I choose, if you please sir, to have her affections to myself.'

'Come, come,' said Standfast, 'major that is too much; you know she did not marry you for love. She may have a friendship for you, but assure yourself no affection at her age for a man of yours.'

'Why,' grumbled the major, 'there may be something in that, but still sir that is nothing to you.'

'It is so far something to me,' said Standfast, 'that it serves me to exculpate myself; for if she had loved you, I would sooner have cut my tongue out of my mouth than have suffered it even to have whispered my passion. But you see how very excuseable I am: Younger than you by almost twenty years, versed all my life in the arts of pleasing women, and you know very well how many I have spared you in the charming days of our youth.'

'Well, well,' said the major, 'that I do'nt pretend to deny.'

'Many a delicious girl,' returned Standfast,

'that doted on me have I torn from my own arms to present to my friend.'

'So you have—so you have'—said the major.

'And what thanks you gave me for it!' said Standfast. Don't you remember the little auburn haired wench at Ghent?'

'What the counsellor's wise?' cried the major. 'She was a charming woman, by my faith. Come give me some wine. I wonder what is become of her?'

'I don't know,' said Standfast; 'but major neither you nor I boggled at her being married, that I recollect.

'True, true,' cried the major,' but that you know was a different affair.'

'It was indeed,' returned Standfast, 'for I insist upon it I showed myself, in that instance, capable of a more exalted friendship than you are; for I loved her, possessed her, and yet gave her up to you: deprived myself of a sweet felicity to oblige my friend. Ah major you never got the start of

me but in this last business. How different things used to be. The gayest, the most accomplished yielded to me in the art of pleasing, and till I was satisfied none dared attempt to make a choice.—Now, a foolish woman, who loves neither of us, is to sow dissention between two friends, who are all the world to each other.'

'Dam'me,' cried the major, 'but she shall not; and if it was only a mistress, curse me if I don't think that tongue of yours would prevail with me not to stand upon niceties: but you know, Standfast, as it is'

'Oh,' cried the chaplain, 'however miserable I may be, I will consume in silence rather than utter another syllable.'

'Well that is friendly, said the major. However,' returned the chaplain, 'I hope you will lay an injunction on Mrs. Malplaquet to treat me with civility.'

'Oh you may depend upon that,' answered the major.

'And I think,' said Standfast, 'I may venture

to insist that I am not the hypocrite the lady has thought proper to call me.'
'I'll answer for that,' said the major.

'No, no,' repeated the chaplain, 'any scoundrel if you please, Mrs. Malplaquet, but a hypocrite.'

After this, upon asking the major if there was any remaining animosity, his patron shook him heartily by the hand, and swore he believed him to be the worthiest fellow upon earth;
'for where,' said he, 'is there another man who, being in love with your wife, would have the honesty to confess it to your face?'

Having brought this dialogue between tame credulity and unblushing impudence to an end, I shall only add that this worthy friendship seemed to be stronger cemented by what had passed.
The remainder of the conversation turned on their former exploits, in which Standfast did not lose sight of the main point; but enlarged wherever he could on the satisfaction he had always received in administering to the major's pleasures.
At length the major was led off to bed in much

about the same state of inebriety as the reader may remember to have seen Mr. Mildman.
Before I take my leave of this chapter, I shall say a word or two concerning Mrs. Malplaquet.
This lady, who was one of those living sacrifices which avarice offers up at the shrine of interest, had, to say the truth, a very difficult task to perform. Her parents, though sprung from an honourable family, were of a younger branch, and, therefore, could give her but a thousand pounds. The only man she ever loved had deserted her, for a pert piece of deformity with just thirty times that sum. Thus, being perfectly indifferent what became of herself, she gave her hand, as the good chaplain has already kindly noticed, to the major, out of perfect obedience to her friends.
The life she had led since—the only pleasurable moments of which were those she passed alone—may be easily guessed. The audacious importunities of Standfast were much bolder than either he or she had described; and he having repeated them in some way that night so as extremely to offend her—though she was remarkable for complacency and sweetness of temper—her anger had so far got the better of her forbearance, as to force from her that

declaration of Standfast's dishonourable intentions, which the reader has already seen he contrived, by the power he had over his patron, so to palliate as to leave her the object of resentment rather than him.
I mention this for fear Mrs. Malplaquet, for whom I would wish to interest the reader, should be wrongfully supposed to be one of those outrageously virtuous ladies who are eternally singing forth their own praises, lest the world, from its natural uncharitableness, should unkindly imagine they are entitled to no praise at all:—a practice at present in great and general credit. And really I do not see why it should not; for who so proper to be the herald of a man's merits as himself? since he is surely competent to speak to his own motives, from a thorough knowledge of whence they originate. And if he should turn the best side outward, it ought to be considered as a meritorious expedient to put himself upon a footing with his neighbour, and so pay him in his own coin; appearance being as requisite to establish one sort of reputation as paper to establish another; neither of which could sustain any solid credit without such assistance: for honour is a commerce as well as business, and such ideal resources often prevent bankruptcies in both.


THE worthy curate, in his way home, exulting at this new instance of his influence over the major, uttered, or rather I believe reflected, the following soliloquy.

'Zounds what an escape!—but it is nothing to a genius like mine. Poor dolt, how gloriously I ride him! As to madam, I fancy she'll tell no more tales. This is reducing things to a system: but I always said it. To palliate an accusation, if you take a man by that foible his generosity, you are sure to be safe. Men are always liberal when there is nothing required but words.

'But to expedients. This woman is a fool: I had a scheme to her advantage. Her husband cannot live long, especially as I drench him, and would she join me, we might make a comfortable thing on't when once I should have preached his funeral sermon. Well, if she will kick down her

basket of glass ware, that is her business. I will try her however once more. I am secure from any impertinent tattling. The major will hear no more complaints. If she comes to, I shall be charmed; for, to say the truth, she is a lovely woman: if not, shall I stake my interest against her folly? No, not were she a Venus.

'To-morrow I will begin the attack, and if she should not capitulate in a week, I will then appear to raise the siege; but it shall be only to prepare a mine, which, when once sprung, shall either destroy her, or make her prisoner at the mercy of her conqueror: in which case she will not find in me the continence of POMPEY or ALEXANDER.—No, no, my business is to talk of virtue; let fools practise it, who are content to take it for their reward.'

Whether all or any part of Standfast's plan was put in execution will hereafter be seen. When he came to the above period, he had just finished his meditation and his walk, and having knocked at his door, was let in by his confidential servant, who beat Scrub out of sight, in point of variety in his employments; for as Scrub had one employment for every day in the week, Mr. Flush—for that was his name—had one for almost every day in the year.

Nor, to say the truth, was there ever any person better cut out for a great man's appendage, for I hope the reader already allows Mr. Standfast to be a great man; and as to Mr. Flush, or Mr. Kiddy Flush—for he had also a nick name—if a fork be necessary to a knife, fuel to a fire, a scabbard to a sword, a bucket to a well, a bailiff to an attorney, or a bully to a bawd, the services of that faithful adherent were essentially material and absolutely necessary to his worthy principal: nay I question if Kiddy was not very near, if not altogether as great an original as his master.
As, however, my opinion is of very little consequence if my good reader does not coincide with it, I think it absolutely incumbent on me to delineate the portrait of the said Flush, or Kiddy—for he was as often called one as the other—so let the claim to superiority rest either on the side of the man or master, as it shall appear by the drawing; and as it is usual in portraits to illustrate the character by some cymbolical ornament, through the means of which you can lay your finger on the canvas and say this is a general, for he has a truncheon in his hand, and this a butcher, for he has a nosegay in his bosom, so will I give the like infallible traits to know the characteristic marks of Kiddy's most striking qualities.

As to his person, it was, for his size—for he was only four feet eleven inches high—the most compact that ever was seen; but then, as if nature had been fearful, had she finished the front of this well proportioned structure equal to the rest of the work, lest she should have been tempted to have thrown down her tools in despair, his face was the most singular piece of deformity that can be conceived.
His nose and chin, like the head and tail of a weathercock, pointed different ways; yet not east and west, nor north and south, but to the zenith and nadir.
Some were of opinion that he had no mouth when he was born, but that the operator had made an incision to serve for one; and that being in a hurry, and his scissors none of the sharpest, he had not only cut it in an oblique direction, from the right side of the under jaw up to the left cheek bone, but also zig zag; so that when he laughed—indeed laugh he never did—but when he grinned—for his teeth were pretty even, which lends probability to the business of the incision—
But pray excuse me from relating how he looked when he grinned, till I have described his eyes; one of which, the left, was smaller than the other, and

whether it envied the superior size of its neighbour, or was awed by conscious humility at its own insignificance, I really cannot say, but it fairly slunk into the opposite corner, without even deigning, or perhaps daring, to cast one single glance to the right, while the other, in triumphant pride, rolled, or rather goggled about, and appeared itself an Argus, looking a hundred ways at once.
To these unlovely marks—which in females are called certificates for their honesty—I must add that Kiddy was frightfully seamed with the small pox, and that he received no addition in point of beauty from an explosion of gunpowder when he was abroad, which stripped the skin off his face, except on a small part of one of his cheeks, and one or two other places; and thereby left such a violent redness for ever after, that his face looked something like a rump steak, or rather like red ochre in the grinding, in which, if you take up the muller, you may see an appearance like branches of trees, which answers exactly to seams of the small pox; or, to add one more simile, which shall take in beard and all—for his beard, like that of Hudibras, was orange tawny—his complexion was like a red wine syllabub, where here and there appears a splotch of white curd, the whole gently tinged with a sprinkling of nutmeg.

As to the grinning, after I have said so much, I think I should affront the reader by describing it. He knows every feature now as well as I do, and if he chooses to call up a grin in his imagination, and when he has so done, does not grin himself, I can only say he is not the reader I took him for.
Kiddy Flush had been employed from his youth up to beat the drum, distribute the bills, and slang the figures of a puppet show, where he had learnt a smattering of every thing. He could scrape the fiddle, vault on the slack wire, swear a good round hand, coax the girls, get boozy, and I am afraid thieve; for if he had not this last qualification, I cannot see why they should send him hand-cuffed, which they really did, on board a transport whose destination was to the American plantations.
In short, not to conceal the disgrace, Kiddy was certainly transported to America; from whence he contrived to get re-transported to Ireland. There he found means to get engaged as a drummer in the same regiment where Standfast was chaplain. Indeed Kiddy Flush was the very person who taught Tiger Standfast to beat that reveille, which has been already celebrated as a chef d'oeuvre.
Were I to run through all the scenes so full of

srolic, whim, dissipation, and singular dissoluteness, which were practised by this trim tram, this horse and his rider, I might as well at once have given the world the adventures of Tiger Standfast and his man Kiddy; but as that is not totally my intention, I shall content myself with noticing that these worthy associates, finding themselves very necessary to each other, a league was entered into between them, that mutual assistance should be given—to put the matter a little technically—in all breezes, frisks, plots, queerings, tricks, humbugs, and bambouzlings, that they might find it expedient to engage in; that the agreement should be understood as a partnership between them, with this sole distinction, that Flush should be openly considered as a servant, and in that character be kept in subordination before company, but permitted to speak his mind freely, openly, and without reserve when nobody should be present.
Kiddy Flush, at the time of his first introduction to the reader—for nothing is so advantageous as to bring on your principal characters with a good grace,—was what is called half gone; in his own language a little cockish: for I must tell the reader—and that is really the last explanation I will trouble him with about Kiddy—that, among the rest of his oddities, his choice of words was the most singular. It was composed of the cant terms of both his professions,

to which he occasionally added a miserable pun, and now and then a little bad French, which he had picked up on his travels; the whole interlarded with new-fangled oaths.
Kiddy had just been witness to a curious scene in the village, and was bursting to disclose it to his master on his arrival. At the same time it must be remembered that Standfast's head was entirely filled with what had passed at the major's.
Kiddy then scarcely suffered his master to sit down before he began with
'I say master, there has been rum gig going forward this evening.'
'Gig, what do you mean?' said Standfast:
his mind still running on his late adventure.
'Nay nothing,' said Flush, 'no rang, only we had like to have come off with tats, that's all. Shiver me if we had not been cute, we should some of us have taken a leap without nobody to hold the blanket.'

Standfast thinking he alluded to the scrape he had so narrowly got out of, replied,
'why how the devil came you to know any thing about it?'
'Why Lord love you,' said Kiddy, 'I know the whole manoeuvre of the thing, and I must say it was bunglingly managed.'
'Bunglingly!' said Standfast; 'dam'me if I think any man in the world

ever drew himself out of such a hobble with half so much grace. To have them both upon me, the old soldier and his wife!'

'Why master, what are you upon?' said Flush. 'The jonse I means been't no old soldiers, nor their wives; but a parcel of sheep biting poltroons—flats—mazards—who, instead of pelting it out like hearties, sneaked away to the boozing cases, and left the enemy masters of the champ of battle.'

He here acquainted Standfast that, at the moment of exhibiting the effigy of the vicar on its funeral pile, a party of heroes from Castlewick, who had heard from the clerk and the schoolmaster of the indignity intended to be offered to their worthy pastor, rushed in, saved those precious relics from the flames, and bore them off in triumph; while the affrighted Hockleymen fled amazed, scarcely offering to resist:—and it was well they did, for the vicar's adherents would have died on the spot rather than have yielded.

'However,' said Flush, 'for the honour of the cause I rallied the scums, and spoke a speech to them, as near as I can remember, in these um here words.


'Says I—Splinter your joints, what are you about? Will you, after this, pretend to call yourselves hearty culls, rum codgers, or valiant dickies? You lump the Castlewickites!—you be damned. Don't you see the queer kids have made off with the toggies! But, however, this here I will say—you had no maulers, and they took you by surprise. Don't be down hearted then. To day is for them: to-morrow may be for us. Kallenge them nolens volens to the field: fifty against fifty, like worthies. Thump it out kindly; and then if you lose, why you die like cocks, and we will sing tiddium over your graves. What say you my good master to my horation? Was it not great, high, and crackish?'

'Oh very great indeed, General Flush,' returned Standfast. 'What effect had it?'
'Effect!' exclaimed Flush, 'Dam'me it took like a train. In an hour the kallenge was sent, a categorical returned, and to-morrow at five we beat to arms.

'Bravo!' cried Standfast; 'but remember I know nothing of this. Stay, a thought strikes me: I can make this matter of use: my pretty piece of temptation yonder is squeamish: I will think on't: but it is late. Good night Flush:—

hearten your soldiers, and don't forget that I must be a stranger to the whole business.'

The master and man here parted; the one went to snooze, as he called it, and the other to meditate how he could make this accident of advantage to him.
In this situation, if the reader please, we will leave them, and return to the major's, late as it is; as I am anxious to make known what passed in the mind of Mrs. Malplaquet, after she retired to her appartment.
That lady had a most faithful and honest friend in her handmaid Emma, who was almost as singular a character as Flush, though a perfect contrast, for nothing in nature could be more harmless.
Emma was the daughter of a bookseller in London, who having a large family, and being in no very flourishing circumstances, was prevailed on to put her out as a lady's companion. An advantageous recommendation brought her into the care of Mrs. Malplaquet, where she had been now retained for almost three years; in which time she had made herself so necessary and so agreeable to her lady, that

nothing I believe could have prevailed on her to part with so valuable an acquisition.
What made her company so particularly desirable, was the astonishing fund of information she had treasured up, by sitting in her father's shop. Her mind was a kind of circulating library in little, and I sincerely wish romances were always attended with the same good effects they produced in her; for there is scarcely a good moral inculcated by them that she did not act up to. Not that she had not formed a decided opinion of writings as well as writers; but she rarely broached that opinion, thinking with Madam DACIER that silence was the best ornament of the female sex. It was evident, however, that it was wisely and judiciously chosen, for at the head of her favourite authors she placed Dr. JOHNSON; though I rather think her great admiration of him must have been as a critic, for the Doctor is known to have entertained a rooted dislike to mythology, and indeed every figurative writing which does not square with what he calls truth and morality; whereas Emma maintained that morality being the noblest drift of literature, those writings were the most perfect which brought virtue into danger, that she might rise the more triumphant; and that such productions received an additional force and beauty from allegory and mythological allusion.

The various merits of our literary Abigail will gradually unfold themselves as we go on. I thought it necessary to say so much, to account for Mrs. Malplaquet's determination of disclosing to her the business of Standfast's audacity, and to advise with her what steps she should take.
Emma heard the whole affair with great deliberation, and, pausing for some moments, her lady asked her of what she was considering?

'I am looking, madam,' said she, 'over the catalogue of my mind, to see if I have ever read any thing like it, and, upon recollection, the same thing occurs in the Nonjuror, one of CIBBER's plays; which is taken from the Tartuffe of MOLIERE; who had it I believe from PLAUTUS:—and if I might advise, you should serve your parson as the lady in that play does hers.'

'How is that?' said Mrs. Malplaquet, 'for I really forget.'
'Why madam,' replied Emma, 'she pretends to be caught in his snare, while she is laying one for him; and placing her husband so as to over-hear a pretended love scene between them, his villainy is detected, and he is turned out of the house.


'I like the idea,' said the lady 'of all things in the world, and, with thy assistance am ready to set about it. But how Emma if he should turn the tables upon us? for he is very subtle.'
'I know it very well madam,' said Emma, 'for at this moment he is making as strong love to me as to yourself; but I promise you he finds me a very Pamela.'

The lady expressed some surprise at this intelligence, and asked her maid if she was not uneasy at it.

'On the contrary,' cried Emma, 'I am charmed; for to resist temptation is the proper exercise of virtue, and serves as a kind of moral penance to strengthen us in our duty. Oh I assure you madam you need not be uneasy: one look from virtue, though a lamb, will as surely make vice crouch, as the lion did at the sight of Una.'

By this time Mrs. Malplaquet was undrest, and soon after her maid retired; which opportunity I shall seize to account for my having given two such subordinate characters as Flush and Emma so particular an introduction.
To say the truth then, I think that, though the

clown should say no more than is set down for him, yet he should say all that is set down for him. The devil has been considered by some as the principal character in Paradise Lost. Comus on all hands is allowed to have the better of the lady. Will any one pretend to say Don Quixote would be any thing without Sancho. In all the Spanish plays the servants are the principal characters, and I have heard the soldier in WEST's General Wolfe spoken of as the best figure in the group. Emma would have defended this argument by saying that Honor is drawn in as masterly a style as Sophia; and Flush would have told you that both man and master were human puppets, moved by the same slangs. In short, I write for all readers, and I hope I have scarcely a character but some one or other will pitch upon for my hero.


THE challenge from the Hockleymen having been, as Mr. Flush informed us, accepted by the Castlewickites, a large plain, known by the name of the cricket green, situated near the high road, about midway between the two villages, was pitched upon for the scene of action. Thither repaired the combatants; and there were they drawn up in battle array, every man poising his hedgestake, when a gentleman in a post chaise and four, who had ordered the postilion to mend his pace, when he first saw a mob assembled, came up, and cried out in a pretty authoritative voice, that if the inhabitants of Castlewick did not desist, they should lose his favour for ever.
The Castlewickites expected a very different word of command. Finding however their present general to be no other than Sir Sidney, they thought proper to throw down what Mr. Flush called maulers. Upon this the Hockley men began to spring

forward with an exulting shout and would have dealt death among their unarmed enemies had not another authoritative voice commanded a suspension of hostilities on their part.
This voice proceeded from no less a person than Mr. Flush, who having deliberately weighed the probable consequence of such violent proceedings, began to think they would not be altogether so consistent with prudence. He considered that the quarrel had originated with Standfast, and that there would be enough to do, without this new outrage, to set matters to rights about the vicar. It was therefore his business, in quality of his master's friend—by means of which he knew he should be also his own—to soften matters; and having an excellent opportunity, owing to this piece of cowardice on the part of his adherents, he holloed out, as loud as his shrill pipe would permit him—

'Why, pink your livers, what are going for to do? Would ye, stiffen your timbers, go for to be such poltroons as to brush the jackets of a parcel of naked men! Don't you see they have canted away their whackers?'

Then speaking in a lower tone to his lieutenant general—said he
'The show is over, we must let

down the rug: so do you parley to the hearties, while I palaver the old rum kid yonder.'

Upon this he came up to Sir Sidney, and was beginning to state the case in a very advantageous way to his master and himself, when their attention was drawn off by a violent screaming at a short distance. Directing their eyes to where the sound proceeded from, they saw a coach overturned, to which Sir Sidney ran, and was indeed followed by the whole mob, friends and enemies.
The coach belonged to Major Malplaquet, and there were in it, at the time of this accident, that gentleman, his lady, and the reverend Mr. Standfast. Neither the lady nor the curate received any material injury, but the major's head had pitched against a ragged stone, by which means his skull was dangerously fractured.
The combatants, their cause of quarrel, and every other consideration was now absorbed in this melancholy accident.
The major was with difficulty listed into his coach, where Sir Sidney, who had never seen him before, offered to accompany him; recommending his chaise to Mrs. Malplaquet, into which Mr.

Standfast very politely offered to accompany her, with a view, as he said, of keeping up her spirits.
The lady however thought proper to refuse both offers, and insisted upon going with her husband. She, however, did not neglect to thank Sir Sidney with tears for his kind concern, which indeed was as manifest as if the wounded person had been his own brother; for he had by this time dispatched three servants to different surgeons. Not but Mr. Standfast appeared in some concern too, but the glances he cast at the lady, and the opera tune he softly whistled while he assisted his dying patron, pretty well evinced that his mind ran rather upon the future than the present.
Sir Sidney would not leave the major a moment, but supported him in the coach with the utmost care and tenderness all the way home, where by the time they arrived, and the major was put to bed, arrived also two of the surgeons, who agreed that the major had not many hours to live. They however bled him, prepared bandages, and one of them began to prepare for the operation of the trepan: resolved that their patient should go out of the world secundum artem. They were, however, disappointed; for falling into a delirium, he erupted a blood

vessel—which one of the surgeons very judiciously observed must have been injured by the fall—and was instantly suffocated.
Mrs. Malplaquet did not faint away, nor even go into hysterics, upon this occasion: she felt however very severely. It is true her tears did not prevent her from thanking Sir Sidney; on the contrary she acknowledged his singular goodness in terms of the most lively gratitude; yet her grief, though it appeared only decent and proper, was from the heart. She, no more than the vicar, would have wished the destruction of the vilest reptile; and though she never regarded the major with the ardour of love, yet he had ever been kind, and she grateful.
I shall pass over the funeral, at which Sir Sidney, by a particular invitation from Mrs. Malplaquet, was present, and only say that when all proper ceremonies and decent solemnities were over, the widow, after paying some legacies—the principal of which was three thousand pounds to the Reverend Mr. Standfast, as a trifling acknowledgement of his disinterested and honourable attachment—for the chaplain had frequently hinted that if a man left any thing to a friend, it had better be in money, which would prevent litigation. The widow, I say, after

discharging these obligations, found herself in the possession of a plentiful fortune.
One circumstance, however, I must not fail to mention, which is that Mr. Mildman, at the desire of Mrs. Malplaquet, preached the funeral sermon. Nor can I avoid noticing that Sir Sidney furnished the epitaph, which was no more than what follows:
HERE are deposited the Remains of 

Who feared his Maker, 
Served his Country, 
And left a grateful Widow to lament his Death, 
And celebrate his inferior Virtues. 
He died March the 1st, 1751. 
Aged 71 Years.

This epitaph Emma declared to be perfect in all its requisites; for it told who was the person buried, and very concisely pointed out his good qualities: you also learnt by it when he died, and how old he was. Nay, so much was she pleased, that she doubted not, if it had been written in latin, but that Dr. JOHNSON himself must have been perfectly content with it. For her part, she liked it as well as it was; and that for a very good reason, as she humbly conceived, namely, because she did not understand

latin. Indeed she owned that this was one of the spots that candour obliged her to acknowledge were now and then to be discovered in the doctor. He was very angry that Dr. SMOLLET's epitaph was not written in latin; and when he went into an apothecary's shop with Mr. BOSWELL, instead of asking for some trifling medicine he had occasion, for, he called for paper, pen, and ink, and wrote it down in latin.
These manners and opinions she thought—for nobody was so open to conviction as Emma—were upon erudition what rust is upon a coin, which no one knows the value of but the possessor.
Nothing could be so clear, she said, as what she advanced. It was not every body's lot to be blessed with so much learning as the doctor, which she maintained was very fortunate; for if all men were arrived at such perfection as himself, and were able like him of advancing incontrovertible ipse dixits, argument would be at an end, and of course literature along with it. But, as he was the only one who had ever pretended to be infallible, and who certainly was so, except in a few trifling points like this, it might so happen that latin epitaphs would prove a sarcasm where they were meant to be a panegyric; for to praise a dead person in a language

he was unacquainted with while living, though a tacit, would be a very strong satire; besides being a cruel inconvenience to his family, who must, in this case, be obliged to get the parson to construe the virtues of the deceased, who, after all, perhaps might not be able to do it off hand. She therefore clearly apprehended, that as Dr. JOHNSON had issued a literary bill, enacting that an epitaph could not be perfect which did not mention the particulars before rehearsed, the next infallible writer—if ever this country should be blessed with another, should be petitioned to move, by way of rider, that, for the benefit of the public in general, all such epitaphs should be done in English.
'But,' said she, finishing her harrangue, 'dear Doctor JOHNSON put me in mind at last of DOMITIUS AFER, who would be an orator when he could no longer be audible, and of whom QUINTILIAN said that he would rather sail than desist.'

It is now high time I should account for that strange jumble of accidents which, in so short a time, saved an hundred men from bodily hurt, and yet killed another, who had no concern at all in the fray.
The reader will recollect that Standfast had a scheme in agitation. It was this: He knew Mrs.

Malplaquet to be of a most tender and compassionate temper, and he thought he could wound her through this weak side. He had therefore lured the major and her out, by way of an afternoon's ride, intending, when they arrived at the field of battle, to exclaim against the barbarity of the disputants, to jump out of the carriage, and to insist on their going peaceably home.
This he thought the lady would take in such a light as must greatly forward his designs. The contemplation of this scheme on his side, and the hopes of detecting him on the side of Mrs. Malplaquet, made them, on that afternoon, better satisfied with each other than they had been a long time, and gave the major such real pleasure, that he declared, as they were in the carriage, that he never passed so happy a day in his life, without divining, poor man, that it would be his last.
Mr. Standfast's kind intentions were, however, forestalled by Sir Sidney, who, through an unexpected dissolution of parliament, was posting down to be rechosen for the borough of Neitherside.
Thus are men saved or destroyed by the turn of a straw. Thus the villagers slept in whole skins: thus the major was hurried into the other world: thus

were the designs of Mr. Standfast frustrated: and thus—for I cannot longer refrain from declaring it—did Sir Sidney see that phantom we formerly spoke of: that disturber of his peace, to whom he longed to open his mind.
This is the secret I hinted to the reader at the end of the sixth chapter, and I only desire to be resolved, had I then divulged it—and thereby have neglected to bring him acquainted with the heartburnings of the two villages, the contrast between the two parsons, the singular friendship of Standfast and the major, the amiable cast of Mrs. Malplaquet, the extraordinary qualities of her maid, the wonderful and surprising talents of Mr. Flush, and every other person or thing that conduced to bring about that event which introduced Sir Sidney to Mrs. Malplaquet—whether it would not have been doing things in a bungling and unworkmanlike manner?
Besides I have now no further trouble with these people; the reader is perfectly acquainted with them, and if, in future, they should be thrown in his way, let them speak for themselves.
To be sure had they never appeared at all, Sir Sidney might have been heart-whole; but since a number of circumstances are likely to grow out of

this accidental interview, I have even given it as it happened; and shall now tell the reader when time had fully confirmed the baronet in his first opinion of the widow, that she was a very handsome, and, what was more to him, a very valuable woman, he resolved to throw his fortune into her lap, and his person into her arms: and for this purpose he was determined to make her a proposal to that effect as soon as decency should permit it.
Several reasons urged him to this: first, there was a secret, which, to make amends for my late transgression, shall be almost immediately disclosed to the reader.
Perhaps my readiness to indulge him may be attributed to malevolence; because, in doing so, I shall be obliged to show a speck in the character of Sir Sidney, which to some may appear black, place it in what light I will. To this accusation, however, I plead not guilty; solemnly declaring, that, in the most unrighteous moments of his life, I truly believe he had as reasonable a stock of piety as any bishop would desire; as much temperance, soberness, and chastity, even in his very excesses, as a gouty alderman under a regimen; and, at any rate, as little desire of doing an injury to man, woman, or child as a Lord Chancellor.

This however need not hinder the reader from exercising his own judgment, which I not only desire he may do, but also with the most critical care and nicety; and when all the circumstances, dangers, temptations, motives, and inducements, are clearly and fairly examined, if he should not acquit Sir Sidney of every thing worse than venial frailty, I must honestly take shame to myself for having palmed on the world, as an exemplary character, a mere mortal, made up of flesh and blood, and subject to wishes, inclinations, and desires, like other men.
I could say certainly that the very excellence of Sir Sidney's heart sprung from having as vigorous and turbulent passions as any rake in christendom, and never having improperly given them the reins, but once, in his life. But some of my readers may think that once too much. And as a blot at backgammon is no blot till it is hit, and a blot of ink is the easier discoverable in proportion to the whiteness of the paper on which it falls; and as an atom is not only magnified, but more deformed, by being seen through a microscope, so I fear this one fault will intrude itself on the reader's remembrance, in the very act of relieving distressed genius, or wiping a tear from the cheek of an orphan. If it should be

so, I must submit; for a reader, like a pope, is infallible, and from his fiat there is no appeal.
The story of Sir Sidney's incontinence—for incontinence it was, and such things, like murder, will out—shall be told in the next chapter, which will finish the first book of this history; and while the reader takes time to consider what heinous crime this can possibly be, let me bespeak his charity by informing him that Sir Sidney being once foreman of a grand jury, whom the judge recommended to find a bill against a murderer, because, as he said, such and such circumstances were, which could not have been yet proved, answered with an honest fervour,—
'My Lord, in my opinion the pre-judgment of an offence is half as criminal as the commission of it.'



WE are now going to enter upon action, every thing already related having happened previous to the time when the reader and I entered the rookery; or, as Mr. Bayes has it, long before the beginning of this play. We there left Sir Sidney apparently possessed of every comfort upon earth, and yet unhappy. This seeming paradox has been partly accounted for; but let us hope, as Mrs. Malplaquet is now entirely mistress of herself, that the bar to the completion of the baronet's wishes may be removed.
The major has now been dead nearly a twelve-month, and Sir Sidney has had many opportunities of confirming himself in the good opinion he originally entertained of the widow; but as, at his time of life, marriage was no maygame, he honestly solicited to be acquainted with every secret of her

heart, frankly offering to encourage her by laying open the exact situation of his own.
Mrs. Malplaquet liked the proposal so well, that she did not hesitate to give him every information concerning herself, which I formerly gave the reader; not forgetting to own, with an ingenuous frankness, that she had loved before; and though, were she to form a character, she knew of no quality she would wish to make a part of it that Sir Sidney did not perfectly possess, yet that warmth of affection which she had formerly cherished would never again, she sincerely believed, take place in her heart.
Sir Sidney scarcely heard her to an end, when he exclaimed—
'Madam, in opening my own heart, I should have used the very same words. I have loved, and will imitate you by confessing that the object of my affection, whether alive or dead, is still dear to me. Your resemblance of her first induced my admiration of you, and the consonance of your sentiments with hers, inspired me with an esteem of the truest kind, which perhaps, in marriage, more securely ensures happiness than what is generally called love.

'To conside in your tender bosom the secret of

my passion is now my duty, and if you will have the patience to hear me, I shall show you that those who are capable of most tenderness, are effectively the least happy:—but, as old AESOP said when Prometheus took the clay to form man, he tempered it with tears.'

The lady testified great impatience, and the baronet proceeded to satisfy her in the following words.

'Being about ten years ago in the south of France, I became acquainted with a gentleman of the name of Le Clerk. He had a daughter, who, at the time I first visited in the family, was just come home from a convent. Conversations between French and English too often turn on the subject of religion. As to Mr. Le Clerk, he was not satisfied with continually chanting forth the praises of that only and exclusive worship, which, according to him, would procure salvation, but he daily exhorted me to embrace his faith.

'This inconvenience I should have got rid of by renouncing his acquaintance, or removing to another town: but I had no such power. I had spoken you may be assured warmly, though not like an enthusiast, of our own mild, reasonable worship,

representing it as the true medium between frantic zeal and subtle hypocrisy; and though all my arguments served but to root the father's opinion the stronger, I plainly began to perceive I had made a convert of the daughter.

'In the convent where she boarded lived also several English ladies, who had already began to stagger her sentiments:—no wonder then her conversion was completed by the man she loved. Yes madam, plain, downright, and sincere as I was, a beautiful girl of nineteen, gentle as a cherub, and good as an angel, doted on me. Nor was I behind hand with her, I promise you; for my affection was exactly of that sort which receives its pleasure by reflecting what it has given.

'This was the charm that withheld me. We consulted together on the most expedient means to gratify our mutual wishes, and though I dreaded the event, it was resolved that I should offer myself to her father as the husband of my dear Annette. I did so; he heard me to an end, and then very explicitly informed me that he would consent to my marriage with his daughter upon condition I changed my religion.

'I spoke of this as an unsurmountable objection,

when he candidly told me he saw how matters were, and would immediately send his daughter to a severer convent, to prevent her from throwing herself into the arms of a heretic.

'I had scarcely returned to my lodgings, to reflect on this adventure, and the measures I ought to take in consequence of it, when my servant came running to tell me that a post chaise was waiting at the door, with a lady in it, who desired to see me immediately. Guess what was my surprise when I beheld my Annette, who told me in as few words as possible that her father was at that moment gone to the abbess of a certain convent, to agree to her entire exclusion from the world; that she had chosen the moment of his absence to come to me; and knowing how much my mind was above the false delicacy of sacrificing to ridiculous form and unnecessary ceremony, she proposed at once going off for some town where we might be married in the protestant faith.

'You may be sure I did not hesitate, but leaving my affairs to my faithful servant, whom I ordered to stay and watch the motions of the enemy, I leaped into the chaise, and we were more than twenty leagues on our road to Geneva, when poor

Annette was taken so very ill that it was impossible for us to proceed.

'I was in hopes her indisposition had proceeded from the fatigue, the hurry of her spirits, and those fears which were natural upon having taken so precipitate a resolution: but I found myself lamentably mistaken; her disorder increased, and I was greatly alarmed for her life. By degrees, however, she recovered, and though very weak, we apprehended no more dangerous symptoms.

'During all this time as we were thrown among a parcel of boors, I was obliged to give her every attendance I decently could. This attention procured so free and uninterrupted an intercourse between us, that is it wonderful when the rose began to revisit her cheeks, and my whole soul was in a trance of happiness at the prospect of retrieving an inestimable treasure that, a few days before, I had dreaded to lose for ever:—Is it wonderful thus unrestrained, considering ourselves as man and wife, we became so by every tie but the ceremony. I will not comment on the circumstance: perhaps it was inexcusable: perhaps I ought not to have disclosed it: but nothing could be purer than our intentions were, and I have no opinion of secrets which are revealed after marriage.'


Mrs. Malplaquet—which I think was very handsome in her—scarcely called it a fault, because of the peculiarity of their situation, and their intention of setting matters honourably to rights. Nay she undertook to defend the conduct of the lady; at which Sir Sidney was so greatly charmed, that he sung forth very lavishly in praise of the widow's generosity, liberality, and candour; and declared that, except now and then a sigh to the memory of Annette, he should never have an intruding care.

'Well madam,' returned the baronet, 'three weeks passed in pleasures which it is not in my power to describe. At the end of this time, my Annette having recovered sufficient strength to undergo the fatigue of her journey, we set out for Geneva; but scarcely had we got within a league and a half of those frontiers where, by exercising the right of a husband, I could have silenced the pretensions of a father, when being overtaken by a posse of horsemen, headed by Le Clerk, my Annette was torn from me, while I was overpowered, and carried before the general of the police of the neighbouring town.

'This gentleman heard my story to an end; laughed at my folly for not getting sooner out of danger; took a handsome present of me; and gave

me a letter to the father of Annette: advising him to make up the breach, by consenting to our marriage.

'I scarcely gave myself time for sleep, or any other refreshment, before I threw myself at the feet of Mr. Le Clerk. I got nothing from him however but a volley of reproaches; to which I answered that his daughter was affianced to me, that I considered her as my wife, and would employ my whole fortune, as well as the interest of the English embassador, who was my particular friend, to do myself justice.

'Every argument procured me a new insult; I therefore went to Paris for the purpose of consulting my friend, the embassador; but, as we were then upon the eve of a war, and he expected every moment to be recalled, it was out of his power to do me any service.

'Thus disappointed, I returned once more to Provence. There I found Le Clerk ten times more furious than ever. He loaded me with a thousand invectives. It had it seems been found out that Annette was with child, and he swore he would rather see her expire than that she should bring a heretic into the world. Vainly I represented

to him that he was now compelled, by every motive of honour and justice, to make us one. He vowed my destruction.

'After hovering about the place for a considerable while—employing every emissary my purse could procure, to trace out where they had sequestered Annette—and having learnt no more than that she was admitted into a convent at a considerable distance till she should lie in, upon condition of taking the veil immediately afterwards, I was musing one day what further course to pursue, when my servant came running in, with the greatest horror pictured in his countenance, and told me if I did not immediately fly, I should be imprisoned for life, for that his dear lady—so he always called Annette—had died in childbed, after bringing forth a girl, and that her father, out of revenge, had procured a lettre de cachet against my person.

'Shocked as I was at this fatal news, I did not however neglect my safety, to which I was not a little prompted by a lively desire to succour the little innocent pledge of our tender affection. I therefore followed my man through a back field, mounted a horse of my own—for I feared to go

post—and made the best of my way towards Savoy.

'On the road my man informed me that the postilion who drove us to the house where Annette was taken ill, happened to set a company down at Provence some time afterwards, where being told, among other things, of the bustle Le Clerk had made in searching after his daughter to no purpose, began to be convinced, by putting different circumstances together, that it must be her he had driven in my company: for it had been explained to him that she had gone off with an English gentleman. In hopes, therefore, of a bribe on the other side, he went to Le Clerk, confessed to him where he had taken us, informed him of Annette's illness, and assured him that, as we talked of going to Geneva, if he could not overtake us, there was a great chance of catching us as we returned, especially if we went to that house; for as we must have stopped there some time, they would, at any rate, be able to give a good account of us.

'Le Clerk did not hesitate a moment, but set out with two friends and a party of the Marechause', who came to the inn •ome hours after we had left it. There they got every intelligence they wanted,

and quickening their diligence, they soon overtook us, as I have already described.

'My servant also told me that he did not believe a syllable of Annette's death. His real opinion was that she had taken the veil, for that it was a very common thing for their friends to give out, whenever that event took place, that they were dead, to prevent troublesome importunity; and in the present instance it was extremely probable; because, could I have found out the convent to which she was devoted, I should have left nothing untried to shake that vow which I was sure she never would have taken but by compulsion.'

'And for heaven's sake,' said the widow, 'what is become of the child?'
'She is well madam,'—answered the baronet.
'But where?' said the widow.
'At a school about twenty miles off,' replied Sir Sidney.
'You astonish me,' replied she. 'How did you preserve her?'
'You shall hear,' said the baronet.

'Having left respectable connections in Provence, I received intelligence from thence, that, very soon after I left France, Le Clerk quitted that part of the kingdom; but they never could hear to what

place he retired. About two years afterwards—no longer apprehending any ill consequences from the lettre de cachet—I went again to Provence; but, however, had my journey for my pains.

'Three other visits were made with no better success. Last year, however, I was more fortunate; for I had not been many days in the town before a nun of the order of St. Clare called at my friend's house, and demanded to speak to me.—She informed me that her order being one of those which are allowed to have intercourse at certain times with the world, she was desired by an abbess of another convent to let me know that my child would be delivered up to me.

'You may believe I was charmed with this intelligence. I went with her to the convent, where I enquired very earnestly for Annette; but they confirmed every thing I had before heard. Nay I was even shown her grave, which you may be assured I watered with my tears. In short, I came away, bringing with me her living model, who I sincerely believe was not out of my arms an hour at a time till my arrival in Warwickshire.'

'Your doubts after this subsided, I suppose?'

cried the widow.
'I cannot say they did,' returned the baronet: 'the little creature at this moment talks of Madame Le Clerk, whom she used to call mamma, in a great house, like a church. I therefore think my being shown the grave was a religious fraud, invented to deter me from searching for her in vain.

'She is certainly irrecoverably gone, and therefore dead to me. No, I shall never forget her, but let me not forget myself. Providence permitted this separation perhaps to punish us for the crime of having impetuously gratified our wishes before they received the sanction of religion. It is a heavy punishment, but I will not incur a greater by repining.'

Here Sir Sidney paused. Several parts of his narrative were recapitulated, and a variety of reflections grew out of them on the instability of human expectations. Sir Sidney apologized to Mrs. Malplaquet for having so freely opened his heart to her, and she sincerely assured him it had considerably augmented her esteem for him.
I shall not trouble the reader with his reply, or her rejoinder; but only say, that after a number of

civil things had passed on both sides, he reminded her that he wanted a mother for his child, and she, without affectation, at length promised to undertake that task.
In a word, she shortly after became Lady Roebuck, to the great satisfaction of the baronet, the confusion of Standfast, and the universal joy of Castlewick.



As a variety of circumstances—many of them very unexpectedly—will shortly present themselves to the reader, I think it necessary, as far as I may conceive it our mutual interest, to prepare him for their reception. Indeed it is my intention to adopt this practice frequently in the course of this history: not in such a way however as to anticipate any thing. Nay I will not promise that these explanations shall always be literally what they seem; for should I wish to cover or disguise any circumstance till the proper moment of making it known, I hope he will not be angry if I put him a little upon a false

scent, by way of exercise, to get him an appetite to the real game, when at last he shall come up with it.
I beg however it may be understood that these false lights are not intended unnecessarily to lead him astray. I know this literary Will o' th' Wisp is often introduced; but I disclaim it as an unpardonable and impotent attempt at a spurious wit, which is really an affront to every intelligent reader. So much indeed do I hold such sort of trifling a thing that ought on no account to be excused, that I desire this work may be considered perfect only in proportion as every circumstance, even the most minute and apparently insignificant, tends to promote the general effect, and that effect holds out a laudable and improving moral.
We have heard very little of Standfast since the death of Major Malplaquet. This worthy wight, which will be very little doubted, laid strong siege to the widow; for, as I said before, she became, at her husband's decease, very wealthy. She, however, having nobody to please but herself, gave him such a reception as soon convinced him that his hopes were like some of the projects of our late builders—fair, and elegantly finished in the estimate, but mere skeletons in practice.

Thus disappointed, he pocketed his trifle, as he called the three thousand pounds, and decamped; contenting himself with whispering that he might very easily have married the widow if he had thought proper, but knowing ones were not to be taken in: that women who would sip in the time of their first husbands, might taste when they got a second; and that perhaps, had he been fool enough to be caught, he might have doted too, and so have gotten a lusty chaplain to help him out, as somebody else did.
These gross jokes were faithfully retailed by Mr. Flush. Not however without a finish, that if the governor—meaning Standfast—had braced the drum of matrimony, a certain genteel dapper cock of an humble servant of his would not have feared coming in for a trevally, or so.
I have never told the reader that Mr. Standfast and Mr. Viney were very intimate friends; and perhaps he has divined why: if not, he will presently. The fact however was so. They had known each other for several years, and indeed upon Viney's being civilly dismissed from Lord Hazard's house, he consulted Standfast, whom he well knew to be a perfect Machiavel in domestic politics, upon the likeliest means to preserve his declining interest in that family.

The stream of Standfast's interest going, at that time, in another channel, nothing came of the negotiation; but the major being dead, and he expelled from the presence of the widow, the two friends finding themselves in the same situation, and that the interest of one was the interest of both, they laid their heads together, and considered of the matter in every point of view. At length they agreed that nothing could so perfectly answer their several wishes as to get Standfast into Lord Hazard's family. Take their own words.

'It is such a damned good scheme,' said Standfast, 'that I envy you for thinking on it; but I am devlishly afraid it is not practicable.'

'You are right,' cried Viney, 'let us tread sure. Go on warily: I know his foibles, that is one thing in our favour.'
'How is he for a first sight attack?' said Standfast.
'A very dove,' cried Viney; 'a greenhorn.'
'That is lucky,' said Standfast; 'we have nothing then to consider of but the introduction. Does he know any thing of me?'
'Only by hearsay,' replied Viney, 'and now I recollect, what he did hear was to your advantage. Let me see what was it? Oh that the major, out of his great friendship, had left you

considerably; and, in particular, had commanded his lady on his death bed to take you for her second husband.'

'Ridiculous!' cried Standfast: 'the old fellow never spoke after the accident; and as to the widow, my dear Sir, she was too peery. No, no, nothing less than the title of my lady would content her.'

'Odso,' said Viney, 'I wonder at it too. You used to be pretty sure of your mark when the doe was to be struck. Ha, ha, ha.'
'True, true,' cried Standfast, 'but this was so skittish, she would have taken more powder and shot, as well as patience, than I would spare upon any such doe, were she the transformation of a goddess. Hang her, let her go. She has enough to say against me; but, if she prattles, we must retaliate, right or wrong.'

'That to be sure,' said Viney 'is but self-defence: but to our business. Lord Hazard is now seeking out a tutor for his favourite Charles, and I own I should like to gall him there. Hey my friend, am I not right? There I feel my sister's injuries.'
'Well hit faith,' cried Standfast.—'They tell me it is a fine mettled boy, I will bring him up well.'


'Not so fast,' interrupted Viney. 'In the first place, did he know of our intimacy, it would be an immoveable bar to our design; and then he is determined to receive none but an exemplary character.'

'Me again!' exclaimed Standfast. I will give him examples of pleasure that might resuscitate old Anacreon; that is to say, behind his father's back: and lessons of morality, before his face, that might be heard and approved by listening angels.'

'But still our intimacy,' said Viney.
'We must get over that,' replied Standfast. 'Let me see—I have it—can't I introduce myself to some family in town?—or make my court to any relation of the wife? Zounds, now I recollect, there is a capital house in the city—Ingot, the wire-drawer—where they make me very welcome. Lord Hazard occasionally banks there. If I can but get recommended to preach two or three charity sermons, and afterwards invited to dine with the stewards, the business is done. I am sure Mr. Ingot is under obligations enough to me; for I so did up his elder brother, by making him genteel, that, in consequence of two or three genteel faux

pas, he at last genteelly finished himself, by which this remaining brother got to be head of the firm: and so you see, Viney, one good turn deserves another.'
'True, true,' said Viney.

So said, so done. Standfast left a friend to officiate for him at Little Hockley, and repaired to town, where he so well set his engines to work, that, in six months, he not only got introduced to Lord Hazard, but contrived so to sustain the several essays made on his disposition and abilities, that he issued from that ordeal through which the reader may remember my lord was determined his son's tutor should pass so perfect, as to fix himself securely in that nobleman's good opinion; and indeed—which I should not think it necessary to set down, but by way of regularity—Mr. Standfast was the very gentleman introduced to Lady Hazard in the fourth chapter of the first book, in quality of tutor to her son.
If the reader should wonder how it came to pass that Lord Hazard did not know the irregularities of Standfast, especially as one was curate of Little Hockley, and the other landlord, I must inform him that his lordship had never visited his estate in Warwickshire but once after his second marriage,

but repaired to a villa about twenty miles from London, which he bought soon after he came of age. Indeed, as soon as he determined to give over his excesses, Little Hockley was the last place upon earth he wished to think of. His rents were punctually remitted, and this was all he ever would hear upon the subject.
Neither his reformation, however, nor this caution altered his character in the opinion of the villagers; for as the sons and daughters of Little Hockley were many of them of his getting, and the rest very ambitious to be thought so, they never dreamt that he had any virtues, but remembered his vices only, glorying in them, and speaking of them in so familiar and shameless a manner, as if every meal they tasted was the sweeter for being garnished with the bread of dishonour.
I will not suppose my reader to be so inexperienced as to think that Standfast's views were merely confined to his intention of becoming the tutor of Charles; nor, on the other hand, will I believe him so sagacious as to discover what they really were.—We can scarcely credit that a man of this worthy clergyman's consummate experience in human traffic had not a material point to carry, especially now

he was in partnership with Viney. If it was so it will certainly come in its proper place, which, unless I had a wish—which I really have not—to destroy the reader's pleasure, cannot possibly be here.
Having fixed Mr. Standfast in the family of Lord Hazard, we will now speak of Mr. Flush. That valiant thumper of parchment having received a handsome sum and a long lesson from his quondam master, was transferred, through Viney, to the original Lady Hazard, now reduced to Mrs. O'Shocknesy, and by her again transferred to her son, at college.
I shall also say that Mrs. O'Shocknesy was present at one or two of the latter consultations relative to the grand business; nor indeed was Flush absolutely left out. It was, on the contrary, found necessary to let him partially into the matter; for said he, very archly,
'If you don't let me into the maxim of the thing, how the devil shall I be able to move your figures for you?'

A letter from Flush to Standfast, after he had been six months at Eton, shall finish this chapter.—I shall give it the reader in his own words.


The young one begins to be up to most things but his book; and yet, lord love you, give him but a tippling gig and an arm full of red and white, and such crackers as I and your honour could wind him about our fingers as easily as a bunch of slangs. I gave my soft master, t'other day, a trifling bit of a rap about the country ken, but Neddy seems all to go with the old Nan. Howsomdever, I been't one of them that's easily revulsed: if he won't go by an exercise, I must beat up a charge. See ony puss poing ony gain poing, as we say abroad. Oh revawr, my shire mater,
Yours tell death, K. FLUSH.
Notey beney. Whatever gait you morrice, take the advice of a fool, and never think any more of ploughing with the heffer.

Generals have been known to settle with their aid de camps a kind of characters so unintelligible to any but themselves, that should information fall into the enemy's hand, no ill consequence could ensue. One

would think Standfast and Flush had made this same agreement. In truth, did I believe the reader could make Kiddy's letter into English, I should not have inserted it. As it is, I shall leave it, by way of aenigma, which he may either stay and solve, or go on to the next chapter, and so leave the explanation of that and every thing else to what I may conceive the proper season for it.
I would nevertheless have that, as well as many other particulars in this chapter, carefully attended to. Gangrenes begin by a small spot, and the egg of a crocodile has as inoffensive an appearance as that of a goose.


Mr. STANDFAST no sooner sat down in Lord Hazard's family than, like a spy in an enemy's camp, he began to reconnoitre its situation, strength, and disposition; to examine whether the body was well united, whether there were any rotten members, whether sentinels dared to sleep on their posts, whether the commanding officer was most loved or feared—In short, to use his own words—though I would not have the reader infer from thence that he was a cobler in his business—he had the length of every foot in the family.
Not however to be outdone in courtesy, there was not one among them that had not something to say in his favour. My Lord declared he was a man of strong intellects and sound erudition. He did not think him a saint, nor wish him to be one. Solid argument, for ought he could see, might as well be discussed over a glass as a lamp, and as to gaiety and carelessness, he dreaded nothing from them, for they could harbour no ill designs. He was a little

surprised at hearing from Standfast that he had been frequently in his life taken in, but it gave him an opportunity of exercising his sagacity by remarking that those who mix most with the world, know least of it:—as it was said of Lord ANSON, after he had been a prey to sharpers, that he had been over the world, but never in it. Upon the whole, he thought Mr. Standfast a fair, undesigning man, and both a proper tutor for his son, and companion for himself.
Lady Hazard was no less prepossessed in favour of the tutor. She looked upon him as an unaffected cheerful man, perfectly well bred; and, as she saw his being in the house gave her lord particular satisfaction, really felicitated herself upon this acquisition to the family.
The butler liked him; for though he could well distinguish the different qualities of the wine, yet he never made use of his knowledge to a poor servant's disadvantage. In short, there was not a person in the family whose good opinion he had not been anxious to procure, and one would have thought with more care and industry than belonged to such a trifle; for he so succeeded, that he was allowed to be a true servant's friend.

Mr. Standfast had certainly no Iago to egg him on. He knew however, as well as that subtle gentleman himself, that trifles light as air in cases of art are of great use, and he doubted not but they would as much conduce to answer the purposes of one kind of hypocrisy as another.
As to the pupil, he loved Standfast like a father, and took instructions from him full as fast as the other could give it, which, between ourselves, not a little embarrassed the tutor, who, begging Lord Hazard's pardon, was not so profound a scholar as that kind patron, in his liberal warmth, had represented him.
Standfast, feeling this deficiency, pressed his lordship to carry his scheme into execution, of having Charles taught music and painting: thinking, and very rightly, that relieved by those avocations, he should be able to make his stock of learning last as long as he might have occasion for it.
Having worked his materials into a proper temper, Mr. Standfast now began to think of moulding them to his different purposes, but this required the nicest care and circumspection. My Lord plumed himself upon being no novice, and Lady Hazard's amiable heart and unconquerable duty

barred all possibility of flattering the most distant hopes, had there been any such conceived, of staggering her virtue, or even her prudence.
Something Mr. Standfast was certainly hatching up, and while it was in contemplation, a most singular circumstance happened, which that gentleman did not fail to lay up as food for his project.
Lord and Lady Hazard were one night in a side box at the playhouse, where, behind them, sat a lady and two gentlemen, one of whom the fair one often called brother, and the other Sir Daniel. At the end of the amusement, while they were waiting for their carriage, one of these gentlemen, seeing a person go out of the opposite box, exclaimed,
'there he goes, and by God I'll be after him.'
Immediately upon this he darted out of the box, followed by the other, who warmly entreated him not to be precipitate. Almost at the same moment the lady shrieked out
'Good God there will be murder,'
and immediately fainted away.

Neither the good offices of Lord Hazard nor his lady were wanting to restore her, which desirable event they at length happily achieved. The lady now begged for heaven's sake he would have the goodness to conduct her to her coach, which entreaty.

〈1 page duplicate〉

〈1 page duplicate〉

Lady Hazard seconded with all her eloquence.—Upon this the lady's footman from the lobby summoned the coach to the door, and my lord having very politely seen her into it, returned with an intention to join Lady Hazard. In his way he encountered one of the gentlemen he had seen in the box, who accosted him with
'I must thank you Sir for the civility you have done me.'
'Sir,' answered Lord Hazard, with great politeness, 'if you mean in respect to any attention shown to the lady, it was but my duty, and I am already thanked.'
'I dare say you are,' replied the other, 'but that won't go down with me: In short, you are a scoundrel, and I insist upon deciding the matter immediately: it can be done in this tavern.'—
'Sir,' said Lord Hazard, very spiritedly, 'I do not think myself obliged to answer so unprovoked and rude an assault, but as every thing in your appearance, except this insult, calls you gentleman, I attend you Sir.'

At this moment Standfast, who had been at the other theatre, and had, by promise, returned to go home with Lord Hazard, came up, and boldly enquired who it was that dared to insult that nobleman?—upon which, a crowd having gathered about, the cry was
'settle it in the tavern—settle it in the tavern.'
There they now adjourned, but not before

Lord Hazard had dispatched Standfast to his lady, to request that she would stay, for that he should be immediately with her.

When they were come to the place of explanation, Lord Hazard was more at a loss than ever.—The gentleman who had insulted him, brought against him a direct accusation of carrying on a clandestine correspondence with his sister, which he said was doubly dishonourable, as she was at the point of marriage to a worthy young baronet.
This charge was parried by a declaration that, till the present evening, the lord had never seen the lady; but the brother treated this excuse with contempt, and was for fighting it out instantly, mixing his invectives with some insinuations about a masquerade. The company, however, opposed his warmth; and the clamour was so various and violent, that nothing distinctly could be understood. It was therefore determined, as with one voice, that the affair should not then be decided; but, as it seemed a matter of delicacy, the disputants should privately exchange addresses, and meet, with each a friend, to talk the business over in the morning. This was immediately complied with, and now arrived Standfast, with news that Lady Hazard had quitted the boxes, and he supposed was gone home.

Lord Hazard and Standfast betook themselves to a hackney coach, in which, on their way, the latter was made acquainted, as far as my lord knew it, with this mysterious business. Standfast said it must have originated in some mistake, which he supposed would be cleared up on the morrow; for, added he,
'you never saw the lady before, did you my lord?'
'Never in my life,' said Lord Hazard.
'Nay,' said Standfast, 'if you had, the fellow need not have made such a piece of work about it, for I am very much mistaken or she is one of the right sort; and very likely the brother is only a led knight, employed to bully in her cause; therefore, were I your lordship, I would take care, if I must be forced into a duel, it should be with a gentleman.'

My Lord declared that he most sincerely believed the lady was a woman of honour; for, said he,
'I never saw more unaffected signs of modesty. As to the brother, I think with you, that the whole matter will prove a mistake, and the affair blow over.'

'You know, my lord,' cried Standfast, 'I always yield to you in matters of experience; however, we shall see, for I hope I am to have the honour of accompanying your lordship to-morrow.'


'Why I was thinking so too,' said my lord, 'but as the gentleman may unfortunately happen to call in my absence, and as it would be a kind of tacit reflection on my honour if he should go away unsatisfied, I will get you to stay and receive him. I hope, however to prevent his coming; for I shall be out very early, to convince him that I am as anxious to bring this business to a finish as himself. As to a second, you know, if it should be necessary, I can take our friend Colonel Tiltly.'

They now arrived at Lord Hazard's house, where they found my lady, who informed them that having stayed till there was no soul in the theatre but herself, she prevailed on the box-keeper to find her servants, and see her to her coach:
'But, my lord,' said she, 'what could possibly detain you?'

Lord Hazard, who had never considered that this question would certainly be asked him, was totally unprepared to answer it. After some hesitation, however, he faltered out, in great apparent confusion,
'Nay not the lady, I assure you my love.'

'I did not know but she might have had another fit,' said Lady Hazard: 'in that case it would have been inhumanity to have left her.'


'Why if it had been so,' replied my lord, 'where would have been the great crime in it?'

'Crime!' returned her ladyship, 'I had no idea of any such thing. Charity is no crime my lord: but really your looks accuse you more than I do. I appeal to any body, if I was a jealous wife, whether a stander-by would blame me if I should be suspicious at this moment?'

'Well then upon my honour madam,' said Lord Hazard, 'I only saw the lady to her coach, and was returning to you, but a particular business, which happened very unexpectedly, prevented me. This Mr. Standfast knows to be truth.'

Standfast was here beginning a very handsome excuse for his friend, when the lady stopped him, and addressing herself to my lord, said,
'My dear, if you had not made this last declaration, if your friend here had not seconded you, if I had actually been told that you went home with the lady, that she was an old acquaintance of yours, and that she came into the box by your appointment, I should never have mentioned the subject again;—therefore, I beg my lord I may not hear of it from you.'


'This is ridiculous,' said his lordship, 'you conjure up a parcel of imaginary stuff, and then argue upon it as if it really existed.'

'God forbid it ever should exist,' said the lady, 'I only mention it to show, if it really did, what a good wife I should be.'

Supper was now brought in, and the subject of course dropped.
The three persons concerned in it, however, did not so easily dismiss it from their thoughts as they had from their tongues. They neither eat much supper, nor enjoyed much rest; and, what appears very extraordinary, Standfast, who one should think was least concerned, ruminated on it the most.
Perhaps the catastrophe of this adventure may bring out what his cogitations were. Those of Lord and Lady Hazard may be very easily guessed. I cannot help, however, remarking that this night was the first they ever slept together without speaking to each other, nor did my lord ever before leave his lady so early, or so abruptly.
If the reader wishes the matter to clear up, and

that a reconciliation should take place, it is more than Mr. Standfast did, who very archly remarked, as he came down stairs in the morning, that he must be a bungling physician indeed who did not know how to irritate as well as to cure.


LADY Hazard having been told by my lord's gentleman that her husband was gone out, and had left word he should not return perhaps till dinner, sat down to breakfast with Mr. Standfast and her son Charles, which meal, however, was very short; for the tutor appeared exceedingly anxious to introduce his pupil to some new author, with whom the young gentleman seemed as evidently to wish himself acquainted. They therefore retired to the library, and left the lady to herself, who, for some minutes afterwards, continued in a profound reverie, not knowing what to make of her husband's having gone out so unprecedentedly; for as to the adventure of the preceding night, she had pretty well made up her mind on it.
There was not much time to reflect on that or any thing else before the door opened, and a person walked into the room, whom Lady Hazard knew immediately for the very same Sir Daniel whom she had seen at the playhouse. She was for a moment

astonished, but, recollecting herself, she got up, and was making her way towards the bell, when the gentleman, who, for some reason or other, did not seem to approve of her taking that step, got the start of her, and disputed the pass.

'No, no, my dear madam,' said he, 'that cannot be; you must suffer me to prevent you. Besides, what would your servants say, if you called them about you?'

'Say Sir!' answered the lady, with a look of ineffable disdain, 'one of them was witness to your ruffian-like behaviour last night, and would want no order from me to treat you as you merit—which chastisement if you do not wish to provoke, you will begone instantly.'

'Not till you have granted my pardon,' said he. 'By heaven this visit, which I have managed to a miracle, was meant only as an atonement for my last night's offence. 'Twas madness—liquor—any thing you will.'

'Dare not Sir,' said the lady, 'to affront my ears with your gross insolence.'
'Nay then,' cried he, 'there is but a moment, and by heaven I will not lose it. Charming creature look with

pity on me!'
'What do you mean!' exclaimed Lady Hazard. 'Nay unhand me, or I'll raise the house!'
'Never,' cried the ravisher; 'this minute shall seal my happiness.'
'Heavens!' cried the lady, 'shall I be treated thus!—is there no one near me!'

'Yes madam,' cried Standfast, who entered the room, 'there is one near you, and ever ready thus to treat the villain who shall dare to wrong such beauty and innocence.'
So saying, he flew at the ravisher as if he would have throttled him. Then pausing:—
'But hold,' said he, 'my regard to Lady Hazard's character protects you in this house:—Tell me who you are, and expect me in half an hour at the Smyrna.'

'I am called,' said the other, 'Sir Daniel Dog-bolt, and will not fail you may be assured. As to you madam,' said he, 'I sincerely regret that I have given you a moment's pain. What a wretch I am—last night—Oh that it had been prosperous, or that I could blot it from my memory!'

Here he left the room, and Mr. Standfast ringing the bell, a servant presently made his appearance, who asking if he was wanted, was told only to see the gentleman out; to which he answered that John

had opened the door, and the gentleman offered him half a guinea, but he would not take it.
'Very well,' said Standfast, 'take away the things;'
which while the servant was doing, he whispered to Lady Hazard to compose herself:—for she was on a sofa, and seemed indeed extremely flurried.

When the servant was gone out of the room, Standfast advanced to Lady Hazard, and said,
'I should be extremely unhappy if, zealous in your ladyship's cause, I have done any thing in this business contrary to your wishes.'

'Good God!' cried the lady, 'how can you have such an idea, Mr. Standfast? A ruffian assaulted me, and you came to my assistance. Can such conduct demand any thing less from me than the warmest thanks.'

'Madam I beg your pardon,' said Standfast, 'but it has been a strange business altogether. I had for one moment—perhaps for which I ought never to be forgiven—forgot the unsullied purity of Lady Hazard; and when I heard from the gentleman that insinuation concerning last night—but it is impossible—I see it—he must be a villain. I will answer with my life that if ever a heart was the mansion of innocence, yours is.'


'I thank you for your opinion sir,' said the lady, 'I hope I deserve it. As to last night, I will not make a mystery of it now, though I thought I had sufficient reason for it then. After my lord left me, this bold man came back to the box, and seeing me alone, began to enquire what was become of the lady? I told him that, at my desire, my lord had conducted her to her coach; upon which he said he would remain to thank him for his civility, as well as to protect me from any insult.—He behaved very properly at first, but, as the house thinned, his conversation took quite a different turn. He first said he wondered my lord did not return; then said he was surely gone home with the lady; and at last assured me that, to his knowledge, she was an old acquaintance of his. At length he ventured at some rude freedoms, but at that moment John came to ask me if he should draw off the coach, and seeing what passed, did not hesitate to treat the ruffian pretty severely for his insolence.'

'Blessings on him for it,' cried Standfast, 'as well as for refusing the money just now; I never thought it of him I confess before; but I see he is a noble fellow:—but go on madam.'

'I suffered myself,' said Lady Hazard, 'to be

conducted by my servant and the box-keeper to my coach, and came home, when having cautioned John never to open his lips on the subject, I took the resolution of keeping it from my husband's knowledge, for fear of his resentment.'

'Nothing could be more commendable certainly,' said Standfast. 'Insufferable impudence; in a public place too, a fellow you had never seen before I suppose. And then to have recourse to that stale trick of accusing my lord!—so worthy a character; so good a husband!'

'Heaven forbid I should think him otherwise,' said the lady; 'but how came this audacious man here? Which of the servants could show him into this apartment?'

'Oh I can account for that,' said Standfast.—
'Can you sir,' said the lady.
'That is to say,' answered the tutor, 'I think I can guess. You know my lord entrusted me with the business of last night, upon which, between ourselves, he is gone out this morning.'
'Well, and what then?' said the lady, a little peevishly.
'What then,' cried Standfast, 'really it is so awkward a business to answer, you had better not enquire about it; for, upon my word, I am not at liberty to tell you.'


'This is the strangest mystery,' said the lady—'Surely if you know any thing of the matter, you can explain to me how this man came here?'

'Why very true,' returned Standfast, 'as far as it relates to that madam, I can have no objection. My lord, upon going out this morning, desired me to receive every person who should call, and I suppose, as I had not left the breakfast room five minutes when this pretty gentleman was shown up here—'

'But still that is very extraordinary,' said the lady, 'for no servant announced him.'

'Why then certainly he must have been previously shown into the library,' said Standfast, while Charles and I were in the little study Suppose I ring to know: but, upon second thoughts, I had better not. One servant already has been witness of—but, however, I will quiet him.'

'I cannot think of it,' said the lady, 'and whatever may be the consequence, rather than my conduct should appear so equivocal, I am resolved to acquaint my lord with every thing, just as it has fallen out.'


'You would not surely be so mad,' cried Standfast. 'He has quite enough upon his hands about it already: I tremble for him at this moment.'—
'Good God,' said the lady, 'one would think you wanted to drive me distracted. Why tremble for him? What has he upon his hands?'

'I beg your pardon madam, returned Standfast; my anxiety, my warmth—Oh that I could dissemble like other men: this absurd frankness of mine is always leading me into scrapes.'

'Mr. Standfast,' said the lady, very earnestly, 'if you have any thing to tell me that regards my happiness—for I now begin to suspect you have—do not keep me in this dreadful suspense: if, on the contrary, my husband has entrusted you with any thing, and enjoined you not to inform me, convince him of your friendship, by showing you are worthy of his confidence.'

'Good heaven!' said Standfast, 'where is there such another woman to be found?—of such nice prudence!—such delicate honour! What my lord entrusted me with, madam, he certainly left to my own discretion. However, as one would think it implied a wish to conceal every thing from you—

and yet a breach of confidence where any thing so valuable as your peace of mind is concerned would—'
'By no means,' interrupted the lady; 'nothing could induce you to forgive yourself.'—
'But, my dear madam,' cried Standfast, finding her curiosity so tardy, 'the thing cannot remain a secret, the newspapers will be full of it.'
'Well Sir,' cried the lady, 'it will then be time enough to tell me what I now plainly see will make me wretched whenever I know it.'
'I may not live perhaps till then madam,' said Standfast.
'Not live!' said Lady Hazard; 'what do you mean?'
'Surely you forget my appointment,' said Standfast, 'with the gentleman at the Smyrna.'
'You will not be so mad,' cried she.
'How!' returned Standfast, 'my honour is engaged, and in your cause. Adieu, and if I should fall, do me the justice to reflect that my last moments were spent in your service.'

So saying, he ran precipitately down stairs, regardless of Lady Hazard, who several times called after him to return. She now summoned John into her presence, told him to go immediately to the Smyrna coffee-house, and desire, in her name, that Mr. Standfast would come back, and that if he saw any mischief going on, to call any assistance he could to prevent it.

John was scarcely out of sight when Lady Hazard reflected what a strange errand she had sent him on, and was about to ring the bell to dispatch another servant after him, when she recollected this would be only making bad worse.
Thus situated, it is impossible to describe what she felt. Anger for my lord—compassion for Standfast—fear for herself, intruded all at once on her gentle mind; and yet she knew not why.
In the midst of this contention she sought for her son, with a view in his conversation to alleviate her uneasiness, when going into the library the first object that struck her was Lord Hazard, who had gone there in search of Standfast. Nothing could equal their mutual surprise; out of which my lord first recovering himself, said,
'So madam, I am come home you see.'
'Yes,' said the lady, 'and before dinner too.'
'Well,' cried my lord, 'are you not obliged to me?'
'My Lord,' said Lady Hazard, 'I shall never think myself obliged to you for any conduct of which I don't know the motive.'
'Pshaw!' cried my lord, 'you know I hate discontent.'
'And I dissimulation,' said the lady.'

They were going on in this manner when Charles

came into the room with a book.
'Oh madam,' said he, 'are you here? Where is Mr. Standfast? I came to show him the prettiest thing I ever met with in my life. Shall I read it my lord?'

'I am in no reading mood at present,' said Lord Hazard.
'Read it to me, my love,' answered the lady.

Charles answered, with strong indications of surprise at the looks of his parents,
'I would read it to you, but it is in Greek; however, I will tell you the sense of it. It is an allegorical allusion to the polity of either a kingdom or a family, and given in the way of advice by a sage to a king, who had quarrelled with his subjects.

'There was a river,' says the author, 'that delighted to expand its smooth surface to the beams of the sun. Its banks were embossed with verdure, it nourished myriads of scaly inhabitants, and it glided through the meadows with a placid and majestic grandeur, to the surprise and delight of every beholder. An unexpected cataract, from a neighbouring mountain, on a sudden dimmed its lustre and ruffled its tranquillity; till, hurried by the overbearing conflux, it forced itself into two distinct channels:—there murmuring, it bemoaned

its sad and vagrant fate. At last, each stream, as if by joint consent, burst the banks which separated them, and they met together in affectionate reconcilement, no more to part till divided by the ocean.

'Thus,' says our author, 'after intestine broils, may every kingdom or family, endeared by love and loyalty, unite, and never separate till received into the bosom of fate.'



CHARLES having finished his allegory, asked his parents how they liked it? Lord Hazard said he believed there were very few kingdoms or families either that were not subject to such cataracts.—Charles answered it must then be mismanagement in not properly guarding against them.

'You are right my dear,' said his mother, 'but what can be done with inundations that force their way like miners in a town, and do mischief in proportion as their source is concealed.'

Perhaps my lord took this as something meant at him, for looking very earnestly at his lady, he said
'you are wonderfully sagacious madam;'
and then turning to his son, asked what he had done with Mr. Standfast.

Here John entered the library, saying,
'Madam, I went as your ladyship ordered me, but they were gone.'
'Oh,' said the lady in great apparent confusion,

'ta—'tis—very well John—and when does her ladyship—'
'Ladyship!' answered John, first looking at Lord Hazard, and then at his lady.—
'But you say they were gone,' returned the lady.
'Well, tell Frill I am going to my dressing room.'
'Yes, my lady,' said John, and retired.
'Lord,' continued Lady Hazard, 'what could I be thinking about?'
'What indeed,' said my lord. 'Something, one would imagine, not altogether so ingenuous, by your evident embarrassment.'
'My embarrassment!' answered she, recollecting herself, and then gathering strength from the consciousness of her integrity, 'no my lord, there is nothing disingenuous in me, as you shall very easily be convinced, when you have shown me all that passes in your own heart.'
So saying she left the room.

'In my heart,' muttered my lord. 'Why zounds,'
—but seeing Charles he restrained himself. Then endeavouring to give the matter a different turn, said, with a forced smile,
'I suppose your mother is angry at my going out to breakfast this morning. She would be prudent however not to threaten me.'

Here Mr. Standfast came into the room, and the moment my lord saw him, he exclaimed
'here I am

sound.'
'And safe I hope my lord,' said Standfast.
'I don't know that,' answered the patron; 'but come with me, I have a great deal to tell you.'

The lord and the tutor now walked out of the room, and Charles returned to his study; not however without telling Mr. Standfast he would not allow him to play truant in that manner.
The lord told his friend, as soon as they were in a room by themselves, that not finding Colonel Tiltly at home, he had been to Mr. Snaffle's house alone, where he was surprised to find that gentleman had been gone out about an hour, it being then pretty early;
'and as I knew,' continued my lord, 'that if he came you would give him a proper answer, I sat down to wait his return. I had scarcely been there five minutes before his sister came in. Seeing a stranger, as she imagined, she would have retired, but presently recollecting me, she paid me some well-bred acknowledgments for the attention I had the pleasure of paying her last night. I answered this civility, and gave my visit a turn of enquiring after her health; complimenting her, at the same time, on the little prejudice her fears had done her complexion. She lamented her brother

was not at home, but added that she expected him every minute, and begged I would take breakfast.'

'Though I knew my hot-headed gentleman would only be still more exasperated at finding me tete a tete with his sister, I resolved to accept her invitation; nor do I repent of my resolution: for I confess to you I never met with a woman more unaffectedly captivating. You know Standfast I like a sincere candid openness of behaviour, and it was never more strongly manifested than in the sweet manner of this lovely young creature.

'In the course of our conversation on the adventure of yesterday evening, I learnt the real cause of that strange medley of circumstances which introduced a coolness for the first time between my wife and me, gave me a fresh proof of thy kind attachment—here Standfast bowed—and brought me in company with the most lovely woman my eyes ever beheld.

'I was astonished to find myself a great deal more concerned in this business than I imagined, though poor thing she little knew it, but told me the matter as if to an indifferent person; imagining my

conduct last night demanded from her every explanation.'

'You must know this brother of hers is rigidly tenacious of his sister's honour, for he lies under very great obligations to this baronet, who is shortly to be married to her; and she, on her side, partakes so strongly of his generosity, that she consents to give her hand to a man she cannot love, to pay her brother's debt of gratitude.'

'She told you all this, did she my lord?' said Sandfast.

'Oh yes,' answered my lord; 'she has none of that sordid narrowness of mind, the result of vulgar sentiments and mean education. She is all candour and frankness. Oh you may see in a moment she has maintained a high rank in society.

'Well, you have been told that the brother very abruptly left his sister and her intended husband in the box, and sallied after a gentleman whom he saw coming out on the opposite side. This man it seems paid some attention to this sweet girl, and was insulting enough, knowing their circumstances, to propose a settlement. This the brother resented, and a duel was the consequence:

but no alarming issue came of it; for after a mutual discharge of pistols, the seconds interfered, and, upon a promise given by this gentleman, that he would never more presume to address Miss Snaffle, all anger subsided. Last week, however, at the masquerade, if you recollect, you and I paid particular attention to a lovely figure in the dress of a circassian, and to confess the truth, while you were gone to see after our party, I made no scruple to be very free with her; seeing her entirely alone, and believing her to be one of the frail sisterhood. She says indeed I took a number of indecent liberties; and faith the fact might be so, for we had been drinking a great deal of champaigne. All this Miss Snaffle—for you have seen she was the circassian—related to her brother, when he returned from seeing after their carriage.'

'The brother immediately sought after me, directed by the description of my dress, all over the rooms, and I dare say we should have had a tilting bout that evening, had I not, upon joining you, yielded to your pressing entreaty to return home.

'Not finding me, they had nothing now for it but conjecture who it could be that had so publicly insulted the lady. The suspicion naturally

lighted on the gentleman who had before affronted her, by his offer of a settlement. Mr. Snaffle therefore immediately determined upon an explanation with him whenever they should meet. The first time he saw him was last night at the play, where he joined him in that sudden manner you have heard of, and they went together into the Shakespeare. Here a very singular explanation took place: the gentleman informed Mr. Snaffle that he had religiously adhered to the promise made at the conclusion of their quarrel; that however he was entirely devoted to the lady, and meant to make her honourable proposals, the moment he should, by the death of a very near relation, be released from the restraint which, till that event happened, would prevent his having so much happiness; that being nevertheless unalterably attached to her, he determined, as far as he decently could, to watch her inclinations, and being that evening at the masquerade, and noticing the particular conduct of a gentleman there—meaning me—had the curiosity to enquire who that gentleman was; in which he so well succeeded that I was described as a reformed rake, who had married after ruining a whole village.

'Thus you see, Mr. Snaffle being told all these particulars, no wonder he should accost me in the

extraordinary manner he did, or that I should find it necessary to make the handsomest apology for my conduct, which I was on the point of doing, when I considered how awkward it would be to announce myself. Besides, it would then have been necessary to inform the lady of the quarrel, which it was easy to see had been carefully concealed from her. And again, I did not know whether an apology to her might satisfy her brother. Besides, to be ingenuous, if I had made a concession, and taken my leave, it was possible I might never see her again. All these considerations determined me still to conceal myself; so, after a thousand acknowledgments for her condescension, I left a message for the brother, and hastened home to consult thee.'

'Well my lord,' said Standfast, 'I have heard you to an end, and once more I caution you not to be imposed upon. In the first place it is a very curious thing that the lady this morning should relate her love, her poverty, and her gratitude, and the Lord knows what, to a gentleman she never saw till last night. It puts me too much in mind of one of the histories of those unfortunate poor devils who always begin with—I was a clergyman's daughter.'


'Faith,' said my lord, scarcely attending to Standfast, 'there was one thing escaped her that charmed me. Said she—I wish I had not gone to that masquerade, or else that this lord was not married, and a rake.'

'Good God,' cried Standfast, 'cannot you see it yet? She knew you, and said this on purpose. She thought it would hit, and so it has. Such a certain shot, so well directed: but surely, my lord, it was too gross, too palpable, too little disguised to pass on you?'

'Rather say,' returned my lord, 'too ingenuous to contain the least shadow of art. Besides, every thing around the place wears the air of sober elegance. A handsome house—'
'Hired,' said the tutor, 'for the purpose of gulling your lordship.'

'I cannot conceive,' said Lord Hazard, 'what makes you so warm in this business. You know the world I acknowledge, but give me leave to say I know it too, Mr. Standfast.'

'Infinitely better,' said the parson, with an inward sneer, 'than I do, my lord, I am ready to grant: but still I am a by-stander, and as you appear

to be playing pretty deep at this game, there may be no harm in giving you a caution not to be bubbled.'

'I know thy friendship and anxiety,' cried my lord, 'but what is there to fear? She is a woman of honour, and if I was inclined to think of her, there is no chance for me. Besides, I give you my word it is not my intention ever to cause Lady Hazard a moment's uneasiness:—but surely a beautiful woman may be admired without any offence to a wife's virtue.'

'There my lord,' said Standfast, 'is my hope: your heart is my sheet anchor: and upon that I trust with comfort for the safety of your honour.'

'Enough,' said my lord, 'it shall never deceive thee, nor any one.'
'Thank you my lord,' said Standfast; 'I am completely satisfied: I will not even fear it can deceive itself. And now pray what sort of an apology do you mean to make to Mr. Snaffle?'
'A full and entire one,' said my lord; 'he is entitled to it, and so is the lady. You and I will go together to-morrow morning, and I dare say we shall very easily laugh off the whole matter.'


This being agreed on, the conversation turned on Lady Hazard. Standfast said he conceived there was some apology due to her. My lord did not think so. He saw in her conduct all the mysterious inquisitiveness of growing jealousy. It was the first time to be sure he had ever been disingenuous with her, but circumstances required it. He now began to perceive there might be occurrences which would admit of treating her with a sort of laudable duplicity; which indeed she ought to be thankful for:—but such was the restless and unsatisfied curiosity of wives, that he plainly saw she would infallibly construe it into coldness and neglect. However, he had seen many instances of resigned acquiescence in her duty, and therefore he doubted not but this business—the truth of which he was determined to keep a secret—though it might ruffle a little, yet it would not destroy their mutual tranquillity.
He thought it, nevertheless, incumbent on him to give the matter some hue of probability, the better to appease her at once. To do this he told her, as if casually, at dinner, that an affair of honour had called him out in the morning, but that fortunately every thing had terminated without bloodshed.
The reflection that her husband had escaped such

a danger, bore down in Lady Hazard's mind all other considerations, and she was in a moment perfectly at ease. She chide him however for preferring a foolish punctilio of honour to her peace of mind, and his own personal safety; saying that his courage was too well established to need any such savage and unnecessary proof of it: and she wondered a brutal custom should so prevail, which, far from exhibiting any trait of true honour, or real spirit, was generally the refuge of sharping knaves, and the last resort of desperate cowards.
Standfast acquiesced in the justice of the remark, and Lord Hazard told her with a smile that, had he known she possessed so much spirit, he would have engaged her as his second.
A silent minute, or rather a silent quarter of an hour, here ensued, which would perhaps have lasted much longer had not the arrival of some company put an end to their different cogitations, the subject of which, if the reader will but think a little, by way of making one, it is not impossible but he may be able to guess.
As the conversation now took a mixed turn, and the general topics of ministers, puppet-shows, sermons,

plays, sceptres, wash-balls, lottery tickets, loaded dice, lords, monkies, speakers, parrots, duchesses, and drabs, were alternately handled with such velocity and vociferation, that the parties themselves were all talkers, and no hearers.
I shall therefore content myself with barely mentioning that, while my lord was out of the room, Mr. Standfast asked Lady Hazard when he should have the honour of communicating the result of what sent him to the Smyrna.
The lady agreed to hear it the next morning, at which Standfast said, that then, and every other moment of his life, was perfectly at the devotion of her ladyship, even though it should be attended with far greater perils than those he had that day encountered:—so saying, he heaved a profound sigh, and joined the company.
What shall I say to the reader in this place? for so far from relieving him from that suspense into which I have so completely thrown him, it is certainly my intention to heighten it:—but, however, there is a remedy for such as are over impatient; for if the tenter-hooks on which I have set them prick too hard, they have nothing

to do but dip a few pages forward, and they will find them as easy as a cushion.


No sooner had the complicated din of itinerant retailers opened the eyes, or rather the ears, of the servants—for they were yet only half awake—in that square where Lord Hazard resided, than that nobleman left the partner of his bed, to seek after Standfast, who was suddenly awoke by a servant from a nap into which he had fallen about half an hour before; for the pious preceptor had been exercising that portion of his religious duty called watching the greater part of the night.
In fact, the subject which occupied his thoughts was of so complicate and nice a kind, that he had been turning it in his mind with much care and attention; and after looking at it in every possible situation—rejecting this expedient, adopting that, and at last fairly satisfying himself as to the measures to be taken—he had fallen asleep just at the very instant when Phoebus awoke, and walked abroad to cheer the world, inspire poets, and engender animalculae:

three employments, according to some philosophers equally material.
Mr. Standfast understanding that his patron required his presence, now only muttered those curses which he before had been thundering against the footman. In a few minutes he joined Lord Hazard, whom he found full of impatience and anxiety.
My lord said he wanted to have five minutes conversation with him previous to their intended business that morning; adding, that he must candidly confess he wished for a pretext for continuing his visits at Mr. Snaffle's, and that he could think of nothing but the sister.

'My lord,' said Standfast, 'I am sorry to see this. It can end but one way. Good God that this Syren should get such hold of you in a moment!—Why the most inexperienced of your adventures at Little Hockley was prudence to this.'

He had scarcely spoken when Lady Hazard came abruptly into the room. Addressing herself to her husband, she said,
'My lord, I know not how you will receive the over anxious solicitude of a wife, whose uniform study has been to administer to your wishes; but I am impelled, by an irresistible

something, to entreat that the horrid coolness you have shown me ever since that strange business at the playhouse, may be fully explained; may be done away: that so the tranquillity which reigned in this family, till that unhappy moment, and pointed us out as fit and worthy objects for imitation may be restored to us.'

'I know not what you mean,' said my lord.—You are a charming woman; I dote on you:—therefore make yourself easy, and trust to the truth of my affection.'

'Heaven forbid I should doubt it,' said the lady; 'but be assured the best affections are too often endangered by the slightest misunderstandings. I believe we have all three a great deal to confess to each other, and I came to encourage you both, by frankly acknowledging all I know and all I conjecture, relative to the most extraordinary and most unpleasant business I ever yet experienced; at the same time, my lord, let me say I have no idle curiosity to indulge, no whim to gratify, no foolish feminine fears that alarm me, not even the slightest want of confidence in your lordship's lavish love or firm fidelity;—I honestly and sacredly believe that nothing could shake either;—but, as an artful train of flattering concurrent circumstances

might give them, strong as they are, some slight inclination to pause, I think it my duty to endeavour what I can, to sustain them, to hold them securely where they ought, and where I am sure they wish invariably to fix.'

My lord paid his lady a very elegant, and I believe a very sincere compliment, on her intentions, attachment, affection, sense of duty, and right conception of that exquisite charm in a wife's conduct who is never officiously solicitous, but ever on the watch to please. He remarked however that the breakfast would interrupt nothing.
Here Standfast interfering, said, that at breakfast Charles would necessarily make one of the party, which he apprehended was not Lady Hazard's wish; he therefore proposed to defer it till the evening, or some other time, which the lady peremptorily declared she could not consent to. Indeed she pressed so hard for a hearing that very morning, that Standfast, at the instance of my Lord Hazard, undertook to set his pupil a task in the library immediately after breakfast, when it was agreed that the conversation should be resumed.
Perhaps Mr. Standfast was glad of a moment's pause. He certainly betrayed evident symptoms of

astonishment at the first part of Lady Hazard's harrangue, which, added to an affected indifference, and a forced sprightliness, would have conveyed to an uninterrupted by-stander, a trait or two of suspicion that the lady's conduct was not altogether agreeable to him: but we have already hinted that he never suffered long under perturbation of any kind. Thus, whatever inward sensations might produce the above effects, they certainly did not remain visible long enough to be noticed either by the lord or the lady; and with the assistance of summoning his pupil to breakfast, he had so rallied his spirits, that he appeared the most cheerful and unconcerned of the whole company.
It was far otherwise with my lord. He set it down for a certainty that his lady had, by some means, discovered all that had past, and divined all that was likely to come. Nevertheless, he felt no reluctance to review his intentions either in one light or the other; but certain nameless sensations, which he felt in spite of himself gave his behaviour an awkwardness which was apparent in proportion as he endeavoured to hide it.
Charles was no sooner informed by his father that he had some particular business with Mr. Standfast, and given his task, than he retired to the library,

when the lady, after an apology much in the style of the former one, acquainted her husband with all she knew relative to this strange affair: not even omitting either the insult she had received the morning before, the spirited kindness of Standfast, or the message she had sent after him to the Smyrna; which last business clearly accounted for her consusion in the library when John came back; whom she also loaded with praises, in which Standfast joined, declaring, at the same time, that the hiring of that worthy fellow was a new instance that Lord Hazard's knowledge of the world and judgment of mankind was superior to his, for that John had what he thought a forbidding countenance, which his lordship, however, with a penetration far beyond his, had construed into a sign of bluntness and plain dealing.
'But madam,' said Standfast, 'I interrupt you.'

