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If human nature be always the same, it cannot have changed much since Mr. Addison's time; and there may still be readers who will peruse a book with more satisfaction, when they know something of its author. The question now, perhaps, would not be so much, whether he is tall or short, round faced or long; as, How does he dress? Is he a person of any fashion? What his rank? What his condition? But before I reply to these interrogatories, I must answer another species of curiosity, which may, especially after perusal, arise in the minds of some readers: Why did he write at all?
Not for fame, certainly: No, not for fame; not to instruct the good people of England; for wisdom there, is in its greatest perfection; nor is it my intention to make my readers laugh,—for these are serious times; nor weep,—for I must first weep myself, as Horace says, and Melpomene is not my favourite muse; in short, I am not determined to write by any of the reasons which authors usually chuse to assign. My motive is of tolerable universality notwithstanding. Not that I want money neither; but I see those who do,—beggars of princely denomination—on thrones—on wooden legs.
Events have happened in the village which I inhabit, not known to the universe. They relate but little to myself; but that is not my fault: Had I been any thing but what I am, I would have chosen to be the principal actor. But who would change an Iota of himself? Before I begin a recital of these events, I will reply to the first class of questions, by a full and true account of my birth, parentage, and education.
But why do I talk of parentage? alas! I am the son of nobody. I was, indeed, begotten by my valiant father, Gregory Grooby, Esq. upon the body of my chaste mother, Ellen Glen. I cannot be so exact, as to the time, as was the lovely Countess of Pembroke; but it was a clandestine act, for which my valiant father had no canonical warrant; and for which I am to be punished with all the disabilities the prudence of our laws can provide.
There may be, especially among my fair readers, some who may object to the epithet which I have given my mother; and others may suspect that of my father not applied with the most perfect propriety: But once for all, I beg leave to give this public information: I am a person infinitely nice in matters of epithet; and that I never permit an improper one to descend from my pen, or my tongue, unless I am writing a dedication, or addressing a lord or a lady, or unless I am making love.
My mother was a blooming girl, brought up in a cottage, and knew nothing but innocence and spinning, till my valiant father undertook to be her preceptor. My maternal ancestors had, I suppose, few records, but many traditions; one of which is, that my chaste mother defended the citadel of her honour all the preceding summer, and had surrendered, at the close of it, subdued by a too tender heart, and a flowered cotton gown. On the twentieth day of her lying in, she died of kindness and caudle. The young Squire had sent in a profusion of the latter, and the neighbours supplied the former; for though the matter was rather a lapse of chastity, or, as they called it, a mishap, yet, considering it was a gentleman's child, there was not much harm done.
My valiant father, in the very month in which my chaste mother died, had arrived at twenty-one. His father had lain two years in the family vault. His estate was 2000l. a year. He had a pack of excellent harriers; his springing spaniels were staunch; his greyhounds the fleetest in Devonshire; his cellars were filled with October and Port; and he might have been pronounced a happy man, had the dowager lady possessed a taste as rural as his own; but they disagreed in so many points, that my father, one day, an hour after dinner, signified to her, with abundance of valour, that he should be happy to pay her a visit at her jointure house.
My father must have had no small quantity of tenderness for my mother, for he remembered her several months. His housekeeper, his butler, and his coachman, were ordered to become sponsors for my faith. He kindly allowed them to give me his own Christian name; and, finally, ordered three shillings a week to be paid my great grandmother, for my maintenance, and two pounds of the best shag, per annum, by way of super-remuneration.
But, alas! the old lady was almost eighty, and almost blind, and as soon as she had nursed me into rickets, withdrew from the world, and left me to the care of a great aunt, a labourer's wife, stout and hearty; under whose care I throve well, till I was ten years old. Her husband dying, she was driven, by the humanity of our poor laws, to a very distant parish, and I was transferred to the care of Goody Peat, from whose hands I received victuals not too abundant; but accompanied with abundant thumps, to facilitate digestion; and pious wishes, that every mouthful might choak me. Under her care I grew leanapace, and might soon have been settled, to the satisfaction of my valiant father, to whom I was now becoming troublesome, had it not been for a meddling parson, who knew something of law, and something of gospel; and who did not find that murder, even of a bastard, was sanctified by either.
The doers of good in our parish, and perhaps in others, might have been divided into three classes: Those who do it for pity or for piety; those who do it for the sake of the report; and those who never do it at all. This latter class was said to be far the most numerous; but this I take to be the scandalum humani generis, and as deserving of the pillory as the scandalum magnatum, at least. At the head of the second class stood my father's house; the first, far from branching out into genera and species, consisted of a single individual, namely, Parson Brown himself.
Mr. Brown was too respectable a man, too much beloved by his parish, and too able to divide it even against the Squire himself, to be quite overlooked at the hall. He was a cheerful companion also; and as he never assumed any learned airs, my valiant father was well enough pleased, upon a rainy day, to have him the companion of his pipe.
One dull day they were thus employed, when Mr. Brown, glad to embrace the opportunity, said, "I fear that sweet boy, little Greg. Glen, is not in good hands."
My valiant father had been married two years; and having begun to make boys and girls canonically, did not like to hear of any thing done in that way before the consecrated Era. He made, therefore, some slight answer, which rather irritated the parson, who being, upon proper occasions, a determined speaker, said, that when people took the trouble to beget children, they ought to take the trouble to provide for them.
To this the Squire answered, "He thought he had not been deficient in that duty: Ten pounds a year was a sufficient allowance for the maintenance of a bastard."
The parson's face kindled at this expression: He told the Squire it was harsh, it was unnatural, it was inhuman. My valiant father now felt his own anger rise. On such occasions he swore. He met the parson's reproof for that indecency also; and, in short, they became so loud, that Mrs. Grooby, a most respectable woman, who heard the altercation, but knew not the cause, thought it necessary to interfere by her presence.
On her entrance, my father found his rage subside in a moment; Mr. Brown ceased, from a motive of politeness; and to the lady's question, the Squire answered, "Pshaw!— nothing—nonsense—politics."
Mrs. Grooby retired, saying it was a privileged subject for anger. And yet, she added, I wonder it has not been yet fully felt, that anger renders all argument useless; for in that state of the mind, truth can neither be discovered nor perceived.
Mr. Brown felt the force of this observation; and the obvious inference was, that he was not taking the right way to the object he had in view. No; irritation was not the right way. Adulation,—but that he hated adulation,—was a surer method; and it could not be sinful,—not very sinful; if it were, would so many of his worthy brethren make it the common path to a benefice, or to a mitre.
This mental soliloquy passed pretty rapidly on. At the end of it, Mr. Brown, in a softened tone of voice, said, "No, Mr. Grooby, no, you cannot think of making him a barber,—(for such a hint my father had dropt)— no, you cannot,—I know your generous temper is above that. He is the prettiest boy in the parish, and resembles you so perfectly, that people would be apt to think you used him hardly. Barbers' shops, you know are receptacles of scandal."
"What the devil would you have me do with him," asked my father, "make him a parson?"
"Yes," Mr. Brown replied; "yes, Mr. Grooby, I think I would: It is an excellent thought; it may be inspiration, for any thing I know. I am positive the boy has genius. If you bring him up to the church, you may give him this living; I will engage to resign whenever he claims."
"This living!" said my valiant father, and he swore too, the better to express his surprise at so extravagant a demand; "no, master parson, I'll have no bastard of mine spitting fire and brimstone at me from the pulpit. No, parson, that's too much. And the consistency! He must not be a barber, because of the prate; and yet you would stick up his damned handsome face, so like my own, as you are pleased to say, in a pulpit, as a perpetual memento of my youthful indiscretions."
Mr. Brown did not gain much upon my father in this conversation; but as no time was to be lost, he sought opportunities of renewing it; and at length, peace was concluded on the following conditions; that I should be consigned over to Mr. Brown, to do with me what he pleased, except making me a parson; that during Mr. Brown's life, he should receive 501. per annum, for my board and education; and that when he died, I should have an annuity, secured on land, of 80l. per annum, provided I left Patten-place, and did not presume to settle within forty miles of my father's residence.
In his youth, Mr. Brown had been upon the point of marriage. The lady died; and he could never replace her to his satisfaction. He was a bachelor, therefore, and considering me as deodand, took me home, and became my preceptor. Mr. Brown was not a profound scholar; but he knew something of every thing. I was taught a little Latin, a little mathematics, some botany, a sprinkling of chemistry, a portion of theology, with some history; and the belles lettres came as they could.
I was yet in my seventeenth year, when Mr. Brown's only brother, a mercer, in Exeter, died. He was supposed to be rich; and might have been so, but that his wife preferred, as ladies are oft inclined to do, gentility to accumulation. She died a year before her husband, leaving one child only, a daughter, imbued with her precepts, and possessed of her inclinations. Soon after her father's death, this young lady came to her uncle's to reside; and brought with her a pretty face, soft melting eyes, and a heart that—but for her looking glass—must have burst with grief.
For she had lost not a father only, but a fortune; and with it two affluent lovers, each capable of keeping her a coach. No event is better calculated to shew young ladies the sordid nature of man. When I have enumerated her accomplishments, who would believe, that a diminution of a single cypher in her fortune—a simple taking away of 0 from 5000l.—should change the hearts of men.
Brought up under a careful mother, who considered the embellishments of person, as the first great duty of woman, Miss Brown learned to dress with the most enchanting elegance, and to animate a pale cheek with the milk of roses. Nor was her mind neglected: No,—it was adorned with all the literature which this learned age has produced for the service of the ladies. To the novels of the present day were added the Cassandras and Cleopatras,—the classics of a century or two preceding: Besides this, she was no small proficient in music; and could actually perform several songs upon the piano forte, very much to the envy of her less accomplished companions. And must money be added to all this? Heavens! what things are men.
See then this charmer transported to Patten-place, where there was nobody to charm. She wept; it would have softened a tyger—and I was not a tyger; but I was a child, and wholly incapable of giving her the consolation she wanted. At length, indeed, I was permitted to seek crow-quills for her piano forte, when her grief was softened by time. At length she accepted from my hands drawings, to work in gauze; and to complete my felicity, I was allowed to read the sublime Cassandra to her, while she worked in the summer evenings, in a little alcove, at the bottom of the garden. What draughts of love I drank! who, that had seen the soft languish of her eyes, whilst I read the sublime meltings of the soul of Oroondates? who would not have thought she had drank too?
All at once, toward the close of the year, this delirium of bliss was dissolved by an event so extraordinary—so unexpected,—so impossible,—that, in short, my fair Statira was ravished from my longing eyes, by a young hero, who measured cloth in a neighbouring town. This unheard of injustice inspired me with the very soul of Artaxerxes; and I determined to pursue the detested ravisher to the extremities of the earth. It was necessary, however, to provide arms for this heroic enterprize; and I had no money. The question too, whether my princess might not have been carried away by her own consent, would sometimes arise. It occurred to me, that whenever the cloth-merchant came, they were shut up in the parlour together; and I began to doubt, whether this circumstance arose, as I had hitherto supposed, solely from the difficulty the young lady found in chusing amongst the many patterns of elegance, which, I concluded, he came to offer to her acceptance.
If this were so, what had I to do with vengeance? Nothing. But what,—since I had lost all that made it desirable,—what had I to do with life? A noble disdain of this trivial thing, called existence, took possession of me: I resolved to lay the burthen down; and was only perplexed by the mode: I knew that pistols were the fashionable instruments, but I had them not; my heroic soul disdained a halter; the brook, which ran irriguous thro' the vale of Patten-place, was a pitiful brook; it would have disgraced my cause to have been found in it; so, as it was not more than twenty miles distant, I resolved to throw myself into the ocean.
This magnanimous exploit was no sooner determined upon, than I became all eagerness for the execution. I set out the next morning, and as I walked with anger, I walked with speed. My valiant heart would scarce submit to the calls of hunger, which were strong and importunate. I had in my pocket three shillings and one penny; and becoming rather faint, I yielded to the invitation of our holy champion, St. George, who was slaying the dragon at the door of a decent fabric.
I did not at this time know the turpitude of the crime I was going to commit; I did not know it was murder, and of all murders the most flagitious. I might kill another man, and repent; but I could not repent of killing myself; nor could God ever forgive me for rushing into his sacred presence without a passport.
All this I did not then know; I only knew how Cato, how Brutus, how Sapho died, and thought I was going to be great like them. Yet I had not totally forgot Mr. Brown; and toward the end of my walk, I did shed a few unheroic tears, at the thoughts of parting with him for ever, and determined to take a grateful farewell by letter, that I might not add suspense to the distress with which I was going to afflict him.
This letter was written whilst my hostess of the George was preparing the last meal I ever was to eat. It was a pathetic story of my sufferings, and of my resolution to end them. It said, "Who would groan, and bear the pangs of despised love?" and it finished with a farewell, as sad as I could find words to make it. This letter I sealed and directed; then put it in my pocket, with an intention to drop it into the post-office, at Lime, through which the road to heaven, I had made choice of, lay.
Dorchester beer was written in large characters over the door of the house. I ordered a tankard; and being thirsty with my walk, took off half at my first draught. I felt myself and my courage both much strengthened by the operation; and I continued it till I had swallowed three tankards. Thus armed, I paid my reckoning with great liberality, resumed my walk, and my purpose; and am of opinion, could I have reached the sea, nothing would have prevented my plunging headlong in—but the fight of it. But to my longing eyes this fight was denied.
In the remembrance of what passed this important day, I have very much failed: I know only that I waked from sleep, and found myself on a bed, in a strange room, with an elderly woman sitting by the side of it.
I was seized, on my waking, with a violent sickness; a medical gentleman came to my relies, but did not relieve me; and a certain Mrs. Garnet stood by me, with pity in her looks. In time, the fit abated; the man of medicine gave me a composing draught; and I was put to bed. I slept much and long; and awaked with no complaint but the head-ach, and a degree of nausea.
Invited to the breakfast table of Mrs. Garnet, I went down with great confusion of face; for I had eat of the tree of knowledge, and was ashamed. My confusion was not much abated by the presence of a young lady, who could not compose her muscles to a proper expression of gravity during my examination, which was entered upon very politely, but rather too soon, by Mrs. Garnet.
Her very first question was embarrassing. "May I be permitted, young gentleman, to enquire your name?"
I blushed; I thought of my valiant father; the name of Grooby was in my head, but timidity was at my heart, and I answered, stammeringly, Gregory Glen.
"Have you parents living?"
This was still worse; I blushed my deepest dye, though I never could well tell at what; and with some hesitation I answered, "No."
"Relations, Sir?"
"'No, madam; I am under the care of the Reverend Mr. Brown of Patten-place."
"O! I have heard of him, and probably of you, Sir. Business, I presume, brought you to Lime?"
Worse and worse! I thought Mrs. Garnet very disagreeable, and the young lady very impertinent, for she broke into a titter at the question; indeed Mrs. Garnet reproved her, and said very kindly to me, "Do not let us distress you, young gentleman; I have no motive for this enquiry but your good."
I had hung down my head at the lady's last question, determined upon a sort of sullen silence; but the tone of her voice raised my eyes up to her face, and I saw in it nothing but benignity. I was emboldened by it, and said, I must own, in a perplexed strain of eloquence, "I fear, madam,—I am afraid I have been very troublesome; but indeed— indeed, Madam,—it is the first time—and I hope I shall never repeat it."
"I hope so too," she answered. "You fell into bad company?"
"No, madam? I have not so good an excuse."
"It must be some extraordinary motive, Sir, that could induce you to commit such an excess alone; but you seem an extraordinary young gentleman. May I without rudeness again ask the nature of your business here?"
"Business! madam,—I can't say I have business. To be sure, I had
an intent,—a design—"
The young lady strove not to laugh.
"Yes," Mrs. Garnet answered, "you had an intent; a strange, presumptuous, and permit me to say, wicked intent."
She then read me a long lecture on the subject of suicide; and I was astonished to find all the torments of the damned would have been my portion, for considering my life as my own property, and throwing it away, when I was weary of it.
Mrs. Garnet having concluded, Miss Bently said, with as much gravity as her roguish face could assume, "Madam, your reprehension has been too severe. You have not fully considered the importance of the cause. Do you reflect that it is love, Madam? Love, which excuses, nay sanctifies, all mad actions. Besides, the lover's leap is now so rare an occurrence, it must immortalize the man who jumps. Perhaps Mr. Glen thought of this?"
Mrs. Garnet, without noticing Miss Bently's raillery, continued thus: "When we feared your life was in danger, we searched for your pocket book, that we might know whence you came, and advertise your friends. We found a letter to Mr. Brown; and this informed us of your purpose and its cause. I hope you now see your error?"
"Oh dear!" cries Miss Bently; "but I hope love is a better counsellor. The torch of true love is almost extinct among our present race of beaux. It wants kindling at the altar of Sappho. I hope Mr. Glen will not think of relinquishing his charming design. To be sure, I do not like death in any shape; but in a cause so important, I really think I could attend Mr. Glen, and even give him a push, if I saw his courage fail."