The lady went on, saying that her husband's new and extraordinary conduct had first given her the alarm. In addition to this, a servant had been privy to the treatment she had received from the baronet at the theatre. Again, he who ought to have protected her was out of the way, when Mr. Standfast stepped forward in her defence. In short, such concealments and such obligations were very repugnant to her delicacy, which she hoped his lordship,

in this case, would conceive was not affected or overstrained. My lord, she added, was the proper person to reward the servant and thank Mr. Standfast, who, though a gentleman in years, and perfectly exemplary in his manners, was by no means a proper confident for her who thought it her first happiness to have no wish or thought concealed from her husband.
Lord Hazard passed some very high compliments on the frankness, kindness, and great propriety of his lady's declaration and conduct. He owned he thought the business of the baronet perfectly inexplicable; but these and all other considerations were swallowed up in the obligations he thought himself under to Standfast, who took all these compliments with the same composure as he would have received his salary, or any thing else which he conceived to be perfectly his own property.
His lordship desired this worthy friend, as he called him, to relate the issue of his meeting the baronet at the Smyrna; but Standfast remarked that the harvest of domestic tranquillity this discovery promised, belonged entirely to his lordship and the amiable Lady Hazard; that at best he was but a privileged gleaner, who saw, but envied not, that abundant happiness which kindly let fall as much

comfort as he desired, and more, infinitely more than he deserved:—he therefore begged to come in his place.
'Besides,' added he, 'totally ignorant as your lordship is of the motives of these people for stirring up all this mischief, your story cannot but involve some awkwardness which my after explanation may relieve; for I fancy the baronet has made me more au fait to this business than either of you.'

His lordship, taking this as a friendly hint of the tutor, to clear up any embarrassment that might arise in his narrative, consented to unfold. It is but truth to say that his relation was not so ingenuous as that of his lady had been; for he did not mention the cause of the quarrel, nor that it yet existed; but, on the contrary, said that the whole was a mistake, the brother having taken him for another person, who had, it seems, offered an insult to the sister, and that every thing was amicably made up. He sunk entirely the circumstance of his having seen Miss Snaffle the day before; he also forbore to touch on his intention of paying that lady a second visit; and indeed on any one point that could give the smallest reason for conjecture that the whole was any other than a matter of a common cursory kind, which, in proportion as it was mysterious, so it sunk to nothing, the mystery being

cleared away. He was very much alive however to all those matters relative to Sir Daniel Dogbolt.—He hoped his friend would be able to clear them up: for, after all, he should not consider that part of the business at an end without a full and explicit satisfaction for the insult his wife had sustained in his absence.

'I am heartily sorry you were absent,' said Standfast. 'Proud as I was of chastising his insolence, it was certainly your right.'

Lord Hazard acknowledged his obligations, and proceeded to finish his account of this business, in which, upon the whole, he so well succeeded, that Lady Hazard declared she was, except a little remaining curiosity, perfectly satisfied.
Now came the tutor's turn. He began with saying he had a much longer tale to tell than either of them, and that since he was not then bound by the painful duty which had hitherto punctiliously kept him from divulging it, he thought himself obliged openly and without reserve to declare all he knew on the subject.
'But,' added he, 'I believe my lord they are too artful a set for us to place any reliance on what they tell us. What I am going now to inform you, I forced from the pretty baronet—if

he be one—who had the unparalleled insolence to insult this lady, for which—and I hope your lordship will not blame my too forward zeal, I had the honour of calling him to account.

Standfast here received the compliments he had once more fished for, and then went on: not without first exclaiming
'Heavens! why my lord a perfect stranger would have been entitled to the assistance I gave, much less her ladyship. A meer common exercise of humanity. Besides, the gentleman gave me very little trouble. He fences pretty well, but I soon disarmed him; and having his life in my power, I made use of this opportunity of extorting from him an account of himself and his associates. He said he had long secretly admired Lady Hazard, that he had tried many experiments to get an opportunity of disclosing his passion, but found none which had the smallest appearance of feasibility till about three weeks ago, at the masquerade, where you may remember we were in a very large party.'

'Good God,' cried Lady Hazard, 'I recollect it. A man certainly did tease me at the masquerade, but I took it for some drunken fool, and never gave the matter a second thought.'


'He told me,' said Standfast, he first accosted your lordship, drew you away from your company, and introduced you to another, that he might have better opportunity to entertain her ladyship. His words were that he had found an impregnable fortress, and therefore, from that moment, determined to give up the attack; but accident introducing him into the same box at the playhouse, his wishes revived, and resolving to make use of the occasion that presented itself through Mr. Snaffle's quarrel with the gentleman in the opposite box, he dropped him in the crowd, and returned to Lady Hazard just as your lordship had gone to conduct Miss Snaffle to her coach. He confessed that, to ingratiate himself, he had told her ladyship several falsities, such as that you my lord had an intimacy with Miss Snaffle, that you were then gone home with her, all which we have already heard. In short, first making him answer many other questions, I gave him his life, and suffered him to leave me, after he had protested in the most solemn manner that he would never dare to mention the name of this lady in future upon any account whatever.

'Well, my lord, these are the facts: now hear my comments on them. This man is not a baronet,

neither is he upon the point of marrying this young lady, nor are they any other than three sharpers, who have in some way or other a dark plot on the conjugal peace of your worthy lady and yourself. This Sir Daniel did draw you aside from your company, and introduced you to this very Miss Snaffle: with what design is another matter: but it is very extraordinary you should be left by this baronet with his intended wife, that he might the better introduce himself to Lady Hazard.—Nor am I mistaken as to the lady, for I heard a chair called in her name.

'You cannot forget my lord that we at that time decided that she was a woman of no character. I remember your saying with great earnestness, Standfast, let us not pay Lady Hazard so ill a compliment as to speak to a creature of this stamp;—though she is under the same roof with her.

'Well, my lord, can it be, after what I have said, that this is a woman of honour? that her brother is a man of the nicest feelings? and that Sir Daniel Dogbolt is on the point of marriage with this woman? No, my lord, it is, as I said, a plot against you; however, thank heaven, armed with a proper confidence in each other, you may despise it.'


'Mr. Standfast has placed this matter in its true light,' said the lady. 'For my part, I am perfectly at ease, and I am sure my lord will thank me for waving all absurd delicacy, and coming to this declaration.'

Here several suitable remarks were made, Mr. Standfast was loaded with thanks, and the most perfect harmony was restored. After this the lady retired to her dressing room, and left the two friends together.
They were no sooner alone than Lord Hazard began anew to compliment and thank Mr. Standfast. That gentleman assured his patron his thanks were more than he deserved; and indeed he spoke truth. However, no one upon earth could have bel eved his conduct to be any other than cordial zeal and sincere friendship; conformable to which appearances, he said he would not leave his lordship till he had made him a firm promise not to see that woman any more, who he must now very plainly perceive was a suborned wretch, to assist in some vile plot against his domestic peace.
My lord did not hesitate to make this promise; for he was charmed with the angel-like conduct of

his lady, and went so far as to say that, seeing the matter now in the same light with the tutor, he felt himself at ease with relation to Sir Daniel Dogbolt, as well as the rest. Standfast hearing this, and being told that his kindness should not go unremembered, went, with the greatest air of satisfaction to seek his pupil.
As the single articles in my account with the reader begin again to be pretty numerous, I shall now, for his satisfaction, add them up, and carry them over. To speak without metaphor, Mr. Standfast please to unmask.
The preceptor then had, in conjunction with Viney, concerted this whole scheme. The masquerade, the playhouse, the interview, and every other part of it, was as regularly digested as the trial of a felon before he comes to the bar at the Old Bailey. Mr. Viney had tutored the gentleman, and Mrs. O'Shocknesy had instructed the lady.
Standfast, however, who had contrived the whole plot, was totally unknown to any of the actors in it. His argument with Viney and Mrs. O'Shocknesy was, that as they enjoyed the utmost they ever could expect from Lord Hazard, they had no measures

to keep with him; especially as ever so violent a rupture could not deprive either him of his living, or her of her annuity. On the contrary, that he, Standfast, might in a moment lose both his salary and his expectations, which were not trifles. He therefore stipulated not to be seen at all, but in their privy council; and instructions were particularly given to the under villains to be more cautious in deceiving him than any other of the family.
This master stroke could be worthy of no other than Standfast. To teach his tools to look upon him as their enemy, secured him from all possibility of detection; for he knew he might laugh at the resentment of Viney, even if he had any cause to suspect him of treachery: his own ipfe dixit being always sufficient to overturn any thing of that kind with his patron. Nay, notwithstanding this information, the reader is almost obliged to confess that he is innocent; for his conduct gives the lie direct even to what I have advanced of him. It is very true that we have seen him act the part of a disinterested friend, we have heard him counsel Lord Hazard to shun that very plot he himself had laid for him, and one would think he had so far succeeded against himself—if I may be allowed the expression—that these swindlers in love seem to be turned out of employ: the gentlemen to hunt other game

at the hazard table, or perhaps on the highway, and the lady to ruin apprentices, or gull libidinous elders.
If the reader thinks thus of Mr. Standfast, he is not yet half acquainted with that consummate fabricator of domestic ruin. A simple intrigue, and the common incidental train of disquietude attending it, would not have been a luxury inexorable enough for him. In short, Mr. Standfast, put on your mask again; for we will not see your naked heart till we are prepared to pronounce, by a knowledge of the species of destruction it meditates—that in the round of human conception there is not so shocking a piece of deformity as a complete hypocrite.


THE day on which this eclaircissement took place was distinguished by the cheerfulness that sat on every countenance. Indeed so remarkable was the prevalent good humour, that Mr. Standfast was heartily joined by a great deal of company, who dined at my lord's, when he ventured an opinion that Hazard house had the only roof in town that could boast of a couple perfectly elegant and perfectly happy. I do not pretend to assert that this declaration was truth; I only say the company then present allowed it to be so.
My lord would not read a single letter—for many were that day brought him—lest it should give a tinge of dissatisfaction that might check the general hilarity. They were all ordered to be laid in the study, and it was agreed that he and Standfast should look them over the next morning.
The whole day being like a smooth sea, which looked the more beautiful for having been a little

ruffled, we will glide over it, as too uniform for any striking remarks, and come to the next, which was a little more agitated.
As soon as breakfast was over, his lordship and Standfast, according to agreement, retired to examine the letters. These were seven in number, and as four of them in some degree relate to this history, I shall insert them, together with the remarks of their examiners. Indeed it was once in my head to have given this whole history through that vehicle, but I considered that making my personages retire to their closets before they disclosed their sentiments would have thrown a frigidity over the business; besides the unavoidable necessity of relating every thing two or three times over, and always partially. Besides I may introduce some characters who cannot write, and others who will not. Mr. Standfast, for instance, would not have been possessed of half the cunning I have given him if any thing could have induced him to disclose his sentiments upon paper.
Upon reflection, therefore, I was determined not to follow a method, however fashionable, by which I must have made villains confide their vices, and young ladies their wishes—which, if they felt delicately, they would find difficult to express at all,

much less in a letter—to their confidants and clerks of the roads.
All such matters considered, I have left these penny-post men in biography to themselves, contented to jog on an old road, where what the prospects want of trimming and regulation, will, I trust, be made up in simple and natural luxuriance. But to the letters under examination.

The letter I now send you is accompanied by one from your son, who is determined to choose a guardian—being eighteen years of age—unless you intend to do him more justice.
You have withdrawn your protection from him, in favour of your darling Charles, whom the virtuous Mr. Standfast is training in the paths of honour.
I shall forbear to reflect on either him, you, your

lady, or her offspring: it is enough that I know you all. I only ask at present—which will determine to whom my son shall look in future as a protector—that you will make over to me that part of the estate in Warwickshire which includes the mansion, and the farm contiguous to it; in which case neither Zekiel nor I shall be further troublesome to you: but contentedly make his two hundred a year and my three serve us till that happy moment when it shall please fate to unite your lordly bones to the skins of your ancestors.
I am, &c. GERTRUDE O'SHOCKNESY.

Standfast having thanked the lady for her glance at him, and my lord having laughed heartily at the good natured reflection on his extraction, in the latter part of the letter, they passed on to the next, which contained what follows.

For so I believe you are; at least you could

not prove to the contrary, and that's enough for me to know I shall inherit in spite of my brother Charles. But, however, as I don't want to be undutiful, I shall only tell you this: I am sick of Eton; I'd rather follow a pack of hounds; and so d'ye see I have desired mother to make you a proposial concerning Warwickshire. If so be you like to agree to it, its very well: if not, I am determined to look out for a guardian; being now, as a body may say, pretty far gone towards years of discretion. So I remain
Your dutiful son, And servant to command, RUST.

'What could a guardian do?' said my lord.—
'Faith be very troublesome,' replied Standfast. 'These estates in tail, without right of waste, are, of all legal niceties, the best morsel for a litigious stomach. As to what the lady and her son want, your lordship knows best whether it is worth contending for; but I think I would not be bullied out of any thing.'

'Well, we will consider what is to be done,' said his lordship; 'in the mean time let us to the next.'

So saying, he opened another letter, which came by the post, and was written by Sir Sidney Roebuck. These were the contents.

I take the liberty to write to you concerning your village of Little Hockley, which, since the absence of your lordship, and the death of Major Malplaquet, has risen to such maturity in singular and enormous vice as I sincerely hope cannot be paralleled.
I have been obliged to be at the pains of exerting myself very strenuously in my capacity of magistrate, but smugglers, marauders, and other lawless characters, for whom this vile place is become a remarkable asylum, are difficult to deal with. My first idea was, in conjunction with the members for the county, to beg the interference of parliament; but, conceiving that much delicacy was due to your lordship in this business, I beg previously to consult you.

If you will treat for the village, or, should that be incompatible with the conditions of your inheritance, if you will lease it to me, perhaps I may be able to bring about a reformation.
I have no doubt but your lordship will rejoice in forwarding a work so dear to the interest of humanity, and should be happy to receive your immediate answer, as I wish to make some arrangements at Castlewick, agreeable to the result of this application, before I attend my duty at the house, when I shall have the honour to call on your lordship, with a view to a further conference on this subject.
I am, My Lord, Your Lordship's Most obedient Servant, S. W. ROEBUCK.

Lord Hazard, as I formerly mentioned, received his rents regularly from his steward, and therefore did not dream of the enormities carried on at Little Hockley. He now first reflected that these seeds of vice he had himself sown; and as wickedness, like weeds, flourishes best where there are no wholesome plants to interrupt its growth, he easily perceived

and felt the truth of Sir Sidney's relation; and, therefore, determined to acquaint him that he was as well disposed as himself to perfect so desirable an undertaking, and that he should be glad to see him for that purpose.
After examining another letter or two, they came to the following one.

As you have thought proper to take no notice of what passed the other evening, when I had the honour of calling your lordship scoundrel, I suppose you acquiesce in the justice of the term:—I shall therefore, in future, speak of you as of a wretch deserving pity, and though a lord, beneath the notice of a gentleman.
I am, &c. PETER SNAFFLE.

'Oh,' said my lord, 'this is too shocking to pass. I must break the fellow's bones.'


'Rather get a chairman to do it,' said Standfast. Did not you wait at the rascal's house two hours? Where was he all that time? No, no, they think you begin to smell the matter out, and so are grown desperate. Does not all this confirm my suspicions?'

'But still,' said my lord, 'there is something cursedly unpleasant in letting such a scoundrel go on with impunity. I am determined,' continued he, 'to give him manuel chastisement whereever I meet him.'

'Not at all,' cried Standfast, 'till he has established his credentials to dispute a point of honour with your lordship.'
'Well, well, perhaps you are right,' said my lord, 'you generally see things very properly. Let us talk no more of the damned fellow; he has set my blood in a ferment.'

The conversation was interrupted by a note from Ingot, in the city, with whom—as the reader formerly heard from Mr. Standfast—Lord Hazard sometimes banked. The letter was concerning the transfer of some stock, and other business, on which he required to see his lordship at an early opportunity; and my lord, as he was anxious to advise with

counsel what was best to be done with Mrs. O'Shocknesy and her son, thought he could not take a properer time than the present.
As his lordship went alone into the city, he had leisure to revolve in his mind the various business of the day, and in particular the subject of the letter from Snaffle, which he did not enter into much before Mr. Standfast: knowing that an inclination to indulge his feelings would meet with every possible opposition from that careful friend.
At the same time, however, that he gave Standfast credit for the goodness of his intentions, he could not help thinking the conjectures of that gentleman rather prescient than wise, careful than certain. What was all this mighty business? Why truly a hot-headed fellow had insulted him with great acrimony, and written to him with great impertinence. What were Standfast's ideas of this matter? That a plot was laid to disturb his domestic repose. In truth it appeared so by the assault on his lady, and looked something like it by the tempting opportunity that had been given him of addressing a very beautiful woman. Well, it was so perhaps: in that case the proper check had been given to the first; and, as to the latter, he could see no ruinous

consequences that would ensue, even were they to carry their scheme into execution. He could not be drawn into a marriage, and therefore an intrigue was the worst that could be apprehended. This it was his business to avoid; and he certainly should do so: but was this any reason why he must put up with a most provoking and impudent affront? No, no; he must beg leave to understand the etiquette of his own honour as well as Mr. Standfast. He was no school boy, and therefore took the liberty to dissent from the necessity of having his actions eternally inspected; and as to the affront, which he neither could nor would brook, a proper time should certainly be taken to resent it.
Lord Hazard had now arrived to that very pitch where Standfast wished to conduct him. The tutor knew that no longer to confide in him was the only way to keep him safe from all consequences. He waited with malicious joy for the moment when the patron would voluntarily exclaim, Oh that I had taken thy advice! Oh that thy salutary counsel had been followed!—and I say to the reader, woe be to Lord Hazard if ever the moment should arrive when such an exclamation shall be necessary. But at present let us change the scene.
In the course of his lordship's business with Mr.

Ingot, a lady passed through the room, whom he remarked spoke nothing but French; for there were two gentlemen with her, one of whom told Mr. Ingot, in very broken English, that the lady wished him a good morning.
After they were gone, Ingot told my lord that there was something singular in the lady's story, which had been so interwoven with a business concerning money he had been recommended to transact for her, that he could not but be perfectly acquainted with it.
My lord, who had never any improper curiosity, seemed very indifferent about hearing it; saying there were family matters in it not proper to be divulged.
Ingot assured my lord that was not the case at all; on the contrary, he should tell it to every one he knew; because it placed in a more glaring point of view the scandalous traffic and shameful selling and buying of consciences among the papists (a sect it seems for which Mr. Ingot had a great inveteracy) than any instance that had ever come within his knowledge.
My Lord smiled, and Mr. Ingot continued.—

'This lady, when she was very young, having unfortunately an intrigue with a stranger her father had a great aversion to, she was secluded in a convent, but what convent her lover never could learn. After some time, being persuaded by her friends that her enamorato had played her false, she was prevailed on to take the veil, and shut herself up, as every one thought, for ever.

'About a year and a half ago her father died in England, having long repented of his daughter's ill treatment, and made a will, leaving her his whole fortune, all vested in the English funds. Mind the conditions: to be spent in France, half for her own use, and half in pious donations—provided a dispensation of her vow could be obtained: but, in default of this, to go to English charities.

'Here was manifest the cunning of the Frenchman. He thought, and rightly too, the pious donations in France would procure interest enough to obtain the dispensation of her vow. Ay, ay, the Pope shall make a bargain with any Jew in Duke's-place.

'The dispensation was obtained, with this single proviso—which indeed grasped at the whole fortune—that she should live pensioner in the same convent, with liberty to go out when she pleased.


'These terms the lady accepted, and giving security for her return, she was permitted to come to England, in company with a person deputed by the convent, to arrange her father's affairs. This she has now done, and, in a week or ten days will return to France.'

'An extraordinary business indeed,' said Lord Hazard.
'Yes, yes,' replied Ingot, with great archness; 'the church of Rome never fails to stretch its prerogative when interest is in the case. How happy are we who live under the three estates and the protestant religion?'

'Spoken as a citizen should speak,' said my lord. 'Poor lady, I dare say she rejoices at her escape from captivity. What does she think of England?'

'Oh she knows nobody here,' cried Ingot. 'Except one gentleman, she has not enquired for a single creature. How she came to know him is a mystery to me. It is Sir Sidney Roebuck. I have promised to find him out for her if he be in town.'
'Then I can tell you, Mr. Ingot, that he is not,' answered my lord. 'I received a letter from him this very morning, which induces me to think it will be a fortnight first; as he only talks of coming

up by the meeting of parliament.'
'Well, well, she will not see him then,' cried Ingot:—it is no great matter I suppose.'

Here the conversation drew to an end; the lord testifying great pleasure at the lady's emancipation from confinement, and the citizen reprobating the folly of immuring healthy young girls, who ought to increase their species, and produce soldiers and sailors, and thanking his stars that he did not live under the influence of an Italian priest, not half so good a citizen as himself; a fellow who, because he wore a triple crown, could roast and barbecue any of his peaceable subjects whenever he pleased, the better to confiscate their fortunes.


THAT very afternoon Lord Hazard wrote an answer to Sir Sidney's letter, the receipt of which gave the baronet such satisfaction, that it hastened his journey to town, where in a few days he arrived; for his concerns were always in so regular a state, that he could at any time leave them with very short preparation: and Lady Roebuck, who was of all women living the properest wife for such a man, never required much warning to follow him through all his duties; for such he conceived every one of his pursuits. It was a duty to discharge all trusts, to answer all letters, to return all visits: but then he took care to undertake nothing but what he could conveniently do, to receive no visits but from those he liked, and to reject all unnecessary or impertinent correspondents. It was also with him a duty to be merry, and to make others so; and he could with equal ease—ay, and without any deviation from his illustrious extraction, which I have already said he was pretty proud of—walk a minuet with a

duchess, on a birth-night, or crack a facetious jest with a cobler. He might be termed an elegant oddity; and to his peculiarities, for they were all amiable, did his lady accommodate herself.
Before they set out it was agreed to leave the faithful Emma with little Annette, who had nearly reached her fourteenth year, and was grown a most beautiful young creature. Lady Roebuck loved her with an interesting and lively tenderness. She had watched her growing perfections with at least maternal care; for had she been twenty times her own daughter, she could not have paid more attention to her education, or felt more pleasure at those dawning accomplishments with which she promised to be remarkably gifted.
Emma said she had perused her little mind with profound attention, and though she was no further than the introduction, it was prefaced with a promise of such delightful matter as could not fail to charm the hearts of all readers. She could discern that the subject was interesting, the moral instructive, and that goodness and virtue were strongly inculcated in every page.
Annette and Emma then, and the whole village of Castlewick were left under the care of the good

Mildman, who had not suffered at all in the opinion of Sir Sidney, for having been turned into a scarecrow for the amusement of the Hockleyites.
Sir Sidney and his lady arrived in town, at the period above mentioned; and a card was almost instantly dispatched to Lord Hazard, purporting that the baronet intended to pay him a visit in a day or two, to talk over the business of Little Hockley.
The peer and the baronet soon came to an eligible agreement; and as leases and title deeds were obliged to be consulted in great plenty, during the course of this negotiation, a sort of cordiality grew between the lessor and lessee. Sir Sidney acknowledged there was great fairness and candour in the conduct of the peer, and facetiously remarked he was glad to see so good an understanding between the upper and lower house. As to my lord, he looked up to Sir Sidney as a being of a superior kind, and while he penetrated his amiable and benignant views, his only wonder was that every man of ample possessions did not do the same, since his reward was so certain and so immense.
The ladies, who I have more than once remarked were to their husbands what an echo is to the voice, had also commenced something more than an acquaintance;

which both the husbands strongly recommended. Indeed this intimacy had well nigh brought about a breach of the bargain between Lord Hazard and Sir Sidney; for the latter had proposed to the peer to wave signing the writings, and take upon himself the arrangements of Little Hockley. However, whether my lord felt the superiority of Sir Sidney's qualifications for such an undertaking, whether he thought it ridiculous to expect a harvest of virtue where he had only planted vice; whatever in short was the motive, he agreed only to return to Warwickshire with Sir Sidney, and give him possession of his bargain, by which means the families would pass some months in the society of each other.
Even this was some acquisition, and Sir Sidney, in hopes of enticing his lordship to follow his example, eagerly caught at the proposal. Schemes of pleasure to be executed in the following spring and summer engrossed much of their conversation. Besides, Lady Hazard was with child, and it was thought the country would be likely to restore her strength, after she should have lain in; for she was in general very ill upon those occasions, and had never since Charles had a child—though she had borne in all four—that did not, after its birth, pine away, and at length die.

Pleasures were also chalked out for Charles and Annette, who was understood to be Sir Sidney's daughter by a former marriage, but that her mother died abroad; and the baronet did not spare to hint that an union between the prince and princess of the two rival villages might perhaps cement the general amnesty between all parties.
It will be easily seen that Standfast felt awkward in this society. He too well knew Lady Roebuck's prudence, to suppose that she had acquainted Sir Sidney with any of his tricks, and as there seemed no coolness on the part of the baronet, these conjectures were confirmed. Thus, supposing the business would be concluded in a short time between his patron and Sir Sidney, he was so far perfectly at ease; but when he found the ladies were to be consulted, he trembled for the consequence. How to act? Suppose he tried to prevent their meeting? but that was dangerous and difficult. He once thought of hinting at a distance that something had actually passed between him and the lady, which, if credited, would account for any rancour in her; but, upon maturer reflection, any of these would be to desert his own grand principle, which was, to be always prepared with expedients, but never to use them except in cases of emergency. It would be enough to defend himself when he should be attacked;

and all things considered, since the lady had evidently kept the grand point a secret from Sir Sidney, it was possible, though barely so, that she would not tattle to any one else: yet that cursed female vanity—In short, the gentleman's combat with himself continued a considerable while, till at length the result was that he should make an excuse to go out of town for a month, and by that means gather from Lord Hazard's letters what was going forward. Besides he had another reason for taking this resolution—indeed he had several reasons—which will in due time appear to the reader:—so, having imparted his intention to my lord, and got permission for Charles to accompany him, the tutor and the pupil set out for the west of England, where business of a particular nature demanded their presence.
Thus, most of the arrangements before related passed in the absence of Standfast and Charles, whom, as their excursion has something remarkable in it, we will join: after I have related a matter that cursorily passed between the two ladies.
They were talking of Annette, and Lady Sidney, who was by no means ashamed of confessing so much of the truth as saved the honour of Miss Le Clerk, mentioned the matter exactly as it happened, simply

with the addition of their being privately married.
'But,' said Lady Hazard, 'are you sure that the mother is dead?'
'Sure!' said Lady Roebuck, 'what doubt can there be of that? Besides, at any rate, she is dead to the world.'
'Perhaps not,' said the other lady. 'Good God, have you any reason for what you say?'
cried Lady Roebuck. Lady Hazard here made a very serious apology for her imprudence, saying, the great similarity between the story she had heard from her ladyship, and one recently told her by my lord, had struck her so forcibly, that she had unwarily betrayed herself into those unguarded expressions.

This redoubled Lady Roebuck's anxiety, and she entreated, in the most earnest manner, to know what all this mystery meant.
'Nay,' said Lady Hazard, if it be as I conjecture, it must be known, for the lady is determined to see Sir Sidney before she leaves England.'
'Who?—what lady?'—cried her friend, 'for heaven's sake keep me no longer in suspense.'

Lady Hazard, seeing she had advanced so far, made no scruple of relating the whole story, as Ingot told it to my lord, from first to last. When she had finished, Lady Roebuck asked the name of the lady, which her friend confessed she did not know,

but said that it would be very easy to satisfy themselves by sending to Mr. Ingot.
This was scarcely agreed on before Lady Roebuck received a letter from her handmaid Emma, which the reader shall have in her own words.

YOU would not have heard from me so soon again, but for a circumstance which wears so much the air of a romance, that, had it not been well certified, I could not have believed it:—but
'Dark and mysterious are the ways of providence,
'Puzzled with mazes, and perplexed with errors,'
As says my and Mr. VOLTAIRE's favourite Cato.—A lady called here who cried over Miss Annette, and has left a crucifix and several popish relics, which I cannot say pleased me, for I have hated the Roman catholics ever since I read the account of the massacre of the Hugunots, upon the feast of St. Bartholomew. As to the holy war, some of the kings of England were concerned in that, and therefore

I shall not be so wanting in loyalty as to mention it; else I could a tale unfold:—But to return to the lady. There were two French gentlemen with her, one of whom, in very bad broken English, told me that he believed she had an important commission to execute, but he did not know the purport of it. I wish I had understood French, I would have made her all her pilgrimage relate, as faithfully as Othello did his. After she was gone, which was not till the gentleman had kissed both my cheeks, I questioned Miss concerning their conversation, and she informed me that the lady was that very same she used to call Mamma Le Clerk in the convent. The jewels she has left are for Sir Sidney, and as she had not the pleasure of seeing him, she did not think proper to leave a packet of papers, but said she would endeavour to find him in town, and there deliver it to him.

Lord, my dear lady, what can be the meaning of all this? Miss Annette was so confused and terrified, and indeed she did not understand her very well, for they spoke it seems a different sort of French, our young lady having polished hers, and that of the stranger being a good deal provincial: but, as I said, dear Miss's confusion—though very learned writers have doubted whether this admits of a genetive case, and therefore, as I am proud to

yield to great authorities, I ought to say the confusion of Miss—was so great, that she had not the courage to ask many questions; so I entreated her to go back and speak to the French lady again, who appeared greatly surprised to find that Sir Sidney was married, and when Miss Annette, at my desire, asked if she was her mother, she replied that your ladyship was now the only mother to whom she owed any duty, that she hoped you would treat her kindly, and that Miss would repay you with gratitude.
My sweet little charge is very well, and comes on surprisingly. I entreated her not to write on this subject till I had your advice. Her letter could not avoid falling into Sir Sidney's hands. This will seem only to concern household affairs, and, as the poet says,
'Escape the scythe by being low.'

I hate a falsity, but, without a little laudable deceit, how can we guard against the evils of life?—Minerva thought duplicity so necessary in the conduct of her favourite Ulysses, that she condescended to teach him that heroic quality herself.
I beg to know, my worthy lady, how I am to

act in this affair, and be assured, in respect of all the requisite feminine virtues, no Emma—from Prior's nut-brown maid to Emma Corbet, can have a more extensive and proper sense than
Your very humble, And most grateful handmaid, EMMA DISTICH.

This letter seemed to clear up the whole business, and it being upon enquiry found that the name of the lady his lordship saw at Mr. Ingot's house was Le Clerk, Lady Roebuck did not ballance a moment in her mind, as to the probability of her being the mother of Annette.
In this exigence she consulted Lady Hazard on what conduct she ought to pursue, who being, as we have seen, no friend to duplicity, though even of that laudable kind recommended by Emma, advised her, without delay, to inform Sir Sidney of the whole truth, telling her she had wonderfully well succeeded with her lord by the same mode of experiment within the last fortnight.
This brought forward the story of Miss Snaffle, which the reader has seen so fully investigated, and

which not being told without the highest encomiums on Mr. Standfast's attachment and integrity, and an information that his lordship had settled an additional annuity on him, Lady Roebuck testified the greatest surprise, which Lady Hazard perceiving, said, you may well shudder at the world's villainy. I wish I could prevail with my lord to embrace Sir Sidney's offer, that I might live always with you in retirement.
Lady Roebuck, whose shudderings had been at hearing of Standfast's great influence in the family, was upon the point of saying something which might have led to an investigation of his conduct, not very favourable to that gentleman; but finding Lady Hazard had given her surprise another motive, she contented herself for the present with falling in with that lady's conjectures, and simply remarking that indeed the expectations of villains were so inadequate to the pains they took, and the risks they run, that she wondered men became knaves to be infamous, when, by only being honest, they might be happy.


I MAKE no scruple to confess that my leaving the business of Miss Le Clerk and the possibility of Standfast's detection in such a state of uncertainty as they appeared to be at the end of the last chapter, is taking a liberty with the reader, and, what is worse, with the ladies. But the consideration of having so long forborne to introduce my hero, who, by the way, would be the last to excuse me for being guilty of the smallest incivility to the fair sex, has got the better of all others:—for indeed the circumstances in this history are so various, and follow in such quick succession, that really if I do not use some expedition to bring him forward, I might as well have no hero at all. Just so far however I have nothing to reproach myself with; for, though hitherto he has said very little, I can assure the reader he has thought a great deal. To what purpose will hereafter appear. At present I shall proceed to the examination of his good and bad qualities, a portion of each—for I am afraid there is nothing perfect in this world—he certainly had;

and having cleared away the shores, and made every other proper preparation—for we may well give him fair play—fairly launch him on the ocean of life, where we shall see him steming many adverse gales of fortune, in which it will be difficult to determine whether most to admire his distress or his fortitude.
I certainly had some apprehensions that having suffered a fourth part of this work to pass without approaching to such a necessary business, the reader might perhaps be given to imagine that I called Charles Hazard the hero out of facetiousness, and merely by inference and deduction, and so use him as a painter does a layman, which stands in all the attitudes, bears the helmet, drapery, or poll parrot of the hero or heroine, and yet, though he play this respectable part, is never known personally to the spectators.
To say the truth, I have often been wickedly inclined to wish that many heroes I have met with in my life had been so dealt with, and it is not impossible but some of my readers may retort the courtesy; for it so happens that particular people find in these said heroes particular qualities, which generally being adventitious, it is fifty to one if a hero-maker thinks of them, and, in the absence of these

qualities, though the gentleman should be possessed of ever so long a catalogue of real and permanent virtues, he sinks to a nonentity, in the opinion of such critics, because he does not happen to be enlivened with their favourite animating principle.
I cannot give a stronger instance of what I have advanced than by producing the names of two of the greatest men in their way that ever lived:—I mean ALEXANDER of Macedon the great warrior, and ALEXANDER of Twickenham the great poet.
ALEXANDER the warrior would not have given three-pence for all the noisy applause and bellowing acclamations of the largest populace that ever assembled, if they had not hailed him son of Jupiter; and ALEXANDER the poet—according to Dr. JOHNSON—continually made himself wretched lest the world should fancy him to be the son of nobody; yet I appeal to any one if the fighting hero had been the offspring of a beggar, and the writing hero the heir of a king, whether one would have cut throats, or the other
'lisped numbers'
in greater perfection. Neither of these could conquer his favourite foible, which it is admirable to remark proceeded in the warrior from hope, and in the poet from fear. This imaginary honour in one, and blot in the other, nothing could efface; for vainly did ALEXANDER's

mother ridicule the preposterous folly of her son, saying,
'hush, hush, my dear boy, you don't consider you are bringing me into a scrape, for if you talk so loud about being the son of Jupiter, you will make Juno angry with me:'
—and equally unsuccessful were the efforts of POPE's friends, who it is said told him it was ridiculous to lament that he was the son of a tradesman, when the father of ESCHINES, the Socratic philosopher, was but a sausage-maker.

A hundred instances may be adduced, perhaps a thousand, to prove upon what cobweb qualities the very essence of a hero often depends; but none I believe can be found stronger than those I have given. Let us then settle the dispute in this way: Let all matters relative to Charles Hazard, which are totally dependant upon chance, be considered as out of his power to alter or amend, and all qualities, good, bad, or indifferent, which are the result of his serious reflections, be understood as his act and deed, and censured or praised accordingly.
Charles had been left from his infancy in the quiet and unwearied pursuit of every useful and elegant accomplishment. All these advantages had been procured for him at home, under a tutor who certainly had some taste, and a father who had more;

both of whom were perfectly well satisfied with his progress. His ardour had been so unremitting, that perfection, by the help of perseverence, seemed to be within his reach. I therefore left him to himself, for why should I interrupt him in the midst of so laudable a career?—especially when those very advantages are good recommendations to the reader.
Having untied him, however, a little from his mother's apron strings, I shall now fairly trust him to the bent of his inclination:—and this for several good reasons:—one is, that my veracity as a historian obliges me to it, for Standfast declared to Viney, before he set out—first indeed giving him some other instructions—he should try what mettle the youngster was made of.
Charles was at this time something more than seventeen, so that he took the field young, as did his namesake of Sweden. He was not, however, at all like that great man in any respect, except indeed that no Charles the Twelfth upon earth could be a more rigid observer of his word; for, as the Swedish Charles could never be persuaded by any body, the English Charles placed an implicit faith in every body, and as the fighting hero hated the sight of a woman, the scientific hero was charmed with every woman he saw.

Charles—for there is no hiding it—was very amorous, and very credulous. His credulity, however, was not of that kind begot by adulation upon impudence; he was too modest to be vain; but when a plausible appeal was made to the softness of his manners, the strength of his sensibility, or the excellence of his heart, his expanded soul cherished the fiction because it wore the garb of truth; therefore, in him, credulity was a virtue: and yet virtue would be in much less repute than it is—for which there is little necessity—if it met with no better reward. His propensity to the softer passions were, though so young, of a pretty robust kind, for he had already attacked, and that very briskly, fat Betty, who, by force of arms, or rather fists, defended her virtue. Nor was he less solicitous with Lady Hazard's woman, before whom, about a week previous to his journey, his father found him on his knees, which accident produced the following short lecture.
My lord having pretty well shamed him, said—
'Charles, I am glad to see this grace in you; I never before spoke to you with the harshness of a father; hitherto you have had nothing from me but the mildness of that character. I am scarcely sorry for what has happened, because it gives me an opportunity of speaking on a subject which I

could not otherwise so well have introduced.—You have heard of my excesses in my youth; they have cost me reflections bitterer than I would wish my worst enemy. I am not hurt at seeing you susceptible, nor do I expect, as you grow up, to keep you entirely continent. You are informed, your opinions are decided ones, and you have an understanding far beyond your years, or I should not be so explicit. You have conferred on me one great blessing, which I know you will never deprive me of: I mean a faithful observance of your word upon all occasions. If, upon consulting your heart, you can truly make me the promise I am going to ask of you, these are the last words you shall ever hear from me on this subject. I would naturally recommend to you to think of no idle amours; but perhaps that is impossible: if it should be so, choose some other place than your father's house: let me know nothing of it. I should pity and perhaps forgive the frailties of my son, but I should shudder at being his confidant.

'The promise I exact from you is to combat your inclinations upon all occasions, but to subdue them absolutely and entirely when they tempt you to the seduction of a wife or daughter, or any way tend to disturb domestic happiness.'


'My dear father,' cried Charles, 'throwing himself on his knees, and taking Lord Hazard's hand, 'I promise you your advice shall be engraven on my heart, and so may I prosper as I keep or reject it.'

'Enough,' said Lord Hazard, 'abundantly enough; I know you will keep your word, and therefore nothing can pass between you and I upon this subject again.'

Foibles our hero certainly had in plenty, but he had also many excellent qualities. Indeed they will be well exercised in the course of this work, for though no temper was ever more tried, or mind more worked upon, yet I defy any one to detect him in the commission of either an ungenerous or a dishonourable action.
This in common heroes is nothing, for being made up entirely of sterling virtues, without alloy, what wonder if they come out of the fire of temptation pure and undeminished?—but for an elegant, handsome, fine young fellow, unsuspecting, inexperienced, sensible, accomplished, born to captivate and be captivated—for such a one neither to turn out a puppy nor a knave, is an instance that does not every day attract our admiration.

But I have often held—and many will agree with me—that is is as easy to do right as wrong, and in my hero this truth is illustrated; for know reader, this young gentleman preserved his honour, nay perhaps his life, by a strict adherence to one ruling principle, which, being so young, it is singularly admirable he should set down for himself. It was this: never to promise what was improper to perform, but having made a promise never to break it.


STANDFAST's journey into the country was to the house of a young clergyman, to whom he was patron. Read it ye great, and confess your insignificance. Your dependants have their hangers on; your very toad-eaters have their tools: nay, sometimes, you are their tools yourselves. Has not your steward his carriage, his country house, his hounds, his partridge mews, and his doxey? and do not you pay for it? Nay he is, in point of certainty, so much better off than you, that, were you to be ruined, and even through his mismanagement, he could behold the wreck from the shore, and get comfortably to a retreat which your bounty provided for him.
This young clergyman, whose name was Figgins, was originally a Bridewell boy. Standfast took a great fancy to him one evening, as he signalized himself on a rejoicing night. The peculiar address with which he broke the windows of such as would not put out lights, and threw squibs into coaches to frighten ladies, and burn their clothes, evinced

such a proneness to mischief, that Standfast felt a congenial warmth, and immediately determined to select this youth as a fit instrument, in time, for nobler daring.
It was necessary, however, that he should add to this unluckiness and audacity a necessary portion of subtilty. He therefore asked him several questions, to which he received such answers as pleased him; that is to say, full of impudence and ambiguity: and hearing him afterwards tell one of his companions that he had queered Raven Grey, his mind was so made up that he determined—to use his own phrase—upon patronizing him.
The reader however must not imagine that Mr. Standfast laid himself open to his dependant; the matter was apparently brought about through the medium of a third person, indeed Mr. Viney, to whom this hopeful youth was a distant relation, and he was required, among other things, to consider Mr. Standfast as an exemplary character.
The tutor prevailed upon a bishop, a friend of his—I sincerely hope the bishop did not know what he was about—to ordain this spark; and this was the very friend he left in the care of Little Hockley.

At the time Charles and his tutor paid this visit to Mr. Figgins, he was in the possession of a vicarage near Poole, which living Standfast procured him from a noble earl, in some respects however owing to the young parson's own conduct, for he was so civil to introduce to his lordship a near relation, which circumstance ended in my lord's making up, for a large sum of money, a suit which the young lady commenced against him for seduction, though the earl was about her thirteenth lover. One of this number, by her advice, quitted the kingdom lest he should be taken up for the forgery of a bank note, which, after he was gone, she changed, and put the money in her pocket.
Standfast's business with Mr. Figgins was of a very particular nature, and perhaps the reader may sometime hence join with me in that opinion.—Whatever it was, Standfast did not choose to transact it by letter, it being one of his maxims never to write any thing but what all the world might read, nor make either promises or declarations in the presence of a third person.
In conformity to this latter part of his maxim, he very frequently took his friend Figgins with him either a walk or a ride, begging Charles to take care of the ladies till their return. These ladies

were, first Mr. Figgins's maiden aunt, a woman of exemplary character, an enthusiastic admirer of Drelincourt and a dram glass, and who her nephew very humanely maintained, upon her paying him down quarterly the sum of eight pounds. Secondly Mrs. Figgins the ninth—for, like Major O'Flaherty, he had them in all quarters, and all alive and merry;—and, lastly, Miss Figgins, a young lady of beauty and accomplishments, but who had not yet got a husband—though she owned twenty-seven—because the men were brutes, and her nature was so delicate that the least ill treatment would break her heart.
Charles found it no disagreeable task to entertain these ladies, in the absence of his tutor; nay he made a traffic of his complaisance, for he wrote an impromtu for a smile, and sketched their portrait for a kiss. His skill in music enchanted them, and they wished never to part with the young lord, as he was called.
As to Miss Figgins, had any one witnessed her behaviour at those unguarded moments when he sung a pathetic air—though, by the bye, he was of that age when the voice sounds more like that of a raven than a nightingale—he would have sworn she had at once conquered her aversion to love and matrimony.

To say truth, her virtue was of the rampant kind, which perhaps was one reason she continually talked of the great pains she took to subdue it. Indeed she so prompted Charles in that part, which, if it had been the time to act, he knew without a cue, that the young gentleman had a kind of rebellion to quell, which gave him no little disturbance. In short, in spite of his teeth he was obliged to take a review of the promise he had made his father, and reflecting that the sister of Mr. Figgins must certainly be a woman of honour, he triumphantly carried the point, and congratulated himself on this victory over his passions. Indeed the term sister was not included in the conditions, but it was certainly implied, and it would have been dishonourable had he taken advantage of the omission.
The lady however having made good her landing, determined to lose no opportunity of improving that advantage; therefore, one day, while they sat at dinner, she slyly splipped a note into the young gentleman's coat pocket, which contained these words both in form and substance.

'For hevven sake mete mee in the arburr, and lett mee, ho lett mee, unbuzzum myself.'


Charles was too gallant not to attend the lady.—Indeed it was very much his wish to have a little conversation with her alone; not doubting but when the purity of his intentions were honestly made known, the young lady's quiet would be restored, which at present he made no doubt he greatly disturbed. Having therefore attended the appointment, he declared to her with the truest and most honest simplicity, his repugnance to do that which he could not consider otherwise than as a shameful breach of hospitality. The lady acknowledged the generosity of his sentiments, and said, that as she saw her fears were unnecessary, they might now indulge in all those little innocent freedoms which to susceptible and delicate hearts gave such delight.—In short, after much simpering, stammering, blushing, and other indications of maiden bashfulness—the largest part of which, especially the blushing, was most manifest in Charles—she informed him that, upon certain conditions, he should steal to her bedchamber, and sleep with her that very night. These conditions were explained to be exactly what I am informed they practise very commonly, and very innocently in America, under the name of bundling.
Perhaps Miss Figgins had heard of Adhelm, who, to try his virtue, slept several nights with a

virgin without violating his chastity, and understanding Charles was intended for a great man, determined it should not be her fault if he had not this proof of his virtue in as great perfection as his pious predecessor. If however these were her intentions, there was some how or other an infraction in the treaty, for Charles and the lady so bundled that, at the end of a fortnight, she informed him, in the most decent manner so delicate a creature could muster up words for the purpose, that she was certainly with child.
What a stroke for our hero! Must he begin already to feel the bitter reflections of having broken his promise. How to act? Which way to conceal her shame? He could not marry her—which at some intervals he had thoughts of—without consulting his father, and the consequence of such a consultation was apparent. Yet he had ruined her, and brought her into a situation that marriage alone could atone for. In so doing he had already broken his promise, and why not go farther, since there was no honourable means of retreat.
In this state, chequered with pleasure and compunction, had he passed several days, when Mr. Standfast one morning told our hero that some damned thing or other had come to his fatheris ears,

who required their immediate presence in town.—
'See there,'
said he, showing him a letter he had that instant received.
TO THE REV. Mr. STANDFAST.
If you have the smallest regard for my peace of mind, come post to me the moment you receive this.

Charles not doubting but his amour and its consequences had already reached his father's ears, without considering how the intelligence could have been conveyed, told his tutor ingenuously that he was the cause of it. Mr. Standfast seemed greatly astonished at the declaration, and demanded how it could possibly be? The pupil exacting a solemn promise from his tutor that he would carefully preserve the most profound secrecy, let him into the bundling secret from first to last, and concluded with vehemently entreating his advice.
Standfast looking very sagacious, said this must be the cause of Lord Hazard's injunction sure enough, which it was a very proper thing to comply with, for fear of irritating him farther. As for the rest, he said it was a cursed unlucky affair, but

fortunately the brother was under his thumb, and his best endeavours might be depended on to hush matters up.
If his father should mention it, he advised Charles to deny the whole business; though he had no doubt but he should use such arguments as would induce him not to say a word about it.
Charles was in raptures at the kindness of his tutor, who took care nevertheless to give the young gentleman a wholesome lecture, declaring his great repugnance to this duplicity of conduct, and protesting he only consented to it from the laudable view of preventing a difference between father and son.
By this time the chaise was at the door; for Standfast, zealous to obey his patron's mandate, had ordered it previous to this conversation with his pupil. The latter therefore took a hasty, but tender leave of his enamorata, who exacted a promise that he would write to her, and, if possible, see her soon again.
On the road, Standfast encouraged Charles to keep up his spirits. He told him, for one thing, that his honour was in no scrape; for that the lady, however

she might have imposed upon his inexperience, was not a vestal, nor had been for a good twenty years.

'Why she is but six and twenty,' said Charles:
'and eleven added to it,' replied the tutor. 'As to the brat, if there should be one, we must see what's to be done with it. I have told you all these matters,' added he, 'lest you should be improperly drawn in, therefore you must promise me to be upon your guard. No indiscreet marriages, nor any other steps without first consulting me. Upon these and no other terms will I undertake this business.'

Charles eagerly promised every thing his tutor demanded of him, and Standfast reiterated his friendly professions. They both arrived in town however with no little anxiety on their minds. That of Charles proceeded, as the reader knows, from his fear of having made his father miserable. Mr. Standfast had too hearty a contempt for every human weakness to feel the influence of any such hen-hearted sensation. Glorious mischief begat his perplexity, and all his uneasiness was lest the banquet preparing for his inexorable senses should not be seasoned high enough with domestic wretchedness.


IT was agreed, upon the arrival of Charles and his tutor, that the latter should go first to see how the land lay, and that the young gentleman should not see his father—thereby to give their project breath—till he had paid his respects to Lady Hazard.
Mr. Standfast immediately sought my lord, and having very opportunely found him, he was informed, with but little previous ceremony, that his patron was undone—lost—irretrievable lost, beyond all possibility of hope.

'Good God!' exclaimed Standfast, with terror in his countenance, 'whence can this unexpected blow have come? It is no diminution of your fortune my lord?'

'Of my life, of my soul, of my honour!' returned my lord. 'Oh that I had listened to thy advice. Heavenly God! that a man should murder his peace, sell his life's happiness, and render

himself despicable for the brutal, villainous gratification of a single moment! Will you know the extent of my misery? the giddy precipice on which I stood, and frightful abyss into which I am plunged? Will you know my torment, my horror, my despair, my hell?'

'Be calm, my lord,' said Standfast,
with the utmost commiseration he could convey into his countenance.
'Calm!' replied his lordship, 'yes, when I have destroyed myself, when the wretches have added my death to the destruction of my peace of mind.'
'Wretches! What wretches?' cried Standfast eagerly.
'Keep me not on this wrack of suspense, lest my friendship take the alarm, and I yield to my fears of that fatal evil which my boding heart has so long anticipated.

'Hear the truth then,' said my lord, 'and let all worthy men, like thee, detest me while I utter it. I have lain with that infernal woman, she has communicated to me a damned disease, and I have infected my dear, my innocent wife, that excellent creature, that pattern of her sex beyond all example, who never had a blemish on her heart or understanding but when she joined her unhappy fate to a worthless wretch like me.'


'Angels of pity comfort me!' said Standfast.—'Ah my dear lord, why did I go this cursed journey into the country? If I had been on the spot, I am sure I should have saved you.'

'It would have been useless,' cried my lord, starting from a chair, into which he had thrown himself. 'I had ceased to confide in you before you left town, and was glad of a pretext to get rid of your solicitation.'

Mr. Standfast now uttered a most warm and pathetic speech, lamenting general depravity, and deploring most affectingly his friend's want of resolution. So excellent indeed were his reasons, his remarks so heartfelt, and his manner so persuasive, that my lord declared there lived not his equal.—To say truth, this speech had its merit, and so it ought, for like many other speeches which are intended to surprise instead of convince, it had been some time in preparation. And now the tutor entreated to know the particulars of this unfortunate business, desirous perhaps of being satisfied whether his actors had performed their parts in the manner he had set down for them, especially as he had such an opportunity of hearing their respective merits from a critic who would be sure to do them justice.

My lord briefly told him that being informed by Colonel Tiltly and some others that a gentleman named Snaffle was traducing him in every coffee-house where he came, and that one of his friends who vindicated him had very nearly got into a duel on his account, he made it his business to seek after Snaffle, but found only the sham sister as before who it was plain was instructed to play upon him'. At length he found his man at home, when matters were very handsomely explained, and he was idiot enough to stay to supper. The presence of the sister, and the bumpers with which he was drenched produced the rest.
'But,' concluded my lord, 'that a set of people should conspire the ruin of a man so little known to them, and work the destruction of his peace of mind, is a species of wickedness and depravity that I cannot give either motive or name.'

'My dear lord,' cried Standfast impatiently, I see a gleam of happiness here, a celestial and benignant ray of hope.'
'What do you mean?' exclaimed Lord Hazard.
'These people,' cried Standfast, 'have reaped no pecuniary advantage from their villainy.'
'How should they?' said his lordship.
'No, none;—it is a contrivance then,' cried Standfast, 'of Mrs. O'Shocknesy; God send she may be disappointed.'
'Heaven

and earth,' cried my lord, 'you have certainly divined the truth; it is that diabolical wretch sure enough: who else could have taken such unheard of pains to make me miserable? I knew, I felt, thou wouldst comfort me. But still is not the calamity the same, my dear Standfast?'
'Not at all my lord,' answered his kind friend very confidently. 'Are you sure of what you say in relation to your lady?'
'From what I may reasonably conjecture it must be so,' said my lord. 'Oh God! if I could but flatter myself there.'
Well, well, hope for the best,' cried Standfast. 'You forget my lord how artfully the snare was laid for you. I am sure if your lordship was off your guard, there is no prudence but may be surprised. My advice is this: If, for the sake of your lady's health, matters should require an explanation, honestly give it her, and lay the blame upon Mrs. O'Shocknesy; I would stake my life upon the issue. And now my lord throw off your chagrin; I dare say your lady knows no uneasiness upon this subject but that which she has felt from seeing you miserable.'

'She shall see me so no longer then,' said my lord. 'By imitating thee I will grow honest, and that shall teach me to be cheerful.'


Having so far adjusted matters, Lord Hazard felt himself wonderfully relieved. As for Charles, all he could learn from his mother was, that her lord had, for several days, appeared very ill and very uneasy; that it certainly was caused by some disagreeable news he had heard;
'but,' continued she, 'whatever it is, we must unite to comfort him. I am sure from me he deserves every thing, for his affection encreases every day.'

Charles, convinced he was the cause of his father's unhappiness, took leave of his mother as early as he decently could, to go in quest of Standfast, that common friend in the family: for surely it is the office of a friend to make people easy.
The tutor was ready to receive him, and apparently anxious to put him out of pain, for he seized him very cordially by the hand, and told him matters were in such a swimming train, that he had only to appear as if nothing had happened, and he might be assured that his father would not even mention the circumstance.
Standfast had now restored the tranquillity of both father and son, and in some measure his own; for the latter part of his conversation with his patron was concerning Lady Roebuck, but as he could not

gather any reason to believe she had been tatling, he fairly concluded she was afraid to attack him, or else perhaps, as chance had thrown him again in her way, the lady had wisely adopted the proverb better late than never; and so promised herself the accomplishment of what his vanity induced him to believe she wished: so difficult is it for men of Mr. Standfast's turn of mind to credit that any one can be actuated by motives purely generous, and merely disinterested.
The triumphant Mr. Standfast however had never been so near detection as while he was absent. That conversation between the two ladies which took a different turn, as the reader has seen, at the end of the seventh chapter, had introduced into the mind of Lady Roebuck a number of alarming fears for her friend. She could not give Mr. Standfast that implicit credit which he seemed to exact of Lord and Lady Hazard, for the active part he had taken in the business of Miss Snaffle. Indeed, knowing from her own experience how little pretensions he had either to gratitude, principle, or generosity, her tongue was very reluctantly reined in whenever she heard any thing in his commendation; but at length, considering Lady Hazard was a new, though a very intimate acquaintance, and that the office she longed to undertake was rather a thankless one, she took a

little time for reflection, during which interval a circumstance happened which decided her wavering resolution. As however it was of sufficient consequence to require that Sir Sidney should be consulted, the reader is of course anxious to know what it was, and the result of their deliberations. The latter I am very ready to say was, that to arm Lord and Lady Hazard against the machinations of Mr. Standfast was treading on very tender ground, and therefore they ought not to take any material steps in so weighty a business till their arrival in the country, where Sir Sidney said he would begin this Herculean labour. This then they resolved. As to the circumstance which procured this resolution, it will come better hereafter. To have mentioned it here would have been premature, and not to have said something on the suspicions of Sir Sidney and his lady, would have been tacitly to have accused the reader of a deficiency in penetration, for it is hardly possible that any one who knew Mr. Standfast should believe him capable of devoting himself so suddenly to the practise of real virtue, when his whole life had been an artful study how to keep up the appearance of it.
Standfast has been seen very solicitous to get at the particulars of Lord Hazard's unfortunate intrigue, for which I have assigned the real motive;

and, to say truth, he was not pleased with the relation: for in his absence—to carry on the allusion I used at that time—his peice had been mutilated by the managers, and ill performed by the actors; a material incident had been cut out of his projecting, and another, by no means condusive to the catastrophe he wished to take place, introduced.—These alterations were principally owing to the heroine, who in real life, as well as upon the stage, is generally apt to take these sort of liberties; and though Mr. Standfast had not been present at the representation of his performance, yet, being a consummate judge of effect, he saw plainly it would have had more striking success could he have been on the spot to have conducted it.
To drop this allusion, Standfast plainly saw that Mrs. O'Shocknesy had taken the liberty to alter his plan, no doubt for private ends of her own. He had left orders for an anonymous letter to be sent to Lady Hazard on the very evening his lordship should be engaged at Snaffle's, apprizing her of the fact. This, it was plain to Standfast, had been neglected; but that something, as we before observed, should be substituted in its place, the lady had, through the means of Miss Snaffle, conferred a favour on his lordship which she thought would serve just as well to communicate the secret to Lady

Hazard. To say truth, this was a coup de grace which Standfast, with all his rascallity, had not meditated. It was a vengeance truly feminine, and greatly worthy the vindictive Mrs. O'Shocknesy.—How these conspirators answered their conduct to their ringleader will by and by be seen. At present I shall only say that Mrs. O'Shocknesy defended herself by an argument which will at least prove her to be a proper coadjutor of the great Mr. Standfast. It was no less than that the knowledge of Lady Hazard's pregnancy induced her to take that harmless step before mentioned, without her principal's privity; at which he was as much incenced as was Hecate against the witches, who dared to prompt Macbeth in his iniquity without her orders.


IT will now be proper to speak concerning Miss Le Clerk, whose whole history, as far as Mr. Ingot knew it, Sir Sidney learnt much about the time the two ladies were reading Emma's letter; for the good citizen being, as I observed, Lord Hazard's man of business, they were in a manner obliged to consult him upon several points relative to the property of Little Hockley. On the first of these visits every thing naturally came out, and when the baronet and his lady met, both were ripe for the discovery of what was no secret to either.
The story of Annette was no mystery, but it has been shown in what way it was told; and if Miss Le Clerk was Sir Sidney's wife, what then was Lady Roebuck? This was a consideration of a most serious nature, and, in justice to so amiable a lady, it was admitted that it ought to be set to rights.—Lord and Lady Hazard being therefore the only persons who had it in their power to make a single

comment on this subject, and that nobleman and his lady having by this time, for many reasons, become great favourites with these two friends, they were, without the alteration of a single circumstance, informed of the real truth. This led to the establishment of a most intimate and binding friendship between the two couples, and the baronet and Lady Roebuck felicitated themselves upon the certainty, as they now conceived it, of that plan which they had formed of making Lord Hazard the reformer of his own village. As preaching however cannot have half the effect of example, they resolved, as the reader has seen, to reserve their grand attack till they should arrive at the place of action, when his lordship should be assailed in such a manner as would deprive him of the means of defending himself, and oblige him—especially as his lady was already gained over—to surrender at discretion.
Lord Hazard very soon got perfectly restored to health, and as there were no reasons to believe that his suspicions concerning his lady had any foundation, he by degrees regained his usual ease and tranquillity.
As to Charles, he received a quire of letters from Miss Figgins, full of sythes and wows, and flamming arts; but, convinced that under the guidance of

Standfast, all he incurred was a trifling expense, he rather felt proud of the business, and was not a little pleased that, at an age under eighteen, he had given such notable proofs of his manhood. He felt however very gratefully towards both his parents, who he was convinced knew of his irregularity, and had the kindness not to upbraid him with it; and, as this imaginary conduct of theirs induced him to treat them with the most dutiful and minute attention, so it endeared him to their notice and regard ten times stronger than ever. Sir Sidney was not an idle spectator of this. He was charmed with Charles, and really began to meditate seriously that alliance which it may be recollected he mentioned formerly in jest.
These projects, which were intended to blossom in the spring, and produce fruit in the summer, laid at present dormant in their minds; we will therefore pass over the hurry of the winter, and bring them to the sign of the John of Gaunt's Head, an inn in their way to Warwickshire.
The landlord of this house, who was a great favourite of Sir Sidney, prided himself on having as distinct and ample a genealogy as any lord; nay he looked upon himself as superior to many who boast that title: for, said he,
'What are lords, the creatures

of yesterday, to those in my family of three hundred years standing?' adding, 'alack a day! human creatures are buckets in a well, one up, and tother down.'

This landlord was not a little proud of having been a substantial yeoman of Kent. He had been indeed a considerable farmer, but having a strong inclination to indulge himself in that hospitality in which it was not within his circumstances to cut any tolerable figure, he had entertained so many poor gentlemen of high extraction, till at length, as the phrase is, he ran out; and, leaving off farming, left also his own country, and took an inn not far from High Wickham.
The house bore all the insignia of its master's fancied consequence, and the reliques of those mighty deeds which were performed by his ancestors, and in which he took so much pleasure, as he sat in his chimney corner, to record, were distributed about wherever he could find a place for them. Shields and spears glittered in the kitchen instead of potlids and spits; helmets and cuisses, in the place of stag's horns, adorned the hall, and mismatched pieces of tapestry covered the walls of every room.
Lord Hazard insisted upon being introduced in

form, and Sir Sidney undertook to be gentleman usher upon the occasion. My lord confessed he could boast but of very recent extraction, being, as one might say, a junior branch of the nobility.
'Why truly' answered the landlord, 'you will pardon my jocularity my lord, there is a spot of Rust on your eschuteon which perhaps, by Hazard, may be rubbed out.'

The archness as well as frankness of this reply pleased his lordship so much, that he entered into a long conversation with the landlord, that ended in an explanation of all the warlike trophies before mentioned, the history of which contained a kind of summary review of the history of England; we shall therefore forbear to recite any part of what passed, except one remark. They were examining a rosary, which was said to have belonged to the unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots. My lord said that her's was a lamentable fate.
'Lamentable,' said the landlord, shaking his head, 'if she had not been an angel upon earth, Bess would not have been so ready to send her to make one in heaven.'



AT the inn where our travellers lay had arrived two musicians, just before dark, who were going to a nobleman's scat in the neighbourhood, upon a summer excursion, and where there was to be a grand concert the next day. One of the gentlemen, an Italian, had the day before been seized with a violent fever, but being told that his patron had sent express for him, he determined to go in spite of his indisposition, especially as he knew he should be taken greater care of at the house of his benefactor than at home. His companion came to acquaint him that he had received a similar summons. This put the finishing stroke to the Italian's determination; for they were both famous performers on the trumpet, and seldom played asunder.
At this meeting the two musicians talked about what fishing and shooting they should have, and, above all, what delicious burgundy they should taste at his lordship's; nor did they fail to enjoy, by anticipation, certain jokes which the Italian, being

a wag, had it in contemplation to play some of his lordship's retinue. One in particular he concerted, which was to ridicule a black servant, for whom the Italian had an inveterate aversion, because he could not blow the french horn in tune.
'Perdio' cried he 'I tink I see de villain cavaliero vid his vite orse and plack visage make one tammed nise oh Diavolo.'
For it should here be known that his lordship, though he had constantly a troop of musicians after him, and some of them men of distinguished talents, would rather have been called in at the death of a fox, by the dissonant belching of his favourite horn, than have listened to the best chorus of HANDEL, performed by five hundred and fifty-three persons, capable of realizing all that celestial rapture of which Doctor BURNEY dreamt.

The English musician took his leave of the Italian recommending him to take as much rest as possible before they should set off. In conformity with this advice, the Italian betook himself to sleep, and passed the night in tolerable tranquillity, except that he had a slight delirium, in which he fancied the above mentioned black pursued him, on his white horse, and that he escaped from him with great difficulty; and much more such stuff, evidently the effect of a distempered brain. Having, however, shook off the phantom, he afterwards obtained

tolerable repose, and felt himself pretty well recovered when his friend, the English musician, came to call him up.
I thought it necessary to premise thus much, that the reader might the better account for a disturbance that happened at the inn. The house was buried in a total silence, when the Italian, whose distemper had received no mitigation from either the journey or a shower of rain which had fallen in the afternoon, all of a sudden awoke from a horrid dream, in which his inveterate enemy, the black, appeared to him on his steed, as before, but with the addition of a large sabre, with which he threatened to put him instantly to death.
Frightened at the spectre, like Chamont, he rose and called for lights, which indeed he need not have done, for there was a solitary candle glimmering in the chimney corner, by the help of which imperfect luminary, every thing could faintly be discerned. Leaping from the bed, the first object his eyes encountered being a figure in the tapestry of Edward the black prince, mounted upon a white horse, and giving directions at the battle of Poictiers, he ran in a most frantic manner along the gallery, and, owing to his corpulent form—which extremely resembled a brandy keg, or a ninepin, made a rapid

descent to the hall underneath. There, being in total darkness, he groped about for a considerable time, to no purpose, in hopes of finding a door into the yard.
All this time the fever being at an alarming height, every thing he touched seemed to be the falling stroke of that monstrous instrument of death wielded by the figure in the tapestry. At length, bellowing like a bull, and bounding from one table to another, like a tost pancake, or a kicked football, he discovered, as he imagined, the door. A faint glimmering of light that beamed on him facilitated this welcome idea, and he strove, but in vain, to find the lock. Exploring this impervious gloom, which, as far as his scattered recollection gave opportunity to notice, appeared the seat of sorcery, where all the demons of hell were assembled to torment him; for as to being in an inn, it never once occurred to his imagination, something that felt like down, and smelt intolerably bitter, fell about his ears, and tormented him the more in proportion as he attempted to defend himself from it. And now, having his eyes, nose and mouth pretty well filled with this suffocating annoyance, which, contrary to the air-drawn dagger of Macbeth, was sensible only to the feeling, he stampt, rubbed his face, raved, sputtered, and struggled, till at last he

got out of the vortex of this den of Erebus, to which he seemed to have been drawn by a hellish and invisible influence.
Lifting however his hands in an extreme of distraction—indeed exactly as St. Paul is drawn preaching at Athens—something tumbled from above which fitted himself completely, like a coat of armour, without the casque or cuisses.
Fully persuaded the demon that pursued him had now got him in his clutches, he stormed, howled, foamed, and squeaked out as incongruous and inarticulate a recitative as ever Hannibal or Scipio did at the opera house.
At this moment one of the waiters, who had been to pay a visit to the bed chamber of the cook maid Molly, and who of course was the most watchful in the house, entered the hall with a lighted candle.
The Italian's singular jeopardy was occasioned by his mistaking the chimney for the door. There, struggling to get out, he had made himself as black as a soot bag, and, upon his retreat, fairly invested himself in the strange manner above mention, with a buff jerkin, which my landlord had received as a legacy from his father, who affirmed and verily

believed that it was the same worne by Guy, Earl of Warwick, when he killed the dun cow.
No sooner had the waiter seen this precious relique of his master's ancestors in the hands, or rather on the back of the Italian, than, taking him for a thief, who wanted to rob the house, he ran to fetch his master. The Italian, to be even with him, upon descrying the light and an opposite door at the same time, ran rapidly up another pair of stairs. His precipitate flight confirmed the waiter in his suspicions, and facilitated his return to his master, who, by this time, alarmed by the noise, had just issued from his apartment.
The landlord having heard the matter from his man, swore by the glory of his forefathers he would cut him up alive, and invoking the manes of Edward the black prince, and John of Gaunt, followed muttering curses all the way to the chamber of the English musician, whither the Italian had by accident directed his flight, and to where his distracted bellowing piloted both man and master.
In the mean time, the Italian had reached his brother professor's apartment, and hid himself, buff jerkin and all, under the clothes. The Englishman, disturbed by the noise, and still more by the

Italian's flouncing into bed, waked in an instant, and before he had time to recollect what could occasion so extraordinary an intrusion, saw in a confused manner, by the help of the light which dimly gleamed through the passage, what a strange hedious figure he had in bed with him, on which he had no sooner cast his eyes, than, in a dreadful fright, he all of a sudden leaped from the bed, and got under it.
The Italian, who began to perceive the light, and concluding his companion had seen the man and horse which he had no doubt still pursued him, followed him close at his heels, being under the bed almost as soon as him. The English musician being pressed hard by the same abominable figure, half dead with the fright, crawled out on the opposite side, which happened to be next to the door, still followed by the Italian.
The landlord and the waiter now came up with them, and the candle being produced, the appearance of this quadrumvirate was beyond the power of tongue or pen to describe. The distraction of the Italian, the astonishment of his companion, the paralytic fear of the landlord, who, spite of the examples of his ancestors, trembled from head to foot, and the consternation of the waiter, composed in

their different countenances such a set of unbrageous, olive, livid and cadaverous tints as surely no faces ever before exhibited.
The English trumpeter, as he encountered the landlord, was overturned, and now lay flat on the floor. The descendant of Hengist had gathered himself up into a grotesque attitude, looking at the fallen musician, and the waiter was pushing the candle forward, under his master's arm, to see what was the matter, while the Italian had crept to the other side of the bed, and having searched for something to defend himself, caught up his companion's trumpet, who had brought that instrument into his chamber, to have it safe. With this weapon he leapt upon a chest of drawers, and whether he was now wrought to such a height of frenzy as not to know what he did, or whether instinct conducted the trumpet to his mouth without his knowledge, certain it is that his stretched companion had scarcely demanded what was the matter, and the landlord thundered out a volley of execrations, ending with
'give me my jerkin,'
than the Italian sounded a charge, and then a defiance, and then a parley, as fast as they could succeed each other.

The moment the English musician heard the trumpet, he knew his friend as well as if he had

spoken to him, and instantly guessed that the confusion must have been occasioned by the Italian's illness, who had become delirious, and thus alarmed the house.
Feeling, however, for the safety of his trumpet, which same provident sensation impelled the landlord in relation to the Earl of Warwick's habiliment, they both approached him, where he stood, trumpet in hand, like another fame in a buff jerkin, and were within an inch of their prey, when the Italian fairly made a spring over their heads, darted out of the door, and ran along the gallery, then down stairs, afterwards out of the back door into the yard, and lastly all over the village, blowing away almost without any cessation.
This was a partial last trump to the village, for all but those in their graves immediately started up to see what was the matter. As to the inn, imagination never formed so singular a confusion. The musician raved for his trumpet, the landlord stormed for his buff jerkin; here a waiter appeared with his clothes tumbled into the tail of his shirt, which he held by way of an apron; there a maid servant with a petticoat tied about her head instead of her waist; here John the ostler appeared in Sukey's night cap, and Sukey in John's wig:—In short there was not

one person in the house—for all agreed to put o•… manly firmness, and meet in the hall together—even to Sir Sidney and Lord Hazard, that did not cut a ludicrous figure, while the village cried out some a fight, others a fire, and all with hasty steps ran towards our inn, which thus, in a few minutes, was filled, in addition to its own company, with the major part of the village, among whom were not a few females with clouts about their heads, and children in their arms, a sort of spectators who are sure to be foremost at every sight, be it a boxing match, a lord mayor's show, or an execution.
The English musician, getting upon the great table, now begged to be heard; and having at last obtained silence, very naturally accounted for every thing that had happened, finishing with a declaration that he apprehended the Italian must now be so far gone, that the landlord's jerkin and his trumpet were certainly in danger of being spoiled.

'Far gone!' cried a country fellow, 'why I zeed un myzel at the back of Master Clover's barn, and that's only behind thick here orchard. Oons, do but list a tiny bit; dost not hear un?'
'I do,' exclaimed the musician, 'I do, and my dear trumpet is as sound as ever! Zounds, I know what I will do: show me to his bed chamber:'
—at

which he jumped down, and so scampered up stairs, that the spectators began to fear lest he should be infected with the same frenzy as his companion. A very few seconds however brought him back again, with the Italian's own trumpet, hollowing out,
'This will do, this will do; here is that shall bring him back again.'
He now hastened to the yard door, and, putting the trumpet to his mouth, sounded a defiance, which was immediately answered at a distance. In his next essay he was answered somewhat nearer. Upon two or three repetitions the Italian came down the street, sounding all the way a parley, till at last he was caught, held fast, brought into the house, and the trumpet and buff jerkin restored to their respective owners. As to the poor devil himself, he was an object of the truest compassion. His eyes darted fire, he foamed at the mouth, and raved like a bedlamite.

At the desire of his friend, the Italian was conveyed to his bed, which, in a most emaciated condition, he made shift to leave in somewhat less than five weeks.



As I intimated at the end of the first volume, that the pranks of the mad musician, extraneous as at first sight they must appear, had relation, and very strongly too, to the main and most material part of my design, so I shall now proceed to show in what way.
The reader will allow me that, according to the letter of my description, which really did not outgo the fact, the bustle at the inn must, to strangers, and particularly ladies, have been alarming to a

great degree; and when it is considered that Lady Hazard was seven months gone with child, it will not appear very extraordinary that, terrified in so unexpected and particular a manner, it should have such an effect upon her tender and delicate frame, as to throw her into labour, which it actually did.
Mr. Standfast, upon this news, undertook to produce a gentleman of the faculty from London, whither he went as fast as a chaise and four horses could convey him, accompanied by Charles, whose anxiety for his mother was strongly manifested in his heartening and encouraging the postillions. My Lord however was not idle. There were several towns near at hand, and each of them boasted its man-midwife; so fashionable was it even then, to adopt a custom which the landlord swore—as he stirred the kitchen fire to prepare for the necessary potations upon this occasion—was a disgrace to the English nation; a custom to which our ancestors, who had nerves that, like their bows, twanged with strength, were utter strangers. He said it was a custom originating from sloth and effiminacy; that it was one of those blessed improvements towards the annihilation of manliness and becoming decency that our natural enemies did us the favour to introduce every day; that it was unmanly and

scandalous as well as ignorant and ridiculous, for that the most experienced practitioner could not possibly, from the nature of the circumstance, arrive to any thing comparable to the knowledge of a woman upon such an occasion, to whom every possible symptom must be practically known, and who—which with our landlord was nine-tenths of his argument—could alone conduct such a particular business with proper decorum.
In this temper he sent for a good old lady, who, he said, had been obstetric gentlewoman usher to half the town, and never had met with an accident, unless from such a combination of natural causes as would have baffled the utmost perfection of art.
The old lady, who resided in the neighbourhood, arrived first, and Lord Hazard, extremely anxious to procure assistance, made no scruple of introducing her to his wife.

'Ay, ay,' cried the landlord, as he poured her out a glass of usquebaugh, 'this is as it should be; here, my lord, is an operator, and please you, worth a thousand of your men-midwives; fellows that I believe would rather have the reputation of getting children than of bringing them into the world. I once asked a chap of this stamp what

made all the children he produced so cursed rickety?—and he answered me, with great archness, that a man had a right to mar what he made.'

Notwithstanding the landlord's rhetoric, he was obliged to pull in his horns when he understood that Lady Hazard's case was of so particular a kind that the good old gentlewoman, his friend, could not venture to proceed in it upon her single judgment. Being asked what he said to this, he replied he was still right:—it happened to be one of those difficult cases which required assistance; but yet the gentleman, whoever he was, would reap great benefit from the old woman, who would be able to explain to him all he had to do, and from a conviction, being a woman, that he could not have the smallest conception of.
Before morning, arrived three gentlemen, who had been sent for from different towns, and presently afterwards Standfast, Charles, and an eminent man-midwife from London, who, upon all such occasions, attended her ladyship. A number of corks were heard to report their liberty, and hot wine, possets, and other comfortable drinks smoked all over the house; yet, though the landlord was greatly pleased at what went forward, when he cast his eyes upon the medical tribe, he could not help remarking that

he did not believe there was half so much fuss when king ARTHUR was born.
To the last gentleman who arrived, the rest of course gave way. He immediately visited Lady Hazard, and shortly afterwards found it necessary to have a private conversation with his lordship:—nor will the reader be greatly astonished, though very much shocked, to hear that, in the course of this conference, it came out that the peculiarity of Lady Hazard's case originated with Miss Snaffle!
Lord Hazard's feeling on this occasion was not simply wretchedness, it was horror. Standfast was called in, that the whole might be explained to him; in doing which, my lord used such forcible language, so execrated himself, and so extolled the high, the transcendent friendship of the tutor, that the surgeon, who was both a sensible man and a valuable member of society, declared he was charmed at the circumstance, and should be very happy to cultivate Mr. Standfast's friendship.
The surgeon being now particularly informed of the case, declared that a very disagreeable operation must be performed; but he hoped the life of Lady Hazard was not in danger. He said he could easily give the matter a turn to the other physical gentlemen,

who, he could plainly see, were ignorant pretenders to a profession in which they had neither right nor ability to practice; and this, he said, he conceived materially necessary for the sake of Lady Hazard's peace of mind, which it would be impossible to preserve if the matter were known to any but himself:—it being a practice with these gentry, at which indeed they are very expert, to injure the domestic, as well as the corporeal, constitution.
Lord Hazard, finding that every thing might be managed without confiding to his lady the real cause of her present danger, declared he would wait the event with patience and resignation, which turned out as the surgeon had predicted, the child was destroyed, but the lady survived the operation. As to the old woman, she was sent home as soon as possible, for the surgeon agreed so far with the landlord, that he feared much more a discovery through her, than through his brother professors.
It was nearly six weeks before Lady Hazard could be with safety removed; during which time, her kind friend Lady Roebuck scarcely stirred from her. Nor was the baronet less attentive to my lord. He had set his heart upon stimulating that nobleman to an emulation of his own conduct, when they should arrive in Warwickshire, and doubted not, as

he knew Lady Hazard longed for the accomplishment of so desirable an end, when he should explain to his friend how practicable such a task was, and how sure and immense the reward, he would readily join him in so meritorious an exercise of that liberality which Lord Hazard, whatever were his foibles, certainly possessed.
Pleased with these ideas, the time rolled insensibly on; for as soon as Lady Hazard could be removed, she was, for the present, conveyed to a house in the neighbourhood, which her lord had hired for that purpose; and as the company Sir Sidney expected for the summer called, of necessity, at the John of Gaunt's Head, in a few days the poet, painter, and musician made their appearance, as well as Sir Sidney's attorney, and a clergyman, all of whom, by invitation, were to pass the summer at Roebuck hall.
The assembly having now so largely increased, parties of pleasure were planned; and as Lady Hazard's health seemed every day to be more confirmed, the general tranquillity was restored.
As to my lord, his resolution was made, and certainly irrevocably. Therefore, as no worse consequences had happened from his former conduct, he

rejoiced at the present moment in the same degree as a patient who, by a trifling and immaterial mutilation, is restored to health and vigour from the morbid effects of a gangrene.
The great difficulty with Sir Sidney and Lady Roebuck was how to proceed as to Standfast. It was impossible to begin their attack on Lady Hazard, as it would ruffle her mind in her present weak condition; and as to my lord, he was so wrapped up in his amiable friend, that it would be impracticable, as well as highly absurd, to attempt at undeceiving him.
In this state were matters situated when the clergyman lately mentioned arrived at the inn. This gentleman, whose name was Friend, had been known to Sir Sidney for many years, and was not the less esteemed by him for having incurred the displeasure of a bishop, because he would not vote against his conscience. He was a very learned, and, what is a great deal better, a very sensible man; for though he had little of that understanding by which men rise in the world, and which, according to nine-tenths of mankind, is the only mental coin that ought to pass current, yet he had a number of old fashioned virtues, of no great use but to the owner; but to him valuable indeed:—such as piety,

an unsullied conscience, a benevolent heart, with the addition of a clear judgment, an inventive genius, and a critical and accurate knowledge of ancient and modern literature.
As Sir Sidney's was a kind of house of call to good characters out of employ, no wonder this gentleman was sometimes with him. His visit at present, however, was on another account; for the baronet, to tell the reader the truth, was not without hopes of seeing him rector of Little Hockley. He had been some time nominated curate; and, at the death of the present incumbent, the living would be in the gift of Lord Hazard. That this circumstance, which has not been mentioned before, may not appear extraordinary, I shall now explain how it came about.
When Sir Sidney wrote to Lord Hazard, as we have seen, relative to Little Hockley, he little dreamt that his application would have produced all the cordiality that now subsisted between them.—On the contrary, there was more of delicacy than hopes of success in consulting him at all.
To Mr. Standfast, however, he did not conceive he owed any such delicacy; and therefore, as the right of nominating a curate reverted to the rector,

at the death of Major Malplaquet, disliking the bargain and sale manner in which it had been transacted before, he applied, in the strongest possible way, to the good pastor, for the appointment of Mr. Friend to that situation: namely, by making an offer to commute with him for the entire profits of the living, at a very handsome price, and to pay the curate's salary out of his own pocket.
The rector, who could calculate much better than he could preach, entered into the whole spirit of the argument, and Mr. Friend became to Sir Sidney, what Mr. Standfast had been formerly to Major Malplaquet. This was the reason why Mr. Figgins removed to his vicarage, who, officiating for some short time at Little Hockley, while the negotiation was pending between Sir Sidney and the rector, became known to the baronet and Mr. Friend, both of whom believed him to be a very valuable young man, and Sir Sidney, in particular, assured him that if he could in future be of any service to him, it would give him pleasure.
In a few days after the arrival of Mr. Friend, Standfast had so ingratiated himself into his good opinion, that the worthy man was charmed with him. Indeed Standfast saw plainly that this was a good medium of recommendation to Sir Sidney,

whose friendship, for some reason or other, he was strenuously desirous to cultivate. Perhaps, as providence appeared to have rescued Lord Hazard from his immediate gripe, he had some similar favour in contemplation for the baronet.
Certain it is that the damning proof which Sir Sidney and his lady imagined they had against Mr. Standfast, which was only presumptive, began to sink before those positive proofs which seemed every day to announce his reformation from a number of crimes which he made no scruple to say he had formerly committed; and this, added to the transport he apparently felt at the restoration of that happiness which now began to gild the moments of Lord and Lady Hazard, gave this fortunate gentleman such a favourable place in the hearts of all about him, that really an accusation to his prejudice, though ever so plausibly urged, would probably have gained but little faith, unless backed by very weighty, and indeed undeniable proof against him.
These Sir Sidney really had not. The utmost he could alledge was that dissipation and those irregularities which Standfast confessed and disclaimed, except indeed a strong suspicion of his being concerned in all the business of Miss Snaffle, which, if this recent behaviour was not hypocrisy, amounted

〈1 page duplicate〉

〈1 page duplicate〉

to nothing, and which was corroborated only by an intercepted letter, and even that—the rest not proved—would also fall to the ground.
The proof alluded to was the very letter which Standfast fancied had not been sent, but, upon further enquiry he found himself mistaken; yet, as it had made no alteration in Lady Hazard, he was convinced it had not been properly delivered, and was afterwards confirmed in that opinion, when he found it had been given to Lady Roebuck's footman.
In fact, Lady Roebuck's servant, on that very fatal afternoon, delivered her a letter at Lady Hazard's, where she happened to be waiting for Sir Sidney, who promised to meet her there at tea time. Lady Hazard was luckily writing letters in her own room, and her friend had just taken up a favourite author, from which employ being interrupted by
'a letter for your ladyship,'
she, without further ceremony, opened it, and read these words:

I cannot refrain from acquainting you that your husband has an intrigue with an infamous woman, and you will be assured that I tell

you truth, when my intelligence is proved to you by his staying out the greatest part of this night. Probably you may guess the quarter from whence you receive this, and as revenge is completely in your power, why not obey its dictates in favour of one who will not be ungrateful to your incomparable charms?

Sir Sidney, who came in while she was yet reading it, cried out,
'So, so, I have caught you in the fact, have I? What tender epistle have you there?'
'Only a discovery of your tricks, my love,' said she.
'Read that; but, before you see a word, remember I tell you it originates with Mr. Standfast.'

As this conduct was no less handsome than usual in Lady Roebuck, her husband was neither surprised at that nor at the contents of the letter. Indeed they laughed so heartily at it, that their mirth served only to double their concern when, upon looking at the direction, which neither of them had noticed before, they saw it was addressed to Lady Hazard.
They were now indeed strongly confirmed it came through Mr. Standfast, and after having insinuated

away Lady Hazard's time till the lateness of the evening convinced them there was too much truth in the letter, they retired, and, when alone, formed that determination which we have seen so resolutely made at the end of the first volume, and now almost abandoned at the very beginning of the second.
The latter end of the letter Lady Roebuck thought could allude to no other than Standfast; for though she had heard of the business of Dogbolt, yet she could not avoid looking upon that to be overstrained, and that the tutor at the bottom was the object who wanted to recommend himself; and indeed Lady Hazard, who wished to disguise nothing from her friend, did not scruple to say there were times when she had similar suspicions, though always, upon reflection, she was convinced she did him wrong.
Mr. Standfast, being as conseious of all these matters as if he had known their thoughts, combatted the effects of those resolutions they had taken in the manner we have seen; and thus, though continually on the brink of a discovry, he traversed the verge of the precipice on which he was placed as securely, though not so harmlessly,

as SHAKESPEARE's peasant upon Dover cliff; for the peasant is described as gathering a purifier of the blood, while the parson was searching for whatever could inflame and corrupt it.


As we shall have something to do with all those characters which I have lately introduced to the reader's notice, it may not be amiss if I mention a word or two of each in this place.
The attorney, whose name was Balance, had long been a great favourite of Sir Sidney; not because he had a remarkable number of enemies—though that was very often a sufficient reason for the baronet to espouse a man's interest—but because he had great professional integrity and private worth. I shall in a moment explain how this gentleman conjured up such a host of foes, by saying that he mortally hated roguery, though a lawyer. Indeed it had been doubted, by many of his brother professors, whether his odd notions and strange practice did not so decidedly operate against that strongest of all laws, custom, to the detriment of the general interest, that a point might be made to strike him off the rolls.

For, said they, very learnedly,
'as usage has, time out of mind, regulated laws; as usage has established that it shall be lawful for attornies to appropriate to themselves not only the money, goods, and chattles, lands and tenements, wives and children, consciences, peace of mind, nay even the liberty and lives of their clients; and as this said lawyer Balance absolutely rejects in toto, all such general power over his clients, shamefully contenting himself with moderate and reasonable recompense from those in whose behalf he has succeeded, and scandalously declining to prosecute and pursue to their ruin, such as he plainly sees have been already plucked and pillaged, till they totter under the weight of their accumulated misfortunes:—quere, whether, by trampling upon custom, which is paramount to law, and explaining justice and equity to be the same thing, which, for the better promotion of cavils and arguments, have been considered, time immemorial, to have distinct and different meanings, and looked upon as things that ought to be for ever kept separate and apart, the said lawyer Balance ought not to undergo a heavy censure of the court for the first offence, to be suspended during pleasure for the second, and if, upon returning to practice, he should be found infringing this custom, this usage, this law, this justice, this equity, a third time, then,

and in that case, to be considered as incorrigible, and rendered incapable to practise in his majesty's courts of justice!'

No one of these gentlemen, however, being patriot enough to rise up and rescue the laws from the gripe of so bold an innovator, he went on with this illicit practice to the great terror of the pettifogging tribe—many of whom he had caused to be struck off the rolls—and to the admiration of all good men, and, among the foremost, his particular friend Sir Sidney.
We come now to the artists. These were the same who had visited Roebuck hall for the last three years; for though the baronet had formerly made a point of having a new set every season, he at last gave up that plan, finding, upon taking them indiscriminately, that he brought home with him little more than a cargo of vanity, ignorance, and affectation. Having searched, therefore, with great care, and met with three a little more to his mind, though they certainly were strange kind of oddities, he stuck to them, and being now accustomed to their singularities, and finding nothing in them that exceeded folly, they really furnished him with a fund of amusement, independent of their professional abilities.

The poet, Mr. Ego by name, was, at least in his own opinion, as much any thing else as a writer. He knew every thing, and, what is very extraordinary, better than any body.
The painter was a professed satirist; his talent lay in caricature; and he blended the ideas which were conveyed by his pencil with his conversation.
The musician was a striking contrast to the painter; for he was as remarkably civil, if not servile, as the other was severe.
I cannot do better than introduce the reader to them as they are sitting over a bottle at the John of Gaunt.

'You are a devilish severe fellow, Mr. Mosquito,' said the poet to the painter.
'I?' said Mosquito; 'not at all:—only a sort of a HORACE upon canvass, that's all:—a bit of a teazer, or so:—to be sure I can bite as hard as JUVENAL:—but why should one torture flies?'
'And why not?' cried the poet. 'I would not give three-pence for a satirist who could not make any body miserable.'
'I'll try my hand upon him,'
said the painter, speaking low to the musician. Then turning to the poet, he went on.
'Well said Ego! Well said ipse dixit!

Well said I b' itself I! Well said proof positive! Well said infallibility!! Upon my soul Ego you would have made an admirable pope. Sir, he possesses every personal and mental qualification in the same proportion of excellence compared to others—'
'as you do shameless effrontery,' retorted the poet; 'so you see I excel you at your own trade; for I have said as severe a thing as ever you did in your life, which has the advantage, unlike yours, of being truth. I will appeal to Mr. Toogood?'
'To him!' said the painter; 'a credulous, easy, foolish, good natured—'
'Ay, ay,' cried the musician, 'abuse my credulity as much as you please, but give me credit for my good intentions at least.'
'I do, I do,' said Mosquito:—
'You intend very well, I dare say, when you praise a man's wisdom, and so you do when you praise his folly. In short, in you human nature has such an advocate, that there is scarcely a vice or a virtue that you have not a commendation for!'

'Poor Mosquito,' cried Toogood, 'now upon my soul thy shafts must be terribly blunt when thou canst find nothing better to aim them at than me. I own my services are devoted to all who think proper to make use of them.'
'If they are rich,' answered Mosquito drily; 'for you know Toogood why should the poor be flattered?'—

'Plague take you,' said the musician, 'I was going to say that I wish to be civil to all mankind, and if I have, in a few trifling instances, been mistaken, blame nature, who thought fit to sow in the garden of life, among a plentiful crop of valuable plants, a slight sprinkling of rascals and scoundrels. In short, Mr. Mosquito, I would not give up the luxury of thinking well of mankind, to have Mexico for my real estate, Peru for my personal, and the mines of Golconda for my menu plaisirs. What the devil would you have me think, as you do, that every eye is divine into my heart, and every hand into my pocket?'
'Neither would be worth while, Master Toogood'—cried Mosquito.
'Come, come,' said Ego, 'I will finish the dispute. This is the fact: you, Mr. Mosquito, are over suspicious; and you, Mr. Toogood, are over credulous. I am the man for this world: I steer the middle course.'

This company, upon Lady Hazard's recovery, separated into two parties; one of which set off for the seat of my lord, and the other for that of the baronet; till at length, by the ringing of bells and the acclamations of all the inhabitants, they were welcomed to Little Hockley and Castlewick.
Sir Sidney threw his eyes complacently around

him, which sparkled with the satisfaction of beholding so many sincere adherents; and he did not at that moment a little plume himself upon the hope of seeing his friend in possession of the same solid enjoyment.
The meeting between Sir Sidney's friends and Annette was tender beyond expression. My lord declared he never saw so sweet a creature. Charles thought her handsome, but babyish. His mind indeed ran upon riper charms, for he had so little of the delicacy of love in his composition, that he conceived himself a perfect Caesar, and having made so many first sight conquests, he was yet to learn the pleasure of solicitation.
It is a shame to talk thus of a boy of eighteen, but really Mr. Standfast had so well remembered the conversation that passed between him and Viney, previous to his introduction to Lord Hazard, that the young gentleman had already experienced the secrecy of the very same surgeon whose cautious conduct we were witnesses of in the last chapter. This gentleman, to say the truth, was a perfect HIPPOCRATES. As well as the medical skill of that ancient, he possessed his prudence; for he seemed to adhere to the famous oath of his predecessor, in which he enjoined himself to make his patient's

good his principal aim, and that whatever he saw or heard in the course of his practice, or otherwise, relative to the affairs of life, nobody should ever know, if it ought to remain a secret.
The country and its amusements had infused such pleasure and satisfaction into every member of this society, that nothing was seen but cheerfulness.—They mustered up a tolerable concert at Sir Sidney's, a thousand good humoured sallies circulated in the way of impromptues and epigrams, and sketches of each others singularities were handed about, to the no small diversion of all but those immediately caricatured. Charles was pretty adroit in each way, and having a greater licence, his strokes were bolder, and, in every other respect, at least a match for the rest. In short, there was no part of their time unfilled by some pleasure to every person's taste; for it was a maxim with Sir Sidney that all was fair in which there was no premeditated mischief. As for the rest, Mr. Friend began to experience very agreeable effects from his efforts at Little Hockley, especially as they were seconded by the exhortations of Standfast, who they knew had been a great sinner, and who now assured them that he was become a great penitent.
Thus, possessed of every pleasure a smiling country,

profuse liberality, joyful hearts, and ingenious heads could produce, their happiness would have been complete had it not been damped by the indisposition of Lady Hazard, who, a short time after their arrival in the country, evidently fell into a gradual decline.
This, in a great measure, prevented Lord Hazard from a participation in the general happiness, and gave occasionally no little uneasiness to Sir Sidney and Lady Roebuck. My lord, however, in proportion as he shunned the general hilarity, courted the charms which he found in private meditation, and the exercise of that benevolence to which he was so forcibly stimulated by Sir Sidney.


MATTERS wore this face when Charles, who had been in continual anxiety relative to the situation of Miss Figgins, saw her brother one morning ride into the park. It was about the time when the young gentleman flattered himself he should become a father, and having accosted Mr. Figgins, who returned his salutation with bare civility, he was convinced this manly achievement of his had been crowned with the expected success. Relying however on the friendship of Mr. Standfast, he felt rather satisfied than otherwise on the subject, and immediately appeared as coldly civil as the young clergyman.
Mr. Figgins was shown to Mr. Standfast, with whom he held a long conference, the result of which our hero waited for with impatience; and he was not a little astonished when the two gentlemen came towards him in terms of very high altercation.

Charles could distinctly hear Standfast say
'Come come, this is a little too rascally.'
'Rascally!' cried the other.
'Yes,' replied Standfast, 'for it is impossible that you can be ignorant of her character:'
—and then, seeing Charles, said
'Here is the young gentleman, and I confess his conduct was imprudent enough, but sir, I tell you once again it was a trap for him, and if it had not been for my positive injunction, so honourable are his sentiments, he would have disgraced his family for ever by marrying your sister, whom I can prove to be a woman void of reputation. To tell you the truth sir, this was the cause of my silence, and as I am convinced you must have been privy to the whole business, you need not expect any further countenance from my lord, the bishop, or any other of my friends.'

Mr. Figgins declared that if Mr. Standfast could in the smallest degree prove what he asserted, he should abandon his sister as a wretch unworthy his protection. He protested his total ignorance of her character, and solemnly assured Mr. Standfast he knew nothing of the intrigue between her and our hero, till—seeing her palpably in a condition that would shortly bring disgrace on him, particularly because of his profession and connections—he taxed her with the fact, and she, with great unwillingness,

discovered to him what had passed. He uttered a very florid speech on the subject of ingratitude, and declared he should detest himself if he could be capable, even was his benefactor—meaning Mr. Standfast—to withdraw his countenance and protection for ever from him, to meditate any return that could militate against those honourable sentiments of pure and grateful acknowledgement which were eminently his due.
Mr. Standfast confessed, till this business, he had always considered him as a very thankful, proper, decent, grateful young man:—nay he might recollect he had given hints that there would be no objection to count upon his future favour; and really, if he could acquit himself—
'Will you suffer me to speak?' said Charles.
'As to Mr. Figgins, I most sincerely beg his pardon for the irregularity I was guilty of in his house. That he should know any thing of it is morally impossible; because his sister told me that she sincerely believed he would be the death of her, if he found it out; and, I assure you, this has at times given me so much anxiety, that if I had not promised you, Mr. Standfast, upon my honour—which I hope will ever be a sacred pledge with me—to leave the whole to your discretion, I certainly should, long ago, have written to Mr. Figgins, and laid all the blame on

myself, where it certainly ought to fall: I am very happy to have this opportunity of coming to so proper an explanation, and will readily abide by the determination of Mr. Standfast in relation to my future conduct.'

'My dear Charles,' said Standfast, 'your conduct in this, as in every thing else, is perfectly handsome. Perhaps my zeal for your honour and that of your noble father has hurried me too far, and induced me to treat Mr. Figgins with more harshness than he merited. I will take his word for what he asserts, because really, as I said before, there has always been something about him like ingenuousness, gratitude, and a proper sense of obligation.'
—Here Figgins bowed—
'If therefore matters go in the old train as to him, I beg that it may extend to his sister.'

'This is the point I wanted to come to,' said Charles. 'I assure you we were both betrayed into what we did, for neither of us originally meant more than a very harmless gratification.'

'Oh yes,' said Standfast. 'Come, come, Charles, you might be a Lubin, but she was no Annette I assure you. No, no, Figgins,' added Standfast, taking Charles by the hand, 'my pupil here, whom

I hope to see a duke, is no match for your sister, even were there not that bar which I will hereafter convince you subsists. In the mean time, let the bantling come forth, and be brought up:—we will find a provision for it.'

Mr. Figgins was now invited to spend a few days in the family, to which he consented. Indeed the time passed so agreeably, that a fortnight had elapsed before he ever dreamt of taking his leave. Charles, during this interval, became very intimate with him, and Mr. Friend and the good Mildman—which last declared he began to have hopes of Little Hockley the moment the young gentleman had appeared among them—were charmed with his society.
Nor must the reader, who knows his origin, too hastily credit that I am advancing any thing unnatural or unlikely. Art does not require brilliant talents, and no people in the world are so easily imposed upon as good men. Pay but a modest deference to your own opinion, that you may not seem too servile; struggle a little with conviction before you appear to yield to it; and, though you give up points with reluctance, never fail in the end to crown your adversary with the palm of victory:—

and be assured of friends wherever you choose to make them.
Standfast knew mankind surely. This young man was bred up under him; and as he had strong intellects, rather an engaging figure, a retentive memory, a wonderful natural penetration, a collected and shrewd sagacity, with a fortunate knack of chequering his conversation with bits and scraps of philosophy and morality, which he had studied, it is not at all astonishing that he should be mistaken for a sensible and good man by such as, could they have discovered any defects in him, would rather have excused than exposed them.
Mr. Standfast, one day, having received some letters from London, came to my lord, and informed him that his uncle was at the point of death. Of this uncle Lord Hazard had heard him speak, and always understood he had great expectations from him. He therefore begged that no time might be lost, but that the tutor should instantly set out to see his relation. This was the more readily agreed to because Mr. Figgins could stay to superintend his pupil's studies, which indeed now consisted of nothing more than reading and comparing different authors, a part of which exercise

he pleasures of the country took off; not to reckon nis attention to painting and music, in both of which he was a great proficient.
These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Standfast took his leave of his good friends in Warwickshire, and repaired to London; from whence, in a short time afterwards, he informed Lord Hazard that, his uncle being dead, he was left independent; but that he should still consider him as his benefactor, and would, as soon as he should have settled his affairs, wait on him. He anxiously enquired after Lady Hazard, whom he had left in a very declining state of health; hoped his pupil was pleased with Figgins, whom he took the liberty to recommend as his tutor, while he should need a person in that capacity, and offered to relinquish in his favour that annuity which his lordship had settled on him for life.
My lord replied in a suitable manner to this letter. He wished his friend joy of his good fortune; drew a melancholy picture of Lady Hazard's situation; enlarged most pathetically on his own treatment of her; solemnly declared if he should lose her all his happiness would be at an end; consented with pleasure to his proposal concerning Figgins, but positively refused—though he was determined to take care of the young man—to suffer the smallest restitution

of that which he, Standfast, had infinitely more than deserved:—winding up the whole with a strong contrast between the great and exalted merit of his friend, and his own unworthiness.
In the mean time the summer was gliding away, during which scarcely a day passed that did not bring with it some new pleasure; but yet Lady Hazard's indisposition was a cloud that dimmed this serene sky. As most of these amusements however were calculated for the alleviation of her pain, especially those which Charles conducted—for he doted on his mother—their enjoyments suffered but little diminution on her account. In the mean time our hero's sentiments changed insensibly every day in favour of Annette, though really his heart was yet a perfect stranger to the delicious sensations of delicate love; and those he did feel, young as he was, upon so proper an occasion he well knew how to suppress. He had some warm thoughts certainly as to Emma, and knowing as much of books as herself, he very archly conceived a design of conquering her with her own weapons; but, finding her virtue too well fortified to yield to his solicitations, he made an honourable retreat, greatly to her satisfaction, who was not in the least angry; for virtue, with her, was slender indeed that could not withstand every trial. On the contrary, she ventured

to predict that Annette was his destined wife, but foresaw his imprudence would cost many a mutual heart ach before the accomplishment of their destiny.
Charles certainly had not the smallest objection to consider Annette in the light of an intended wife, nor was he by any means, as I have already said, insensible to either her beauty or accomplishments; and therefore—especially as he had the sanction of both his and her parents—he paid her the exactest attention, and lost no method nor opportunity of inspiring her with sentiments highly to his advantage. But he had ever set his heart on seeing the world, and that not superficially, before he should sink into a domestic character, which he always conceived would be a clog to the exertions of a volatile mind, like his; unless he could be assured, by repeated experience, that his partner for life was possessed of those many and scarce attractions which would so bind his inclinations as to make him prefer bondage to liberty.
The attention he paid Annette had, however, a different effect on that young lady. Their little pleasures were, it is true, not more than the sports of children; but there was such an unaffected ease, such sweetness of temper, such an engaging and so

insinuating an address in our hero, without the smallest tincture of art, or illiberality, that, without her own knowledge, she imbibed the seeds of that poison which, according to Emma's prediction, was destined to give her many a bitter pang.
Little Hockley was now improving very fast.—Mr. Balance had routed the two attornies I formerly spoke of, who, upon examination, were found to have practised without the smallest qualification. The painter had completed a picture of the return of the prodigal son, which was placed in a conspicuous part of the church, and the musician had opened a fine organ, the gift of Sir Sidney, under which the poet affixed a very elegant latin inscription, which Emma said ought to have been in English.
It had been an invariable custom to celebrate the baronet's birth-day by throwing open the doors of the mansion house, and feasting all comers. In the afternoon several sports were performed on the green, and, in the evening, the company retired to a very large rustic assembly-room, where Sir Sidney always opened the ball; and after he had seen that his tenants and neighbours had every thing they could wish for, to give their pleasure free scope, he

retired with their warm and unfeigned good wishes for a continuance of his health and happiness.
Since Sir Sidney's marriage, however, this festival had been kept on his wedding day, and this was called the grand feast:—for there were three others to celebrate, the birth-day of himself, that of Lady Sidney, and that of Annette. But these happening near each other, and Sir Sidney not choosing to fill his tenants heads with too profuse an inclination for pleasure, he held these festivals on the four quarter days, when he never failed to lighten the hearts of those who, from unavoidable necessity, could not be punctual with their rent.
There was something so remarkable in the conduct of the day which united the two villages, that I shall take a fresh chapter to describe it: flattering myself that no one will blame me for dwelling upon a subject the fittest that can be to produce benevolent ideas.


CARDS of invitation, containing the following words, were in due time circulated at the houses of the neighbouring gentry.
Sir Sidney Roebuck's grand feast will be celebrated on Monday next, the 21st of June, at which the presence of _____ is cordially requested.
Stewards
•	Rt. Hon. Lord Hazard,
•	Charles Hazard, Esq.
•	Rev. Mr. Friend.

The company is expected to arrive on Sunday evening, and not to depart till Tuesday morning.
The combined assistance of all who could be useful was solicited upon this occasion. The poet, painter, and musician produced a masque in conjunction, and Charles wrote and set an ode, as

well as painted the decorations for it; and it was allowed—though that might be the company's partiality—to be the completest performance of the day.
Lord Hazard's department was to receive the company, and accommodate such as could not find room at Sir Sidney's. Charles had the management of the amusements, and Mr. Friend, assisted by Mildman and Figgins, undertook to preserve decency and decorum. The company which arrived on the Sunday evening were served in the apartments provided for them, and permitted to sup and retire at their own time.
At six o'clock on the Monday morning, the two villages were awoke by ringing of bells, a discharge of cannon, and other demonstrations of joy. This done, several messengers were dispatched to request their attendance at a rural amphitheatre fitted up for the purpose, in the front of the rookery. There, by eight o'clock, the company assembled; and, after a short but pathetic hymn to the deity, had breakfast served up to them by children, in white and flesh-colour dresses, ornamented with flowers, who drew the most delicious beverages from a variety of urns, distributed about in niches.

Coffee, tea, and chocolate, were relieved by capilaire, orgeat, lemonade, and sherbet; while the most odoriferous perfumes mingled their artificial sweets with the roses and jessamine, that shed their emanations as they interlaced the surrounding treillage. Cakes, comfits, and liqueurs, were seen in great variety and abundance; and after the company had amply refreshed themselves, during a performance of the most touching and melting airs, each Ganemede and Hebe moved a spring, and instantly played in the centre of every alcove a fountain of rose water, for the use of ablution; which ceremony was succeeded by a proclamation, that every one was at liberty to take separate diversion till eleven o'clock, when they were expected on the lawn, in order to go to church in procession.
This procession, though simple, was striking. It was preceded by twenty-four wool-combers, each of whom carried some ornament of their profession. Twelve others followed, with banners, on which were displayed a variety of ingenious devices.—Twenty-five inhabitants of Castlewick, and as many of Little Hockley, succeeded, one of each place linked arm in arm, in token of brotherly love. To these succeeded a band of music:—then came the stewards with golden wands, who were followed by

their assistants with silver ones. Lady Roebuck, Lady Hazard, and Annette came next, in an open carriage: these were succeeded by a large number of other carriages, and these again by about two thousand spectators.
Being orderly seated at church, the service was performed, and an excellent sermon preached by Mr. Mildman, from the text
'There is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety and nine just persons, who need no repentance.'

The service over, they returned in the same order—with this difference:—twelve morrice dancers met them on their way, and conducted them in a mazy round to the lawn, where all dispersed, and, after promiscuous ambulations about the garden, retired to dress for dinner, which, at three o'clock, smoked in the grand saloon, for the company within doors, and on the lawn for all who chose to partake of it.
In the saloon Lady Roebuck held her state, and Sir Sidney played the humble host. Annette, on one side, sat with all the blooming freshness of a new blown rose; and, on the other, poor Lady Hazard, pallid as a drooping lily. On the table

was elegantly distributed a most sumptuous feast, admirably contrasted, and delicately served up. Nor did their pleasure receive a small addition from the hearty vacant mirth that assailed them from the lawn—which the saloon overlooked—where sat as many happy guests as could surround an ox, two bucks, and four sheep, all roasted whole; at which Emma sat in imitation of Lady Roebuck, and the butler—who was the very servant so faithful to Sir Sidney in France—attended, like his master, to supply the wants of the company.
Many loyal toasts were proclaimed by a discharge of cannon, and pledged by the company without. At length the lawn was cleared, coffee introduced into the saloon, and, in a short time after, notice given that the ode written by our hero was going to be performed in the rustic amphitheatre, where the company had breakfasted.
The saloon was now prepared for the masque, to which the company were desired to repair in fancy dresses, but without vizors. Previous however to the performance, as soon as it became sufficiently dark, they were led by the morrice dancers through a serpentine walk to the canal, where, on the opposite bank, was discharged a most superb firework, in which the painter had exerted himself in ornamental

transparencies, and the poet in apt devices.
The masque over, it is impossible to express the universal astonishment when, upon returning to the lawn, they found it converted into beautiful alcoves, tents, booths, and other receptacles for different parties, where boys and girls, in the most picturesque fancy dresses, ran before them, ready to anticipate their very wishes. Nothing could exceed the beauty proportion, and disposition of this city of the pleasures, reared as it were by enchantment. Those who were not disposed, however, to resort to it for refreshment, were attended and served in a manner equally desirable in a suite of rooms in the house; and as to Emma's company, in addition to a review of all these pleasures at a becoming distance, they had their own rural assembly room for their supper and ball, where I am well informed not one, within some hours, guessed what it was o'clock, till the sun sent forth those streaks of crimson which put an end to their harmless merriment on the Tuesday morning.
Nor did their superiors separate one whit sooner, and not then without regretting that their pleasures were at an end, and declaring that they never witnessed such taste, nor experienced such hospitality.

It may not be improper to notice some of the principal remarks made on this occasion.
Annette remarked that Charles looked, spoke, and did every thing divinely. He remarked that she was a lovely little creature; and all the company remarked that they seemed born for each other.—Emma remarked she had made a conquest of the poet, the musician, and the butler; and well knowing the fidelity of this last to his master, and affection to his young mistress, declared, as she undressed Annette, that she should have no objection, at a proper season, to be the author of his happiness.
The poet remarked Emma was a smart wench, and should be his; for he was the man in the world for her purpose. The musician agreed to the first remark, but thought they neither of them stood any chance; and the painter, overhearing them, swore she was a caricature of mother Shipton, and they were damned fools for talking such nonsense.
Lord Hazard remarked that he had now but one wish in the world; and Sir Sidney remarked—but not to my lord, that this was the first time their grand feast had been graced with the presence of Lady Hazard, and he greatly feared it would be the last. Indeed that amiable and charming lady,

lest she should diminish the general hilarity, exerted herself on that day beyond her strength, and though probably the utmost human care—for she had every assistance that money or influence could procure—could not have wholly restored her, yet, certainly, her now rapid decline was accelerated by the various shocks, though of temporary pleasure, which she received in assisting to promote the happiness of her friends.


As this is the only entire summer the reader and I are to pass in Warwickshire, I shall explain pretty fully how the time jogged on. So far it is pretty evident every man's leisure had been taken up to prepare for the festival, which some may think I have a little too particularly described. It has, however, brought about something, according to my usual custom; for it made Lady Hazard worse, which, but for the sake of moral truth, I sincerely wish had not happened; it lost Emma's heart; and it did two or three other things, which will be divulged in proper time.
This grand affair being over, the spare time was filled up with lighter and less regular pleasures; among which Charles, in particular, found the contrary dispositions of Sir Sidney's scientific triumvirate excellent food for his frolicksome temper, which, though it had not the smallest tincture of

mischief in it, loved to indulge itself with exposing absurdity. To this Master Figgins egged him on with all his persuasion, with no view, however, as he said, but to oblige the young gentleman; nor, to say the truth, did Sir Sidney want a relish for such fun, when every thing was kept within proper decorum.
It did not signify what the joke was, their argument upon it produced all the amusement. Charles very often set the poet down to a literary contention with Emma, who, being skilled in authorities, generally conquered him; for really dates and facts are very good materials for criticism, and method will very often be too hard for genius. Upon these occasions the poet was thrust further into a corner by the satiric painter, and consoled by the accommodating musician. One afternoon, however, she gained so complete a triumph, that he was obliged, for a long time, to own himself conquered.
The reader remembers that Emma had a very great predelection for Dr. JOHNSON, and Charles entreated the poet to attack the lexicographer. This he did not fail to do, but kept, for a long time, to general accusations. Emma desired he would give her some opportunity of answering him.
'Any

man,' said she, 'may be made to look contemptible. ARISTOPHANES contrived this of SOCRATES, who, because he was a man of inoffensive manners, and therefore naturally decried the licentious writings and conduct of the comic poets, provoked the fury of this satirist:—but even though this is true, and though Madame DACIER was so charmed with this author that she translated—and, not content with that, read two hundred times, and every time with fresh pleasure, the very piece that was written to render this great philosopher ridiculous—yet it proved nothing, because general assertion is a blunt arrow that falls without inflicting a wound.'

'Well, what do you say to this?' cried Figgins, who stood by.
'Say!' cried the poet, 'If she wants proofs of what I have asserted, she shall have them; I am the man for adducing proofs. And first of all, has he not written a severe satire on himself, when he says of SWIFT "that on all common occasions he habitually affects a style of arrogance, and dictates rather than persuades?" In another place, "he predominated over his companions with a very high ascendency, and probably would bear none over whom he could not so predominate." Now does not Mrs. THRALE, after a confession that she had surfeited herself with an

abject and indefatigable attention to him for a number of years, such as no man who did not in a most insolent degree predominate over his companions could exact, does she not declare she could no longer bear him, and that she went to Bath because she knew he would not follow her? Is not Mr. BOSWELL every moment frightened to death lest there should be a total breach between them? Does not the Doctor meditate an entire separation only because Mr. BOSWELL had the imprudence to leave him for a few minutes, with truly the shameful intention of contributing to his ease and convenience? What do you say to all this? Does not this convince you that my assertions are truth?'

'No, no, sir,' answered Emma, 'we were to talk of a poet, you are speaking of a man.'

'A good evasion,' said Ego, 'and in the Doctor's own way. I am the man for seeing what people are about:—but come, you shall have him as a poet. And pray, does he not wish to destroy the very being of poetry, by insisting on annihilating mythology? Does he not find it very reprehensible in Mr. GAY to introduce Cloacina and the nightman in his Trivia? and does he not abuse poor PRIOR most unmercifully for fabling that

Chloe was mistaken one day by Cupid for Venus, and another for Diana? In short, mythology is, with him, puerility. He says of Collins that he loved faries, genii, giants, and monsters! and that while he pursued these objects, he did not sufficiently cultivate sentiment: when all the world knows that there is an end of poetry if sentiment is no longer to be conveyed through so rich and beautiful a vehicle. What do you say to this abuse of the gods and goddesses? Is not it shameful?'

'No sir,' said Emma, 'not at all, for a man may abuse such imaginary beings without injuring any body's moral feelings.'

'Another evasion,' cried the poet, 'I will be judged by any body. But I will go a plainer way to work. Here is a criticism of his that is stark nonsense. In speaking of Mr. GRAY's lines on the death of a cat that was drowned as she attempted to catch a gold fish, the last line says, that all that glitters is not gold; nor if it were, says the doctor, would the cat have been the better for it, for a cat does not know the value of gold. Now I say she does, in the sense it is here meant, which is nothing more than that we are not to trust to appearances; and a cat knows that, as far as her

understanding goes, as well as a man. Can you controvert this, Mrs. Emma? No, no, I am the man for close reasoning. All that glitters is not gold sure enough. What do you say to my argument?'
'That it is not sterling, sir,' said Emma.
'Your learned principal would have given the same vague answer,' said the poet.
'Come, come, why does he take no more notice of COLLINS's ode than if no such poem had ever been written? Can you answer me that?
'Easily, sir,' said Emma; 'it was written for music, which he did not understand.'
'It is a pity then,' said the poet, 'that he did not understand it; for he cannot show such harmony in his own poetry, which is the heaviest—'
'Sir,' said Emma, 'he was profound.'
'Verbose,' said the poet.
'He compiled a dictionary of the English language,'
answered Emma.
'Zounds,' cried the poet, 'you would make a man mad; I am a man that is never in a passion, but damme madam—'

Here every body interfered, and it was universally allowed that Emma had gained a complete victory.
'Yes,' said Emma, still imitating Dr. JOHNSON, 'my triumph is complete; for if Mr Ego has nothing to say for himself, the logical conclusion is, that all he can say of himself must be against himself, for these are the three distinctions of egotism.'


This witty warfare stuck hard with the poet for a good while: he got off, however, as well as he could; for when the painter, with his usual acrimony, told him that he ought to hide his head for ever, after being conquered by a woman, and the musician, in his old accommodating manner, said he plainly saw Mr. Ego had yielded the palm from the abundance of his natural complaisance, Ego cried out, you are right, my dear friend Toogood, I am the man that knows how to behave polite to a lady.


NOTWITHSTANDING this repulse which the poet sustained from Emma, he had really a penchant for her, and as she loved reading, he flattered himself he should succeed by acknowledging her victory over him in the dispute already mentioned, and submitting tacitly to her opinion in all literary matters.
This amorous intercourse, at least that which appeared so to the musician, began to make him a little uneasy, for he flattered himself with pretty near the same hopes as the poet. Seeing this, Charles and his associates hit upon a plan which they thought would afford them some amusement.
Charles very archly intimated to Toogood that Emma, in her own mind, gave him the preference, but, added he, you will lose her owing to your absurd diffidence. In short, after proper preparatio•… he proposed to him a scheme which he said would


evince his love for Emma, even without wounding his modesty by declaring it, would bring out her real sentiments towards him, and would finally frighten Ego into a relinquishment of his pretensions to her.
The kind Mr. Toogood agreed to the proposal with but little hesitation. It was this: the associates were to report that the musician had hanged himself for love, and, to give it a colour, while he hid himself in a garret—where, by the way, they almost starved him, under a pretence that nobody could come to him for fear of a discovery—his fiannel powdering gown was put upon a stuffed figure, and hung as it were artfully by the neck to a staple in his bed chamber; and this was shown to the poet, in the dusk of the evening, in a way so well managed, that he really took it for the musician.
The poet, willingly enough, ran, as he was desired, for help, and, in the interim, the powdering gown was shifted from the figure to Toogood himself, whose face had previously been smeared by the painter with a composition of a cadaverous hue; therefore, when he returned, and found Toogood stretched upon the bed, he had not the smallest doubt but that he had made his final exit. Presently afterwards Emma came into the room, and

being properly instructed for the purpose, began to lament her hard fate, and to utter so many tender things in favour of the musician—calling him her Orpheus, her Amphion!—In short she flew into such apparent rapture, that Charles and Figgins feared the crotchet-monger would have jumped up, and appeased her upon the spot. She said this country was now deprived of a second PURCEL, but where could they find another DRYDEN to record his praise?
Ego answered briskly, that DRYDEN to be sure was a very pretty poet, but there was one yet in the world, he flattered himself, as capable of singing the virtues of a deceased friend as most people.
Emma took him at his word, saying she feared she should never be able to bring herself to love him—though she would try what she could do—yet her friendship he might always command, if he would, as a last tribute to his friend's memory, write his epitaph.
This settled, the company dispersed. Charles lifted up his hands, Figgins blessed himself, the poet in profound meditation, Mosquito swearing it served the fool right, and Emma quite in a tragedy rant: The poet desired he might have a slight supper

in his apartment, and pen, ink, and paper.—The musician, who had acted his part very well, was locked up, and every body retired.
Ego was heard for some time to walk about his room in great agitation, and afterwards to draw his chair and sit down very still to work. In short, he had finished the task just at that moment
'When church yards yawn,
'And hell itself breaths forth contagion to the world!'

Being charmed with his production, he began to read it aloud, and afterwards was heard to exclaim,
'I never was so successful in my life! Once more—'
and then reading—
'Here Toogood lies, by desp'rate passion drove,
'Who, great musician, hanged himself for love!'

He scarcely had uttered these words, when open flew the door, and the musician appeared in his powdering gown, with a halter round his neck, exclaiming in a hollow voice
'And so I did, perfidious poet.'
The bard, like Pierrot—though the musician looked that character more than he did—now began to stare, to tremble, and, without quiting either the paper or the candle, blundered to the further side of the bed, where the ghost, with a most

ghastly grin, glided after him. Seeing himself followed, he sprang across the bed at the expense of his shins, and out of the door, the ghost hard at his heels, when hurrying down the stairs—which were strewed with peas, unknown to either of them, they rolled over each other till they lighted on a feather bed, purposely laid at the landing place, where all the company in the house burst in at once, and found them cuffing one another almost as unmercifully as Mr. POPE makes the two eagles in HOMER.

The musician began now to perceive that he had been duped as well as the poet. Sir Sidney said he was sorry to find the musician had played upon so ridiculous a chord; to which Charles answered, his performance was perfectly in the amoroso style.—Emma said that to be sure he had given a dying proof of his love, but not knowing that he would recover, she, out of despair, had chosen another.—The painter said it was not the first time Mr. Too-good had made himself ridiculous. The poor musician, getting up, laughed the matter off as well as he could. He said his known character was to accommodate himself, as much as possible, to the pleasure of the company; and as to the poet, he said he suspected it was a trick from the beginning, for he was the man at discoveries! He swore he would

have acted a dead man ten times better; and as for a ghost!
'Damme,' said he, 'if I had personated a ghost, I would have scared you all out of your wits!'

After a hearty laugh, Emma finished the business by a few serious words, saying, that they had both hung themselves up as marks of ingratitude, in return for Sir Sidney's hospitality; yet, if the ghost of remorse did but haunt them a little, for entertaining a wish to injure a poor girl, who had nothing to depend upon but her character, she should, for her own part, think them sufficiently punished.
A truce was struck, and good humour restored, or rather prolonged; for none of the parties entertained the least rancour: on the contrary, the musician was the first to confess he had been justly reproved for his error, and Ego said he was an admirer of poetical justice, which he flattered himself he had exemplified pretty strongly in his writings.
About this time a matter happened which had very nearly undone some of Sir Sidney's pious work at Little Hockley. One John Swash, a miller, who was at the head of a large family, and one of the first who repented of his former idle tricks, had been set up by Sir Sidney, and had lived for some

time in comfort and credit. This man, at the instigation of some litigious persons, who envied his present good fortune, had been taken up for sheep-stealing: a crime which he certainly had committed some years before. He was to be tried at Warwick, at the summer assizes, and Sir Sidney greatly feared the fact would be fully proved; in which case, it would be difficult to save the man.
But this was not the worst, for a number of the Hockleyites, having been guilty of crimes equally enormous, might, on his conviction, emigrate from the village, where they began to live peaceable and decent lives; and thus he should lose the fruits of that benevolent harvest which he had been so long and so carefully bringing to perfection.
There was but one man who could swear to his identity; except indeed a companion, who having been formerly discharged by a magistrate, on account of this fact, now appeared as king's evidence, to curry favour with the farmer, whose sheep had been lost, as well as to screen himself from future prosecutions.
This man, who, as I said, could swear to him, was a tailor, and lived, at this time, in pretty good credit at Wellingborough, but had formerly worked

as journeyman at a small town not far from Little Hockley, and when business was not very stiring there, was glad enough to job about at other places, and return to his wife and family with the earnings.
He had been three days getting ready some mourning for a family in the neighbourhood, when, being upon the point of returning on a very dark night, he was reminded, by some officious friend, that he must go seven miles about, for that over the common, which was but little more than three, he would certainly meet with the ghost.
It must be understood that on this common was erected a gibbet, where were hung in chains two smugglers, who had murdered an exciseman; and under this gibbet every evening were seen—for a great number of the inhabitants within some distance round were ready to swear it—two men in white marching with much deliberation, and carrying a coffin.
The tailor had frequently heard all this, but as it rained a little, and the way over the common lay so much nearer than the other, he could not think or going round:—besides he was perfectly, at this

time, pot valiant, and one more glass put the finishing stroke to his resolution.
Away went the tailor with his wages in his pocket, and his goose suspended on a stick, which he held over his shoulder. When he came near the gibbet, sure enough he saw two men carrying a coffin. His sensations may be easily guessed at. He was seized with so strong a fit of horror, that his teeth chattered, his legs shook, he trembled from head to foot, and sweat at every pore. He made an effort to run away, but his limbs refused their office. At length, as the spectre approached, with one frantic struggle, between fear and desperation, his well-poised goose flew from the staff that supported it like lightning, and hitting the head of the ghost that was nearest to him, brought him to the ground—when lo! open flew the coffin, and out jumped two sheep!
The other spirit, unconscious that he had only one-ninth of an adversary to encounter, took to his heels, and soon disappeared. The first, however, stunned by the blow he had received, could not so easily get out of the tailor's clutches, who being convinced of the fact by the information of the two sheep, pursued his victory, and actually tied the

culprits hands with a large piece of list, in order to carry him before a magistrate.
The sheepstealer pleaded very hard for his liberty as soon as he came to himself, when the tailor, knowing his voice, presently recognized him for the very same John Swash, who now, at the distance of almost three years, was confined in Warwick jail for this individual offence.
The general opinion was that the tailor had compassionated the situation of John for a valuable consideration, which was, in the nature of a fine, to be paid by installments, but had not been regularly discharged. Finding however that the offender began to be pretty well off in the world, the subject was revived, and the matter carried by the farmer, at the instigation of the tailor, to the length we have seen.
These were the circumstances which made Sir Sidney uneasy. He plainly saw that Swash was picked out not with a view to offer a public sacrifice at the shrine of offended justice, but merely to be used as an instrument by way of experiment, to see how much money could, upon similar occasions, be extorted in future:—for knowing the baronet to

be very warm in whatever he espoused, the two pettisoggers who were driven from Little Hockley, and a few others who accompanied them, counted upon a comfortable subsistence, which they had no doubt they could procure by raising contributions, in like manner, upon the generosity of Sir Sidney.


The difficulty seemed to be how to suppress the evidence of the tailor without Sir Sidney's apparent concurrence; for it was not enough that he should not seem to take any active part in the business, but it was necessary to regard it as a matter of perfect indifference to him.
On this account, it was necessary to be very wary in their measures. Charles and Figgins, however, undertook, after a very little reflection, to remove all difficulties.
The plan was explained, and greatly approved; and now came the time to put it in execution.
A house was taken about three miles from Warwick, whither Charles, Figgins, and the body of arts repaired; which last were informed that the

removal was only temporary, to take views, and attend the assemblies at the assizes.
About a month before the assizes, Charles and Figgins rode to Wellingborough. The latter having previously rolled his coat in the road, and splashed his horse on one side, they went to the first inn they saw, where they enquired if there was a clever tailor in town, who could make a coat at a short warning. The landlord recommended one, but not the man they wanted; but, rather than make objections, they determined to see him, and when he came found fault with every thing he produced: which indeed they were determined to do with fifty, till they should see the object of their present business. At length he came, and there never was such a tailor! They were struck with his taste, his manner, his price:—In short, the poor devil was in raptures, though a man must have been very ingenious to find language for this lavish praise in favour of a card of buttons, and some snips of cloth. So it was however, that the tailor never found out half so much merit in himself as at that moment. He made his men sit up all night, and a very awkward coat was produced in the morning for Figgins, which, nevertheless, was the pink of taste, and the extreme of the new fashion; and Charles pretended to be so much in love with it, that he ordered

a frock for himself, with the addition of a new Birmingham button, with which he declared himself enchanted. This frock however he could not stay for. It was therefore ordered to be sent to the house of the Rev. Mr. Figgins, near Warwick, where it would be paid for on delivery.
The tailor said he should be at Warwick at the assizes, for he was subpoened there upon a trial, and he would then, if the gentleman pleased, take the liberty of calling, to see if he was satisfied with his coat.
Figgins said he should be very glad to see him, for that he knew no character so respectable as a tradesman. This was said as they took horse, and the tailor, making a very low bow, retired. The circumstance was however so singular, that the landlord, as well as the tailor's wife, set down Charles and Figgins for two cheats, and cautioned the tailor not to be taken in.
The tailor had himself some suspicions akin to theirs, though the flattery that had been lavished on him almost overcame his wariness. However, to make all sure, as he had some business at Warwick,—indeed no other than to con his lesson as to his evidence

against Swash—he took that opportunity of carrying home the coat himself.
Being arrived at Mr. Figgins's, he was very kindly welcomed, detained all night, paid his bill, and informed that more clothes would be sent for, to be got ready against the assize ball; to which our hero added,
'I wish we could prevail on you, sir, to settle here, for there is not one of your profession within twenty miles who knows even how to set on a button with taste.'

The tailor acceeded to the fact, took a comfortable portion of merit to himself, and went home in high spirits.
Swash was to be tried on the last day of the assizes, on the motion of the counsel, and three days previous to the trial an order was sent to the tailor from our hero for some clothes for the assize ball. The tailor could not refuse to execute the order, but, nevertheless, very anxious to be in time for the trial, was determined he would be at Warwick the night before.
A servant being dispatched to suggest alterations and delays, till he should be detained very late that evening, he at length arrived, clothes and all, at

Mr. Figgins's, about half an hour past eleven o'clock, most exceedingly fatigued.
Figgins took him very cordially by the hand, and led him into a parlour, where, at near one—the clocks being put back almost an hour—supper appeared. The tailor protesting he never was so disposed to make a good meal in his life, fell to very heartily. Thus the time passed on till within a quarter of an hour of day light, though by the clocks—being once more put back—the tailor did not believe it so late by two hours. At length he was led to bed completely drunk. Having slept till two o'clock in the afternoon—which will not appear extraordinary if we consider his drunkenness and fatigue—he awoke, without recollecting for some moments where he was. When he felt, however, a fine, soft, stately bed, he began to have some faint idea how he came there; but, as every thing appeared as dark as pitch, he concluded it was in the middle of the night, and turned to go to sleep again; this, after tumbling and tossing for half an hour, he effected, and taking another pretty good nap, waked about half an hour past six.
Feeling a violent head-ach, and finding himself intolerably hungry, he could not help thinking the night remarkably long. He got out of the bed, and

groped about for the windows, and having drawn one of the curtains, opened the shutters, but it was all the same. He could not throw up the sash indeed, owing, as he supposed, to a mode of fastening it, which he did not understand. He was yet convinced, however, that it was not near day light, and therefore determined to go to bed again.
In groping out his way, he caught hold of the tossel of a bell, whieh immediately tingled very forcibly. This frightened him out of his wits.—How could he apologize in a gentleman's house for making such a disturbance? After he had been in bed about a quarter of an hour, in anxious hope that nobody had heard the bell, a servant came into his room, with a candle, yawning, stretching, and rubbing his eyes, who asked him what he would be pleased to have.
The tailor begged his pardon a hundred times, for disturbing him, though it was nearly seven in the evening, and asked what o'clock it was, and how long it would be till day light?

'O'clock, sir!' said the servant, why we han't a been in bed above a quarter of an hour; I believe there will be a good three hours yet before the cock crows.'


'Three hours!' cried the tailor, 'why I never passed such a night in my life! Three hours!—why I seem as if I had lain twenty; and then I am so cursed hungry.'
'Ay, that is your long journey, sir,' said John.
'I don't know what the devil it is,' said the tailor, 'but could not you, my dear Mr. John, get me a bit of something for the tooth?'
'Lord love you, no such thing,' said John; 'you must e'en stay till morning.'
'Morning!' cried the tailor, 'why I shall be famished in three hours; I never had such a craving in my life.'
'Well, well,' said John, 'then I will see what I can do; but I must get the keys of old Mother Search, the house-keeper, and she is a devil of a crusty toad, I can tell you.'

The tailor implored him to see what he could do, and John said he would return directly. He did not, however, make his appearance for another half hour, when he brought word that there was nothing to be had.
This news the tailor was obliged to swallow instead of the repast he had expected, and wishing John a good night, endeavoured once more to get to sleep. This however was impossible; he kicked about, turned, twisted, got up, lay down, and between whiles, fell into a kind of dose, till night

actually came. His patience was now entirely exhausted, and, for the first time, he suspected that some trick had been played him. The whole conduct of this family had been so extraordinary, that he began now to reflect on his neighbours' suspicions; but then, how could that apply to him?—he had nothing to be robbed of. They might murder him, however, but what harm had he done to any body? Perhaps it was all a drunken frolic:—perhaps it was day-light all this time. Whatever it was, he might be sure no servant would set him right; he was therefore determined to sally forth, and know the truth of every thing.
So resolved, he immediately put on his clothes, and groping out the door, met with no impediment all the way to the garden, where, by feeling about, he soon found himself. Here he gave that credit to the stars which he denied to John, and being now convinced his brain was affected, he thought he could not do better than return, without giving any further disturbance to the family. This, however, was not so easily practicable as he imagined. The door had shut after him in such a manner, that he found it out of his power to open it.
His situation was now truly deplorable. He durst not knock, for fear of making more disturbance in

the house. In the mean time he was devoured with hunger, and being in a strange place, in the night, his fancy transformed every bush, not into an officer, but a ghost.
These apprehensions were not a little heightened by a variety of noises, which now assailed his ears. Clanking of chains, groans, and howls fixed him petrified to the spot, while strange lights, which came and disappeared, added not a little to the horrid workings of his teeming fancy. At length something tapped him upon the shoulder, when turning round in an agony of fear, he saw, as plain as ever he did any thing in his life, John Swash staring him in the face. What at this moment were the poor tailor's sensations! He squeaked, kicked, plunged, without being able to take his eyes from this dreadful object, till presently his sight failed him, his muscles were all relaxed, and he measured his length on the ground.
A few tweaks by the nose and some cold water brought him a little to himself, when he found John and another servant lifting him up. This circumstance did not a little facilitate his recovery. The moment he got the use of his speech, he cried out,
'For the love of God, dear christian gentlemen, speak to me! Oh Lord, is he gone? Did you

see him? Oh dear, dear, dear, dear—there he comes again! Hold me fast!—don't let him fly away with me!'

John and his fellow servant had some difficulty to comply with his request, he struggled so hard, for fear gave him the strength of a giant.
The spectre approaching, the tailor's fear, or rather horror, was beyond description
'There,' cried he, 'Don't you see it?'
'See what?' said John, 'I see nothing but the trees and the stars, do you Thomas?'
'Not I,' said Thomas.
'Come come, sir, doo ey goo to bed—yow han not a slept to night. When the woine a be got out of your head, yowl be in your right wits, like a sober parson.'

The ghost now began to speak.
'Hush, hush,' cried the tailor.
'Oh Lord have mercy upon me, save and deliver me. It speaks! Oh John Swash, John Swash, how have I offended thee?'

'Oh miserable tailor, listen to me,' said the ghost.
'I will John indeed,' said the poor terror-struck wretch,
and now the ghost went on.

'For the lucre of gain thou didst try to hang me.

though well thou knows I never did thee harm; but I have escaped thy malice, for rather than bring disgrace upon my poor wife and family, I made away with myself. Now if thou wishest to sleep peaceably in thy bed, make a full confession of thy wickedness to Sir Sidney Roebuck, and through him restore to my unhappy family that money which thou hast at different times frightened me out of. Remember, and let not my angry spirit visit thee a second time.'
So saying, the ghost disappeared.

'Lord have mercy, save, deliver, and forgive my sins,' said the tailor.
'What d'ye toak about?' said Thomas.
'Pardon a poor, wretched, miserable sinner,' exclaimed the tailor.
'Come come,' said John, 'it will be time enough to say your prayers when you are up in your room.'
'How can you be so blasphemous?' said the tailor, 'did not you hear what he said?'
'Who? Who?' cried John.
'Why the man's out of his wits.'—
'Who!' exclaimed Snip, 'why poor John Swash; I have killed, I have murdered him, and his blood will be on my hands.'
'Odds wounds,' cried Thomas, 'these be odd sort of speeches; I do not wonder yow be troubled in mind, if yow a done such wicked things as these:—but come, yow be only a sleep, and a dreaming.'


In short, the trembling tailor was at last conveyed to his room, where he lay sweating and shivering, and almost suffocated under the clothes, till day-light.
He now got up, and saying his prayers longer and louder than ever he had done in his life, he began, though still in bodily fear, to consider how he should prevent a second visit from the ghost. As however the family was not yet stirring, and he thought he had made pretty sufficient disturbance in it already, he returned once more to bed, where, having undergone so much mental and corporeal fatigue, he fell into a sound sleep, which probably saved him from a severe fit of sickness.
The reader has seen that the windows had been purposely blocked up, on the first night, on the out side, to cheat the tailor, through the whole of that day, into a belief that it was not yet light; by which means the trial of Swash came on, and he was acquitted for want of evidence; for as to the confederate, Figgins had seen, and so completely intimidated him, with threatening to lay a detainer against him on another score, that he purposely prevaricated on the trial, and the whole business was dismissed as frivolous and vexatious. The noise which the tailor heard when he was in the garden, and which

his fears had so greatly magnified, was nothing more than the taking down the blinds, which, as I have said, on the outside were affixed to the windows.—But the ghost was no other than the individual John Swash, who had been released in the afternoon, and properly tutored for the purpose.
The tailor, at the proper time, was summoned to breakfast in the parlour, where he was kindly received by Mr. Figgins and Charles, as well as the poet and the musician:—the painter being gone to take a walk. They informed him they were extremely sorry to hear he had been so ill in the night, and the poet, pretending to know something of physic, felt his pulse, which having done very gravely, he declared that the gentleman was not so ill in body as that he was troubled with thick-coming fancies that disturbed his rest.

'That's very true, sir,' said the tailor, 'you have found out my disorder at once.'
'Well but can't you cure him of that?' said Figgins.
'No,' answered the poet gravely, 'in that case the patient must administer unto himself.'
'Thank you sir,' said the tailor; 'it is very true—he must indeed—and so I will, if it shall please God, before I am many hours older.'


'You see, you see,' said the poet, 'I know all the symptoms of this disorder. You are very hungry sir, are you not?'
'Yes sir,' said the tailor, 'I dare say I could eat a shoulder of mutton, and look round me.'
'A bad symptom, sir,' said the poet.
'Pooh, pooh,' cried Charles, 'I will never believe that a hungry sick man is in much danger. Come John, let us have the breakfast, the gentleman will be too late for the trial.'
Then addressing himself to the tailor:
'When do you expect it to come on sir? I hope you will convict the rascal; for really times are come to such a pass that an honest man cannot keep his property in safety.'

The tailor's countenance underwent several alterations, and he faltered out,
'why sir I don't think it will come on at all.'
Here John came in with a smoking plate of toast.
'Zounds, let us fall to,'
said Charles.
'Come sir, help yourself.'

The tailor began to put a piece to his mouth, when in came the painter.
'Your servant,' said Figgins, 'where have you been this morning?'—
'Faith,' said Mosquito, 'I have been to see a very unpleasant spectacle, I assure you. A poor fellow, one Swash, who was to have been tried this morning

for sheep-stealing, poisoned himself last night in his cell, and, through the interest of Sir Sidney Roebuck, the coroner's verdict was returned lunacy, and they are now carrying the body to his wife and children.'

Here the tea and toast dropped out of the tailor's hand, and he entreated, for the love of God, that he might be conducted to that very Sir Sidney Roebuck, for he could not eat nor sleep before he disburthened his conscience of something that lay very heavy on it.
Every one affected extraordinary surprise at this declaration; after which, Mr. Figgins said
'Sir, I am a clergyman, and if I can do you any service by hearing your confession, and giving you salutary advice, I will do it with pleasure.'
To which the terrified tailor—looking about him—said,
'No sir, that won't do; I am afraid he will appear again if I tell it to any body but Sir Sidney.'—
'Appear!' said Charles, 'Who? Who will appear?'
'The ghost sir, the ghost!' said the tailor; 'John Swash's ghost!'

A gentleman now desired to speak with Mr. Figgins, who being ushered in, proved to be Sir Sidney.

The moment the tailor saw him, he fell upon his knees, and cried out
'Oh dear sir forgive me.'—
'Forgive you!' said Sir Sidney, 'why who are you?'
'Sir,' said he, 'I am the tailor, the wicked tailor that tried to hang John Swash.'

The baronet was then informed of all the ghost enjoined Snip, and at length, on his earnest entreaty, went apart with him to make an ample confession. This indeed amounted to nothing criminal in the tailor, except the extortion of the money; but it laid up such a body of evidence against the emigrants from Little Hockley, as the baronet had no doubt would put a stop to their nefarious attempts for the future.
The tailor's confession being signed and sworn to, he was permitted to eat a voracious breakfast with John, for nothing after this could prevail on him to come into the parlour.
A large cavalcade now appeared in the road, which poor Snip, as well as every body else, knew to be the judges, who were leaving Warwick to open the assizes at Worcester.
The tailor, though no great conjurer, saw plainly he had been tricked. He now neither wondered

at his restlessness nor his hunger, and lest he should any longer remain in doubt, John Swash himself—who softly entered the kitchen—tapped him upon the shoulder once more, saying,
'Master Cabbage, you have twice taken me for a ghost, beware of the third time.'

The tailor received a very wholesome admonition from Sir Sidney, who explained to him in very pathetic terms, the cruelty and wanton maliciousness of disturbing the quiet of a man and his family, who, he said, were objects of great compassion, as well as praise; for there were very few instances of those who had so given themselves up to bad example, as to have been guilty of every wickedness and depravity, and afterwards desirous of returning from their vicious courses. He said there was no encouragement to which such objects were not entitled. How reprehensible then was it in those who waited for the moment when such should return to virtue, and, in consequence of their honest industry, become in tolerable circumstances, to seek for opportunities to distress and harrass them, and so prevent the happy effects of their laudable and honest endeavours.
As for the tailor, he told him he was well convinced he had been set on by others, and as he had

now made a candid and fair confession relative to all those dark conspiracies which he plainly saw were levelled against these poor repentant sinners, if he would go on a little further, and join with him in detecting this knot of villains, he might rely upon his favour; and he would enjoy a much higher satisfaction—that of discharging his duty as an honest man.
The tailor was suffered to depart, after faithfully promising all that had been enjoined him, and Sir Sidney was, for the first time, let into the whole of the mystery by which the tailor had been prevented from appearing at the trial; for it must be understood that Sir Sidney knew the tailor was to be kept away, but he did not know in what manner.


THE housekeeping of Mr. Figgins, near Warwick, being now broken up, Charles and his friend returned to Hazard house, and Mosquito, Ego, and Toogood to Roebuck hall.
Charles had noticed that Mosquito, in consequence of his satiric vein, had conceived himself a kind of superior to his two companions; for whenever it came up in conversation that they had been ridiculed in the business of the ghost, he took care sagaciously to hint that no one dared play him such a trick.
Our hero was therefore determined to leave him no room for exultation, especially as by the mode through which he intended to show him off, as well as the rest, he should do even a more meritorious act than he had done in saving Emma from the persecutions of the poet and the musician. This method of studying mischief, only by way of inflicting

merited punishment, was a species of amusement in which it has been seen our hero delighted. It certainly was highly praiseworthy in one sense, for it turned every thing off with a laugh only against the offender, whereas, had it been shaped into a complaint, and preferred against him to Sir Sidney, it might have endangered the hopes which he built on his patronage.
John Swash had a daughter, who must have had an uncommon mind for her situation in life; for, from her earliest infancy, she was remarked to have had a detestation to that vice which surrounded her. She profitted by avoiding bad examples as much as others by imitating good ones. In short—which is the strongest proof that can be given of the excellence of her heart, and the incorruptibility of her honour, she, at eighteen, was as spotless a character at Little Hockley, as the most innocent inhabitant of her age and sex could be at Castlewick.
The painter had long laid siege to this young creature, who had all that beauty which regular features, rosy health, and a perfect symmetry of form can give. He drew her likeness, and took care it should be a flattering one. He took a sketch of the mill, and made it a present to Swash, whose professional pride was thus tickled. He painted a

favourite tortoiseshell cat for the mother, and, in a variety of other instances, made his talents subservient to his wishes; but, in particular, he vaunted that he had been the principal instrument in detaining the tailor from appearing at the trial.
I know not if the girl's gratitude on the side of her duty pleaded in his favour, or whether nature began to whisper to her that, good as she was, love—as somebody has expressed it—is the sovereign end of our being; but certainly she began to listen to the painter's conversation with pleasure, and as she had never in her life been controlled, scrupled not to walk with him in an evening. She soon, however, repented of her complaisance, and was almost fatally convinced on what terms these opportunities were requested. She resented his insolence, which was manuel as well as verbal, and without ceremony informed her mother of all that had passed, who, good woman, I am sorry to say it, did not make such forcible objections to it as the daughter did. To say the truth, she had a large family, and looked upon her daughters as much in the light of traffic, as her barley meal. In short, won by a handsome sum, a promise of painting her picture in the attitude of milking a favourite cow, and a half anker of genuine nantz—with shame I write it—after but little hesitation, she agreed to

this method of providing for her girl as she called it.
This good woman, in her youth, had been tolerably handsome herself. Master Flush had been heard to intimate that he fancied the governor—meaning Standfast—had taken care to provide a birth in heaven for Master Swash, in the month of April; but I am afraid nobody had so strong a claim to that favour as Lord Hazard.
Charles had eyed this girl with pleasure, but would not for the universe have given way to the shadow of an impulse to her dishonour. And here it may not be amiss to beg the reader will stop with me, and admire how greatly to our own advantage we take resolutions which are in favour of virtue; for it is within possibility that, had our hero given way to an inclination natural enough for a youth of warm blood to entertain, and I hope full as natural if there were any thing like honour in his disposition, to conquer—hear it ye seducers of virtue! Ye merciless triumphant despoilers of innocence! who are cruel because you have power!—insolent because victorious!—hear it, and reflect with horror on the miseries that to often result from your vices,—he might have contaminated a sister!!

From so deplorable a crime, however unintentional, did Charles, by his perseverance in his honourable resolutions, very probably escape; for he, by his frequent chat with this girl, had taught her bosom to glow with tenderness, but having put the curb, as we have seen, upon his wishes, and ceased to be particular from the moment he was apprehensive of danger—during which interval the painter stepped in—she found some pleasure, which the reader may be assured is not unnatural, in listening to language of the same kind from another, even though it was not so eloquently worded, or so gracefully delivered.
As Charles withdrew his attention from this girl upon a ground for which she loved him still more—for he made no scruple of confessing the truth—the poor girl having been repulsed by her mother, as we have seen, or rather encouraged to make her fortune, according to the old gentlewoman, by that which, according to any body else, would have been her ruin, was walking solitary and unhappy by the side of her father's mill-stream, when Figgins and our hero passed by. Charles saw the pearly tear standing on her cheek, and very good naturedly enquired the cause. After a little reluctance she informed him, and concluded her artlessly pathetic

story with saying
'Indeed it is a sad thing when a poor girl's mother bids her to be wicked; but I won't be wicked, if I am ever so undutiful I won't.'

Both Charles and Figgins commended her laudable resolution, and now occurred an admirable opportunity of punishing the painter in his own way. He immediately told the girl of his intention; to forward which, she was desired to acquaint her mother that she would be a good girl, and behave civil to the gentleman, and, when he came, she should make him an appointment in the dusk of the evening in the bed chamber; that he would let her father privately into the secret, who should, in concert with them, so revenge himself upon her audacious lover, as to leave him very little relish for such amusement in future.
The girl was charmed to find her cause taken up so warmly by our hero, for she knew, let what would happen, the painter must not dare to complain.
The assignation was made, and Swash apprised of the whole business. The painter, as may naturally be supposed, attended punctually, and the husband being, as it was imagined, safe at the ale house, the

amorous Appelles was conducted to the young lady's bed chamber, by her accommodating mamma, and desired to go to bed, where he should be made as happy as he could wish.
He had not lain long in this situation, before he heard a foot upon the stairs, when immediately his heart beat high, his fancy anticipated the expected pleasure, and all his senses were in an alarm; but, however, all these were nothing to the alarm that presently followed. In rushed—at least his fears made him believe so—half a dozen myrmidons; pop half a dozen times went half a dozen pistols; the first of which was a sufficient intimation that the salute had very little of love in it. Indeed he wondered how it came that he was not a dead man, for his fears had wounded him in twenty places.
The very first of these hints he took, and darting out of the foot of the bed, he presently cleared the landing place, and gained the bottom of the stairs; by which time he received a few more compliments of the same kind. These, however, though they were unnecessary to refresh his memory, hastened his departure, which he took without paying the smallest compliment to any of the family, but rushing out at the street door, made his way across a paddock, which led to the road; his pursuers still

popping at such a rate, that he verily believed he was flying from a whole platoon.
Being come to a bank, he collected his whole might to jump over the hedge, into the road, but the distance being greater than he imagined, he plunged, with all his force, naked as he was, into a bramble bush, which clinging in a hundred places to his shirt, and in as many to his flesh, pinned him down so firmly, that he was obliged to make several excruciating efforts to free himself. He did so however at last, but finding himself surrounded with enemies, who were still popping at him, he doubled as artfully as any Jack hare, and was followed as closely, with this difference, that the game opened instead of the pack; for he yelped, howled, swore, ejaculated, cursed, and prayed, in such a strange collection of hysterical tones, that the musician, who was then present, had as much reason to be enraged as Hogarth's, for all the complicated din there described, seemed to be centured in one person.
This discordance however did not last long, for trying to cross the mill stream by a bridge, which to be sure had been laid down an hour before, but was now drawn up, poor Mosquito came souse over head and ears into the water, which being in that part pretty deep, would have cooled him for intriguing,

and every thing else in this world, had not a large fishing net been previously placed to receive him.
The net was immediately drawn up, which, with all the haste they could make however, was not effected before the poor painter had totally lost his senses.
He was now put into a shell, and the church being near, carried to the bone house, where being held up by the heels, a quantity of water ran out of his mouth, and he presently exhibited signs of life. The moment this event took place, they hurried off with the lanthorn—the only light they had—and the sexton, who, being a friend to the miller, connived at the trick, immediately returned with his mattock and shovel on his shoulder.

'There,' said he, as if to himself, 'that job's done.'
'Oh d d d d dear,' cried the painter,
'It is odd there should be nobody to own the man,' cried the sexton, putting down his things.
'B b b oh—ah—oh—' cried the painter.
'I have made him a good grave, however,' cried the sexton, 'and as soon as the coroner's quest has sat upon him—'


The painter now mustered strength enough to sit up, and cried,
'Oh d d d d dear—f f f f friend.'—
'Lord, what's that!' said the sexton.
'Oh f f f f for the love of God help me,' cried Mosquito.
'Why lookee now,' said the sexton, 'here's my man come to life. Lie down now doey; lie down, I ha been just making your grave.'
'Oh Lord,' exclaimed the painter, 'my g g g g grave!'
'Ay ay, nobody will own you, you see, and so we shall bury you to-morrow morning.'

'Bury me!' cried the painter, who had by this time got out of the shell. 'Oh Christ, where am I brought to?'—then looking round him—'Oh, dear friend have pity upon me.'
'Odds wounds,' cried the sexton, 'don't come nigh me; I never could abide a dead body in my life, unless in the way of business, and when it was screwed up, as a body may say: so don't come nigh me.'

The painter told him he was alive, the sexton said he was a damned liar, and took up the lanthorn to be gone: the painter followed: the sexton holhowing out
'the devil take the hindmost.'
At length, turning round a corner of the church, he blew out the candle, splipped away, and the painter found himself alone, sore from head to foot, wet and naked, in the middle of a church yard, above

two miles from Sir Sidney's, at half an hour past ten o'clock at night.

In this condition he posted to the alehouse, where he intended to have trumped up a story of his being robbed, but his old friend the sexton being the first man he saw in the room, he only desired the use of some clothes, for which he said he would satisfy them handsomely.
The man of the house agreed to accommodate him, and fetched some things for that purpose, which Mosquito put on before the fire; for the landlady was gone to bed. In the mean time the guests were not sparing of their jokes.
'Bless me,' said one, 'the gentleman has been sadly mauled with zummet! He looks as if he had tumbled into a hornet's nest.'
'Icod,' said another, 'I think its more like being scratched with cats.'
'Very loikely,' said another, 'two legged cats may hap.'
'Lord love you,' cried the sexton, 'you noas nothing about it. The gentleman was tooked up in the mill-dam. They mistooken for a vish.—Dam maw, I thoughten the biggest Jack I ever sawed. And so as I was a telling you, when the gentleman coomed in, we took un to the boane-house. Adds waunds measter, you do ought to

give maw zummet to drink your health, after making your grave.'

The painter did not reply a single word to all this wit; but, having hurried on the landlord's clothes, and said he would return them in the morning, and satisfy him for his trouble, he sneaked to Sir Sidney's, and skulked up stairs to bed.
Charles and Figgins came in the morning to breakfast. Every body was very inquisitive to know how it happened that the painter had not supped at home. One said significantly he was perhaps better engaged; another, that whatever his amusement was, he hoped it was to his liking. In short, the poor painter was handsomely played off. At last it came to Sir Sidney's turn, who said honest Swash had been with him that morning about an affair something in the style of the soldier and the king of France:—the soldier craved pardon for having thrown a man's hat out of window, and, having obtained it, said he had thrown his head out too.
Here Sir Sidney related the whole business of the preceding evening, as indeed he had heard it from Charles, not from Swash. He concealed his knowledge of the gallant, who, he said, was rightly served, and he only wished the next time the gentleman,

whoever he was, took it into his head to corrupt innocence and destroy domestic peace, he would never after having done so presume to come into his presence. He concluded with reprobating the conduct of the mother, and heartily recommending the girl to Lady Roebuck's notice, who declared, as Emma was in want of an assistant, she should be immediately placed about the person of Annette.


IT never, for a single moment, occurred to Charles that he had wrought an event most wonderfully in his own favour by thus punishing the painter; for Jude—so was the miller's daughter called—rang the changes in his praise so continually, that, as her voice was the voice of nature, and her sentiments strong genuine gratitude, his cause could not even in Emma have had half so powerful an advocate: nay with Emma herself:—for though she was well enough pleased that the youth had conceived favourable thoughts of her, though she admired the ready willingness with which he had corrected his error, yet there was, with her, a distinct difference in the two cases. As to herself, she was a host alone; she defied temptation; and, to such a youth as Charles, she was rather pleased than concerned that she had had an opportunity of showing upon what erroneous ground he began his career, and what certain misery would be the consequence of his persuting in

indiscriminate pursuits, in which he might be assured, though he would often dupe others, he would oftener be duped himself.
Emma represented to him that the sensations of a tender and susceptible heart, which had given a single pang to suffering virtue, must be intolerable; and therefore conjured him to cease from a conduct which was foolish as well as wicked, impolitic as well as unworthy; for it was a barter of virtue for infamy, transient pleasure for lasting pain: and however consonant to the boisterous and turbulent passions of youth, would, throughout his life, be overshadowed by a cloud of wretchedness, which the splendour of rank and distinction would vainly struggle to dissipate.
To say the truth, this incident had touched Emma in the right key; for if she gave Charles credit for his delicate and honourable treatment of Jude, how much then was due to her admonitions which produced it?
If Emma had a weak side, certainly this was it. She was perfectly a schemer on the side of virtue, and thought the passions might be bottled up, like the winds of Aeolus; forgetting that there never wants curious and turbulent spirits to let them out,

not only to excite fresh dangers, but make the case worse, by leaving no remedy.
Nevertheless, nothing could be purer than poor Emma's intentions, which, though they were not always infallible, hit nine times out of ten as she wished they should. Here it was impossible they should miss. Standfast indeed, had he so far condescended, would have at pleasure changed the form of every one of them; and, spite of Emma's penetration, have shown them, even to her, so deformed that she should scarcely have known them for her own.
This gentleman, however, seems to be meditating at a distance; and, as the course is left free for youth, sweetness, good nature, and ingenuity to pay their open court to beauty, modesty, and delicate sensibility, no wonder if, sanctioned by parents, strongly supported by irresistible advocates, and their mutual wishes being in their essence eminently congenial, a strong, and, one would think, indissoluble compact must naturally be formed between Charles and Annette.
To speak plain, which I, as well as Emma, think the best way, so many were the desirable ends an union between this amiable couple promised to aecomplish,

that, had it not been for their youth—though probably they would not have found that an objection—neither themselves, the fathers and mothers, connections and dependants, the two villages of Castlewick and Little Hockley—for Little Hockley was really now rising into same, in spite of Mrs. Swash and her unworthy propensities, for which, between the reader and I, she got well thrashed by her husband—not one of these I say but would have blessed the day which united this lovely pair, and, what to some of them would not have been an unwelcome object, have produced an extraordinary grand feast.
But whether fortune thought with Emma that virtues and passions are given us to be exercised and controlled, or whether the mind, like the constitution, is soberer in its age for having been taken down in its youth, I shall not pretend to decide here:—certain it is that the blind and varying goddess did not altogether take part with the friends of our hero and heroine; the reason why, and the manner how, she thought proper to dissent from this otherwise unanimous opinion, will hereafter be gradually developed. In the mean time, I am really concerned that, just when we find Charles and Annette in the full enjoyment of their friends' admiration, and that of one another, I should be under the

unpleasant necessity of throwing as complete a damp over all their spirits—such a scene of light and darkness is this life—as I had before presented to them of joy and exultation.
I am sure the very name of poor Lady Hazard will anticipate every word of the sad tale it is my unwilling duty to relate. This amiable lady, this lovely, this fatal sacrifice to complicated villainy, whose fall was doomed to tear the heart of him who in early life had departed from the paths of honour: This charming victim, who it should seem by an error of fate received the blow that was meant for her lord:—But it was no error; it is blindness to suppose fate can err; he was to live, that in the expiation of his original guilt, his pangs might torture him with accumulated keenness:—
Sweet Lady Hazard, who had seemed to decline with the summer, had been for some weeks evidently hastening to her dissolution, when at length the solemn sentence of the physicians precluded all hope. Indeed she felt that a few hours would put a period to her sufferings, and desired, with calm resignation, that she might, for the last time, see her friends about her.
This affecting request was soon complied with,

for Lady Roebuck had been almost continually with her from the moment she was in actual danger, and though our hero and his companions had, at different opportunities, employed their time as we have seen, yet the most thoughtless of them would at any moment have flown to have contributed in the slightest degree to her ease or comfort. In fact, she was gliding out of the world by such imperceptible degrees, that, as she supported her melancholy situation with wonderful fortitude, there had ever been, till very lately, some slight hope of her recovery.
Lord Hazard had some time, by her own particular desire, been left alone with his lady. Before however I relate what passed at this affecting interview, that I may not improperly interrupt the reader's banquet of grief—which by some is thought to be a very delicious luxury—I shall notice, in order, if possible, to heighten the loveliness of Lady Hazard, and the wretchedness of her Lord, that, owing to some expressions which fell from the surgeon, during the operation at the John of Gaunt—which I have described as particular as was necessary or delicate—she became acquainted with that secret which seems to be set up as a beacon in this history to warn the reader that a very small deviation from prudence may plunge a family into irretrievable misery.

The interview between Lord and Lady Hazard was of that affecting kind that at once excites pity and terror. It was one of those moments when the tongue denies relief to the heart, when nature would sink but for the assistance of madness, and when the pressure of calamity numbs the keenness of its torture.
Lord Hazard, overwhelmed with the recollection of his unworthiness, and loaded with the self-reproaching consciousness of his guilt, lay in a torpid stupor. His angel wife, though every sigh hastened her departure, pitied his pangs, and sorrowed for his sufferings. He, burning to disclose what shame forbid him to utter, and she dreading a horrid tale she had long and silently anticipated!
In this state—that hand of death extended over her brow which he would have given the world to have been directed to his—no merciful tear to relieve his swolen heart, he must have expired with excessive sensibility, had not a few inarticulate sounds, accompanied by a piteous sigh, burst from his tortured bosom.

'Be calm, my sweet love,' cried Lady Hazard:
'Calm!' returned he
—her celestial voice penetrating his torn heart, and the tears gushing in torrents

from his eyes—
'Yes, calm as the pitiless butcher that kills the innocent lamb! When thy spotless soul shall look down with just horror and kind commiseration on thy polluted husband, and thy cruel murderer, then tell me to be calm! Infuse thy incomparable innocence into my culpable heart, inspire me with virtue, and teach me to be happy. See! Oh heavenly God!—she hears me with sorrow, but not with astonishment! She knew it!—'tis plain she knew it!—and my foul crimes have, like the influence of a malignant poison, slowly consumed her life! Pity, pardon, immaculate angel!—But my thoughtless frenzy is too much for her tender frame. How are you, my love? She answers wildly!'
—And so indeed she did. Lord Hazard's violence had thrown her into a delirium, in which she remained a few minutes, and then expired!

The incoherent expressions she uttered during this melancholy interval, sufficiently confimed Lord Hazard that his lady was but too well acquainted with the fatal secret; and, lest he should not be wretched enough at her loss, he had now the additional reflection that his crime had first sapped the foundation of her peace, and afterwards gradually destroyed her life. Regardless however of any discovery, or its consequences, he summoned every

possible assistance to her aid; but no syllable that escaped Lady Hazard reached any ear, except that Charles, who first entered the room, heard his mother fervently exclaim, which were the last words she uttered,
'If any blessings were in store for me, of which I have been untimely deprived, shower them, merciful heaven, upon the head of my dear boy.'



Having so completely thrown the two families in the country into the vapours, as to make it impossible they should play any of their whimsical tricks in our absence, the reader and I will take a look at Mr. Standfast and his associates; and, as much as any thing, because it is now high time that we should rescue that gentleman's fame from such an opprobrious stain as that of having compassed the death of Lady Hazard, and brought about that scene of distress described in the last chapter, solely for the purpose of doing mischief.
I am ready to grant that no man upon earth had more satisfaction in contemplating the wretchedness which was produced by any one of his contrivances, but then I do insist that it was not so much for the pleasure of the thing, as the collateral consideration; and I sincerely believe, ill as I think of him, that could he have had the smallest chance of doubling his

advantage, be it in profit or pleasure, by sacrificing his whole party, he would not have made a single scruple.
But, to argue this matter fairly. What had Mr. Standfast gained by heaping all this complicated mischief on the head of his friend and benefactor, but an addition to the salary which he had honestly earned by being tutor to Charles? Why nothing literally, to be sure, as to himself. As to whom then? This is an article that remains to be accounted for. Again, if Mr. Standfast, on his own account, received no other satisfaction—which surely was a small reward for such eminent villainy—what other motive stimulated him? Revenge.—Revenge! Yes:—and now let me get rid of these two articles. And first, as to whom he seemed to be working for.
Know then reader that Mr. Standfast, the consummately artful Mr. Standfast, whose superior talents in the craft of inflicting unmerited calamity none ever attained, whose truly diabolical spirit never conceived mischief complete unless the shaft with which it wounded struck at virtue, who could cajole and cozen all the world, and dupe every one else, was himself a dupe to—Mrs. O'Shocknesy!

Here is the collateral consideration, but whence the revenge? From the same quarter. Mr. Standfast, who held all women as his slaves, who treated serious, reasonable, honourable love as a banter; who mocked at the very idea of a solemn and sacred obligation to a woman; this very Mr. Standfast,—pity him, oh pity him, villain as he is—was a slave to Mrs. O'Shocknesy. Hence his revenge. He was her first love; was the friend of him who killed her husband in a duel; she had a child by him before she saw Lord Hazard, and would have married him, but that his lordship stepped in and carried her:—nay, let me whisper to the reader, that it was not impossible but Zekiel was his son.
A number of doubts which the reader had before formed, are now dissipated; nor will it be necessary to go again over the minutiae of Mr. Standfast's conduct, which was dictated by her, though carried into effect by him; and, as she dared join ostensible acts to his covert ones, what wonder if the unsuspecting virtue of Lord Hazard was surprised.
Her views and her ambition were obvious.—Lady Hazard was to be put out of the way by a diabolical contrivance, which, had it been avowed, could have fastened nothing on its perpetrators. His lordship

would naturally be inconsolable for her loss, and who knew if he would survive it, when he came to consider that it originated in his guilt. Should this imaginary blessing be realized, her son would come into possession of the title and estate; if not, she would at least have the triumphant consolation that she had imbittered his future felicity.
This conduct was natural and common, infamous as it was. But how shall we account for that of her paramour, who could not, fond soul, rest in the country absent from her he loved. Charles, as to Miss Figgins, was a stoic to him. The lady had promised, on the death of Lady Hazard, to honour him with her hand, and instead of going to receive the last benediction of an expiring uncle, his business in town was to keep from expiring the valuable love of the amiable Mrs. O'Shocknesy.
Thus, while friendship, obligation, and all other ties that naturally induce gratitude, only stimulated Mr. Standfast to every atrocious and rascally measure that could sap the foundation, and lay a train for the destruction, of that love and harmony that were exemplary in the family of his patron and benefactor. The mere whim and caprice of a woman, whom he knew to be worthless, and completely the reverse of every thing for which she could

expect admiration, made him—expert as he was at every thing artful, proof as he was against every thing but self—undertake the most wicked, as well as the most silly, things in nature. Here is a Hercules, not contented with wielding the club—not quite so worthily, by the bye—he buckles to the distaff.
It will be unnecessary for me to mention that Figgins was sent for and fixed with Charles by Mr. Standfast's participation; nor will it very probably have escaped the reader's sagacity that the whole affair of Miss Figgins, who had not been with child, was nothing more than to hold out a pretended secret over the head of that young gentleman; for both Standfast and Figgins well knew that there is not a stronger hold of a grateful and generous heart than the knowledge of obligation: and this is the sort of credulity I have described as a part of our hero's composition, which, throughout his life, induced him to be thankful to others for lending him imaginary benefits, that they might receive from him real ones.
But why should Charles be devoted to the same ruin with others? He could not possibly hinder any one of their schemes. He had nothing that could give them the smallest uneasiness. Was it

then nothing to be the darling child, the hopeful cherished favourite, while Mrs. O'Shocknesy and her son were turned into the world, the sport of malicious tongues, and the vestiges of fallen greatness? Charles—though were the records of the human heart searched for every thing good and great that ever made up an amiable character, the same marks of worth would be found in his:—Charles must be traduced, must be vilified, it was necessary, it was material; he must be sunk that his elder brother might rise. Besides, Mr. Standfast had a husband in his eye for Annette; a better husband; since who can deny but a rich, sensible, thinking youth, as one will appear, answers that description more perfectly than a poor, vicious, dissipated, inconstant wretch, as will be the character of the other.
Reader, it was not Zekiel that our friend Standfast had found out for Annette. I know not if such an attempt would not have been a touch even above his art; but, however, that young gentleman will probably show, by and by, that he would choose to be consulted before any material step should be taken that concerned him.
Master Zekiel had, at the time I am speaking, pretty decided opinions, and one of them was to

appear, however he might really be, satisfied with all his mother and Mr. Standfast should determine, unless they should ask him to sign any paper, which he was fully resolved never to do.
As the reader has not yet heard the upshot of the business relative to those letters wherein an application was made for the grant of the estate in Warwickshire, I may as well inform him here that Sir Sidney's application rendered that of Mrs. O'Shocknesy and her son fruitless; therefore, through Standfast's advice, an addition was made to the annual stipend of the son, who immediately left Eaton, and went to France, with Snaffle for his companion, and Flush for his valet; while Dogbolt, who had long ago dropped his title, being a handsome fellow, occasionally comforted Mrs. O'Shocknesy, when Mr. Standfast, who as yet dared not see her, except by stealth, was out of the way.
Mr. Kiddy had taken good care to make himself particularly useful to Zekiel, who swore there was so much fun and gig about the rum dog, that he would rather have him for a companion than all the black-jacket codgers in England.
Whether Kiddy had any latent meaning in the singular pains he took to ingratiate himself with his

young master, I will not here enquire; but certainly Standfast one day told him to take care how he came on, to which Kiddy archly replied,
'Oh, as for that, master governor, don't you go for to be uneasy: honour you know among thieves.'

Thus have I shown, when all things are considered, that Standfast was the worst actor in his own farce. Nay I know not, upon all great occasions, whether to the subordinate objects the whole praise is not attributable. Trim says, while he is mustering his tattered troop, fifty thousand such ragged rascals as these would make an ALEXANDER, and who can deny but the tailor and the mantua-maker tell truth when they say that the splendour of the birth night is owing to them.


FOR want of leisure, or perhaps inclination, or for some other wise reason, no less cogent, I did not mention to the reader that, at the last grand feast, a young stranger appeared, and indeed attracted a great deal of notice. He was then just arrived from Madeira, and brought letters to Sir Sidney from a merchant there, with whom the baronet dealt for wines, and transacted other business. Coming so opportunely, he was invited to the feast, and cut, as I have said, no inconsiderable figure.
Charles took great pleasure in accommodating this gentleman, whose name was Gloss; studying his ease and convenience while he remained in Warwickshire. He requested the pleasure of corresponding with him, and begged his intimate friendship when he should return to England, with a view of settling, which he talked of doing after he should have taken a trip to the Cape of Good Hope, where

his father had died immensely rich, on his return from India.
The winter had now began so to perriwig the trees, as somebody has called it—by the way, somebody and nobody are very useful figures in rhetoric—that the semicircle of evergreens before Sir Sidney's saloon, with the clusters near it, looked like a vegetable court of judges and counsellors, in powdered ties and full-bottoms.
This hint, and a call of the house of commons—for Sir Sidney had stayed in the country beyond his usual time, roused the baronet, and made him begin to think of putting on his boots. Yet not even his duty, dearly as he loved it, could induce him to stir a step without Lord Hazard, who was become what SHAKESPEARE says of life,
'a walking shadow.'

Lord Hazard looked upon himself as the executioner of his wife, and though his grief was inward, yet it did not escape such vigilant friendship as Sir Sidney's. His lordship declared he would devote himself to retirement. His friends, however, at length prevailed; and, to make the satisfaction complete and universal, Annette was, for the first time, to see London, accompanied by Emma.

It was the continual study of every one to make Lord Hazard's time pass agreeably, in which pleasurable task Mr. Standfast now assisted, whose presence his lordship confessed contributed greatly to relieve his care, though heaven knows he had no such intention; for his visits were for no other purpose than to warn him of certain snares which Mrs. O'Shocknesy was not preparing for him, in order, if possible, to entangle him in others that she was.
About Christmas arrived Charles's friend Gloss, from the Cape of Good Hope, where he had, he said, settled his affairs greatly to his satisfaction.—He brought answers to some letters with which Sir Sidney entrusted him for Madeira.
As Mr. Gloss will hereafter cut no inconsiderable figure in this history, it may not be improper to give some account of him. He was the son of a clergyman, who, probably, knowing that the advancement in the learned professions was a thing that depended less upon merit than interest, had bred him up to trade: not sparing, however, to give him a complete education, which he very properly thought could do him no harm in any situation.

One thing, however, was very romantic in this scheme. All these bricks were to be made without straw; for the old gentleman either could not, or would not, give his son a shilling, towards laying a foundation for that fortune he was nevertheless sure he would one day or other make. But having added the living languages to the dead ones, and procured a recommendation for him to a countinghouse at Lisbon, they parted: the father furnishing him with some excellent rules for the regulation of his future conduct, and forbidding him to draw for any thing but advice.
The young gentleman's temper happened luckily to fall in with his father's. He undertook, if he were eligibly set out, to make his fortune. His maxims were, from early youth, that if a man chose to fix his eye upon a spot, let it be ever so out of his present reach, or surrounded by ever such difficulties, through perseverance it might be come at. In little, he had proved this doctrine to be founded; for he never in his life possessed, in his own right, a single sixpence, and yet he had cut a figure with the best.
It is curious to remark, that though no man upon earth knew better the value of substance than Mr. Gloss, yet he seem constantly to live upon

shadow. The appearance, and not the thing itself, seemed to be what he most delighted in. He so completely turned round all his employers in their own business, that the tide of their fortune soon ran in a larger channel, and they were astonished at the riches which originated from plans of his advising. They however little considered what a yoke they were forming for themselves; for it was not long before the young gentleman stipulated for a participation of their profits, in consequence of which he took the earliest opportunity to involve the affairs of the partnership, and was the only one able to save any thing from the wreck of a bankruptcy, in which the whole concern was soon involved.
After this stroke he went to Madeira, where he drew a picture of the folly of his partners, and showed very clearly—for it is certainly true that people are to be reasoned into, as well as out of, any thing—how unwisely they had acted, and how foolishly he had thrown away his time.
Being, through a house with which he had been connected, very soon taken in an active partner, for a slight share of the profits, and with liberty to trade privately on his own account, he entered into the spirit of the Madeira trade in such a style as astonished every merchant on the island. He had the address

to tie the Dunkirk dealers down to give him and his connections a preference in brandies, provided they dealt to such an amount; in consequence of which he soon had it in his power to stagnate the Dunkirk trade in Madeira, by being able to undersell the brandy merchants themselves, who, eager to catch at the bait he held out for them, had supplied him largely, little suspecting he would hold back what he had bought, with a view of forestalling their next market.
I give this as one among a variety of instances in which he saw further into people's affairs than they did themselves. By this means he had resources for them which they never dreamt of, and of course was able to stipulate for better terms for himself.
In the mean time it was, one would think, this man's pride never to have a shilling he could call his own. Nothing was expensive enough for him, and when it was his turn to treat at Bachelor's-hall,—a place at Madeira built by the unmarried men, and remarkable for hospitality—it was in a style that astonished every body: for his taste was equal to his ingenuity.
At length Madeira became too barren a spot for the fecundity of his genius. He left it after giving

it many real advantages, and was universally regretted, as a man wonderfully calculated for business, and yet a most agreeable companion.
He got a considerable sum for his concern in the house he left, which he took care, in a few months, to get rid of in England.
The reader remembers that this gentleman brought letters from his connections in Madeira to Sir Sidney. These were of course greatly in his favour. Indeed the baronet was very well disposed to show him any kindness; but it was among the maxims of Mr. Gloss never to make use of a friend except to carry a material point, and a man must be very shallow indeed if he could not pretty well guess beforehand whether that point could be carried.
The plan upon which this young gentleman proceeded was very simple, but it required consummate talents. It was nothing more than to administer to every man's foibles, and reprobate his vices. It is imppossible to describe how a man is infallibly taken hold of by a conduct of this kind. Very few are uniformly good, or uniformly wicked; therefore, all who are not have both follies and vices mixed with some good qualities, Our follies are always agreeable

to us, but though all vices are the consequence of them, we detest the vice itself, while we hug the folly that may have caused it. Close however as we may take folly to our hearts, we never fail to be privately ashamed of ourselves for it, nor to attribute, in the face of the world, our actions to any thing else rather than this hidden cause. What power then must that man have over you, who, by encouraging you in your foibles, not only has discovered this pleasurable deformity you are so studious to hide, but, by glossing it over, contrives to make you believe it appears as agreeable to him as to yourself. This man has your heart fully and wholly, and there is nothing you can deny him.
This was Mr. Gloss, who, however he came by it, had this art in the highest perfection, and knew so well how and upon whom to play his game, that he was ever sure of coming off winner.
Nor are the talents which form this character of necessity required to be very brilliant, though various and perspicuous. They are of the minor kind: a quickness of conception, a close observation on men and manners, some shrewdness, and a good memory comprising them all: to which indeed—but that would be a deduction in worthy matters—

must be indispensibly added, frontless impudence and a total want of feeling.
Any man with these in his possession, if he employ himself in nothing but this pursuit, will arrive to as great perfection in the noble art of playing upon mankind, as will raise him to that degree of consequence he may think proper.
These qualifications stood with Mr. Gloss in the place of Fortune, and with these he turned that fickle lady's wheel as he thought proper.
Will not the reader begin to feel uncomfortable when, in conformity to that veracity which all historians should critically keep in view, I am obliged to declare that this was the gentleman Mr. Standfast had in his eye as a husband for Annette.
Charles, Figgins, and Mr. Gloss were inseperable. The latter cut a prodigious figure. He had an elegant chariot, half a dozen footmen, and might have been taken for a newly arrived nabob. It was an extraordinary thing, however, that go where they would, though he was sure to run up a most expensive reckoning, he, by some carelessness or other, constantly left his purse at home, so that

he presently became indebted to Charles more than two hundred pounds in odds and ends of this kind.
This passed off as eccentricity, and as he had a most agreeable apparent indolence of mind, which, by the way, was what Kiddy would have called a copy of his countenance, he appeared to our hero the most delightful companion he had ever met with.
It was agreed that Charles, with Figgins as a companion, should, early in the spring, set out to make a tour of Europe, in which he ventured to express a very strong wish that Mr. Gloss would accompany him.
This however could not be. That gentleman was in treaty for a borough, which a member was expected every day to vacate in his favour. Besides, he had requested Sir Sidney to cheapen an estate for him in Warwickshire, and he was cursedly afraid that a certain woman of condition, that he said should be nameless—and so she well might, for she was not in existence—would insist upon a kind of a half promise he had made, and noose him; which matter, he said, were it really serious, he verily believed would drive him abroad; for he did

not think the possession of the finest and richest woman in the kingdom a compensation for the loss of any man's liberty of his figure and consequence.


THE spring put an end to those town enjoyments which had employed the leisure hours of our hero and his connections, and now Charles and his friend Figgins began to prepare for an excursion to those parts of the world where true politeness is thought to be native, so heartily do Englishmen reprobate the manners of their own country, though they so dearly love its principles.
It was settled that our hero should go on to Italy, by the borders of Flanders, and not see Paris till on his return to England, through the heart of France; as it was thought, by that means, he would the better taste the pleasures of that capital.
Charles's heart was fully set on this tour, and, for several days, it was the general topic of all the friends. He received the good wishes and advice of all with great thankfulness. Sir Sidney, with

the heartiest friendship, entreated him not to engraft French manners upon an English cion. He begged of him to hear, see, and consider; to approve and adopt whatever mended the heart, but to reject with contempt all that merely went to decorate the person. He said a flattering exterior was a dangerous thing, and there were sometimes more art and design under a feather, than any graver decoration of the head. He said the whole character of the French was comprehended in minutiae; that this rendered them at first sight agreeable, afterwards necessary, and at length, to credulous men, endearing, but to the penetrating trifling and tiresome.
Sir Sidney said he would not wish for a better authority for pronouncing a man weak and ignorant than his having a strong attachment, upon repeated trials, to the French in general. They were, he said, polite without good manners; acquainted with every thing, though perfect in nothing; praying one moment and cheating the next; holding you in their arms, and laughing over your shoulder; gay with design; accommodating with arrogance; apparently open, but really hypocritical; assuming with meanness. In short, he said their lives were a mixture of pride and servility; self-consequence and adulation; stateliness and cringing; protestation

and insincerity; and though their sports were the sports of children, their mischief was the mischief of monkies.