I ventured now, for the first time, to look up in the face of the lady who was giving me this hopeful advice. It was a lovely face; had archness in its expression, but not ill-nature; and I ventured to say, "She could not, for her heart, push me on with half the force her eyes would pull me back."
"Oh! for certain," says she, "I know my eyes have prodigious power to pull; they pulled you over a stile yesterday, with such force, we feared you had broke your bones. Do you remember running, or rather staggering after a young woman whom you called your Statira. I was your Statira; I ran, however, from my Oroondates, and clambered over the stile as fast as possible. So, indeed, did you. I looked back, as Daphne did at Apollo; but my Apollo was now a dull mass of earth. I feared the spirit might have taken its flight to Olympus; so I ran to acquaint Mrs. Garnet—and—"
How long Miss Bently would have persisted in this lively persecution, or how many gods and heroes she would have called to her aid, I know not. She was interrupted by a servant announcing Mr. Brown. It was my revered patron, to whom Mrs. Garnet had wrote the evening before.
To relate the remaining minutia of this affair would be equally tedious and useless. Mr. Brown's reprehension was at once kind and severe. He used arguments to cure my folly; Miss Bently,—eyes. Which had the greatest effect, I dare not pronounce; but I was cured.
This affair laid the foundation of a friendship betwixt Mrs. Garnet and Mr. Brown. It was supported by kind offices and reciprocal visits. I availed myself often of it; nay even drank again of the cup of love. I did not, however, get drunk again, nor apply to the ocean for relief, when my dear Miss Bently gave her hand to a merchant of Lime: It was a mania of another kind which seized my unhappy brain: I thought God had forsaken me. This pious error produced a vast variety of silly delusions, and cost Mr. Brown abundant trouble to eradicate.
It had, before these events, been frequently debated to what art, mystery, trade, or profession, I should apply, in order to acquire some property I might call my own. Mr. Brown and myself were agreed on the propriety of such a measure, but never on the means. When I had recovered from my late pious disease, my friend was advancing very fast in infirmity. He seemed to love me more, for the trouble I had occasioned him: He seemed to lean upon me for all the remaining comfort of his life. I would not now have left him for any prospect of fortune; at least, I hope not; for I must own I never was assailed by the temptation.
It was in the sixth year of that era, which I must always consider as the epocha of my folly, that I lost my benefactor. How grateful to me is his remembrance! His niece was, as she ought to be, the heiress of his property, except his books, and the sum of 2001. which he bequeathed to me.
I was now, by condition, to migrate, or forfeit my father's settlement. "The world was all before me, where to fix my place of rest;" so I fixed it in London; not doubting, that in so universal a market for talents, mine also would find their value. I had a recommendation, from a friend of Mrs. Garnet's, to a city acquaintance; who introduced me into genteel company. I was also admitted in a compting-house; a fortnight's occupation of which convinced me that my genius was not the genius of multiplication and division. I next got an introduction to a club of literati. I drank of the waters of Helicon, and produced some pieces of poetry which I thought sublime. I could not bring the booksellers to a coincidence with this opinion; and their impertinent requisitions of improvement soon rendered their society inconvenient to my feelings.
Instead of an opening for the exercise of my talents, I found one in my purse, through which had flowed, in eight little months, the sum total of my legacy: Such is the force of genteel company, genteel cloaths, and genteel reckonings. I correct myself. I had saved 501. out of this sum, by laying it out in books, music, and mathematical instruments.
It was, however, no unfavourable circumstance, that as my purse declined, I began to call the amusements of London frivolous, and when it was exhausted, I said they were concontemptible. O rus! quando te ego aspiciam, was oft upon my lips; and I read Thomson's seasons by way of corroborant. Yet, though I sighed for the country, and detested, or said I detested the town, it was not without some violence that I prevailed upon my legs to carry me over Westminster-Bridge, one fine morning in May. As I advanced, I congratulated myself on my escape; looked back and sighed; saw St. Paul's towering with majestic grandeur; became sensible I had not sufficiently examined that superb edisice; walked one hundred yards towards it; felt in my pockets; called the town a link of iniquity; turned again, and trod, with angry strides, the road to Exeter.
At Exeter lived the banker to whom I was to apply for my annuity. Half a year was due. Thus recruited, I went forward, to see, and take leave of my kind Mrs. Garnet; for Lime was within the forbidden precincts. Alas! I saw her not: A fatal accident had involved her in the greatest grief: A vessel of Mr. Garnet's, returning from Jamaica, was wrecked on the Scilly Islands, himself on board. All was lost: No life spared,—no part of the cargo recovered. I heard, however, she was surrounded by friends; and as I was every way unable to assist her, I willingly spared to her, and to myself, the addition of grief which an interview would have produced.
This good woman had often spoke with pleasure of the village of Grondale, on the borders of Cornwall. It was her native place. I had long desired to see it; and if it answered Mrs. Garnet's description, I thought it would suit my taste as a residence. With this intention I proceeded.
Just on this side the village, I crossed a widely extended heath, called Lippen-moor. Rude, rocky, craggy, and furnishing only a fine short grass to small number of sheep. On the edge of this moor, I was struck with a prospect the most beautiful I thought I had ever seen. It was a narrow, but fertile valley, watered by the small river Gron. The opposite bank was a gentle declivity, on which were to be seen six villages or hamlets, many agreeable houses, with woods, corn-fields, and pasture. This was a varied view of several miles in length.
Just under my feet, at the bottom of the valley, was the small clean village of Grondale, with its spire in the centre, almost hid by the lofty elms, and orchard trees, which contribute to form the singular beauty of this little spot. Up the Gron, on the right, stand the ruins of a convent, many centuries the domicile of a succession of holy drones, who buzzed about, sucked the fairest flowers of the vale, and stung where they could extract no honey.
Above this ruin, on the summit of a hill, are the remains of the Castle of Grondale. One tower is left, and enough of the battlements to shew how savage a grandeur once sortified its own tyranny against the tyranny of others.
But the most pleasing of all the objects, now under my view, is a stately structure of the gothic kind, half modernized, once the seat of friendship and hospitality,—now of Lord Grondale.
When I had satiated myself with this delightful prospect, I descended to the village, where I found a spacious public house. Here I took up my abode a few days; every one of which increased my inclination to become an inhabitant. Two agreeable apartments I found at the house of a respectable widow, where I have resided five years.
By the aid of philosophy, I have got rid of ambition; and may it please Venus, I hope also of love. I amuse myself sometimes with the Georgium Sidus, with my pen, my pencil, my siddle; sometimes with shuttle-cocks and butterflies. I have nothing to do but what I like; and my principal embarrassment has been, to find what I liked to do.
But of myself I have spoke long enough; let me now speak of others; more particularly of those who have some connexion with those recent events which have induced me to write this veritable history.
Of the animated beings of the vale, high towers above the rest, in rank and wealth, the great Lord Grondale. Indeed he had been always super-eminent. In his younger years, when only Sir Henry Campinet, he was a man of the very first ton: He acknowledged no superior in matters of gallantry; and had not many in the two great trades carried on at Newmarket, and in the neighbourhood of St. James's.
This is a sober, a very sober age; and yet men, even great men, contrive to procure themselves the drinking diseases of older times. Upon Sir Henry the gout had spent its force at the early age of forty; and had left him a tolerable complication of diseases. On the approach to sixty, his present age, his once blooming complexion had been yellowed by jaundice, and his jolly person emaciated by some one or other of the marasmi.
His political career was short, and much à-la-mode d' Angleterre, in the 18th century. He began with opposition; but his orations not being remarkable for brilliancy or depth, his ambition could not be decently supported by flattery and as there was no emolument, there was no stimulus for avarice. Some necessities arising, from want of success in commerce, —I mean the commerce of the great— induced him to turn his thoughts toward administration. There he was certain of reception, for he was admirably gifted. He was not addicted to scruples, and had, besides, several Cornish boroughs. He accepted an office; was, like many of his predecessors, instantly illumined, and felt the error of his former perceptions.
But at court, they say, appetite grows by what it feeds on, till it becomes insatiable. Sir Henry asked, I suppose, and was denied; for there is a fatal necessity imposed upon ministers, of denying sometimes. He returned back to opposition; himself, indeed, despised by both parties, but not so his boroughs. At length the ministerial manager of that branch of traffic, bade him a barony for them; and Sir Henry Campinet was metamorphosed into Lord Grondale.