'Happy the man then, sir,' said Charles, 'who, like you, can sensibly discriminate between the extremes of this motley character, and retain so much of it for his own use as shall make him wary in his dealings with the world, without being dishonourable.'

'I know not,' said Sir Sidney, 'whether I deserve your compliment, but this is the very effect I would wish the French manners to have upon you, who, however cautioned, will, I fear, from the openness of your heart, and your strong desire to find men what they ought to be, take, without examination, that dross which the French so very easily contrive to pass for sterling. As to Italy, see every valuable picture, statue, and structure; hear all that is excellent in music, admire the country, and come away, lest, exclusive of the danger to your own morals, you are obliged to confess that the most beautiful, and once the most glorious, place in the world, is now the most infamous.'

Lady Roebuck, who truly regarded Charles as her son, as much from inclination as from a promise

made to Lady Hazard on her death bed, gave him only general advice as to his youth and inexperience, relying however on his strong good sense, and that rectitude of heart which, as we have already noticed, was remarkable in so young a man. She promised to keep Annette firmly to her sentiments of esteem for him, and doubted not but his conduct would warrant all her exertions in the promotion of his happiness; and finally, that Annette improved at home, and he abroad, there could be no doubt of their making one of the most happy, as well as elegant couples in the world.
Emma warned him against the jays of France and the nightingales of Italy. She said she foresaw that, if his heart was not steel and adamant, he would be ruined; that she had read his mind thoroughly, and plainly saw that the only vice he had in the world was want of deceit. It was, to be sure, a strange declaration, but it was very true. That she should not wonder at any thing he became in the hands of the French and Italians; for he was such pliable wax that any man, with a plausible story, the argument of which could be deduced from a good motive, might shape him into any form. She begged of him, in particular, to beware of holy hypocrites. What she had read, she told him, of their cruelty and dissoluteness, was yet worse, if possible, than all

the gambols with which the forms of their facetious religion seemed to burlesque its author: or rather, the author of that which they daringly ventured to innovate, and which involved a system of morality mild as mercy, and benignant as his holy name who established it. Above all she cautioned him against convents, and an intercourse with those drones of society the inmates of them, who, from leisure to plan, and inclination to execute, were the perpetrators of every species of profligacy and mischief. Her reading, she said, had induced her to believe that there were more than three hundred thousand cloystered clergy in France, and a proportionable number of females; that the wickedness, the attrocious wickedness carried on within those walls, which were supposed to immure saints, was shockto humanity.
Emma further observed that it could not be supposed that any thing like the licentious infamy of France and Italy could ever have been practised here, because England had, properly speaking, never been the seat of that dangerous religion; but let it be recollected, in the reign of Henry the Eighth, what barbarous, what detestable vestiges of popish profligacy were discovered at the demolishing Netley abbey, and many other convents.—Subterraneous communications for nightly visits

from friars to nuns, and nuns to friars. Hidden infants apparently murdered. If then the plant, which was here an exotic, grew to such perfection, how must it flourish in its native soil. It was horrible to think of it!

'But,' added Emma, if I may credit what I have read, this most unholy, irreverent, indecent, ridiculous religion, is clearly where it exists a jest with all but the superstitious ignorant. What is the mode of choosing a pope but a blasphemous imposition, in which, one would think, to punish them for presumptuously daring to give out that their election is from heaven, they once, by inspiration no doubt, as well as upon all other occasions, chose a woman, who betrayed her sex, their shame, and opened the eyes of every one who chose to see. But vive la bagatelle in that, as in every thing else, soon got the better of good sense and sound reason, and they went on electing popes, the choice of heaven; not however without taking a precaution, lest heaven should have again deceived them.'

Emma's precautions were applauded by a burst of laughter, and Charles entreated her to make herself perfectly easy, giving her his word that he would take particular care that his small plantation

of understanding should not be eaten up by these black locusts.
Annette took an innocent but tender leave of her lover; for Emma had ever encouraged her not to be ashamed of a truly virtuous passion. Our hero felt himself greatly charmed at the distinction, and exulted not a little at reflecting that after time and experience should have prepared him with manly and proper resolutions, and given him riper qualities of mind and person, the possession of so charming an object would be within his reach. Many were their mutual protestations: ardent, yet innocent; heartfelt, yet reasonable. At length they separated, with a promise to write to each other, and with vows of inviolable fidelity.
One audience now only stood with Lord Hazard, before the time when our hero was to depart. This interview was without witness. My lord took his son tenderly by the hand, saying,
'My dear Charles, lowered as I am by my grief, wretched by calamity, and disordered by both, my merits are more than rewarded by having you for my son. I never made you a stranger to my youthful excesses; indeed it would perhaps be policy to paint them to you even in their strongest colours, that you might shun the certain ruin that awaits

such profligacy. Your incomparable mother, now no more, was—I cannot think of it but my soul is in arms—given me to bless my repentant heart with comfort more than such a wretch deserved; yet did I, after the enjoyment of such bliss, such unexampled delight, dash the cup of happiness from my lips, in the very moment that it held for me all the blessings of life in one delicious draught.

'Wonder not at my words, Charles, it is very true; your mother owes her death to me!—to your father!—to your wretched culpable father! He who should from duty, from gratitude, from a sense of his own honour, her virtues, her angelic virtues, have avoided like contagion the most distant means that could wound her mind the thousandth part of a moment, much less join with wretches, with infamous detestable wretches, to work the destruction of her peace, and then her life! Oh look with pity,' cried he, in agony, injured, martyred saint, and calm the woes that tear me!—that destroy me!—that feed me with such torturing remorse as would make me think annihilation a blessing! My dear boy thou art astonished.'—

'I am indeed sir,' said Charles; 'but it cannot

be; I know sir it is impossible. The fixed, the solemn melancholy with which my indeed incomparable mother's death has shaded your brow, makes you see every thing through a sadly deceitful medium, and you think the irregularities of your youth sat near her heart. But cheer away this melancloly, my lord and father: let me forego my intention of travelling, and stay to comfort you by my watchful and tender duty. I will swear to have no joy, no employment, but the dear pleasing task of exhausting all my little talents to divert and soften your anxiety.'

'My good, my noble boy,' said Lord Hazard, I cannot now enjoy a single glimpse of happiness but that which results from reflecting how great, how illustrious a figure you will one day make. My heart is set on your travelling, and the letters I shall receive from you will be all my comfort. As for the rest, time and reflection, sweeted by the friendship of Sir Sidney, may restore my health—which I will endeavour to preserve for thy sake—but nothing can give me back my peace of mind. This unhappy business, which was not a youthful folly, but a relapse of honour:—Poor boy, I little thought, when I was schooling thee, how much I stood in need of a tutor myself. But my words, like my deeds, want connection. I

was going to say I would relate this damned business to you by letter, with reflections; the whole of which together may serve you for an excellent system of advice, for it will have both honest precept and dreadful example in one.'

Charles acceeded to the terms, and pledged himself before hand, so well he said he knew his father's excellent heart, that in discussing this business, be it what it might, the guilt would vanish, though the cala•…ity should remain.
My 〈…〉 thanking his son for this earnest of his tender •…ty, proceeded in more tranquillity to tell him the state of his expectations.

'Heaven knows, my dear, my worthy boy,' said he, 'that it would be the pride of my life could I leave you my her•ditary estate and honours, but they are so rigidly tied up, that it is impossible. All you can have therefore is your mother's jointure, amounting to about fifteen hundred a year, and what ready money I may die possessed of, which I hope will realize for you an annuity equal to that amount: and with this fortune I know Sir Sidney will be content to take you for his son in 〈…〉. Your income till you are of age will be a thousand a year: spend this freely; I give you

leave; but do not spend a shilling more. If I should die before you return—'

'Far be that unhappy day,' said Charles. 'Come sir, take leave of melancholy reflections; I shall not else have the heart to leave you. Indeed I can hardly bear the thought at any rate. Warm as my youthful imagination paints the various pleasures of different courts and nations, I should be wretched in the midst of them all, and alone though in a throng, if I thought, in my absence, my father indulged a single sigh that my presence could suppress.'

'Noble boy,' said Lord Hazard, 'charming youth, adieu: your kind words shall serve me for consolation till I have your first letter; your first letter till I have your second; and thus you see pleasure will accumulate with me—and every post too—for by every post I hope you will write.'
'I will indeed, my dear father,' said Charles, 'but let me not go while you are thus uneasy. I feel a reluctance, an unspeakable reluctance to leave you. There is an inquietude hangs over me that I cannot describe.'
'It is nothing, my kind boy,' said his father, 'but the damp I have thrown on your spirits; my letters however will dissipate it. I have ever wanted to open my heart to you, for

I wish to think you as much a friend as a son.—Do then, by the most tender, the most endearing expressions, in both qualities, hearten me to live to be happy, to make thee so; thee, my good boy, my only remaining comfort!'
'Doubt not my whole power, my whole devotion,' said Charles. 'Be assured there is no pursuit upon earth that I shall not consider as secondary to my duty to the best of fathers.'
'And now Charles,' said my lord, 'almost the happiestof fathers, since I see I shall derive so much pleasure from thee.'

A servant now informed them the chaise was ready. A few more reciprocal promises of attention passed, after which they joined the company, to every individual of which Charles bid a tender adieu; till at length, having embraced his father with uncommon emotion, he burst into a flood of tears, hurried with Figgins to the chaise, and had got twenty miles before he once opened his mouth.


EVERY thing Mr. Figgins had done hitherto was rather a partial rehearsal behind the scenes than the actual performance of his part. He now comes forward on the stage, where we dare trust him without a prompter, so well had he perfected himself in those scenes where he was destined to make his appearance: and indeed it were to be wished that other actors, whether on the theatre or in the pulpit, at the bar, at court, or any of those many playhouses in the kingdom, were—though but for the sake of consistency—half so well qualified to sustain their parts, or half so perfect in them.

Charles had not twice changed horses in his way to Dover before he had much welcome cause to be charmed with the solicitude of his friend. Figgins well knew that to treat a disorder in the mind, he must have recourse to a practice the very reverse of that generally adopted with relation to the body; therefore, instead of nauseous, unpalatable draughts, in which one would think its professors imagined consist all the secrets of physic, he studiously went about to prepare all that he conceived would charm the heart and expand the liberal mind of our hero. He drew him from his silence by degrees; extolled in the highest terms of admiration his filial piety; represented the condition of his father as the workings of a truly amiable mind, formerly irregular indeed, but now restored to the exercises of reason and benevolence; he drew a warm picture of both the power and the will of Sir Sidney to sooth all his cares; and finally, painted the extreme satisfaction that would result to him by a contemplation that he had one son who would become so great an honour to him as to make noble amends for the obloquy cast upon his name by the despicable ignorance and contemptible conduct of the other.
After several similar preparations, he began to enter upon the grand subject, and at length made his young friend perfectly sensible for what purpose

they were then in the post chaise. France and all its gaieties began insensibly to blend in their conversation, and Figgins archly remarked that gravity was an exotic which certainly would not flourish in so smiling a climate.
Charles was ever remarkably tenacious of not permitting his private feelings to inconvenience his friends, and the less he conceived himself obliged to restraint by a man's presence, the more forward he was to show that his attention was voluntary.—He felt Figgins's kindness, and began to unbend. Besides, he had high health, and brilliant spirits; and however sincerely he might grieve at heart when he reflected—which he certainly very often did for his time of life—sorrow caught but little apparent hold on his volatile mind.
Being arrived at Dover, they bespoke a passage boat to themselves for the next morning, and while it was yet day-light took a walk to see that cliff which Emma had convinced herself, by her reading, though now the boundary of the channel, had certainly, in former times, made a part of the continent.
On their return to supper, the landlady informed them that a young lady, attended by a footman and

a female servant, had arrived since their departure, and finding that our travellers had engaged the only passage boat on the Dover side, expressed an anxious wish that she might be permitted to go half the expense of the vessel, and sail with that opportunity, for that her affairs called for expedition; and she had been also informed that as the wind blew right into Calais harbour there would be no chance of any arrival from thence.
It will easily be conceived that the request was instantly complied with, though not the terms of it. A genteel compliment was instantly returned to the lady, with an earnest entreaty that she would suffer the gentlemen to wait on her. The interview was permitted, the lady was complimented with the offer of a passage for her and her servants, which it was delicately hinted to her must be gratis, and, after as much hesitation as was due to good breeding, she accepted the proposal.
What Figgins had so successfully began, this lady completed. She was young, handsome, and lively, and though there appeared now and then a little levity in her manner, yet Charles, upon Figgins's suggestion, was willing to attribute it to her extraction and situation, the first of which they soon

learnt from her own mouth was French, and the latter that of a widow.
In the course of their conversation, it came out, to the great satisfaction of our travellers, that this young lady, by name St. Vivier, was born in England, and the daughter of a French refugee; that she married a French gentleman, who was proscribed for some overt acts in which he stood up for the liberty of the subject, but he now being dead, she was going to see what she could collect in France of the scattered remains of his fortune; that her journey was to Lyons, and being obliged to make some stay at Sedan, for intelligence among her late husband's relations, she should pursue her rout by the borders of Flanders.
As this was step for step the way that had been marked out for Charles, what could be so fortunate as the above intelligence. This fact was communicated, and a proposal suggested that they should make that tour together. It was not however mentioned but with the most suitable propriety as to preparation and manner. The lady found great difficulty to believe that her route was really that which our travellers had intended to take, but saw, she said, that they were so polite as to alter their intention in compliment to her.

Both Charles and Figgins vehemently protested the truth of their assertion, and indeed used so many arguments to convince her that it would have been an infringment of that politeness which she seemed to possess in a natural and elegant degree to have •urther doubted their veracity. The next difficulty was that it would appear very odd if she should travel in the company of strangers. Charles said she had her own servants with her, and Figgins noticed that they were all alike strangers in France, where indeed no explanations were ever required when people paid their way. This she said she should make a point of doing to the utmost farthing, if she consented at all, but at any rate she must entreat till the morning to consider of the propriety of their proposal,
'for,' added she, 'a woman of honour cannot be too cautious, especially in such a licentious country as France has been described to me.'

In this remark both our hero and his friend acquiesced, and now supper being announced, the lady, after some little difficulty, was prevailed on to partake of it; not however without remarking that matters must be put upon a different footing when they should arrive on the other side of the water. To which our hero replied, with a very penetrating glance, that he sincerely hoped it would

be so, and, upon the lady's looking grave, added, since it appeared to be her wish.
A smart breeze the next day conducted them safely to Calais in something more than three hours, where, after the customary ceremonies of entering their names, paying a visit to the custom-house, giving something in charity, and satisfying a few clamorous porters, they were glad to get hold of some soup gras at Desseins, which, as well as the rest of their dinner, they found excellent.
In the evening they went to the play, which was also performed in the same inn, where there is a remarkable neat theatre, and by no means small. During the performance Charles was greatly pleased with the remarks of Madame St. Vivire, who spoke French admirably well, and perfectly tasted the neat nothingness of the French little operas, two of which were that night given. Our hero, who knew also that language as well as reading could teach it him, begged to be this lady's scholar for the practical part of it. She readily agreed, by which means, as he feigned, whenever he found it convenient, to know less than he did, he had a thousand opportunities of indulging himself in a thousand witty sallies, by way of trying how a declaration of love would be taken, which he the less hesitated

to do, as a widow at her own disposal was fairly out of his agreement.
He first tried his French eloquence to persuade her that the pleasure of her charming company and the advantage of the rapid improvement he should make under her tuition would amply overbalance the expenses of their journey. At first however she could not think of consenting to this, but Charles being strongly seconded by Figgins, she at length agreed.
This matter set Charles more at ease, for he was pretty well assured she could not be a woman of very nice honour who would, in this instance, yield to the solicitation of two strangers. He therefore determined to ply her with the whole force of his amorous eloquence. At night he took notice she sipped the burgundy pretty freely, which opportunity he seized to insinuate some bold hints which were not ill received. Maintaining this ground, he had soon reason to think the lady would, after a very short siege, surrender in form, which hopes were confirmed the next morning by Figgins, who had already won the lady's woman—both a handsome and genteel girl—and reaped the fruits of his victory.

Charles redoubled his assiduity, and Madam St. Vivier, after holding out with great apparent modesty, at length reluctantly promised to make him happy on their arrival at Lisle, to which place, having seen every thing at Calais, not forgetting the picture where the citizens are kneeling to King Edward, with halters about their necks, which curiosity was recommended to his attention by Emma, they now prepared to set out.
About an hour before the horses were to be ready, Mr. Dessein begged the favour of an audience with Charles, which being granted him, after a proper apology and preparation, he said he had a matter of great delicacy to communicate, which concerned him nearly.
Charles expressed some surprise at this declaration, and having previously promised at Dessein's entreaty, that he would in no wise take the matter ill, he was informed that, some months before, a gentleman came to him one morning, saying,
'Mr. Dessein I have been robbed of those eighty louis d'ors which I yesterday received from you in a bag.'
He replied it was impossible; that his money might probably be mislaid, or found by the servants, but that in that house nobody could be

robbed. He would make enquiry, he said, and the money would be restored to him.

The gentleman went out, and at his return Dessein had eighty louis d'ors ready for him in a bag similar to the other, for money being in France often paid in three livre and six livre pieces, the bankers have all bags on purpose.
The excuse made to the gentleman was, that, as the house was very full the evening before, the servant, after he was asleep, seeing the bag lie on the ground, had brought it to one of the clerks, who had put it in the counting house; for it should be known that Dessein is a banker as well as an innkeeper. The gentleman, not in the least suspecting the truth of what he heard, put the money in his pocket, and went away.
The fact, however, which had been so artfully suppressed, was this: Dessein said he saw in a moment that the gentleman had been really robbed, and upon making his enquiries, as to the situation of the lodgers, he found to a certainty by whom. In short, he said, this crime was committed by a young English gentleman, heir to a high title, and a large estate; that it could not be for want of money,

as, no doubt, he might have had what he pleased of his father; but finding himself in an immediate necessity, instead of applying to him, in which case he might have been supplied, he took this sum without considering the consequences.
Mr. Dessein said the resolution he took upon it was to say nothing upon the subject to any person till he should see the young gentleman himself, for that out of gratitude to the English, to whom he owed his all, he would rather lose ten times that sum than make a stir about such a trifle, but that having seen that young gentleman since, and been treated by him in a very en cavalier style, though he was determined not to expose him, except to his own family, he should now certainly make no scruple of applying for the money.
In short, he informed our hero, who began now to smell a rat, that Zekiel was the thief.
What an opportunity is here to put an end to this history! Charles had nothing to do but get his brother hanged, to be heir to the family, title, and estate, his marriage with Annette would have followed of course, and when they had produced half

a dozen children, for Lord Hazard to dandle on his knee, and comfort himself in his old age, he would have sunk peaceably to rest, and have left his darling son and daughter in possession of his honours.
Whether Charles foresaw an uniform tranquillity in such a life, and was determined to experience what sort of pleasures are generally produced by variety, or whether—which is full as probable—he felt a strong wish to hide his unnatural brother's frailty, we will not enquire. Certain it is, he, without hesitation, repaid Mr. Dessein upon the spot, thanked him for his prudence, and represented that he was sorry to see his brother possessed so insolent a spirit, but begged he would consider the whole as an extravagant tour de jeunesse, which had more of false wit in it than premeditated vice. He desired that the whole might sink into oblivion, and in particular that it might never come to his father's ears.
Mr. Dessein promised literally to follow the directions of our hero, with whose manner and generosity he was very much struck; and could not help remarking that he plainly saw, though

the honour was vested in the elder brother, the younger possessed the virtues which could alone enoble a family.


CHARLES having finished this business greatly to his satisfaction, determined that no hint should escape him concerning it, not even to Figgins; but, lest future instances of his brother's nefarious conduct should multiply in a strange country, where it would cost him dearly to extricate himself from such difficulties, he lengthened a letter he had already written to his father, by first very delicately apologizing for touching on such a subject, and then entreating that his brother's allowance might be augmented, even though his own should be curtailed; for that it was impossible for a man in any style to cut a figure in France—particularly a young and inexperienced man—with a slender income. He gave some general reasons for this request, and, though with great deference, strongly submitted the matter to his father's consideration.

After entreating Mr. Dessein to send any letters forward for him to Lisle, he took leave of Calais.
At Lisle they purposed staying a few days, and as Charles promised himself the possession of Madame St. Vivier, he was determined to sport as grand a figure as his circumstances would allow.—He therefore hired a carriage, made parties, and gave petits soupees at his inn, which were of course frequented by as many guests, particularly officers and abbes, as could beg, borrow, or steal cards of invitation.
One evening, about half an hour before supper, arrived un My Lor Anglois, with a gentleman and lady, two footmen and a maid servant, who could not get so elegant a repast as they wished, all the delicacies being taken up by our hero, who had invited a large party by way of adieu to Lisle.—Charles, when he came to understand the inconvenience of the strangers, of which he had been innocently the cause, upon consulting Figgins, sent his compliments and requested as a favour that they would add sans facons to the number of those he had invited.
The invitation was as freely accepted as given, the two gentlemen and the lady presently appeared,

and were received with all that freedom so common in France. The lady was immediately surrounded by the officers, and the gentlemen, who appeared to be true English sportsmen, were hunting out for any body who could speak a word of English. Figgins and our hero relieved their distress as much as possible. At length supper appeared, and presently one of our bucks said to the other,
'I say, you Tadpole, if I can think how so many people jabber so curse confoundedly with their jaws full.'
'Oh, my lord,' said his friend, 'a Frenchman's jaws are like the tools of a trunk maker, they always make more noise than work.'

Figgins gave them a hint that they had better be on their guard, lest any of the company should understand English.

'Oh dam'me,' said my lord, 'the queer lantern jawed bitches of fellows know no more about English than they do about roast beef: only see if they do. Mounseer!'
'Monsieur,' answered a very polite abbe.
'I say,' said my lord, 'Mounseer, how much soup meeger and frogs do you hide away, when you can get it, in your leather bags of cheeks, that look for all the world like the jaw bags of a monkey?'


The abbe, after paying him the utmost attention, replied,
'Monsieur, je ne comprend pas un mot.'—
'Now what the devil,' faid my lord, 'is paws umo?'
'He fays he does not understand what you say,' answered Figgins; 'but you see how open you are yourself, for what he said might have been abuse for ought you knew to the contrary.'

'Come sir,' said my lord, 'no offence to you, but I will bet you five hundred, and I say done first, that if any French rascal in company dares for to offer an affront to me, I twigs him a lick of the jaws.'

At this moment Madam St. Vivier said
'My Lord Hazard I have the pleasure of drinking your health.'
To which Charles answered,
'My dear Madam I thank you; give me leave to drink with you, that our wishes may be mutual.'

The stranger, who was disputing with Figgins, here cried out,
'Hey! what's this! Here you Tadpole, how is this? Here is a gentleman does me the honour to take up my title before I am dead, ay and before my old put of a father is dead too!'


Charles, penetrating in a moment the whole force of these few words, blushed with indignation, which Zekiel perceiving—for the reader sees it was he—followed the blow he had given, by saying
'Ay, dam'me, fine work; fine times, when every little whipper snapper can set up for a lord!'
'True,' said Figgins, who had a mind to give our hero time for recollection, 'and one may see by your own appearance how contemptible it is,'—
'Nay,' said Mr. Tadpole, 'you must now suffer me to speak sir. This gentleman is certainly the eldest son of Lord Hazard, who has ridiculously discarded him under pretence of libertine conduct, when there is scarcely such an old libertine as himself in existence.'

'Sir,' said Charles, 'your assertion is a falsity. I see this whole business. I am by accident in the company of my elder brother, who shall not, nor shall you sir, traduce the character of the most amiable father that ever had existence.'
'Come, come,' said Figgins, 'let the matter, now it is explained, be, as it ought, forgotton; or at least defer it all the company is gone, or till to-morrow morning.'

'I defer it!' said the young lord;
'no such thing I assure you:—who's afraid of these grinning baboons

here?'
for the Frenchmen had by this time began to shrug up their shoulders, and demonstrate other tokens of admiration.
'My brother Charles here, for that is the go I see, thinks, because he has got a parcel of starve-gutted rips of mounseers about him, that a man of my condition, dam'me, is to be grinned out of his title.'

'When the title comes to be yours,' retorted Charles, 'there will be more likelihood of grinning than at present; but the matter, as Mr. Figgins has very properly said, should drop, which you had better agree to yourself, at least for the present, if it were only in consideration of your being my guest.'

'Your guest!' said Zekiel, 'why do you think as I would have come for to eat any of your supper if I had been up to such fine gig as this?'—
'As much,' said Charles, as I would have invited you, had I known who you were:—as the invitation therefore was sent as from stranger to stranger, I am willing to give it another turn to all those who have not understood the dispute, and I am sure the whole company will join in laughing it off.'

'Yes, and a fine laugh it would be against me,

hey Tadpole. No, no, dam'me, I will tell them all about it. I say, Mounseer, no my lord he—I my lord.'
'Ah ha!' said an officer, without understanding him.
'Dam'me if I ever saw such a set of fools in my life,' said Zekiel.
'That man no my lord at all; I am one great, grand my lord myself!'

'Very great and very grand indeed,' said Charles; 'it is pity that nobody knows it.'

'You are a puppy, Mr. Charles,' said Zekiel: why the devil don't you help me out, Tadpole? you can jabber a little of their damned gibberish.'

Tadpole undertook to inform the company how the matter stood, in which account he certainly behaved very scandalously, by representing Zekiel as a lord, and Charles as an impostor, without explaining how innocently the matter had been fallen into. Here Charles interfered with all the warmth he could. It was however to no purpose. Cest affreux! Jesu Maria! Cest honteux! and half a dozen other expressions of astonishment, were all uttered together, and the whole company agreed that they had all along feared our hero was a low born fellow by his prodigality. In short, a thousand marks of

attention were immediately lavished upon Zekiel, which being interpreted to him through the medium of Tadpole, he swore he never liked French people so well in his life, while Charles, fortified by indignation against the apostacy of his guests, did not now think it worth his while to undeceive them, but contented himself with taking this as a caution how he should summon together a promiscuous company in France at his own expense for the future.
Figgins however was determined it should not go off so. He observed that not one of the company, while they bestowed pretty liberally the most humiliating epithets on Charles, grudged to eat or drink any thing they could lay their hands on, he therefore moved that either nothing should be touched, or that they would accompany every word, in the manner they had before this discovery, with some well-turned compliment to him at whose expense they sat down; for as nothing was expected for so sumptuous an entertainment but words—a coin in which they were very rich and very prodigal—he must beg, in the name of his friend, that they would fulfil the conditions of the feast, otherwise it would induce him to wish for a bill, that every man might pay his reckoning in another coin, with

which he did not believe they were so well provided.
This sarcasm gave very high offence, notwithstanding which they eat and drank on without offering to comply with either of Mr. Figgins's conditions, till at last Zekiel, to whom they were explained through Tadpole, offered to pay his share, and invited his new friends to follow his example.
His adherents began now to forsake him; no one came into his proposal, and all eyes were immediately fixed again upon Charles, who seeing what sort of turn matters were likely to take, got up, and said,
'Come gentlemen, I will end the dispute:—Is it not fair that he should be considered as the true Lord Hazard who pays the bill?'

A general affirmative was instantly given, and Zekiel being asked if he would pay the whole expense of the evening out of his pocket, answered he would see such a set of mounseers and madames at the devil first. Charles then called the waiter, who said there was nothing to pay, for that his honour had satisfied every thing, as well for the supper as the dance and little opera that would enter in a few minutes.

Zekiel now under went a thousand mortifications, which he contented himself with returning by abuse, in a language the Frenchmen could not understand. At length he sneaked off to bed, vowing revenge against his brother, which Mr. Flush, who, as we have said, was a follower of his fortunes, assured him, as he ascended the gallery, was easily practicable.
I have already said Charles had reason to believe that Madame St. Vivier would at Lisle recompense his attention, by consenting to make him happy upon his own terms. That very night show was to comply with his wishes, and this secret, by a means I shall take an opportunity one time or other to explain, Mr. Flush had discovered, and now imparted it to Zekiel, who getting instructions as to the situation of all the different bed-chambers, determined to supplant his brother.
In pursuance of this determination, when all was silent in the inn, he went to the room where he had been directed, and finding it invitingly open, fastened the door on the inside, and groped about till he found the bed. Being accosted by a female voice, in a whisper, he replied in the same manner. He then undrest himself, and was welcomed into bed as warmly as he could wish. In about

half an hour after, another person knocked softly at the door, whom he of course guessed to be his brother Charles; but, advising the lady not to take the smallest notice of this intrusion, after a short time the importunate visitant gave over knocking, and went away.
He began now to glory in his success, and had a great mind to stay and brazen the whole matter out, but was so earnestly entreated by the lady to spare her delicacy, and to leave her before the day dawned, that he at length complied.
Elated with this revenge, Zekiel, as he occasionally passed our hero in the morning, could not help looking big, and half insulting him. Charles bore every thing very patiently, till, being obliged to answer an impertinent question or two, a very provoking altercation ensued, and Zekiel ventured a most invidious and wanton invective against the memory of Charles's mother. Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when our hero fairly knocked him down, and indeed was so transported with passion, that he swore he would not rest a moment till he had sacrificed so infamous a rascal to the offended laws.
Zekiel being again upon his legs, came up and

demanded what he meant by that. Charles bid him ask Monsieur Dessein. At these words Zekiel was in a cold sweat, and trembled from head to foot, and was actually upon the point of confessing the robbery when Figgins and Mr. Tadpole came up-Seeing this, Charles, in the language of Tamerlane, bade him keep his own wicked secret, and be safe; and asking Mr. Tadpole which way they intended to go to England, and being answered by the way of Ostend, he advised him, for the sake of his friend, to keep that resolution.
Figgins plainly saw there was some hidden meaning in this expression, and had indeed, though he had not betrayed it, thought a little mysteriously of the tete a tete interview between Charles and Monsieur Dessein; to which another circumstance that occurred at Lisle being added, he thought it necessary to tax Charles with want of confidence, and pushing the matter while it was warm, he obtained from our hero, who was the worst qualified in the world for a hypocrite, the whole truth.
Figgins thanked him for his frankness, and said that in return he would give him some intelligence relative to Master Zekiel that would not a little surprise him.

He said, that being all well flushed the night before, every one seemed to have his different appointment. For his part, he had made an assignation with Kitty, Madame St. Vivier's maid, which he went to keep, but, by some accident or other, mistaking the chamber, he had certainly introduced himself to Miss Tadpole, who, it was plain, expected somebody; for, upon finding it impossible to answer many of her questions, she was at first in manifest confusion, but soon recovering herself, gave a turn to the unintelligible part of her conversation, and, in direct terms, made him understand that she took him for Zekiel, though what she said was so worded that he plainly saw this was the first interview of that nature which had passed, and which she was evidently surprised into, owing to her expectation of some other person.
Taking the hint, therefore, he passed himself on her for my lord, which indeed spoilt all his scheme of pleasure for the remainder of the night, except so much as gratified his curiosity; for having yielded to his embraces before matters came to be explained, she took on strangely, and complained of being ruined in her sleep, and all the old cant of those ladies who are well versed in such arts as pass off their stale ware to inexperienced young gentlemen.

'I topped my part,' said Figgins, 'for learning from her all those vows and promises which your precious brother has made her, I confirmed them with a number of his quaint oaths, and at length left her apparently satisfied.

'I should not forget to mention that after I had been sometime in bed, a knocking and a voice was heard at the chamber door, on which, in her fright, she said "that is my brother, I know his voice"—'and so, by the way, did I. She would have let him in, to have witnessed the protestations I had made her. This however I overruled, and after a time the brother—for I dare say it was he—went away; but, upon putting all considerations together, I am convinced this Mr. Tadpole is the lady's gallant, and they are trying together to noose your brother, which, upon my soul, I think, for the sake of the family, ought to be prevented.'

Charles agreed to this, and said if Mr. Figgins would confront the lady on their return—for they were now on the ramparts—he would, in spite of his inward indignation for his brother, try to undeceive him, and so save him from this infamy, that seemed to await him.

Figgins said he was an excellent young man, and he would second so laudable an endeavour with all his heart.
'But,' said Figgins, 'now we are on the subject of last night, you, I find, kept my appointment; for Kitty tells me this morning that some person stole into her room, whom she mistook for me, but, finding her error—but not till she had yielded—made the best of it, and humoured the mistake.'

'This is singular enough,' said Charles, 'I assure you it was not I; I was much better employed.'
'Are you sure of it?' said Figgins.—
'Oh certain,' said Charles. 'My assignation was no mysterious one; I had no occasion to shroud my designs in darkness, for the joys I reaped were heightened by the blushes of my mistress, which were revealed to my view by a wax taper, which I dare say was bought for a very different ceremony.'
'Then by God,' said Figgins, 'it was your brother, who dubbed me with my harlot, while J was dubbing him by anticipation with his wife, and I am damnably mistaken if he has not had such anticipaters in the lady's favours for any time this four years.'

This conversation brought them back to the inn, where they found their whole benevolent design

rendered abortive, for Zekiel and his company had in their absence set out, and were now several miles on their journey towards Ostend.

'Let them go,' said Figgins, 'and since the fellow will run his nose into the matrimonial gin, let him squeak for it; but I hope, while I reprobate his folly, I am not glancing at any in you. Madame St. Vivier and you are evidently upon very kind terms; I need not hint to your good sense that she is a mere adventurer..'
'Oh,' said Charles, 'that one may plainly see: I should like however to know her real story.'
'That, for your sake, I have discovered,' said Figgins.

'Madame St. Vivier and her maid are neither more nor less than Aimwell and Archer in the Beaux Stratagem. They are travelling to the south of France, by the way of Lyons, which route I believe they take simply because it is ours. On their return, by the way of Paris, Mrs. Kitty is to be the mistress, and Madame St. Vivier the maid, and whatever they pick up in their journey they are to go snacks in. The girl acknowledges to me that the first idea was to trap you into a marriage, but finding we were too knowing for them, and in facts better calculated to administer to their pleasure than their convenience, like a

couple of generous girls as they are, every thing it seems is to be left to ourselves.'

'Which generosity they must not repent,' said Charles.
'By no means,' said Figgins; 'and if in our way we meet with any English booby, not your brother, let them in God's name profit of their good fortune.'

This introduced some general remarks on English travellers, which Madame St. Vivier interrupted. Figgins acquainted her with the discovery as to her scheme, and both the gentlemen assured her they would assist it as far as they could, without injuring their characters as men of honour.
Post horses were ordered to be ready the next morning. While they were harnessing, Charles having occasion to pay the civility of an adieu to a person in power, who had done him some kindness as to his business at the custom-house, and other matters, had the curiosity to call himself at the post office, for he had not yet received a single letter from his father, though he had written several.—He was there informed that there had been letters, but they were fetched away by a footman, in a livery exactly like his own, the day before. Charmed with these tidings, he flew back to the inn, think-that

the footman must have been John, who had forgot to give them to him; but how great was his surprise when John assured him he had received no letters, and offered to go back to the post-office to rectify the mistake, whither they immediately set out, Figgins begging them to be expeditious, for the horses were put to.
'But stay Charles,' added Figgins, 'I will tell you, as sure as you are alive, how the case is. Your brother's livery is the same as yours; he has intercepted your letters, and is now gone the devil knows where; and so the unnatural wretch, while you were saving his reputation, and perhaps his life, by your unparalleled liberality, in the affair of Dessein—owing I dare say to the cunning of the fellow who travels with him, for he has not head enough himself—has hit upon this treacherous plan to make a breach between you and your father.'

'It must be so,' said Charles, 'but that we may be sure I will write to Dessein, to know if he has sent any letters, and his answer shall be addressed to Brussels.'
'Well thought,' said Figgins, 'we can do that from the next post.'
'But stay sir,' said John, 'I wish I might go to the post-office, though I don't believe his honour thinks me guilty.'
'Guilty of what, you foolish fellow?' said Figgins, 'your master knows your fidelity:'—

Nor will the reader be at a loss how much to lay to the account of it, when he is told that this was the very John who, upon a former occasion, rescued Lady Hazard, and refused Dogbolt's half-guinea.

The last is not the only hint contained in this chapter to which I would have the reader minutely attend. It may be necessary probably to revert to it in the course of the work; but if it tend to any material circumstances that will more powerfully display themselves by being developed in their place, I shall adhere to that rule I have in general set down for myself, and only excite present curiosity, to strengthen future gratification.


ALL these circumstances together having confirmed Charles in his opinion that Figgins was a sincere friend, John a faithful servant, and Zekiel a great rogue, our travellers took the road to Brussels, and at the first stage our hero wrote to Mr. Dessein, as he had resolved.
As I am writing the history of Charles Hazard, and not a tour on the continent, I shall trouble my readers with no more than such circumstances as immediately concern that young gentleman, or lead to his affairs, together with such minutiae as naturally produced them, and such remarks as may serve for their elucidation.
In conformity to these rules, I shall only say that at Brussels nothing happened of consequence enough

for me to record except that Charles and Figgins became intimate with a young Frenchman, named Combrie, who had stollen a nun, and married her. This couple were glad enough to have escaped from France with safety, without staying to accomplish a design which they had formed of getting the lady's fortune out of the hands of a trustee, in which the church had placed it. They were therefore little better off than in the possession of an unbounded stock of love, and what money Mr. Combrie, who was the cadet of an honourable family, had been able to procure from the fondness of a doating mother.
Having however violated one of the most sacred laws of France, by carrying a nun out of that kingdom, the mettled Frenchman conceived he could incur but little more blame if he pushed his point so far as to take her fortune forcibly out of the hands of a litigeous procureur, who had made use of the money to his own advantage for two years, and eluded every attempt, even of the clergy, to get it from him.
The man of the law was however too vigilant and circumspect for Combrie, who being a novice in a matter which required so much wary caution and prudent resolution, and besides too much

transported with his expected happiness, he managed his plan so bunglingly, that so far from succeeding with the procureur, he had very nearly been defeated in his views concerning the lady.
Though this couple loved each other with perhaps more tenderness for being without fortune, yet most people agree, and they could not but yield to the general opinion, that money is a security for love, especially after reflection takes place. Indeed, being in a strange country, from whence they must shortly, for the sake of safety, recede further, they were not so blinded by their affection, but they saw that their future prospects would be in a very doubtful way, if some scheme was not hit upon to rescue the money before it could be confiscated for the use of the church.
Combrie, who had been at Brussels but a short time, yet who was looked upon, in consequence of his shyness, as a very equivocal character, saw plainly the danger of making a confident in that place, and as an attempt at the recovery of his wife's fortune would be impracticable, without a confederate or two, taking a hint from the strong congeniality that appeared between the sentiments of our travellers and his own, he fancied he should be safe at-least in their confidence, even if they did

not lend him assistance. Besides, his affairs were very pressing, and he doubted, if his resolutions were not suddenly and effectually taken, whether the all-grasping power of the church would not deprive him of every possible hope.
Having no time to deliberate, and being emboldened by the engaging freedom and true breeding of Charles and his friend, he ventured, without reserve, to entrust them with his affairs, into which our friends gave so freely, that Figgins, who the reader knows was no mean hand at a plot, concerted one that it was agreed would infallibly succeed, even without rendering either him or his friend liable to the smallest suspicion of being concerned in it.
Full of their project, the three friends set out, leaving Madame Combrie in her apartments at Brussels, but first sending Madame St. Vivier before them to Sedan, where she actually had business; for as to themselves, out of safety to Combrie, they travelled to Nancy in Lorraine, where lay the scene of action, by the way of Luxembourg, and, in fact, as much in Austria as possible till they should come to Metz, where they were to hold their grand counsel of war. Madame St. Vivier, however, was not at all apprised of their business, but only instructed,

after she had accomplished hers, to meet them at Nancy, to which Sedan lies in the direct road.
Without stopping to look at a single prospect, building, or even crucifix, in the way, I shall set down my travellers at Metz, where, by agreement, they separated, Charles and Figgins taking post horses for Nancy, and Combrie jogging after them at his leisure, upon his own horse: not however till they had agreed whereabout they should find him in the suburbs, near which place Combrie had a trusty friend, who he was sure would give him every necessary assistance.
Being arrived at Nancy, they went to the convent of Chartreux, where strangers, especially of condition, are for a short time treated gratis. The members of this convent being all men of fortune, and, in general, such as have retired from the world through disappointments at court, are always charmed at the arrival of new guests, whether their visits be owing to curiosity or necessity, but they are particularly pleased with the English. No wonder then that the superior, when he understood that Charles was a young English nobleman, and Figgins his governor; that they had unexpectedly been deceived as to remittances from England, and

therefore from actual necessity had intruded on their generous institution, both for immediate succour and advice, instantly signified—especially as their pretensions were corroborated by the testimony of letters of credit and recommendation, and many other authentic documents—his warmest wishes to enter heartily into their interest. They paid him a number of acknowledgments for his great civility to strangers, and said they piqued themselves on their own sagacity, which had pointed out the propriety of applying to a man of his piety, as well as consequence, upon such an occasion, rather than run the risk of being imposed upon by an indiscriminate choice of a person to supply their present wants, without an eligible recommendation.
After this preface our travellers acquainted the superior that they wished his reference to some money negociator, for a present supply, who assuring them that it would give him particular pleasure to recommend them to some person who should treat them conscientiously, mentioned his near relation Monsieur Goufre, le procureur: not however till he had expatiated on the wickedness of those usurious wretches who take advantage of the necessitous, and oppress their fellow creatures under the idea of relieving them.

Figgins said he had heard of one Monsieur Bancsec, but the superior assured them they could not get into worse hands. Charles said certainly it would be their interest to rely upon the superior's advice, and begged the favour of a note to Monsieur Goufre. This request was immediately complied with, and our friends went their ways to the gentleman's house in question, after thanking the kind recluse in terms of the warmest gratitude.
Before however we introduce the reader to Monsieur Goufre, it will not be inexpedient to say how Charles and his friend happened to get recommended to the very man who retained Madame Combrie's fortune.
The reader has seen that he was a near relation to the superior of the Chartreux, which was well known to Combrie, and it will not appear extraordinary that this connection with the clergy should be the means of Monsieur Goufre's being often employed in matters which concerned the church. In fact, the frequent litigations by friends of the deceased to recover monies conditionally left for charitable uses, on one side, and the assertion of the church's right on the other, had, upon many occasions, produced such a see-saw of interested altercation between the procureur and the superieur, that matters

perfectly plain and clear in themselves, often wore an air of such mysterious embarrassment under such delusion as frittered large legacies into bills of expenses, which were cunningly snacked by the lawyer and the monk.
One of these lucrative bones, at which they had been a long time nibbling, was Madame Combrie's fortune, the perfect situation of which, nay even the drawer in which it was deposited, Figgins undertook to procure intelligence of; to do which, properly, they had recourse to the superior, and through him were resolved to attack the heart of his relation in that part where he was most vulnerable—for it was not true that they actually wanted money—and to give a colour to this it was no bad plan to seize an opportunity of taking the Chartreux by the outward symbol of his profession, and make his charity, which was counterfeit, the instrument of his real confusion.
Combrie being arrived in the Fauxbourg, and informed of their resolves, the moment came to put their design in execution. Charles and Figgins waited on the procureur, who, after all the necessary difficulties, which, upon motion, was to be removed by Monsieur Dessein, agreed to accommodate them with what they should think necessary;

for they had represented that they should change their route so often, and probably from momentary inducements, that it would be better to take up in specie as much as would serve for some months, and leave in the hands of Monsieur Goufre travelling bills of Sir James Herries, and other English bankers, to the amount of the sum and the discount.
Nothing retarded the payment of the money but waiting for a letter from Monsieur Dessein, which at length arrived greatly to the satisfaction of all parties. It spoke very handsomely of Charles and his friend, and it is proper to mention that, over and above the business of assuring Monsieur Goufre, it mentioned that letters had been sent to Charles at Lisle, on account of which he had written to Brussels, and this confirmed Charles in his opinion of Zekiel's treachery. Figgins however made a different use of this circumstance, greatly turning it to their present account, for he proved very clearly that if those letters sent to Lisle had been received, the application to Monsieur Goufre would have been unnecessary.
During the interval between writing to Calais and receiving an answer, Charles and Figgins had twice dined with the procureur, and the latter had so

insinuated himself into his good graces, that under pretence of enquiring into the practice of the French laws, he wormed out of him almost all his affairs. The endowments of the monasteries naturally came up in their conversation, in which business he owned he was very much employed, and one morning, when they were talking in the counting-house upon this subject, the procureur said, as he was locking up his bureau,
'here now is a pretty large fortune which has been lessened almost one-fourth by litigation. It belonged to a nun, who has been lately stolen from a neighbouring monastry—there it is labelled and sealed up, in notes upon the Caisse d'accompte, payable au porteur—and I have now a supreme order, which I shall yield to next week,—after I have made out my bill against it—to surrenderit to the Lady Abbess.'

Naturally guessing that nuns were not so frequently stolen but that her he had heard of must be Madame Combrie, Figgins found his point so far gained, and now the letter being arrived from Calais, nothing remained but to receive their money.
On the evening appointed for this business, the procureur was invited by our travellers to a sumptuous entertainment at the Hotel D'Angleterre.—Before supper the ceremony of signing and sealing

was performed, and after supper all was hilarity. Figgins made the procureur harrangue, Charles prevailed on him to squall several chansons a boire, and Madame St. Vivier, who arrived at Nancy that very afternoon, took him out to walk a minuet with her. In short, the votary of chicane having made a good bargain, a good supper, and fallen violently in love with Madame St. Vivier, did not notice how the hours wore, and was at length, after a good finishing dose, carried to bed, in a condition that laid him by the heels till ten o'clock the next morning.


IT was three hours after Monsieur Goufre went home before he discovered that any trick had been played him, for I hope the reader does not suppose the supper was given for nothing. He asked one of the clerks if any body had called while he was engaged the evening before, and was answered nobody of any consequence but Father Benedick.—
'What Father Benedick?' said Goufre.
'Him,' said the clerk, 'we sent to you at the Hotel D'Angleterre, and by whom you sent your keys, with written orders to deliver the fortune belonging to the convent of our lady of the ascension.'
'Written orders! Keys!' cried the astonished procureur.
'But it is impossible; here are my keys.'
'Well sir, these are the keys he brought,' said the clerk, 'and here is the order: surely we know your hand writing.'

Upon this Monsieur Goupe read, in a faltering

accent, and in a hand so like his own that he could himself find no difference:
'Let Father Benedick have the packet in the bureau labelled Money belonging to the convent of our lady of the ascension.'

As all the French dance well, it is not wonderful that Monsieur Goufre had scarcely read these words when he took a chassee to the bureau, where he discovered the nest without the bird, caprioled back to the parlour for his hat and cane, rigadooned to the door, briseed out of it, and in a new fashioned pas courant presently made an entre at the house of the general of the police. There being joined by a proper number of figurants, under the characters of sergeants du ville, archets, and pouse culs, the procureur paraded at their head to the Hotel D'Angleterre, where, to enrich the procession back again, he entreated our hero, Figgins, and Madame St. Vivier to perform a pas de trois.
In plain English, he fairly believed his pocked had been picked while he was asleep, and that our travellers, who were thieves, had taken this method to rob him; and having imparted these suspicions to the general of the police, he obtained an order to bring the delinquents before him.

A few words however served to convince that officer, and even the procureur himself, that his suspicions were groundless. The clerk deposed that about seven o'clock in the evening, a person in the garb of a friar, calling himself Father Benedick, came to their house, and said he had particular business with Monsieur Goufre, relative to a certain fortune belonging to the convent of our lady of the ascension. He represented that upon various pretences it had been so long kept out of the church's hands, that it was in agitation to procure a suspension of the procureur's employments, if he should refuse immediately to deliver it. He said it was pity Monsieur Goufre was not within, for his authority was so powerful and decisive, that if he returned it would be with force, which he would willingly avoid. The clerk said, in consequence of these menaces, he made no scruple of sending the supposed friar to his master, who, about a quarter before eight, returned with Monsieur Goufre's keys, and a written order to deliver the fortune which was locked up in the bureau, and which had a label similar to that described in the said written order. The clerk swore he believed it to be the hand writing of his master, and he was sure the keys were those his master then held in his hand.

Mr. Figgins here entreated that he might have permission to ask the procureur a few questions, which request being complied with, he said
'Pray sir in whose company were you from half past six o'clock till nine, during which time this fraud is said to have been committed?'

Monsieur Goufre answered in his company.—
'Were you not,' said Figgins, 'during that whole time, in your sober senses?'
'Perfectly,' answered the man of law.
'And now let me rouse your best recollection while I ask if in that very interval of time, you were not talking of your extensive business, of your property, and indeed of this very fortune you now say you have lost, but which you then bragged you had safely locked up; as a proof of which you showed us those very keys, and at the very time as it should seem, that your clerk was using them—which is a very likely story—to deliver that fortune up to a person he had never before seen.'

The poor procureur felt this unanswerable mode of reasoning most severely, and the general of the police—whether other cases had induced him to doubt the veracity of Monsieur Goufre, or whether he was conscious that Englishmen are constantly upon these occasions not those who dupe, but those who

are duped—seemed to pay great attention to Figgins's harrangue, who seeing his advantage, thought he could not do better than follow it up: which he did in these words.

'Upon the whole, it appears to me, and so it shall to the English embassador, that Monsieur Goufre having found in us a pretty free-milch cow, as to some money transactions we have had together, has fancied, notwithstanding the documents we have produced, that we could not make good our pretensions to rank and independency, and therefore imagined we might be awed, by the accusation of a sham robbery, into a composition: and this appears from many circumstances.—What had we to do with this fortune? Why were we to know in what place it lay? Why have we been repeatedly shown the key that locked it up? Besides, the matter has been so bunglingly managed, that the clerk deposes that very key was sent at the individual time he himself confesses to have had it in his pocket. Then he does not pretend to say that the hand writing is not like his, but, on the contrary, so like that he should have taken it for his own. But it was necessary this should be said, because if the hand writing had not been exactly like his, the clerk would have had no pretence whatever to have delivered the

fortune. Again, what was this same Father Benedick?—and how had he got all this intelligence? How insinuated himself into his pocket invisibly, and conveyed away the keys, during an interval of perhaps the only five minutes in an hour and a half that they had been trusted there without his hand upon them for their security; but, at any rate, to make the story in the smallest degree colourable, what connection had this supposed Father Benedick with them, to lend the smallest probability to their being concerned in a transaction so very derogatory to their honour as gentlemen, so totally unnecessary to their circumstances, which Monsieur Goufre had taken care, with the most scrupulous exactness, to make himself master of—and so disgraceful to the name of Englishmen? How had it been proved that they, so far from knowing the friar in question, had a single associate, even of their own country?—for both the clerks gave very clear testimony that Father Benedick spoke with an accent so pure and vernacular, that they were sure he was a Frenchman: and indeed so he was. All these circumstances considered, it was impossible this affair should be otherwise than a gross attempt—an event which occurred too frequently—to impose upon English credulity; which, however others

might pass over, would not, in the present instance, be regarded in any light either trifling or pardonable; on the contrary, it would be found that men of character had been tampered with, who were both able and willing to right themselves. He therefore insisted, for the sake of general justice and the honour of the English nation, that the matter should be fully and publicly investigated: to which and they would be content to submit to a temporary imprisonment, provided Monsieur Goufre should be laid under the same restriction.'

The general of the police, whou could not probably see that all this intelligence had been, by the most subtle train of artful insinuation, deliberately drawn from Goufre, by Figgins, with a view to forward the designs of Combrie—who the reader sees was father Benedick—had no manner of doubt but that every word he had heard was truth.
His own private opinion indeed was, that being in a short time to deliver up the fortune, the procureur had conjured up the whole accusation to cover his embezzlement of the money. As to the friar, he had not the least doubt but that he was a real character, procured probably by his relation, the superior of the Chartreux, who, as we have said

was occasionally concerned with Mr. Goufre in his law practices.
In short, he so well knew, as he thought, the trim of the business, that he would not have hesitated to comply with the terms of Mr. Figgins, had he not had some very material objections to get rid of.
In the first place, he well knew that their knowledge of each others illicit conduct was mutual; they had trod together the paths of oppression; and it was their constant custom when either was likely to get into a scrape, to call the other to his assistance. In the present case, however, the procureur had previously sworn to the general of the police that he had actually been robbed, and this was indeed the truth; but matters—thanks to Figgins's address—wore now so different an aspect, that this seeming want of confidence quite exasperated him, and nothing but his own actual safety made him hesitate a moment to take part against the procureur.
Balancing thus between his conviction and his interest, he thought proper to pursue a middle course. He said, as there had actually been nothing proved which had been alleged, he could not answer sending to prison three persons, one of

them a lady, who had made so handsome a defence. Monsieur Goufre had certainly, in the first transports of his resentment, done what he thought very justifiable, but what, upon reflection, had neither certainty, nor even probability, to support it; that it was plain he had been some way or other tricked, how would very likely hereafter appear; and, if he had been too warm, stung as he was at being deprived of a large deposite, which it would cut deep into his fortune to make good, those very traits of liberality on which that gentleman—meaning Figgins—had dwelt, would, he hoped, induce him and his friend to overlook surely a very pardonable error.
Charles said, Monsieur Goufre's mad manner of rectifying a mistake, he thought, deserved no lenity at their hands. For his part he should detest the idea of patching up a matter that struck so hard in him at the honour of every young nobleman on his travels. He should think, if he passed by such a glaring impertinence, every one of his English acquaintance ought to resent it. He should therefore acquaint the English embassador, who was his father's particular friend, of the whole business, without the smallest reserve; and if he must endure to have a hated liberty forced upon him, he would at least, let his inconvenience be what it might, stay

in that town till not only himself and his friend should be handsomely cleared, but till he who had the audacity to scandalize their characters should meet with his merited punishment. So saying, he gave the lady his hand, and said if their forms would admit it he should choose to go from that place, but that he should be found at the Hotel D'Angleterre till the matter was finally decided.
They were followed out by the general of the police, who whispered Figgins, in the hall, that he plainly saw Monsieur Goufre had done a rash thing, but that it need not hinder them from pursuing their tour, for if they would leave twenty guineas in his hands, he would take care as much justice should be done to their honour as if they were present.
In this I verily believe he spoke truth, but Figgins cut him short with this reply:

'Sir, If the law has any power over us, use it now you have us in your custody; if not, the best of you shall have reason to repent this outrage: and as to leaving twenty guineas in your hands, I would do it with great pleasure, were I not unluckily bound by a vow not to trust any Frenchman further than I can see him.'


The general of the police said it was a great pity so good an opportunity should be lost, and added that perhaps the young gentleman was not bound by the vow.
Charles said he was always bound by the determinations of his governor, especially when they went to a prevention of his being duped.
The general of the police not thinking fit to urge the matter any farther, after many reverences, retired to the procureur; after which our travellers departed, first giving the officers of justice something to drink.
Monsieur Goufre was found by his friend in a state of distraction. The latter however believed it all put on, and began very severely to upbraid him with his duplicity, and to blame him for having made such a fool of himself.
The procureur swore that he had been robbed, and was ruined, and confirmed the oath with a hundred others. He was unfortunate enough however to gain no manner of credit; on the contrary, the general of the police told him, in so many words, that since he was above placing confidence in his

friends, he sincerely wished the Englishmen might trounce him.
This introduced a warm bout at alternate recrimination, till at length both became cool, and they determined, in conjunction with the superior of the Chartreux, to take an early opportunity of deliberating on the most expedient means to get out of such a disagreeable scrape.


MADAME St. Vivier had not the smallest idea that her companions really knew any thing of the fraud. She had acted her part to perfection the night before, as to making Monsieur Goufre drunk and ridiculous, but was ignorant that the trick went any further than getting good terms from him as to the money that was borrowed; neither had a syllable of the situation of Madame Combrie been explained to her; for it is natural to suppose our travellers did not so sin against good breeding as to introduce such a character into that lady's company. She might be sent purposely to Dover, and probably was intended to be played off as a corps de reserve upon our hero, but when no direct outrage on propriety was necessary, Mr. Figgins was too great a general to call in assistance, when every thing went on even beyond his wishes. But how beyond his wishes? Patience, dear reader: I would not have you know

what is brewing, just at present, for any consideration. Attend then, and let the fruit of your curiosity ripen by degrees; nor—that it may have the better relish—wish to gather it till it shall be ready to drop into your hand.
Four or five days after the affair of the general of the police, the procureur waited on our travellers, with great deference and respect, and informed them that he had received a letter which had satisfied him in every point relative to the fraud. He therefore acquitted them so heartily of any concern in that matter, that he appeared extremely shocked at his conduct, and said he would publish their innocence coupled with any acknowledgement of his own, by way of concession, that they should think proper to dictate. As to himself, he had the pleasure to inform them that as it was now known he had not been to blame, at the mediation of his relation the superior of the Chartreux, and his friend the general of the police, the chapter of the convent to which the money was due had remitted the payment of it till his death, provided he would then add the interest of it, and an additional bequest of ten thousand crowns.
The letter to Monsieur Goufre was as follows:—


Lest your clerks, or any other innocent persons, should suffer under the suspicion of having taken from your bureau that fortune which in justice and equity is mine, in right of my wife, I write this to acquaint you that, on Friday evening last, about seven o'clock, I called at your house, habited like a friar, and, under the name of Father Benedick, demanded the fortune in your hands belonging to the convent of our lady of the ascension; intimating that if I did not see you, be where you might, I should return prepared to compel you to resign it. Your clerks referred me to you at the Hotel D'Angleterre, from whence I feigned to return at about a quarter before eight, bringing with me a written order, as if from you—a duplicate of which I have enclosed, to show you how well I counterfeited your hand writing—and a bunch of keys, one of which opened your bureau. One of your clerks, so completely imposed upon, naturally gave me what I wanted. I immediately departed, derobed myself of my holy accoutrements, mounted my horse, and rode through bye-ways till I arrived at Rouen

—first taking care to touch the 'Argent Comptant, which, as you know, I was easily enable to do, as the whole fortune was in notes on the Caisse d'accompte at Paris, payable au porteur—from whence, when I shall have put this letter in the post, a vessel will carry me to Guernsey, and, before it can reach you, I shall be in England.
It may not be amiss to tell you that the key which opened your bureau I caused to be made from your own, for which purpose I took care to be very much about you, before I stole my dear Araminta from her hypocritical directress. I knew it always accompanied four others, the size of which did not escape my notice: two of them open chests, one a small cabinet, and the least a casket.
All these matters lent such strong probability to my story, with which my holy garb so well agreed—a garb which was never used to a worthier purpose—that it was impossible for me not to succeed.
If this confession will do you any good with the church, you are welcome to make what use of it you think proper. As to myself, I shall glory in its publication, for I am sure the money

that serves to maintain an honest pair, whose views are honourable and their actions exemplary—but more especially as that money is their right—is more worthily, nay more religiously applied than in fattening and encouraging in licentiousness those slothful drones who, as you and I know, shut themselves up from the world not to cherish holiness, but to hide profligacy.
From Yours, &c. COMBRIE.

This letter, which speaks so plain, completes the account of Figgins's scheme, which I have thus piece-meal explained to the reader. The circumstance of the keys, which was a fact, together with the knack which Combrie had of imitating Goufre's hand writing,—which indeed is not difficult, for almost all Frenchmen write alike—gave a hint of it, and the idea of an application to the superior of the Chartreux, and all those concurrent circumstances which we have seen so well managed, could not fail to crown it with success.
This history then has so far acted in its customary province as to make one couple happy already. How long they are to continue so, it is not impossible

but we may hereafter have occasion to notice.
It will easily be seen that this affair ended greatly to the honour of our travellers, who, in consequence, attracted the notice of all the English who then resided at Nancy. Among the rest they were visited by a gentleman, whose company, as a plain straight-forward, well-meaning man, was very agreeable to them. He served admirably well to make one at a party of whist, and for a cursory acquaintance really was not without his merit.
A very short time however let them into the character of this new acquaintance, whose name was Ireland; for one night, being at whist, with Mr. Figgins for his partner, Charles was so tantalized into betting, and confused off his guard, that he got up from the table an hundred and fifty pounds loser, in spite of all the hints and expostulations of Figgins, who only played for crowns.
The next day he heard, from undoubted authority, that Mr. Ireland was an errant sharper, and had escaped from England after killing a gentleman in a duel, who had dared to tax him publicly with a palpable fraud.

This loss however had one good effect upon our hero, for he made a most solemn vow never again to lose five pounds at one sitting, which resolution he inviolably kept to the day of his death.
I have said very little of Charles's continual disappointments, at not receiving letters from his father, or indeed any body else, since his departure from England. The truth is that it gave him inexpressible concern, and occasioned from him many and various remonstrances, which were apparently very little heeded.
Figgins testified as much uneasiness as our hero, but upon this, as well as every other subject, he comforted him by a variety of arguments. He said it very often occurred that people on a tour missed of their letters, though at length they came safely to hand; that at Nancy, for example, it was sometimes three weeks before a man could write a letter and receive an answer to it; and this inconvenience would increase in proportion as they went farther. There was no doubt, he said, but every thing would fall upon its legs, and the letters would all come together in a lump, and he cheerfully agreed to wait at Lyons till every proper explanation could be mutually exchanged, not only as to Charles and his father, but every other correspondent.

This kind accommodation in Figgins gave our hero great pleasure. He had really, at times, felt very unpleasantly on this subject, and though he could account for his disappointment at Lisle, yet more than two months had elapsed since that time, during which interval he had repeatedly written in such a full and satisfactory manner, that he could not bear to reflect on the parting between him and his father, and, at the same time, hold in mind that all his attempts to learn the state of that amiable parent's mind were continually baffled. He knew not what might have happened in his absence: he had dreaded to leave him: nay he would not think on the subject, it was dreadful to him! yet he could not give a reason for it. Who knew but the letters received at Lisle, since he had heard nothing afterwards, might give an account of an unfavourable alteration in his father's health: perhaps they contained a tender injunction to come and close the dying eyes of an indulgent parent: perhaps he was then dead, and the letters were from friends who gave him the melancholy news, which his perfidious brother had received with a triumphant and cruel joy.
Reflections like these greatly embittered the enjoyments of our hero, and though I have not thought it necessary to present the reader with any

thing but the agreeable side of the picture, yet it is certainly true that Charles had his moments when he felt very severe and bitter unhappiness; nay he had once very nearly determined to return to Calais, the better to investigate this unpleasant business, though the natural gaiety, and I will say honesty, of his disposition, prevented his particular griefs from interfering with pleasures in which others were concerned. What wonder then if the kind consoling advice of Figgins kept his mind in that tranquillity which made it impossible for an unconcerned person to penetrate his chagrin.
I have conceived it necessary to say thus much, lest the reader should think our hero had, in imitation of some other heroes, left his feeling in his own country, and that his foreign freaks—every one of which I undertake to contend had a defensible motive—were merely the common effect of that fashionable conceit and supercilious levity which are the qualities the French have, in general, a right to take as a sample of English manners.
All affairs at Nancy being properly settled, Charles began to be very impatient for their departure to Lyons. Before they set out, however, he drew up a recapitulation of all his other letters, to which he added many earnest entreaties; and,

that it might be sure to go safe, entrusted it to the care of Figgins himself, who insisted upon putting it in the post office, swearing he began to suspect every body; and, when he returned, said that Master John should not be so confidently trusted for the future.
'Why so?' said Charles.
'Nay no great matter,' answered Figgins.
'I begin to have my suspicions of him: but perhaps these devils of women have corrupted him.'

Charles asked his friend what induced his suspicions. Figgins said,
'I caught the rascal in a lie, that is all: which I cannot bear. Dam'me if there is so pimping a thing upon earth as an unnecessary lie.'
'From a person in whom you place confidence,' said Charles, 'there cannot be a crime of such magnitude. As death is better than torture, so open enmity is better than hidden deceit. Even a trifling lie, in such circumstances, may conceal the most tremendous consequences. For my part, I look upon plain integrity to be so positively essential in the composition of a friend, that though I were one mass of imperfections, I would forgive the continual reiteration of them, both to myself and the world, rather than they should be hyperbolically glossed over. On the contrary, if I thought the man I

trusted could even meditate a wish to deceive me, let my partiality be what it might, I would tear him from my heart, even though it should burst in making the effort.'

Figgins, who had eyed our hero with extraordinary tokens of amazement, while he animatedly pronounced these words, first looked pale, then red, but recovered however in time to put in for his share of this honest opinion; and, after an eulogium on Charles's way of thinking, and reflecting on John, who alone he chose to understand as the person all this warmth was levelled at, he finished his remark with
'Damn the fellow, I should be sorry to find him a rascal, for I have a regard for him.'

Charles certainly had no particular meaning in the words he had uttered, but his disappointment at not hearing from his father gave him occasionally a kind of peevish discontent, as if he found somebody had deceived him, though he knew not who. As a proof that he had not the smallest mistrust of Figgins, he entrusted him, as we have just seen, with his letter to put in the post office; yet he was scarcely gone but he wished he had taken it himself: though he sincerely believed this wish a tacit, though an involuntary, injustice to his friend.

The contents of his letter next were gone over in his mind, in which he found nothing but a repetition of disappointments, that, for ought he knew, would be rewarded with new ones; especially as he was confident, in his own mind, they originated in some secret cause which he had not been, nor should ever be perhaps, able to penetrate. In this trim of thinking, when Figgins returned and dropped those hints concerning John, out came the very soul of our hero, and so it would have done had his own ruin been the consequence.
Figgins—for what reason perhaps the reader may conceive—verily believed this thrust was at him, and though he not only saw he had well parried it, but, as he firmly believed, disarmed his young friend of all suspicion, yet he feared, that should he take in his head to arm himself frequently with these impatient doubts, as he did not want for skill in these sort of conflicts, he, Figgins, might one day or other receive such a hit as might prove a mortal stab to all his hopes of bringing those schemes to bear which he certainly, for some reason or other, was concerting; for though I have constantly allowed that Charles was credulous, he could not be grossly imposed upon; and no man knew this better than Figgins, who, with all his management, would not have been able easily to gain his ends, which

were now—though the reader, as I have said, must wait with patience to know how—nearly accomplished, had not a series of unexpected events concurred to give him a helping hand.


OUR travellers arrived at Lyons after a safe and pleasant journey. They visited every thing curious, were frequently at the play, made acquaintance with men of condition and taste, and, in short, here, as in other places, availed themselves of every opportunity of improvement: thus fulfilling the real purposes of travelling.
These matters however I have even less time to particularize here than I had heretofore, and therefore shall leave to the readers imagination what was the employment of a young man and his governor who were really ambitious of returning home with as much knowledge as they could pick up, but which acquisition Charles in particular—as the reader shall hear—became possessed of more than he wished.
Our hero, walking one day in a field beyond the ramparts, was meditating on a small book, in the

midst of a grove, when he heard behind him a rustling. Directing his eyes to the place from whence the noise issued, he saw two men very warmly attacking each other with drawn swords. In the impetuosity of his first sensations, he bounded like a fawn to the place, and drawing to part the combatants, one of them, like Mercutio, was hurt under our hero's arm. He faltered out
'Oh Jesu Je suis mort!'
and fell down.

Charles was so dreadfully shocked at this accident, that he thought of nothing but endeavouring to succour the wounded person, on which charitable employ he was so intent, that he did not pay the smallest regard to the other, who, upon seeing his antagonist drop, fled with the fwiftest precipitation.
A moment's recollection convinced our hero that he was in a most singularly perilous situation. The poor wounded wretch seemed to be dying, and every circumstance would serve to make it believed that he was the murderer. Nevertheless, his strong humanity so prevailed over his prudence, that he ran without the wood, and holloed to the centinel upon the ramparts for help, telling him there was a man dangerously wounded.

Several gentlemen who were walking on the ramparts presently came up, to whom Charles related, but not without much confusion—for he was most exceedingly affected—the whole matter as it had passed. Unfortunately his relation gained very little credit. They all knew the nature of duelling, and naturally imagined a prudent person would, upon such an occasion, go another way rather than interfere with two men who were agreed upon fairly deciding a quarrel by the law of arms.
Charles was astonished when he understood their suspicions, and could not help asking, with some disdain, whether the French always requited the good offices of strangers in the same manner. One or two of the gentlemen took heat at this, and said he should answer every thing at large before the general of the police.
Charles treated their menaces with perfect indifference, relying upon the testimony of the dying man, who however left his protector in the lurch; for after an ineffectual attempt to speak, he pointed to Charles, and falling backward, expired.
This action was universally allowed to have been intended as a sign to distinguish the murderer, and what strongly corroborated the general opinion was

our hero's sword, which was very much stained with blood. It was in vain that he accounted very naturally for this circumstance, by saying that when he first saw the dead man fall, he abandoned his sword, the better to lend him assistance, and that of course, as it lay, the blood, which ran in a stream, had fallen upon it.
This was construed into cunning and art. In short, the guard arrived, and he was conducted to the house of the general of the police, comforted however with
'Courage! on pardon en France un coup de vivacite.'
In spite however of these comfortable tidings, Figgins, who had been waiting for our hero to breakfast at their inn, was very soon summoned to breakfast with him in prison.

Figgins insisted upon it, in the strongest terms, that it was impossible his friend could be concerned in this business otherwise than as an accidental mediator. The gentleman who had fallen was a man of some consideration, resident in that place, where Charles was an absolute stranger, and had not the smallest acquaintance. He offered to swear that, till this unhappy morning, he had never been a single ten minutes out of his company since his arrival in Lyons, and how could so serious a quarrel have engendered without previous malice?—without

the smallest acquaintance with the unfortunate person, or even knowledge that any such man had existence? He maintained there was not upon earth a less turbulent spirit than his friend; that his disposition was the sweetest, mildest, most benignant, in the world; that there could not be in nature a more benevolent heart. He would answer with his life that, was the fact as they suspected, his young friend had not the soul to be guilty of such low, such treacherous baseness as to disown it. On the contrary, as no laws were so lenient, as to accidental rencounters, as those of France, so far from denying what had happened, he would feel enough at having been the destruction of a fellow creature, however unintentionally, without adding guilt to misfortune, by excusing himself at the expense of a wilful lie.
Besides these arguments, Figgins insisted that they had not consulted even common probability in this business. His friend had averred that the murderer fled. Who was he then? No people were so remarkably provident as to who went and came as the French. Let the book of the general of the police be consulted, and see who had retired from the town. If he was a settler, it would easily be known; if a stranger, intelligence of him might be gathered at the place where he lodged. As to the

action of the dying man, he was assured it had been intended to point out his friend as one who had endeavoured to preserve him. In short, he said let the matter but have time, and be maturely investigated, and he would resign himself as an accomplice, and willingly await the same fate: staking his own life upon the issue of his friend's innocence.
This manly and noble speech, which was made in presence of some of the most considerable people of Lyons, had its effect. It was warmly agreed, even by the relations of the deceased—who, by the bye, got a fortune by his death—that every thing ought to be well considered. Accordingly, the term of six weeks was fixed to make all the necessary enquiries, at which time it was intended, if nothing happened to exculpate our hero, that he should be brought to trial.
It was now the business of Figgins to alleviate, as much as possible, the distresses of his friend.—he had however very little comfort for him. It had been found that a stranger had actually absconded on the very morning this sad affair happened, but as the inland towns in France are not so particular as to mere strangers as the sea-ports, he could not learn his name. He asked Charles if he

had no idea who the murderer was. Charles said he had scarcely given him a single look, so instantaneously was the mischief done; and that from that moment he had not seen him at all, his whole care having been directed towards the dying man: but, notwithstanding all these disadvantages, he was sure he had somewhere seen him, though it was then utterly out of his power to recollect when or where.
In a few days after the imprisonment of our hero, Figgins came to him and said he was greatly afraid there was some damned plot in the business, for that the women were gone off, and had taken John with them.

'What plot can there be?' said Charles.
'In this situation they are tired of us, and resolved to shift for themselves: a very common resolution for creatures of their stamp.'
'True,' said Figgins, 'but how will you reconcile the conduct of Mr. John? I will tell you what has lately struck me.'
'What?' said Charles.
'Why,' answered Figgins, 'that this same Madame St. Vivier is known to Mrs. O'Shocknesy, and, if so, there is no mischief, however detestable, but you may apprehend. That woman has the hypocrisy of • crocodile, the heart of a tygress, and the malic•

of the devil. She delights in mischief; it seems to be as requisite to her existence as food; there is not such an infernal succubus in human nature; and may I be damned'—for our friend Figgins would sometimes swear—'if it were my fate to choose whether to encounter the anger of a hungry lion, or groan under the influence of a plot against me, prepared and inflicted by that she fiend, if I would not trust the claws of old Leo rather than the diabolical fangs of Mother O'Shocknesy.

'Now you may remember,' continued Figgins, 'I caught Master John in a lie. It was this:—Kitty had told me she had seen this gentleman of ours very busily employed in a familiar conversation at Lisle with that fellow of your brother's, Flush, whom, by the way, I never liked—indeed I know Mr. Standfast turned him off on account of his attachment to Mrs. O'Devil. Why Mrs. Kitty told me this I remember I thought very odd at the time, but catching from it, at the moment, an idea concerning the embezzlement of the letters, I, with more bluntness than wit, taxed the gentleman with his intimate acquaintance with Mr. Flush, which he denied, and which Kitty confirmed to his face. It was this determined me to take your letters myself, and this has kept me ever since upon my guard, as to this fellow;

and finding now which way he inclines, it is more than possible he has been a rascal all along, and that even the half-guinea he refused from Sir Daniel Dogbolt was a feint, through which he acted according to his instructions.'

Charles said he had never correctly understood that business, or what it alluded to; nor had he known more than that some difference had happened between his father and mother, which had been happily adjusted through the mediation of Mr. Standfast.
Figgins said when his mind could bear the relation he would acquaint him with all the particulars, exactly as it had been related by my lord to the surgeon, at the John of Gaunt's Head, and who he said had, spite of all Standfast's care, not preserved the secret so sacredly as a man of his profession ought. This however did not happen to be the truth, for it was through Mr. Standfast, and no other person, that Mr. Figgins came by his intelligence.
'But,' said Figgins, 'to finish with this dear harmless lady, whom I so dearly love, if she has any hand in your affairs, you may be assured it will be productive of mischief to you both in England and here.'


Charles said he had no doubt of the gentlewoman's kind offices, but yet he saw no harm that could come of them, for his father was pretty well upon his guard against her; and as to his own conduct, it was, he flattered himself, at least in material points, not such as to merit reproach.
'All I wish,' said he, 'is to hear from my dear father; if he remain safe from the malice of our enemies, I will forgive every thing they can do to me.'

This subject however was never out of Figgins's mouth, and indeed, though nothing could be managed with more cautious delicacy, one would think he had an inclination to sink his friends spirits till he should be inclined to save the trouble of a public trial, by hanging himself in his prison.
All this however was not sufficient to damp the spirits of our hero, though I must own his situation seemed a good deal to tire his patience. He had so invariably adhered to those principles which, at his outset in life, he had so invariably laid down for himself, that, conscious of his own innocent intentions, he did not believe it possible that he could sink under the weight of injustice. He therefore entreated his friend—who, as the trial approached, put on looks more and more rueful—to make himself easy.
'How can I?' said Figgins. 'All the

devils in hell, one would think, conspire against you. I declare to God to see virtue like yours so oppressed is enough to make one curse one's being, and wish rather to be the vilest reptile than a human creature.'
And then would he enumerate the damned things, as he called them, that had fallen out to thwart the good intentions of our hero; and these would he follow up with his apprehensions for his safety; then cut a little out of the way to take a wipe at that fury in petticoats, Mrs. O'Shocknesy; then curse, then hope, then shudder, then admire again the fortitude of his friend, and then exclaim that in such an infernal world as this, it was not worth while to be virtuous, for that none but rascals were happy.

It was about two days before the trial, when he had one morning wound up, or rather let down, our hero, by similar remarks to these, that he undertook to go through the whole business of Miss Snaffle, with all its consequences, which really shocked Charles to such a degree that his spirits were scarcely able to bear it. Seeing this, Figgins cursed himself for his inconsiderate rashness. Said he,
'My unconquerable friendship makes me a fool; and, in proportion as you are oppressed, you so creep into my heart, that, out of complaisance to your curiosity, I do the very things which unman

you, when—if like other men I had more art than honesty—I should try to render you callous to your fate, rather than melt you into almost a desire to meet it. But come Charles,' added he, embracing him, 'I will stand by you nobly, and if you must fall, you shall not want a friend to revenge you.'

In this delightful mood did this kind friend permit Charles to remain for that day. On the next he entered his friend's apartment with a most cheerful countenance, saying there was long-looked-for come at last, and with these words presented a packet of letters, which he said were just arrived by the post; but that was not all, another parcel had been left at their bankers, which he supposed contained the whole of his father's letters, ever since he left England.
Charles, who had hastily caught at the first letter that came to his hand, opened it, and found it from Sir Sidney. He wondered to see it begin with Sir, but getting to the second line, while Figgins was uttering those last words, which he did not hear, he exclaimed
'Merciful God!'
—and fainted away.

Assistance was summoned, and he recovered; when, having raved himself almost into another

swoon, he became stupid with horror. At length he grew more calm, and being entreated by his friend to bear his fortunes like a man, he gathered composure enough to read the following words.

It is my duty to inform you—though I scarcely think it will give you any pain—that your father is no more! He died suddenly:—Rumour will too soon tell you how: but shudder to think that your excesses have shortened his life!
Those excesses, which are, at your age, and for the short time in which you have committed them, the most shocking that ever were heard of, have been but too well authenticated to us; therefore, upon no account will I either see you, or hear from you.
You are willed by your exasperated and unhappy father—who had not the heart to alter his first intentions—your mother's jointure, which is thirteen hundred a year, and the interest of nine

thousand pounds: both for your life. I am sole executor, but as I am firmly resolved to have no sort of communication with you, Mr. Balance will honourably negociate this business.
My determinations are unalterable, therefore all attempts to deter me from them will be useless.

'Do I live? Am I awake?' cried Charles, staring wildly.
'My excesses shortened my father's life! What have I done? Heavenly God I shall go distracted.'
'Mrs. O'Shocknesy,' said Figgins.
'Did I not tell you so? She saw the father's life hung on his son, and, like a merciless damned harpy as she is, slandered away the reputation of one, to destroy the existence of the other. I am sure of it: I would stake my soul that it is a fact.'

'Alas, my poor father!' said Charles, 'how properly is this a sequel to the wretched business of yesterday! But I to be the cause of his death! I, who would have given a thousand lives—infamous as I am—to save his. Oh my forboding heart, why did I part from him? But he could

not believe it. What are my villanies? Is it my crime or my virtue that has brought me here? Surely, surely, thus attacked, Innocence may defend itself.'

'Yours is immaculate,' said Figgins, 'and I will maintain it; nor indeed will any body doubt it when we come to England. The villainy has reached its consummation: all its purposes are effected. It will be easily found a mistake; it will be palliated, glossed over; but how will it bring your father from the grave? But come, we have need of all our senses at this moment; let us collect them manfully; we have no guilt to sink us, whatever our accusers may. Come Charles, resolution man: I have been the partner of your guilt, I will be the partner of your revenge. Let us see what comes next: this is from Mr. Standfast. Shall I read it?
Charles assented by a nod, and Figgins read thus:

As you have made yourself the public talk of this kingdom, as your father, through

you, has
—'What!' said Figgins—
destroyed himself!
—'Great God!' said Charles;
and after a pause, in which both lifted up their eyes and hands to heaven, he went on,
you will not wonder, for the sake of my character, that I have done with you. Yet, in consideration of my pains and care in your youth—which indeed I little thought would be so required—I will take this last opportunity to wring your heart, for lenitives I find have spoilt you, that you may, if yet there remain in it a single spark of sensibility, awake to a sense of your wickedness, though, complicated and atrocious as it is, no hopes can be entertained of your repentance.

'Damnation!' said Figgins, 'I have not common patience; the people are all mad. A man would swear we had began, the moment we left London, by robbing upon the high way, and that as soon as we arrived in France, we enrolled ourselves members of a banditti.'

Charles looked vacantly wretched, and Figgins continued.
But what will the task avail of setting the black catalogue—
'Horrid black indeed,' said Figgins—
of your crimes before you, I shall only feast your eyes on what has given you so much pleasure; and thus the contemplation

of those seducing facts may stimulate you to a commission of others, if possible, still more daring, to show that you know how to attain perfection in villainy. Nevertheless, as your father's bounty has so largely reached me, in return for the unwearied pains I took to render you an accomplished and worthy member of society, I will make this one effort towards your conversion.

'Charitable creature!' said Figgins. 'Where has Mr. Standfast picked up so much scrupulosity? I thought his maxims were to allow a broad liberty of conscience. Zounds, one would think he had fallen in love with Mrs. O'Shocknesy. But let us come to the catalogue.'

First then, would not one think that you determined to set honesty, honour, and even decency at defiance, to debase yourself, whose character was really high in the world's estimation, and raise your brother, who had so foolishly borne himself as to be indifferently thought of, by that wanton unnecessary theft at Calais, which your brother, shocked at such conduct, so handsomely repaired?

'Well, this is master stroke the first,' said Figgins.

'Why at this rate Charles your fortune, to be understood, must, like a witches spell, be read backwards. Poor Standfast! I thought he knew mankind better.'

Next, who will believe but the unmanly attack upon your brother's life, at Lisle, after introducing him into company to ridicule and exasperate him, was concerted that you might become heir to your father's title and fortune. Indeed nothing can be so clear, for in France the murder would have been considered as a rencounter, and in England it would not have been punishable.

'Well argued, Master Standfast,' said Figgins; 'Why he is an altered man. I am cursedly mistaken if he did not practise in his youth very nearly as bad actions as those of which he only accuses you; and yet I believe this is the first time he ever preached upon such a subject.'
—'This is deep laid villainy indeed,' said Charles; 'but go on Mr. Figgins.'

As to your next material crime—for I shall pass over what may with propriety be pardonable on the score of youth and inexperience
—'very civil, upon my soul,' said Figgins—
what could

induce you to do the very thing of all others, which was most likely to incense Sir Sidney Roebuck,
—'Ay,' said Figgins, 'what could that be?'—
to assist in stealing a nun from a convent
—'Whew!' said Figgins. 'What is our civility to honest Combrie so construed? And yet dam'me if this same Mr. Standfast did not steal a nun upon his own account, in his youth; and, if report says true, she broke her heart through his ill usage. But against himself he would have you believe report tells lies. Why then is it to be believed against his friend? But one man may steal a horse:—Never mind it Charles:—you have been rascally treated indeed.'
To assist in stealing a nun from a convent, must of course prove an immoveable bar to his farther favour. Had not his own virtue resisted the same action in his youth, the mother of Annette might have been now his wife; for then perhaps she would not have pined herself to death for love of him in her retirement.

'Here I believe,' said Charles, 'he speaks truth, and had I been guilty of this crime, Sir Sidney would never have pardoned it.'
'But mark,' said Figgins, 'what a curious gentleman Mr. Stand fast is. He takes a lie, establishes it as a fact,

and then argues upon it as if it were truth. But let us proceed. Oh how a man might preach upon the folly and credulity of mankind, and take his text from this letter!'

As to your stealing this lady's fortune, it is certainly no more than a compound of the last crime; but that does not lessen its magnitude.—Thoughtless boy! how could you have the bold audacity to set yourself against the jealous laws both civil and religious, of such a kingdom as France. In this business I find Mr. Figgins chose to cut a great figure,
—'Oh I am glad to find I am brought in at last. Indeed I cut as great a figure at one place as another, except indeed the robbery at Calais, which this villainous Charles Hazard chose to conceal even from me, to preserve a false delicacy to a rascally brother, who, in return for saving him from the gallows, has connived with his infernal mother to load him with unmerited infamy.'—
But I shall write to him upon the subject.
'And he will answer you Mr. Standfast,' said Figgins.
In the mean time I shall only say that your conduct was madness, and your motive infamous: for though what you did could not be wholly excused, it might in some degree have admitted of palliation, had

you been actuated only by a disinterested generosity to your principal; but stipulating for terms with him, and receiving a part of the money, as the price of your iniquity, confirms the principles of villainy in you so fully, that volumes of the best precepts and ages of the best examples I fear could not reclaim you.

'Why no Mr. Standfast,' cried Figgins, 'I do not think they could; for what signifies washing any thing white that is pure already? Damned, damned mischievious cat,' added Figgins, and then went on.

I hope you felt your loss of five hundred pounds at cards, as a judgment on you.

'Well said!' exclaimed Figgins; 'truly parsonic. Mr. Standfast's belief is like his barn; it swallows any thing.'

The reflection that the man who plundered you is a proscribed character, and murder his crime, perhaps first induced your acquaintance, and afterwards how could hearts so congenial avoid a society with each other.—


'This is saucily impudent indeed,' said Charles.
'Damnably so,' said Figgins, and went on.

—But let it mortify you to reflect that you were not to enjoy the fruits of your wickedness, but that it was to be wrested from you by your superior in subtilty, though not in crime, for the purpose of squandering it upon your own harlot, who nows revels with him, and laughs at you, and who, such is the certain dependence of one bad character upon another, robbed and deserted you at Lyons, upon finding you committed to prison for murder.

'Why then,' said Figgins, 'by Mr. Standfast's confession I am a good character, for I will never desert you. But how did he discover this last business of Madame St. Vivier, for even I had not the heart to tell it you. In short my friend she has lain her hands on every thing, which is the more unlucky, as these French counsellors will not—nor indeed will any others—plead without fees. But let us finish this letter, and talk of these matters afterwards.'

May you escape the punishment due to that crime, and every other, and live to merit, by

your contrition, if not the praise, yet the pity, of all good men.

'The date of which charitable epoch I suppose Mr. Standfast is to appoint' said Figgins.

Be assured that nothing but a confession of your crimes, and a sincere repentance of them, can restore you to the countenance, though I am afraid nothing can to the hearts, of your friends.—But do not be so mistaken as to attempt a defence of your actions; there are too many witnesses against you; even your own servant, whose whole life, upon proof, has been blameless, shocked at so many repetitions of your unprincipled conduct, has left you, even without demanding his due, lest he should be thought to have received, though not guiltily, the wages of iniquity.

'There is a precious rascal for you,' said Figgins. 'I can only say for a man that pretends to know the world, I never saw such a dupe as Mr. Standfast in the whole course of my life.'

In short, this is the sum of all: Your father is dead; you are—though he fell by his own hand—virtually his executioner; your brother has take

possession of the title and estate; your mistress is promised to another; and, thanks to your own villainy, you have not a friend in the world. May God turn your heart, and make you more worthy the regard of others, as well as



'WELL by heaven,' said Figgins, as he folded up Mr. Standfast's letter, 'this is the most consummate piece of cruel treachery that surely ever was concerted. I could gnaw my flesh. And then this last business! To practise on the inexperience of your mistress! Damned mixture of stupid credulous folly, and ignorant obstinate pride. I suppose they intend to marry her to your brother.'

'I believe they do not know themselves what they intend' said Charles. 'This I know, that they have given me a very grounded, though a very early, conviction that there is not upon the face of nature so contemptible a being as a human creature; and I am strongly convinced that, should the event as to my present situation turn out favourably—which I am perfectly careless about—though I hope I shall love benevolence as much as ever, I shall hereafter look with an eye

of distrust on every man whom I have not proved yet not superficially, but from that sort of thorough conviction which you have given me—to be my friend.'

'I thank you sir,' said Figgins, 'for a compliment which I hope I shall deserve. But you will give me leave to say that I am astonished at the tranquillity with which you receive all these unmerited affronts. I expected—though I rejoice to find it otherwise—that such a complication of invidious calumny would have almost turned your brain'
—and in this Mr. Figgins spoke truth, for he did so expect—
'and especially this last blow concerning your mistress.'

'The very number and weight of these slanders,' said Charles, 'are what makes me sit down perfectly easy under them. I was in a flattering dream as to the world, and fondly fancied myself in the midst of generous friends, who, till I left my native country, were willing to give me credit for any little merit I possessed, and anxiously studious to find a venial motive for any indiscretion. But this present moment convinces me I was mistaken; their discernment, as to my real character, was so shallow, that it is plain they laid up every little trait of youthful folly to ground

a falacious argument upon, which they now believe to be solid reason. This, co-operating with the most unworthy and unheard of treachery, they have given me up as a profligate and an abandoned character, impossible to be reclaimed; and this calumny from a quarter they all detest—which common reflection must call impossible and a lie—is cherished warmly, zealously: cherished to the utter reprobation of him for whom they pretend a friendship. To whom then does the reprobation really belong? Does it not recoil on themselves? And what compliment should I pay myself by calling that man my friend who is so ready blindly, ignorantly, unfeelingly to think me the worst villain that ever infested the earth? Perhaps they did not know that I do possess one quality in as strong, but I hope as honest, a degree at least as any of them. If I do not flatter myself, my pride is of the right sort; and it shall not bend to the least explanation till I have received a concession from those who have injured me. No, no, Figgins, an emperor shall not trample upon me; and by all that is sacred I will see contrition in my enemies before I deign to communicate with them.'

'My noble friend,' cried Figgins.
'Let me finish,' said Charles. 'As to Annette, she is a

beautiful girl, and I love her better than any woman I ever saw; or rather, what I feel for her is more like love than I have felt for any other; but I never could flatter myself we should ever be united: there was always a something about my mind that forbade me to think of it. As matters are I will forget her; for though I am convinced this prohibition—so perverse is human nature—would soon, were I to give way to it, make a fool of me, yet it shall not be; for I will not love her dishonourably, and as to marriage, I do not love the world so well as to bring its cares upon my head.'

Figgins expressed more amazement at this calm, easy, resolute good sense, as he was pleased to call it, than at the rest; and then they proceeded to a third letter, which proved to be from Mr. Gloss. It contained these words:

I must begin my letter in the true mercantile style, by saying that my first twelve

epistles not being honoured, I send this my thirteenth, &c. &c.
Jesting apart, my good friend, you are the strangest model of eccentricity that ever let inconsistency run away with reason.
"What schooled on all sides!" said Figgins.
For my own part, I neither see the satisfaction nor the good sense in suffering all your friends to write so repeatedly, without deigning to answer their favours; nor how a man can be so infatuatedly sunk in the delirium of idle pleasures—which are to be sure well enough in their season—as to neglect the much more important duties of friendship and relative affection.
I need not tell you, for you must have received them, that nearly thirty letters from your father and others have been sent you.
"These are some of them I suppose," said Figgins.
At present indeed answers would be of little avail, for your father has shot himself,
—"Delicately announced," said Figgins—
and all your friends have turned their backs upon you; yet, on the score of the many shining qualities you certainly possess, those engaging manners, those bewitching attractions, and that dawning reason, which

was, for your years, so decisive and manly, you may command my friendship as far as one gentleman ought to assist another:—

"On the score of all these considerations," said Figgins, "you had better, upon my soul, Mr. Gloss, let him command your polite, and therefore unmeaning, friendship on the score that is between you, and then he would receive about three hundred pounds, which you borrowed of him in driblets. But let us see further."

—Though I greatly fear even my influence with Sir Sidney—for he does me justice—cannot restore you to his good opinion.
"His influence!" said Charles.
However, as I mean to vote with him in parliament—for you know I told you some time ago, by letter, that I was returned for the borough of Bray—
"The devil you were!" cried Figgins:
you may be assured I shall willingly embrace every honourable opportunity of offering you my service. You know my candour, and my consideration for my friends. The first induces me to tell you, without hesitation, that the baronet has promised me his lovely daughter,
"So so," said Figgins,
and the latter that I could not be prevailed upon to

accede to otherwise so desirable a proposal till he assured me, in so many words, he would never speak to you again.
"Which," said Figgins, "you very probably requested as a favour."

Pray write to me; and if there be any thing I can with propriety do to serve you, either with government or privately, you may in all worthy matters command,
My dear Sir,
Your truly devoted servant, GEORGE GLOSS.

'Here is another precious member of the human community,' said Charles.
'Sir,' said Figgins, 'what I have heard and seen to-day baffles my whole experience; and, for the future, I will not believe that because I see a man do a good or a sensible thing, that he will not do a wicked or a stupid one; but, on the contrary, expect to see him turn about, and exhibit that various, pitiable, contemptible figure that the best and the wisest I find are too apt to represent.

'To be sure there is one thing in their favour. Nobody has, it is plain, received any letters from

you.'
'But good God,' said Charles, 'is it not very plain to be seen how all this has come about? Has not the very rascal prevented it who has gone over to bear false witness against me?'

'True,' cried Figgins, 'and then which way shall we reconcile to the wisdom of Mr. Standfast, or the goodness of Sir Sidney, so hasty a belief of such slander against one, of whom it has been their pride to have had such a good opinion.'

'If their conduct be goodness and wisdom,' said Charles, it is both superficial and supererogate. There is not common sense in it, and I am sure there is not common good manners: for what virtue is that which condemns unheard?—and what modesty that has the presumption to punish without the right? What are my actions, after all, to these people? Am I dependant on them? No, I thank God, I am not; nor will I ever call one of them my friend: nay nor any man upon earth who shall be bold enough to scrutinize my intentions. No, my will, my desires, my conduct, shall be my own; and if I cannot make friendship upon any other terms, I would rather be alone in the world with integrity of heart, than give colour, by my intimacy, to their suspicions who have dared to think me a villain.'


'Admirably reasoned, my friend,' said Figgins, 'and I am sorry for their sakes to say too justly.—But let us see this other letter, which bears the same date with the rest.'

I know not, in this hurry of my spirits, if there be any precedents in books of a woman's writing to a man out of mere friendship; at least of sufficient authenticity to warrant my disregarding decorum in this manner. If there are not, it is a new incident, and I must rely on the purity of my intentions to excuse it.
So extremely like a fairy tale, where the hero's bad genius only makes its appearance, is all that has happened in this family relative to you, that if I did not fancy I had myself sagacity enough to account for the influence of the foul fiend, and whence it originates, I should think it very hard indeed that people could not be contented with losing their own senses, but they must insist that others lay aside theirs.

That I may hasten through this epistle sir—for I have a good deal to say—I am willing, unfashionable as it may be at our house, to do you poetical justice; not however in the style of your good friends here, who, finding you in danger of your life, think—in imitation of ARISTOTLE, RICHARDSON, and the barber's uncle in Gil Blas—that they cannot excite in you too much terror.
This candour in me does not proceed from any weak compassion, but from a fair revisal of your actions at the time they passed under my observation: and I do not think that charity authorises me to look farther, at least with a severe eye.
Abiding by this mode of decision, common justice obliges me to say that all your mad freaks here, which I would not have given a farthing for you if you had been without, originated from worthy motives. Mosquito, Ego, and even Toogood smarted, it is true, but they highly merited their punishment, and the lash was held by the hand of justice; but think ye they forgot it in your absence? Oh no: scurvy fellows as they are. Thank heaven, however, the worst of your enemies cannot give a bad motive to your conduct

in a certain instance. Yet there are some who compare you to Lovelace, and call your treatment of Jude
"sparing your rosebud:"
—charming young man as you were, and I will believe are.

Judy daily blesses you, poor girl, and joins with me to pray for the hard hearts that are set against you. Your behaviour as to her began, continued, and ended critically right, and her virtue, as it ought, was rewarded in the catastrophe; nor can a soul capable of such an act indulge a single principle that could dictate such dreadful crimes as we are all commanded to believe against you.
As for my part, I have read so much that human nature is a thing I am pretty well versed in. I must beg leave therefore to use my own proper intellects, rather than those of others; for though I am devoted to Sir Sidney, yet I am more so to truth and honour: and these wih not let me see why nature should perform a miracle, by turning all those excellent gifts she had afforded you into diabolical ones, merely for the gratification of your enemies, and commiting a breach of promise, which she was never known in any other instance to do.

Your father was certainly greatly shocked at not hearing from you; but if we do not admit all the rest, why should we not charitably believe your letters have been intercepted. For my part, I should think, if you had committed all this wickedness, you would the sooner have written to him, if it had been only for the sake of colouring it. But poor man his behaviour was very strange towards the last; yet you will find he could not bear to curtail you in your circumstances.
As to the state of our family, it is briefly as follows: Sir Sidney will not hear a word in your favour from any body; my dear lady you know is the mirror of duty and goodness, and therefore if she have any sentiments to your advantage she dare not divulge them even to me; charming Annette, who—or our complicated history will be incomplete—must marry you at last, is grown an angel, and I scruple not to tell you will never love any body but yourself: but, dear creature, devoted to her duty, how will she dare to look a stern father in the face, much less disobey him; and, unfortunately, she is not Lady Roebuck's child.
I have not mentioned to you however all our

family: Mr. Gloss I can assure you is no very inconsiderable member of it. He has so pushed himself among the great, that he is in parliament, and he has so attached himself to Sir Sidney, that he is become his darling. He has certainly a knowledge of human nature, but it is an artful one; for I can see plainly he has got round the good gentleman by praising his ancestry, which we all know is his foible. They have agreed together on making some motion relative to the antiquities of English baronets: then he has introduced a number of improvements at Castlewick, and put the people in a way of carrying the goods to market upon much better terms than they were used to; which is all very good if his motives were so: he has also been indefatigable in seconding Sir Sidney's designs at Little Hockley, but how that will be now I do not know, for your brother is beginning to settle grooms and others of his sporting followers there.
Mr. Gloss, finding my partiality to books, thought he knew where to find me vulnerable; but all his erudition was not able to cover his designs, which I could not however come into, for my studies have never been subtilty, but nature. As to my sweet Miss Annette, he was there entirely at a loss, for she has no foible.

Thus you see you have no friend but me, except Mr. Figgins, who, if the current account is to be credited, is almost—for nobody it seems can be quite—as bad as yourself.
Fear not however but some good will work out of this. I shall be upon my guard, and I am very much mistaken if I do not know of whom to be watchful. I only remark at present, that as it was said of ALEXANDER the best trait in his fortune was the choice of his tutor, so I most sincerely believe that you would, at this moment, have been thought immaculate if the same could be said, with the same truth, of yours.
I am, sir, Your very sincere friend, EMMA DISTICH.
P. S. I have this moment heard that your brother is to be married in a few days, and that Mrs. O'Shocknesy, who assumes the title of Lady Dowager Hazard, is coming to live with the happy pair.

'This girl,' said Figgins, 'with her whimsical style, has more good sense than all of them put

together. Her reading has been like the progress of a bee; she has selected all the sweets, and left the poison behind: and it proves that her intellects are remarkably strong, for she seems to have gathered as much mundaine knowledge by inference as others from worldly commerce; and this is well exemplified in her being too cunning for Mr. Gloss, who indeed seems to be the director of this plot. I wonder upon what terms he and the Lady Dowager are.'

'She is a very good girl,' said Charles, 'and I am afraid her solicitude for me will deprive her of her place.'

'I fear so too,' said Figgins, 'for she does not disguise that she dislikes Gloss, who will take advantage of her being upon a false scent to get rid of her; for her suspicions of Mr. Standfast, notwithstanding his scandalous letter, are surely ill grounded. This will be found out, and she will be turned away as a mischief-maker. But for this mistake, the remarks in her letter would have been very shrewd and sensible; but her dislike to Standfast is of ancient date. He made pretty brisk love to her when he was in the family of Major Malplaquet, and, upon her resisting his

inclinations, he did not place in her virtue that implicit belief that it merited.'

'I should think that would inspire her contempt,' said Charles, 'rather than her revenge. However, I cannot help thinking as you do that Mr. Standfast has given no assistance to this scandal but his belief of its truth, which cannot have failed to lend weight and consequence to the opinions of the rest, both in regard to their conviction that he is a judge of mankind, and that he must know me better than any body. It only turns out that he does not know me at all; nay that I did not know him; for I could not have thought it possible he could so soon, nor with so much indifference, have dropped the mask of the kind friendly adviser, to betray the insolent assuming pedagogue.'

'My dear sir,' said Figgins, 'you will please to recoliect that Mr. Standfast gets in years, which will not lessen his pride, of which he has possessed a pretty liberal quantity all his life, and you may be assured it is not diminished by a recollection that he has a good five hundred a year settled on him for life; which he ought, by the bye, to have the gratitude to remember belongs in right to you. My two hundred a year comes from the same

source, and as we deprive you between us of a large unnual sum, it is but common decency that we should show a wish, even though we have not ability, to deserve it.'

'Well,' said Charles, 'God knows how long I am to live, but that I may not pass my life in an eternal warfare, I will not investigate any thing: Time shall do it for me. There is but one inducement to my giving the matter a single thought, which is the situation of Annette. However, all I can do actively in relation to her will not only operate more to her disadvantage, but plunge me into real wretchedness, which is a thing, I thank them all, full unpleasant enough when one only possesses it in imagination. When my mind is more at ease I may perhaps answer Emma's letter, but it will be only strenuously to request she will not concern herself in my affairs at all, and to make the poor creature easy, by telling her that I can smile with contempt on all the malice of my enemies.'

'And yet,' said Figgins, 'I cannot methinks help wishing you would answer all the letters in the terms they deserve.'
'Mr. Figgins,' interrupted Charles, 'though, if I know my heart, I should detest myself could I indulge for two minutes

together an unjust or an ungenerous resolution, yet I am so well convinced that which I have at present made is founded on reason and propriety, that I would lose my life rather than relinquish it. No; they shall seek me, or they shall lose me. Let them take their choice; and, if they do not care which, it would surely be greatly beneath me not to be as indifferent as they are.'

A summons to dinner put an end to this long conversation, after which Figgins left his friend, in his miserable apartment, to go and prepare the awful business of the next day. He was no sooner gone than our hero began to pervade the contents of those letters which Figgins had brought him from the bankers. First he selected those from his father, which were filled with such tenderness, such distress of heart, such sensibility, yet unmixed with a single reproach, that all poor Charles's fortitude was nearly exhausted. He sighed, wrung his hands, and cried like a child, which his gaoler—as he entered his apartment to examine if the rivets of his fetters were fast—mistaking for apprehension on account of his approaching trial, begged he would make himself easy, for he had nothing worse to apprehend than hanging!

If this fate really awaits him, the reader and I may hereafter make some enquiry concerning his behaviour; for, as we have already examined together his life and character, that same behaviour and his last dying speech seems all that is wanting to wind up his story. At present we are going into happier company, and if it be objected against us that in so doing we are deserters to his cause under whose banner we have inlisted, we must even excuse ourselves by saying that we are not the only friends who have left a hero in prison, to go over to his enemies.


RETROSPECTION is a very good and a very necessary thing. If one's actions appear worthy upon a review, they will be a sort of security for the future; if otherwise, their deformity being an unpleasant object of contemplation, we may perhaps wish to replace it with something of a more lovely appearance: at least this will be the case with good minds. Some men love singularity, others ugliness, and I sincerely believe it is in some men's nature to love wickedness, and even wickedness in which no pleasure can be enjoyed but the mere exercise of it. For my part, however, I shall not here treat of such innate, undeducible affections, but endeavour to give to a positive cause every little freak of fancy that the personages in this history choose to occupy their attention with.
A very extraordinary conduct has been lately observed to govern all the good people on this side of the water, ever since the reader and I took leave of

them, in order to accompany our hero to France. What appears least reconcileable to credibility, is the alteration of Sir Sidney, who, being a man of reason, of the world, of experience, of consideration, and of uncommon benevolence, one would naturally suppose must, in a most extraordinary manner, have been tampered with before he could have been induced to give up a young man in whose dawnings of maturity he had taken abundant pleasure, whose father he had loved and honoured, and of whose happiness he had hoped to have been the guardian.
Indeed when our hero left England Sir Sidney contemplated with great pleasure when he should return, in the bloom of manhood, with all those confirmed accomplishments so consonant to his rank and talents, the reasonable delight with which he should witness an union between him and his daughter, and as no one spoke of Charles but in a style of the most exalted panegyric, no wonder if he was charmed at seeing every thing and every body confirm such honest and legitimate sentiments. But, when a week, then a fortnight, then a month, then two, then four, elapsed without a single line from Charles to either his father, his mistress, or any other friend, what could Sir Sidney

think? What judgment could he form of those reports which continually assailed his ears, and which seemed gradually to turn all his friends against him?
It may not be amiss to watch the progress of this business. Zekiel, as the reader was long ago informed, when he left Eaton went to France. There being in very straitened circumstances, and totally under the direction of Mr. Flush, he was obliged to practise many tricks and shifts to get on, especially as Kiddy, who seems as a manooverer—his own word—to be a twin-born with Standfast, very carefully threw certain gentlemen depredators in his way, who are, as every body knows, pretty plentiful in France, and who took care—his own language again—to keep the purse, by sweating it, in good running order.
Being very closely driven at Calais, and not having enough of Kiddy about him to distinguish between what the law calls theft, from that which is so denominated by reason, he did that through inexperience for which he might have been hanged, when, in fact, his mode of policy should have made him do only that for which he ought to have been hanged.

Mr. Dessein, however, who had his policy too, as we have seen, did not choose to expose him, and, by the advice of his principal, he took care afterwards, however he offended against justice in a religious sense, not to sin against law.
From a variety of sources which Flush contrived to get opened for him, Mr. Zekiel, together with his own income and what he could drain from his mother, and indeed from Mr. Standfast, contrived to cut a very capital dash at Paris. He set very large sums chez les comptesses, and he betted larger upon the course of Fontainebleau. In short, in spite of all he could amass together, honestly or dishonestly, he would have found himself not only aground, but surrounded with some very marked disgrace, if he had not met with a gentleman who was so kind as to administer very largely to his wants; and who, not contented with such liberal instances of kindness to a perfect stranger, gave evident tokens of satisfaction when the young lord in expectation informed him he had a very tender affection for his sister.
This gentleman, the reader sees, was Mr. Tadpole. He had, it seems, in company with the young lady we saw at Lisle, who was, to say truth, not his sister—which circumstance indeed Mr. Figgins's

sagacity taught us to suspect before—determined to make one bold push to render himself independent. He had amassed at the gaming table in England about nine hundred pounds, to which his reputed sister added thirteen hundred, which she had won at a different game. Their plan was to snap up some young man of good expectations, first supplying him with money, and afterwards with a wife.
Tadpole, who was originally a lawyer's clerk, carefully secured every step he took, and, by the time he reached England, had Zekiel so completely in his power, that, being then of age, he scrupled not to make over to his friend the reversion of a part of his father's terra firma.
Coming so unexpectedly to his title and fortune, advantage was taken of this power over him, and a marriage suddenly clapped up; not out of fear of any reluctance in the young lord, but lest an old lady, one Mrs. O'Shocknesy, should not only destroy the hopes of the young lady, by the exercise of her power over him, but also those of the gentleman, by furnishing him with the money to pay off the mortgage.
This marriage, which Emma gave us a hint of,

operated as we shall hereafter have occasion to notice, in a most extraordinary manner; but the business at present being to account for the reports against our hero, I shall go back to Lisle, where the reader will recollect I entreated his particular attention to all that passed.
Our hero had never seen Flush, and the two brothers were so grown out of each other's remembrance, that it is not wonderful they should remain in mutual ignorance till an accident unravelled the mystery. After Zekiel had retired, vowing revenge, and left his brother master of the field of battle, Kiddy, as we have seen, told him that revenge was very easily in his power. He then informed him of Madame St. Vivier's intention to complete the happiness of Charles that evening, and showed him a chamber which he said and believed was hers. Zekiel, following the direction of his trusty valet, was admitted to Kitty's bed room, and, in the full belief that he was deceiving his brother, made as happy as he could wish.
The question here is, how came Flush, who was just arrived, to know so well all these private matters? The answer is, by Mrs. Kitty, who, together with her mistress, had been as well instructed

upon this occasion by Mrs. O'Shocknesy, as Miss Snaffle had upon a former one.
Flush, having the honour to know both the ladies, did not scruple, when the squabble began between our hero and his brother, to interrogate the waiting maid as to
'how the cat jumped,'
as he called it, and, having learnt from her the particulars of the assignation, proposed to put Zekiel in the place of Charles, which she promised, without intention to perform; for she knew if it were detected all their other designs on our hero would be at an end; and, at the same time, she feared a discovery from Flush, for indeed he menaced it, if she refused. She therefore directed him to conduct Zekiel to her bed chamber, where he passed the night, and the person who tapped at the door was Mr. Tadpole, who having first knocked at his soidisante sister's, thought he had mistaken the room, and afterwards went to his own bed, for fear of further mistakes.

So completely however were all these cross purposes acted, that Kitty believed the person who knocked at the door to be no other than Mr. Figgins, who, in his turn, as has been shown, was otherwise employed. Kitty, however, having given

Madame St. Vivier a hint of this business, she burnt a light in her chamber, by which means Charles came, as he informed Figgins, at the certainty of his not being mistaken.
The most awkward circumstance in this affair was the scene which passed the next day in the post chaise between Zekiel and his two companions.—Tadpole had taxed the young lady in the morning as to what person was in her bed chamber; she assured him it was the young lord; they were therefore astonished that he himself dropped no hint of it, while, on his side, he trembled for fear any one should have maliciously discovered to them what he thought had really happened.
This doubtful taciturnity gave Tadpole a notion that he was inwardly hugging himself at his success, and that probably having stolen the possession of the young lady, he might, for some reason or other, slacken in his devoirs for the future. Miss also had suspicions akin to these, and she had once an idea of throwing herself at her brother's feet, and making use of this opportunity, through his authority, of exacting from Zekiel a written promise of marriage. She refrained however, and it was well she did. Tadpole ventured a few hints. He said he believed the devil had been let loose the night before

in the inn, for he had heard such running about and knocking at doors, that he could not get a wink of sleep. Zekiel blundered out an awkward remark or two, Miss ventured at a few leading questions, and, in short, they were all three on the verge of a discovery, which would probably have overturned their respective intentions.
It happened however that but one discovery came of it, and that was confined to the knowledge of Tadpole and the young lady. It was, that somebody had been in bed with Miss, which somebody was neither Zekiel nor Tadpole. They therefore, for they had not an idea of Figgins, concluded it to be Charles, and this thought dwelling in their imagination, presented itself as a bar to their scheme. Upon a consultation on this subject afterwards, however, they resolved it should make no difference as to their future measures, and their minds being thus made up—which the reader will allow to be a pretty strong instance of delicacy—all matters went in their former channel.
When they came to England it was agreed, on all hands, that Mrs. O'Shocknesy and Standfast should know no more of Mr. and Miss Tadpole than if there had been no such persons in the world.

And now came, as Figgins called it, masterstroke the first. This gentleman corresponded with Mr. Standfast, as did also Madame St. Vivier, whose real name was Jenny Singleton, with Mrs. O'Shocknesy. From their accounts they had began to frame an accusation, which the arrival of Zekiel greatly improved, and which, with its amendments, stood as in Standfast's letter.
These tidings were conveyed to Mr. Gloss, who insinuated them into Sir Sidney's family as opportunity served; and, as fast as one rumour died away, he broached another, that the good baronet might not be suffered to cool.
In this worthy business he found three very useful tools in Mosquito, Ego, and Toogood; who remembering, as Emma has told us, their old grudge—especially when revived in its worst lights by Gloss—were continually throwing out some hint to Charles's disadvantage. Mosquito said the young fellow was mad, and because he had been tolerably educated, and puffed up with false applause, had, like other spoilt children, thought he could carry all the world before him. Toogood said that he could not have believed a young man of such promising parts would so disgrace all his friends, while

Ego declared that if he had been a young fellow blessed with so many advantages, he would have turned out the best creature in the world. In short, Gloss made them play fast and loose, as he pleased, and when they talked in exaggerating terms of his former pranks, he once ventured in a mild way to reprobate the part Sir Sidney had taken in the business of Swash and the tailor, saying he should not wonder to hear his acquiescence upon that occasion quoted as an excuse for the wretch's enormities.
These measures, together with the interception of Charles's letters, which, by the bye, furnished Standfast, who received them, with a most admirable guide to the execution of his schemes, and now and then some cursory intelligence from genglemen just arrived from France, who saw our hero drunk at an inn, or quarrelling in a coffee-house, where he refused, notwithstanding their earnest solicitation, to send any letter or message to England. All these I say worked his utter ruin in the opinion of his friends; and yet, I must do Sir Sidney the justice to say he hesitated against what appeared to be positive conviction till one morning news was brought that Lord Hazard was found shot through the head, and that the act was certainly committed by himself, for one pistol lay close by him, and

another was found loaded in his pocket; and they were the same pair he had bought when he was last in town.
Two days after this melancholy accident John arrived, who wept over his old master's corpse, said he did not wonder at what had happened, afterwards corroborated all that had been reported, did not spare Figgins, and concluded with an account of Charles's being imprisoned at Lyons for murder, producing, at the same time, a French Gazette, which gave the particulars of the whole transaction. Under these appearances, with Gloss at his elbow, Sir Sidney wrote the letter we have seen.


HAVING formerly hinted that Mr. Gloss was selected by Standfast as a husband for Annette, and again in the last chapter shown that these two gentlemen acted in concert in a fraud of no less consequence than what SHAKESPEARE, who well knew human nature, calls the worst of injuries—the taking away a man's good name—I feel it incumbent on me to account for the close intimacy which certainly did subsist between them.
When Gloss came to England from Madeira, either accident, or necessity, or something—for it is not necessary now to be particular—pointed out Mr. Standfast as a proper person to assist him in his views of settling in this country.
That reverend gentleman, ever ready to help out

a genius—for this quality must be allowed to Mr. Gloss—advised him to trump up a story of going to the Cape of Good Hope, and then return, after going only to Madeira, where he actually had yet some little business, and circulate a report that he had touched his father's fortune, which, being in merchandise, he had only to change it into money, to cut a figure.
Being introduced to a number of tradesmen, as a young nabob, he presently sat himself down in a most elegant house, built a vis a vis, and took up large quantities of goods: Standfast supplying him with what ready money he was in absolute necessity of.
Cutting this figure, and having his pretensions backed by Standfast, money was next borrowed, Snaffle and Dogbolt becoming occasionally collateral securities; and this trade went on so swimmingly, that in less than a year and a half they found their names standing out on different engagements for upwards of twenty-seven thousand pounds! twelve at least of which Standfast had converted to his own proper use: for the avarice of Mrs. O'Shocknesy was insatiable, and the poor gentleman doted on her to a degree of infatuation.

Thus situated, their ruin collectively was inevitable, if they could not stem this storm, which now seemed to be bursting over their heads. The difficulty seemed to be how to manage it, but to such geniuses all dangers were surmountable. Some hundreds were laid out in India goods, to show by way of sample, which were bought for exportation, to save the drawback, and afterwards clandestinely relanded.
Every possible exertion was made to give responsibility and consequence to the appearance of Mr. Gloss. A large estate was bargained for; nay he even went so far as to wait on the minister, to offer an exclusive treaty for a loan. Thus his name rang in the newspapers, and the whole world, believing him to be in possession of an immense fortune, offered him any assistance he might think proper to command. Large sums were soon pressed upon him, which went to satisfy such as would not shift the responsibility from his confederates shoulders to his. Others did not make any difficulty of doing this; so that after a variety of negociations, Mr. Gloss's name stood alone for the original sum of twenty-seven thousand pounds, and seven added to it!
What was the next step? How was he to go on

How skreen himself from his creditors? How indeed, but by borrowing the writings of a friend's estate, and standing for a borough! He had given proofs of his abilities as a negociator; nobody knew the theory of commerce better; who then so proper to fill an office under the state?
He had fixed his eye on the treasury ship of the navy, and I have said he had a knock of getting to any spot that he fixed his attention on. A public acknowledgement that he was determined upon having this post, that is to say, whenever there should be a ministry virtuous enough for him to mix with, gained him his election.
His speech from the hustings was very original, and therefore very taking. In all addresses he had hitherto noticed, there were a number of general promises, which were never performed. He, on the contrary, resolved to promise nothing but what his constituents were sure he would perform if he could.
He began with saying that he had an interest in offering himself for that borough, and so had every man living when he made a similar application; for would any one present, or in the world, exercise

his talents for nothing? This, he said, was honest, and, therefore, he had no doubt it would be popular. He went on with saying he had watched with great attention the unhappy situation of this country, and was ready to lend a helping hand to save it from impending ruin. For this however he certainly expected a reward: and it was but just. Would a physician save a life without a fee?—or a parson a soul without his tithes? It was folly, it was nonsense, it was hypocrisy, for men to pretend disinterestedness and mere love of their country. He loved his country as well as any body; was as disinterested as any body; but still, patriotism and self-denial could not imply, in the present instance, more than this: that while loaves and fishes are going forward, a man should eat only to satisfy nature, instead of guttling till he furfeited himself.
He said he would be plain, and fairly lay open all his views. The navy of this nation was its bulwark, its glory. It was that which lent millions to our treasury, magnificence to our appearance, and terror to our name. It was that which made us respected and admired; dreaded and envied. We made but a point on the face of the globe, but yet that point, though small, was resplendant. It was

gazed at with wonder by the remotest corners of the earth. We were the true Cynosure of trade; the commercial pole, that, with more than magnetic force, attracted the interests of surrounding nations. All this was owing to our navy: the protection of our commerce. His ambition therefore was to be treasurer of that navy; in the execution of which office, though he expected to be paid for his trouble, yet he would be bold to say his conduct would deserve it: for he was sure he should save immense sums to the nation!
He said he despised professions. They were unmanly, ungenerous, and an insult to those to whom they were made: he had therefore honestly opened his mind. That honesty would, he doubted not, be a sufficient security with Englishmen, whose natural character was honesty, for his future good intentions. If he should have the great honour to be returned for the borough of Bray, and a minister should come in of sufficient ability and integrity for him to act with, he would stipulate for the situation he had set his heart upon, and they would then see how the money would be handled! He would be bold to say, though it would be for his interest, it should also be for theirs: for the interests of the member and his constituents were inseperable.

He finished his speech with saying he scorned to appeal to their ears, he hoped he had appealed to their hearts; and as their own conviction must teach them that truth, and only truth, had been his guide, he hoped that honesty, plain dealing, and unreserved candour would mark that day as an epoch when a member of parliament was chosen who had no expectations but from honour, no views but from sentiment.
I need not add that Mr. Gloss carried his election; for notwithstanding this florid speech, which was indeed novel → enough, he had bought the borough, and the gentleman who contested the election was only a nominal antagonist, set up to save appearances.
This point being carried, the person of Mr. Gloss was sacred, and his creditors might go whoop for their money. Exasperated with this treatment, his vis a vis was stopped in the street, and executions served in his house. But this was as useless as the rest; all his property was made over to Mr. Standfast, for money lent. And now we see Mr. Gloss without an inch of land he could call his own, nearly forty thousand pounds in debt, with a house and an equipage made over for safety to another, a parliament

man, a popular speaker, almost the leader of a party, and making large strides, with the principles we have seen, towards a responsible and lucrative place under government: for the treasurership of the navy he was determined to have.
As he really began to boast, and not without reason, of his influence, he thought he could not attack Sir Sidney in a more vulnerable place than his ancient house, which, from a long train of collateral argument, he proved to be older than the baronet himself had suspected.
I shall not go into the minutiae of this arrangement, which must not only be dry, but uninteresting to the reader, who, I dare say, would bate a little in the article of birth to such as made up the deficiency in honour—but only say that Mr. Gloss made it out very clearly that Sir Sidney was the only living issue of the family who held the honour of the first English baronetcy, and offered to make a motion in the house, which he should support with many powerful arguments, that his majesty be advised to grant to Sir Sidney Walter Roebuck, and his heirs for ever, an exclusive patent of baronetcy, under the title of baronet in chief, to be considered as an honour between that of a common baronet and a baron, in like manner as a marquis is considered between

an earl and a duke, and the precedent to be quoted, as an illustration of the argument, was to be, that as there was but one real marquis—which was the case at that time—so there should be but one chief baronet.
The baronet certainly listened to the proposal, and turned it a good deal in his mind, and though he doubted whether he should avail himself of such an opportunity of aggrandizing his family—especially as he had no son—yet, as he could see nothing but attention to his interest in the conduct of Gloss, he certainly conceived from that moment a great regard for him. This was prodigiously augmented by the attention this last mentioned gentleman paid to Castlewick, and the actual advantage its interests received from his advice, which both gave the baronet an insight into his capacity, and confirmed his good opinion of it. All these circumstances co-operating, as indeed Emma has already told us, no wonder if he had familiar entrance to his house, afterwards to his heart, and at length an offer of his alliance.
Mr. Gloss took care also to appear the friend of Charles; but then his mediation never came without an insinuation that he was more a friend to honour. In short the two characters were so strikingly contrasted in the mind of the baronet, that

without any great stretch of propriety, the reader must allow, under these circumstances, that it is not to be wondered he should turn about in the manner I have described. Besides—for I would fain sum up every trifling figure, to make the aggregate of my reasons upon so important a point convincing—Sir Sidney felt a delicate, a nice repugnance, perhaps too much so, at the idea of a connection with the son of a man who had destroyed himself, and who had, assuredly, borne in his youth a very bad character.
Again, he plainly foresaw that all his benevolent attempts at Little Hockley would soon be frustrated by the innovations of the young lord; for it was not yet so firmly rooted but that, owing to a new crew of revellers, it began already to lose ground. This, and the recollection of the ancient feuds, which he now feared would be renewed, heartily conquered his inclination to be in any respect allied to the family of Lord Hazard, though he admired the talents of our hero, and really had such a value for him as to wish his welfare, though he doubted whether he would ever deserve it.
Mr. Standfast and Mrs. O'Shocknesy must now become a little the subject of our attention. That gentleman and lady had been sometime married:

but it was the wish of both that it should not be published. She brought with her a comfortable number of debts, and being now a femme couverte, very soon contracted a number more. In short, there were no bounds to her extravagance, which Mr. Standsast seemed as anxious to feed as she to indulge.—His own income, including a living the gift of my lord, his annuity from that nobleman, the interest of his legacy from Major Malplaquet, and what he had besides been able to realize—for no object upon earth, except Mrs. O'Shocknesy, had been sixpence expense to him—was about seventeen hundred a year; the lady had three; yet we have lately seen above twelve thousand added to their income in a year and a half! But what was this? He doted on her as implicitly, as rapturously, and as boyishly as Barn well did on Millwood, and threw large sums into her lap as willingly, whenever he could steal them: for I think the means he used to get at them might very well be called theft. On her side, no dutchess must dare to vie with her in taste and expense. But every source from whence this profusion was supplied at length dried up. Mr. Gloss being in parliament, nobody would trust him; and thus the whole credit of the confederacy was at a stand. Besides, Lord Hazard, who was expected to grieve himself to death for the loss of his wife and the irregularities of his son, was yet alive, and

had no disorder but sorrow, which, though immoderate, did not seem likely to kill him. What joy then to the heart of this lady to hear he was no more!—to find her son in full possession of more than thirteen thousand a year, the whole of which she intended to command! Her transport knew no bounds! She bespoke a new carriage and new liveries, and bowled down into Warwickshire in the most superb and magnificent style that money could procure or fashion invent: taking with her such domestics for her son as she conceived proper for his situation in life. In short nothing could equal the triumph with which she thought herself sure of taking possession of both her son's senses and his affairs. Judge then what was her astonishment when flying to his arms he stopped her by introducing his wife, being no other than the very Miss Tadpole that Figgins, to use his own words, dubbed him with by anticipation at Lisle! What then did she feel! Words are not strong enough to describe her sensations. It took her breath away. She raved, stampt, laughed, execrated, and would probably have died with the violence of her passion, had not a shower of tears borne away the first torrent of that complication of distressful feelings which assailed her. At length she accomplished something like articulate utterance, when the whole school of Billingsgate, had it been present, might have heard and

edified. No opprobrious name that could be scandalously spoken or maliciously applied, was unremembered. His lordship—surely no lord was ever so called before—was a pitiful rascal, a nincompoop, a hop o' my thumb, a paltry puppy, and a pimping scoundrel. The lady was a scurvy jade, a fortune hunting minx, a low wretch, and a sorry trull.
Zekiel laughed at all the abuse on himself, but taking fire at the insults offered to his wife, cried,
'I'll tell you what it is ma'am; I know you see what you'd be at, but dam'me let me tell you dam'me that I am out of my leading strings, dam'me if I 'ent, and I won't no longer be schooled, d'ye see, by any old cat in England.'
'Old cat!' screamed out the lady dowager.

The young lady here interfered, and begged her husband to consider he was talking to his mother.—
'To my mother,' cried he, 'why so I know I am, and a pretty mother she is, now is not she, to abuse you and I in this here manner? Why I know'd what she was upon; she thought to come here and be lady paramount of every thing, and snub and ding me about like a lout and a school boy; but dam'me if I'll have any such doings: no, I won't old gentlewoman, I'll assure you. I know in a week, if she was to be here, she'd be

whole and fole; nay I should not wonder if she wanted at last to take my seat from me in the house of lords. But hold, now I think on't she has been there once too often already.'

'You brute!' exclaimed his mother. 'You wretch!—you undutiful cursed devil! Oh I could tear your eyes out!'

'I dare say you could,' cried the young lord, 'but I'll tell you what mother, if I am so undutiful, you had better go away from such a cursed devil, for to tell you the truth I never intended you should live with my wife, seeing as how it was not unlikely you would advise her to play me a trick or so with my valet de chamber.'

Mrs. O'Shocknesy could contain herself no longer: she ran to his sword, and drawing it half way out of the scabbard, swore she would murder him. Lady Hazard here screamed so loud that Tadpole, who had been walking in the garden, came to their assistance, and demanded what was the matter.

'The matter?' cried Zekiel; 'only my old mother wants so send me post to the other world,

because I reminded her a little of the follies of her youth. God bless the good gentlewoman,' added he, 'do now pray go home, wash the paint off your saded jaws, and chuckle to old Standfast.—Why do you think I have not been up to all the rum gig? Why yes I have; but it was no business of mine, you know, while I could coax you out of the ready. Now, d'ye see, I can supply myself, and thanks to nobody:—so every one for himself, and God for us all. Mr. Standfast has two or three goodish things: they may keep you snug enough, if you have a mind to live pretty and decent, as an old gentlewoman ought. As for me I intend to live nobly, and spend my money like a man!'

'But still my lord,' said Tadpole—
'Brother Tadpole,' interrupted Zekiel, 'I'll be damned if I live in the same house with a wife and a mother, and there's it d'ye see. That being the maxim of the thing, you had better, old lady, as I said before, go back again; and it may be as well for you to keep a quiet tongue, and advise Master Standfast to do the same, or it may be the worse for both you, d'ye see, and the rum duke too.

I have neither time nor inclination, nor indeed

capacity to paint the fury of the lady, at her leaving the house, which she did soon after. Every bitter wish her invention could supply was lavished on her son. Among the rest, I think she said she hoped to her soul he would be both a beggar and a cuckold.
The lady's return to Mr. Standfast, who was prevented by business from accompanying her into the country, was truly a curious one. She blamed him for every thing, which was her usual method whenever any thing miscarried; and he, as usual, bore his jobation with astonishing coolness. This provoked her: her passion then provoked him: one epithet begat another, till he was all the old, sapless, doting idiots that her fertile fancy could invent; and she was, by his account, the damnedest infernal hell-cat that ever was born to curse an unhappy rascal like him.
From storming they went to upbraiding then they proceeded to the situation of their affairs, which were found to be plunged over head and ears in difficulties. This, in spite of them, brought on reflection, and that upbraided them with the infamous practices they had been guilty of to serve an ungrateful wretch, who, after he had mounted to affluence by their means, had kicked down the p•…

that raised him! And here I cannot help remarking that the very devil for whom they had been so long toiling, his ends accomplished, spit in their faces, and forsook them.


THE reader will judge right if he fancies this reception of Mrs. O'Shocknesy was a concerted thing between my lord and his brother in law, who was now his steward, as was Flush his butler. Indeed, as every servant formerly in the house was by this time replaced by others, brought in at the instance of these two friends, his lordship was doomed to be as much in leading strings as ever his mother could have held him for the life of her; but as he was suffered in every thing to have his own way, he did not concern himself with what they did privately, but let them feather their nests in quiet, under the idea of taking all his affairs off his hands, because he was a man of rank, in whom it was vulgar to let business interfere with pleasure.
Mr. Tadpole and Mr. Kiddy understood one another very well, for the latter had, while they were in France, made a discovery, of which the reader shall some time hence participate.

A secret to a minister of state, or his type, a great man's butler, is a matter of some consequence.—Here then Flush set up his rest. It is true he balanced, when he first came to England, and was within a hair's breadth of destroying all Tadpole's hopes, by making the above discovery to his old master Standfast; but that gentleman making him some proposal or other that he did not like, he retracted before he had so explained himself as to betray Tadpole, and matters having since turned out so much to his advantage, he thanked his stars that he had now sat himself down comfortably for life.
Whether Kiddy was tired of his youthful follies, or whether his whirligig inclinations had wearied themselves with turning round, I know not, but he seemed like a worn-out weathercock to be glad to rust where he had stopped: and this choice was manifest in a total alteration in his manners. He went to church, nay more, he was very often closeted with a methodist preacher, with whom he got drunk, and sang psalms.
The young lord used to smoke this, as he called it, and gave him many a dry rub, to one of which sallies he one day replied,
'Why Lord love your

lordship, my lord, when you come to repent, as I do, of all your worldly gig, and are down upon the heavenly comfort of a religious life, you may tell the old rum codger with his hour glass, come when he will, you are up to all he knows, and indifferent, as some old learned gentleman says, whether you close your peepers in sleep or in death.'

Emma, who, as she informed our hero, was up on the watch, no sooner heard of Kiddy's conversion, but knowing he must be full of good intelligence for her, determined to tamper with him: not that she had any expectation of finding him less a hypocrite in his new calling than in his old one. She therefore saw there might be danger in putting her designs in execution personally. In fact Emma saw herself of consequence in the very way she had all her life wished to be; for she was convinced she should have it in her power, in the language of those romances she so dearly loved, to conduct two constant lovers to the temple of Felicity, through all the briars and bogs that impeded their passage.—Flush she pitched upon as the vehicle in this troublesome journey, which Swash and his daughter were to guide, while she herself, like some tutelary genius, should watch their motions, inspire them

with courage on the road, and remove all difficulties in their passage to this desirable goal.
In less figurative language, she set Swash, who with good reason loved Charles most sincerely, to insinuate himself into Flush's good graces, who, I can tell you, had already began to love homage, so little had the spirit mended his humility.
It was in the miller's instructions never to mention a word of our hero, or, if he found that unavoidable, to cover any suspicion of his friendship, by railing against him, but at the same time to cherish all that dropped from Flush—who now, for distinction, began to be called Canting Kiddy—that could in the remotest degree lead to any circumstance that implied a plot having been formed against him.
As to Jude, her part was a capital one, and had she not been perfected in it by a very capable instructress, she might have spoilt all.
Kiddy, it was notorious, loved a pretty girl; Judy was instructed to throw herself in his way, to give an account of his behaviour, and proceed step by step as she should be directed by Emma. It was foreseen her virtue would be attacked, but this was

the very cunning of the scene. Whenever this should happen to be the case, she was directed to draw, in her simple way, a pathetic picture of the wickedness of mankind, and lament the blindness of the world, who could load the preserver of her innocence with unmerited reproaches, while he who was seeking to destroy it had the character of sanctity and penitence. They were not so mad however as to trust to Judy's prudence alone, nor her rhetoric, for force might overcome both: Swash therefore was to be at hand upon any trying occasion, to rescue her, which being romantic, was still more to Emma's taste.
If she should get at any material evidence, her next step was to strengthen her own weak force by the alliance, as she should think fit, of either Mr: Friend or Mr. Balance, or both; and as she saw many obstacles would lie in the way, particularly the business of Gloss, she advised Annette to avow implicitly her affection for Charles, which her father had formerly authorised, and who would not so far contradict his own excellent character as to insist on her marrying one man before she had forgotten the other. Besides Mr. Gloss was not yet treasurer of the navy, and therefore could not make those offers as to fortune which a man of Sir Sidney's

rank and possessions would of course expect, especially when he became chief baronet; which circumstance, ridiculous as it was, really at times occupied his reflections: for what man is there, let him be ever so good or ever so wise, but has his weak side.
All this jumble or chaos of circumstances were fluctuating at this time in Emma's head, out of which she had no doubt but she should form a world of happiness for the young couple.
Matters being in this state as to our hero in England, the reader and I will once more take a trip to the continent, in which journey we cannot do better than follow the steps of Madame St. Vivier and her handmaid Kitty, whose private motives being made clearer—which seems very necessary—this history will stand as disentangled as any one could reasonably desire who wishes things to be brought forward in their natural order.
It has been seen that I am not very fond of dwelling upon trifling circumstances, I shall therefore, without mentioning a word of these ladies bringing up, say that Madame St. Vivier was a fashionable woman of the town, and that Miss Kitty,

though her handmaid, had been in no less a sphere of life than herself. Indeed, but a very few years before, she had cut a figure little less brilliant than Mrs. O'Shocknesy, but falling in love with either the beauty or the brogue of Mr. Ireland, she had really attached herself to him with a singular degree of constancy for a lady of her profession.
When this gentleman was obliged to abscond, in consequence of his duel, he left his affairs in the hands of an intimate friend, who thought proper to take no other notice of the trust, than by appropriating every thing to his own use, without remitting his friend abroad, or allowing the lady at home, a single sixpence: so that in this case Kiddy's remark of honour among thieves did not apply.
Mrs. Kitty having been sometime out of the way of practice—for fashion has as much to do in these cases as beauty—had recourse to her old friend Jenny Singleton, who began just then also to be on the decline, and proposed a visit to Sedan, where Mr. Ireland then was, with a view to consult him on their future operations.
This expedition was lucky enough, for Mr. Gloss

coming across them, they were tutored by Mrs. O'Shocknesy how to make their journey worth while.
Figgins gave them intelligence concerning the departure of Charles; and, as it had been concerted, they met him at Dover.
The ladies however, determined to make all sure, had privately agreed to act in the very manner Figgins has described; for their experience gave them reason to believe that it was not impossible but Mr. Ireland might forget to give them the meeting. They therefore were in appearance to be alternately mistress and maid, both to save expense, to keep their secrets to themselves, and also to avail themselves of any opportunity that might happen of snapping up any English booby, by way of completing his tour for improvement.
Matters turned out however very much to their satisfaction. They met with Mr. Ireland at Sedan; he attended them to Nancy, where, as it has been seen, he plundered our hero of a tolerable supply. Nor did he absolutely part with them, but hovered about as it were, till his affairs called him into Italy, to which place—after robbing our hero

of every thing they could lay their hands on, as we heard Figgins inform him—these two kind ladies followed him.


IF the reader and I were unfeeling enough to leave Charles in such a situation that death seemed almost desirable to him, Mr. Figgins appears to have been more solicitous about him, for in less than half an hour after the melancholy moment wherein I describe him reading his father's letters, he returned with great pleasure in his countenance, took his friend by the hand, and giving him joy, told him he was liberated!
Charles, going from one extreme to the other, was enraptured at the news, and requested to be informed how so unexpected an event had been brought about. Figgins answered him that they were in no place to satisfy his curiosity. They were then joined by their attorney, who had stayed behind to pay the fees of the prison; and now the jailer, who a little before had earnestly examined

our hero's chains, to see if they were fast enough, came with great ceremony to unfasten them.
This and all other punctilios over, they sallied forth, and Charles and Figgins being arrived at their inn, the latter thus accounted for his friend's enlargement.
Mr. Figgins said that no single day had past since his friend's imprisonment but some step had been taken to get at the truth of the unhappy business, which had been the means of his suffering in so worthy a cause. The accounts had been for a good while various and unsatisfactory, and therefore he determined, as he had enough in all conscience to vex him without being eternally tortured with such suspense, not to say a word till some certain intelligence should arrive. He said the first clue he had of any thing like a chance of success, though he took no notice of it at the time, was his friend's saying he was sure he had somewhere seen the murderer. This put it into his head—though he owned it was a conjecture greatly at random.
'But.' added he 'I would catch as much at a straw for my friend's safety as my own. That Ireland, who was a great duellist, was probably the man.'

'And by heaven,' said Charles, 'I do believe

he was; though it never struck me so till this moment.'

'You shall hear,' said Figgins.
'I was inclined the more to believe this on hearing his name mentioned in an odd way by Madame St. Vivier, with whom I now began to think he had maintained some intelligence all along; for I recollected that it dropped from her at Nancy that she had seen him in England. This set me upon interrogating Kitty, who confessed his having been at Lyons, and that very probably he was the guilty person.'

'I was now convinced they knew it. Thinking therefore to practise the trick your brother taught us at Lisle, I ordered John to enquire every day at the post-office, and to bring me any letters directed to Madame St. Vivier. He, I suppose, made them acquainted with these instructions, for after waiting till about three weeks ago, to no purpose, I was just thinking what other method I could hit upon, when, all on a sudden, the ladies and Mr. John decamped, as I imagined, together, but we have since learnt he went to England.'

'Women cannot so easily travel secretly in France

as men. I therefore soon found out their route, which, as I suspected, led to where Mr. Ireland was waiting for them. My first intention was to have pursued them myself, but reflecting I should be of more use to you upon the spot, I got, by the interference of our banker, a very intelligent young man to go in my stead.

'The instructions given to this young man were not to act so as to endanger Mr. Ireland—for that I knew you did not wish—but only to get from him such sort of satisfaction as should acquit you.—The first part of this injunction was unnecessary, for though he overtook the ladies in the kingdom of France, the gentleman was safe in the confines of Savoy. They however, fearing for themselves, served him as a guide, and coming at length to where Mr. Ireland had appointed them, he did you ample justice, making voluntary oath that you had no part in the fray, but that of a mediator, and that so far from having any malice, you could not possibly know either the quarrel or its cause; for that all you did was merely the effect of accident, and entirely with a view to prevent mischief.'

'This confession, so sworn—which is now lodged

to ground your discharge upon—he accompanied with this letter, which you will find attributes the duel to the hastiness of the gentleman who unfortunately fell. He talks of unhandsome reflections against Englishmen in general, and him in particular. In short, be the cause of quarrel what it may, he had it in his power to palliate the matter as he thought proper, for there are no witnesses to contradict him.

'Thus,' added he, 'my noble friend, you are at liberty, and I offer myself to avenge you on your enemies in any way you may think proper to point out for me.'

Charles thanked him heartily, but said his only revenge would be contemptuous indifference.
In some parts of this account Mr. Figgins exceeded the truth, and in others fell short of it. He had not set John to enquire about letters; he had not taken a hint from our hero as to Ireland; he had not wormed the matter out of the ladies. On the contrary, a note had been received explanatory of Ireland's flight on the very morning it happened, and the intelligence had not been protracted out of tenderness to Charles, but to cover the safety of the sugitive; for though a gentleman was sent, as

our hero was informed, and did actually return with the letter and oath already mentioned, yet Madame St. Vivier, who, to do her justice, was as willing as any body to save Charles, stipulated however that no arrangement should take place till Mr. Ireland should be fully out of danger. Then again there was no part of the conduct of these ladies unknown to him. He knew why they went to Sedan; he was accessory to the loss of the money at Nancy; he even learnt that Kitty and Ireland were upon the best terms; he consented when they went away to their taking that money of which he pretended to have been robbed; and, lastly, so far from not being acquainted with John's departure for England, he sent him there, and—not to hide the truth—with proper instructions how our hero should be written to: so that he knew every word of Mr. Standfast's letter before Charles received it.
Mr. Figgins now began to be very inquisitive as to our hero's future plan. Charles said he should immediately write to Mr. Balance, and if he found him willing to supply him without the ceremony of going to England, he should continue his tour as he originally intended;
'for,' said he, 'I see nothing in my native country that should make me desirous of returning to it.'


'Nor I either,' said Figgins, 'except it were to curse them all round.'

'Pretty advice indeed,' said Charles, with a laugh: 'want a man deliberately to go seven hundred miles for no better purpose than to put himself in a passion.'

'Well then may I be damned,' said Figgins, 'if I think there is your fellow upon the face of the earth. Such prudence and discernment at your age is truly astonishing.'

The reader sees that Figgins did not want Charles to go to England, but as he well knew the right kind of argument to hold with mankind, the stronger Charles's obstinacy appeared, the more he argued against it. He showed how easy it would be to undeceive Sir Sidney. He painted the beauties of Annette; the danger of losing her; the triumph of obtaining her from his rival; till at length, being highly exhilirated with wine, he had reason to repent of his warmth, for Charles, in the heat of his vivacity, said something that implied a determination to return.
Fortune however, envious perhaps of his having so narrowly escaped an untimely end, or thinking

the hero of such a history as this had not been long enough upon his probation, or bent upon bringing about his catastrophe, whatever it be, by the means of Mrs. Emma, her agent, or for some other equally wise and considerate motive, determined to give Charles good time to deliberate, before he should come to any resolution; for he was that night taken with a violent fever, which lasting him several days without the smallest intermission, and several weeks with but very little, he was at length left in a most emaciated condition, with all the symptoms of a gradual decline.
The moment he was able he wrote to Mr. Balance, without however dropping a hint of his illness, which precaution he enjoined Figgins also to observe, thinking, probably, it would look like an overture to a reconciliation, which, had he even wished, his pride would have forbid him to acknowledge.
Indeed he was pretty resolute as to his future intentions; for though his bodily strength was greatly impaired, his mental faculties were at least as strong as ever.
This was the only serious illness he had ever had in his life. It had given him excellent time for reflection,

and the more he reflected the less he saw to be ashamed of. In proportion therefore as he found himself wronged, he persisted in his firm determination to consider himself independent, and accountable to no man for his actions: and, as to enjoy the full possession of such principles he must not have many friendships, he resolved to continue his tour, that, by gathering a plentiful stock of accomplishments, he might be the better qualified to find a friend in himself.
This scheme he was also determined to pursue after his own fancy, which part he digested as deliberately as the rest. Taking therefore an opportunity one day, when the physician advised him to try the air of Montpelier, he thus opened his mind to his friend Figgins.

'My dear sir, it would be but a poor return to your warm and unshaken friendship, merely to say it will ever be remembered by me with that sort of heart-felt pleasure every thing gives me that originates from such handsome and liberal principles. It would however be taking a very unfriendly advantage of you if I could be so unreasonable as to requite so much generosity by suffering you to neglect and injure your affairs on my account.


'My father has settled on you an annuity, to which is now annexed no conditions on your side of attention to me; for he being dead, his kindness must naturally be considered as a remembrance of past, instead of a reward for present, services: but as I know your worthy heart will not let you regard yourself as entitled to this esteem, unless you acquit your conscience of receiving it upon any other principle than that of desert, instead of throwing away your time on me—time which, at your season of life, must be very precious to you, and which you can without doubt employ to greater advantage in the bosom of your family and affairs—you shall keep a constant correspondence with me, and I will promise to profit by that advantage as much as my capacity and abilities permit me: so now do not take it unkind that I should have resolved to pursue my travels alone, but rather let me have your excuse that I have already taken up so much of your time, to your prejudice.'

It happened luckily for Mr. Figgins, that this was the very subject he had himself been two or three times on the point of broaching, but he felt so awkward about it that he could not for the soul of him tell how to begin. Having however the ice broken for him, he did not scruple to acknowledge

that his affairs at home were rather in a disordered condition, and that he sincerely believed, were he on the spot, a certain bishop would at that time have an opportunity of promoting him: but yet he could not think of leaving his dear, his honoured friend; it would look as if he was of a piece with the rest of the world, and had basely deserted his cause.

'Your own heart and my experience of your generous friendship will, my dear Figgins,' said Charles, 'acquit you; for, after all, what signifies what all the world says abroad, when you have a cheerful monitor at home that approves your actions. Beside, in the opinion of those who take the freedom so very liberally to talk of me, you will retrieve your character instead of injure it, by quitting a man so unworthy to be spoken well of.'

'Rather,' said Figgins, if I am induced to leave you, let it be with a view to confound any rascal who shall dare to use you ill. Now I think of it, you have need of a friend there to silence your calumniators, and I assure you neither Mr. Standfast, whose friendship it is my intention to renounce, Mr. Gloss, your brother, nor even Sir Sidney, shall dare to traduce your character with

impunity.'
To which Charles said,
'Figgins, if you would have me believe you value either my friendship or peace of mind, imitate what I should do in the same situation. When you hear any one vilify me, laugh in his face, without lifting him into consequence enough to think him worthy an answer.'

After a great deal of persuasion on one side, and much apparent reluctance on the other, it was agreed upon that our hero and Mr. Figgins should part. This they did with many warm protestations of friendship, and future attention to each other's interest—on one side I am sure very sincere—and a firm promise to keep up a regular correspondence.
Not two days after the departure of Mr. Figgins, Charles wrote to Mr. Balance, by whom he had been treated, as to his money, in a very gentlemanly manner, desiring, without giving a single reason, that he would immediately grant out of his fortune a hundred a year to Mr. Figgins for life; and about four hours after this letter was dispatched, he received one from Emma, informing him of his brother's actual marriage—and also that Lady Hazard was in a way to bless him with a son and heir—the discomfiture of the Lady Dowager; the unaltered

inflexibility of Sir Sidney; the neutrality of Lady Roebuck; the constancy of Annette; a congratulation on his release, which they had all heard from some spy in the camp; to which she added, pray God Mr. Figgins prove not rather an Euristeus than a Pylades; a gentle reproach for his silence; an exhortation to return;
'but indeed,' said she, 'to what purpose? Justice, come as amply as it may, can now scarcely make you amends. Of what use was the pyramid to Aesop after they had hurled him from the rock?'
—and lastly, she informed him that she had a most formidable plot, which had already taken root, and when it should have grown, blossomed, and borne fruit, she doubted not but she should gather a plentiful crop of justice to him, credit to herself, conviction to the abused, and confusion to his enemies.

Charles had not answered Emma's former letter, it is true, but he was determined now to do so once for all. This was his letter.

Your attention to me, to speak in your own way, is a panegyric on yourself, and a lampoon

on those around you; for even though I should deserve all they have so very liberally laid to my charge, a little charity one should think would not do them any harm. But I see the confederacy is strong, and had I the shadow of a wish to break it up—which I really have not—it would, I dare say, be no easy matter.
Your information, as to your sweet young lady, is very flattering, and, at any other time, would have been very delightful; but why should I pursue what I can never arrive at: since the folly of her own family has made an union between us impracticable? Be therefore, good Emma—for upon my soul you are really a good creature—a friend to her, and instead of filling her ears with imaginary happiness, which she can never enjoy—recommend to her an observance of her duty, by which she will no doubt more fully accomplish all her wishes. You will the more readily induce her to this by assuring her, which you may with great truth, that whatever may have been my sentiments, I am determined not to think of her in future.—Indeed my intention, and that for many reasons, is never to see her again, and without any ill compliment to your literary wisdom, I must say you are a dunce if you do not see why.

As to Sir Sidney and the rest of my formidable accusers, I will not take the trouble to care what they think of me; for, though I heartily forgive them—though I think pity is the properer word—and would do them any service I honourably could—but I believe they think mine rather a shabby kind of honour—yet the world should not purchase from me a grain of friendship for them.
And now Emma, as you are so kind as not to think me quite the hang dog they have painted me, do pray believe that what I have said above was dictated by sincerity; and, this admitted, your understanding will tell you that I shall be insensible to all persuasion; for you see, by my deliberation, that these resolutions are not the caprice of a moment. Seeing this, it will also strike you as repugnant both to your safety and my honour—which you know it would be a terrible thing not to redeem—to hold farther conference on the subject. The same reasons will show you the necessity of dropping your plot. No, my strange, valuable, kind girl, keep the friendship of your patron; keep your good opinion of me nevertheless; and leave the rest to time, who, according to SHAKESAEARE—for you love a quotation—
"tries all old offenders,"
and Time being

a very just judge, I shall never have any objection to appear before him.

Adieu: show your wishes to oblige me by implicitly adhering to the contents of this letter.
Your kind well-wisher, CHARLES HAZARD.



CHARLES continued in a very weak state. As soon therefore as he had received from Mr. Balance such kind of authority as enabled him to find himself in cash, travel where he might, he complied with his physician's advice, and removed, by short stages, to Montpelier, with only a valet de chamber and a laquais, both Frenchmen: his intention being to shun the English as much as possible.
His disorder for some time gave every appearance that if the malignity of his friends went so far as to wish him in the other world, they would soon be satisfied. Perhaps some of them might have been happy to have contemplated his situation.—Their charitable expectations however would have been disappointed, for his youth and constitution triumphed over the consumption, and, what perhaps was a greater victory, over the united efforts of the physicians; and at length—but not in less

than seven months—his recovery was pronounced to be certain.
I might here draw a striking picture enough of a young man of rank and fortune, with excellent talents, an admirable heart, young, handsome, and sweet tempered, without a single fault that might not be defended upon principles of reason, hemmed in by an host of enemies, and apparently dying by himself in a remote corner of a strange kingdom. All this interspersed with apt observation, and embellished with proper reflections, would indeed make up good moral matter in this place, and give me an opportunity of finishing the second volume with some very pretty, round, well-turned reading:—but the business of this history is—as indeed I think every other ought to be—action, which I give the reader warning will be more and more rapid as we go on. I therefore beg, that whoever shall wish I had paused at such and such a place, and given my muse a bait, cramming down every mouthful with a moral sentence, will supply that sentence themselves, which will be more than one advantage to me: it will save me the trouble; it will be more to the taste of every reader; and it will give free scope to all those who think with me, to go on without skipping.

Charles did not want company at Montpelier, for he did not want money. He had officers and abbes out of number, and sometimes ladies, and now and then an English gentleman in misfortunes, who was not the worse for his trouble in visiting him. At other times he read the best authors, and never lost any opportunity of speaking French, which he at last accomplished correctly and elegantly.
His health was re-established sooner than his strength. On this account he slowly visited most of the towns in the south of France, where he met with a variety of characters, with whose histories, were I so disposed, I could interlard my book, till, as I once heard an Irishman say of a bad play, the main plot would be all episode. I shall however, which is modest enough, choose but one, and now we are talking of Irishmen, it shall be a gentleman of that country; he shall be a monk, called Father Fitzgibbon, and member of a convent of Benedictines.
Our hero, because perhaps he was in a wine country—for sick people are very whimsical—took it in his head to long for some beer; an inclination however he did not seem likely to gratify, for enquiry had been repeatedly made for that beverage to

purpose. His valet, who had a most indulgent master—and they say a good master makes a good servant—determining not to give the matter up quietly, procured intelligence that about two leagues off there was a convent of English, Irish, and Scotch, where, for their own use, they brewed excellent beer. To this convent, without saying a word to Charles, he posted. Having told his story, he received for answer, that they brewed the beer for their own use, as he had heard, but, nevertheless, if upon paying them a visit they should like the gentleman, they would supply him with as much as he could drink. A card to this effect was dispatched, inviting Charles to dine with them the next day. He obeyed that summons and several others, till, what with the beer, the good company, and the ride, which I believe had most merit—as the air in Wales performs that cure which the physicians attribute to the goat's milk—in a short time he found himself in perfect health.
I should not have mentioned this circumstance so minutely had I not designed to introduce Father Fitzgibbon, who was superior of this convent, to the reader, and I should not have introduced Father Fitzgibbon to the reader if I had not had a material reason for it.

This friar was, as I have said, a native of Ireland. He was of a good family, but being a younger brother, he quitted Dublin and went to Bath—the usual market—in search of a fortune. There he contrived to lodge in the same house, where lodged also an ancient lady and her daughter, the widow and heiress of an old hunks, who had amassed a large fortune by boiling blubber at Deptford. It was immaterial to him which he married, but he was determined upon one of them, and that one should be her who was richest. This his intelligencers informed him was the daughter, who being very ignorant and conceited, and besides beset hard, yielded upon easier terms than marriage, which conditions the Irishman did not boggle about, because for why, said he,
'sure can't I make you very happy after I have ruined you for ever.'

The appointment being made when and where this forward young lady, for the first time, was to yield up the possession of her person to her intended husband, Fitzgibbon, which is not extraordinary in an Irishman, made a blunder; for, mistaking his way, instead of Miss's room, he got into her mamma's, who expected a gallant likewise.
Before the morning they discovered their mutual mistake, and before the next morning Fitgibbon,

prevailed on the old lady to rob the young lady of her fortune, with which they set off for France, and of which money, three years after, when this antiquated Venus died, he had just enough left to purchase a commission in the Irish brigades. To be brief: After much riotous conduct, and many misdemeanours, he was broken, when the church,—which is in France something like what we say in England of the sea and the gallows—received him.
He had been superior of this convent of Benedictines four years, and at the end of three more he was to visit his own country for a twelvemonth, when he assured our hero he would spend a month with him in England.
For a few hours, at a time of vacant hilarity, Charles could not be in more agreeable company. He laid himself out for their convenience, sent them several desirable presents, and left, at his departure, a handsome donation, which Fitzgibbon did not scruple to tell him, in a whisper, should be laid out in excellent claret.
Charles had stayed so long in France that the time was now nearly arrived which he had intended to have apportioned to his whole tour: for his promise to his father had been to return in time to pass his birthday

with him, when he should have attained his one and twentieth year. He therefore determined to go back to England, in order to take his affairs into his own hands, after which, if he should feel himself so disposed, he might then be in time to make his tour of Italy; for so far from having any body to control him, he did not think there were six persons upon the face of the earth who cared three-pence about him. In this mind he set out, with a view to stay a month at Paris, and then jog on leisurely for England. He arrived at Aix la Chapelle late in the evening, where he supped, and then ordered post horses to be ready the next morning. The house seemed to be very full of guests, and just as our hero got into bed, they were reinforced by a company from the play. Charles had been dropped asleep about an hour, when he was, all on a sudden, awoke by a violent screaming. For a moment—which is very natural in a strange bed—he knew not where he was. Recollecting himself however, he hurried on his breeches and slippers, and throwing a morning gown over him, took his sword, and darted from his own chamber to that from whence the noise issued. The door was locked, but he burst it open with his foot, and immediately saw a French officer struggling with a young lady, who still shrieked with all her force. With the hilt of his sword he struck the ravisher in a moment to the ground, then placing

himself between him and the young lady, he stood ready for him, in a posture of defence, against he should attempt to rise. At the moment he placed himself in this attitude, rouse reader your whole attention!—exert your whole stock of penetration!—prepare for a most unlooked-for surprise!—yet, let it be ever so great, it cannot be any thing equal to that of our hero, when, on looking towards the door, he saw several persons enter the chamber, and, among the foremost, Sir Sidney, Lady Roebuck, and Emma!
Reader, it was Annette herself whom Charles had rescued from a ravisher!—who having in the fifteen months that he had been absent ripened into woman, and improved in every limb and feature into more perfection than ever was described by the ablest pen or correctest pencil; nay had the best poet or painter that ever wrote or drew seen her, like our hero, at that moment, and even felt the same captivating sensation from the astonishing power of her irresistible charms, then so greatly heightened, still must a description of them have been incomplete: for neither are there words nor colours strong enough for the task. Charles, though he had but a moment, which was imperfectly lent him by the relative intelligence received from seeing who entered the room, in that moment gazed away his soul;

his very brain received the whole force of her incomparable attractions, and love took triumphant possession of him.
During this interval, short as it was, the officer had got up, unseen by our hero, and was coming towards him. This constrained him to transfer his attention from the lady to the gentleman. He asked, in a firm voice if he dared justify his conduct; to which he was answered,
'No sir; it was unpardonable. It was wine, it was distraction! I have suffered an ignominious blow, but I deserved it, and you are a stranger. No sir, I shall ask for no satisfaction; for light and blameable as I may have behaved, though my existence depends on my courage, and the sword is my profession, I dare not draw it in a dishonourable cause.'

Sir Sidney, who at first thought very differently of this business, especially when he heard Emma exclaim as they approached the chamber,
'Oh Christ, there is Mr. Hazard!'
felt, from the strongest conviction, a warm glow of gratitude towards our hero. This however was a little checked by reflection, as well as a contemplation of what Charles was then doing, who, forgetting there were a number of spectators present, stood like a statue, devouring with his eyes the beauty of Annette,

which was now heightened by conscious innocence and thankful pleasure. In this short interval, during which Sir Sidney deliberated, Annette was modestly delighted, Emma hugged herself, and our hero was fascinated, in came to their relief Mr. Gloss, who being in a few words informed of the business, went up in a style of the greatest familiarity to Charles, and seizing him by the hand, cried out,
'My dear sir, how do you do? I thought you were in Italy. For God's sake why don't you let your friends hear from you?'
Charles flung from him in great indignation, saying,
'I don't know you sir,'
and was making towards the door, but Sir Sidney, who could not bear to receive a service of such magnitude without noticing it, stopped him, saying,
'I cannot refrain from warmly acknowledging this unexpected kindness, which has been as bravely and gallantly, as disinterestedly, shown me. You know Mr. Hazard I have a warm heart, and a generous action touches it; therefore, this of yours, which has probably saved my honour, I shall not, you may be assured, think lightly of; and if—'

'Surely,' said Charles, recovering himself into a complacent, yet erect dignity, 'you jest Sir Sidney! What I have done is at best but a common duty, which requires no partial thanks, because

the greatest stranger would have been equally entitled to it. But how do you know it was not the act of one ravisher anxious to defeat the designs of another? I dare say it will have that colour by to-morrow morning. In the mean time you shall be assured I am honest in something, nor will you doubt it when I tell you that whatever motive induced me to that which has preserved Miss Roebuck's honour to her family, it was not friendship to her father: and so sir, good night to you.'
So saying, he bowed respectfully to the ladies, and left the room.

THOUGH Charles betrayed no symptoms of uneasiness in his face when he left the room, after the adventure at the inn, perhaps no heart ever was torn with more poignant distress. Love, prudence, and disdain assailed his heart at once, and he went to bed absorbed in a conflict of wretchedness, compared to which his last sleepless reflections in the prison at Lyons were rapture.
At that time his conscious innocence and the

wrongs that were done him roused his honest fortitude till it towered superior to all possible consequences. Now mark the difference: After taking the resolution, upon the most laudable grounds, of never holding communication with those who had traduced him, after fortifying himself against all the bewitching power of Annette's charms, after sustaining a long illness, caused and continued by those fond and importunate whisperings which would fain have stimulated him to clear himself, and reap the glory of obtaining his wishes by the defeat of his rival, after at length congratulating himself upon the full establishment of his health, and in that his staunch determination to abide by what he had resolved, to fall into the most effectual means of opening a wound that had been all but mortal, and, at this time only cicatrized, was a trial one would think, under which his whole resolution must forsake him. It would certainly be a trait of perfect nature if the reader found him the next morning familiarly at breakfast with Sir Sidney and his family. The very reverse however happened, which I shall contend is fairly as natural, upon the principle of two vessels, which standing upon different tacks, may yet meet each other with the same wind. In short, had his down been points of needles, he could not have shifted, twined, and turned himself

about with greater pain, nor at every new position have met with a more novel → torment.
The charms of Annette, coupled with the mortifying difficulties which stood between him and his hopes, wounded him on one side in a thousand places, which shifting to avoid the saucy familiarity of Gloss, and the humility into which he was thrown by Sir Sidney's injurious suspicions and ill judged pride, gave it him home.
He saw, he felt, he found himself conquered by Annette. Her lovely, modest, speaking, soul-dissolving perfections stood confessed, and he found himself their certain, evident, unequivocal victim: but was this to overcome so reasonable a system of independent integrity?—to throw down a structure of honest, hopeful tranquillity, which it had taken him so much time and pains to rear?
In short, tossed about between such violent and contending passions, he raved, sighed, swore, wept, execrated his fate, and blessed his stars, till at length, his valet interrupting him with an account that the horses were ready, he collected himself, rose, mounted, and rode away before any person got up who could possibly stagger his now inviolable resolution.

He made for Paris with every possible expedition, where he endeavoured to lose, in that stream of pleasure, those irresistible bars to his happiness which, spite of all his resolution, presented themselves: so very difficult is it; in some cases, for reason to establish tranquillity.
After a month's stay at Paris, he returned to his native country, where he will now be seen in the character of an independent young man, without a single friend or adviser.
Here it will not be amiss to recount that strange train of accidents which brought about so extraordinary a meeting between Sir Sidney and our hero at Aix la Chapelle.
Emma, since she found it in vain to tamper with Charles, determined, if possible, to get at some intelligence of him through Figgins, who, contrary to her expectation—for she thought it a forlorn hope, as we may see by her last letter—not only informed her of his motions, but corroborated his information, by showing her some passages in his letters.
No sooner had Emma heard of our hero's sickness, and danger of being taken off by a lingering consumption, than, mad as it may appear, she determined

to carry the whole family to be witness to their handy work. This was certainly a trait worthy of her sagacity. She anticipated her success; and, enjoying her imaginary triumph, pictured to herself the dying lover revived by the gentle and tender attention of his mistress, and entreated to life and happiness by the returning indulgence of her relenting father.
The only difficulty was how to bring it about; but even this was no impediment to the genius of Emma. She revived the subject of Annette's mother, which, since the information from Mr. Ingot, had only been darkly spoken of through the medium of epistolary enquiry. Sir Sidney had, at times, talked of a trip to the south of France, and Emma pressed Lady Roebuck very hard to keep him to his intention: for which she offered many notable reasons. It would wear off the chagrin that had been caused by such an alteration in the family hopes; it would enlarge the ideas of Annette, and if any lurking wish remained behind in favour of Charles, by employing her mind on new objects, it would dispose her to receive with more alacrity the solicitations of Mr. Gloss—for every body but herself supposed Charles to be in Italy—whom, Emma was of opinion, they ought to take with them, for reasons best known to herself.

In short, this plotting jade had fairly formed a pretty feasible plan of finishing this history, about the very time when, and near the very place where, I, who knew better things, thought proper to throw it into a new perplexity.
With very little importunity, Sir Sidney consented to give the ladies this jaunt. They took the route through part of Artois, to Rhiems, and passed through Chalons to Dijon, near which city had lived the Count de Gramont, who was an old intimate of Sir Sidney, and through whose interest he now meant to make his enquiries. At this house they called, and, to the great surprise and sorrow of the baronet, he found that the old count had, four years before, paid the debt of nature, and that his only son, whom Sir Sidney knew when a child, enjoyed now his title and his fortunes.
Sir Sidney was hospitably welcomed by the young count, who beguiled away a week of their time very agreeably. The family then prepared to continue their journey. No mention however would have been made of their intended enquiries, had not the young count previously, and luckily too, formed a design at this time to visit Province where he insisted upon making his father's friend welcome at a small estate in that quarter. The fact is, he had

fallen violently in love with Annette, and nothing could have kept him from soliciting her hand from her father but the evident certainty that Gloss was intended to be the happy man. Standing pretty well however in his own opinion, and being a man of family and fortune, he had but little difficulty to persuade himself he should soon outshine his rival, if he could contrive to be of their party a little longer. Growing, however, more and more enamoured every hour, and not being able to stay till they arrived at their journey's end, he had, on that very day the reader and I were witnesses to his disgrace at Aix la Chapelle, sustained a handsome, though positive, refusal from Annette, and another from her father. Raging with disappointment, he flew to wine for relief. This fired him ten times more, when coming to the inn, to bury his intoxication and his wretchedness in sleep, he was stopped by his valet de chamber, who, being the factotum of his amours, promised him the accomplishment of that which he never before had the temerity to think of, much less hope for. In short, after telling him a hundred lies, to inflame him, he had the address, by the help of the chamber-maid of the inn, to place him in a closet in the chamber where Annette was to sleep. He saw her enter with Emma, who having set down the candle, began to look over some linen and other things for Lady Roebuck.—As

they laid across her arm,
'Well really,' said she, 'there is no knowing what to wear in this same France; it is the strangest, motley place—'

'Nay,' said Annette, 'there is a great deal to gratify one's curiosity. The thing I like least in it is this troublesome count. If he and Mr. Gloss were where my poor Charles is, and he in their place, France would be a paradise to me.'

'Come, come,' said Emma, 'do not despair.'—
'Despair,' answered Annette, 'why should I hope? Were he here, did he love me—and that I am afraid Emma he does not, be where he will—what would it avail me, designed as I am by the will of the best, though, in this case, the cruelest, father for another?'

'Don't be uneasy about that,' said Emma, 'I have a secret to cure your father and all the world of such a folly as that would be. In short I am much more pleased that Mr. Gloss should be intended for your husband than any man in the world, since it must not be Mr. Hazard. I cannot say so much for the count, for he has a thousand advantages over the other, and if Sir Sidney were not so attached to his parliamentary friend, we should find ourselves a good deal embarrassed to

get rid of the other. A painter—and it is the same with an author, for words are figurative colours—can put that object in shadow which is a disgrace to the group, but he would be blamed for doing this by one that ornaments it. But come, my sweet lady, I hope you are nearer happiness than you think for. One thing is—but you must not betray it for your life—that Charles is not in Italy, and I hope it will not be long before you see him!'

'Not in Italy!' cried Annette, 'not long before I see him! Do, my dear, my kind Emma, explain yourself.'
'My lady waits for these things,' said Emma; 'I will tell you more when I return; till then be as happy in idea as the pleasing picture I have drawn can make you.
So saying, she retired, with a view of going to Lady Roebuck.

Seeing there was no time to be lost, the count, the moment this conversation was over, which he had listened to, but understood not a word of, came out of his hiding place, and surprising Annette at the door, locked it, and began, as we have seen, to be pretty free with her. He was however so awed by her beauty, that he had very little shocked her delicacy when she was relieved by our hero,

whom she no sooner saw, alarmed and confused as she was, than she could not help fancying—the foregoing conversation being strongly in her mind—that the whole was one of Emma's romantic schemes. This, when they retired to rest, she scrupled not to confess to Emma, laying before her very strongly all the consequences of any premature design to deceive her father, which she was sure, if he discovered, he would never forgive, and which could not fail, instead of mending their affairs, to leave them in a worse condition than ever. She thanked her with warmth, with tenderness, with tears, for the attention she paid to her wishes; declared that no one ever had a truer friend, but it was plain fortune determined to persecute her, and therefore all her kindness would be useless.
Emma was very much touched at Annette's good opinion of her, and thanked her for it in terms of sincere acknowledgement. She lamented with her the great probability that indeed there was of her fustaining more persecutions, but she said it was the lot of virtue to be essayed, but that, thanks to heaven, to those trials it owed its purity.
She said she knew well the implacability of Charles's temper, which she was convinced would not relax a tittle; but this, in some degree, she

could not disapprove; for he had been very ill treated.
Our hero's conduct indeed was, in Emma's opinion, the noblest she had ever heard of; but then she knew to what it was attributable. To say the truth, she knew much more than the reader imagines; or perhaps knows himself.
Emma acknowledged that she knew of his being in the south of France, but that his coming there that afternoon was purely accidental: at least she knew nothing to the contrary: for that she had not expected to see him till they came to Montpelier, where he had been for many months at the point of death, though it was plain he was now not only happily recovered, but much handsomer than ever.
Night alone beheld those blushes which suffused Annette's cheeks at these words. They were excited by a flattering hope, but were as instantly dissipated by intruding fear, which changed the carnation to a pallid hue, and started two pearly tears, that trickling from her beautiful eyes, lost themselves upon her pillow.
Emma said that though Charles must now stand much higher in every body's mind than he had lately

done, yet it was plain Sir Sidney had felt himself treated with indignity, which would operate, in conjunction with the insiduous arts of Gloss, to Charles's great disadvantage. They would see however the result of matters in the morning. In the mean time, she was glad the count's hopes were at an end; for as to Gloss, she begged her lovely young lady to make herself perfectly easy, for as he never could be her husband, which she would herself take good care of, rather good than harm would come of his hovering about her; for though a troublesome insect himself, he would serve to keep off others who were more so. She said she held it good doctrine to use evil agents to come at truth, and maintained that HOBBES is right where he says
'that it is lawful to make use of ill instruments to do ourselves good;' and adds, 'If I were cast into a deep pit, and the devil was to put down his cloven foot, I would take hold of it to be drawn out.'

The great object of Annette's concern was lest Charles did not love her; which doubt Emma undertook to dissipate. She said it was impossible; he was the best and most charming young man upon earth, as was she the most virtuous and lovely young lady; that she was as sure they were born for each other, as if she read their history in the book of

fate; but that troubles, and many yet, they certainly were born to encounter.

'Come, come,' said she, 'my dear Miss Annette, you are very well off: our whole affairs are a novel → , I confess, but yours are not the distresses in which young ladies so situated generally find themselves. Your father is not hard and boisterous, like Western; nor is Gloss bewitching and seducing, like Lovelace. I can dash his hopes in a moment, whenever I please. Comfort yourself then, my dear lady: you have in me a firm, and, though not very old, yet I will venture to say an experienced friend; and I shall as surely pilot the vessel into port, as that I am now conducting it with skill and foresight, in spite of all the adverse winds and beating waves that surround it.'

Emma was now in her element. She soothed Annette with every kind and friendly argument her invention—which was pretty fertile—could supply. She instanced all the similar situations she had read of, and proved to a demonstration that happiness was as certainly the ultimatum of Annette's fortune, as that the interval would be filled with many trials of her virtue, her temper, and her fortitude.

Upon the whole, Mrs. Emma determined never again to give a hint of what she had in agitation to Annette. Young and timid as she was, who knew how far her prudence would be a security for her not betraying it. She plainly saw that though Charles could not be robbed of the palm he had so handsomely earned, yet, as Sir Sidney had expressed himself in terms of great warmth, after our hero had left the room, this was not the moment to press her present design.
After a variety of deliberations with herself, while Annette slept, she determined to see Charles early in the morning, and advise him to follow their steps, till she should give him a fit opportunity of declaring himself; and in order to induce him to this, she would lay him down the strongest reasons in her power, without trenching absolutely upon some secrets which she meant to make use of as a denier resort, lest he, from rage, should make as bad an use of them, as Annette would from simplicity.
Having well digested this plan, she commended herself to the arms of sleep, where she continued locked so long, that when she came to enquire in the morning for our hero, he was some miles on his way to Paris.

I shall now recur to the scene of action, out of which Mr. Charles was seen just now to stalk with such conscious dignity.
When Sir Sidney and the rest first came into the chamber, they really did not know what to think of the matter, it was so sudden and unexpected; but as soon as they heard the Frenchman's handsome accusation of himself, and found it impossible that our hero could be any other than the champion of the lady, they really had the conscience to give him credit for one worthy action; and, as truth has the knack of dispersing falsehood in more ways than one, it all of a sudden struck Sir Sidney, that Charles must either be strangely altered, or that report had not in all cases done him justice; for that it was impossible, or at least very unlikely, that any man should hold such a contrary disposition, as to be a devil to-day, and an angel to-morrow.
These were Sir Sidney's reflections. Lady Roebuck's were still kinder. Emma's were admiration, and Annette's tender, delicate, lively gratitude; and, feeling thus, they really made a very pretty group for a picture.
Against the chimney piece stood the musing

baronet, with his hand to his forehead. His beautiful daughter, who had accidentally fallen into an arm chair, held also her hand to her face, which however did not conceal her tears of indignation for her ravisher, or those burning blushes full of love and thanks to her deliverer.
Lady Roebuck, though in astonishment too, by turns eyed her husband, Annette, and Charles, with regards plainly intimating her perturbed and anxious sensations; while Emma, firm and collected, searched every eye, and would fain have pervaded every heart, to furnish herself with arguments for that master-stroke she was now meditating.
Our hero, as I have already described, was transfixed like a statue; but it was rather like an inanimate body, whose soul had left it, and fled to that heaven on which the eyes seemed to bend with reluctant pleasure.
As to the count, he had his head against the wall, without daring to look any one in the face.
Just at this critical moment every thing seemed to depend upon the first word that should be

spoken, which unfortunately coming from the mouth of Mr. Gloss, our hero's love gave place, or rather spur, to his resentment, and so threw him off his guard as to occasion that disrespect which he showed to Sir Sidney, and his abrupt departure afterwards.
Sir Sidney never felt so sensible a mortification in his life. He was plainly upon the point of making such advances to Charles as very likely would have led to a complete reconciliation. He had balanced, as we have seen, as to his deserts, from the first moment he felt that warm sensation of generous gratitude for his daughter's protection.
This prepossession in his favour, his person, which called to mind a thousand partial ideas, did not a little contribute to strengthen. How then must this fair prospect of engendering good-will be untimely destroyed, when such a blight as our hero's terms of rebuke were held out to one who expected solicitation instead of defiance! His kind thoughts immediately receded, and resentment filled their place; but, however, with so very little foundation, that he was obliged to search for a new object to gratify it, and immediately insisted upon a full explanation from the count of his conduct.

The count charged it very properly upon the rascality of his servant, whom he instantly called up, paid his wages, and kicked out of the room: an example, were it more imitated, would save the honour of many young gentlemen of pleasure.
The count then said his crime could not be palliated, otherwise he would never stir from Annett's feet till he had implored her pardon, nor from Sir Sidney's presence till he had consented she should be his. As it was, he would hide his disgrace in absence, and never again presume to appear before a family whom he had treated—instead of the respect due to strangers—with the ill manners and villainy of a ruffian.
He further said, he should love the young gentleman as long as he lived who had prevented his design, and, were not his influence all gone, he should strongly recommend him to Sir Sidney's friendship and consideration.
With these words he took his leave, went to another inn, and the next morning left the town, about an hour after our hero.
A conduct so collected and uniform in one moment

engendered a new plot in the imagination of Mr. Gloss.
'My dear Sir Sidney,' said he, 'this is the most bare-faced business, I ever saw in my life: don't you see it?'

'Upon my word I do not even know what you mean,' answered the baronet.

'Why, my dear sir, nothing can be plainer:—The count, whose overstrained complaisance induced him to accompany us to Province, did it to serve his friend, which you may easily see by the latter part of his fine florid speech. Mr. Hazard was not in Italy, but lurking about till you should come to France. For this was Miss Roebuck to be insulted!—for this was she to be rescued!—for this was the servant to be kicked down stairs! for this was the champion to behave with insolence to you!—and, finally, for this was he, by the repentant ravisher—just the last man in the world who ought to take such a liberty—to be recommended to your favour and consideration!!'

Sir Sidney could not admit the entire force of this charge, though he could not deny but it was clear, connected, and ingenious; and indeed full of such apparent probability, that it might have naturally struck any body. It was however late, and as his

daughter at any rate was safe, and peace restored, before they hazarded any further conjectures, he thought it would be but wise to consult their pillows. Thus Annette and Emma were left to themselves, where passed that dialogue and those deliberations already mentioned.