Whether this was done by writ, or by patent, I never enquired. It is sufficient for me to know, I mean by their effects on the fortunate few they light upon, that they are charming things both; that they raise man far above man, and nearer to the divinity, since kings have once more become divine; and enable him to look down on the lesser inhabitants of this best of worlds, with a due consciousness of his great superiority.
Lord Grondale had ran a long race of pleasure, and had begun to feel its pains and penalties, before he thought of an heir for his illustrious house. For this laudable purpose he made choice of the younger of two sister ladies; a lovely woman, and good as beautiful; with no great fortune, and still less of fashionable propensities. This lady was mistress of Grondale Hall about eight years, and brought his lordship three children, all females; and affront Lord Grondale never could forgive. She died,—not quite of a broken heart, and not much indebted to Lord Grondale for kindness, one child only surviving her. It was her dying request to his lordship, that this daughter, Caroline, should be brought up by Mrs. Merrick, her sister, who, in order to be near Lady Grondale, had settled in a small, but elegant house, in the parish of Grondale; almost the only one, not his lordship's property. This request his kind lordship was so good as to grant; with more pleasure to himself than he chose to shew externally; for it would render his freedom more perfect; and Grondale Hall might again become the summer seat of those pleasures which Bacchus, which Venus, which Mercury, are said to preside over, if Mercury be the deity of cards and dice.
But for the practice of this class of pleasures, London has such superior accommodation, that Lord Grondale was seldom at his country seat, till a long fit of gout, a confequent debility, and the advice of his physicians, sent, or more properly, exiled him thither. In a situation so sorlorn, some men would have thought of a daughter, now growing into loveliness, for a companion; and of Mrs. Merrick for the superintendance of his household. But this must suppose a vast change in his lordship's manner of thinking; and it was his body, not his mind, which had undergone the change. He fixed, therefore, upon a Mrs. Stone, an officer's widow, and a person of great merit, his lordship said; and who was so good as to condescend to take upon herself this heavy load of superintendance.
To this lady, the society of her own sex was insipid; and Grondale Hall was freed from the impertinent intrusion of dowager ladies, and ladies of rigid decorum. Instead of these, it received into its capacious bosom a few gentleman of his lordship's acquaintance, who, when the twon was empty, had the goodness to take their summer recreations at Grondale, and indulge his lordship with a taste of his once dear amusements.
The next person upon the canvas, is Dr. Blick, rector of Grondale and Sithin; a man perfectly orthodox in matters of church and state, such as these bad times require; and, thank heaven, we have plenty of them. Dr. Blick's merit was indeed great; I cannot say it had been fully rewarded. Hitherto he had arisen in the church no higher than a poor canon, which, with the product of three livings; for he had one in commendum, scarce produced him 1000l. a year. But if he joins to that merit, which now leads to honours, the agreeable art of assentation, no man knows to what dignities he may arise. Dr. Blick could not accuse himself of any neglect of this art, where the application might be useful; more especially to his patron, Lord Grondale; whose peculiar merit he conceived to be such, that even a bishopric, could he be induced to ask it for a friend, would scarce be refused him by administration. He was therefore much devoted to his lordship; and, at his express desire, had qualified for a justice of peace; in which capacity he had been of use to his lordship, in those little animosities which great men do admit to their bosoms on great occasions; such as killing a hare or partridge without due qualification, or voting against a candidate whose cause they espouse.
There is a person—vel hic vel hæc—no matter,—who does me the favour to marshall my commas and colons,—regulate my ifs and ands,—and correct my errors of orthography; who at this place surprised, and indeed vexed me, by a bolder criticism. So far, says my critic, you have amused yourself with drawing characters; if that be the end and intention of your book, I have nothing more to say than to advise you to study brevity and Theophrastus. If your design be, as I understood it, to exhibit actions and events, I submit it to your superior judgment, if it might not be altogether as agreeable to your readers, to form for themselves the characters of your drama, from their good or evil deeds. Tell us what they do, and we shall be able to find out whether they were wise or follish, rough or smooth, discreet or vain, or drunk or sober. To which I replied, —but whether by a kiss or a cuff, I am not at present disposed to say. It is sufficient to acknowledge, that the remark, when I had taken a proper time to digest it, had its weight, and determined me to come more immediately to the relation of those matters which induced me to add one more to the numerous list of authors.
Mrs. Merrick, the maternal aunt of Miss Campinet, was a maiden lady, who having in her youth been deserted by her lover for a richer woman, had ever since looked upon the dark side of man, shunned his intercourse, and almost secluded herself from society. Habit, and an unbounded affection for her aunt, who well deserved it, had rendered Miss Campinet as much a recluse as herself. To this young lady, therefore, books and music were necessaries of life; to which she added drawing, and the various arts of the needle. Nature had been extremely indulgent to her, both in mind and person; if it is indulgence to give that dangerous thing called beauty, and that unprofitable quality, benevolence.
Hitherto, indeed, her beauty had bloomed to the desart air, and her benevolence had been confined to the distressed and humble beings of the valley. The character of her dress, as it was little directed to the gratification of vanity, was elegant simplicity; a term, which, with equal justice, might be applied to her mind.
Lord Grondale was not wholly ignorant that he had such a daughter; he even saw her sometimes; although there was, from some cause or other, a sort of repulsive power betwixt Mrs. Merrick and Mrs. Stone, which kept them from approaching each other. Miss Campinet's allowance, from her father, was 200l. per annum, for board and all expences. From a man of Lord Grondale's fortune, it might have been more; but his lordship had now become avaritious, and did not, beside, like to hear of any charities but his own. Mrs. Merrick's household, formed upon the interest of 70001. could not be large. Three female servants, two male, two horses, and a chair. The last, lately purchased, for the sake of frequent airings for Mrs. Merrick, now, unhappily, in a declining state.
It was a fine autumnal evening, when I, the humble writer of these memoirs, returning from an afternoon's visit to the curate of Sithin, saw a sort of wild disorder in the village of Grondale, which denoted something extraordinary. I made up to the first group, mostly women. One prayed, "The Lord have mercy upon us all."
"And keep us from harm," said another; "for without his care what are we?"
"Well," said a third, "we are all mortal, —all must die,—rich as well as poor,—all flesh is grass."
"But such a good young body!" said a fourth; "we poor folk shall have a mortal miss of her: Ah, poor dear soul! we shall see her no more in a frosty morning, tripping along, to see if there was any coals to burn in the cottages, and any bread in the pantry;—but she was too good for this world."
"Pray," I asked, "who are you thus lamenting?"
"Oh dear, Mr. Glen, have not you heard?"
"No—nothing."
"Poor dear Miss Campinent!"
"What,—dead?"
"Dead! Lord help us! smashed to pieces down Lippen crag."
A cold rigor and trembling seized me; I grew sick a pace; and hastening home, threw myself on my bed, in a state of mind I am utterly unable to describe.
Miss Campinet! one of the fairest,—but that may be disputed,—certainly one of the best of her endearing sex. I loved her!—yes, I loved her! But if there be a spiritual affection, such was mine. I thought of her, as of an angel whom I might secretly adore; not as of a woman whom I might presume to love. Admitted sometimes to her tea-table, I was treated with the most engaging affability; sometimes her almoner, I have been obliged to repress her benevolence. With my violin, I have been permitted to accompany her at the piano forte. She has condescended to accept the loan of my books and music. I have been honoured with hers. But though thus affable, thus friendly, there was about her a dignified reserve,—a guarded propriety in her most engaging sweetness, that must have checked those vain and foolish ideas youth is so apt to form, had I been silly enough to have permitted an entrance to any such, within my bosom.
So should I have thought for ever of the amiable Miss Campinet, had this been really the fatal period of our acquintance. But same, as usual, had blown her trumpet with too loud a blast. Death had come near, too near, the lovely girl, but had not reached her: Down Lippen crag, she had not fallen, though within a few moments, in point of time; and a few yards, in point of space.
Without an engraving, I despair of making my readers understand the ensuing description; and the patrons of this humble sort of book-making, are not sufficiently liberal to enable a poor author to gratify his readers and himself in this particular. However, when the public ask a fourth edition, I will certainly give it, with a map, at my own expence.