WHEN it was known the next morning that both our hero and the count had left Aix la Chapelle, Sir Sidney, kept up to his belief by Mr. Gloss, began in reality to think that the whole business of the night before was a concerted matter between those two gentlemen. It wore so much the complexion of those tricks he had heard of before, and was in every respect so like what he had been taught to think of the genius of our hero, that it scarcely admitted of a doubt. But, were this the case, what did it infer? Why, truly, because all his friends would not believe him innocent of pranks that had been so substantiated, he must meditate an injury that ought never to be forgiven. Did not his haughty speech at parting confirm it? For even suppose that he had no motive for what he did but common justice, nobody would in so disdainful a manner refused to be thanked. No, the matter

was apparently very plain, and if really what it appeared, it only proved that he whom they had hopes of a penitent, had now given proof that he was incorrigible. But were it allowed to be possible—which there was very little ground for—that all this strange business should have been the mere effect of chance, was it, even in that case, a proper thing to lie at the caprice and whim of an absurd young man? Was it through pride and disdain he meant to aim at conciliation? Did he expect to be begged and entreated to forgive? Had he so far forgot all the duties resulting from those motives which alone could worthily have excited such conduct as to think it ought to erect him into pride and haughtiness? And, lastly, had he the vanity to suppose that having left the town, be the motive what it might, any body would take the trouble to send after him?
Weighing all these considerations, Sir Sidney was determined to repay pride with pride, and though, if it ever came to his knowledge as a positive certainty that Charles had acted in this business disinterestedly, he should conceive himself under an obligation, he should nevertheless look upon it as one of that sort which a vain supercilious conduct had completely cancelled.

Thus was the baronet at least as firmly set against our hero as ever he could be against the baronet, and fully confirmed in these sentiments, which Gloss failed not to extol.
Lady Roebuck, Annette, and even Emma, though not obliged to acquiesce, were at least prohibited from making objections.
To bring them to England as fast as possible, where I am impatient to attend our hero, it will be only necessary to say a few words.
They kept on their way for Province, where Sir Sidney found every thing very much altered. The former abbess of the convent where Annette's mother was supposed to have died, had been replaced some years, and her successor could give no more account of the matter than that she understood Miss Le Clerk had gone to England, with permission, some years before. In short, she told Ingot's story, with the addition of her having returned, settled her affairs, made interest to be of a new order, more suitable to her circumstances, to a certain convent of which order she had retired at a distant town, where it was said they might hear further tidings of her.

Sir Sidney, finding Lady Roebuck and Emma very anxious to get at the bottom of this business—for as to Annette, she was always taugh• to believe that her mother was dead—indulged t•eir curiosity, though this same town was out of their road to Paris. The scent however was soon lost, for Miss Le Clerk had shifted her place of residence one more, and they either could not or would not give the smallest information weere she was gone: they therefore got away expeditiously to Paris, at which city they arrived a few days after our hero had left it, and after passing away about five weeks very pleasantly, returned in safety to their own country.
Charles, in his way to Paris, to drive Annette from his thoughts, began to consider in earnest what he should do in the world. He was young, had a tolerable right to think well of his abilities, and would very shortly touch a large sum of money.—He had all his life employed his time industriously, and thought he should now wrong his country and himself if he let his talents rust in indolence.
The sublimest wish of his heart was to patronise merit. He should not however, he feared, find himself rich enough. He must oke out his fortune then. To effect this, he hit upon fifty schemes,

but was not able to pitch on any thing he thought likely to answer his purpose, till he met with an English nobleman in Paris, who initiated him in the mystery of preferment, and plainly showed him all its devious and intricate paths.
Charles contemplated this road to fortune with eager pleasure. His booby brother was a lord; his supercilious rival a member of parliament and a popular speaker: should he then live a mere obscure private gentleman!
In short, he bargained with the peer for a borough. The peer, on their arrival in England, made the broomstick, who was then member, vacate his seat, by an acceptance of the Chiltern hundreds, and, at the expense of something more than eight thousand pounds, our hero found himself a member of the third branch of the legislature.
My lord, by convention, was to follow up Charles's initiation with his patronage, which had only the trifling condition annexed to it of always voting with the minister. A fortnight however did not pass before the impossibility of this was made self-evident.
He had consented to the purchase of a borough,

because he had been told that such things are as openly sold as shoes and stockings, or any other article that a man chooses to appropriate to himself, upon paying its full value, or perhaps a little more, but to support that it was noon-day at mid-night—or indeed any of those many positions he was almost ordered to second—to hold forth for three hours to the great detriment of his lungs, and, what is worse, of his varacity, with a view, like legerdemain, of showing a question in every possible point of view but the right, and then sanction this outrage on truth, this fraud on his own conscience, by voting that it might be carried into a law, and so be accessory to the multiplying of these outrages and these frauds to the detriment of his fellow citizens!—this was a condition he could not prevail on himself to fulfil, and therefore—at which he wondered, without cause—the parliament being dissolved in about five months after he took his seat, our hero's borough, notwithstanding a fresh three thousand pounds which he laid out in contestation—though how it should be spent is astonishing, for the place had not above thirteen houses—received its former member, Mr. Stopgap, who, as complaisantly as before, in less than a twelve-month took again the Chiltern hundreds, that the borough might be purchased by a new bubble, who however bought it with better success than our hero, for, by always

saying aye, he soon got a pension well worth the money he had paid for it.
By the way, Charles's conduct in parliament was the most curious thing in nature. Having no bias but truth, his opinions seemed to wear a very motley and strange appearance, to those who were hackneyed in the way of debate; but indeed he was, as Kiddy would call it, up with them; for even those who argued on the same side, by having imbibed a passion for rhetoric, a quaintness of expression, a vein of drollery, or some other quality of embellishing and flattering truth out of the very form they ought to wish it should wear, appeared to him the most unhandy handlers of an argument that could be conceived. In short, he was an innovator, and nobody was sorry to lose him; for, said they, a man who votes sometimes on one side, and sometimes on the other, can be of no party, and therefore ought not to be a member of the house of commons.
Sir Sidney, it is true, as an independent country gentleman, voted with his conscience, but yet this was generally on one side; for, by prejudice of education, he was pretty well fixed as to his sentiments concerning the government of this country. In short, every thing that promoted the blessing of

peace, he supported; every thing that led to the desolation of war he discountenanced.
By the way, Sir Sidney and our hero considered one another as perfect strangers during the whole time they sat together as members.
Charles, when he returned to England, received of Mr. Balance the gross sum of twenty-nine thousand pounds. His borough and his private expenses had, in seven months, sunk this sum to nearly half. This nettled him not a little. To set out with the laudable intention certainly of exalting himself, but with the purest motives of public integrity, and sustain in so short a time so much disgrace!—it was not to be borne. He had given proof, on many private occasions, that he could wield a pen; he was determined to try whether he could not do it, and to effect, on a public one.
He lost no time, but immediately brought out a pamphlet which he called "Parliamentary Consistency." It was pithy, sensible, and severe, and laid bare all the manoeuvres of making and garbling acts of parliament; showing that as chicanery was engendered with law, no wonder if it grew up with it.

Nothing however was gratified in this business but revenge. A few sensible people found a great deal of merit in the publication; the booksellers declared that the young man touched in pretty, smart, round periods enough, and that when his fortune should be spent, they would be glad to employ him at per sheet.
The active mind of our hero would not let him sit down quietly under so heavy a reduction of his fortune. He thought every hour an age till he should be engaged in something to redeem his loss. Had he remained in parliament for any length of time, he had no sort of doubt but he should have completed all his wishes, without the interference of the minister.
He had, with great accuracy, noticed where the laws were deficient in relieving the poor and oppressed, and indeed all descriptions of mankind in helpless situations. He had expected, upon pointing out amendments in these laws—which he conceived could easily be done—he should erect himself into such popularity, that he could command assistance from that state to which he should thus have been so useful.
As it was, he had made but little progress in

this desirable pursuit; nevertheless, what he had done was a beginning, and it actually had raised an alarm among forestallers, engraters, and other enemies to the lower part of the community.
He had also a plan of inducing a parliamentary attention to the liberal arts, and he meant, as a preliminary step, to try at a regulation of public amusements.
Many other benevolent ideas occupied his thoughts, tending both to public accommodation and private convenience; but the scheme that most delighted him was one by means of which he had flattered himself he should be able to curtail the privileges of lawyers, whose emoluments drained from the necessitous, he proved by computation, amounted to a third more upon any twenty given causes, than the damages given in those causes by the jury; and were the aggregate account of expenses and damages come at for seven, or seventeen, nay or seventy years, he had reason to think the proportion would be just the same.
This clearly proved that a man, with ever so just a cause, had better put up with a first loss, let it be what it might, than seek the only redress the laws

of his country had permitted him to have recourse to. Yet no step had been taken to cure this evil.
His catalogue of such abuses as came under the cognizance of the courts was immense. Those abuses of which the courts had not the smallest idea were a still larger list, and proved that the sole mode the legislature had provided to decide those two grand articles by which all the ties of good-fellowship are cemented, by which ranks are distinguished, property ascertained and secured—In short, right and wrong;—instead of holding out security, and being a blessing, was a curse, in a land of freedom, that the most oppressive tyranny had never equalled in any country.
This last enumeration of abuses, he said, was the most grievous thing that could be conceived to people of middling life. These abuses consisted of processes that went no farther than arrests and accommodations, in which the attornies, though adverse professionally, were privately intimate friends.—These erected themselves into judge and jury, and the result was nine times out of ten that the defendant, to avoid imprisonment, was forced into terms impossible to be complied with.
Could any provision take in all it was meant to

comprehend which failed of effect in any particular? The laws of England did in a very essential particular: they precluded the poor from any benefit from them, while the rich could use them to oppress that very poor for whose defence—if by law is meant human security—benevolent reason says they ought in an especial manner to provide.

'How can this be?' says the lawyer; 'the poor may sue in forma pauperis.'
What do they gain by this? Why truly they are allowed the stamps, but who will allow them an attorney that will manage their affairs for a single farthing less than his full fees?—which always include three-fourths of his bill.

These, as I have said, were some among the many resources from which Charles hoped to draw much public benefit; nor did he, o• these subjects, appear to have a superficial judgment, for he had such sweetness of manners, and was so void of any pride, except that which results from conscious integrity, that he did not disdain to search for information among those where alone he could demonstrably find it.
To say truth, in conjunction with a few other

worthy members of parliament, he bent his time to a full consideration of cases, entirely among the poorer part of the community; and it was not rare to see him at work-houses and prisons, where his purse secretly following his generous heart, bellowed on him as much satisfaction, by relieving a widow or an orphan, as some men—his brother perhaps for one—would have received in distressing a tenant, or seducing his daughter.
Finding however all his hopes no more than a dream—from which he had been so disagreeably awoke—he had now no ability but to pity those whom he could no longer assist!
He might, to be sure, have purchased another borough, but he now saw the fallacy of such traffic, and well knew that if he could ensure a feat as long as he should live, it would be utterly impossible for him to carry any one point, till he had previously sold his opinion, and then what would he be but the echo of another man's will, without having a will of his own.
Determined however to do all he could—slender as his means were—he concerted several feasible plans, by which, while he reasonably improved

his money, he fancied he should procure a most desirable relief to many who stood in need of such assistance.


WHILE Charles is digesting his liberal plans—that I may keep this history compact, and all its characters within view—I shall recur a little to such persons and things as may enable me so to do.
In the first place, I do not wish the reader should fancy that I made Charles all of a sudden so violently in love with Annette, at Aix la Chapelle, for no better purpose than merely to put him into a mad freak or two, and there an end. It is true, he swore a great many bitter oaths that he would sooner tear his tongue from his mouth, and his heart from his bosom, than suffer one to speak or the other to dictate a single syllable that could betray the folly of loving one whose family undeservedly despised him. But does not the reader know that this was rather what he uttered, than what it was in his power to put in practice. Was he not a lover?

Did not the positive confirmation of that fact take its date from the business of Aix la Chapelle? And could any thing he afterwards said or thought be considered in any other light than as the declaration of a maniac, who, in the midst of a paroxism, tells you he is in his right senses? The injunction he laid upon his tongue was well enough, and I question whether the threatened mutilation, or something like it, might not have followed its infringement. But as to his heart! Lord help the poor man! It was about as much in his power to direct that, as it would be for a miser to prevail upon himself to give a poor wretch a guinea whom he saw expiring for want.
In short, we see him prancing about from one wretched object to another, and persuading, amusing, interesting, wheedling, and coaxing this same heart into all the amusements for which such kind of men directors are worthily formed; and to be sure I cannot deny but this master of his had much pleasure in this sort of employment:—but this made no difference: it repaid him with interest the moment it was unoccupied, and even brought up these very actions to support its arguments, crastily suggesting that if there was such rich delight in lessening the burden of our fellow creatures's misery alone, how exquisitely would the delight be heightened

by sharing that task with the object of one's affection.
It was in one of those moments that his heart had been dictating to him in this arrogant style, when Emma stood before him. His astonishment was excessive.
'Good God,' said he, 'Emma'—and then recollecting himself, 'what brought you here?'

'I come Mr. Hazard,' said Emma, 'ambassadress from the court of love, upon busiress of importance, and I am determined to carry away with me a catagorical answer.'

'Stay,' said Charles; 'if the investigation of Sir Sidney's conduct, and my family concerns are, in the smallest degree to make a part of what you have to say—though I confess I should be very ungrateful not to give you credit for the best intentions towards me—I will not hear a single syllable.'

'Indeed sir,' said Emma, 'I would not affront you by investigating any such ridiculous subject. APOLLODORUS, the architect would not yield in opinion to the Emperor ADRIAN, and was put to

death. FAVORINUS however yielded to him in every thing, for which conduct, being reproved by his friends, he said, "Shall not I easily suffer him to be the most learned and knowing of all men, who commands thirty legions?" 'Now, Mr. Gloss may be FAVORINUS as much as he pleases, but I, in spite of all consequences, shall be APOLLODORUS; for if Sir Sidney commanded three hundred legions, instead of thirty, I should never subscribe to his absurd opinionss, whatever may be my fate: so you may be perfectly easy on that head. My business at present is confined to one subject, and you will find it necessary, upon the footing I mean to put it, that you should give a reasonable and decided answer. Void of passion, void of revenge, void of any thing but what you honestly and truly feel, nor do I wish to humble you, or make you deviate from your pride, which I declare is the truest I ever read of. I look upon you, for your years, as a prodigy. Your fair, chaste, penetrating understanding is remarkable, and though any one may see your great aptness for predelection and first-sight prepossession, yet, when once deceived—till when you cannot have the meanness to harbour suspicion—decided wariness succeeds to ill-placed confidence, and I am sure no man will ever deceive you twice. Your

first complaisance you think due to the world: your second to yourself.'

'Why my dear Emma,' said Charles, 'you speak with the gravity of an oracle.'
'With the truth of one, I know I do,' said Emma.
'But to what,' returned our hero, 'does all this tend?'
'You shall hear,' said Emma. 'I want to know how far you will meet me upon the ground of a union with Annette?'
'It is impossible,' said Charles.
'Do you love her?' returned Emma.

'Come, come,' said Charles, 'I see your drist. If I tenderly loved Annette, there would be nothing but I ought to sacrifice for her; nay there could be no attention however arduous, no affection however violent, sincere, and unalterable, in the remotest degree comparable to her deserts.—Her duty to her father is the first sentiment of her soul. At the feet of this duty I ought to lay down that victory which my honour well fought for, and won. If I love her, I sa•, I ought to do all this: but I will speak plain. I cannot shrink into nothing, Emma. The first and dearest wish of my heart—should my father's grief fatally prevail—was to find a father in Sir Sidney; but, thanks to his sincerity—which was rather of the rudest—the same line that told me I had lost my father,

that I might not flatter myself with any thing that might console me, told me also that I had lost my friend!'

'My dear sir,' said Emma, 'I want none of these arguments to believe that your resolution is laudably taken, or that it ought to be unbroken. I want only this, that you will not estrange yourself from a subject that once gave you the dearest pleasure; but so far keep your heart free, that should the veil that at present hides your truth and innocence from Sir Sidney be withdrawn, not by your contrivance, but by his own conviction, through the evidence of his senses, you will, in such case, agree to that reconciliation which he shall propose.'

'Agree!' said Charles, 'I am more hurt for Sir Sidney than for myself: for of him I am ashamed.'
'And I too,' said Emma.
'But to manifest,' said Charles, 'that I only stickle for a just punctilio, sacredly due to my honour—and the more as I am my own protector, as I am the general and the army that must fight the battle alone—if I were assured that Sir Sidney would believe me an injured man, upon my own single word and honour, I would take him by the hand to-morrow, and esteem that moment the happiest of my life.'


'That he will not then,' said Emma; 'therefore it is a folly to talk. I know however that in time he will do more: for he can be just, and he will then believe he has wronged you. My business relates to what is to be done in the interim.—You will one day or other have justice, and the farther it is put off the more complete it will be. In the mean while, will you keep a hope in your heart that Annette may be yours.'

'Emma,' said Charles, 'it is a joke to talk in this manner: the matter should be one thing or the other.'

'It cannot,' said Emma. 'There is a certainty that every thing will be right, but it is as certain that every thing is wrong at present. The only thing I am now certain of is that Annette loves you.'

'Loves me!' said Charles.
'Tenderly, ardently, gratefully loves you,' said Emma. 'Nay sir, if you will have a heroic propriety in your conduct, so will we in ours. We will be proud, like you! We will hide what we feel, like you! We will be unhappy, like you! Nay, if you provoke us, we will go into a consumption!'
'Like who?' cried Charles.
'Like you,' answered Emma.


'Nay,' said Charles, 'can my Annette love me so dearly?'
'She does,' said Emma; 'I am her ambassadress, and my instructions are to tell you so.'

'Then take your catagorical answer,' said Charles. 'Tell her that when I saw her at Aix la Chapelle, every resolution I had formed before left me. I was from that moment her's unconditionally; and this induced me to retire; for if I had not, I should, the next morning, have fallen at the feet of Sir Sidney.'

'I am very glad you did retire,' said Emma, 'for the breach would, by that means, have been so widened, that you could never have been friends. As it is—'

'As it is,' said Charles, interrupting her, 'let her rule my fate: I will do whatever she commands.'

'Her commands then,' said Emma, 'will be that you continue to love her, and write to her under cover to me. In every other respect do not bait an inch of the conduct you have laid down for yourself.'


This proposal was so consonant to our hero's sentiments, that he accepted it with delight. In short, the preliminaries were adjusted and agreed to, and Emma marched off in triumph, with the ratification of her treaty.
Though Emma was well contented with her negotiation, yet her tongue itched to enter upon another subject; but she knew too well with whom she had to deal, to let her curiosity get the better of her prudence. It was this: she had heard—nay she knew it beyond doubt, or nothing could have induced her to believe it—that our hero kept a mistress, that he had a private lodging for her, and visited her as often as his leisure permitted.
This indeed was true; and though she thought nothing of now and then a random intrigue, in a young man, yet an engagement of this kind might, especially as he was surrounded with enemies, prove of dangerous consequence to his interest in Annette.
This fact, as a historian of veracity, I am obliged to admit. Charles certainly in his commerce with women of indifferent reputation—to which his youth and the warmth of his constitution too much

addicted him—had met with one who had something more decent in her manners than the rest, and, upon her promise to detach herself from her abandoned companions, he had made her comfortable at that time, and intended afterwards to provide for her.
It was impossible for Charles to have the least degree of intimacy with any person, and not be attached to their interest. This girl had many attractions, which her lover was not insensible of. Nay his word might have been deeply engaged, had not her levity checked his hand. As it was, he stood engaged in an intercourse pleasureable enough, and which he could put an end to when he pleased, without a breach of honour.
The moment therefore Emma went away, this he determined to do, for he swore that Annette should in future engross all his amorous thoughts. He called immediately at the lodgings of Miss Newton, where, without ceremony, he entered the bedchamber; but what was his astonishment when, in so doing, he saw her in bed, at twelve o'clock at noon, with the waiter of a bagnio.
Charles made the gentleman jump up, very coolly

kicked him down stairs, and threw his clothes after him. This done, he waited on the lady, who would first have brazened the matter out, but finding he was absolutely bent on parting with her, she dissolved into tears;
Seizing this opportunity, he said he did not choose to be made a dupe of; that he had conceived the comforts she had tasted would have made her better consider her own interest; but he plainly saw that she could relish no pleasures that were not tainted with vicious ingratitude. He should not however upbraid her: perhaps he himself had been to blame, in supposing that one so utterly abandoned should retain a spark of shame or decency.
He added, that her furniture, watch, and indeed all he had given her—which was no trifle—she might keep: to this he should now add a hundred pounds, which he hoped she would make a good use of.
The lady attempted at a reply, but fell into hysterics, at which our hero recommen•ed •er to the maid, and walked off; saying he should send a person the next day to supply Miss Newton with

some money he intended her, as she was not then, in a condition to receive it.
The lady, when she came to herself, and understood her lover was gone, and, what was worse, without leaving the hundred pounds, stampt, raved, sighed, swore, danced, laughed, and sobbed, all in a breath, and after playing fifty curious passionate antics—which she concluded by fairly kicking Betty out of the room, because she had not the precaution to shut the door, and so prevent the discovery—she breathed nothing but revenge and defiance.
Mr. Gloss had been among the number of this lady's admirers and had actually conferred on Charles a favour equally complaisant with that of the waiter before mentioned.
From this same Mr. Gloss had Emma, at second hand, received her information, backed with such circumstances as it was impossible she could disbelieve.
Thus was our hero slandered for an attempt to d•tach 〈◊〉 abandoned woman from her evil life, by the very man who not only shared her crime, but the wages of her iniquity; for Mr. Gloss, with all

his aversion to Charles, scrupled not to partake of his bounty—as Mistress Dye has it—at second hand.


HAVING seen in what state were Charles's pleasures, I shall now look after his affairs. It has been already said that had fortune made him very rich, he would, through the influence of his own proper philanthropy, certainly have given the poor and oppressed worthy cause to bless him, and have been a MACAENAS, nay a little AUGUSTUS, in the opinion of many neglected men of abilities. But this good will towards men failed, as we have also said, for want of a certain ingredient in that sort of work, called the means. He therefore tried whether, by lifting himself into power, he could not put himself into cash, and thus accomplish what he had so set his heart upon. In this also he was as much to seek; and what now could he do? Why resolve to embark the small remains of his fortune in the most feasible way that presented itself, making general benevolence the outline of his conduct.

First he purchased a share in a place of public amusement, which was coming to the very mart where genius was the traffic. With what delight did he contemplate the pleasure he should receive in taking neglected merit by the hand, and patronizing those productions which the modest timidity of their author kept from the public because he had no patron! How rejoice when he should rescue music from boorish barbarism, and reconcile it to reason and nature!—when the heart should receive no impression but through the ear; and when the sensations of the soul should fix the criterion of sound! How be charmed when theatrical painting, instead of monstrous, should be natural!
None of these desirable ends, however, was he fortunate enough to attain. He found his partners too refractory, and too much attached to their own ignorant and conceited measures to listen to him, who was but an inconsiderable member among them. Vainly did he represent that English amusements, were they thrown into a right channel, might very easily be made, with alternate and never-ending variety, to charm, expand, unbend, instruct, improve the mind; and, in short, disperse a most extensive and valuable fund of entertainment, rich, delightful, and exhilirating, as well as sensible, useful, and moral. Vainly did he show this source,

this mine: they, poor creatures, were strangers to its value. To speak plainer, they knew of no merit which came not to them through the medium of flattery, or was not generated in their own dullness, and foisted on the town by ostensible blockheads, who estimated their works by the quantity of manual labour.
Not content with this, our hero visited several gentlemen of undoubted and undeniable genius, to whom he lamented the great want of their public exertions, and entreated the advantage of their assistance. These he found had long retired in disgust: impossible to bear the affronts and humiliations they had sustained from men to whom—though unable to judge of any thing worthy public notice—they must implicitly submit, or retire; while supercilious coxcombs in science, only by dint of cringing and patronage, were to set the pattern which the enlightened were to follow.
Not to dwell longer at present on a matter self-evident to every man of sense in the kingdom but our hero, he found, greatly to his disappointment, that if he had wished to commit to destruction every trait of real merit, he had hit upon the very way of all others to effectuate his purpose. He therefore—in imitation of those men of genius whose disgust

against managers, and pity for themselves and the degenerate age in which they lived, had been so worthily excited—soon determined to retire. To do this he farmed out his share for an annuity, which—finding it would be ill paid—he afterwards fold for an inconsiderable sum: and thus his failure of raising the glory of the arts in Great Britain, cost him only about eighteen hundred pounds!
He was not however dismayed at this. His intentions were the best in the world; and how could he prevent either the vitiated taste of the public, or the imposition of its purveyors.
His second scheme was to give a temporary relief—all he could do—to debtors, during that intermediate detention between the capture and the commitment to prison. He had, as I have noticed, paid a very nice attention to arrests in the earliest stages. He had come at instances of men who, by being brutally dragged out of their shops, for a paltry sum, to a spunging house, and kept there under various illegal pretences for several days—though ultimately released—had, in the interim, totally lost their credit, and were never again able to hold up their heads. He had found that bailiffs, in consequence of such scandalous practices, and extravagant charges, at their houses, had realized

large fortunes; nay he learnt, beyond all contradiction, of one who had, for a great length of time, amassed annually three thousand pounds, and was sure that some others were not much behind hand; yet this intolerable expense and shameful disgrace was nothing to the barbarous want of feeling and diabolical unconcern which tortured the poor debtor in this legal purgatory.
To remedy this evil, at least in some degree, our hero hit upon a plan that promised good success. He took the lease of a large house, had it partitioned into a number of convenient apartments, stored it with every proper article for his purpose, procured a victualler's licence, and placed a man in it of whom he had the best opinion, but whom he obliged to bring a responsible person to be joint security with him to the sheriff.
To this hotel debtors were, by advertisement, advised to go the moment they were arrested—for it is then in their power to insist upon being carried where they please—and there for one-fourth, perhaps one-fifth, of that sum for which they would be served with food and liquor they could neither eat nor drink, and huddled promiscuously among filth and nastiness without a retreat, unless perhaps by paying a still more exorbitant price, where they

could consult their friends—they were neatly accommodated, well served, and, in short, provided with every pleasurable convenience and humane attention that could at such a moment be most agreeable to them. Added to this, an attorney of abilities had a salary to attend every inmate of that hospitable mansion, with advice according to each man's different case.
This liberal plan, though it was a little mad and eccentric, in something less than two years, which time it lasted, saved, in the aggregate, at least the sum of nineteen thou•and pounds in hard money to a set of unfortunate men and their families, besides a world of humiliation and disgrace; and, what was a still greater advantage—by a fair appeal to the humanity of the creditor, showing him the impossibility of getting his money by sending a man to prison, conjuring him to commiserate the sufferings of his fellow creatures, and other arguments likely to disarm his anger—at least three hundred of those unfortunate men who would otherwise have gone to confinement, and who, it they did not die in it, might almost as well do so, for their credit would have been totally lost, and their families reduced to poverty, were given back to society, mildly warned not to be guilty of future

indiscretions, instead of thrown into a situation where strong necessity, in spite of the best intentions, must have inevitably plunged them into ten times worse.
Our hero had a particular pleasure in being instrumental towards healing those meum and tuum breaches. He very often accompanied the house attorney, and was peculiarly happy with the creditor in that kind of argument which showed him that he was like an angry school boy, throwing one marble to find another, and at last losing both. In short, he saw his benevolent institution thrive every day, though it must be confessed, to keep-up its credit, orders were now and then obliged to be given, that no notorious swindlers, or other well known sharpers, might be admitted; and this was pretty well managed by enquiring whether the debtors brought there were tradesmen, or men of liberal professions, or members of the church, the army, the court, or of those other descriptions which would make it probable they were such objects as the spirit of the plan went to relieve. Yet is it not astonishing that the world received this spirited innovation on official tyranny as a most unbecoming attempt to destroy the common usuage and sanctioned progress of the law! It was called a mad scheme, and one that would finish by converting the

house into a receptacle for lunatics, where the founder would be the first person admitted.
One very curious thing that our hero came at through his researches was that many of these cases originated from the folly, and frequently something worse, of the creditors themselves. An overgrown tradesman would coax a neighbour of the same business into his debt, and then arrest him, to destroy his credit, that so the coast might be left clear for himself. Others would fasten upon minors, whom they would supply upon long credit with bad goods, at a high price, and then arrest them the moment they became of age. Many were the instances where booksellers, music-shops, and picture-dealers had conferred obligations on those artists who had no medium but theirs through which to give their works to the world, and who were arrested at the moment their creditor knew it was impossible to get any thing, merely that they might make over some valuable work for a trifle.
Charles strenuously exerted himself upon these occasions; but he generally found the creditor inexorable, and the poor devil o• a debtor obliged to submit to terms which must still further involve him with his hard task-master.

Our hero saw the folly of persuasion, and still more of proposing any accommodation through his own means. Indeed it was out of his power to give way to the dictates of his philanthropy in any case, which Emma, when she heard of, greatly approved; for she said that Dean SWIFT, rigid as he was, could not bring his excellent plan of lending money in small sums to the perfection he wished it, without endangering his fortune. To which she added, by way of comment,
'that very few but men of indifferent fortunes thought liberally, which was a dreadful business, since none but those of ample ones had it in their power to act so.'

Charles nevertheless found means of remitting to the wife or daughter what a strict attention to the plan demanded from the father, which was however always managed so discreetly, that nobody could tell from whence it came, but by guess. Gratitude, however, constantly gave the act to its right owner, and thus was our hero frequently slandered for his benevolence; for was it not plain that the person so befriended might have starved in prison, but for the beauty of his wife or his daughter?—though, for aught they knew, one might be blind, and the other deformed.
Charles foresaw that he should incur a good deal

of this slander, and indeed he was obliged to take an extraordinary step at the outset to avoid the impossibility of carrying on his scheme without the total ruin of his reputation. This was, to admit no women who were arrested, lest wretches, void of honour, should be sent there, upon either real or imaginary actions, to the discredit of the house.—It is true many of these things were attempted, but when they were peremptorily informed that there was no sort of accommodation, they soon desisted; and this, as much as any thing, kept away sharpers: for they can herd only with women of the above description.
Thus was this asylum appropriated, according to its original institution, to men under misfortune only. It wore a sober, decent appearance, and instead of riot, extravagance, gambling, and profligacy, it exhibited a society of people in distress, it is true, but profiting by each other's advice and assistance. Women of credit and reputation were not ashamed to be seen there, and the consolation of near and tender relations was never interrupted by rude and brutal intimidations; nor was any opportunity ever lost of cheering the wretched, and softening the sufferings of the unfortunate.
In the mean time a number of unpleasant attempts

were made to destroy this desirable asylum for the afflicted. Bailiffs make fortunes in two ways; by either carrying a man to their houses, and so spunging upon him till he is drained of all his money, or else by taking a compliment, as they call it, in proportion to the sum for which he is arrested, and then taking his word: that is to say, letting him go. Now it happened that our hero's plan so trenched upon this first method, that they were obliged, oftener than had been their custom, to have recourse to the second. Thus, being obliged to trade upon an unusual risk, several of them, who did not properly know their men, came into scrapes, and nothing among them was talked of but motions of court, suspensions, and other unseasonable matters, which made them look about them in earnest; for they plainly saw that if Charles's asylum was found to be of public utility, and taken up upon a larger plan, bailiffs might even return to their former vocations of knights of the post, bullies to bawdy houses, thief-takers, and runners to gaols.
With a number of such low enemies against him, no wonder if our hero met with a thousand insults. It will not however be so necessary for me to spin out trifling matters, as to enumerate them. He never failed to put the law severely in force against them, whenever they infringed their duty; and as to any

thing else, he held it beneath him to notice it.—But now a matter of serious consequence indeed happened to him. He was one evening arrested for three thousand pounds. Supposing this some manoeuvre that he could easily get rid of to the confusion of the tribe of the catch poles, he insisted upon going to his own house of security, but this favour was peremptorily denied him, with an information that the officer who kept it was suspended; for that he had connived at the escape of a person who had been confined there for a debt of three thousand pounds, that the sheriff had been fixed for the debt, and now came upon him as one of the securities.
In short, the fellow who had so long kept his credit with our hero, in the execution of his trust as sheriff's officer—a post, as we have seen, that may be filled with reputation—after having been a long time tampered with, and yet resisting every temptation, was at last overcome.
A swindler owed virtually to one man a thousand pounds, but literally three thousand. The circumstance is worth attending to. This one man was a rascally attorney, found out by a set of as rascally bailiffs, who were determined to knock up

Charles's plan. He sent for the swindler, asked him the amount of all his debts, and was informed they were something more than three thousand pounds. He was then desired to inform himself whether they could not be paid with a thousand..
This enquiry was made, and it was found they could; for he had no creditor but would be glad to take a third for the whole, seeing they stood no other chance of getting any.
Before any further step was taken, the security of Charles's factotum was tampered with—at first distantly—who appearing not very shy, as they called it, was at length plainly informed how he might touch a thousand pounds. In short, finding him apt, they proposed, if he could prevail on the officer to connive at an escape, they should receive a thousand pounds each. The affairs of the security were going down, and he had no doubt but he should induce his friend to consent. In short, the scruples of both were at length overcome.
This being accomplished, the swindler's debts were paid with a thousand pounds, the attorney received documents which made him appear to stand in the shoes of the creditors to the amount of three

thousand pounds. For this sum was the swindler arrested; for this sum was the sheriff fixed, in consequence of his escape; and for this sum—after the factotum and his security were paid their money, and fairly put into a post chaise—was our hero four days in custody: at the end of which time, rather inconveniently, he paid the money, and procured his enlargement.
Thus did the attorney, who was ostensible for the bailiffs, receive the original money they had advanced, bribe their agent with double that sum, procure the swindler's liberty, and all at Charles's expense;—who now saw it would be utterly impossible for him to carry his humane plan any farther.
Bigoted however to his project, and having seen the best effects from it, he waited on men of larger fortune, with a view to advise with them how to perfect an undertaking of such material utility.—He exposed the conduct of it with the minutest nicety, and showed how much money, as well as happiness, he had been the instrument of restoring to his fellow creatures in distress.
Unfortunately he was disappointed in every application!—for

finding, after a critical statement of the accounts, that he had at no time made seven per cent. of his money—indeed he did not make more than four, for he inserted none of those expenses to be laid to the account of his benefactions—he could not find a single creature to engage in it.
His last application was to the sheriffs, but their answer was that they had no notion of putting the business out of the common channel; and indeed they were no friends to the scheme, for it had injured the emoluments of their office, by preventing the accumulation of arrests. Nay they had heard men in power hint that it was an idle, meddling scheme, and, among other public inconveniences, it had decreased the stamp duty.
As the limits of our hero's fortune would not permit him to become security again for a person to manage the house, and as it would answer no end to let it to a thorough bred sheriff's officer, he was obliged to drop the affair: lamenting that his circumstances were so straitened, that he could not carry it to that perfection he wished; and feeling severely for the dignity of human nature, when he reflected that in all his researches he had not

been able to transfer benevolence upon the easy terms of good pecuniary interest, sweetened with the benedictions of the unfortunate.


THAT I may carry our hero the whole length of his tether while I am about it, I shall proced to plan the third, though it must be observed that these schemes were all in agitation at once: so full of vivacity were his actions when he panted to succour his fellow creatures.
This third scheme went to the relief of the poor at large, and indeed so did the fourth. One was a plan to sell them bread under the standard price, and the other meat.
To carry the first into execution, a water-mill was built, and a bakehouse annexed to it. The matter was found very practicable; the original money yielded at least six per cent. and the poor, even then, were served with better bread, and saved

at least a penny out of every sixpence. Nothing could be more simple, nor more effective. The sparring of the bakers was more easily kept within bounds than that of the bailiffs. Indeed, as our hero meant to make his expenses the ground of a memorial for the better regulation of so material an article, his competitors were rather inclined to conciliate than aggravate matters.
The scheme for regulating the price of meat could not be conducted in a manner so within himself as the other. He therefore could not avoid connecting himself with a grazier and a butcher. In the choice of these he used every precaution his most watchful and diligent prudence could suggest.
At length, having settled the matter to his mind, the plan was began and carried on, for some time, with astonishing success, though he could not restrain his partners from making more interest for their money than he wished: yet, with these and many other clogs upon it, the advantages to the poor were considerable. The forestallers however at last so harassed and inconvenienced the concern, that in about seven weeks after the hospitable asylum was put down, our hero had the mortification to see his name in the Gazette, as partner of Daniel

Driver and Anthony Garbage, graziers, butchers, dealers and chapmen.
We have seen the young gentleman in a state of astonishment before; how he felt at this intelligence we can the readier conceive. But still his situation varied a little from the rest. He never saw himself before upon the brink of poverty. However, after the first shock, he received great consolation from the consciousness of his own good intentions, and he contented himself with only adding to the first transport of his indignation—which was pretty violent—that men were wolves and vultures, and that the greatest act of madness a man could be guilty of, was an attempt to civilize them.
The first step he took was an endeavour to supersede the bankruptcy, as far as related to himself; upon a plea that he was able to satisfy his own creditors, by paying twenty shillings in the pound.
Poor, inexperienced young man! He little knew that was the worst plea he could offer. It availed him nothing. His effects were overhauled, his mill was sold, and, after obtaining his certificate in form, he found himself possessed of no more than between three and four hundred pounds.

Thus were overthrown all our projector's hopes! which, though they certainly were a system of reform utterly beyond his ability to mature, yet he surely merited no reproach for having made such a laudable attempt.
As I have already observed, there never was perhaps an instance of a well-disposed young man who was in so trying a way let alone entirely to the bent of his own disposition. That disposition evidently led him to alleviate the wants of his fellow creatures. If in this he aimed at more than he could accomplish, let it be attributed to a liberal, expanded propensity to confer benefits; a noble, giving, beneficent principle of action, which must be endowed in an uncommon degree with courageous generosity, to risk, in supplying the wants of others, the existence of that source from which those wants were supplied.
As to the vehicles through which this benevolence was dispensed, they certainly wanted riper experience, more consequence, and a larger fund to manage them; for, as it was, our hero's conduct—especially as to his two first schemes—was a sort of Quixotism in liberality. But yet, had the folly been ten times more egregious, it was still but folly; whereas the intention in so young a man, so

unadvised, so left to his own propensities, requires a word to express its deserts much stronger than any dictionary will give us, and which one might have an idea of by fancying—if one could do so without violating language—something that implied a meaning about ten times as expressive as the superlative degree of admirable.
Nine out of ten however reviled Charles's conduct in the most humiliating terms. He had a hundred nick names. He was the infant Hercules; the mad projector; the opulent beggar; the beneficent catchpole; Timon in tatters; and ninety-five other things, all as good as these. But in the midst of this, it must have mortified his enemies to death, and raised the praise of all good men to that very unspeakable degree of admiration I mentioned in the last paragraph, had they accompanied the gradual decline of his circumstances with remarks on his becoming conduct, and then seen how he sat himself down in adversity!
When first he returned to England, he had an elegant house, and kept his carriage. The moment he was out of parliament, he sold off his carriage, took a smaller house, and lived more privately; till, step by step, we now see him only decently lodged, with an old gentlewoman, who had been

his housekeeper, for his only attendant. Yet did every sixpence of those superfluities he curtailed go to relieve the distressed; for it was his constant method to retreat in time, that so nothing might be spared to accomplish his great and liberal purposes.
There is something also beautiful, and I hope it so strikes the reader, in reflecting that when Charles was driven to the necessity of discarding all his servants but one, he should retain the oldest and most helpless among the number; and, to finish this picture, if it has so far interested the reader, let it melt him into friendly generous sympathy, when I heighten it by bringing on a grateful honest group of now happy objects, through the means of his beneficence, lamenting the state to which alone his compassionate generosity had reduced him; venting their admiration of a mind so charitable, yet so young; invoking benedictions on his head, for the benefits they had themselves, through him, and from his hands, received; and conjuring him to accept their thankful mite, for his present assistance.
I can only say that no glutton ever sat down to a banquet with half the satisfaction that Charles felt at this sight. He thanked them with tears; assured

them that his situation was a trifling concern, since it had mended theirs; that he had resources, and so little repented of what had past, that had he again fifteen thousand pounds, he would give it with pleasure to have the charming satisfaction of enjoying such another moment.
During all this time our hero's correspondence with Annette went on variously. Sometimes Emma was obliged to be extremely cautious, and, at other times, all caution was altogether as unnecessary.—This happened just as Charles rose or sunk in the opinion of Sir Sidney, who had really—finding him such an original—watched his conduct with great attention.
In parliament he had remarked that though there was great singularity in it, there was also great consistency, and, what was better, great integrity:—and much about the time when Emma adjusted the correspondence between the lovers, was really inclined to think that he had been wronged, or that he had the strangest mixture of good and ill qualities in him that ever was heard of, when Mr. Gloss contrived, while Sir Sidney's sentiments were in this equipoise, to make our hero's virtues kick the beam with a single fillup.

In short, he had then, as usual, an opportunity of turning one of his good actions into the appearance of a very bad one, and he had no doubt but, by this means, he should be able to make the baronet's dubious thoughts preponderate on the side that would be least to Charles's advantage.
Gloss took the very first opportunity that he heard Sir Sidney say any thing tending to Charles's praise of remarking that good men were always the most easy to be imposed upon; and in this he said very true, for he was then going to impose upon Sir Sidney. He followed this declaration up with another, expressing his great reluctance that it should fall to his lot to bring forward accusations continually against Mr. Hazard, and, in particular, lest the censorious world—for he was sure Sir Sidney would do him more justice—should think he had a farther interest in such conduct than mere impartial justice, and a desire that a gentleman so dear to him, and indeed to the world in general, should undeceive himself in an opinion undeservedly entertained of one who not only plunged himself every day into some fresh vice, but indeed seemed to set shame and even decency at defiance. He insisted that benevolence extended to bad objects was a sort of crime; it was a tacit admission, though not approval, of their conduct; and might, in men to

whom the world looked up, as it did to Sir Sidney for example, be so construed. He took the liberty to add, that if his dear friend had a foible—though to be sure it was amiable in the extreme—this was it.
In short, after a proper dose of gilded flattery, he informed the baronet that it was then a week since our hero had turned a poor wretch, whom he had seduced from her friends, into the streets, with all the shocking circumstances of shame and wretchedness. The way he came to the truth of this was, the miserable creature, hearing he was one of Mr. Hazard's friends, had called upon him, and related the whole shocking business with such simplicity and apparent truth, that he had been induced to relieve her, and intended visiting her father, to try if he could not prevail on him to receive his repentant child into the bosom of her family.
Sir Sidney seemed greatly shocked with this story, and, upon Mr. Gloss's repeated entreaty, consented not only to see this unhappy girl, but to use his interest with her father, who was, it seems, a substantial tradesman, to take her back again.
Not to let the matter cool, the baronet saw the

young lady, was afterwards introduced to a person who kept wine vaults in Petty France, who confessed himself her father, and had the good fortune, after using a variety of arguments, first to prevail on him to see, and afterwards forgive, the reclaimed sinner; to whom Sir Sidney presented one fifty pounds, and Mr. Gloss another, accon panied with good counsel, in some men's estimation, to fifty times that value.
The story the young lady told Sir Sidney, was briefly this: that Charles had taken uncommon pains to seduce her, but being tired with possession, had now turned her off: that she verily believed, dearly as she loved him, and ever should, his principal motive in a connection with her was interest. This the gentleman in Petty France believed too; for he assured Sir Sidney that when she went off she carried two hundred pounds with her. But, the lady said, had he found his account in this expectation, she did not think she should have kept him long, for she soon found that he had fallen in love with a girl whose mother he had taken out of a spunging house; and this she said was so true, that the mother lived with him at that time, in quality of housekeeper, and the daughter was put out to a milliner, in a house where she was to be taken in

partnership, when her apprenticeship should be expired.
Many circumstances were adduced to prove the truth of these allegations, and as far as it related to our hero's protestations, though they were but in general terms, there was enough under his handwriting, which Sir Sidney knew, to corroborate his connection with her, and parting from her, particularly the latter, in which the baronet thought he discovered a remarkable vein of cruel and insulting levity.
I believe it is scarcely necessary to add that the lady was Miss Newton; that she had been tutored by Gloss; that the man at the wine vaults was occasionally a convenient friend of hers; that these two divided Sir Sidney's bounty, and gave Gloss's back again. This admitted, our hero's letters will not appear extraordinary, especially the last, at which the baronet was so incensed, which accompanied the hundred pounds he sent her the day after he had detected her; and as it happened, according to the partial construction now put upon it, to apply so directly in favour of the lady, by exhibiting a want of feeling in the gentleman, I shall here insert it.

The reader will keep in mind that the gentleman's name was Nantz who kept the wine vaults.

Being so well set up in a business by which, as long as your youth lasts, you can get a good maintenance, you will the less regret my leaving you. I dare say I need not advise you to make your market while you can. Do so and welcome; for there is no future comfort I do not wish you, so it be not procured at the expense of

The reader, who is with me in the secret, will find this letter quite delicate. It laughs off a very great injury; it is, besides, in a style well adapted to the person to whom it is addressed; and there is something very delicate in the circumstance of taking no notice of what it enclosed. We however must commend Sir Sidney, and had we been, as he was, ignorant of the real truth, we should have thought as he did.
It must be confessed that, in spite of Gloss's moderation, Sir Sidney exulted a little at this story.

He came home full of it, and as he had seen Charles's hand-writing, and besides nobody could think of doubting his veracity, even Emma herself was, for the present, unprepared, or at least appeared so, to defend her favourite, which indeed vexed her not a little; because she had just got the correspondence in such a nice train. She contented herself therefore with saying, that it had been said there were two ALEXANDERS; one invincible, the son of PHILIP; the other inimitable, the production of APELLES. At present it might be said there were two Mr. Hazards: one good and benevolent, represented by the world; the other vile and diabolical, painted by Mr. Gloss. That for her part, she did not approve of premature condemnations: they were generally repented of. They had not yet heard both sides of the question, except in one instance, where Mr. Hazard was cleared greatly to his honour. She said she should not have scrupled to disbelieve the whole of this business, but for the circumstance of the letters. With that proof she should rest contented; for Sir Sidney had the evidence of his own senses to go upon. She wished most truly he would never credit any thing but through that medium.
She allowed the young gentleman had failings, nor was it to be wondered at. TELEMACHUS, though

with Minerva for his guide, fell into the errors of his father. What must this young man do, helpless and alone?—who never had occasion for his friends till he had lost them:—and how lost them? It was not then a moment to investigate that. She should therefore say she acquiesced in the truth of our hero's faults, but it should be upon this condition, that if he had weakness, it was the weakness of an angel.
Sir Sidney begged she would retain her good opinion of Mr. Hazard: it was perfectly consistent with her romantic notions: but desired she would not so far make a ← novel → of the business, as to let her friendship interfere with her duty.

'Sir,' said Emma, 'if to have your interest tenderly at heart be to neglect my duty, no duty was ever so neglected.'

'Come, come,' said Gloss, 'you need not vaunt your fidelity, Mrs. Emma, till it is disputed:—we see what you are.'

'It is easily seen,' answered Emma, very mildly, 'what I am, and it will one day sir be seen what you are, and—Mr. Gloss—WHO you are.'


Sir Sidney would certainly have rebuked Emma very sharply for this strange freedom, but that he saw, at the instant it was uttered, the strongest marks of confusion in the countenance of Gloss.—These, to be sure, he endeavoured to pass off, by hinting that the liberty Mrs. Emma had taken was very extraordinary: but this he did so slightly—fearing probably a few more of those choke pears—that the baronet was assured so significant an expression would not have been levelled by Emma, or received by him in the manner it had, were there not something of an extraordinary nature couched under it. He thought however the wisest way at present would be to break up the conversation. He therefore told Emma he was assured she had the best intentions, and begged Mr. Gloss would forgive her, if any thing she had said in her haste offended him.
Gloss took him at his word with great eagerness, totally unlike himself, and this augmented Sir Sidney's suspicions.


Now it happened that had Emma found it convenient she could have consuted the whole of this calumny, and in a way greatly to our hero's honour; but this would have brought up matters which, in spite of all her diligence, were not yet ripe enough for investigation. The fact is that she had made herself not a little uneasy at this very circumstance before, which she had first learnt through some invidious intimations from Gloss, and had very carefully watched the matter, till at length her fears were at an end upon our hero's leaving Miss Newton, owing, she had no doubt, to the more agreeable commerce in which she had now engaged him; and this roused in her a reflection greatly to his credit; for if the bare mention of a correspondence with a woman of honour could induce such a youth to give up a guilty connection unsolicited, what might not have been expected from him had his

other pursuits been sanctioned by the advice of sensible and respectable friends. And yet prudence had whispered to Emma that it was certainly, but yet barely, possible for Charles to have given up Miss Newton in compliment to his housekeeper's daughter. This business, therefore, she made a point of coming at; to do which, she visited the old lady one day when our hero, as she knew, was engaged at his mill, about five miles out of town.
There was something in this old lady that had before strongly prepossessed Emma in her favour, and as the latter came not out of any improper curiosity, to make an advantage of any thing she should hear to the other's disadvantage, and as the former had never made a secret of the story, but, on the contrary, though against our hero's will, taken every opportunity of singing forth his praises, by repeating the circumstances of it as far as he had been concerned in it, to every one who asked it, it will not either surprise the reader to hear that Emma got out of the old gentlewoman the particulars of her whole life, or that when she had done so, she admired the extraordinary goodness of Charles more than ever:—and here the reader will reflect with double pleasure that this was the very domestic, or rather companion, he retained in his circumstances of adverse fortune.

The old lady having first, like Othello, told her story in parcels, Emma begged to have it from her youth up: the which to hear did she most seriously incline. What she told at length, I shall give the reader briefly; for I have no time for spinning out narratives.
She was the daughter of a gentleman, who had a life place in a public office, and had been thrown very early in life, with a small fortune, into the protection of an aunt, who unfortunately being a woman of intrigue, connived at her ruin. Her seducer, by whom she had a child, was a clergyman; but as he soon left her, she was compassionated by another relation, who took her home, obliged the father to take the child, which was a boy, and got her fortune out of the hands of her aunt.
It was not many months before a respectable tradesman paid his addresses to her, and, in spite of her misfortune, offered her his hand; nay, he was the warmer on that account. He knew she had been betrayed by a wicked woman and a sinner in the garb of a saint, and therefore wanted a protector. In short, they became man and wife, and had lived in great credit five-and-twenty years, when falling into difficulties, through the villainy of some notorious swindlers, and innocently getting

the ill will of a pettifogging attorney, her husband, whose name was Marlow, was one of those whose reputation had been totally ruined by vexatious arrests, in the way I have already described.
Our hero strenuously exerted himself in the poor man's behalf, and with great difficulty—but not till all his connections, scared by this temporary misfortune, had deserted him—obtained his liberty from a spunging house, where he laid thirteen days in a most cheerless condition, during which time he was witness to the riotous profligacy of some of those very men who had wilfully caused his misfortunes.
The loss of his credit, added to a severe cold he had caught by lying in a damp bed, threw him into a fever, which, in spite of every caution, hurried him out of the world in a very short time. He died recommending his widow and her daughter to the protection of our hero, now the only friend he had in the world.
The old lady, as it has been shown, was appointed Charles's housekeeper, and the young one, who was the only remaining child out of eleven, was put into business exactly in the manner Mr. Gloss related, who always made it a rule to keep truth as

much in view as he conveniently could in all his stories.
This was the account that Emma, had she found it expedient, might have opposed to the other; to which also she was prepared to add, that so far from his having seduced Miss Newton, she was not only a notoriously abandoned character, but that Mr. Gloss knew it. She contented herself however with the few hints she had given, which she was pleased to find had told just as she wished they should.
If Emma was however satisfied for the present, I cannot say so much for Sir Sidney, who, the first time he was alone with his lady, asked her freely her sentiments on this subject, and, in particular, how she could account for the freedom of Emma's conduct.
Lady Roebuck said he might be assured there was not in existence a more faithful creature; that, however, no duty could induce her to be what she conceived ungrateful, or unjust; that she had certainly the highest opinion of Mr. Hazard, and had set her heart upon his union with Annette; but that as his fortune daily diminished, and the pretensions of Mr. Gloss were daily more and more established,

she trembled for her favourite, of whom she would not credit any ill, till every thing could be established by a fair investigation; which, for her own part, seeing neither side was willing to make the first motion, she thought would never take place.
One great proof, Lady Roebuck said, both of the attachment of Emma, and the delicacy of those sentiments by which she supported it, was, that though her predelection in favour of Mr. Hazard was evident, yet she had never used any unbecoming arguments to Annette on the subject; but, contrary to this, had always held out that the commands of her father—which only urged her to make an effort to overcome that affection which to be sure the whole family had formerly sanctioned—were very lenient, and truly characteristic of the charming mind of a parent, who had, upon every occasion, been remarkable for his indulgence towards his daughter.
In this however Lady Roebuck neither told nor knew the truth; for Emma privately kept up her affection for Charles, and increased her aversion to Gloss.

'But,' said Sir Sidney, 'what meant that strange side accusation of Mr. Gloss? What did she mean

by saying it would be known who he was? Had I not been averse to lower the consequence of a gentleman before a dependant, I would have insisted on an explanation of that expression.'

Lady Roebuck went on in these words.
'My dear Sir Sidney, you know with what reluctance I have ever ventured to say a word on this subject. I own I have been myself greatly prepossessed in favour of Mr. Hazard. We all, at one time, esteemed him as a most amiable young man, and though we have had what has been thought strong proofs against him, yet, as Emma says, only one side of the question has been heard, and I confess, from some internal impulse, which may perhaps be the effect of my sanguine wishes for this young gentleman's welfare—which wishes were inspired by the dying and pathetic request of his mother, for whom we had all a tender friendship—I cannot yet consent to pronounce him, from my own conviction, guilty of such very enormous offences, which could not be perpetrated but by a mind capable of the most hardened and incorrigible wickedness: a disposition which is rarely produced suddenly, and of which his, by what we have seen of it, promised exactly the reverse.


'While I say this however, continued Lady Roebuck, 'I will not contend how far these feelings are right. They may be falsely entertained, perhaps, impelled by the motives I have mentioned, while your riper judgment and better knowledge of the world have enabled you to form a truer and more decided opinion of the truth; in which case it would be strange vanity, however right my intentions, in entertaining these sentiments, if I did not, as upon all other occasions, implicitly submit to yours.'

Sir Sidney kissed her, perhaps for her obedience; said she was a charming creature, and desired her to go on.

'As to Annette,' added Lady Roebuck, 'I shall there be still more backward to give either advice or opinion, for very many reasons, necessarily delicate; but one is, which is the most pleasurable, that never was advice to a young, tender, sensible creature so little needed: she is all you can wish from inclination, or hope from duty: yet I honestly believe she regards Mr. Hazard more warmly than any other person in the world. Not however that her prepossession in his favour has made her sentiments to Mr. Gloss otherwise than they would have been had she never seen him.

She deports herself, upon all occasions, with that sweet native dignity in which pure, unaffected loveliness is sure to be seen, and therefore Mr. Gloss has had no reason to complain of receiving that portion of her favour which all those command from her who come sanctioned with the partiality of her father; but, be assured, that at present he is almost the last person in the world she wishes to think of as a husband. Yet I will not say, that were you so far to exert the authority of a father, as to insist upon her marrying him, she would refuse; for I sincerely believe she has so singular a sense of implicit duty, that she would give up her own happiness to promote yours.—This allowed, every thing remains well: you will never exert so rigorous a duty, and she will never take any steps to disoblige you.'

'Upon my soul,' said Sir Sidney, 'it is impossible to hear you without being charmed: you have so the knack of smoothing every difficulty. It is not wonderful there should be such perfection in Annette, when she can look up to you for her example.'

'My dear,' answered Lady Roebuck, 'whatever little my assiduity and endeavours have effected in the blameless and admirably-regulated

conduct of your daughter, Emma's care and attention have performed a great deal more. That good, that astonishing creature, makes virtue the most endearing thing in the world, and contrives to give its attractions a winning cheerfulness, that induces its performance not more as a duty than as a familiar and enchanting pleasure. Much more yet however is owing to Annette herself, the sweetness of whose unaffected manners, the gaiety of whose angelic dsposition, and the unsullied purity of whose charming mind, anticipate every attempt to inspire goodness; for where should we find virtue but in its abode?'

'All this only convinces me,' said the baronet, 'that I ought to consider myself the happiest husband and father in the world. As to Emma, I readily believe her a prodigy of honour and integrity. All I have to find fault with is, that she is often unnecessarily zealous, and that her virtue is now and then a little too outrageous. One instance of this we have recently seen, and I should be glad to know if you can possibly give a guess at what she would be at; for I must confess I have an anxious desire to know, and yet am very unwilling to resort to her for intelligence: therefore, as you saw, I put an end to the conversation.'


'My dear Sir Sidney,' said Lady Roebuck, 'I own I am not sorry for this opportunity of saying what I think is Emma's opinion of Mr. Gloss; on the contrary, I shall take the liberty of following it with my own.

'Emma thinks Mr. Gloss a man of great talents, but having discovered in him a specious plausibility, which she says men of independent circumstances or principles are never under the necessity of having recourse to, she will insist upon it he is not an eligible match for Annette.

'There is a mystery, an obscurity, in the very best accounts we have learnt concerning him, that leaves his qualities with Emma in a very negative situation, and inclines her to think he will, one day or other, be found an impostor. It has been urged that your correspondent at Madeira gives him the character of an able man of business, says he was a merchant first at Lisbon, and afterwards at Madeira, and that he profusely spent a large fortune. He himself since says he received a handsome sum on account of his father's affairs, and that a much larger remains unpaid, but that India matters are slow and insecure. But Emma opposes to this quaintly, but smartly enough, that suppose they were fast and certain, would

they tell in his favour against his monstrous debts? On account of which, she insinuates, it was well he secured himself a seat in parliament. At the same time, she does not deny but his external conduct is perfectly blameless, and that he has openly a number of engaging and valuable qualities; but she suspects that half these are put on, and accounts for this suspicion under an idea that it is his study to render himself agreeable by administering to that passion he sees most predominant in the person he would play upon. Thus he knows with you he cannot have a recommendation like generosity and benevolence, and in the exercise of these, though but in appearance, he insures himself a place in your esteem. And these truths, for truths she will have them to be, are the more strongly rooted in her mind by a firm belief that all we have heard against Mr. Hazard originates from him.

'Now I grant there is an air of extravagance in these conjectures; nevertheless, though chequered by strong predelection, and being but one conjecture hazarded againd another, probability is not one moment neglected. The very best accounts of him call him a man of unbounded extravagance, which surely has close relation to profligacy. Then if he is in debt as much as the

world says, were he to-morrow out of parliament, he must be totally without fortune: in which case would he be an eligible husband for Annette?

'As to his accommodating disposition, which Emma is so angry at, he will not practice it with much success upon you, who know the world, or it would be very hard, full as well as Mr. Gloss; and for the article of his practices against Mr. Hazard—which I confess I hardly know how not to admit—it would be an ungentlemanlike advantage, which I am sure you would be the first to resent.

'In short, Emma thinks him an impostor, who will one day or other be found out; and, for my own part, I wish his condu•… was a little less equivocal, though under these, or any other circumstances, I fear no surprise from him, or any other, while you are upon your guard.'

Sir Sidney having heard his good lady to an end, thanked her for her very kind, sensible, mild, and considerate speech, which he said had nothing new or uncommon in it from her, but was only one of those innumerable instances which he had received of the sweet benevolence of her gentle nature. It

seemed however to demand something on his part, and he should answer it, he hoped, perfectly to the purpose.
He began by admitting that Mr. Gloss's account of himself, at first sight, was equivocal; but, however, we must not say a thing is false because we could not prove it true. Mr. Gloss's father appeared to be an obscure character, but there was nothing new in that among people who made fortunes in India. The young gentleman had certainly been extravagant; he had now however retrenched, and lived within bounds. That there was to be sure something in the report of his being in debt, for he had himself given him a faithful account of it, but the money coming from India would satisfy all those matters, and leave a handsome surplus. That as to his good qualities, they were something more than external: the assistance he had given to Castlewick, which was richer, and much more extensive, through his advice and exertions, was a proof of it. But he had other qualities, other talents, which, among liberal men, were paramount to either birth or fortune, and ranked him pre-eminently among those whose names were transmitted to posterity. He had all that was necessary to make a consummate statesman, and he had no doubt but the period was not far distant when he would be seen to adorn

one of the first situations under government.—When this should be the case, no objection could possibly lie against him, and he owned he should then be sorry to hear his daughter refuse him for a husband.
As to any practices of his against the reputation of Mr Hazard, they certainly existed only in Mrs. Emma's imagination; for it had been his uniform practice to defend that unfortunate young gentleman as long as truth and reason would permit him; but when proofs came so thick that a man must be blind not to see them, he, like every body else, was obliged to yield to conviction.
As to Mr. Hazard, every thing he did was absurdity and ill-judged profusion. He was at that moment engaging in schemes which could not be effected by men of immense fortune and immense influence, and, what was worse, under the colour of munificence, the view was profit. In short, with a few thousands, he was in more ways than one new modelling customs, which had been long cordially received, and well established, and that the consequence of this dream of riches and popularity would be his waking probably in a few months a

beggar: in which case could he be called an eligible husband for Annette?
As to the variety of crimes laid to his charge, he would agree that but one side had been heard, but whose fault was it? Why did he not, if his cause would bear it, defend himself? Why truly he chose to take the matter in dudgeon; to look highly, and feel himself offended because people chose to believe what they heard! This might be a good cloak to hide a weak plea, but did not at all look like innocence, which so far from fearing investigation, he said, always sought it.
Had any thing like this been seen in Mr. Hazard? So sar from seeking the smallest explanation, had he not industriously shunned all such opportunities? Nay, was he not so conceitedly proud, so ridiculously vain, when he had been supposed—for to this moment it was not a certainty—to have behaved generously, as to reject with contempt the acknowledgement of this imaginary kindness? and disclaim the friendship of the man he would fain be thought to have obliged!
Upon the whole, he said, these were his ideas: that, in a worldly point of view, Mr. Gloss was infinitely

a preferable husband for Annette. His talents were brilliant, he was himself very popular, and would most probably one day be in a most elevated situation. On the contrary, Mr. Hazard—whose talents also were very conspicuous, and whose accomplishments were not inferior to any man's—by a perverse pride and false consequence, would every day become lower in the world's opinion, till he found himself starving with independent principles.
'However,' said Sir Sidney, 'you have named yourself the compact, and I subscribe to it: while I find Annette obedient, I shall not be unreasonable. In the interim, as I sincerely believe that Mr. Gloss will certainly be possessed of both honour and fortune—more perhaps than I have a right to expect in a son-in-law—I desire he may be considered in the light of one whom I have chosen to fill that character.'

This retrospective chapter shows how matters stood in Sir Sidney's family about the time Charles began to be a projector, from which moment, to that in which his name appeared in the Gazette, he gradually sunk in the opinion of the baronet; for, through the connivance of the forestallers of law and beef, his name was bandied about in the newspapers like a tennis ball; in which inoffensive

amusement Mr. Gloss was not idle; but when the Whereas made its appearance, and the title of butcher was added to our hero's name, I sincerely believe, had there been no such man as Mr. Gloss, or indeed no other than Charles, Annette might have died a virgin, or married without her father's consent.
As to Emma, she entered into all the spirit of our hero's schemes with enthusiasm. She declared it folly and ignorance to condemn them; that the very enemies they begat were the strongest proofs of their utility; that they evinced a nobleness of soul beyond all example in so young a man; and that if Castlewick was a mole-hill in the scale of liberality, Charles's projects were a mountain.
In short—and I cannot help thinking with her—Emma saw so large, so benificent, so admirable a system of general good in them, that nothing but the envy of individuals, and the degeneracy of the public could prevent their arriving to that maturity which would perpetuate the projects and the projector.
Emma greatly feared, however, the success of that scheme that went to cure the abuses of the law;

'for well,' said she, 'did Pope Pius the Second observe, that those who go to law are the birds, that the court is the field, that the judges are the net, and the lawyers the fowlers.'



I shall now return to Charles, who, that he might understand the extent of not only his possessions, but his expectations, received the day after he became a free man, an account that his noble brother was blessed with an heir to his title and estate.
As our hero had long accustomed himself to look up to no one for assistance, he now saw the absolute necessity of sitting down without embarrassment to consider in what way he should make his talents turn out to his advantag. To do this, he looked his situation full in the face, and immediately with a sigh of affection and regret, blessed the remembrance of that provident father, who had seemed to have foreseen this moment, and armed him against it. His pen had already been celebrated in the highest terms of panegyric. His pencil

had procured him very lavish encomiums, even from the most flourishing artists, and his talent for music was allowed not to be inferior to either of the others. He therefore thought it hard if he could not live independantly, when he had three such resources. At the same time he knew that to become a public man he must condescend, and, in order to do so, all former high prejudices and perspective notions of situation and opulence must be conquered; for though the public was a noble and liberal master, yet his would be at best a situation of mental servitude.
His next idea was how he should render his abities worthy of such an illustrious patronage; and the result of this reflection became naturally a resolution to produce works of general utility, such as would promote the cause of genius and literature, and were dear to the interests of virtue and morality.
And now to wean himself from all vain expectations. His first effort was an adieu to Annette, which would have been poetry but that there was too much of the heart in it to be dressed in the garb of fiction. There was so much pure feeling, indeed noble self-denial, and exalted love in it, that it took but a few minutes to write it. The anguish

of that short time could scarcely be repaid by an age of happiness. It was like tearing the vitals, and Emma, when she read it, declared that the agony of the young Spartan was nothing to it; for the reader sees the difficulty was to bear the torment, yet give the consolation. This was the letter:

THIS letter, best of creatures, is supported by the strongest proof I ever yet gave you of my love. I am no longer in a situation to look up to you, and therefore must think no more of that happiness which can never be mine. Let our resolution to part be mutual, and worthy that affection which has no example, but which fate will not indulge.
Your love, charming Annette, equals mine; but your task is easier. You have a thousand consolations to which I am a stranger, yet I readily set you an example which it would diminish the glory of your sentiments not to follow. Imitate me willingly. Let your love—which had made up the perfection of your character—in the

very moment while your heart yields to the diotates of your duty, approve the noble resolution. Ours were fond expectations: providence has thought fit to disappoint them. Let us not murmur then, but retain those mutual good wishes, as friends, which we must not cherish as lovers.
Adieu. Fail not to let your resolution be, like mine, cool, calm, and collected: so shall my Annette be additionally lovely to the soul—though fortune has denied her to the arms—of her

I will not say that these lines cost so little trouble to the mind of our hero as they appear to express; for indeed he felt in proportion as he endeavoured to conceal his feelings. This was the process:—Mrs. Marlow brought him pen, ink, and paper—he sat down—wrote his letter—read it over—enclosed it to Emma—directed it—kissed it—gave it to a porter—assured Mrs. Marlow he never was so pleased in his life—and then fell off the chair, upon the ground, in a state of insensibility!
In short, all the tricks of his French delirium, and perhaps consumption, would probably have

succeeded this event, had he not received, the next morning, the following letter from Annette.

To induce my admiration of the excess of your love, and the delicacy of your sentiments, the terrible, though tender proof you gave me yesterday was unnecessary.
Ah Charles! have you no other argument to cure me of affection? Must I forget you only because you prove yourself every day more worthy to be remembered?—and can honour be so cruel as to require a sacrifice of my happiness at the shrine of what the world calls justice? But your virtue should be more resolute than mine, which is feminine, and has, and ought to have, its weakness; therefore learn, I cannot obey you in this one hard injunction, though it would be the pride of my life to submit to every other. I will never cease to love you, command me how you may. I will be faithfully, affectionately, uniformly yours; and as my father has promised me he will never insist upon my marrying any man I cannot love, so you will plainly see I can never marry

any other than yourself. So far however I agree with you, that, at present, it will be improper to continue our correspondence: for what length of time fortune knows best. This however I know, that it is both to my interest and my happiness to declare, even to the whole world, as firmly as I do to you, that, be your fortune what it may, I shall ever be, unalterably,
Your own, ANNETTE.

The reader may judge what sort of cordial this letter proved to a lover, who had been alternately shivering with low spirits, or raving in a fever the whole night. The faithful Mrs. Marlow saw the progress of this medicine with tears of gratitude, and our hero, after reading it ten times, kissing it five hundred, and imploring all the angels in heaven to bless and protect so much beauty and goodness, mustered up spirits enough to turn his mind again towards his affairs.
Charles had, upon two former occasions, sent pictures to the royal academy, as an honorary exhibiter. When he attended the dinner, upon St. Luke's day, he received from the president and several of the members, the most extravagant marks

of applause. He thought therefore he could not do a more eligible thing than to begin his scientific career by sending a couple of pictures to the next exhibition, with a modest price affixed to them, by way of advertisement, that he meant in future to resort to painting, among other things, for a maintenance.
The pictures were accompanied by a respectful letter to the president—who, he doubted not, would do him justice—entreating to be considered in future as a common, and not an honourary, exhibiter.
This done, he waited with impatience for the success of his stratagem. The exhibition was adadvertised, our hero received his ticket of admission, and repaired to the place, where, for twenty minutes, he could not find either of his pictures. He tumbled over the catalogue, which eased him of half his fear—for he had fancied they were both rejected—by informing him that one of his performances was certainly in some part of one of the rooms. Vainly however did he search for a considerable while, till at length, being upon the point of giving the matter up, elevating his sight, in a nook, close to the sky-light, he fancied he had discovered the object of his perquisition.

The picture however was scarcely known to him, though he had painted it; for one single streak of light fell upon it at the right hand corner at the top, which gleamed towards the centre, where it rested in a speck; while a sudden shadow, occasioned by the projection of the chimney piece, cut it across from the left hand corner at top to the right hand corner at bottom, forming an angle with one half of the frame. In short, it had exactly the effect of a looking glass, badly painted, in a chamber scene for the theatre, which idea must occur to every reader.
This was not all: Had either of the pictures been seen alone, it could not possibly have had the smallest effect, for they appertained to each other like question and answer. Charles therefore saw it was an affront, and was more strongly confirmed in this when he found his other picture tossed about with a hole in it. Upon an application for redress, he was told he might take away his daubings, if he disliked their situation.
Charles could not conceive how it could happen that professors of a liberal art knew so little of the manners of gentlemen; but, since he found it so, he resolved to show them he could right himself,

even with the very tool for which they seemed so to despise him.
To effect this, he painted a picture to which was annexed this explanation.
A sovereign prince, in a certain country, had built a palace; to decorate which various potentates contributed many costly presents. One, among the rest, sent a collection of pictures, all the works of eminent artists. That these might be distributed in advantageous situations, the prince sent for the heads of the royal academy, to perform that task as their judgment should direct them.
After fixing several according to their distinction, which indeed gave but little trouble, for they were all, as it appeared, labelled, they came to one about which they could not find this mark of distinction, and therefore, concluding that the picture was of no value, they condemned it to be placed in the temple of Cloacina.
Our hero's picture represented the academecians marching with the picture, in solemn procession, to put the above sentence in execution. The most active among them were those with whom he had

the greatest reason to be offended, and the likenesses were so strong, that it was impossible to mistake them. But, to crown the joke, he introduced a portrait of himself, in the foreground, holding up the label they had vainly searched for:—on which was written GUIDO.
This picture he exhibited in an auction room, hired for the purpose; and, for a time, it actually drew away the company from the exhibition of the artists.
He became immediately known, and might have had some practice at portrait painting; but, finding it impossible to make people handsome enough, he forewent this most servile of all mental drudgery, and declared altogether for pieces of thought and fancy, in which he found his genius more gratified. These however nobody understood, and they remained unsold. A picture dealer or two offered to treat for them, provided he would smoak them, and varnish them repeatedly, till they were all over cracks; for, in that case, they would give them new names, and pass them upon the public: especially if there were a few holes burnt in the drapery, or an eye poked out of the principal figure.

This kind of servile imposition, however, our hero did not choose to submit to, and his pictures went unsold.
Charles had become slightly acquainted with a young artist, who appeared very anxious that he should push his fortune, and informed him there was but one way, which was portrait painting—Charles told him he had practised it without success.
'Ay, but you did not go the right way to work,' answered the other 'It is not painting a lady's likeness will do: you understand me:—you must favour a lady with a living likeness, if you wish to do any good. In short, if the painter be young and handsome—and dam'me if I think either you or I frightful—a lady sits to him with a view that he should make love to her! And then such opportunities! Please my dear ma'am to look at me:—more full if you please:—your eyes more languishing:—now bite your under lip to pout it:—smile, if you please:—very well! Pray don't you think, as this is a fancy dress, that shoulder should be bare?—a part of the neck seen?—the rest throbbing, as it were, through the handkerchief? Permit me to adjust it. Heavens! what a skin!—what roundness!—what tints! The Venus of Titian was plaster to

it! In short, in adjusting her handkerchief, her bosom throbs in good earnest, she takes you to her arms, and your labours become real nature, instead of imitative.'

Charles laughed heartily at this description, and then resuming a more serious air, asked if there were any instances of these sort of amours.

'Indeed there are,' answered the other. 'Genteel young fellows never need be without them, and it is their own faults if they do not snap up fortunes. But they are a set of stupid blockheads, without manner or address; and when they conceive an idea of that sort, they generally come into disgrace. It was but the other day a foolish brother of the brush made his declaration too prematurely—for you know my dear sir there is a manner, a delicacy in such matters—and was kicked out of the house for his pains. Master Mosquito though was a little too cunning. Ay, he is a dry hand!'

'Mosquito,' said Charles, 'What Mosquito?'
'Why you know well enough,' said the other,' 'Sir Sidney used to invite him to his house. Don't you know what has happened to him. Upon second

thoughts it must have happened while you were in France. Only married to a woman of seven thousand a year; that is all. Ay, ay, they may talk of poets writing themselves into a lady's good graces, or a musician tickling their ears, but I say the painter is the man to succeed. He situates the zones of his Venuses, he festoons the petticoats of his buskined Dianas, he—in short, no man except a footman or a dancing master is so sure of success, if he minds his hits.'

'Well I hope you will mind yours,' said Charles, 'but this you tell me of Mosquito is astonishing.'
'It is very true I assure you,' answered the other. 'That sour crab, that sloe, that green medlar, that cut-lemon of a fellow, has made a handsome woman's mouth water to the tune of seven thousand a year. But Lord you know nothing of what our old codgers are. Do you think the nymphs who are drawn every evening come merely for the improvement of the young students? No such thing. They are procured for the recreation of the old ones, I promise you. But this is all well enough. Let them live in luxury and abuse the royal bounty as much as they like, but do not let them, now they are past it themselves, check the fair progress of young fellows like us, who are endeavouring to push ourselves forward in the

world, by the laudable exercise of our industry.'
'And all its adventitious consequences,' said Charles, 'among which you reckon, of course, our chance with the ladies.'



WE have seen the same mind in our hero as to revenge ever since we first noticed him. If he aimed at punishing others, it was with a view to general justice. Certainly there could not be any thing more unhandsome than for a set of men, established in their profession, and established only for the purpose of giving novices their countenance and support, to neglect the productions of a young man who was likely to ornament a liberal art, and not only artfully conceal his merits, but disjoint its effect, so as, had it been seen, it could not have been understood.
Their comment on his satirical picture was, that matters were come truly to a fine pass if a young, inexperienced dauber could dare to attack a royal corporation in such an audacious manner, and then have the insolence, by implication, to call himself a GUIDO.

Our hero however defended himself against this, by saying that he did not profess painting; and very likely should never take up a pencil again; but as the picture told well with the public, through the medium of those striking likenesses it contained, he might modestly enough take to himself some little merit; and as to the name of GUIDO, it was evidently a stroke at their ignorance, and not a mark of his own vanity: for it did not say they are hiding my picture in a certain place, though it has the merit of GUIDO, but they are hiding GUIDO himself; and this also says I forgive you for that neglect which originated from your ignorance; for if you have served GUIDO in that manner, why should I repine at being coupled with so great a painter?
From the moment Charles set out as an artist, he guarded against all consequences, by supplying himself at his leisure moments with materials for forwarding his interest in every branch he professed. Thus, he had scarcely sent his pictures to the exhibition, but he considered how he might make music turn to account. He could not buckle to teaching music any more than to portrait painting, for he plainly saw that none but the packhorses of music stood a chance in this branch. Such as could exalt claws into a fine finger, find sweet tones in a

dissonant squall, in short, submit to all the ignorant conceited airs of wire-breaking young Misses, flatter their mammas, dandle the younger children upon their knees, deliver written appointments for assignations, which were sometimes directed to themselves, and such other kind of drudgery as appends to the duty of these under servants, these scrubers and scullions of the muses.
As to the theatre, he had gained some little experience of that before, and if, in quality of master, he was obliged to retire, what chance did he stand in quality of servant?—for as servants he well knew all those must expect to be treated who wished to give their productions to the public through that medium. Then as to publications, the country was inundated by Italian and German compositions, which obtained patronage through the medium of some man of distinction, to whose pleasures the composer administered sometimes in a way that an Englishman would starve rather than submit to.
In the midst of a variety of cogitations on this subject, he was called on by his old friend Toogood, who had lately put himself very forward in the musical world.
This son of Apollo told Charles, that as he understood

he had thoughts of devoting himself to the muses, for a livelihood, he should be happy so serve him in so meritorious a determination. He flattered himself, he said, that as he had got into a conspicuous situation, by making his profession subservient to his interest, he, of all others, had it most in his power to point out the only way in music to profit and reputation.
Mr. Toogood professed a great opinion of our hero's professional abilities, and still more of his good sense and knowledge of the world, and doubted not, as he had smarted severely for his follies, that he would now take up, and consider that men's talents were given to work out their own advantage.
Charles, seeing his drift, encouraged him to open his whole budget, through which he learnt that, from his youth, he had made it a practice of levying contributions on people of no taste, by which means he was become the Apollo, or rather the Orpheus, of the day; that he was looked up to as the regulater of style and leader of fashion in music; and all this he laid open in a plain narrative of his life and principles, without omitting a single circumstance of either his own duplicity, or the credulity of his patrons.

Having heard him to an end, this was our hero's answer.
'And so Mr. Toogood, because you have all your life, under the appearance of cringing, trimming, and many other truckling and wretchedly accommodating shifts, vitiated the public taste, and scandalized a beautiful and useful art, you would have me copy your creeping servility!—Sir you affront me both as a musician and a gentleman, by your unworthy and contemptible proposal. It is such as you the world has to thank for introducing mystery and difficulty into the plainest system of rational pleasure the soul of man can receive; for setting up an inexplicable standard to judge of that which is the essence of ease and simplicity. No, Mr. Toogood, I despise the servility of your mind as much as I reprobate the fallacy of your doctrines; and, much as I value popular esteem, I should disdain to accept it otherwise than as a tribute to exertions intended to convey rational pleasure and solid advantage.'

Charles however did nothing by this sort of conduct but invite enemies. But this did not stop him. He really could not bridle his resentment. To see men pervert the very end of nature's gifts, and endeavour to confirm others in error, instead of leading them out of it, deserved, he said, reprobation of the severest kind, and he was determined

at least to drag such monstrous impostors into open day, and expose their deformities, after which it would be the world's fault if such counterfeit coin was suffered to pass current.
Charles had yet done but little in the way of profit. Indeed he did not see how he could; for it was so dirty a road, that he had not the resolution to follow it. It became however necessary that he should think of something in good earnest. For this purpose he completed an opera, which he had had long in contemplation, and which he had been repeatedly requested by one of the managers to put the finishing stroke to. He sent it, and as he knew pretty well the trim of this sort of business, his compact was that he would stand or fall by its merits, without the interference of any other person. This was charming, it would have a prodigious run, and every attention should be paid it.
Our hero called on the manager to consult on the necessary steps to bring it before the public. He was still received with great warmth. He wished however he would be advised.
'In what?'
Why suppose he waited upon the editors of the different papers, to bespeak favour.
'Why? If it deserved applause it was to come from the public, not the

newspapers. If it did not, their purchased favour would be a satire on the performance, and an insult to the public.'
This was good theory, but not practicable. Charles said it should be practicable in his case, or nothing should. It was material to him to come at the truth. If he falsely flattered himself, and had not abilities for what he had undertaken, nothing could be kinder than to undeceive him. If he had, let his reward come spontaneously from those who he was sure would pay it with interest if it was his due. He spoke charmingly; it was a pity he did not know what stage conduct was. Charles said it was a pity the manager did not know what it ought to be. The manager rallied Charles, and Charles did not spare the manager, who however did not wish to lose the piece, of which he had a great opinion.

After some necessary matters were settled, they parted, agreeing that the opera, like an act of parliament in a certain stage, should be copied for the use of the members.
Charles that very evening received a summons to breakfast with the manager the next morning. He went, and had he not known his man, must have been astonished at seeing himself treated with a distant coolness. He had been thinking; some of the

passages did not strike him as at first: A friend of his—. Our hero gave him, in a few words, to understand that, by agreement, no friends were to interfere. It was very true, but the expense of a first piece was a large stake. Very likely, our hero said, and if he felt his promise hang awkwardly upon him, he was ready to acquit him of it. Oh by no means. Well it should be as he pleased:—but did not he think a few alterations—
'Not one,' said Charles. 'If you say a word more about it, I will put the piece in my pocket.'
In short they parted but barely civil: the piece was however left.

A few days afterwards they had another meeting. The manager was all rapture. He begged our hero would not be offended at what was done, but indeed it was impossible to be offended. He should see.
A new copy of the piece was then produced, with alterations in the hand writing of four different people, whom he knew to be retainers to the house, and were the very men and women—for this was the fact—who at that time kept away those real geniuses to whom I have said Charles formerly paid visits of solicitation, and nauseated the town with their own insipid trash.

Charles cast his eyes over the copy merely to ascertain this fact, and then said
'Sir, independent of theatrical business, I know no one more a gentleman than yourself. Upon theatrical business I never knew a man so pitifully mean. Supposing it would answer any good purpose in your wise politics to make a show of my piece, to invite whatever dunce thinks proper to come and blot it, do you think sir so contemptibly of me as to suppose I will bear it. But, putting that out of the question, can any thing so strongly evince your ignorance both of theatrical performances and your own interest? If I submitted to these alterations, would not every individual who made them claim his own feather, while I must quietly stand to be plucked? and, for God's sake, what feathers are they? Have they made me a bit handsomer? So far from it, that which was, if not superb and magnificent, yet neat and decent, is now altered into a motley fool's jacket. But, sir, you may take the materials and make them into a cap for your own wear. In short, I shall trust to your honour not to make use of my ideas to your advantage, and as for any thing else, I am your humble servant.'

The manager however would not let him go. He begged him to consider that the scenes were painting,

that he had engaged a singer at a high salary.

'I do not care for that sir,' said Charles; 'it is dishonourable not to abide by your agreement; you had the evidence of your senses prima facie: you can have no more now. What have they decided? Why truly that the meanest scribbler in your house is to give laws to me. But, as I said, letting alone that see-saw, your own judgment, you have done a thing totally against your interest; for these poor creatures, whose trash certainly never shall stand a part of the piece, losing the merit of having made these alterations—which by this time they have vaunted to all their friends—will become enemies both to the piece and me: so, for your caprice, I am obliged to wage war with a set of poor reptiles, who have not offended me, and whom I have no more inclination to tread upon than any other worms, which, searching for food, are unlucky enough to come under my feet. In short, bad as it is, for this last time, I will overlook this strange conduct, since you talk of losses which certainly I do not wish you to sustain; but I insist that every word shall be expunged which I may not justly claim as my own.'
This was at length agreed

to, and a morning for the first rehearsal was appointed.

The day came, the words were read, during which some of the actors, as they were instructed, yawned at particular passages. These were afterwards to be objected against by the manager, which Charles well knowing, anticipated, by taking him aside, and telling him that he saw what he was aiming at, but it would not do, for that every passage at which the performers had so ill acted the part of yawners, should remain without the smallest alteration. He said, however implicitly the manager might pin his faith upon the sleeve of such opinions, he would not wish a better omen of success than an actors entertaining an indifferent opinion of a dramatic entertainment; for that, in general, they were men of very slender intellects and mean education, who had no opportunity of making worldly observation but at the porter house, or in the green room, who had now in tragedy destroyed what was meant for a representation of greatness, by stalking like puppets, and braying like asses, and who had no idea of comedy otherwise than by grinning like apes and chattering like parrots. Besides, in the present case, poor devils, it was a repetition of the same miserable farce which had so recently been performed by the authors. They were bid to feel

as the others were. He wondered therefore that the manager would attempt at treating him so unworthily, when he knew how ill such former illiberality had been stomached.
The patentee was certainly nettled enough at this spirited conduct of our hero. He however thought proper to suppress what he felt, and they proceeded to the music-room, where every thing was ready for a repetition of the music.
The moment Charles entered the room, he was surrounded by the females.
'Lord, Mr. Hazard, cried one, 'don't you think this here round o is monstrous frightful? You ought to have given me a song full of divisions, and runs, and shakes, to show my powers.'
'Let us hear it played, Miss Forward,' said Charles.
'Oh Lord,' replied the lady, 'there is no occasion for that, I have played it all over myself with one finger, and I tell you it will have no effect.'

She was going on with remarks on her other songs, but Charles turned from her. He was however as badly off, for he found the principal singer in high words with the manager, because the puppy of a composer had truly thought proper to restrict her in her cadences. What did he mean by such insolence?

Had any body ever attempted to point out to a mistress of her profession any limits to her candenza?

'I know madam,' said Charles, 'that it is almost as vain an attempt as to prescribe limits to her impertinence; but, in one word, those who sing for me shall sing what I have written, and nothing else. It is my music, and not yours, I choose madam to give to the world; and, to tell you the truth, what little abilities I have shall be exerted to explode the candenza which has lately obtained to the scandal of taste, and the total exclusion of every characteristic by which music ought to be distinguished. As it is, singing is become a vehicle to convey every thing that is extraordinary, and nothing that is pleasing. Nature, feeling, expression, and, above all, a conveyance of the poet's ideas—beyond which every thing in vocal music is impertinence—all these are disregarded. The lady who sings highest, lowest, longest, and loudest is the best singer; and thus all you principal performers stand squalling and stretching out your necks like the crow in the fable, forgetful of the fox underneath, who not only laughs at your folly, but stands ready to snap up the cheese, the moment it falls out of your mouths.'


'Yes,' said the lady, 'but we take care not to let it fall out of our mouths. No, no, there is no fear of our getting cheese, when you poets cannot get bread.'

This witticism was echoed by a loud ha, ha! throughout the whole room; after which, an understrapper coming up familiarly to Charles, cried,
'Why I say, they gives it you home brother Bruin: but never mind it: this is nothing at all when you are used to it.'

Charles, turning to the manager, who also heard this, said,
'you are very kind, and no doubt find it much to your interest to tolerate this: for, were not that the case, this fellow would not dare to add so much impudence to his ignorance.'

The manager made some trifling apology, smiled a sneer, and desired the repetition might begin.
Many of the songs were now performed, to every one of which its respective singer was suffered to make some ignorant objection. At length they came to a sort of bravura song, in the midst of which the leader of the band laid down his fiddle, with an exclamation of
'Oh my Gad, my Gad! I vome play dis.'
'What is the matter now?'

said the manager.
'Sir,' cried the enraged fiddler, 'it is no good, no raight, no arminny.'
He then proceeded to a string of reasoning, which, as it was unintelligible to every hearer, so it must be of course to every reader.

He had scarce done this when Charles said,
'and pray sir how long have all the laws of music acknowledged you as their Lord Chancellor? How long has the supremest pleasure of the soul submitted to an arbitrator sullen, envious, and malignant?—without taste, genius, or intellects!—a dreaming law-giver to sound, a mad mathematical musician! How long have the social enjoyments of the mind been estimated by measure and tale?—by niggardly scanty, constrained portions? Go and pore over an ox's eye, study optics, measure vacancy, and thus get at the dimensions of your own brain. Go and exist, but dare not think of the enjoyment of those that live.'
—And then turning to the manager,
'Please sir to give orders that the repetition may go on.'
This the manager thought proper to do, and it was finished with no further interruption worth mentioning.