Mrs. Merrick and her niece, returning from their evening's airing, were pacing slowly along the edge of the moor, a thick coppice on their right, down a steep declivity, to the edge of the Gron; the servant following at some distance behind, on a young horse, but in a careless posture; when a gun was fired in the coppice, within ten yards of this horse's ear; at the same instant, a black spaniel, pursuing some birds, burst the coppice, barking, just under his nose. The horse, in an instant, threw his rider, passes the chair horse, snorting, on full gallop; but, instead of turning down the oblique road to the village, kept strait forward, along the edge of the moor. The chair horse, regardless of the reins, sprung after his fellow with all his strength. This then was the situation of the ladies: On their right, the coppice continued; a rising, but uneven ground, on their left, leading to the top of the moor; in front, and at two hundred yards distance, Lippen Crag, a rock with a perpendicular descent to the Gron, and measuring one hundred and four yards from its surface.
A well dressed young man, whom I cannot now stay to describe, was at this instant on the verge of the crag, viewing the prospect. The saddle horse, unable to stop, had taken the leap, and was dashed to atoms. The young man saw the quick approach of the ladies in the chair to the same unavoidable destiny. If ever it is allowable in sound philosophy, to suppose providence directing the actions of individuals, one may suppose it now. Great, indeed, were the chances against finding any one upon this dreary spot, and infinite against finding a man, undaunted by danger, and capable of preserving his recollection at the moment of terrible surprise. Such, however, was the person before us: He saw the imminent instant; and running to meet the horse, placed himself on the lower side; then seizing the reins, as he passed, flew along with the wild creature, who could not be suddenly stopped, turned his head toward the rising ground; and about ten yards from the brink of the crag, had by strength and agility alone, changed his direction, and forced him upwards, till he had obtained ground on which the chair stood firm. As to the poor horse, trembling and exhausted, he seemed to have as little inclination as power to move.
The stranger then turned to assist the ladies. The elder, with open eyes, which seemed not to see, might have been taken for one of Ovid's ladies, passing from life into stone.
The other had fainted. The whip and reins had dropped from her lifeless hands; and death fat, or seemed to the youth to fit, on the fairest face he thought he had ever beheld. He gazed upon her with mute sorrow, trembled, perhaps for the first time, and for the first time feared death.
This sad and awful spectacle had not long occupied his attention, when the servant came up, his forehead covered with blood. The man had seen the whole; had seen that nothing but a miracle could save his mistress, and had seen that miracle performed. He was therefore well disposed to consider the person before him, as possessed of more than mortal power.
"I presume you are the ladies' servant?" said the stranger.
The man answered, "I am, Sir."
"The young lady seems in the most imminent danger; yet I thought I heard her sigh; if so, she is recoverable; assist me in getting her out of the chaise."
The man obeyed. They placed her on the rock, just covered with moss, the stranger sitting down to support her, and inclining her head upon his breast. It was not long before she opened her eyes; and their first object was the bleeding servant. Instantly they were closed again.
"Pray, don't be frightened, madam," says the man; "it is me,—your servant Philip."
"Philip!" says the young lady, again opening her eyes.
Then perceiving a man's hand and arm round her waist, "Bless me!" she cried, a saint blush tinging her cheek.
"I am your servant also," said the stranger; "be under no apprehension."
Blushing, she looked up in the stranger's face; there was nothing in it likely to inspire terror; its present expression was the softest compassion.
"Philip!" said Mrs. Merrick, beginning to recollect, "where are we? I am very sick,—come hither."
"Permit me, madam," said the stranger, to the young lady, "to support you a little longer, till you have more perfectly recovered your memory and strength."
"Sir," said Miss Campinet, trying to rise, "I have not the honour to know you."
"Nor I, madam, that of knowing you; I only know that I feel infinite happiness in having been able to serve you."
"Oh dear! I remember now; I thought I died."
"No, madam," says Philip to Mrs. Merrick, "it was out of my power to give you the least assistance: I lay bleeding on the ground: It was that gentleman there, that gentleman; he did what I thought impossible: He saved your life and my young lady's, and, by God's blessing, did not lose his own. See, madam, how near you was to the crag."
"For God's sake!" said Mrs. Merrick, "let us get away from this horrid place; lead the horse a great way, and hold him fast."
The man did so.
"And am I, Sir," says Miss Campinet to the stranger; "am I so infinitely obliged to you?"
"If there was such a goddess as Misfortune," said the stranger, "I ought to raise an altar to her, for calling on me at such an instant."
"You are very polite, Sir," the lady answered; "my thanks and gratitude are yours. My father, I hope,—Lord Grondale—"
"It is Miss Campinet, then, to whom I have the pleasure to speak."
She bowed.
"And," continues the stranger, "she acknowledges obligation and gratitude, to such payment, what can Lord Grondale add?"
"Thanks more substantial," the lady replied.
"The most substantial good," said the stranger, "I can derive from a circumstance that might have been so deplorable, I have already,—my own pleasure, my own approbation. I am not in pursuit of fortune."
Miss Campinet looked at the gentleman with some surprise; "Can man," says she, "be too much favoured by fortune?"
"Yes, madam," the stranger answered; "much too much; England has eminent proofs. If I have learned any thing more particularly, it is a very limited adoration of this universal deity, and to pay little respect to those who have no title to respect, save from her favours."
"Such youth and such philosophy!" said the lady; "can the alliance be natural?"
"I should think it was," the stranger answered; "since it was of the sons of nature I learned it."
An exclamation of Mrs. Merrick's broke this conversation. Supported by the stranger, Miss Campinet moved towards her aunt, who complained of extreme illness. She had not advanced many steps, before, hearing a noise, she turned her head, and saw Lord Grondale's carriage; which, in an instant, came up, and from which his lordship immediately alighted.
Anger and politeness are seldom coexistent qualities, and Lord Grondale was angry. The spot on which Miss Campinet had been seated, was a very conspicuous one. Lord Grondale, who was taking his accustomed airing alone this evening, saw an unusual appearance upon it, and directing his pocket telescope to the object, saw his daughter, the daughter of Lord Grondale, leaning on the bosom of a young man. He ordered himself to be driven with all speed to the spot; and whether from a love of his daughter or his dignity; or whether from the rapidity of his driving, he found himself on his arrival, in a high degree of passion. Yet he did not knock the stranger down,—he did not. He only said, with the air of a great and angry man, "Who are you, Sir?"
The young man returned him a kind of contemptuous smile, but said nothing.
In a still more angry voice Lord Grondale repeated his question.
"I am a man, Sir," replied the stranger.
"What man, Sir?" his lordship asked.
"Not of authority," the gentleman answered; "and I rejoice at it, since the possession is so little calculated to make mankind amiable."
"My dear father!" said Miss Campinet.
Her dear father, without paying her the least attention, said, "Are you intitled, Sir, to be thus familiar with the daughter of Lord Grondale?"
"I think I am," answered the gentleman, coolly.
"Loose her, Sir," said his lordship.
"Can you stand, Miss Campinet?" the stranger asked.
"Oh yes, Sir,—yes."
He withdrew his arm; she tottered a few steps, and would have fallen, had he not again caught her.
"What is all this?" said his lordship. "Is any thing the matter, Caroline? Are you ill, or perverse? Who is this young man?"
"Dear Sir!" said Miss Campinet, "have you not heard?"
"Heard what?" said his lordship. "I have heard nothing; but I have seen—seen, Caroline,—your head resting upon this young man's bosom. Was that fit for a father to see?"
Miss Campinet could not answer; she could only blush.
"Yes, Sir," said the stranger, "most fit."
"You may think so, Sir," returned his lordship; "but I must be better acquainted with your rank and fortune before I shall."
"My fortune," answered the stranger, "kings might envy; it is equal to my desires. As to rank,—I have been taught only to distinguish men by virtue."
"Very plain and unceremonious, Sir," said his lordship. "Caroline, lean upon my arm; it is proper I should support you."
"Since, then," says the stranger, "I can no longer be of service, permit me, Miss Campinet, to wish you every possible happiness."
"I hope, Sir," she answered, "you will give me an early opportunity to thank you for—"
The gentleman bowed, and springing down the hill, leaped into the coppice, and was out of sight in an instant.
"Why this," said his frowning lordship, "this is absolute invitation, Caroline,—and before me too."
"Could I say less, Sir, to the man, who, at the risk of his own life, has just saved mine?"
"Your life!"
"Oh Sir! but for him I had been dashed to pieces. To the attitude, which so much displeased you, I was totally insensible. He thought it death."
"All this is incomprehensible."
They were obliged, however, to defer the explanation, on account of the increasing illness of Mrs. Merrick. Both the ladies, his lordship took into his own carriage, and conveyed to Mrs. Merrick's.
As to the explanation, it met his lordship soon enough. He could not absolutely deny the action to be gallant; but what young fellow would not have done the same? The eclat was great and sufficient reward. As to himself, the obligation, if there was any, was cancelled by the impertinent behaviour of the fellow, who ever he was.
"Would you believe it," said his lordship to Doctor Blick, "though I told him I was Lord Grondale, he still spoke to me with the appellation of Sir; and had the impudence to tell me he did not mind my rank."
The Reverend Doctor Blick seldom walked; but he rode sometimes out in his chariot; and as he was a profound antiquarian, would sometimes stop to view the remains of the castle, the convent, or a remarkable place which had much the appearance of an encampment. It was at the latter place, the day after the affair of the preceding chapter, he observed a gentleman viewing it attentively. The doctor alighted, and giving the stranger the good-morrow, said, "This place, Sir, seems to take your attention, and is indeed worthy of it. I presume you know this was once a Roman camp?"
"No, Sir," the stranger replied, "I do not know it."
"Nothing can be plainer, Sir. You see it was a square. Here must have stood the pretorium, here the augurale; that, Sir, must have been the decuman gate."
"I see, indeed, ground on which these things might have been,—nothing to indicate with certainty that they were."
"I have studied the place so long, Sir, and with so much attention, that I can demonstrate it. I can tell you exactly where were the stations of the volites, the hastati, the triarii; their centurions and tribunes."
"They cannot arise to contradict you, Sir; nor shall I."
"I wish to convince you."
"Do not take the trouble, Sir. I have seen many places of encampment like this. Some where the Romans never were. But they shall be all Roman, to oblige you."
"You have travelled, then, I presume, Sir; but you are too young to have travelled much."
"Too young, perhaps, to have travelled to much purpose; but I have trod much ground."
"Trod, Sir! Is that term proper? I presume you did not travel on foot."
"Chiefly so, Sir."
"On foot, Sir."
""On foot."
This was a circumstance that could not fail, in a mind like Doctor Blick's, to abate something of the respect which the gentleman's dress and manner might have produced: It did not, however, abate his curiosity.
"Pray, Sir, may I ask if you travel for profit or pleasure?"
"Not certainly for profit, if by profit you mean money."
"May I, without presumption, ask you another question?"
"Oh, Sir,—what you please. It is seldom that I have met a gentleman willing to take so much trouble about me."
"This mode of travelling,—may it be choice or economy?"
"It may be both. And your question, Sir,—may it be curiosity, or an inquisition into my purse?"
"Sir,—I—I—am—am rector of this parish —Sir,—and we think ourselves intitled, Sir, to make certain enquiries, Sir, when strangers come into it."
"And do all strangers think you entitled to information?"
"They ought."
"I fear, reverence for the clergy,—I rather mean implicit obedience,—does not stand so high now, as when the castle and the convent now in view, were filled by illustrious barons and holy monks."
"A little more reverence for the clergy would be no dishonour to these times, I presume."
"They have less, in your opinion, than they merit."
"Yes, Sir,—do you say the contrary?"
"Oh, no!—I have no inclination to be libelled for heresy; Sir, I wish you a good morning."
Mrs. Merrick had a relation at Falmouth, a cousin, whose name was Sumelin, a banker, opulent and respectable. To him, as guardian, a Mr. Fluart had confided his only child, a daughter, with a fortune of 20,000l. Miss Fluart, seven years old at her father's death, was now twenty. At sixteen she was taken from the boarding-school, —I beg pardon,—seminary; and Mr. Sumelin was much perplexed what to do with her. In his youth he had been much abroad, and had looked at men and women of great varities of colour, modes, and manners. He had even looked at kings and queens,—at lamas, bonzes, and muftis; and having compared and considered what they might, could, or should have done, with what they did, he could not always determine, whether they were delegates from heaven above, or from the earth below; or whether mankind had arrived at its ultimatum of perfection and happiness, under any church or any state, or under any alliance between them. That this is a heterodoxy most abhorred, I own; and I am sorry it should exist in any of these my people; but truth being a necessary evil in this world sometimes, a poor biographer has not the right to dispense with it, as have the distinguished personages whom I shall always look up to as my divinities here on earth. But I am making my own reflections, when I should be making Mr. Sumelin's; a man of integrity, indeed, in his dealings, but of insanity in his notions, as wisdom goes now. In short, a very odd man.
But neither Mrs. Sumelin, nor her eldest daughter, Harriot, were ever charged with oddity. On the contrary, they were so extremely like ladies in general, that every man's eyes and ears may save me the trouble of drawing their portraits.
Mrs. Sumelin had seen her tenth lustrum. At eighteen she was angelic; for she had a smooth white skin and 120001. In intellect, not super-abundant; nor was it necessary; for to the shining qualities above-mentioned, understanding may or may not be added; it is of little consequence, especially in genteel life. Its want may be copiously supplied by vanity.
Miss Sumelin,—many fathers would have doated on her, for she was a perfect copy of her mother. Fond to excess of the fine and fashionable, and an adorer of sweet pretty things. It is not amongst the soibles of the dear sex that I place these propensities; for I believe it pleased God to make them a part of the constitution of their natures; and surely, in his last, best work, there could be no imperfection.
So, I fear, did not Mr. Sumelin think. Against these innocent and elegant penchants, he frequently darted his keenest arrows; but they fell dead to the ground, repelled by the panoply of this mother and daughter; and Mr. Sumelin had the satisfaction, in common with most husbands, to see these charming inclinations grow into passions, under his reprobation.
Charlotte, the youngest daughter, was not so exact a copy of her mother; her resemblances were more to her father; and this, perhaps, was the cause why the paternal affections were rather stronger than the maternal and sisterly. Of the age of Miss Fluart, she had been mostly with her at the seminary; and I believe had imbibed a stronger affection for her than for any other human being.
For the rest, one found in the family of Mr. Sumelin, a portion of love and harmony, such as is usually given. They might, indeed, sometimes say disagreeable things to each other; but the balance of power lay, as it always ought, with the ladies; for Miss Sumelin, making it a rule never to differ from her mother when her father did, the gentleman was consequently outvoted in matters of action, and out-talked in matters of speculation; which little inconveniences he was obliged to bear as well as he was able,— and he generally bore them best at a tavern.
Poets and fabulists agree, that men are not animals very quicksighted to their own errors; but that they are seldom blind to the errors of their wives, much beyond the honey moon. I believe Mr. Sumelin is not to be charged with any defect of vision. He saw that his own house was not such a residence for Miss Fluart, as he could entirely approve, and he determined to place her with some judicious female friend. Of these he had not a very copious list; and on scrutiny, one accident or other, too much or too little affluence, —too much or too little wisdom,—too much or too little good humour, rendered every individual not the exact person he could have wished. The highest in his estimation stood Mrs. Merrick; but she was too much a recluse. So, at length, he agreed that his ward should live half with her, and half with himself at Falmouth.
So far as it enlarged their circle of pleasures, Mrs. and Miss Sumelin liked this very well; but in the cup of enjoyment, there is usually some ill tasted ingredient or other: In the company of Miss Fluart, Miss Sumelin was less a goddess. Is there on earth one sovereign, male or female, who can bear, equo animo, a diminution of sovereignity?
At the time we are now writing of Miss Fluart and her friend, Charlotte Sumelin, were at Falmouth. A very regular correspondence was kept up by the fair friends during their separation. I am not allowed to oblige my readers with the whole of it; but with those letters only which have some connexion with my present purpose. A few days after her accident, Miss Campinet received the following; with it I chuse to begin.
"I Hope, Miss Campinet, you have been fretting and fuming, though not so much as to hurt your complexion, that post after post should pass by Grondale-place, without leaving a letter from my ladyship. To how many causes can you have attributed this prodigy? Imprimis,—she is dead. Not quite so bad as that neither. Secondly,—she is married. Not quite so good as that. Thirdly,—she is eloped. A tolerable conjecture, my dear; but you have mistaken the person. Yes, we have had an elopement, sure enough; and if half the squirrels of Falmouth had died, the bustle could scarce have been greater. Poor Harriet Sumelin, the idol of her dear mother, a pattern to all the daughters of men in this town and its precincts, has so tainted her fame, that I do not believe she will be consulted this month, even about a new cap.
"Mr. Sumelin's head clerk, a Mr. Fillygrove, is the author of this mass of evil; a young man with a sweet pretty face, and two well enough shaped legs. These are considered as great accomplishments by young ladies; and the contemplation of them, does probably add to the happiness of the possessors, if one may judge by Mr. Fillygrove. If this young gentleman happens to be placed over against a pier glass at dinner, if he drinks your health, his looks are directed not to you, but the glass; so, if he answers a question. Once, when he was addressed, and it became evidently necessary to direct his regards to the person he was going to answer, he intended so to do, unluckily his eye, on its road, caught the mirror, was fascinated by it, and the poor youth found it impossible to break the charm. In a walk, you see him, once a minute, bend in graceful curvature,— throw a glance at those adorable legs,—and resume his erect position with increased perpendicularity. Let us do the man justice however; he has merit in the compting-house; and his father can, if he chuses, give him two or three thousand pounds.