As soon as it was over, Charles said to the manager
'Sir, I must beg, before your people leave

the room, that they may hear my declaration to you. With great earnestness you invited me to this task; you took ample time to deliberate on the merits of what I produced you; and we had settled a convention that I am convinced would have been a mutual convenience to us. It was the duty of your people, according to my conception, to receive their instructions, and implicitly to observe them. For my part; had any person represented to me, in reasonable language, that any particular alteration was necessary either for his or her convenience, or the advantage of the piece, I should with willing pleasure have paid such observations every attention they could possibly merit; but, sir, evidently by your connivance, I have sustained affronts from many of your people, who, poor wretches, mean me no ill-will, by doing that which your frequent permission has stampt into a duty. Your drift then appears to lower me to the abject, contemptible humiliation of those authors and musicians, who depend on you, and who administering to your ignorance and caprice, insult the public with nonsense and barbarism, to the disgrace of letters, and the total perversion of science. Keep these at your beck and call and welcome, but let me warn you not to expect again that you can with impunity make a tool of any man who has ground to think

worthily of himfelf, and virtue enough to be independent, lest an exposition of your arcana rouse the offended public to support the cause of injured merit, and oblige you to restore those men of talents, for whose encouragement your theatre was given you in trust. Others may be roused; for my part, I shall content myself with smiling on you with contempt.'

So saying, he walked out of the house, no one attempting to interfere; for the performers looked on one another in astonishment, to see an author who refused to be a foot ball, and the manager, who saw it would be to no purpose to detain our hero at present, was meditating how he might keep both the piece and the author at his own disposal.


As soon as our hero got home, he sent for his piece. Instead of it, however, he received the following letter.

Your warmth this morning prevented you from seeing how much I wish to do you every justice. I think some of the performers were right in their objections. The piece wants cutting, and really I think it would be of use to you to admit a few Italian songs. You know those capital women will give themselves airs. Upon the whole, as the necessary alterations will take up some time—and, besides, I have an after-piece to bring out immediately—I would wish

you to revise your opera before its next rehearsal• In the mean time you may call upon the treasurer for fifty pounds.
Yours, &c. —

Without a moment's consideration, Charles wrote the following answer.

I have declared my sentiments plainly enough already, and I will not trouble myself more about this pitiful business than to say that I now demand my piece, and that I am perfectly indifferent as to yourself, your actors, your capital women, your after-piece, or your fifty pounds, which last article I do not believe I am more in necessity for than you are. The bearer has directions not to come away without the opera.
I am, sir, Your humble servant, C. HAZARD.


The piece was not sent, and it was with some difficulty he got it back again, two months afterwards. Thus ended his connection with the theatre.
Our hero's next effort was among the booksellers. Many offers were made him to work by the sheet, but these he rejected with contempt; at which he was given to understand that haughty demeanour would totally destroy all his expectations; for though to work for the theatre might be very humiliating, to work for the trade would be still more so.—Could he submit to estimate his work as they sell poetry to the chandlers shops, by weight? Could he watch publications as they fell in, and became universal property, mutilate them, and make an unconnected jumble out of them, under the title of 'Beauties of an eminent Poet?' Could he take the old magazines and newspapers, and make out of them a new periodical publication? Had he a knack of criticising authors that never existed?—Was he expert, without plan or necessity, at poetic ribaldry, which dealt about the faeces of satire against all ranks and distinctions, without either its truth, its elegance, or its point?—and especially against that high character whose heart is the seat of goodness and mercy, whose private worth is the criterion of domestic virtue, and whose public excellence

is not more distinguishable by the splendour of his situation, than by the gracious beneficence with which he adorns it.
Could he feign epitaphs? Anticipate parliament speeches? Make men of abilities write nonsensical odes?—or invent dull good things, spoken by a dead doctor? Could he one day pull down the fabrick of the constitution, and the next build it up again?
If he could not do any of these, he had better be hackney writer to an attorney, clerk to a lottery office, or any thing than an author. Where was the use of any thing new? Had not every thing that can be said on all possible subjects been exhausted time out of mind? Was there a single idea that, at this time of day, could be put in a new point of view? How many histories of England were there? How many histories of other countries? How many general histories? And yet could any body say which should be credited? No, no, the mystery of writing was now at an end; the whole business was compiling; and it was the extreme of arrogance in any person to expect payment but as a compiler. In short, if he would quietly put on his apron and sleeves, take the scissors, the wasers, and the paste pot, come contentedly into the

garret, and sell his labour for as much as it was worth, he might get pretty bread enough; but if not, he had better take a pickaxe or a beetle, and dig graves or thump the pavement.
This was the sum of his reception with several to whom he applied. At length however he thought he had nicked the very chance that would make his fortune. He was recommended to a bookseller of the name of Alley, who he was informed dealt largely and liberally. To him he went, and very candidly told him that, as he had the reputation of a man of worth, an extensive publisher, and a liberal dealer, he should be glad to treat with him for some things he had by him.

'Sir,' replied Alley, 'Mr. Hazard, I shall say in answer to this here proposial, that I am a man of fortune, and I spends what I gets freely: been't afraid dam'me of a few shiners: and when I sees a work that's a work of merit, I deals upon the nail, and as a gentleman should. Here, harkee in the shop there. Did the lady in her chariot call this morning?'
'No.'
'No! dam'me you always say no. But my lord did though, or else Sir Peter. In short sir—I say, one of my people, bring me the keys of the warehouse. Stop now—look

at this drawer: full, chuck full—all novels—I supply every library in the kingdom. Going to bring out a fire, new, ← novel → edition of Thomas Hickathrift, for schools. Oh the keys, you shall see my warehouse.'

So saying, he lugged our hero into another street, where he introduced him to an immense number of publications, in sheets.
'There,' said he, 'did you ever see any thing like this? Here is a grand edition of Mother Goose's Tales, purceeded with a wooden frontispiece, for the Christmas holidays; all titivated up, out of other things, by gradivates from the two universes of Oxford and Cambridge. I pays them well; one has had seventeen and sixpence before hand. Yes, yes, every body knows my generosity: but then its a damned fine thing to be charitable.'

Thus he ran over all the rooms in the house, pointing out, upon every shelf, some new book of equal importance with those already mentioned, till at length he convinced our hero he was conceited, ignorant, and purse proud, and alike a stranger to taste and liberality.
Charles, seeing this, determined to cut the matter short.
'Pray,' said he, 'Mr. Alley, do you read

all these things before they come out?'
'Read!' said the other, 'I read! Dam'me, you think that I can read! No, no, I got other guess work to mind I can tell you. My gradivates, and my parsons, and them there fellows read. No, no, I can't do every thing. I can only say if you'll favour me with any of your works in the ← novel → way—novels you see are my forte—they shall be read, and, if they meet approbation, money, dam'me money is no object. In short, as I say in my advertisement, to such ladies and gentlemen as favour me with their manuscripts, that I flatter, supported by their patronage, to render in future what has been esteemed frivile, of standing merit, entertainment, and general improvement.'
'There's epitaphs for you!'
'They are very extraordinary epithets indeed,' said Charles.
'Ay, ay, epithets,' returned Alley, 'you are right: dam'me my head is always a wool gathering. Well sir, shall I be favoured with your manuscript?'

'Why sir,' said Charles, 'I will be very plain with you. I have a thing something in the style of a ← novel → , which I will send you. It will make two small duodecimo volumes.'
'Ay twelves, I understand you,' returned the bookseller, 'that's right, I like twelves.
'But I premise,' added

our hero, 'that if your graduates find any merit in them, I expect to receive a handsome gratuity for my labours.'
'That's enough,' said Alley, 'send them; we shan't disagree.'

They parted: Charles sent his book, and, after repeated attempts to get it back again, or an answer to his terms, he at length received the following letter.

I received yours, and I am sorry my absence, being out of town, deprived my answer.
Your book, unfortunably, does not meet approbation; as such, is returned. You may send for it to my house, in Leadenhead-Lane, when convenient; only please to say which it is, as I have so many, otherwise you may not get the right.
I am, in great haste, Your very humble servant, WILLIAM ALLEY.


This letter, as well it might, gave our hero a surfeit of booksellers. Heavens! how he pitied Mr. Alley's parsons and graduates. It was a sensible satire upon an enlightened age. But was there really no trace of that liberality among booksellers which formerly characterised them? How freely had hundreds, nay thousands, been paid for books; and surely books were then bought with as much avidity as formerly. He would try again: it was to no purpose: and yet he knew not why. His former publications had sold rapidly. The difference was they were written for amusement: he now wrote for bread.
In this situation he was determined to have recourse to his old friend Ego, who, to eke out his poetry, enjoyed the comfortable consolation of a snug annuity.
Ego was very glad to see Charles, and said, after shaking him heartily by the hand,
'Ay, ay, I am the man to come to for advice. Who have you applied to?'
Charles told him to all the booksellers without effect.
'Dam'me, that's a shame,' cried Ego; 'if I were a bookseller, I would treat authors with such liberality!'
'But as you are not, Mr. Ego,' said Charles, 'what would you advise me to do?'
'Faith I don't know,' said Ego,

'every body is neglected: would you think now a man of my merit would lay dormant as I do?—Stay, zounds let me think—I am the man for expedients. Have you any money left?'
'Not much I assure you,' said Charles.
'Well, well, said Ego, it must be raised. I have it: I am the man to serve my friends: it will make your fortune better than bailiff's business. Lord, Mr. Hazard, how could you think of being a merciful bailiff! If I were a bailiff, I would be the cruelest rascal that ever existed.'
'And, in that case,' said Charles, 'you would be more in character than I was; but what is your expedient?'
'I will tell you,' said Ego: 'you will laugh: I am the man for making people laugh: I would have a new newspaper. There is a plan!'
'A very good one,' said Charles, 'if a man had a thousand pounds to spare, and could stand in the concern without partners.'
'Yes, yes,' said Ego, 'but people must not, now a-days, stand upon niceties. Do you know any thing of editing? I am the man for an editor: I would have my paper full of good essays: I would stick to my party: I would maintain tooth and nail the principles of that side I decidedly took. If it was the ministerial side, I would not, like some papers I could name, creep, and cringe, and be fulsome. I would choose that part of their measures that could

be deduced from meritorious motives; for all conduct has its favourable sides. In short, there is nothing but may be represented upon some principle or other apparently worthy, without the wretched necessity of having recourse to spatter and vilify others. On the contrary, if I decidedly took up the part of opposition, I would expatiate on the noble passion of patriotism, and let the generous disinterested dictates of that glorious inducement tell generally against ministers, without handing up their names to the public, and call upon my countrymen to execrate them in the lump.'

'Nobly distinguished,' said Charles, 'but in my opinion, Mr. Ego, you are yet wide of the mark. Why take a decided part at all, unless indeed the part of truth. What do you think of a paper that should watch the impositions of all the rest; expose them to public view; detect all their misrepresentations; strip them alike of adulation to ministers, and factious cavilling against them; expose the source from whence the corruption flows which poisons public peace?'
'Zounds, the very thing in the world,' cried Ego; 'and so not spare one's very brother, hey, as a body may say, if he deserved to be treated severely; and, on the other side, shower down encomiums upon the

virtue of one's bitterest enemies?'
'Exactly my idea,' cried Charles.
'Zounds, give me your hand,' cried Ego. 'Why don't you thank me for thinking of it? Well I do think I have the readiest brain. En't I the man for a scheme?'
'Yes,' said Charles, 'and I am the man for improving upon it. For my part, I like it so well, that if you will breakfast with me to-morrow morning, and consider the matter between this and then, perhaps we may consolidate something that will be of mutual advantage.'



THE reader will think it a little strange that Charles, who had disdained to sue to Sir Sidney, should now seek out Ego, who, he had been informed, was one of those who did him ill offices with that very gentleman. The fact is, that in the most consistent human heart there is a sort of alloy, a kind of instability, which indeed, if it had not, our being would imply a perfectness which it is universally allowed does not fall to the lot of those bipeds called human beings.
Charles then raged with love more violently than ever:—for I would not have my readers think that because I do not take up their whole time in expatiating upon his amorous vagaries, that he is only in love by fits and starts, and at those times when I find it necessary to treat upon that subject, by way of varying others. On the contrary, I desire it may be understood that, let him appear how he

may, he never ceases to be in love with Annette, sleeping or waking—which indeed, were it necessary, I could show under his hand, both in poetry and prose—for one single minute, from the business of Aix la Chapelle to the end of his life: nay, were I to antidate the business, and start from the summer before he went to France, I dare say he might then boast as large a portion of that passion, at least, as many who have declared, ay, and sworn to it, that they were dying with it.
Oh this love! What will it not do? But I believe I may as well leave rhapsody to those who have no necessity to attend to narrative, and instead of saying what it will do, content myself with recording what it did.
I have mentioned our hero's detention of Mrs. Marlow, and his motive for it, which I remember I had the good fortune to find perfectly approved by the reader; for I saw him, in my mind's eye, smile as he read the circumstance. Indeed Charles's partiality to her was such that, after what has happened, it is almost a wonder his enemies had not by this time made a handle of it to his disadvantage; for, to say truth, while other young men of his age and complexion were sacrificing to Bacchus and Venus—let it be observed I do not mean Astarte—scouring

the streets, and getting into broil, our spiritless youth pored over a book, made a drawing, or set a sonnet: all which amusements were only interrupted by the harmless prattle of an old woman. Indeed he has often declared that he never passed moments of more substantial pleasure than these with Mrs. Marlow.
To show however that self can never be out of the question with us, the subject of their conversation was nine-tenths of the inducement. Charles had now heard nothing of Annette for several months, and, in all that time, his love had nothing to feed on but the letter inserted in the fourth chapter of this book. The more distant his prospects were of an union with the idol of his soul, the more violent was his passion; for this again is the nature of love. Nothing seems to be impossible to it in theory, yet in practice it does not work miracles. He knew the soul of Annette; he knew her incapable of change; he knew, if cruel fortune ravished her hand, nothing could dispose of her heart: She had given it him: it was his; indissolubly his. Then was there ever such a prodigy of fidelity and zeal as Emma? No; he was secure. He could not more firmly rely on his own resolution than theirs. No attachment was ever so sure, so grounded, so permanent. What had he then to fear? Nothing

from love, but every thing from fortune. Sir Sidney was more likely to be implacable now he was rich, than when he was poor.
All this ground did he and Mrs. Marlow go over every evening of their lives. Upon these occasions she would represent to him that indeed he was not the kind of man to live in this world; that it would not do upon all occasions to let the unqualified truth appear; that now a-days people did not open their hearts every time they opened their mouths; and she could plainly show that all his miscarriages had been owing to ingenuousness and honesty, which, as he would never find it in the dealings of other men, so he might lay his account to its injuring him in all his concerns. She said he loved the truth, and she knew he would thank her for speaking it, and she would therefore tell him that she took the liberty to disapprove his conduct in relation to Mr. Toogood. He had himself, it was true, shamefully abused those talents which he really possessed, and had made them scandalously subservient to his interest; but if the world chose to be so imposed on, was any one equal to the Herculean task of removing its prejudices. Mr. Toogood was in possession of a very comfortable independency. This alone, in the opinion of the world, would counteract all that could be said against him; and this being the

case, she did not wonder that his conduct, worthy as it was, had been looked upon by one half of the world as envy, and by the other as illnature. In short, Mr. Toogood, she said, had it in his power to have served him, and it depended on himself whether he was to make an unworthy use of advantages so procured.
Upon the same ground, if he had paid a visit to Mosquito, and given a little into his humour, he would doubtless have interested himself with the academicians, and, as he was now a man of very great consequence, there could not be a doubt but it would have turned out a matter of profit to him.
As to the business of the theatre, it was certainly too humiliating, and therefore he could not, in that instance, be too much commended. But, in short, if he chose to get his bread by his talents, it must be in the way others did it: there was no alternative: and she had no doubt, if he would seriously lay himself out for eligible employ, but he might yet acquire a fortune sufficient to satisfy Sir Sidney, who, she was sure, would consider every guinea that was earned as twenty.
Convinced by these sort of arguments, our hero,

as we have seen, lost no opportunity of trying his utmost to get forward; and, having taken a great deal of trouble with the booksellers to no purpose, he and Mrs. Marlow were one evening turning all matters seriously in their minds, when she said,
'My dear sir, it is wonderful to me you have never thought of getting about some real friend of Sir Sidney, and making him your confidant. If it did nothing else, you would know from a channel of that sort what were his private sentiments of you, and, among other matters, it would furnish you with some particulars relative to Miss Roebuck.'

This last consideration bore down every other, and Mr. Balance was thought by both the properest man in the world for this purpose. He was however at that time out of town.
'But,' said Charles, 'a thought has struck me, and it will convince you that I mean in future not to quarrel with people quite so much for their vices. What do you think of Ego? I have told you all his particularities, and really he has not very much prostituted his talents: perhaps indeed because he has but few to prostitute; for the pension he has was given him more from ostentation in the donor, than through any servility in himself. Indeed he has too good an opinion of himself to be very solicitous;

for he takes as much care as he can that, in all his affairs, Ego should be the first person.'

'This is charming,' said Mrs. Marlow, and I will warrant something comes of it; for, as he loves tittle tattle, he knows of course all Sir Sidney's family affairs, and it shall go hard but I will worm some of them out of him: and so you see, without asking a single question I shall get at every intelligence you wish to receive.

It was then agreed that Ego should be sounded; but it was to appear that our hero knew nothing of the business. Thus was the first duplicity he ever practised occasioned by love. Indeed he could not live any longer in this state of uncertainty; and if this method had not been hit upon for the present relief of his anxiety, he certainly would have been put upon playing some mad prank or other, which might have induced concessions on his side, for which he never would have forgiven himself.
On the other hand this business was a lucky hit for Mrs. Marlow, who, just at that time, was upon the point of forging some sort of intelligence, to soften the edge of our hero's unhappiness. It was now however unnecessary; for as Charles was not to be supposed to know what passed between her

and Ego, so there would be no occasion to relate more of their conversation than such parts of it as would relieve his fears, which again, if they were not strong enough, might admit of a little heightening; whereas, she resolved to sink whatever would be likely to augment his chagrin: for she was not one of those friends who unnecessarily aggravated matters, but, on the contrary, admitted that a little laudable deceit was pardonable, when the proposed end was meritorious.
Many good purposes, Mrs. Marlow flattered herself, would derive from this commerce. Ego, she had no doubt, would retail what passed in the presence of Emma, whose wit and ingenuity would not fail to take hold of such an occasion to supply Charles with every thing he wished to know, even, probably, without the conscious concurrence of Ego; for it might be conveyed in such ambiguous terms as none but the lovers themselves could unriddle; and, come what come might, she resolved to invent consolation, where it really did not present itself, for she could not bear the idea that our hero should be so afflicted.
This was the first time his obstinacy towards opening a negotiation with Sir Sidney seemed to give way. She hoped in time he would be wholly

subdued, and had no doubt when her well-intentioned scheme came to have the assistance of Mr. Balance, that a perfect reconciliation would take place between them; and then, as it was in the power of Sir Sidney alone to place our hero in a very conspicuous professional light—which this foolish woman thought even more eligible than the possession of an inherited fortune—she contemplated, even with tears of joy, that moment when she should see him happy, equal to his deserts.
Big with this project and these hopes, Mrs. Marlow waited with impatience for the morning, and that she might employ her time to as much advantage as possible, entreated Charles to leave her for half an hour with Ego, before he came down to breakfast.
Mr. Ego came very punctually to his time. He was shown in by Mrs. Marlow, who told him she was very sorry, but Mr. Hazard was a little indisposed, and therefore she had not disturbed him; but, however, he should be immediately called.—To which Mr. Ego made answer,
'Ah, up late last night I suppose: this is the consequence: ah these young men! If I was a young man I would be the mirror of sobriety.'


'Then,' said Mrs. Marlow, 'you would be exactly like Mr. Hazard, for I never saw him otherwise than sober in my life.'

'Indeed!' said Ego, 'I am glad on't: it is very commendable. Always sober! Quite an altered man I suppose since he came from France. It is a lamentable thing that young men cannot make the tour of Europe without getting into so many scrapes. If I was to make the tour—'

'Sir,' said Mrs. Marlow, 'he only made the tour of France, which I do not believe either you or any body else could have done to better purpose.'

'There, my good lady, you must excuse me,' cried Ego; 'the whole world rings of his shocking doings there. Why don't you know he robbed a banker, knocked down his brother, stole a nun, spent her fortune, turned sharper, killed a man, and then made his escape out of prison?'

'No indeed I do not, nor does any body else,' said Mrs. Marlow.
'Nay but zounds madam,' returned Ego, 'you must excuse me there: I am the man for knowing the truth of things.'
'You are not the man for knowing the truth of this,'

said Mrs. Marlow, 'for every word of it is false; and I dare say by false reports like these, which Mr. Hazard has too much pride to contradict, Sir Sidney's ear has been abused, and he has lost that good gentleman's confidence.'

'Faith,' said Ego, 'like enough, 'for there is nothing like absence for injuring people in the opinion of their friends. Yes, yes, I see how the thing has been: I am the man for seeing how the cat wags her tail. And so it was all lies ha!'

'Did not you see it at the time, Mr, Ego?' said the good lady, 'since your penetration is so keen.'

'See it,' said Ego, 'Oh yes I—that is to say I had a glimpse, but that damned unmerciful teazer Mosquito, and that cursed lamenter of his friend's misfortunes, Toogood, would insist upon it in such terms that you know I was obliged to run a little with the pack; else you know what chance had I for a continuance of Sir Sidney's patronage? Must mind the main chance you know, my good lady: I am the man for keeping a friend,'

'That,' cried Mrs. Marlow, 'one may easily see.'
'But stop a little,' cried Ego, 'Can you acquit him of this? Did he write one single word

to any individual soul?
'And pray,' answered Mrs. Marlow, 'was there no friend had charity enough to allow the possibility, at least, that his letters had been intercepted; and, if that were the case, was it not also possible that he who did him that injury, would not stop at others?'

'Gloss, Gloss.' cried Ego; 'zounds I see it: I am the man for putting the saddle on the right horse. And yet do you know he had the address always to appear Mr. Hazard's friend. But he has such a way with him: sure, steady; never brought up the subject but when he had made Sir Sidney charmed with himself, on account of some act of generosity performed by the baronet himself, or his great grandfather. Yes, yes, it is plain. He is a devil of a fellow to be sure.—Why he bewitches people. Not that his praise of my poetry was any such great matter: common fame does me justice: I am the man for poetry: but, the devil of it is, who is this fellow that makes such a plaguy noise in the world?'
'Who,' said Mrs. Marlow, 'a great man, a member of parliament.'
'A mighty great affair indeed,' cried Ego. 'In your ear, if he was out of parliament he would be in the King's Bench.'
'Indeed!' cried Mrs. Marlow, pretending great astonishment.
'Owes seventy thousand pounds,'

continued Ego; 'you may depend upon it from me: I am the man for knowing how the world wags.'
'Well, but if this be the case,' cried Mrs. Marlow, 'how is it possible that Sir Sidney can be so blinded as to intend his marriage with Miss Roebuck?'

'I will tell you how that matter stands,' said Ego. 'If the ministry goes out, and they say it totters at present—for you see I am the man for being a bit of a politician—if, do you mind me, they go out, Mr. Gloss will be a made man, and then he will certainly marry Miss Roebuck.'—
'With the young lady's consent, no doubt,' said Mrs. Marlow.
'Not a word of that,' said Ego: 'she will obey, if you please, but never consent: I am the man for distinctions.'
'What has she any new lover then?' said Mrs. Marlow, 'for surely she cannot have kept herself heart-whole for Mr. Hazard, in the midst of such ceaseless persecutions, and against so many reports to his disadvantage.'

'My good lady,' said Ego, 'such truth, such innocence, such sweetness, such sense of duty as Miss Roebuck possesses I have often read of, and indeed described, just as one describes in poetry, sylphs,

gnomes, or flying dragons; children of fancy, offsprings of the imagination—I am the man for a choice of words—in short a thing without literal existence, but I confess I never saw it before.—Why I have seen her receive a command from Sir Sidney with a smile, while her heart was bursting. In short, she will become a voluntary sacrifice to her duty as soon as the ministry changes.'

'This then is the arrangement,' cried Mrs. Marlow, 'and the poor lady and the nation are to turn about together.'

'Even so,' said Ego. 'I wish we could say with truth that, in either case, turn about would be fair play: I am the man for a pun.'

'But pray,' said Mrs. Marlow, 'what part does Mrs. Emma take?'
'Why that, that,' said Ego, 'is what I am just now astonished at. Until very lately she had been a most strenuous advocate for Mr. Hazard, but I think now we may call her the armed neutrality. But, upon my word, my good lady, the young gentleman may thank himself if his friends grow cool to him. Can any thing be so mad as the way he has spent his money?

What the devil had he to do with bailiffs, and charity, and beef, and bread? Nobody does it. So you see his conduct is a satire upon the world, and now I only ask you, does any body like to be satirized? I am the man that understands propriety. And then you see to brag of his actions, and try to depreciate the benevolence of Sir Sidney, in his favourite scheme of Castlewick!'

'Ay, has he done that?' said Mrs. Marlow.—
'It has lost him the baronet for ever, that's all,' replied Ego. 'Now I would not have done that: I am the man that never flies in any body's face.'
'But I assure you Mr. Ego,' said Mrs. Marlow, 'he had not done this.'
'What,' said Ego, 'did not he boast of having served more people in real distress in six months, than ever Sir Sidney did in all his life?'
'Never,' said Mrs. Marlow, 'I will answer for him.'
'And did not he try to prove, by several instances, that there was no sort of comparison in his charity and that of the baronet?—for dam'me, said he, one day when he was drunk—'
'But I tell you he never gets drunk,' said Mrs. Marlow.
'Well,' said Ego, 'sober then: so much the worse: if he had been drunk he would have been excuseable. Dam'me, says he—'


Here Charles interrupted them.
'Ha! my good friend Hr. Hazard, I am glad you are come: I want my breakfast devilishly: I am the man for the hot rolls and butter. Here have this good lady and I been battling about you. Upon my soul she is a strong advocate; a staunch friend: never saw such an instance of attachment and fidelity. But, come, 'ent we to see Miss?'
'Miss!' said Charles, 'what Miss?'
'Why Lord now how strange you make of it,' said Ego; 'I mean the old gentlewoman's daughter: they tell me she is temptingly handsome: I am the man that is a judge of beauty.'
'I wish,' said Charles, 'you were a judge of good manners. I gave you a hint yesterday that, if we were to be friends, you must not attempt to glance at my actions in any way; for as I shall not think it worth my while to explain my motives for what I really do, so I give you warning you will not find me in a humour to pass calumny by quietly.'

Here Mrs Marlow brought in the breakfast, and the conversation became general.


CHARLES having taken an opportunity during breakfast of going out of the room, Mrs. Marlow begged Ego not to hint a single syllable of the conversation that had passed between them. She said Mr. Hazard was so tenacious of those resolutions he had taken of abiding by the truth of his intentions, without stooping to an explanation with any body, that she was sure he would break off for ever with any friend who should be unwise enough to stagger his determination;
'and as I am sure, Mr. Ego,' added she, 'he has a regard for you, it would be pity you should lose one another's friendship in the moment of coming together.'
She hinted also that she should be glad to have some more private conversation with him, and cunningly pretended to wonder what could have caused this alteration in Emma? To which he answered he would learn the next day, if possible; for he was

to dine at Sir Sidney's: and added,
'Oh bless my heart—I am the man for recollection—Mr. Figgins is in town; pray has he called on Mr. Hazard?'
'I fancy not,' said Mrs. Marlow, 'but why?'
'Nay nothing,' replied Ego, 'only they say he has been like the rest of the world—got it while it was going, hey, you understand me: fools and their money—hey—I am the man for a proverb.'
And then seeing Charles:
'but mum's the word: don't be afraid of me.'

After breakfast our hero and his friend Ego resumed the conversation of the day before, which they had both duly considered. Mr. Ego said, that as far as his advice or interest went he was heart and hand at Charles's service, but, as it was both unnecessary to his circumstances, and improper at his time of life, he begged to be excused from having any immediate concern in it;
'for I am the man,' said he, 'that knows how to take care of myself.'

Charles, who was determined if he did any thing it should be solely his own concern, did not dislike this declaration, and after some further consultation, it was agreed that about eight hundred pounds was enough to start the paper: two hundred of which our hero could muster, and it was

proposed to raise the rest by shares of fifty pounds each. In short, Ego, in company with Charles, beat up the quarters of all those who, from disappointment, an adventurous spirit, or other motives, were likely to come into it; and, after several meetings, many regulations, and other pro and con, it was at length agreed that Charles should be the sole conductor of the paper, have four shares for his two hundred pounds, and a salary of two hundred a year: but, as its failure, if it did not succeed, must naturally be attributed to his want of abilities to conduct it, he should be obliged, on its being proved to be a losing game every day for a fortnight together, to take all their shares back at the original price; and, on the other hand, if it succeeded beyond expectation, he should be made a proportionable amends.
These terms were extremely well relished, and our hero took the field as generalissimo of diurnal criticism. He detected the fallacy of other papers, reprobated their venality, resuted their arguments, and showed the futility of all their proceedings; and, though the concern sustained a loss almost every day, the world's eyes began to be opened, and probably the matter would have been handsomely taken up, if internal divisions had not convulsed the whole plan. The fact was this: four of

the other papers had each sent a purchaser of a share, whose instructions were to kindle as much strife as possible among the partners. Thus, upon separate grounds, they began to split this little community into factions. One said a newspaper was not worth a farthing that did not take a decided part; another that they ought to have secured advertisements before they had started; a third was beginning, when our hero begged leave to remark that no partner had a right to interfere with the conduct of the paper. Let him then take up the shares, according to his agreement, was the answer. His was immediately at his service. Charles now too late saw the drift of this. He said if he had known he had embarked with a set of men who were afraid of a little risk, he would have set his face to the business alone at first; but he was willing nevertheless to abide by all his agreement. He had certainly ran himself out of ready cash, but if any gentlema would take his note, at a short date, for the amount of his share it was heartily at his service. Three took him at his word, at that meeting, and, by a week afterwards, he was left with but four partners.
Had the paper been dealt by honestly, it would have done wonders; but the proprietors of the rest, who had not the courage to defend their measures

openly—for indeed they were indefensible—tampered with the news-carriers, and were guilty of a thousand other paltry shifts and tricks, to prevent its circulation. They also brided the printer to insert such words as rendered the writing nonsense, after the correction of the last proof, and when it was impossible to prevent its going in that state into the world.
There was a dirtiness in these proceedings which Charles could not stoop to a detection of. He doubled his satire, and they their arts, till at length every partner had begged to be off, and he was left alone to stem the torrent. He now found himself playing at a losing game, almost exhausted of all his cash, and engaged for the payment of six hundred pounds; so that, driven into every possible corner, he was compelled to send this scheme after the rest, and sell the materials for a supply.
Now it was that Charles discovered who had been his partners in the paper; for, their end being answered, they published his disgrace in the most triumphant language their virulent and low malevolence could suggest. They recapitulated all his former miscarriages, gave an invidious turn to his whole conduct, misrepresented him in regard to his opera, and warned the public how it encouraged a

man who, instead of being avowedly its servant, had the arrogant presumption to set up a standard of taste, and the vanity to suppose that all the world must bow to his ipse dixit.
Charles avoided, with every possible industry, all chance of getting into a personal quarrel upon this occasion; knowing that he could reap no honour from a contention with men of no character, and that they would, in their report of him, so pervert his motives of resentment, as to throw a public stigma on him, let his conduct be ever so right.—Indeed his notions upon this subject were a little heteroclite, for he maintained that duelling was not only a very barbarous, but a very dishonourable custom, and that it served more to assist the views of cowards and assassins, than to support the dignity of such as possessed true courage.
In defence of this opinion, he certainly advanced a great deal of persuasive reasoning, which unfortunately nobody listened to; for people, however they break through established customs—whether by stealing your purse, or your peace of mind, or cutting your throat—never appear publicly to disapprove of them.
This very opinion was taken advantage of by

Gloss, who negociated a quarrel so well, that our hero received a challenge from a rascal, and refused to meet him. His pusillanimity was immediately the public topic, and though he was a short time after under the unpleasant necessity of kicking the fellow out of a coffee-house who had had the impudence to traduce him, yet, in the next company he went he scarcely was spoken to.
Charles, securely wrapt up in his own conscious honour, certainly held all this in ineffable contempt; yet fearing lest accumulated provocation should induce him to depart from that forbearance which his rectitude had pointed out in his case to be necessary, he wisely resolved to read none of the abuse written against him, lest he should be provoked into a reply that would make his competitors of more consequence than he wished. He relied on the candour of the public for a tacit refutation of all calumny whatsoever, and, instead of involving himself in more troubles, began seriously to consider how he could get rid of those with which he was already surrounded.
He had about seventy pounds, and the furniture of his house, which was decent and convenient, but no more. The earliest of his notes was within five days of being due, and a fortnight more would bring

the rest upon his back; in consequence of which, all the horrors of a prison, and the merciless severity of bailiffs, who owed him so much ill will, would be inevitable.
To avoid these unpleasant circumstances, he resolved to go to France, which determination however he imparted to nobody but his faithful housekeeper, whose success had been upon a par with his; for Ego had brought her intelligence that there was no knowing what to make of Emma, that the ministry was changed, and Mr. Gloss now filled a high and conspicuous situation, and, in short, that every thing in that quarter menaced our hero's affairs with ruin and total destruction.
Though Mrs. Marlow, when she had fancied things wore a brighter complexion, had determined to put the best face on the matter to Charles, finding them in this desperate way, she saw there was no time for trifling. Besides, Mr. Gloss's situation was a public town talk, and all the rest would be known of course. Indeed the good creature could not dissemble; her very heart spoke in her eyes, and he saw his wretchedness before she uttered a syllable.
Another circumstance greatly perplexed Charles,

and made him wish to seclude himself from all the world. Mr. Figgins had certainly been in town, but had not called upon him. Indeed a mystery had hung over that gentleman's conduct for some time. When Charles conferred on him the annuity, he received a letter thanking him in terms of such enthusiastic warmth, that he thought it a little overstrained, and some suspicious matters had since induced him to believe that his old friend, finding he had got all he could, now turned his back upon him, which the reader, no more than Charles, will think an extraordinary conjecture. But what were now his sensations, when he found, beyond all doubt, that this very friend who had sworn so heartily never to desert his interest, who knew all the secrets of his soul, who, in short, had more power than any man in the world to show his enemies how to take advantage of him, had gone over to Mr. Gloss.
Charles had all his life wanted a friend; he had been very often plunged in misfortune, but this was the first time that he saw himself on the brink of actual poverty, without a single resource. The brute Mosquito was master of an ample fortune, the pliant Toogood had a profitable place, and even that echo of his own praise, Ego, had sat himself

down comfortably. These men had nothing for which they ought to be rewarded, but much that merited reprehension; while he, whose whole study had been to benefit the public, who had, in spite of all the malignity that had overwhelmed him, the testimony of hundreds to the purity of his intentions, which had been evinced by a strong worldly proof—no less than throwing down some thousands in the prosecution of his laudable plan—he, in an early period of life, must now learn the bitter task of bearing distress, and yielding to actual want.
Charles, however, happened to have a mind not easily to be broken.
'Come Mrs. Marlow,' said he, as they talked over his affairs, 'let us set our faces to the weather. They think that under such accumulated misfortunes I shall sink, and they will get rid of me; and indeed were I not of a different temper from any other man, it would be so: but I am not of a mind to indulge my enemies: we must not lie down in this world for want of resources; and, I thank God, my imagination flatters me I shall not be to seek for them, even though experience should, as usual, destroy all my hopes upon proof. At present certainly this kingdom is no place for me, and it has struck me that, by quitting it, I can not only

turn my pursuits to advantage, but in that very way that, had I not been a fool, I should all along have preferred to the straight forward reprobation of duplicity, by which the world's good opinion is not to be gained. In short, I will tell you what I will do. I will get into Flanders, seat myself in an obscure lodging, and copy every thing I can lay my hands upon. HOLBEIN, or HEMSKIRK, TENIERS, or HOBIMA, WYNANTS, or VANDERVELDT; nothing shall come amiss to me; and when I have stocked myself with a sufficient collection, properly smoked, varnished, and mutilated, they shall be put up to auction in the English metropolis, as the collection of a gentleman who died upon his travels.'

Mrs. Marlow declared she had now some hopes of him, and begged he would set about it immediately.

'I will,' said Charles, with a profound sigh, 'and yet it is very hard to be cut off from every hope. I could have borne any thing, every thing, sustained torture, and called it pleasure, could I still have flattered myself with the hopes of obtaining Annette. Oh let no man place his happiness on the promises of a woman. I could have endured misery, beggary for her. Want and all

its grim train, should have been my welcome companions. I would have blessed the moment that made me wretched to prove my love. But, come, no weakness; let me feel, but not murmur; let me, since there is nothing else with which I can reproach myself, so forget the dignity of my love as to reproach her. No, however she may excel me in happiness and fortune, she never shall be my superior in truth and honour.'



EVERY invention having been exhausted to ward off the coming blow, without success, Charles began in earnest to think of retiring to the continent: to which he was not a little stimulated by his new scheme. He was so closely pressed, that he was obliged to decamp in the middle of the night; for he had heard, that very morning, that a writ had been obtained against him, from one of his most inveterate enemies—though the note o which account it was issued was not due—upon a pretence that it was his intention to leave the kingdom.
It was eleven o'clock in the night that this scheme was to be put in execution. Our hero had just supped, and spoken these parting words to Mrs. Marlow.
'Since I have lost every friend upon earth but you; since, in this country, men of honest principles cannot flourish; since my love and honour have been equally betrayed, and every

worthy effort to gain the world's esteem and secure a faithful return to my hopeless affection has been attended with nothing but ingratitude, shame, and disappointment, I go to find a little recollection, and to shake off this strange dream of fruitless expectation in another country; and, since I have found to my mortification that here the whole world lives in a happy delirium, and enjoys no pleasure but through the medium of being cheated by their own consent, I will one day or other return and administer to their amusement in the only way any man can hope for success: the honesty of which I now fairly subscribe to; for how can it be said that people are imposed upon when they consent to the deception. Having made, by means like these, a competency, you and I, my dear Marlow, will retire to some snug retreat, where, as at a comedy, we will look at the world, and laugh, but never venture again to have any thing to do with it, otherwise than as spectators, for fear of the humiliation that, as actors, we should be sure to meet with.

'These are strange declarations in so young a man, but they are perfectly reasonable, perfectly honest, and I can set the point I aim at within my view as easily as Mr. Gloss, though perhaps I may not attain it by means so rascally. And now

my good, my kind friend, adieu. There is an instrument by which the furniture of this house is become yours. It is a poor present, but perhaps it may assist you, through the medium of letting lodgings, to eke out the little I may be able to send you. At present I can very well spare you forty pounds, and, that you may not have a word to say in reply, I promise you, if I should be in necessity, I will as freely have recourse to you.'

Charles then ran over all his former schemes, and showed in what instances he would make them serve as a warning as to his future intentions, which he had strenuously at heart, and through which he doubted not he should one day be able to show how greatly he could be independent, with barely a competency. He spoke of the treachery of Figgins, but still attributed that, as well as every other misfortune, to his own stupid credulity alone; for that he ought to have known what a world he lived in, and not have suffered himself to be imposed upon.
'And yet,' said he, 'my dear Mrs. Marlow, there is a circumstance that I must complain of, though it is taxing perfection, arraigning heaven itself! But this is not the time to awaken any feeling; to stagger my resolution. Still I would wish you to see that false, that lovely creature; to see

Emma too. Do not however upbraid either of them. Let them only know that they imposed upon a heart that deserved better of them; that it shall break, misery shall dissolve it, torture tear it, before it shall consent to a single murmur, though but a whisper. Tell my Annette to be happy; to be supremely blessed, without an intruding care; and to think that I am too fortunate if I have secured her happiness at so trifling an expense as the loss of my peace. Tell her—but indeed it is dreadful; I cannot at present bear the conflict, and I must—heavenly powers!—but come, let me be a man, and keep my senses.'

At these words he reclined against the wainscot, with one hand on his forehead, the other on his heart, and his eyes turned upwards, as if imploring those powers which, if we may judge of what immediately followed, were as deaf to his calls as the hearts of his pretended friends had been to the calls of honour.
As he stood in this attitude, and as Mrs. Marlow contemplated him with ineffable complacency, and tender sorrow, a loud knocking was heard at the door. What could it be? At that time of night too! Certainly Charles's enemies had been apprised of his intentions, and were determined to prevent

his escape.
'Lord,' cried Mrs. Marlow, 'what shall we do?'
'Do,' said Charles, 'why if they will have me, I must submit to it.'
'Not for the world,' said Mrs. Marlow. 'For God's sake, my dear sir, go up stairs: pretty high if you please: and if you find it is any thing of that sort, fairly go out of the garret window, and creep on three doors farther, to Mr. Lott's.—You can easily get along the gutter, and, after the coast is clear, I will go to Mr. Lott's, apprise them of the truth, and you shall stay there till a proper time.'

Charles made some objections to Mrs. Marlow's expedient, but a second thundering at the door overruled them. And now Mrs. Marlow went boldly to demand who it was that paid them this unseasonable visit.
Before she would open the door, she called to know who was there. She was answered by a postillion—for she could see his dress and his whip through the key hole, by the light of the lamp—that there were some of Mr. Hazard's friends out of the country, in a chaise, who must see him even at that time of night.
Mrs. Marlow, overjoyed with the hopes that her

friend's affairs might have taken some favourable turn, and, at any rate, guarded as we have seen against sinister consequences, made no scruple of opening the door, which she had no sooner done than two men handed a lady out of a chaise, and all together came within the door: one of the gentlemen desiring the lady might be shown into a room. This Mrs. Marlow, who was greatly struck with the lady's uncommon beauty, scrupled not to do; after which, one of the gentlemen, taking her aside, begged Mr. Hazard would come to them immediately, for that the lady was Miss Roebuck.
At these words Mrs. Marlow flew up stairs, and, in less than a minute, introduced our hero, first having informed him that she would bring him to a friend whose presence would make him ample amends for all his former troubles, but who that friend could be, in spite of all his entreaties, she left him to guess.
If our hero's faculties were upon the stretch, to find who this extraordinary friend could be, who, contrary to the hard customs of the times, had generously sought the dwelling of the unfortunate, what was his excessive astonishment when a gleam that had started across his suspended thoughts, just

as he arrived at the door, was presently realized by the sight of her who held his captive soul, who now sat in the very chair out of which, ten minutes before, he had himself risen.
He started much more naturally than I have seen a hero on the stage at the sight of a ghost, and exclaimed,
'Heavens and earth! Am I awake? Is it possible that the divine Annette—'

'No sir,' exclaimed the lady, with great anger, 'it is not possible that she can come any where, by her own consent, into your presence, unless to tell you how much she disdains your low arts.'

'For God's sake madam,' cried Charles, in an agony, 'what do you mean? Am I to be every way tortured? Is my whole life to be a dream? Am I to comprehend nothing?'

'Admirably acted,' said the lady; 'I wanted but this to be convinced.'
'Convinced of what, madam?' cried Charles' 'that my existence, my very soul is in your power, and therefore you can torture it at will.'

'For shame,' cried Annette, 'I only want to ask you one question. Do you think, by this

violent conduct, to accomplish your wishes. Do you not think by it that you have, and with reason, lost my father for ever.'

'I know I have lost him, madam,' cried Charles; 'I was told too I had lost you; and now, lest I should doubt the truth of my being completely miserable, you are condescending enough to put me entirely out of pain, by confirming it with your own mouth: in this extraordinary manner too, at this unseasonable hour.'

'Wretch,' cried Annette, 'can you pretend to charge me with what you have caused yourself? Is not the whole your own doing? Has not your unhappy impetuosity undone you? And now, instead of defending yourself, you are determined I shall be no more out of doubt than the rest. In short, I am convinced that it is impossible to be on terms with you, and I declare to you, in so many words—though I will not so falsify my character as to say it does not pain me to make the effort—I will never be yours.'

As this moment, as if in a violent flurry, in rushed Mr. Gloss.
'And here,' cried Charles, 'is the happy man who is to witness my disgrace, and triumph over me; but, by all that is sacred,

he shall not live to enjoy this happiness; for this hand—'

Saying this, he ran to his pistols, which he had loaded to take with him, at which both Annette and Mrs. Marlow screamed. Mr. Gloss told them not to be afraid; adding, with a sneer, that no harm would happen, which probably he knew, for another person who then entered the room caught hold of Charles's arm, and proclaimed aloud that he had an action against him.

'Then all is over,' said Charles,
and dropped into a chair. Annette, at this moment, was not in a better condition. Lest however she should discover her confusion to Charles, she begged Mr. Gloss would conduct her home, declaring she felt herself greatly indisposed.

'I don't doubt it, madam,' said Mr. Gloss:—'the gentleman however shall smart for it. You triumphed sir,' said he, 'when last this lady was in danger; now I think it is my turn.'

'Thine!' cried Charles, starting from his reverie. 'Worm! Reptile! Thy turn to triumph over me! But I thank you madam,' said he to Annette. 'It is plain you wanted an excuse in the

opinion of the world for the most inexcuseable trait of falsehood and levity that ever disgraced your sex; and I may say now that you have well acted your part: and so madam adieu. There is yet time, before you sleep, to glut the ear of your father with the information that my downfal is completed. And now sir,' said he to the man who had arrested him, 'I am ready for you.'
—Saying these words, he snatched up his hat, and left first the room, and then the house, in company with the bailiff and his follower.

The moment Charles had walked off, as we have described, Annette cried out,
'Oh, Mr. Gloss, I am very ill,'
and fell lifeless on the floor. Mrs. Marlow was not idle: she produced some drops, which revived her in the course of a few minutes; but it must be confessed that good old lady's attention was of a very chequered kind; for though humanity had obliged her to pay Annette every possible respect in her then situation, yet her heart bled for the sufferings of poor Charles, to which she could not help thinking that Mr. Gloss, at least, had contributed, by this last unmanly business of the arrest, which she was induced to believe he had connived at through cowardice: lest, had our hero fair play, he must have answered to him this treachery, and that very severely.


Under this idea, when Annette came to herself, Mrs. Marlow did not spare to exclaim against the scandalous conduct of those who had, she said, by spreading the most infamous and injurious calumny, wounded the character of a young gentleman, who had no equal in the world.

'I believe so,' said Gloss, with an invidious leer, 'for egregious folly, intolerable pride, and unbounded profligacy. But come madam,' said he to Annette, 'I believe there is a coach at the door, and we want no advice from this good lady, who of course is partial to him whose bread she eats.'

'I do eat his bread,' cried Mrs. Marlow, 'and heaven is my witness I would not eat it if I did not know him to be what I say. I know he is the worthiest, best, gentlest, noblest creature that ever did honour to human nature. I know his soul is above every thing that is ungenerous or unjust. I know, in short, he is the very reverse of you, from whom I have not been able to take off my eyes ever since you came into the room; and I will tell you why: I look on you with horror, and believe you capable of every thing horrid and infamous; for you are the very picture of a man whom I knew to be the most villainous and despicable upon earth.'


'I am much obliged to you madam,' said Mr Gloss, 'for your eulogium; and now I believe we have no further business here.'
So saying, he gave his hand to Annette, who had been drowned in tears for some minutes, and who now retired with her protector, as he called himself, without the power of paying her acknowledgments to Mrs. Marlow so warmly as the case required, or her wishes prompted her.



A MOST miserable night did poor Mrs. Marlow pass in our hero's absence. She did not know where he was gone, or by what means to get any tidings of him. In this exigence she would have waited on Mr. Balance, a step which she repented she had not taken before—but as all her cogitations terminated in a resolution to adopt no active measure of her own head, lest she should injure him she

wished to serve, she even sat herself down quietly, and waited with the most tantalizing impatience •ill, by hearing from him, she should be released •…om her anxiety.
Under these circumstances had she remained, like a timid hare in her form, dreading she knew not what, till about two o'clock the next day, when she heard as violent a thundering at the door as she had heard the night before. She immediately flew to the door, and let in not our hero, but a gentleman who said Mr. Hazard must be found, if he was above ground, for that his brother lay at the point of death, and that he was come post haste from the country, to consult him on some family matters, which were of the last importance.
Mrs. Marlow begged his pardon, but could not conceive in what way Lord Hazard's death could possibly affect his brother: that nobleman, she fancied, had nothing but the title and estate to give, and those would of course go to his infant son, who, she supposed, was not lying at the point of death. As to any legacies, she did not believe his lordship had lived so frugal as to have any to leave; and, were not this the case, she could not be inclined to think his good will towards his brother extended

so far as to have induced him to do any thing in his favour.
The stranger said she was perfectly right, but yet his business with him was of a particular nature.—In short, neither could make any thing of the other: what the strangers sentiments were we shall see.
As to Mrs. Marlow, she thought this chicken was of the same brood with the rest, and that he only wanted to get out of her what he could, perhaps to lay a detainer against Charles, or for some other purpose equally inimical.
At the end of four days—for till then had this poor friendly creature been tormented with alternate hopes and fears—she received a letter, by the post, on which she was astonished to see the postmark Ostend, but her astonishment was still hightened by noticing the hand writing of her friend and benefactor. This was the letter.
To Mrs. MARLOW, AT —.

As I know you must be under the most torturing state of anxiety upon my account, I

take the very earliest opportunity of relieving you from it, by informing you by what means I am able to date a letter from this place.
Sensibly as I felt at leaving that false deluded creature in the hands of her betrayer and mine, I had no sooner got into the street, than I began to think my pecuniary affairs, at that moment, demanded my first attention. I therefore prevailed upon the bailiff to accompany me to a tavern, rather than to any house of security, that, if possible, I might hit upon some terms of accommodation. This, after a short hesitation, he consented to. There, while I plied him with wine, a thought struck me that this should be my first attempt at imposition, which I the less hesitated at, as the fellow was a notorious rascal. This stroke, as it has been attended with success, I have no doubt but I shall hereafter follow it up with others, till our competency will be secure, and then I promise you not all the Annettes upon earth shall draw from me a single sigh.
I begged his patient attention to what I was going to say. I then told him that when I was last in France I fell in love with a young lady of considerable merit and fortune, who would, without reluctance, give me her hand, as soon as I should

arrive on the continent; that the amour in question had created a jealousy in the young lady he had seen; and that I was very sure the business of the writ had been connived at with a view of keeping me from quitting the kingdom; that I would, to come to the point, make him all the amends in my power, if he would, in any way, suffer me to escape.
To my great surprise—for I did not think this would half do with him—he appeared willing to treat, and, in short, after many scruples—such as that he should certainly have the whole debt and costs to pay, and others equally cogent—he agreed, late as it was, to knock up two of his friends, to be bail for me, who, to make short of the story, appeared, and I gave a bond among them, to pay a hundred pounds when I should return to England, provided that event took place in three months; a hundred and fifty if it exceeded six; and double that sum if I returned a married man.
As I know these fellows to be as voracious as pikes, you may easily guess I lost not a moment in making the best use of my time. Thus, of course, I did not come home, nor would I trust myself to write to you till I touched this ground,

lest my next letter should be worse to you than the suspense I know you have kindly felt, by giving you an account of a second loss of liberty.
I shall wait in this place a week; I beg therefore you will write the moment you receive this, and I charge you, as you value truth and my friendship, qualify nothing; let me have the simple undisguised matter of fact; particularly as to Annette. If she consent to marry that rascal Gloss, though my first feelings will be a wish to come to England, purposely to cut her husband's ears off, my second, which will very soon succeed the other, will settle all other considerations into contempt, and then I shall be in such a frame of mind as to make me obliterate a set of people from my memory, in whom I have been mistaken. Surely this will be moderate enough.
As soon as I get your letter, and have deliberated a little on my present affairs, I shall endeavour to get among the Flemings. Pray do not let a single soul at present know where I am. This country is not so safe as France. You will find enclosed the forty pounds which our extraordinary visitants prevented me from giving you. I have no present occasion for it, and you can lay part of it out to advantage in decorating my old

apartments, for the accommodation of lodgers. If in that, or any way, they can be turned to your advantage, it will give me more pleasure than it possibly could to occupy them myself; but remember, I charge you not to attempt returning this money, or any thing similar to it, for I declare most solemnly, if you do, I will not let you know my route; in which case your intention will be defeated: for, beside the hazard, I can in that case return what you send; whereas you will be deprived of a similar advantage. At the same time, to make you perfectly easy, I will permit you to do what you can for me, if I should be in actual necessity.
You see, my dear Mrs. Marlow, I must still be proud; but ought not a man to be so who is determined to impose upon all the world? He ought to be a clever fellow, and therefore should be proud. In truth, one should not laugh at this, for I cannot conceive a more melancholy reflection than that the intellects of mankind are so very slender, so filmy, such a perfect cobweb, that nothing in nature is so easy as to dupe these lords of the creation, through their own connivance.
Adieu: write immediately, directed to the

post office, but do not, upon any account, venture a second letter till I have answered the first. Another thing remember: put all letters into the post yourself. My whole downfal among the Roebucks is imputable, you know, to intercepted letters; though they, poor dupes—is it not true that people are easily duped?—do not even yet believe it.
Your affectionate friend, CHARLES HAZARD.

As I mean now to watch our hero's progress for some time, which, by the bye, is but fair—as he is deserted by every other friend—I shall say, at present, that nothing of any consequence happened to him at Ostend, but the receipt of the following letter, from Mrs. Marlow, in answer to the preceding one.

Before I received your letter, I had gathered a great deal of news for you. God be praised that you are in a place of safety. Here I

believe the people are all mad. The madest of them is her you and I, a month ago, would have sworn was not to be changed. In short, what signifies hiding it, Miss Roebuck that was, is now Mrs. Gloss. I have seen her myself, and spoken to her; but indeed I am so flurried I don't know where to begin first. They have made me mad among them, but I have left off writing to cry a little, and now I shall have patience to tell you every thing in form.
You must know, the day after you left the house, a gentleman came in a violent hurry, with a strange story, that your brother lay at the point of death; but I took him for some enemy, and so sent him away with a flea in his ear. I have been vexed at it ever since, for the news about his precious lordship is true: nay, it is now reported he is dead. But what is this to you? You know sir there are two infant Lord Hazards in being. When he comes next however I shan't snap him up so short.
You are to understand that your brother's illness was occasioned by an accident when he was hunting. His horse plunged into a river, and he, for some time, was so entangled in the stirrups,

that he had like to have been drowned:—but you saved him from the other fate in France, and his good stars from this in England. As he was however sometime in his wet clothes, and—being half tipsy—would, pig like, insist upon not changing them—saying that nothing ever hurt an English sportsman in the chase—he was taken the next day very ill, and, as I said before, the report now is that he is dead.
So much for him: God bless him, and send him better off in the other world than he wished people to be in this.
My next visitor was Mr. Ego, who, with a long face, and I think real concern—but there is no knowing any body—told me that Miss Roebuck had certainly consented to have Mr. Gloss; that the wedding clothes were bespoke, the licence purchased, and the day fixed.
I thought it now high time I should begin to look about me, and so put on my hat and cloak, and went directly to Sir Sidney's house. I saw both Miss and her very good, her very wise friend, Mrs. Emma, who has been bribed over to Gloss's side, or I will never pretend to judge of any thing again. Well I only begged to know from the

young lady's mouth whether the report I had heard was true. She said it was. I asked if it was true that the wedding clothes were bespoke? Yes was the answer again. If the licence was ready? Yes. And when was the happy day to be? The next day but one. And now, said Mrs. Emma, putting in her word, you may carry this information to your friend, and tell him—
Here she repeated some nonsense from a book, that I cannot remember; but it was something about taking your enemy in their arms. To make short of it, I came away. The appointed day was yesterday, and I have this morning, with my own eyes, seen an account of the wedding in the newspapers.
There—there is your tender, constant, Miss Annette for you! And now I can only say if it makes you uneasy one hour, you are not the man of sense I take you for. What the deuce are these people to plot together, and creep, and fetch, and carry, and destroy the health and peace of a young gentleman twenty times their betters?—for he, let them think as they please, would not break his word, no that he would not, for the world. I'll assure them! What would they have next? But I am getting mad with them again.

Oh my dear sir, how I would be revenged if I was you. I wish the story was true that you told that nasty fellow, with all my heart. I sometimes think it is, only that the lady fell in love with you, for that is more likely; and, if she had, I am sure you would have more honour than to tell. If it is true, do, dear sir, marry her, if only to spite them.
I don't know what else to say. As to the forty pounds, you have stopped my mouth: it is hard however that you will be so very proud. Lord how could you write about decorating your apartments for any body else? A king could not deserve to have them so handsome as yourself. I assure you if I had not cried heartily I don't know what I should have done with myself when I came to that part of your letter.
God bless you sir, and send you as happy as you deserve to be, and then you will be much happier than any of your Annettes could have made you. I have not patience with them. But come sir, keep up your spirits, for something tells me all is for the best. Go things how they will, you are sure of one true friend: for I will work my fingers to the bone for you.

Remember your promise, that if you should want you will apply to me. But why do I say remember your promise? Did you ever forget a promise? Besides, you know you are not to cheat me, though you do all the world. I wish all the world had not so cheated you.
Your most grateful friend, And humble servant, E. MARLOW.

Charles had so far cheated Mrs. Marlow, notwithstanding her opinion of his honesty, that he did not inform her of giving the bailiff five guineas, as an accommodation fee, nor his paying the costs; all which, together with the expense of his journey and passage, sunk his stock to nineteen guineas; but he had not the heart to curtail the old gentlewoman of a single guinea.
He was fitting in his lodging counting this sum, and considering what he should do with it, when the master of the house, who had called at the post office, by his desire, brought him the foregoing letter.
It is pity my time is now so precious that I cannot give an accurate description of Charles's reception

of the news this letter contained. No mad hero in romance ever played over such a number of curious gambols; no, not the madest copier of them all, in the madest of his curvets and caprioles, in the mountains of Morena. The Fleming at whose house he lodged, might have sworn he was a tumbler, or a lunatic. One moment he stampt and raved; the next, measured his length upon the floor; then starting up, he, for about ten minutes, took a fit of execrating all the world, but most himself. Next Gloss's throat was to be cut: in short, if all his incoherencies were to have been literally put in practice, he would have annihilated Gloss, pistolled Figgins, called Sir Sidney an old fool, upbraided Annette as the most infamous of her sex, kicked Emma to the devil, and then followed her himself; for so we may fairly construe his saying he would nobly fall in their presence.
When this storm had a little subsided, he called the affrighted Fleming into his presence, made an apology for his outrageous conduct, and desired that a surgeon might be sent for. At the same time he bid him take an account of some of the furniture, which he had broken in his rage, and which he observed his landlord to eye with tokens of grief and astonishment, as it lay scattered about the floor.

The surgeon being come, Charles told him, in the most placid manner, that he had heard some unpleasant news from England, of the death of a relation; that it had put him into that ferment which I have so imperfectly described; and, lest a fever should be the consequence, he begged to be bled. The surgeon perfectly approved of the precaution, and immediately proceeded to work; after which our hero went to bed, where a comfortable potation, advised by a physician, and prepared by an apothecary, who, seeing their brother professor enter the Fleming's house, from the corner of a street, where they were in deep consultation, about the different construction of syringes, dropped their controversy to follow him.
These precautions operating with some calm, undisturbed advice, which our hero had by this time whispered to himself, brought him into such a state of tranquillity, that he pursued his journey the next morning, and, in due time, arrived at the ancient city of Ghent. Here he immediately looked for a lodging, and, at length, fixed himself to his satisfaction, in the upper apartments of an upholsterer, where the first floor was occupied by a French widow lady, who had been settled there about a year and a half. She was in but an indifferent state of health, and paid an extraordinary price for her

apartment, that she might not be disturbed with the noise of a family over her head. This was however no objection to her landlord's reception of Charles, who, she was told, was a perfect stranger, and had no attendants. Nor perhaps was it a bar to his accommodation; for ladies, sick or well, never start at a handsome young fellow: that is to say, as they do at toads and beetles. The lady also first sighed, and then smiled, when her landlord added that the young gentleman seemed to be very unhappy, but that he was certainly a man of some consequence, and a most elegant and comely figure.


CHARLES, as had been his intention, proclaimed himself to his landlord as a painter, and expressed a wish to copy a few pictures, if there could be any way of getting at them. The landlord told him that the very lady who lodged in the first floor had two very capital ones, and, he had no doubt, would lend them with great pleasure.
The request was made to her, and she returned for answer that the gentleman might see the pictures, and, if then they were found to answer his purpose, he was very welcome to copy them.
To say truth, both the gentleman and the lady, though neither knew why, were charmed at this incident of the pictures; for the lady had heard of nothing but the gentleman's parises, and particularly

of the beauty of his person, ever since he had come into the house, and he had an irresistible curiosity to see a person as much sequestered from the world as himself, and for probably as extraordinary reasons. He therefore returned a proper compliment, and, at a time perfectly convenient to her—that is to say, when she had put on a new cap, and otherwise prepared for his reception—he took the liberty of paying his respects to her.
Neither Charles nor the lady would probably have made so much ceremonious preparation for this interview if they had foreseen how intimately they were known to each other; for they had scarcely met when she exclaimed—for women's perception, as well as their tongues, is always forwardest—
'Good heavens! Mr. Hazard!'
—which he answered as emphatically, with
'God bless my soul, Madame Combrie!'
And then recollecting that she was said to be a widow, he felt a singular mixed sensation of surprise and pleasure, which gave a strange embarrassed awkwardness to his manner, and prevented him from following up his exclamation with a compliment.

Whether this proceeded from an inclination to enquire after Combrie, which the knowledge of her present situation forbid, I will not determine.—Certainly

the lady chose to interpret it in this light, for she immediately said,
'You look as if you would ask for poor Combrie, Mr. Hazard: he is no more. He had scarcely made me independent, when I lost him; but I am hastening after him, and we shall one day yet be happy together.'

Charles softened the conversation, declared himself heartily sorry for her loss, but begged she would not dwell upon any part of those circumstances which brought up the recollection of any thing that pained her on remembrance.
She said she was obliged to him, but she had long since learnt to be perfectly resigned to all that could happen, and the conversation of such a friend as he had proved himself, would be as agreeable to her as it had been unexpected.
When Mrs. Combrie was in the communicative vein, our hero suffered her to inform him of the particulars relative to her affairs, after the recovery of her fortune. What Combrie had written of his going to England, was but a feint; for, embarking at Rouen, for Dunkirk, where he arrived in safety, he posted immediately for Brussels. From Brussels, which they considered as too public a place, they removed to Ypres; but, previous to this,

Combrie took a journey to Amsterdam, and there lodged their money. At Ypres they lived two years and a half in perfect happiness, and were blessed with a daughter, who dying in the small pox, her father, who had never had that fatal distemper, and whose attention to his darling child was not to be prevented, also fell sick, and took that disorder in so dangerous a way as baffled every exertion of art. In short, in one week fortune left her deprived of a tender husband and a beautiful infant.

'At the first shock,' said she, 'I thought I should not have lingered long after them. My constitution has, however, been hitherto proof against the strongest grief that ever attacked a human heart: but I am gradually declining, and in a few months, perhaps weeks, shall follow poor Combrie.'

Charles warned her against giving way to unnecessary melancholy; advised her not to seclude herself from the world; gave her every consolatory advice within his invention, and concluded with the most fervent offers of his services, in any way that she should think proper to command them.
She said, though she had good reason for supposing that her end was approaching, she knew her

duty as a christian better than to accelerate it; and, to prove this, she had empowered a capital house in Ghent to receive her money from the Dutch bank, which, as soon as she had in her hands, it was her intention to pass over to England, where, perhaps, the change of climate might restore her to health: if not, she should have done her duty, and could then die contented.
Charles greatly approved of her plan, and as he really felt extremely sorry at the prospect of parting with a lady whom he had formerly so essentially served, and whose case made her stand so much in need of friendship and consolation, he manifested great anxiety in this business. For one thing, he determined to recommend her to the tender care of Mrs. Marlow; and, in short, though it was impossible to attend her himself, he so laid out for her comfort and accommodation, that it gave him no small pleasure to reflect that having once saved her fortune, he should now, in all probability, save her life.
This was the benevolent employment, in a strange country, of that horrid wretch who, in his own, was represented as a monster of iniquity; for all which he received numberless thanks, and many a grateful tear from the generous widow.

One morning, as he waited on her to communicate some new scheme of pleasure he had been contriving for her, he met on the stairs a man whom he was confident he had somewhere seen before.—His surmises were presently realized into certainty, when Madame Combrie informed him that the merchant had been just with her, with information that he expected one of his partners every day with the money.

'You are to know,' said she, 'I ever was partial to the English; and these merchants, who are of that country, are the most sensible and feeling men I ever knew. They are men of business, and therefore have a blunt honesty about them that I ever liked; and then as to property and security, I need only again say they are English.—In short, I believe I could not have got into better hands than Bondham and company.'

'Oh gracious God!' exclaimed Charles, 'what do you tell me? For God's sake answer me: Was that Bondham I met on the stairs?'

'It was,' said the lady.
'Then by heaven and earth you are ruined, madam!' returned Charles. 'Forgive me, my dear lady, forgive me. I would not give you a moment's uneasiness, not the

slightest shock, but you have not an instant to lose. You are in the hands of villains. Stay, is there an attorney near at hand? Can a man be arrested in Austria by the plaintive himself, for a debt contracted in England?'

In short, without any further elucidation, our hero left the astonished Madame Combrie, enquired out an attorney, and lugged him along to the house of these merchants; but, alas! they came a few minutes too late, Bondham and Co having all decamped: and, after some fruitless enquiry, it was ascertained they had taken their departure towards the frontiers.
He returned to Madame Combrie, in company with the attorney; told her that his suspicions had been but too fatally confirmed; and begged she would instantly empower him to do her justice: in which case he would immediately follow these miscreants, whom he well knew how to make an example of.
He entreated the attorney to accompany him; to which he consented, first making an agreement that he should be well satisfied for his trouble: which only proves that attornies are attornies, all the world over.

The gentleman of the law then drew up a short instrument, to give Charles sufficient power to act, and the landlord, and indeed half the town—for our hero had dealt about his curses pretty handsomely in the street—accompanied post horses to the door, at which Charles entreated Madame Combrie to make herself as easy as possible; for, added he,
'I once madam saved your fortune, and I will now retrieve it, or perish in the attempt.'

He then huddled a few necessaries together, mounted his horse, and, with the attorney and the guide, galloped away in the very track of the fugitives. They lost them however for more than the last fifty miles; but, coming to Amsterdam, found that they had actually received all the money, and embarked but six hours before for Harwich.

'Never mind,' cried out our hero, 'we will follow them.'
So saying, he was directed to a skipper, who, at an exorbitant price, supplied them with a sloop, in which, by Charles's direction, they ran, with a fair wind, under the shore of a village, at the mouth of the Colchester river. Then taking the attorney and the skipper in a post chaise, they stopped short of Harwich, at the house of a magistrate, to whom Charles related his story; which was this: that these men had defrauded him formerly

out of a large sum of money, for which transaction he had fairly hold of them in England; but, he only wished to make his claim an instrument to rescue from them a still larger sum, the property of a French lady, which, under false pretences, they had drawn out of the bank at Amsterdam.

The justice, who happened to understand something of the law, advised him to arrest them, as the first step; after which, he said, he would back our hero's pretensions with his whole authority; and as his presence, added to talking big, might facilitate the hoped for success, he ordered his carriage, and willingly set out to accompany our hero upon his laudable design.
The reader sees these men were the swindler formerly spoken of, the bailiff who kept Charles's asylum for the unfortunate, and his security. Against the security he had a fair action of fifteen hundred pounds, being the moiety of what had been forfeited. Against the swindler he might go for the whole, and also against the bailiff; and as his business was to tamper with them as much as possible, he sent an express for three separate writs, which kept him, though the utmost expedition was used, upon the tenter hooks of fear and expectation, lest his prey, in the interim, should escape.

Before they had proceeded a single mile on the way, they saw a post chaise at an alehouse door, with a man watering the horses. Presently Charles recognized Bondham, by the side of a chaise. He now called to the postillion to stop, and pretend there was something the matter with the carriage: thinking it would be more difficult to surprise them separately than together. At the same time he begged the magistrate would drive slowly on, and pass them, so that they might be caught between two fires, for they had an officer behind each of the carriages. This was happily executed. Charles's speaking to those in the other carriage was not at all suspicious; for it only seemed mere curiosity from one, which the other satisfied. At the same time he hid his face, and otherwise kept himself completely from a discovery, which indeed was not difficult, for the others suspected no snare.
At length our hero had the satisfaction of seeing the three gentlemen enter the chaise; which done, he got out, pretending to assist in setting the carriage to rights. The Flemish attorney and postillion were also on their guard, and, as the other chaise drew near, the latter, with great dexterity, left his work, and unhorsed his fellow driver in an instant, and then ran to the heads of the horses, by which

time the attorney at one door, and Charles at the other, held their prisoners in safe custody.
Pretending not to know Charles, they called out,
'What do you mean to rob us?'
'No,' said the officer, who was by this time come up, 'we want to prevent you from robbing other people: I have separate actions against you to the tune of seven thousand five hundred pounds.'

Nothing in nature is so cowardly as a detected viliain. If he have a pistol in his hand, he will fire it through desperation; but, if he be unarmed, no slinking cur ever tucked his tail between his legs in so dastardly a manner.
The swindler cocked his hat, but that was all; the security sweat, and the bailiff trembled from head to foot. By this time the magistrate joined them, who exclaimed,
'God bless my soul, I find it is first come first served here. I have a demand upon these gentlemen. Come mynheer, stand forward.'

The skipper began to jabber something that nobody understood but the attorney, who explained in French that he had a claim on them for defrauding

the Dutch bank, which our hero, in a most insulting tone, translated for them into English.
Next came a mock dispute between our hero and the magistrates. Both claimed the gentlemen as their respective prisoners, who, in their turn, beginning to take a little courage, demanded to see by what authority they were detained.
The officer said, archly, he had no sort of objection, if they had a fancy for it, to expose them to every passenger on the road; but he thought, as they might be assured they were nailed fast enough, it would be the best way to go forward to his worship's, where every thing would be properly explained to them.
'In short,' added he, 'here are the red tails, and you may depend upon it I shan't let you out of my sight till you are safely lodged in Chelmsford jail. I did my business first, and if his worship wants you up afterwards, upon other affairs, that's none of my concern: thousands are serious things, and my mind won't be easy till I have fairly shopped you.'

Several horsemen and others being seen at a distance, the prisoners consented to go to his worship's, where a very serious examination passed. The

Dutch embassador's name, and many others of very high authority, were bandied about with great freedom. At length, there being, in fact, no possibility of exhibiting a just claim on the part of Madame Combrie, our hero contented himself with getting from them his original three thousand pounds, upon undertaking, by virtue of his power from that lady, that no further demand, on her account, should be made against them in England.
As I shall not be able to edge in a word by and by upon such paltry subjects, I will drop these three gentlemen in this place for ever, by saying that after this triumvirate came to Flanders, they entered into trade at Ghent, and, under the appearance of a considerable property, negociated money matters, which they resolved to carry on with scrupulous honesty, in order to beget them a character, till an opportunity should offer of striking one stroke for all. This they thought they could not more successfully practice than on a defenceless widow.
Having so laid their plot that it could not fail—nor indeed ever be known, had not Charles so unexpectedly come across them—they resolved to decamp, and, being arrived in England, avail them•elves of a fraudulent bankruptcy: first sharing the

whole of their effects in equal proportions. This however they knew they could not do, unless they previously came to a composition with our hero—for, in his affair, there was evidently fraud, collusion, and conspiracy—which they had no doubt but they should be able to do, through a third person, upon easy terms. Fortune, however, ordained it otherwise, as we have seen.
As to what became of them afterwards, the swindler was one of the first of those who were transported to Botany Bay, the security died of poverty in a prison, and the bailiff, attaching himself to an infamous prostitute—who first ruined, and then betrayed him—at length followed his honourable principal.
After many sincere acknowledgments to the magistrate—with whom they stayed all night—for his uncommon attention and politeness, our hero and the attorney re-embarked, after agreeing with the skipper to set them ashore at Ostend, which would sooner bring them to the relief of Madame Combrie's suspense.
On the road, Charles let the attorney into his intention, as to the report he should make of this business to the lady; at which information, whatever

it might be, he testified much surprise, and indeed began to think the young gentleman was turned fool; but, being convinced to the contrary, by Charles's following the discovery with a reward, he, from that moment, certainly had a very great regard for our hero:—for he told him so.
They found Madame Combrie in a much weaker state than she appeared to be in when they parted from her. She listened however to the tale of their success with more unconcern than our hero expected, which—for the reader knows he was determined now to impose upon people—he explained to be this.
That they had overtaken the fugitives, as we have mentioned, and that being in England, where it was impossible to obtain any legal redress—for the matter did not amount to a robbery, they having received the money by her own order—he had been under the unpleasant necessity of coming to a composition, and of receiving three thousand pounds, instead of almost double that sum.
'Thank God you have recovered it, madam,' added Charles, 'and let this narrow escape warn you in future how you trust to strangers.'

He then displayed documents to the amount of

two thousand eight hundred and fifty pounds; the rest, he said, having gone to defray different expenses, and recompense that gentleman—meaning the Flemish attorney—for the extraordinary pains and attention he had shown in the whole affair; finishing with a most florid eulogium on the generosity and disinterestedness of this benevolent lawyer, who had—still like his brethren in other countries—eaten, drank, and slept well, said yes and no, and rather puzzled matters than explained them.
Our honest attorney being gone, Madame Combrie made a very long and very grateful speech, by way of thanks, to our hero. Towards the conclusion she uttered these words.

'Seeing all this is the case, that your own situation is so straitened'—for Charles had told her every thing, except indeed that he was in present necessity—'that I stand in need of a protector, and that I sincerely believe there is not a man upon earth of such generous, such delicate, honour as yourself, let me offer you a right to call this money yours: a right I do not blush to tender: a right that should Combrie look down and see us at this moment, he would cheerfully sanctify; for he was good and benevolent, like yourself.'


'Take care madam what you offer,' said our hero: 'You do not however know all my situation. My debts in England would consume nearly one third of this money; but I own we might ornament a most smiling cottage with the remainder.'
'Lookee, my dear Mr. Hazard,' said the lady, I may not live, in which case, who can this money so worthily belong to as yourself? I hold it at present but as a trust:'—the poor lady however did not know how nearly she approached to the truth—'and as, were it fifty times that sum, were you without a sixpence in possession or expectancy, it should court your acceptance, so I can now only grieve that its insignificance reflects no merit on my offer.'

'Madam,' said Charles, more seriously, 'you know my fatal devotion to a false and ungenerous young lady:'
—for I must explain here Charles's delicacy never would permit him to name Annette.
'I do,' said the lady.
'You know I can never love another as I have loved her.'
'This also I both admit and admire,' said the lady.
'You know it is not in my power to offer you more than the most servent friendship.'
'Which, in you,' said Mrs. Combrie, 'has for me more charms than the most violent love in any other

man.'
'You know I have not a friend in the world, and that my fortune is ruined.'
'Talk of something that will enhance the value of my offer,' said the lady.
'Knowing this, if you will take me,' exclaimed Charles with the greatest warmth, 'I am yours; and heaven's my witness nothing shall surpass the fidelity and admiration of the best husband that ever devoted himself to the most disinterested and generous of women: and now, my charming, angelic creature—for nothing is so young and beautiful as goodness—let us first be married, and then to England, where our cottage shall be thronged with joys unknown to emperors.'

It is almost unnecessary to add that the lady was charmed with this conduct, or that the very next day they became man and wife.


HAVING, at this ticklish period, married my hero greatly, I doubt not, to the disappointment of some readers, I shall leave him and his sick wife, who really seem to be fit company for each other, and return to England, from whence we have lately heard of a wedding in a very different style.
That I may be as succinct as possible, I shall take the matter up earlier than when Mrs. Marlow left Annette so highly in dudgeon, and so come roundly to that point which I must tell the reader happened to be a remarkably critical one.
The reader will readily recollect the conversation between Mr. Ego and Mrs. Marlow, which, of course, was only an echo of what continually passed at Sir Sidney's, and contained a very inconsiderable part of those manoeuvres which Mr. Gloss daily put in practice, to deceive the good baronet.

He had however a much harder task to perform; for Annette, and even Emma, must be shaken in their allegiance to this king of their hearts, before he could stand the smallest chance of moulding them to his purpose. To do this, he watched all our hero's actions, and, when he set on foot his newspaper, employed an agent to purchase—virtually for him however—one of the shares. This, it is not difficult to divine, was the man who arrested him, and from whom he obtained his liberty, upon the terms of his going abroad, which, had he not been so precipitate in proposing himself, would have been offered to him.
The person who held this share of the paper for Mr. Gloss, appeared to be a great favourer of the scheme, and was one of the last who seceded; both of which steps were good policy, because one enabled him to do the paper a great deal of private injury, and the other kept all its secrets within his knowledge to the last moment.
When the paper was put down, the other daily prints began, as I have already said, to bespatter our hero, who, after the business of the challenge, that he might not be provoked by them, read nothing they inserted. On that account, the following paragraph totally escaped his notice, which was

given to the public about four days before Annette paid Charles that visit, the nature of which it is now my business to explain.

We advise a certain baronet, with that warmth and interest the nature of so extraordinary a case and his excellent character deserve, to look with every possible caution to the security of his amiable daughter's person, who, notwithstanding her exemplary devotion to the will of a tender father, may, nevertheless, be surprised by the machinations of a certain young newspaper adventurer, who, that his mischievous brain may be always at work—having given over attacking celebrated and established public productions—is now turning his thoughts to a scheme which, unless the parties are extremely wary, will destroy by force that domestic peace which he could not undermine by art.
This paragraph, in the usual pompous style, had scarcely appeared when two or three strange fellows were watching about Sir Sidney's house, and one was seen in the garden, but he made his escape over the wall before the servant could come up with

him. To say truth, Sir Sidney was not a little alarmed. Indeed Annette herself could not help testifying some surprise; and, as to Emma, though her sentiments were perfectly decided, she kept them to herself; for some freedoms Mr. Gloss had, about that time, provoked her to take, drew from Sir Sidney what amounted to almost a declaration of dismissing her his house, upon a repetition of such liberties.
Until the upshot of our hero's villainous stratagem should be known, Sir Sidney proposed that they should all go into the country for a few days, and the place made choice of was Richmond, where they had been repeatedly invited by an old friend of the baronet.
Mr. Gloss having carried his point thus far, the accomplishment of his scheme waited only for its coup de grace. This was performed in the following manner.
As Annette was strolling in the garden, to enjoy the sweet serenity of a moonlight night, and, not to hide the truth, to reflect on her love for our hero, who now she began to fear would never be hers, and, what was worse, never deserve to be hers, two men suddenly came behind her. Having taken

their measures like adepts in their business, she was completely prevented from either struggling, or alarming any of the family, and, in a very few minutes placed between the strangers in a post chaise.
These gentlemen told her, with many asseverations, to back the truth of their assertions, that no harm was intended her; that she was only to be carried to Squire Hazard's house, in London, who, Lord bless his heart, for he was a worthy gentleman, loved her better than he did his eyes, and who, this orator said, it was his belief, intended to marry her that very night, or stick himself before her face.
Annette, with prayers and entreaties, begged they would carry her back again. Her pride was deeply wounded at this poor, this paltry scheme of stealing her from her father; and I must own, and commend her for it at the same time, that she had, at that moment, a contemptible opinion of Charles.—At the same time she could not think that she ran the smallest risk as to her honour. She could easily see she should be pursued, and, as her father and Mr. Gloss were already upon their guard, probably overtaken before they should arrive at the end of their journey.

With these ideas in contemplation, Annette bore her misfortune with something like composure, which so won, in appearance, on her conductors, that they began to plead the cause of our hero very forcibly: not but they allowed it was a little hard to oblige a young lady to do any thing against her will, even though it was to please herself. One of them pretended to be so attached to her interest, that he would tell her, Lord love her pretty face, all how the thing was, that she might better know what to make of matters when she should see young Squire Hazard. This well concerted fiction was nothing more than fancying what a man would naturally do who saw, as it were, a young lady fly into his very arms. He said, at first sight our hero would appear very much astonished at seeing her. He would then pretend to suppose the whole business was her act and deed.
'Ay,' said she, 'but he shall not have time to do that.'

Upon that circumstance they hitched their whole hope of success. If once Charles and Annette should begin to quarrel, every word must widen the breach; nor—that our hero might have as much embarrassment as possible—was the time pitched upon a slight article in this mass of contrivance. When could it be put in execution to such good effect as at that moment when his mind was

perturbed, distracted, and broken to pieces, by reflecting on his successless attempts at independancy, and when he was—which is SHAKESPEARE's doubt magnified—flying from ills he had, to rush on others that he knew not of.
All these matters, so artfully conceived, so nicely combined, and so certain in their effect, could not fail of producing exactly what we have seen. It is needless to say that Mr. Gloss kept the post chaise in sight all the way, for he mounted his horse the moment they were fairly off, leaving word with a servant to tell Sir Sidney—who he had taken care should be at some distance—that seeking him and explaining matters would take up too much time, but that Miss Roebuck was stolen away by Mr. Hazard, and he was set out to follow them. He therefore advised him to come to town himself with all expedition, but not to be under the least apprehension, for he would restore the young lady, or lose his life in the attempt. There was something a little awkward in not taking the baronet with him; but there would have been risk in it, and the strong circumstances which would afterwards come out, must, he knew, completely cover any inaccuracy that, in a contrivance of so complicate a nature, was of course indispensable.

When Annette got home, and Sir Sidney heard her inveigh against our hero, and extol, in the highest terms of panegyric, the generosity and gallantry of Gloss, he ran over with pleasure. He almost pitied the poor desperate devil, who had been put to so pitiful, so unavailing a piece of villainous folly, so ill contrived that it defeated its own end. He launched out into the most grateful flow of warmth and energy in praise of Gloss, and told his daughter that she could no longer refuse to give him her hand. Grant, he said, that this young monster had formerly made an impression on her heart, it was now as much a duty she owed herself as him, to tear from her mind all traces of a passion that could reflect on her only unworthiness and dishonour: an affection for an unprincipled villain and a paltry coward.
Indeed nothing had set Sir Sidney so much against Charles as his having refused to accept the challenge; especially after Gloss had reminded him that one of his ancestors, in the reign of one of the Edwards, had, at a tournament, fought a duel by the king's authority.
Mr. Gloss was not yet however contented. He would seek for more proofs against Mr. Hazard.—The affection of such a young lady as Miss Roebuck

could not but be decided, let it be placed ever so unworthily. No pains ought to be spared to restore ease to so gentle a heart: a heart that it should be the whole devotion of his life to merit.
The next day he pretended to enquire about Charles, and found, to his great astonishment—for so he told Sir Sidney—that he had somehow or other got rid of the bailiff, and splipped away to France. Another day or two was taken to enquire into the particulars of this transaction. Every moment of all this time Sir Sidney was making preparations for the wedding: Annette being yet wavering and unresolved, till, on the morning of that day when Mrs. Marlow called at Sir Sidney's, by the greatest good luck in the world, the bailiff and the two bail were found out, and brought before Sir Sidney, to whom they offered to make oath that Charles was gone abroad to be married, and produced the bond as a corroboration of what they asserted.
Annette, without hesitation, now consented to the marriage; to do which she mustered up so strong a portion of resolution, and wore such apparent content in her features, that except now and then a sigh, she betrayed no sort of repugnance before company, as to what was going forward.

Emma however was not even yet deceived; but what could avail her feeble voice in a multitude?—that is to say in mere reasoning, for if she had spoken out it would have been in thunder—especially prohibited as she was from speaking. It was on this account she desired Mrs. Marlow, while Annette was at the other end of the room, to tell Charles
'that his enemy was now an Antaeus in the arms of Hercules.'

This the good lady did not understand, or could not remember, otherwise it might have made some alteration in Charles's conduct. And now came the moment, as Emma thought, for her to step forward. She gloried in the opportunity, and the more her adversaries approached to an host, the stronger she found herself against them.
Her grand coup de theatre, however, was for the present postponed; for, at six o'clock on that very morning Annette was to have been made a bride, it was the opinion of every one about her that she would never be married but to her grave. She was seized with so violent a fever, accompanied by so strong a delirium, that her father, Lady Roebuck, three physicians, and an apothecary, were fully of opinion she could not live till the canonical hour.

Mr. Gloss however, to work as secretly as possible, did not fail to blaze in the papers with an account of the wedding; no circumstance being omitted to hyperbolize the splendid talents of the bridegroom, or the fortune, beauty, and accomplishments of the daughter of that truly patriotic and independent country gentleman, Sir Sidney Walter Roebuck, the oldest title of baronet in the kingdom.
Annette's illness, in compliment to Charles—though it was no more than what had happened to him, in compliment to her—had like to have had effects as dangerous as they were sudden. For a whole fortnight nobody expected she would recover. After that time however, though she certainly exhibited tokens of convalescence, yet her mind had been so rudely shocked, as to leave the recovery of her intellects a very doubtful business. They were at length so far restored as to sadden into a settled, placid melancholy, which left her a pale and mournful example of sensible and unshaken constancy.
Mr. Gloss began now to be afraid that providence had determined to defeat what he had defied the impuissant art of man to destroy. Yet, that nothing might be wanted on his part, he was indefatigable

to procure intelligence of our hero's motions; when, at length, through Ego, he learnt of his marriage: Ego himself having been informed of it by Mrs. Marlow.
Emma, finding that this marriage was no counterfeit, like the rest, began in earnest to fear that all was over. To satisfy herself of the particulars, she called on Mrs. Marlow—for now she was determined to keep no measures—and was by her shown the letters from our hero, by which she plainly saw he had fallen a victim to the arts of Gloss. Her heart bled for him. She perceived he had entailed misery on himself through the best pride and the noblest honour that ever young man possessed. His case therefore appeared to be desperate.
This however she conceived ought, for the sake of her young lady, rather to accelerate than retard her measures, which she was now resolved to go about fully and fairly: especially as, to give expediency to them, she had, through Mrs. Marlow, though unknown to that good woman, made a strong corroborative discovery of one of those facts through which she expected to carry her point.
Emma compared herself to General Monk; saying,

she was determined to strike no stroke till she should be sure of success.
Having now, however, collected her whole force into one point of view, she marched forward, and, without a single hostile movement, obtained a decisive victory.
In other words, Sir Sidney no sooner heard what she had to alledge, backed with such convincing proofs, than no man upon earth ever took such blame to himself, or conceived such an inveterate enmity to another as he did to Mr. Gloss. Indeed had not the discovery Emma made involved matters of still greater importance, which were not yet quite ripe for public examination, nothing could have restrained the baronet from making of his quondam favourite an immediate and most severe example. As it was, he fairly inlisted under General Emma, who, though she feared she should not put her King Charles in possession of that throne Annette's person, yet she was now sure of restoring the happiness of that kingdom Sir Sidney's family, whose interest she had so dearly at heart.
Poor Annette could enjoy none of this. A heavy languor pervaded her senses. She received every thing that was said to her with beautiful attention

and solemn innocence, but gave no tokens of collected comprehension, except answering with a sigh any passage of tenderness, and now and then letting fall a pearly tear, with always—in a faint, but sweet accent—the exclamation of
'I am sure poor Charles is not a villain.'