"Miss Harriet Sumelin could not resist such weighty attractions. She was the first to feel the power of the little winged deity; but the young man, either not having received a reciprocal wound, or not having advanced in effrontery so far as to pretend to a daughter of Mr. Sumelin, a 40,000 pounder, it created a sort of an embarrassment in the poor lady, how she should give him the necessary confidence without wounding her own delicacy. Love may be, and I believe is sometimes, very igenious; but not being able to teach ingenuity to Harriet, she was obliged to have recourse to the vulgar method of telling him all about it with her eyes. The language was intelligible enough; they soon came to a right understanding; and neither of them having the least hope of consent from the lady's father, they very rightly resolved not to ask it, and trust paternal affection for pardon. So off one night they went for Dover; intending to marry at Calais and return.
"The affair was perfectly understood in the morning, by a very dutiful epistle, which Harriet had left behind her, to instruct papa and mamma; and in which, she laid the fault, if there was any fault, upon destiny; for she was sure marriages were made in heaven. We were all, that is, the ladies of the family, very much affected to be sure. Mrs. Sumelin testified her's by scolding and clamour; Charlotte, by tears, and almost by convulsions; I, by silence and meditation. Having all performed our parts a reasonable time, my guardian, who had eaten his breakfast with perfect composure, said, "Well, and for what is all this noise and pother, Mrs. Sumelin? Your daughter is gone to be married, that's all. I suppose you intended she should marry one day?"
"But to marry so much beneath her, Mr. Sumelin,—and such a coxcomb."
"As to his being a coxcomb, my dear, we must set that down as a circumstance in Harriet's favour; coxcombry being the most approved qualification of man, in the mind of woman; and as to his being beneath her, I know not what that means."
"No! Mr. Sumelin: So rich as you are, and a young lady with your daughter's accomplishments."
"As to riches, Mrs. Sumelin, they are my own, and at my own disposal. I may give Mrs. Fillygrove a large fortune, and I may not. It is true, I do not much like masses of money in the hands of fools; but she is my daughter; I shall not let her want; and her puppy husband may one day be weaned of his folly, and may make as respectable a man as his poverty of understanding will permit."
"And so you really mean to forgive them without any ado?"
"Forgive them! yes. Why, I am hardly offended."
"In truth, if the old gentleman had spoke the whole truth, I believe he was rather pleased than offended.
"And you will not send after them, to stop them?" asked Mrs. Sumelin.
"No, really, I will not."
"Mrs. Sumelin continuing much upon the fret, Mr. Sumelin went to the comptinghouse; and we saw no more of him, (a thing that happens often) till the next morning. Indeed, we scarce saw him for several days after this; for Mrs. Sumelin was always at him, with all the agreeable garrulousness of a fretful woman; and the candour of a wife, who is perfectly convinced that her husband is always wrong.
About the sixth day, Mr. Sumelin introduced to us a gentleman from France, an American born, I believe, but having property in France, had been there some years; and not liking, I suppose, the politics of that country, had been selling his property; remitting part of the produce to Mr. Sumelin, to whom he had been recommended by a house in Philadelphia, in order to have it invested in the English funds.
"How shall I describe this young stranger to you, my dear? He looks like a man, I think, and yet I have seen but few men look like him. He is not an Adonis, like Mr. Fillygrove; nor does he resemble that accomplished personage in dress or in manners. The latter are, indeed, rather open and engaging, than graceful. There is an ease about him, but it is an unstudied, unimitated ease. It seems his own; and becomes him so well, that he acquiries our good will, almost before he has spoke. That his conversation will support his credit with ladies in general, is more than I dare affirm. I will give you a small specimen, that you may judge for yourself. By the bye, he has a very ugly name; Hermsprong; it founds monstrous Germanish.
Mr. Sumelin. "Have you left America long?"
Mr. Hermsprong. "About five years."
S. "Since then you have resided in France?"
H. "Properly speaking, I have not resided any where. Smitten with
the love of being seen, I have shewed myself to half Europe; returning
occasinally to France, as I was wanted."
S. "They are going on there in a strange way."
H. "Yes, strange and new. I speak of the causes which animate the
French; for as to the means—the destruction of the human species—it
has been a favourite mode with power of every denomination, ever since
power was."
S. "What are these causes you speak of?"
H. "To make mankind wiser and better."
S. "And do you approve the means?"
H. What—all? Oh no! it is left to the loyal Englishman; and is, I
am told, a new prerogative,—to approve by the lump. All! no, Sir! All
the malignant, as well as the better passions, are afloat in France;
and malignant actions are the consequence. Many of the acts of the
assembly are acts of necessity; and some, no doubt, of folly."
"I'm sure," says Mrs. Sumelin, "if you had approved them, you must have been a strange sort of gentleman."
"Perhaps I am, madam; but will you favour me with your reasons?"
"Are not they all atheists?" the lady asked. "And have not they robbed the nobility and the parsons? and don't they hate kings?"
"There may be many such shocking creatures among the men, madam; but the ladies, I assure you, are still pious,—still loyal,—still addicted to rank and title: The English ladies can scarce be fonder of distinction. Notwithstanding their boasted principle of equality, madam, there are very few of the better sort of ladies in France, who would forgive a daughter who married beneath her. I am informed the English ladies, though they do love rank, are in this particular more placable."
"I fear, Sir," said Mr. Sumelin, pleasantly, "you are not well informed."
"I appeal to the ladies. You gentlemen are said at present to boast of cherishing prejudices, because they are prejudices; ladies cannot be thus absurd."
"No, faith! I will do the things what honour I can: This pitch they have not reached: They do, indeed, stick as fast by their prejudices as men can do; not for the curious reason above-mentioned, but because they like them; especially when they are founded upon their vanities."
"We are sure to have your good word," replied Mrs. Sumelin; "but I hope, Mr. —pray what is your name, Sir?"
"Hermsprong, madam."
"I hope, Mr. Humsprung, you have more sense than to believe him?"
"Oh,—I don't usually give gentlemen much credit, when they rail at the ladies; least of all on the subject we are now treating of. Could you, madam, could any mother, if she had a daughter who had unfortunately fixed her affections not quite so prudently as she ought? Could you tear her from your bosom, and give her misery, only for seeking her own happiness?"
"Mrs. Sumelin seemed to sit uneasily upon her chair.
"No, madam," continued the orator, "I see an expression in your fine face, (and indeed her fine face was rather rosy) that will not permit me to suppose you can have a hard heart."
"Sir,—pray, Sir,—" said Mrs. Sumelin, "have you heard?"
"What, madam?"
"That I have a daughter so circumstanced?"
"Indeed! then I hope I am not decived in my opinion?"
"Do you know what a wretch she has gone off with?"
"Is he a highwayman, madam?"
No, Lord bless me! (a little peevishly;) but I wish I had never seen
him. Sure, Mr. Sumelin, was bewitched when he took him into his house.
He is the greatest coxcomb—"
"The charge is true, no doubt," says my guardian; "and yet the
ladies never made the discovery till he was gone."
"A message from the compting-house called Mr. Sumelin out. "The grand disgrace," said he, as he went, "is having been my clerk."
"I should hardly think that a disgrace," said Mr. Hermsprong.
"Do you know, Sir, what a fortune Mr. Sumelin can give his daughters?"
"Oh,—half a million each, I suppose."
"Lord, Sir,—you are so perverse."
"And yet I question whether some people may not think the reputation of probity, which Mr. Sumelin also possesses, is better even than that of wealth. Besides, he was not always so rich, you know. Was he so, when he was so happy as to win your affections? Oh, if a lady's love could increase as fast as a husband's wealth, how eager all married men would be to get rich."
"Sir, I don't think you talk at all to the purpose."
"I am an ignorant young man, madam roaming up and down the world to pick up little wisdom. I want to read hearts, especially ladies hearts."
"Then, once for all, I tell you, Mr. Humsprug, that I wash my hands of Mrs. Fillygrove, if she be Mrs. Fillygrove, for ever."
"Suppose she should have repented her design, and stopped short of its completion?"
"But I can't suppose any such thing. And if she should, what becomes of her character? That's lost, let what will happen."