As Emma's provident conduct, with her principal, General Monk, in view, seems to be an example worthy imitation, I shall here so far follow it as to bring into one focus such objects as will conduce to an elucidation of what to some may have appeared extraneous.
As however, early in this history, I disclaimed the idea of introducing any thing foreign to the subject—indeed I must have been very absurd if I had introduced any such thing, for I have full matter enough that honestly appertains to it—I will not give what I am now going to explain the appellation of extraneous, but leading circumstances.
To effect some part of this purpose, I shall now give a brief account of Mr. Figgins, from the time he bid our hero adieu at Lyons, to the period to which this history is advanced. The reader knows

that the gentleman I am speaking of was heartily glad to quit Charles, and return to England. To this however he was induced by a motive, among others, of a better kind than has been yet explained. He was then doing, or rather professing to do what we are told, by the highest authority, is impossible; namely, serving two masters: and which, to keep that incomparable idea in view, was, literally speaking, God and Mammon. In short, his compacts with Charles and Mr. Standfast were very opposite things; yet, to the one he was obliged, and to the other willing to adhere.
Mr. Figgins had not sufficiently considered that however vice may have its allurements, there is yet something so pure, so winning in virtue and honour, that a man stands a chance of becoming a convert to it, even though—like an advocate who pleads a cause he has no opinion of—he should only maintain the subject by way of mere argument.
Thus it happened to Mr. Figgins, for he very often caught himself in the very act of seriously admiring our hero, when his agreement was to serve his enemies.
He did not flinch, however, as we have seen.—He discharged his trust to the very letter of it, and

then claimed what had been promised him, a living of two hundred a year, to be added to his other income.
Finding however that Mr. Standfast's performance of this promise depended upon the interest of Zekiel, who, as we have seen, upon his accession to his fortune, left him fairly in the lurch, Mr. Figgins began to see he had been a rogue for no-nothing. He could not, notwithstanding, blame Mr. Standfast, whose loss was still heavier; yet he was determined to shake of that tyrannical yoke which—in consequence of a few favours conferred on him in his youth, out of which, by the way, the other had had his gleanings—Standfast had so heavily laid on his shoulders. To do this with perfect propriety was, however, no easy task, nor would he have been able to effect it, with any prospect of real satisfaction to himself, or advantage to others, if he had not thought of a coalition with Emma.
To this Mr. Figgins was stimulated by various motives. Mr. Standfast had unbent his mind a good deal before him, and particularly in an altercation one day with Mrs. O'Shocknesy, when such hints were thrown out as obliged him, in his mind, to take a decided part on the spot.

A few days after this he received intelligence from Mr. Balance of the handsome way in which our hero had settled on him a hundred a year.—This determined him to take an active part. The consideration that all his dirty work had been paid by a disappointment, and that the very man he had assisted to cheat had conferred on him such an unexpected and unmerited benefit, worked strongly in his heart. It reproached him with being a rascal; a despicable, low, shuffling villain. In short, like Harry Hotspur's starling, nothing, sleeping or waking, was dinned in his ears by his conscience but such opprobrious sounds, till, at length, the conslict abated, and he tasted the pleasure of feeling himself an honest man.
To do our hero any thing like justice, he saw was a most tremendous task indeed, and of this he soon convinced Emma, who said it was plain the attempt, and not the deed, would confound them.
The reader will admit that circumstances, half disclosed, lead to such a maze of apparently different meanings, that the chances are infinitely against coming at the truth, by pursuing any one of them. No wonder then they were frequently thrown out, and unable to proceed with certainty to any thing further than what Sir Sidney was now acquainted

with, and which, as it related only to the downfal of Mr. Gloss, and our hero's reconciliation with the baronet, was but a trifle in comparison of what they were sure, by patience and perseverance, they might achieve.
Besides, to say the truth, they were willing to let Charles go the length of his tether. There was such redundancy of goodness in his mind, that it was absolutely necessary he should know the world practically: that he should feel experience. They thought they could marry him to Annette whenever they pleased: but here indeed they reckoned without their host, though it must be owned not without good sense; for nothing could be so unlikely as that he should take so extraordinary a step, though, as matters turned out, I hope the reader does not think it extraordinary at all.
Thus then their plot rolled on, like a snow ball, till Annette began to be actually in danger; for then it was found necessary for Figgins to act overtly towards Charles, in proportion as Emma observed the same conduct with Sir Sidney. For this purpose he called at Charles's house—for he was the stranger of whom Mrs. Marlow speaks in her letter—with the news of his brother's dangerous illness, which

was no invention, but actually a fact; and, to confirm what is there imperfectly given, I now inform the reader that Master Zekiel—to use the landlord's expression at the John of Gaunt—began to rub off the rust of his ancestors, by leaving the world three days after the sporting accident, before spoken of; upon which Mr. Tadpole took possession, at the Lady Dowager's desire, for the eldest son, lawfully begotten by Lord Hazard, till he should arrive to the age of one and twenty: and, in case of his death, for the younger.
Mr. Gloss, however, who could see as well and as far as either Mr. Figgins or Mrs. Emma, took care, as we have seen, to defeat the whole end of this friendly visit. It was however repeated the day after Mrs. Marlow wrote to Charles, when Mr. Figgins explained himself as far as he thought necessary, and, among the rest, told the good old lady that he had three hundred and fifty pounds belonging to the young gentleman, which he wanted to remit him: which money, to show to what a degree Figgins was become honest, was the very identical annuity, as far as he had received it, which Charles had settled on him, and which he vowed to the Almighty, in the presence of Emma, he would not touch a shilling of till he had, like a man of

honour, confessed his former conduct to Charles himself, implored his pardon, and, by some worthy atonement, merited his friendship.
Upon this subject he incessantly besieged Mrs. Marlow, and indeed so did Emma, till, finding they were real friends—for, as Emma told her,
'he who gives money seldom feigns'
—the old gentlewoman became as anxious to bring about this reconciliation, as Figgins to desire it. But how was this to be done? Our hero's proceedings had been so sudden and extraordinary, that he had no opportunity of writing till he was ready to come to England, and then he thought it unnecessary; for, lest his wife should become weaker, they packed up their alls, and began their journey in a day or two after their marriage: so that not one syllable came from Charles to Mrs. Marlow, till she received the following letter from Rochester.
TO Mrs. MARLOW, AT —

I intended to have surprised you with my presence; but it cannot be. I am not however sick, except at heart; nor is my person in

danger: on the contrary, the wished-for competency is already obtained. As however it is impossible to come on to you, you must come, and that immediately, to me, for I want you in a case where all your attentive tenderness and sympathy will be necessary. I am sure I need not urge you further.
I have volumes to tell you, therefore you can know nothing till we meet; only this, that I am married: so Mrs. Gloss has not so completely triumphed as perhaps she imagines; for you see I can even write her damned name with all the composure in the world.
Yours, most faithfully, C. HAZARD.
Call at the Bell.

Mrs. Marlow, who had, though innocently, been herself the cause of what our hero had done, was in a sit of distraction at the receipt of this letter.—She thought every door was now barred between Charles and that which could alone procure his happiness.
In this situation she was found by Figgins, who, in vain, administered every possible consolation to

her. She said she was an ungrateful woman; a wrong-headed, impatient wretch; who, in return for saving her and hers from wretchedness and misery, had wantonly, though heaven knew not wickedly, heaped destruction on the head of her benefactor.
At length, however, they both considered that to lose a moment's time would be committing a real crime, while she was only accusing herself of an imaginary one. It was therefore determined that they should both set out in the same post chaise, and that Figgins should begin his attack on our hero's sensibility in the presence of Mrs. Marlow, who had so much to say in his desence. Indeed they most seriously promised to be each other's advocate, though both knew there was not a tenderer nor more merciful heart upon earth; and this was a greater consolation to Figgins than to Mrs. Marlow, for he well knew how sublimely our hero excelled in all noble and generous exertions, while she was convinced that this very sweetness in him would be her bitterest sorrow, for the readier he might be to forgive her, the more unwilling should she be to forgive herself; and indeed both of these reflections were perfect in their kind, for one had been guilty of crimes which, to procure peace of

mind, must be pardoned and forgotten, whereas the other was only an error, which ought to be remembered, that it might not be repeated.
I shall now leave our hero's friend and housekeeper on the road to Rochester, and see how he himself came there, as well as explain why he could not reach London. The matter will be understood when I say that, having determined to visit England, immediately after the wedding, he and his lady set out, by short stages, to Ostend; for it was yet possible that it might be dangerous for her to set her foot in France, and it was his business not to do any thing that could give her the smallest apprehension. This journey was also taken as soon as possible, for marriage had not, by any means, abated the good lady's disorder: on the contrary, she visibly became worse every day, which was not perhaps a little facilitated by a discovery of our hero's trick, as to the fortune.
In short, the attorney, looking upon the transaction as a kind of miracle, proclaimed it from one to another, till at length it came to the lady's ears, who finding that very generosity performed by another of which she hoped to reap all the glory herself, grew—so perverse is human nature—very unhappy at it. Not that she repined at being dependant

on such a husband, for she spoke of his greatness of soul with a kind of adoration; but her tender heart melted to think that she could give nothing in return for such goodness, but trouble, uneasiness, and sorrow. That a perfect youth, rich in all the gifts of nature, and blessed with heaven's best endowments, should be fated to drag on a life of sadness, and receive only the feeble endearments of unavailing gratitude, when the willing and inspiring love of the handsomest and best woman upon earth would be infinitely beneath his merits.
Some other female considerations perhaps lent these a little strength. Mrs. Hazard was many years older than her husband: her illness had not altered her person to her advantage—for she certainly had been a very beautiful woman—and the consciousness that she could not render him that attention her wishes prompted her to, finished her wretchedness; a settled gloom pervaded her mind, and she pined at heart that she could only give thanks where it would have delighted her soul to have bestowed worlds.
There was however a stronger reason than any of these. Her disorder had taken deep hold on her before she saw Charles, and when she set out for England it had become a serious business. Our

hero therefore, before he took this step, had a consultation of physicians, who privately assured him that whatever was done could be considered only as an experiment, for that her end, though it seemed at some small distance, evidently appeared but too certain. A voyage to England therefore was by no means unadvisable, for certainly they had known change of air and a passage by sea bring about extraordinary cures, and that, if it should have the contrary effect, he would have the consciousness of recollecting the integrity of his own intentions in a business where fate at last was to decide.
Mrs. Hazard arrived at Ostend tolerably well, considering her situation, and Charles, after resting two or three days, to find a convenient vessel, and choose calm weather, handed her on board a sloop bound for Dover. Their passage however was rendered both tedious and troublesome, by an alteration of the wind, which suddenly chopt about, and blew almost a gale. Charles was himself very sick, but his wife's situation was dreadful; on which he was congratulated by several passengers, who said they were sure it would restore the lady's health. Those however who entertain this opinion are egregiously mistaken, for how can straining and lacerating the stomach be of service to it. I shall not, at any rate, pretend to say farther on this subject

here, than that it had on this good lady an effect very different from that prognosticated; for she had scarcely landed at Dover, after a passage of seventeen hours, when she was seized with fainting fits, which followed one another, at different intervals, for three days; after which, she grew more equal in her symptoms, being neither so high nor so low in spirits.
In this equanimity of mind, she thought she could very well proceed on her journey, and both she and our hero flattered themselves that, after this crisis of her disorder, it would take a favourable turn. They therefore set out, making short stages; or, as the postillion from the ship, who had been a sailor, called it, trips.
At length the whole hopes of both Charles and his lady were frustrated; for she had scarcely got into the inn at Rochester, when she was again seized with her fainting fits, which continued in so long and so alarming a succession, that the worst consequences were greatly feared. Charles therefore wrote, as we have seen, immediately to Mrs. Marlow, till whose arrival he became—as indeed he had been all along—a tender and affectionate husband, a consoling and instructive companion, and, what was perhaps as much to his honour as either, a

watchful and attentive nurse:—and in this sentiment I will insist; for upon the same principle, in a state, that the bustle of war is only necessary in proportion as it promotes the blessings of peace, so he is the greatest man who can relish, after the exertions of his public duty, in a still more exalted degree, the felicity arising from domestic tranquillity.


WHEN Mrs. Marlow arrived at Rochester, Mrs. Hazard was at the last extremity, so that the good old lady had little more to do than to close her eyes.
Mrs. Hazard's whole conduct, throughout her illness, had been touching and exemplary. Charles, though he did not love her with ardour, yet loved her with a better affection than do nine husbands out of ten love their wives. He found himself possessed of a woman capable of making any man happy, and with whom he had flattered himself he should pass a life of sober, rational delight. Again, she was a kind of outcast, like himself, and their fortunes, by a similar chain of circumstances, pointed them out as fit partners for each other. It is not justice then to say he barely regretted her loss. He mourned it; honestly, sincerely mourned it. Indeed so much, that had he been given his choice

to have had her restored to life, or Annette unmarried, he would not have hesitated a moment: so much was generosity in him above self-interest.
All that he could now do was to pay what respect was in his power to her memory. He procured her to be buried in the cathedral; had a small, but elegantly designed, monument erected over her grave; drew the design and wrote the epitaph himself; in which was prettily introduced her maiden name, her name by her first marriage, and that which she owned when she died; concluding that he, disconsolate as he was, evidently deserved her less than either her father or her first husband: for she had fled from him, to join them.
This image, poetically put, had, as the reader sees, capabilities, and Charles so improved upon them, that his pen did not shame his conception.
These preparations took up nearly seven weeks; for Charles would not stir from the spot till he had seen them finished. The exemplary conduct of so respectable a young man, drew a crowd of friends about him, and his lodgings were thronged with a number of the first people in the neighbourhood, who called on him with compliments of condolence, all which he received with an unaffected dignity,

peculiar to himself; till at length, having settled every thing to his satisfaction, he left Rochester with the title of The pattern for husbands.'
All this train of circumstances I thought it better to dispatch at once, than to introduce Figgins before I could give him a clear course.
When Figgins and Mrs. Marlow came within a mile of Rochester, it was agreed that he should get out, and saunter slowly on, in order that she might break the ice for him. When she came to the Bell, however, a waiter was sent with her to Charles's apartments, where being immediately conducted to the lady's chamber, and finding her in the condition I have described, all ideas of any other circumstance or person upon earth utterly fled from her. She thought no more of Mr. Figgins than of the man in the moon. On his part, when he came to the inn, and, upon enquiry, found how matters were, he felt that he could not have chosen a more improper moment than the present, and therefore determined to wait a day or two, or till he should hear from Mrs. Marlow.
The next morning, however, Mrs. Hazard's death happened, and when Mrs. Marlow had refreshed

herself, after her fatigues, with a little sleep, it came into her mind that Figgins must be at the inn.
It will readily be seen that this event, sad as it was, had abated Mrs. Marlow's anger against herself; for, both our hero and Annette being at that moment single, the mischief she had done was, as she thought, not now irretrievable.
It was a sad moment to be sure, but still her tongue itched to inform Charles that Sir Sidney was his friend, and that there was no further obstacle, except poor Annette's unhappy indisposition, to the completion of his wishes. She could not however help throwing out a few hints. This she took an opportunity of doing that very evening, while Charles was contemplating with sober awful attention the features of the poor lady, who was then lying in her shroud. After a long and silent examination of that dreary state of sad mortality; that state so much courted, yet so little desired; an involuntary sigh escaped him, and he uttered,
'There certainly is a resemblance.'
'A resemblance of what?' said Mrs. Marlow, near whom he did not seem conscious he was then standing.

'Oh!' said Charles, starting, 'I had forgot you

were here. What did you say?'
'Nay,' said she, 'I asked you what you said.'
'Upon my word I have forgot,' answered Charles, 'but I know I was thinking that poor Annette here—'
'Annette!' said Mrs. Marlow, 'no, thank God, she is not here, nor in this shocking state. Annette! Lord sir, what made you think of Miss Annette?'

'Miss Annette!' said Charles. 'Is she not—'
'No that she is not,' cried the good old lady, 'she is not married, nor has she been. It was a report, and a lie, circulated by that devil Gloss; and three days after I had written you word of it, I could almost have cut off the very fingers that held the pen which wrote such false news. No sir, thank God, that villain's reign is over; Sir Sidney will beg your pardon, and you will be restored to his friendship.'

Charles stood in such astonishment while he heard these words, that he could not prevent her uttering them. The moment she had done so, however, he replied
'I hope all this may be found true, but it would be indecent indeed, at present, to enter into it further. The most desirable expectation upon earth should not prevent me from doing my duty here.'


'Ay, ay, you again,' said Mrs. Marlow. 'God bless you for it. Will any body make me believe you won't at last be perfectly happy? But I beg your pardon; I won't say another word; only this, that poor Mr. Figgins has repented of all his villainy, and you have not a better friend in the world.'

'Figgins?' said Charles. 'Impossible!'
'Indeed sir it is not,' said Mrs. Marlow, 'for he is now at the inn, and dares not come into your presence, for fear you should not pardon him, although he would lay down his life to receive forgiveness at your hands.'

She then produced the three hundred and fifty pounds, and began to enumerate so many proofs of his conversion, that Charles, in spite of himself, heard her to an end, and, when he had done so, was upon the point of dispatching a messenger to Figgins, to see him immediately; but Mrs. Marlow said it would be better to send to him that night, but not to appoint him till the morning, for he would be greatly affected at a proposal of being kindly received, and it would give a little time to prepare him for such a meeting.
This was well put in by Mrs. Marlow, for it ensured

Figgins a kind message, which must inevitably be the harbinger of a reconciliation.
The next morning, the breakfast things upon the table, and our hero sitting thoughtfully, while he looked at a book which he could pay no attention to, Figgins was ushered in by Mrs. Marlow. He was beginning, with a low inclination of the body, to make a speech, when our hero, taking him by the hand, interrupted him with
'Mr. Figgins, I beg I may not hear a single retrospective word. If it can be possible that you ever did me any ill office, it must have been through the blind influence of false gratitude. Sense of obligation to a rascal made you, perhaps, a little unjust yourself. It is not till lately I have seen this, nor did you, very likely, at the time. At any rate, my mind is now in no state for investigations; therefore, I beg our conversation may be on no topic that may divert it from that object on which it is fixed.—For the rest, I freely give you my hand; and as I am sure we ever had a regard for each other, let it in future continue without interruption.'

'My incomparable friend exactly,' said Figgins. Oh God, sir, I wish you would permit me to give way to what I feel. But I suppress it. Yet I shall never be happy till, by showing you what I

have been, you shall see what I truly am. How could I?—but I have done. Only let me say that this is the happiest moment of my life, because it is the most honourable.'

After some hours, Charles began to be greatly pleased at having Figgins with him in this extremity. He had suffered much poignant uneasiness from reflecting that he was again without a single friend. Figgins had been the only man he had ever considered in that light. To him he had given his unreserved confidence. The lighter and more youthful of his pleasures had been pursued in his company, which, though perhaps not the most worthy, yet are unceasingly the most endearing. In short, Charles was melancholy, he was fatigued at heart by looking at nothing but unpleasant prospects, real pain, and certain disappointment. Not that his grief was of that very apparent kind which pained every body who witnessed it. He had no opinion of that sorrow which vents itself in cries and lamentations. His was ardent and honest, but it was decent and manly. Thus, no friend ever came more opportunely. With Figgins he could divide it: from him he could receive as much consolation as such grief was capable of admitting. There were collateral considerations also that weighed in this business. Figgins had known poor Combrie; had

assisted in obtaining that very fortune, part of which Charles had now in his possession; and it gave him a melancholy pleasure to reflect that their returning friendship would be cemented by so awful a circumstance as Figgins's performing the last mournful rites to the poor deceased lady.
Thus consoled, Charles consulted his friend in every step he took, and they both became so fond of their solemn office, that no other subject intruded itself till after the day that hid the lady's cares within the silent tomb.
Into that tomb however I shall not descend, nor shall I say any thing more about it than that, from the moment it was completed to Charles's satisfaction, no stranger ever visited Rochester cathedral but was particularly shown it, and told its history.
From the interment to the time of their quitting Rochester, Figgins took every opportunity of opening his grand battery, which he begged he might preface with a history of himself, that his friend might see what sort of men there were in the world, and how easy it was to pass art and wickedness for wisdom and goodness. He assured Charles it would take a burden off his mind that never could be lightened but by a free confession; that it was the

only lurking uneasiness that remained; and, that once dissipated, he should never again suffer a single moment's care; but, on the contrary, if he were prohibited from the only means that could relieve his mind, his whole life would be imbittered with the recollection that his happiness was incomplete.
At length, Charles growing more and more composed in his mind, Figgins was permitted to say what he pleased, which favour obtained, he began as follows.

'My dear sir, let me premise to you, never take into your favour a man whose origin or education has placed him in the way of imbibing low or vulgar prejudices. In proportion as he has ability enough to think for himself, he will, from a captious consciousness of inferiority, fancy himself in as natural a state of warfare with his superiors, as the crow does with the eagle, and will supply in cunning what he wants in strength.

'These being his affections, should an opportunity serve of mending his fortune, what are then his reflections? Why, truly, that superior talents have done that for him which ungrateful fortune neglected to do. He therefore transfers the obligation from himself to his patron, and, with all

the low cunning of a tricking servant, he will do his utmost to undermine that interest it is his duty to promote. At the same time there are some few examples to the contrary. Very few, however; for he the world calls an upstart is very feldom indeed known to be grateful.

'How must it be then when one lowly born, bred in a school situate in the midst of every species of wickedness, stimulated to all the licentious practices of broils and riots, and practised only in art and craftiness, meets, at his setting out in the world, with a man who makes a point of choosing him out for this very unluckiness, and who means to use no part of his qualities but those which are to disgrace him in the eye of every honest man.

'These are the portraits of Mr. Standfast and myself! I think not my birth a disgrace, for my parents were honest. I think not my education an unavailing one, because I imbibed the same principles of learning as I should have done at the best school; but as, till I was almost a man, I mixed with none but the most filthy vulgar, what wonder if low cunning and subtle artifice made up my mind: for how, but by the use of such talents, could I ever hope to rise in the world? And

then, as if a single spark of virtue—which God knows I honestly believed had no existence but in idea—was likely to check this worthy belief, in stepped Mr. Standfast, who assured me that no man, not born to a fortune, ever rose to one without certain talents, which he called superior genius, but which I now denominate rascality.

'In short, I was to be placed about you as a sort of evil genius, and to give me as much power as possible over you, that is to say, as much hold as possible on your generosity, you were to seduce my sister, and I was to overlook it; whereas I never had a sister, nor was that woman any more than a common creature of the town. In short, all you saw at my house was a delusion, calculated for the purpose of introducing you to me, and giving you fresh apparent proofs of Mr. Standfast's attachment, probably lest you should discover the villainy he happened then to be practising against your father.'

Here Mr. Figgins gave a copious detail of all the reader knows already, relative to the measures carried into effect by him and Standfast, both against Charles and his father; honestly stating how far he took shame to himself in this business,

and showing when he first began to feel repugnance.
In short, he did not omit a circumstance which I have already related; and having fairly opened our hero's eyes as to Gloss, Sir Sidney, and every one else, concluded with assuring him that the baronet was ready to take him heartily by the hand, make him a concession for his unkind and unmerited coolness, and beg to be admitted into his friendship with more warmth than ever.
Figgins wound up this period pretty warmly, and then added,
'to which happy reconciliation it is needless to say will succeed your marriage with Annette, from which pleasure—due alone to two such hearts—may I ever be excluded, if I cease to be worthy its contemplation.'

To this succeeded a conversation consisting entirely of remarks. The whole of Standfast's conduct was taken piece meal, and commented on, as far as it was consistent with Figgins's compact with Emma, and Charles plainly saw that, but for that viper, both his father and mother might have been alive, in all probability, at that moment.
As to Figgins himself, Charles did not choose to

let his opinion of him take date earlier than his reformation, since which he was charmed with every action.


Sir Sidney and his family were by this time in Warwickshire. Nothing however, hard as his inclination spurred him, could induce Charles to pay his respects to the baronet before he discharged his debts in London. He panted to find himself once more a free man in his own country. Sending Mrs. Marlow therefore before him, whose presence was particularly wished—for more than one reason—by Emma, our hero and Figgins visited all the quondam proprietors of the impartial newspaper, and paid off their demands; nor did they beget a little consternation among them by saying that the cause was now taken up in so spirited a manner, that a public print would shortly come out, which must be the inevitable destruction of all the rest; for it would expose their partiality, their bribes, their connections, together with all the names of those who were their supporters and abettors, and, in short, their whole arcana, from such

authority as the whole world would know in a moment to be authentic.
So far did they carry this, that hand bills were immediately dispersed, holding out, in such feasible terms, a plan for the destruction of these diurnal locusts, that private terms of conciliation came to them from two or three of the most vulnerable, which they, to foment the matter still more, published in a second hand bill.
At length, having enjoyed a complete laugh at them, and been joined by the town, they went into the country, and left them sweating with suspense.
The meeting between Charles and Sir Sidney was truly affecting. The noble candour of the baronet, the manly honesty of his self-accusation, had in it a dignity of soul highly admirable. He thought nothing a condescension which could serve to assure his young friend how deeply he felt the recollection of his former slights and suspicions; nor did he spare either his penetration or his justice, for having admitted them, for a single moment, to take place in his mind.
He declared he had ever held it as a maxim that

the most glorious moment of a man's life was that in which he acknowledged and repented of an error; and so heartily was he, at that instant, ashamed of his conduct in relation to Charles, that he should never have forgiven himself if it had not convinced him, at the same time, of his valuable friend's unparalleled virtue: that it was the very fire out of which that virtue came pure from the trial.
Charles, who endeavoured in vain to prevent this declaration, had nothing for it but to palliate the blame Sir Sidney had so handsomely thrown on himself. He said, under such delusive influence, it was impossible but he must have fallen in with the opinion of others; for that the very goodness of his heart would naturally incline him to credit so many well confirmed circumstances. It was the business of those who had attempted his downfal to stick at nothing. They had their private motives, of which it was impossible he should see the extent; nay, as their villanies involved so many important circumstances, a nice investigation of which was necessary to effect their detection, it was extremely difficult, as well as dangerous, for a friend, though ever so zealous, to offer any thing in his defence; while, on his side, conscious of the integrity of his

own motives, Sir Sidney must ultimately have condemned him as deficient in every delicate feeling if he appeared forward to deprecate anger which he had neither provoked nor merited.
He said much more to this purpose, and concluded with entreating Sir Sidney to believe that could he have satisfied his own susceptibility, there was no moment during the whole time he had the misfortune to labour under his ill opinion, that he would not have gone any length to have effected a reconciliation. That reconciliation was now, he thanked God, complete, without any conduct derogatory to the honour of either, and it should be the business of his life to preserve so valuable a friendship uninterrupted.
Lady Roebuck received Charles as the son of her deceased friend. She found him just what she wished, but not more than she expected. She thanked heaven that so perfect a good understanding had happily taken place, and declared, except a tinge of unhappiness at the situation of Annette, she had not now another wish to gratify.
Emma did no more than receive her king, and render him her allegiance. She told him he was

welcome; welcome as the rain to MARCUS AURELIUS; though, like that, he came a little of the latest: but that it was not a time to talk, for, like that general she had mentioned,
"now they were refreshed, they had yet a battle to gain."

A consultation on the measures necessary to be taken was now proposed; previous to which however Charles warmly entreated to see Annette, with whose melancholy situation Figgins and Mrs. Marlow had gradually acquainted him. He was told the sight of her would greatly shock him; that she knew nobody; that she was continually buried in profound meditation; and yet there was a distinction in her manner of noticing those who were near her: if it could be called noticing them; for she testified less melancholy when Emma was present than any other person, except Mrs. Marlow, upon whom she would sometimes look and sigh.

'Oh God,' said Charles, and shall such angelic sweetness be lost to the world! Does she never speak?'

'Never,' said Lady Roebuck, 'any thing but one remarkable sentence, which we will not anticipate: you shall hear it from herself.'


Charles's curiosity was now whetted to its keenest edge, and he most servently entreated he might immediately see her.
Emma undertook to enquire if it was a proper time, and returned with information that she was then lying asleep, with her head on Mrs. Marlow's lap. Charles begged he might see her in that situation, which would take off, in some degree, the shock of his first interview, and afterwards, leaving her undisturbed, he should be more calm, and better prepared to bear a second.
This being agreed to, they all repaired to a drawing room, where the beautiful insensible lay on a sofa, reclined in sleep, in the exact situation that Emma had described.
Charles devoured her lovely form with his eyes. It was the Annette he had seen covered with innocent confusion at Aix la Chapelle; it was she who tore his heart with apparently unjust anger the night before he left England; it was she he had seen in so many delusive dreams; she for whom he had vented so many unavailing sighs; she his soul adored; she for whom alone he wished to live; she whom he was doomed—though now found—to lose for ever.

These were the glowing ideas which our hero felt, but dared not utter. It was Annette he beheld; and yet her pallid cheek—which spoke at once her distress and resignation—forced from him first a starting tear, then a profound sigh, and afterwards, in spite of all his efforts, an exclamation of
'Oh heavenly God, do I live to see this!'

At these words Annette started from her sleep, looked wildly round her, then upon the ground. then sighed, then played with her hair, then starting from the sofa, walked towards the window, replaced herself on the sofa, sighed again, and then significantly moving her head, she exclaimed,
'Oh no—I am sure my poor Charles is not a villain.'

'And is this the sentence I was to hear?' cried Charles. 'And can my Annette think of me! In madness think of me! Kindly think of me! I cannot bear it. No my life,' cried he, throwing himself at her feet, 'your Charles is not a villain: he loves you tenderly; dearly loves you; and would give his life to purchase for you a single glimpse of returning reason. Look on me my Annette! Speak to me! She will not!'

'My dear Mr. Hazard, you have greatly agitated her,' said Lady Roebuck. 'Heaven send

it may be a fortunate symptom. At present I think we had better leave her. Mrs. Marlow will give us an account of the effect this interview has on her spirits.'



WHILE these matters were carrying on at Sir Sidney's, Gloss was occupied, or at least appeared to be so, in discharging his public duty, and giving ministerial dinners. Nor did this great man dream, while he feasted upon muffins and paragraphs for breakfast, in London, that a stroke was meditating in Warwickshire which all his influence, backed with all his cunning, would be found ultimately insufficient to parry.
He knew of Charles's marriage, and therefore was not at all surprised either that he should return and discharge his debts—for no man had it more clearly in his power than Mr. Gloss to ascertain that Charles was a man of strict honour—or that he should threaten to take vengeance on the venal herd of diurnal scribblers; for he also well knew that our hero was both capable of planning such a castigation, and resolute enough to inflict it.

To say the truth, the necessity he should lie under, as he conceived, of learning our hero's measures, and being active in circumventing them, together with the pains he took to quiet those who feared they should smart under the lash that seemed to be preparing for them, and which their own fears magnified into something worse than that they richly merited at the cart's tail, induced Mr. Gloss to overstay his appointment with Sir Sidney, who, by the advice of Emma—without whose concurrence nothing of moment was now undertaken—wrote him a letter, and gently upbraided him for neglecting his private concerns, though, at the same time, it was impossible, the letter said, too much to admire that public virtue which was the cause of it.

'Stupid dotard,' said Gloss to himself, as he read the letter, 'I have infatuated the old blockhead.'
What however would he have said had he known that in return for the treachery by which he had influenced Sir Sidney to write that unjust letter to Charles, when in France, Charles himself stood at the elbow of Sir Sidney, and approved of the honest duplicity contained in the letter now written, as a snare to detect his villainy.

In order to this detection, and indeed to the detection of a great deal more, as it was necessary to

tread on very tender ground, the confederacy agreed that Charles and Figgins should take up their residence at a distance from Sir Sidney's, that Emma should appear gradually to waver in her sentiments, on the representation of Mrs. Marlow, who was to tell a long story of having left him, in consequence of improper conduct to her daughter. This, in particular, was hit upon, as it would be taking the very tone Gloss had himself often sounded.
These resolutions, and a letter received from Mr. Gloss, informing Sir Sidney that he would wave all considerations of engagements with ministers, offices, councils, and levees, to attend the more welcome duties of love and friendship, induced the two friends to be expeditious in taking their departure; previous to which, however, Charles earnestly solicited one more interview with Annette.
She had manifested uncommon inquietude ever since she had been so agitated at the sight of Charles, nor could all their endeavours, though she continued perturbed and restless, induce her to utter a syllable, unless he was shown to her at a distance, which he had been three or four times, by the advice of the physicians. Upon one of these occasions she cried,
'It is false, that's not Gloss:'
and

upon another, she uttered in a scream,
'Hide yourself, hide yourself in France: they'll put you in prison.'

At length they kept him from her, and then she began to be inquisitive concerning him. In one of these moods he appeared before her, and, for a short interval, while she ceased her loquacity, and was lost in profound meditation, he looked on her with inexpressible tenderness, heaving an agonizing sigh, and sheding a burning tear. The sigh attracted her attention, and, as she vacantly regarded him, she cried,
'Who are you? If you were not lovely, like my Charles, I should call you Gloss. He sighs, he sheds tears; but his sighs carry the contagion of a pest, and his tears are the tears of a crocodile. Sir I have the best father in the world. He married me to one villain, to protect me, as he said, from another. Is the vulture a kinder friend to the lamb than the eagle? But see how people may be deceived! It was only a deceitful mirror; a false medium; for, sir, calumny is not content with wounding, but poison must follow the bite. But why wound me?—Pity that excessive tenderness should inflict misery. I must never smile again, else I could laugh out to think that the best wisdom will sometimes sink

to the worst folly, for Sir Sidney Roebuck is my father. I have two mothers, yet no mother at all. They are both angels: one of them in heaven, as some think, and the other—Oh! No man but my father could deserve two angels. He is an angel himself. I was right then to marry Gloss. I was right to obey my father. I will sacrifice my life for him, but I won't sacrifice my understanding for any body. Sir unhand me; there is not a word of truth in all you say. You soar above him! Grovel, lay prostrate, like your soul, in villainous filth. You traduce him! Did all the fiends, your fellows, surround me, did a thousand deaths await me, were I obliged to give you my hand in marriage, I would abash you, I would strike you to the soul, I would chill you with horror, and say—that my poor Charles is not a villain.'

Here she was seized with strong convulsions, and then put to bed; after which recourse was immediately had to medical assistance.
The next day she became more composed, and, at intervals, had some dawn of reason.—Charles however was carefully kept from her, especially

as she appeared in imminent danger, which circumstance also, out of tenderness, was carefully kept from him.


As there are a prodigious number of circumstances which I must now clearly, and therefore gradually, develop, I shall regularly bring forward such characters as may be useful to me in the prosecution of this task: and first, Mr. Balance, whom I certainly did not intend to celebrate as an honest lawyer upon the credit of one or two upright actions; for I must have been a novice indeed had I not known that the evidence ought to be very strong and convincing that could substantiate so uncommon a fact.
Let it be known that Mr. Balance began to entertain a tolerable good opinion of Charles earlier than many others of his friends; and it arose from this circumstance. When he received an order to grant Figgins that annuity of a hundred pounds,

formerly spoken of, our hero was certainly in the worst disgrace with him, and this matter remaining unexplained for a considerable time, nobody was forwarder than Mr. Balance to blame his conduct in the presence of Sir Sidney; nay I question whether Mr. Gloss himself did him, as far as it went, more injury in the opinion of the baronet; for even Emma could not consider him as interested in his affairs: but as it is the nature of goodness to enumerate the errors of others with reluctance, so it is to feel the warmest anxiety to atone for its own.
So it happened with Mr. Balance. When Figgins called upon him, not more to receive his three hundred and fifty pounds, which were due to him, and which we have seen him so handsomely refuse to appropriate to his own use, than to solicit his hearty concurrence in Emma's measures, he was so charmed with Figgins's self-condemnation, and the brilliant character he gave of his friend, that he very naturally asked—and indeed the reader will ask too—why he had not come to him sooner.
It has been seen, however, that what Figgins and Emma were agitating was of two great a magnitude to be slightly touched on; but a circumstance happening, just at that time, which gave them

reason to believe that Mr. Balance would not only be a very useful, but a very willing assistant—for I have said that his foible, though an attorney, was to detect rascality—Figgins paid him a visit, and, after an hour's conversation, that gentleman inlisted under Emma's banners.
Had not our hero decamped to France in that precipitate manner, a few days from that period might have made him happy in the possession of Annette; to achieve which enterprise, Figgins, as we have seen, called at his house. The necessary steps however to bring about that desirable event, if it should ever take place, requiring his presence, they were obliged to be deferred. He is now upon the spot, and I beg the reader's attention while I trace out those steps one by one.
Scarcely had Charles and Figgins situated themselves in their new residence, when Mr. Balance called on them, with whom—in company with some necessary persons employed on the occasion—they proceeded to Hazard house, and knocked very peremptorily at the door.
Finding the Lady Dowager alone, Mr. Balance told her that he came vested with authority to restore the rightful Lord Hazard to his title and estate,

which information the lady affected at first not to understand, and afterwards to treat with great contempt; but being told that Mr. Tadpole was in custody, and had made an ample confession, she seemed greatly shocked. Catching however at every straw, she endeavoured still to stem that torrent which seemed ready to engulph her, nor would acknowledge any thing; till at length, being told that the sum of Mr. Tadpole's confession was that he had been legally married to her ten years, that consequently her subsequent marriage with Lord Hazard was illegal, her children illegitimate, and, of course, that no bar stood between Charles and the possession of his title and fortune, she acted a part something in the same style in which we were sometime ago so amused with the vagaries of Mrs. O'Shocknesy.
Now the fact was that Mr. Tadpole was not in custody, nor had he made any confession. He was only kept out of the way by one of Kiddy's cute manoovres, as he called it, who, to be plain, having been sometime an accessory, and at length a principal, in Emma's plots, suggested the properest mode of carrying this one into effect; for, said Kiddy,
'if we attack the rum squire, he will be peery and prevaricative, but if we whiddle a little to ma'am, though she is as fly as Satan,

guilt will fly in her face, the pearls will trickle, and we shall have her as snug as be damned.—Lord forgive me for uttering such a word.'

Mr. Tadpole, as had been concerted, in due time made his appearance. He bounced and flew about, but being convinced, by incontrovertible documents, that he was completely discovered, became at length tame, and threw himself on our hero's mercy, who put a finish to the business, by assigning Mr. Tadpole and his lady, for the present, that residence he had taken for Figgins and himself, and assuring them that though he should enter into a severe scrutiny of all their conduct relative to the management of the estate, since it had been in their hands, yet, on account of his brother's children, the justice he should be obliged to use, should be tempered with as much mercy as the nature of such a case would admit.
Here let me, for the sake of truth, relate a most extraordinary trait of superior female cunning. I have said that Mrs. Tadpole—for we shall call her so in future—had her doubts as to who slept with her at Lisle, but that those doubts had subsided, and that at length she had fully believed it could be no other than Charles. Can it be credited that she was inspired with hope, from the recollection of

this circumstance, and that she flattered herself, should she take a favourable opportunity of representing it privately, a repetition of the crime might give her a power over him! What a pity that Figgins, who thought, as Kiddy has it, ploughing with the heifer might work out something for the general good, should undeceive her, which he did, and so render all her schemes abortive.
The documents which were explained to Mr. Tadpole, I shall now explain to the reader. It will be remembered that Kiddy, on his return to England, called on Mr. Standfast, with an intention of giving up Mr. Tadpole, but that he suddenly altered his resolution, attached himself to that gentleman, and gave up his benefactor. Kiddy knew of the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Tadpole, and it must have been something of a very particular nature indeed, predetermined as he was to disclose it, that could prevent him from doing so.—The fact however is as I have related it, and it was not till the nice train of circumstances, conducted by Emma, carried into effect by Swash and his daughter, and at length supported by Figgins, had properly worked upon him, that he wavered in his attachment; but, even when he had done so, nothing could be adduced against Tadpole but Kiddy's ipse dixit, which was grounded upon a

confession of the gentleman and lady, during a squabble, when they were in France, and when they thought Kiddy out of ear-shot.
Without collateral evidence therefore nothing could be done. This Kiddy contrived to procure, and it was not long before he suspected that he should get at it through a gentleman who, in a very importunate way, would sometimes call on Mr. Tadpole; for some hints that constantly passed between that worthy wight and his lady, after he was gone, convinced Flush that he knew something of their private affairs.
One day, as this gentleman was descending the staircase, after a long and pretty loud conversation with Tadpole, the latter followed him, saying,
'You may make yourself very easy, for I will send to you on Wednesday by the post.'

This was heard by Kiddy from the butler's pantry, into which pantry, on the following Wednesday, he coaxed the footman, who was entrusted with the letter, and, after giving him, as he called it, his dose, he contrived to get the letter from him, under a pretext of looking at the direction, and then exchanged it for another, which he had

previously written, and which the poor footman, who, as Kiddy knew, could not read, carried to the post-office.
Kiddy's letter was as follows:
TO THE REVEREND Mr. FIGGINS.
WE begin to be down upon them, the Lord be praised. I shall tell you all how and about it to-morrow. Blow me, Mr. Figgins, if I don't think this repentance will be the saving of my precious soul.
Thy brother sinner, K. FLUSH.

As soon as Flush was alone he broke open the other letter, the cover of which was directed "To Mr. Skinks," and described his residence in London. It contained these words.

I have considered the matter, and really think you are too peremptory. What I have promised is very handsome, and I will not consent to a tittle more. If you think it will better suit

your purpose to turn about, do so, with all my heart. If you know my secrets, recollect that yours are also known to either—at your own option—your firm friend, or determined enemy

This letter, by the advice of Emma, was immediately conveyed to Figgins, who, upon consulting with Mr. Balance, and putting different circumstances together, began to have a strong suspicion that he himself had lent a helping hand in the business of Mr. Tadpole's marriage.
Tadpole, as the reader knows, was an attorney's clerk. Be it now known that Skinks was an attorney's clerk also, but having been guilty, since the expiration of his article, of many nefareous practices, in the way of his profession, he became, among many other rogues of the same description, well known to Mr. Balance, who happening just at that time to have him under his thumb, told Figgins that he had no doubt but he should bring him to reason.
Figgins consented to use Mr. Balance's authority as a corps de reserve, but thought it a good thing previously to worm a confession out of Shinks himself.

For this purpose he called on him, and pretended that he was commissioned by Tadpole to settle, once for all, their dispute.
As Figgins familiarly mentioned the business of the marriage, and ventured a few guesses at circumstances which might probably belong to it, the other entered into the business candidly enough, till at length Figgins's suspicions were confirmed, and he was enabled to speak to it from his own knowledge; for he found it to be this.
When he was a bridewell boy, he was applied to by a gentleman to carry him and another up the river, in one of those barges which it is well known the bridewell boys are very expert at rowing.
This expedition was to Wandsworth. It was conducted in the night, and Figgins and another, who were let into the secret, understood that it was set on foot for the purpose of stealing a young lady from a boarding school, and that the friend of the gentleman who hired the barge was to be married to her.
Being at that time anxious to get at as much of this secret as possible—probably from as honest a reason as that which now impelled the conduct of

Mr. Skinks, he took the proper methods, which he could do as cunningly as any body, to trace the conduct of the parties, and soon found where the marriage rites were performed.
This however accomplished, and concealment being no longer necessary, Figgins profited in no way, at that time, by the intelligence he had been so solicitous to procure. It being now however singularly serviceable to his friend, he rejoiced that it had struck him to use it.
The reader is now ready to ask why Mr. Figgins did not recollect all these circumstances at Lisle? To which I answer that Tadpole's real name was Poach, which, when he first conceived that very honest intention of marrying his wife to Zekiel, he warily changed, that he might be the less liable to a detection; and, as to their persons, he did not see either of them at the time of the elopement but very imperfectly, having never been in their company but between the hours of eleven o'clock at night and five in the morning.
Skinks however, who managed every thing, he recollected perfectly well, both as to his name and his person, and the whole business would long before

have occured to him but for the change of Poach into Tadpole.
Pretending to leave the negotiation open between Skinks and Tadpole, he hastened to Mr. Balance, who, first imposing the most profound silence upon Skinks, under pain of inflicting that punishment he knew he had incurred, procured all those documents, the sight of which, as I have said, so completely silenced Tadpole, consisting of a certificate of the marriage, an avowal of every thing under Skinks's hand—which he readily gave upon reading Tadpole's letter—and a few other necessary matters.
Thus, having made my hero a lord, and given him a noble estate, I shall proceed to see whether he stands a chance of ever possessing that content without which, in the opinion of many, grandeur and riches are only a substitute for happiness.


As I flatter myself the reader will give me credit for a complete knowledge of the power and effect of contrast, it will not be thought impolitic in me to bring forward our old friend Standfast, in opposition to Mr. Balance. But, exclusive of this artificial way of introducing him, I have now a very natural one; for, as this history is drawing apace towards its conclusion, it certainly could not have been complete had I neglected to record, in the fullest manner, what became of a character who had filled in it so distinguished a situation.
Mr. Standfast and his lovely partner, since their mortifying disappointment on Zekiel's accession to his fortune, had figured away with various success. At one time they were rolling in splendour, at another frightened at bailiffs, till, having been concerned

in pharaoh banks, E O tables, lottery offices, and every species of gambling, either brilliant or contemptible, according as their circumstances varied, they were at length reduced to the most mortifying poverty.
Just at that time the change of the ministry, as I have already recorded, placed Gloss—who, be it known, had never turned tall on his old friends—in a responsible situation under government. They now resolved that Mr. Standfast should become a contractor, by which means they very soon re-established themselves in tolerable opulence; and here a very striking reflection presents itself, that just as the pupil, Charles, was compelled, by the loss of his fortune, to quit the worthy employment of dispensing benefits, and relieving the necessities of the poor and oppressed, the tutor, Standfast, should make a fortune by administering to folly and wickedness, and oppressing and grinding the unfortunate and necessitous.
In this situation had they for some time continued, when Charles's sudden advancement to a coronet gave them to fear that something was
"rotten in the state of Denmark."
What however they could not devise. Sir Sidney had certainly

taken careful measures to appear perfectly indifferent as to what concerned Charles, but yet it was a moot point with Gloss whether he was a friend or an enemy; for, as Annette was carefully kept from him, and Emma, in spite of all her caution, could not help occasionally a little exultation, his arts—especially as it was necessary to lay them on thicker than ever, and as every body knew them to be so many barefaced falsitics—were so apparent that it really became an irksome task to have him about the baronet's family, although they were under the necessity of doing so till they should be able to accomplish their coup de grace.

About this time he received a letter from Standfast, which informed him that the ministry were again tottering. He therefore hastened to town, and finding that the intelligence was but too true, a scheme was concerted between these amiable friends to embezzle certain monies, which they well knew where to lay their hands on, and decamp into a foreign country.
This however could not be effected without the previous concurrence of certain men called clerks, in whose possession were books and tallies, and other documents, by means of which alone they could obtain a right to receive these said monies.

These documents they hoped to procure through the influence of our old friend Viney, who had held a lucrative situation under Gloss ever since he first came into office, but a younger clerk, who happened to be a youth of honour and spirit, and who had very nearly been put out of office because he had threatened to chastise this old sinner, for most scandalous conduct to his sister, a beautiful girl of thirteen, conjectured by circumstances what was going forward.
In short, in attempting to possess himself of the necessary papers, Viney plainly found, by the steps that had been taken to prevent his intentions, that he was discovered, and therefore, lest he should be involved in the guilt, went directly and gave information against his two friends, who, holding his conduct in equal distrust, got intelligence of his treachery in time, as they imagined, to ward off its consequences.
Neither Standfast nor Gloss had been idle, for though they could not accomplish their grand point, they nevertheless got together a pretty round sum, which was at that moment deposited in Standfast's bureau, and, as a coup de maitre, it was agreed that Gloss should force Annette from her father, with

an idea that after possession, by means of marriage, or any other means, Sir Sidney would not only be glad enough to make peace with them, but give his daughter a fortune. These were his words when he proposed the matter to Standfast.

'As to the boy Charles, he can never marry her: but this is no time for investigation. As to Sir Sidney, he will be glad enough to come to terms, when the injury is in any other way irreparable. If not, she is the only woman I ever loved, and if possession should cloy that love, she is very beautiful, and will always fetch a good price.'

I do not know that I have ever before made Mr. Gloss speak without disguise, and I almost hope, even now, that the reader will disbelieve that such a man could ever impose upon Sir Sidney. But nothing can be clearer than that such conduct is not only in nature, but that it is practised every day, and practised successfully. Goodness neither knows nor suspects the snares of villainy, which covers itself in a veil so truly the hue of virtue, and which, in this instance, wore so completely that appearance to the eyes of Sir Sidney, that, till he saw, in his last visit, the soul of Gloss in its own filthy colours, so free was he from a practical knowledge of what qualities vice was formed, he did not

believe so vile a human monster could infest the face of the earth.
The poor, fond, infatuated Standfast, on his part, was also determined not to leave his partner behind him, and therefore, having previously agreed with Gloss on a meeting place, hastened home, that, like an obedient wife, she might pack up her alls, and accompany him.
Reader, I do not think I have given thee a more sensible pleasure throughout this work than thou wilt now receive, when I inform thee that he found his house in confusion, his bureau broken open and stripped of every thing, and the dear partner of his soul decamped with his kind friend Dogbolt!
Were I perfect in the duty of a historian, I ought here to describe that hell, his mind; but as no reader will be so unreasonable as to expect a description of what no words can express, I shall content myself with saying that no reprobate ever swore more volubly, no dancing-master ever capered more curiously, no bedlamite ever raved more incoherently. In the midst of this paroxism, he felt himself suddenly held down by two men, who thinking, probably, that a strait waistcoat was not strong enough to hold so violent a maniac, put him

on a pair of hand-cuffs, and, with the assistance of several others, carried him away in a hackney coach.
Mr. Gloss, on his part, made the best of his way into Warwickshire, determined to carry off Annette, let what would be the consequence. He knew he must act very craftily, and therefore took care properly to instruct his emissaries, by one of whom—indeed the very same gentleman who accompanied Annette to town in the chaise—he received intelligence that the young lady was much better, and now rode out every morning, for an airing, either with Lady Roebuck, Emma, or Mrs. Marlow.
When last Mr. Gloss had been in Warwickshire, he had taken uncommon pains to insinuate himself into the good graces of this old lady, who also appeared to pay him extraordinary attention: to say truth, an attention that rather bordered upon inquisitiveness, and which he would have repulsed if it had not struck him that it might lead to the accomplishment of this scheme, which, as his dernier resort, he always had meditated.
He had now no doubts, could he get Annette at a distance from home, through the connivance of Mrs. Marlow, but he should complete his design.

He thought he had discovered that the old lady's passion was avarice, for he knew that the whole story of her having quitted Charles on account of her daughter was trumped up; nay he had told her so, and had got from her a reluctant confession that her inducement to take that step was a wish to shelter herself comfortably for the remainder of her life, at a distance from a turbulent young man, who, though he had good qualities, would never do any good either for himself or any one else.
Possessed, as he imagined, of so much of Mrs. Marlow's private sentiments, he thought he might, without danger, tamper with her a little further, and, for that purpose, sent a servant on horseback to say generally, at Roebuck hall, that Mr. Gloss proposed to pay that place a visit in the course of a few days, to which effect he also wrote a note to Sir Sidney, but informed Mrs. Marlow privately, by another note, that he had some most particular business with her, which he must explain that evening, and would attend her wherever she should appoint. He took care however so to qualify that note, by introducing such circumstances relative to her, that it must have told against her had she either partially or generally shown it to any one.
Mrs. Marlow made a great many difficulties, but

at length consented to meet him at the bottom of the garden, which, in fact, she did. He lamented his situation, said he plainly saw that Sir Sidney would go with the stream, that she had herself allowed, in former conversations, that he was avaricious, and therefore she must see the temptation a coronet held out would not be resisted; that if he could be favoured with an interview with Miss Roebuck, without her father's knowledge, he was sure he could lay such convincing proofs before her of the propriety of his conduct, and the impossibility, even now, that she could honourably become the wife of that young upstart, as he had no doubt would conquer all scruples.
He promised Mrs. Marlow mountains if he succeeded, and at length it was agreed that he should come upon them, as if by accident, the following Thursday, at an appointed spot, before which time, Mrs. Marlow told him, there would be no opportunity, as Lady Roebuck would, till then, accompany her daughter, and, on that morning, she would have a particular engagement at home.
Those readers who are sorry to see this apparent desertior of principles in Mrs. Marlow, will be more so when they are told that, on the following Thursday, when she was to ride out with Annette,

in order to keep the coast as clear as possible, that Mr. Gloss might put his design in execution—for, not to disguise the truth, he had, at a second interview, informed her of the whole—the moment Gloss appeared at a distance, she sent the footman, for some purpose or other, back again: so that there was no one to oppose what was agitating but an old and almost helpless coachman.
This being the signal agreed upon, Gloss sprang forward, and seeing some horsemen on a hill before him, which he took for his myrmidons, he soon came up to the side of the coach. Mrs. Marlow pretended great surprise at seeing him, and, after some general conversation, asked if he would not walk in. This he eagerly consented to, and the coachman got down apparently to open the door.
Hearing horses, and seeing men in great coats, he now expected to find the coachman seized, as had been agreed on, and the coach box mounted by different men, to whom he had given such instructions. What then must have been his astonishment when he himself was seized, and told there was a warrant against him for murder.

'Who dares accuse me?' said Gloss very peremptorily.
'I dare,' said Emma, who personated

Annette:
'And I,' said Mrs. Marlow, 'who prepared the snare that brought you into the hands of justice. You are my son, and I cut you off to cure my honour, as I would amputate an infected limb to preserve my life.'



THE reader having seen that Mrs. Marlow, instead of acting the treacherous part of a faithless servant, had assumed all the dignity of a Spartan mother, it may not be amiss for the satisfaction of my readers to see how she became that mother.
It will easily be recollected that, in the second volume of this history, I gave a hint that Emma had made a very singular discovery, on hearing the particulars of Mrs. Marlow's story. This discovery was no less than that Standfast was the very clergyman by whom that poor lady had been seduced, through the connivance of her aunt, when little more than an infant.
She recollected to have heard that there had been a similar accusation against him when first he lived chaplain to Major Malplaquet, and now, having

learnt the maiden name of Mrs. Marlow, she found that she must have been the innocent victim whom she had always understood he had treated with uncommon cruelty. For the remainder of her intelligence, she received it first from Figgins, and afterwards, through Swash, from Flush, who had lived with him at the time, and was in the plot; but, as her communication with Kiddy had been ambiguous and guarded, till some little time before the grand eclaircissement, she had only learnt that Gloss was the precious fruit of that illicit amour in time to make it the climax of her discovery to Sir Sidney.
The reader recollects—which will illustrate this matter better—that while that close intimacy subsisted between Charles and Gloss, Figgins was of the party, who, from some circumstances that came within his knowledge, learnt that Gloss did not go to the Cape of Good Hope. This induced him to think oddly of his connexion with Mr. Standfast, but he did not find it worth his while to investigate it till Emma went to France, at which time he undertook to gather all the intelligence he could for her at home, that, had it been necessary to make her grand discovery there, she might be in possession of facts of magnitude sufficient to have induced Sir Sidney to discard Gloss. Thus she learnt, by a

letter from Mr. Figgins, three days before the business of Aix la Chapelle, that Gloss was the son of Standfast, but she never divined the rest, as I have just said, till after repeated conversations with Mrs. Marlow, and Kiddy's confirmation of those suspicions that arose out of it.
Thus, in different stages of this business, she used as much of this fact as she thought necessary for her purpose. She told Annette, in France, she could blast Mr. Gloss's hopes whenever she pleased; she told Mr. Gloss, before Sir Sidney, it would be seen WHO he was; she imparted the secret to Mrs. Marlow; and, finally, through the proper and heroic feeling of that good woman, she now held him her captive, and was determined to give him up to that justice he had so studiously laboured to abuse.
This connexion of father and son will naturally account for the blended interest of Standfast and Gloss, and also for the congeniality of their sentiments: nay it will take off an imputation from me; for as I may be almost accused of representing nature in too odious a light, by bringing forward two characters so shockingly profligate, so the probability of their being so is considerably strengthened when it is found that the same blood ran in the veins of both; nay, such pains had been mutually

taken that the emulation of the son might be worthy the instruction of the sire—for vipers and doves are equally fond of their offspring—that it is not astonishing Mrs. Marlow should be so shocked with Gloss, at the time Charles was arrested, or express that detestation which was inspired by the remarkable resemblance of both his person and manner to those of Standfast.
But, says the reader, did it never occur to Mrs. Marlow that this very same Standfast was her betrayer? There is great singularity in this circumstance. Mrs. Marlow did not know Charles till he was nearly ruined, and it cannot be forgotten that Standfast, giving up his situation as an actor in this play of human life, had retired and become a prompter long before that period. Therefore, not seeing him on the stage, she did not know that there was any such person employed in the theatre. Charles never detailed his affairs, and though she knew the sum of them, she was ignorant of many of the particulars till she began to converse with Emma, who, after all, was extremely cautious of letting her into so much of them as might impede any of her measures. Therefore, it was not till after Charles went to France the second time, and she had had frequent conversations with Emma and Figgins, that she came at this truth, which, at

that time, Emma was the more anxious to investigate: finding it would be a matter of infinite import to ascertain that Mr. Gloss was the son of Mrs. Marlow, by Standfast. And, on the other hand, that I may make this matter perfectly clear, as Standfast went to Flanders before the good lady in question was married, he never knew her by the name of Marlow. I could have strengthened this elucidation, by noticing that Standfast, like Atall in the play, had a different name, at that time, for every different intrigue; but, as Mrs. Marlow knew him by his real name, I did not choose so to violate my historic veracity, as to make out a case by the insertion of a falsity.
It now becomes necessary to illustrate two or three points, that I may give a clear stage to some principal actors, who are presently to make their appearance.
I have said, in its place, and since hinted, that Kiddy had been very much shocked at some proposal or other made him by Standfast; so shocked indeed that it wrought in him an entire reformation, and attached him to the interest of his patron's declared enemy. I have also said that when Figgins went to expostulate with Standfast, he, in the course of that expostulation, became witness to such a

scene of altercation, between that gentleman and Mrs. O'Shocknesy, as begat some suspicions in his mind of a very horrid nature.
I have all along represented Kiddy as a very weak, but not a very wicked character. He had, from his low origin, his mean education, his grovling propensities, been taught to consider Mr. Flush as a superior genius; or, as he called it, geno; and thus he firmly believed that the consummation of all human perfection was the accomplishment of a well-digested fraud: but Kiddy always took care, as he phrased it, to draw the line, lest, as he cunningly observed, the line should draw him.
Thus, were your wife or daughter to be seduced, your purse stolen, your reputation destroyed, by treachery and cunning, Kiddy would lend a helping hand with all the veins in his heart—his language again—but as to going upon the highway, or being guilty of any other dishonest act, which the law denominates felony, in that case, no crown lawyer ever knew better how to discriminate than Kiddy. And this the reader, when he recollects his outset in life, will see he was taught by that first of masters, experience.
In short, seeing men of the first fortunes and abilities

constantly employing them to impose upon their friends and neighbours, he only looked upon it as self-defence to arm himself with the same arts; for, said Kiddy,
'In this here world I can't, for my part, see why a man has not a right to be as bad as his betters.'

Having therefore such an aversion to a halter, no wonder that Kiddy should be so affronted at a direct proposal from Standfast to commit an act for which, had it been discovered, he must have been hanged; nor was it an unnatural transition, fond as he had been of that fun called human misery, to see, all of a sudden, that he had delighted in it a little too much; but as, turn which way he would, he was in such a situation that he could not help imposing upon somebody, he covered his hypocrisy with the veil of religion, to rub off slighter sins, and those that bore too heavy on his recollection, he drowned in a dram; for, said Kiddy,
'though every coge is a nail in my coffin, if I do but repent before I am put into it, the grim jockies may screw me up and welcome.'

To show however the prevalence of custom upon human nature, Kiddy very little considered that in the midst of his repentance, he was accessory to a fraud of great magnitude, namely, the keeping

Charles out of his fortune: nor would he, in all probability, ever have taken any steps to restore him to his right, had not this laudable conduct, as we have seen, been suggested to him by Emma, through Swash; nor even then, had not the measures to be taken involved in them a positive necessity of imposing upon Tadpole. This last imposition however, being on the side of honour and virtue, Kiddy began to feel, that however it might be clever to be a rogue, it was more comfortable to be an honest man.
The repentance of Figgins, as the reader knows, was better confirmed, though, as there is weakness in every kind of wickedness, so it was certainly assisted by finding, in consequence of what dropped from Mrs. O'Shocknesy, that Standfast had himself perpetrated the very crime which he had vainly persuaded Flush to commit.
One moment more, and the reader shall know what this crime was, and also that it has been very often hinted to him.
It will be recollected that Standfast did not accompany Mrs. O'Shocknesy into Warwickshire, probably as he was grown remarkably hipped,

owing to his being led by his lady the life of a dog, as Jerry Sneak calls it; and, as he was eternally tortured with his own reflections, he might be afraid of ghosts. I have said they were driven to the verge of poverty, from which nothing could relieve them but the death of Lord Hazard. I then say
'what joy to find Lord Hazard no more.'
The reader is upon the point of asking
'By what means no more?'
Again, I compare Standfast to Barnwell, who murdered his benefactor, which indeed did Standfast, or he must have been foully belied; for, just at the period to which this history is now arrived, he was, in company with his son Gloss, brought before Sir Sidney for that murder.

Here it will appear that there was good reason for managing so adroitly the delay, from the Monday till the Wednesday, of Gloss's pretended interview with Annette. It has been said that there is no snare for bringing a man into a scrape like a woman. This proved to be the case both as to Standfast and as to Gloss: differently however; one was betrayed by adhering to a fiend, and the other punished for aspiring to an angel.
Standfast was taken into custody in town, through the vigilance of Mr. Balance, but Gloss was not to be found; therefore, when Sir Sidney discovered

that he was in Warwickshire, it required the intervention of a few days to procure the warrant that had been granted against him, as well as to bring Mr. Standfast to that spot where the crime had been committed.
Let us now suppose Sir Sidney upon the bench, Charles, Mr. Balance, and Figgins by his side, and Standfast and Gloss brought before him, on a charge of that murder for which we have seen them apprehended.
Flush deposed what has been related concerning the proposal made him by Standfast; Figgins explained the nature of his suspicions, and his consequent conduct; and Mr. Balance said, from the pains he had taken to investigate the business, there could be no doubt, as far as presumption went, but that the prisoners were guilty.

'And so presumption is all you have against us!' said Gloss.
'And this,' said Standfast, 'upon the evidence of a rascally servant, a false friend, and a meddling attorney!'

Here they became turbulently insolent, when the baronet, commanding silence, and addressing himself to Standfast, said,
'Unhappy man, I have a

witness that shall strike terror to thy very soul; that, presumptuously shameless as thou art, shall sicken thee with horror! See who enters at that door!'

Had Standfast seen a spectre, the spectre of Lord Hazard, he could not have been more appalled.—
'By hell, it is all over!' said he to Gloss. 'I thought the rascal had been dispatched.'

This witness was John, who was tutored, as we have seen, to refuse the half guinea from Dogbolt, who was placed about Charles, at the express stipulation of Standfast—not only that his ruin might be more certain, but that the conduct of Mr. Figgins might be well watched, lest, as it happened in the case of Kiddy, he should not be staunch to the interest of the confederacy—who intercepted all the letters, who returned expressly to murder his lord, who did not seem to arrive, however, till two days after the murder was committed, who then, though callous to the core, appeared to weep over his master's corpse, but who had since lived in such a state of agonizing horror and remorse, that he now came to make an ample confession.
John, after displaying a natural and pathetic picture of his own penitence, told a most horrid tale.

By large bribes, and larger promises, he had been prevailed upon to murder his old master. For that purpose he stole into the house, on the fatal morning, and took away the pistols which were hanging in Lord Hazard's bed chamber. He afterwards surprised him in the garden; but he declared that, when he looked in his poor, wronged, old master's face, which was now grown pale and ghastly, owing, he had no doubt, to that distress which he himself had caused, by so often falsely accusing his son, all his resolution forsook him, and he had not the cruel courage to perpetrate the deed. Standfast, seeing this, rushed from a shrubbery, where he had concealed himself, lest they should miscarry; and, as Lord Hazard flew to him for protection, and while he was in the attitude of lifting his hands and eyes to heaven, that had mercifully sent such a friend to his assistance, the unmanly, hardened, hellish monster cowardly murdered him!
To this he added, that after the murder was accomplished, but not till then—for Standfast was not fully satisfied with his sanguinary exploit till he had convinced himself, by a cautious examination, that there was no symptom of returning life—the murderer with great coolness placed the pistol that was discharged close to the body, and put that which was yet loaded into the coat pocket, which is the

precise situation in which the reader will recollect they were found.
John also said that, fearing he should be hanged for the part he had taken in this shocking business, he did, for some time, whatever he was bid by Standfast, and consented to any wickedness that was proposed to him; but his conscience being at last heavily loaded—for which he was often ridiculed, and sometimes threatened, by Standfast—he was upon the point of giving himself up to justice, when it struck him to consult his old friend Flush, who, he understood, had repented, and then lived a religious life.
Flush, who, the reader knows, was at that time seeking for every kind of evidence to serve Charles's cause, had known, John said, a great deal of his former wickedness; and it was agreed that, at a proper time, he should be called forward to atone for it, by a true confession of all he knew concerning the murder.
'That confession,' added John, 'I have now made, and it has taken such a load off my conscience, that though all good men must hate me here, and I dare not expect mercy hereafter, my poor heavy heart will be something lighter, when I reflect that I have brought such a

villain to justice, to revenge the murder of so good a master.'

John's repentance Standfast all along had not only feared, but he had determined to guard against its consequences. He called him a half-bred villain; one who would certainly one day or other squeak.
Impressed with these suspicions, he consulted Mrs. O'Shocknesy upon the propriety of putting him out of the way. She, at a proper time, to quiet him—which accounts for his exclamation just now to Gloss—told him it had been done by Dogbolt; but indeed it was the last thing Dogbolt would have done, or she permitted; for as that gentleman and lady had, for some time, determined to get rid of Mr. Standfast, so it did not appear to be their interest to keep any witness out of the way who, should it be necessary, might facilitate his being hanged.
The evidence being closed, Mr. Standfast was committed to Warwick jail for the murder of Lord Hazard, and Mr. Gloss was told there was not sufficient proof against him to criminate him.

'Then I demand my liberty,' said Gloss, very exultingly.
'Not quite so fast sir,' said Sir Sidney. 'You must be remanded to London, to answer there a charge of fraud and perjury.'

'Of which should I be convicted,' said Gloss, 'I shall still be happier than your intended son in law. The worst that can happen to me is to be sent to a prison, from whence, for the world wants talents, I shall soon be released; after which I shall cut as splendid a figure as the best, and drink the pleasurable cup of life by perhaps flattering the foible of some fool who, like you, may pride himself upon virtues attributed to his ancestors, which they probably never possessed, while his portion shall be bitterness and misery: for, to be completely happy, he must possess your daughter, which he cannot do, having already married—her mother!'



NOT a single returning day had passed since the reconciliation between Charles and Sir Sidney but brought with it some new proof to the latter how egregiously he had been imposed upon by Gloss, and what noble firmness there must have been in the mind of our hero, who, though he panted for an explanation, scorned to capitulate for it dishonourably.
But what were Sir Sidney's feelings when he found that the knave who had thus practised upon his credulity, was the son of him who, by a long, cool, deliberate series of unexampled villainy, had first ruined the peace, and then destroyed the life, of his friend and benefactor.
Oh how he was roused! His good sense, his friendship, his generosity, his every seeling seemed

insulted! And then the taunting impudence of that insinuation concerning his ancestry, which, as Sir Sidney indulged it, was surely a right and laudable pride; showing by what means he had led him into a belief of the most gross and palpable falsity. He felt affronted and ashamed, and was at a loss to account for the motive that could have induced him to admit such a creature into his conversation. He alike reproached himself for having communicated with the viper, and thanked providence that had rescued him from its fangs.
Yet, what was all this compared to that thunderbolt which Gloss, in his wanton, wicked lust of mischief, had now hurled at these happy friends! The pestiferous breath, as it uttered the terrible words, affected the hearers like a contagion, and it is but too true that he had the insulting, triumphant, unmerciful pleasure to see both Charles and Sir Sidney appalled and confounded.
As the reader is of course full of anxious expectation, I shall now proceed to a nice investigation of all that train of circumstances which led Mr. Gloss to the knowledge of whom our hero had married.
The reader will instantly recollect that Sir Sidney,

at the latter end of the first book, speaks of a lady in the convent that Annette, when an infant, used to call Mamma Le Clerk. It will also easily be remembered that Mr. Ingot gave Lord Hazard an account of a Madmoiselle Le Clerk, who had some business with Sir Sidney, and that this account tallied so exactly with the story of Annette's mother, as to confirm both Lady Hazard and Lady Roebuck in an opinion that it could be no other than her.
This Lady, as we are informed by Emma, left some jewels at Sir Sidney's, but she refused, at the instance of one of the gentlemen who accompanied her, to leave a packet of papers.
I will now be honest enough to declare that this gentleman was no other than Combrie, and his reason for advising the lady not to leave the papers, arose from a sear lest Sir Sidney should actually know who she was, and discover what were then her intentions. The same reason induced him to prevail on her not to see the baronet in town.
The third person, who was, as I have said, deputed by the convent to receive the fortune, was our old friend Goufre, and it was from this journey Combrie became so well acquainted with all his affairs;

nay he had attended the young lady with a view to have surprised the vigilance of the procureur, and have secured her fortune when in England, which circumstance I also hint in the second volume; but this, however, not being practicable, he had afterwards recourse, as we have seen, to other methods, which were attended with better success.
It has been related that, on Mrs. Hazard's monument, at Rochester, were placed her maiden name, the name of her first husband, and of that she owned when she died. This circumstance, superadded to some intelligence obtained from one of the firm of Bondham and Co.—indeed the very gentleman who afterwards went to Botany Bay—confirmed Mr. Gloss's conjectures. He had however a great deal of collateral intelligence: one of his emissaries having been constantly stationed by the side of our hero, who, had he attempted to return to England, had instructions to lay him by the heels, either in Flanders, or on his arrival, just as might be most expedient to assist the purposes of Mr. Gloss. Finding however that marriage had barred every passage that could lead to the possession of Annette, he at first made himself perfectly easy, but when he heard of the death of Mrs. Hazard, and found that these impediments were removed, he was obliged

to cast about in his mind for fresh matter, and, after straining his ingenuity, and putting a variety of circumstances together, taking a hint from the name of Le Clerk upon the monument, he found out what I have no doubt the reader will be heartily sorry for.
It will immediately occur to the reader that both Charles and Figgins must have been acquainted with all this matter, and yet it is very certain they were not. The history of Annette was known only to five persons; namely, Lord and Lady Hazard, Sir Sidney and Lady Roebuck, and Emma. Three of these did not know the whole truth. Thus, the name of Le Clerk was never uttered to Charles nor Figgins as the name of Annette's mother, nor to Sir Sidney as the maiden name of Mrs. Combrie; or, if it had, it probably would not have induced any suspicion of so extraordinary and unlikely a circumstance as this: for Le Clerk, in France, is as common a name as Smith is in England.
It also looks singular that Charles should not know the private story of his wife, or that she should be ignorant of his; but she is mentioned early in life to have been engaged in an intrigue, and it is probable that she thought youthful folly was not a proper thing for a husband to be entrusted with,

and as to him, I have already noticed his remarkable delicacy towards Annette, as well as that she greatly commended him for it. Besides, had there been no other reason, the state of Mrs. Hazard's mind and health must have been such as to have precluded the smallest likelihood of retrospective investigation between them on subjects which could only have been developed through the medium of great curiosity and long intimacy, neither of which, as the reader sees, obtained in the present case; and therefore nothing could be further from the mind of either than that their union involved in it so momentous and mysterious a circumstance.
During the journey that Emma persuaded Sir Sidney to take into France, it cannot be forgotten that every possible enquiry was made by the baronet concerning Annette's mother. He however only learnt, as I there say, Ingot's story, and also that Miss Le Clerk had shifted her quarters to another convent, where they either could not or would not give any account of her. The fact was, that as the elopement of a nun from a convent in France is never, like a runaway from a boarding school in England, advertised in all the newspapers, but, on the contrary, kept as snug as possible, their enquiries were looked upon as little more than impertinent curiosity, which will indeed be readily believed

when it is considered that the convent of our lady of the ascension at Nancy—which was the very place our travellers went to—had been pretty well scandalized by the business of Madame Combrie already, and therefore they were very little likely to gather any intelligence from thence. Indeed the matter was so taken in dudgeon, that had Sir Sidney stayed any considerable time, and repeated his solicitations, it is within possibility that he might have been considered as an accessory to the fact of Combrie's procuring the fortune from Goufre, and so have been accused of the very fraud which he had been so angry with Charles for committing.—Thus, as we have seen, he came away from France no wiser than he went there.
The reader will now see that, as the parties had no sort of communication with each other, it was impossible they should compare notes; consequently, no one of them, in such a length of time, had entertained the smallest suspicion of what now, in one moment, appeared to be beyond a doubt.
I have two or three times hinted—for I did not choose to do any more—that Mrs. Combrie resembled Annette, and there are several passages in this work where the reader would very strongly have scented

this game, if I had not opportunely put up some other to divert his attention.
The blood hound Gloss, however, has at length sound it, and, like all prey started by such sanguinary hunters, it leads us a tedious chase, only to bring us to the knowledge of mischief.
To leave every thing but plain narration, never was there apparent happiness so dashed by certain disappointment. Every comparative circumstance served to confirm the fact, and misery seemed now to confound the innocent with the guilty, till at length Emma herself, after torturing probability by every ingenious and subtle investigation her invention could supply—all which, at an earlier period, perhaps I should have given at length—was compelled to confess that there was novelty in every thing relative to our lovers, for that, contrary to all established rules, they were born to be virtuous and unhappy.
I know not if I have introduced any thing into this history so truly pathetic as what it is now my reluctant duty to mention. The health of Annette was only completely confirmed on that very day when the whole family were convinced she could not bless him for whom alone she wished to live, and

she was welcomed to reason only to be plunged into misery worse than madness. The delight that every one felt at once more beholding the angelic innocence of her soul conveyed by those benevolent smiles which now spoke her thankful joy, was dashed with a mixture of agony; sighs were mingled with congratulations; tears choked the utterance of pleasure; an universal gloom pervaded those faces that fain would have beamed with the willing smile of grateful transport; and every one, out of pity, advised a suppression of that wretchedness which no one could conquer.
Too plainly did poor Annette perceive the misery that these inexperienced dissemblers vainly endeavoured to hide. Did she ask if her father was well, yes was the answer, and a profound sigh followed it. One began to give her pleasure by an account of the reconciliation of Sir Sidney and Charles, and interrupted the relation with a flood of tears. From Sir Sidney, from Lady Roebuck, from Emma, from Charles himself, she found no better comfort; till, at length, her gentle mind was so wounded and distressed, that she seemed, like an innocent victim, recovered from one torture to be tormented with another, still more ingenious.
However I may be partial to sportive writing, I

really think that, in this place, it would be both impertinent and unfeeling to tantalize the reader, who now begins to think that I have introduced a set of characters which I hold up as models of virtue and goodness, only to reward them with unmerited misery and hopeless wretchedness; but I flatter myself I shall not be accused of this unnecessary wantonness. I do no more than my duty, and against all such censure I shall defend myself, by noticing that I undertook nothing in this task but to record facts, and if I leave the more amiable part of my group of characters as miserable as those whose practice has been knavery and villainy, I shall not, even in that case, have deserted probability, nor have inculcated a useless lesson of morality, since to leave goodness in distress, is to enforce that highest of moral duties, resignation.


Mr. Balance, who had been to town for the purpose of seeing that the prosecution against Gloss was properly carried on, was also determined to search as deeply as possible into the truth of this unhappy affair, and, while he was thus employed, it happened that he was called upon by a gentleman who said he had very particular business with Sir Sidney, on this very subject. With this gentleman Mr. Balance returned to Warwickshire, where he told Sir Sidney that, from what he could gather, he feared the wretched tale was but too true.
It will be remembered that Charles knew, in the south of France, a father Fitzgibbon, who told him that, in three years from that time, he should have some business in England, and would then call on him in London. Our hero gave him a direction to Mr. Balance, who, he knew, would be his man

of business, and who, whether they were friends or foes, would, of course, forward any thing or person to him.
It will also be recollected that Mrs. Hazard's monument at Rochester, from which Mr. Gloss received some of his intelligence, was shown to all strangers. It appears therefore feasible enough that Father Fitzgibbon, in his way from Dover to the capital, should have seen it.
Father Fitzgibbon was the person now introduced by Mr. Balance, who had scarcely exchanged the usual compliments with Charles, when he admired by what remarkable and extraordinary means the strangest discoveries are brought about. In short, it appeared that he was the intimate friend of Combrie, and had received the greatest obligations from his family; that he had known him the whole time he meditated the elopement• with Miss Le Clerk, and indeed was the very friend who had equipped him with the dress in which he so successfully personated father Benedict. He had also connived at the business of the keys, and lent him much other material assistance, which he was the better enabled to do, as he was well acquainted with Goufre's affairs, and then belonged to a convent at Dieu-le-war, about two leagues from Nancy, where all intelligent

travellers to that part of France have been informed there is such a convent made up of English, Irish, and Scotch, and where they brew very good beer.
Fitzgibbon mentioned the business of Miss Le Clerk's journey to England, and of Combrie's preventing her from leaving the papers at Sir Sidney's; adding, that those papers had at length been entrusted to him, and that, as he understood they contained something of consequence, he had deferred
'sending them by another,' to use his own words, 'till he had an opportunity of delivering them himself.'

So saying, he gave the packet to Sir Sidney, who, in a moment, knew and proclaimed that the hand writing was that of Annette's mother.

'Then I am right, I find,' said Fitzgibbon.—
'Too right,' cried one.
'Fatal confirmation!' sighed another.
'Cruel destiny!' said a third.—
'Unheard of misery!' exclaimed a fourth.
In short, the whole company exhibited such tokens of wretchedness, that the Irishman cried
'Why, by my soul, one would tink, by all these destinies, and fates, and long faces, that I had brought over the plague sealed up in a letter. Upon my

honour and conscience I only discharged the promise I made poor Mrs. Combrie, four years ago, who desired me moreover to add that every syllable was authentic; for in that paper would be found the lady's dying words in her own hand writing.'

It occurring in a moment to every one present that if Mrs. Combrie, four years ago, had given Fitzgibbon the dying words of somebody else, written in a hand which Sir Sidney knew to be that of Annette's mother, Mrs. Combrie could not be that mother, every countenance immediately underwent a total change, and what had been but the moment before certain misery, was now sweet expectation. This was immediately evinced by a volley of opposite exclamations; at which Fitzgibbon exclaimed,
'Pray good folks is it Bedlam I am in? By my soul, you seem first to be crazy, and afterwards distracted.'

By this time Sir Sidney having ran over a part of what the packet contained, found abundantly enough to convince him that there was no farther bar to the happiness of his daughter and our hero. To be brief, from the papers, backed by what Fitzgibbon had learnt from Mrs. Combrie, it appeared that she was certainly the Mamma Le Clerk formerly

mentioned; for that Annette's mother had left her infant daughter to her care, requesting she would contrive to convey her to Sir Sidney; which commission, through the medium of the nuns of St. Claire, as we have seen, she faithfully executed.
The sentiments, the distresses, the very names of Mrs. Combrie and Annette's mother bearing so strong a similarity, it is not at all extraordinary that there should be this strict friendship between them, or that this assimilation of circumstances should beget a likelihood that they were one and the same person. The conduct of the two fathers also is remarkably similar, and it would be extraordinary if it was not. They were both bigotted catholics, and both punished the disobedience of their daughters, by shutting them up in a convent; which is only two instances out of two thousand, or very likely ten thousand, upon the records of French nunneries, where the same crime has been punished in the same manner. We have heard that the father of Mrs. Combrie died in England. They now learnt that the father of Annette's mother died in Italy, after he had given the whole of his fortune to the church.
Fitzgibbon got the laugh completely against the company in the course of investigating all these matters.

He said that, after all, they were sad bunglers at a discovery; for, added he,
'though you have only just found it out, by my faith you knew it well enough long ago:'
and really, if it were not highly indecent to get the laugh against the reader, I should be tempted to follow the Irishman's example, and indulge myself at his expense; for it certainly ought to have occurred to him that each of these ladies had a Christian name, and, if it had, he would have know that the Christian name of Sir Sidney's Miss Le Clerk was Annette, and that of Combrie's Miss Le Clerk was Araminta.

This very circumstance of the difference in the Christian names, accounts for the whole, and shows how much deeper fear impresses us than hope.—Araminta was the name placed upon the tomb, and had it been proper to have questioned Gloss as to where he got his intelligence, his answer must have developed the whole mystery: nay, lest it should be penetrated by the reader, it may be recollected that I took advantage of the mistake of Charles, who, absorbed in thought, called Mrs. Hazard Annette, by mistake, as she lay in her coffin.
Thus, I have gradually and naturally unravelled all that mass of entangled circumstances that stood between our hero and the possession of his wishes.

I shall not offer on my labours a single comment. If they embrace any important purpose, if they inculcate any useful moral, or serve occasionally as objects of warning or imitation in the various pursuits of life, I shall have exercised a pleasing duty, and shall not fail to receive the thanks of every man of reason and honour as my reward.
As Annette was recently recovered from so severe an indisposition, and as there were some other very serious matters to settle, it was agreed that her union with Charles should be deferred till their approaching grand feast, which was to be celebrated in about a month.
I shall take that interval to give a very summary account of what became of the other characters which I have introduced into this work.
Standfast actually did what Swash pretended to do. He poisoned himself in his cell, to prevent his trial. The interval between his commitment to jail and his defrauding the hangman, exhibited a most frightful example to all villains. It consisted of alternate fits of intoxication. In some of these he execrated and blasphemed; in others he trembled with terror at the horrid images his fancy created

to torture him. One hour he howled in an agony of apprehension, in another raved in a paroxysm of imprecation; till at length his son Gloss, affectionate and considerate to the last, prevailed on a common friend to visit him, who, well tutored for the purpose, induced him to save the disgrace that would be entailed on his memory by an ignominious death, and anticipate his fate by poison.
Gloss himself had the address to turn this circumstance to his own account, intimating that they had, among them, made away with his father, for fear circumstances not altogether so pleasant should come out on the trial. As to his own fate, it was this. He was put in the pillory, where he harrangued the populace to such good effect, that he persuaded them the constitution of their country was rotten; that the grossest abuses were practised by those who were entrusted with the public concerns; and, so completely did he, for the moment, work upon the people's credulity, that, when he returned to prison, the horses were taken from the hackney coach, in which he rode, and the deluded populace, with one consent, yoked themselves in their place: exactly the same as if they were honourably conducting some patriot, who had done an essential service to his country!

In process of time he was liberated, since when he has lived in various circumstances, by depredations on the public; and, at this hour, goes about, like the arch fiend, his principal, seeking whom he may devour.
Mrs. O'Shocknesy, who had robbed Standfast, scarcely arrived on the continent when she was robbed and deserted by Dogbolt. After this, she herded with a set of contrabanders; and at length,—first being detected and branded—she finished her career diseased, loathsome, and a pauper, in the Hotel de Dieu.
As to Tadpole and his wife, as they knew that a retrospection would bring out every particular of their nefarious conduct, they thought it expedient to meet their examiners half way. Charles found the estate rather improved than injured by Tadpole's management, and therefore scrupled not to pay such bonds, and fulfil such other engagements, entered into by his brother, as did not strike at the terra firma of his ancestors. He also agreed to a handsome provision for the children; one of whom, at this moment, is the best horse jockey, and the other the best maker of nut-crackers, in the kingdom.

Tadpole, with this money, and what he had privately amassed, launched boldly into his own profession of attorney, to which he added that of money lender, and has accumulated an immense fortune, by administering to the necessities of young men of fashion, under age; not scrupling, occasionally, to lend the person of his cara sposa—on whom he doats to distraction, and who rules him with a rod of Iron—to bind an advantageous bargain.
The penitent John was put, by Kiddy, into the hands of a methodist preacher, to complete his conversion; but, the good man going the wrong way to work, by terrifying instead of soothing him, his brain was at length touched, and he finished his life and his misery together, by a rash leap into Swash's mill-stream.
As to the sinner Kiddy, as he used to call himself, he lived for some time pretty comfortably on a handsome annuity that Charles had granted him; but having frequented meetings, conferences, and love-feasts, till his senses were a little deranged, he first slanged himself, as he called it, behind the door, and, being cut down, the shock so preyed upon his spirits, that, doubling his visits to the brandy bottle, he is said literally to have gone out

of the world with a dram in one hand and a homily in the other.
At length came the day which was to unite perhaps the most elegant and accomplished pair that ever graced the altar of Hymen. The grand feast was conducted with prodigious splendour, which the reader will the more readily conceive, when he adds to the former description of this festival the additional exertions upon the present happy occasion.
Every friend within the knowledge of any of the parties was invited, and, among the rest, Ego, Toogood, and Mosquito, who, spite of their jarring dispositions, united in an universal acknowledgement that wealth, worth, and happiness were never more emulously blended together.
A few words more will still be necessary. The good Mildman, in a very advanced age, yielded his breath amidst the lamentations of his parishioners, who sincerely mourned his memory, as they accompanied his remains to their last home, and who—all they had—as their only remaining tribute to his worth, dropped the tear of sensibility on the grave of virtue.
Figgins, who married the amiable Jude, succeeded

Mildman. His reformation is perfect and confirmed, and his conduct honourable and exemplary. blessed with two such friends as Sir Sidney and Charles, his happiness is complete. His efforts at Castlewick, in conjunction with those of Mr. Friend, at Little Hockley, who is still alive, though very old, have rendered those industrious communities the emulation of each other.
Mrs. Marlow succeeded Emma as companion to Lady Roebuck, Emma herself having, at the earnest recommendation of the baronet, married the butler, now Sir Sidney's land steward. She had long before, as I hinted to the reader, a sneaking kindness for him, on account of his fidelity to his master in France. This had improved, to use her own words, into esteem, from her knowledge of him in the family, and had been confirmed into love, by his refusing to take a part against Sir Sidney in her grand plot, which, however worthy in her, would, in him, have been treachery. She has several children, who, instructed by her, are become excellent English scholars, for she does not choose they should aspire to any thing more. She is universally beloved, and will be universally regretted. On a conversation with Annette, the other day, in which this topic was touched upon, she said, that as her book of life now verged towards the last page, it gave her great

satisfaction to reflect that she should not fear to look at the word Finis, having inculcated, in every line, that goodness is the best security for happiness.—
'The hour of death,' added Emma, for she is now grown rather sententious, 'is the hell of the wicked, the purgatory of the doubtful, and the heaven of the virtuous.'

Mr. Balance is still alive, and as much respected as ever. Sir Sidney, who is Mr. Balance's senior by a year, being now seventy-five, is also living in all the vigour of health and strength. He can still play at cricket and quoits, and pitch the bar as well as ever; and it was but the other day he was requested to let his name stand in a tontine, instead of that of a fashionable young man of twenty. The venerable and amiable Lady Roebuck is also living.—Her employment is the care of our hero's children: out of seven, three of whom are alive: two boys and a girl. The baronet has long since given over his idea of augmenting his grandeur as to himself, but having recently
'done the state some service,'
he is promised a peerage in favour of Charles's second son, by the name and title of Sidney Roebuck, Earl of Castlewick.

As to Charles and Annette, little more need be said. Complete in beauty, goodness, clegance, and

virtue, no wonder they are completely happy. Nor is the goodness and virtue of this amiable community of friends selfishly consined. It transfuses its conscious blessings to all around. Charles's darling passion for patronizing worth and merit, aided by Sir Sidney, flows now in its right channel. All are sure of encouragement who worthily apply for it, nor is there an individual in either Castlewick or Little Hockley that does not feel, and enjoy the generous influence of their wide-extended philanthropy.
These fortunate places are now equally reasonable and equally happy. Both know the advantages resulting from mild control and honourable obedience. In short, they are a type of the country at large.—Every individual is thankful to the power that secures his safety, protects his property, and succours his family; and there is not one among them, stimulated by these principles, and encouraged by their patrons, that would not nobly risk his life, were it necessary, in defence of the wisest of constitutions, and the best of kings.