"Dear madam, you puzzle me. If your daughter is married, you disown her because she is married. This is the first case. The second is, if she is not married, you disown her, because—because she is not married."
"I can't think, Mr. Humsprug, what business you have with it, or what you can know about it, but what you have heard at Falmouth, where all the foul mouths in the town are open."
"I ought to ask pardon for my impertinence, and hope you will grant it, when you know that it has been my lot, so far happy at least, to relieve her from a little distress at Ostend."
"Our curiosity was now greatly excited; and we expressed it by silence and open mouths. Mr. Hermsprong continued.
"I imagine this was the first of Mr. Fillygrove's performances in this way; for he neither knew the expence he was likely to incur, nor the proper steps to be taken, when he was out of the British dominions. At Oftend, his money was exhausted. At one of the windows of the inn, where I was waiting for a passage, I saw a lady in tears. I presumed to enquire the cause. This was impertinent, no doubt; but I could not help it. There had been an altercation betwixt Miss Sumelin and Mr. Fillygrove; for the young man had found no better way of getting rid of his distress, than by drinking wine. She reproached, and he swore. This was their situation when I got myself introduced. I know not whether I should have got an explanation from Miss Sumelin, but the gentleman gave me one copiously. You may judge, madam, when I learned that the lady was a daughter of Mr. Sumelin of Falmouth, whom I considered, though yet unknown, except by his probity, as the first of my friends in England, the matter could not be indifferent to me. In the present state of the young lady's mind, I had no great difficulty to convince her of her error. She put herself accordingly under my protection. The young man I was under the necessity of correcting a little. I did not suffer him, however, to feel any other want than the want of common sense. He even returned to England, on board the same vessel; but left us on our landing, nor have we seen him since. Miss Sumelin had the goodness to accompany me to Falmouth; and is now, I believe, under the care of her father, who is gone to bring a repentant daughter back to the embraces of a forgiving mother."
"I assure you," says Mrs. Sumelin, "you'll not find me so forgiving neither."
"Madam, you are not acquainted with the strength of your own goodness."
"This dialogue was put a stop to by Mr. Sumelin, who came to inform his lady, that her daughter was in her own apartment, hoping to see her; and my advice, Harriet, is, that you should forgive her cordially, and at once; for I cannot turn her out of doors for an offence she has but half committed; and in my own house I desire peace.
"Oh, my dear! what terrible news have I just heard. Can it be true? Can my Caroline have been so near destruction? Heaven bless her preserver, whomsoever it may be. This letter my perturbation will not permit me to finish; indeed it is long enough; too long, probably, for the state of mind in which it is likely to find you. Pray, be speedy in gratifying my impatience.
Your affectionate,
Maria Fluart."
Miss Campinet wrote to her friend as follows:
"Sensible of my own deficiency, I should almost envy you your happy
vivacity, my dear Maria, did it not incline too much towards
satire,—and were not that satire mostly directed against a half
fallen sister. But your playfulness, I know, is only of the pen,—for
your heart is good and kind.
"Yes, my dear, I have indeed had a most dreadful escape. I cannot think of it without terror. It is probable, nay certain almost, that I owe my preservation to that very Mr. Hermsprong, for I never before heard of the name, the subject of your last letter. For the minuter particulars, you must wait till we can make them the subject of conversation. I cannot afford an hour's absence from my dear aunt, who has been long declining, and this fright, I fear, will accelerate her last mortal hour. No one but myself, perhaps, would wish to retard it, if, as I fear it will, the small remainder of her life must be pain and sickness; but to me, you know she is of infinite importance. When I have lost her, what is to become of me? My father's house is little inviting to me, and still less proper. Lord Grondale's company, when he has any, are all men; and I wish I could add, men of merit. Alas! they are men of play; for I never heard they had other occupation or amusement, if we except the pleasures of the table, where they are accustomed to sit long, and rise rather more than refreshed.
"From these and other irregularities, you know my father has suffered much, and is now so much an invalid, that these parties come much seldomer than usual. When they do, they are very improper persons for me to associate with. Then, Lord Grondale has never been in the habit of tenderness to me; either, because I have not merit sufficient to engage his affection, or, as I rather chuse to flatter myself, because he has seen so little of me. Not that he does not honour me with his notice sometimes, and sometimes makes me happy by his good humour; but more commonly, he has some faults to blame, or some foibles to lash; and indeed his polite irony is very mortifying. On these accounts, my dear Maria, I am now desirous to engage your promise to be with me a few months upon the melancholy event of my dear aunt's decease, and my remove to Grondale Hall. My aunt sends to me; I must quit my pen till to-morrow.
"This morning my father called upon me, as he returned from an airing. I must relate a part of our conversation, as it gives me an opportunity to inform you of all that has since passed betwixt Mr. Hermsprong and me. After the usual questions respecting my aunt, and a minute's silence, my father abruptly says, "Caroline, when did you see your saviour?"
"My lord!" says I, with some consternation, for I was startled at the impiety, as I thought, of the question.
"Pshaw," says my father, peevishly; "I mean your knight errant; he who stopped your precipitate flight down the crag."
"I have seen him once only, my lord; a day or two after the accident. He called at my aunt's, and sent up Mr. Hermsprong's compliments, and an enquiry into our healths. I went down to thank him for my aunt and myself; and asked him if it was in my power, or—pardon me, Sir, if I presumed too far—in my father's, to serve him? He answered, he did not pretend the action laid me under the least obligation. He thought little of its merit, for it was unpremeditated. It was an impulse,—and it was irresistible."
"Lord Grondale said it was a good distinction; he must profess himself of the same opinion as to its merit.
"I own, my lord, I was of a different opinion; and thought this modesty of expression rather enhanced than diminished Mr. Hermsprong's merit respecting myself; I replied to this purpose, and wished to be able to shew my gratitude."
"You must not then talk to me," he answered, "of Lord Grondale; if I must have a reward, let it be all your own."
"What cursed effrontery!" my lord exclaimed. "This was a downright declaration of love."
"I did not think so, Sir;" but I remained silent, because I did not exactly know to what it tended. He explained his meaning directly. Your silence, Miss Campinet, (these were his exact words) accuses me of presumption; but of presumption I am no farther guilty than to wish to be allowed the pleasure of your conversation, when your doors are open to common visitors. I then said, my aunt's indisposition prevented my seeing company at present; I feared it would end fatally; in which case I hoped for permission to reside with my father; and to him I must look up for the direction of my conduct, and the choice of my acquaintance."
"This was a proper and a pertinent reply, Caroline, if it came from your heart."
"I hope I have never given my father cause to suspect my duty and inclinations are at variance."
"The case, Caroline, is not uncommon; the generality of daughters of the present day, may very well justify fathers in such a suspicion; but what answer did your hero return?"
"My hero! my lord."
"Well—well—Mr. Hermsprong."
"If so,—" Mr. Hermsprong said, (but checked himself, so that I cannot guess what he was then going to say. After a pause, "I am sensible," he said, "your time must be now precious; if I have never the pleasure to see you again, accept my most earnest wishes for every possible felicity." He withdrew with a haste which did not permit me to reply."
"So ended my conversation with my father; and so ends all my knowledge,—perhaps for ever—of Mr. Hermsprong."
Your affectionate
Caroline Campinet.
At the conclusion of our sixth chapter, we left Mr. Hermsprong bidding good morrow to the Reverend Dr. Blick. In the course of his morning's walk, he saw a young man taking angles with a Hadley's quadrant. This was my humble self; but I hate egotism; and when I have occasion to mention this self, it shall be by the names of Gregory Glen; the first of which I derive from my godmothers, the latter I inherit—from my mother. Mr. Hermsprong, approaching Mr. Glen, asked if he was surveying the county? To which he answered, that that was beyond his abilities; this was merely a mathematical amusement. The stranger said, such amusements were to be envied.
"No," Mr. Glen replied; "your's are the amusements to be envied; if, as I suspect, you are the happy man to whom the best and fairest of her sex owes her preservation."
"Why," he replied, "if mankind is disposed to consider this as extraordinary, and to pay me for it by a larger portion of esteem, it is very well. I am willing to receive the reward, though impelled to the action by instinct, I suppose,—for I did not know the lady was the best and fairest of her sex."
"You refine too much, Sir," said Glen; "do you think I should have done the same?"
"I know not," he answered, "why I should suppose the contrary."
"I know," replied Glen; "terror would have deprived me of sense and motion; nor do I think I know a man on whom the suddenness of a circumstance so terrible, would not have had the same effect."
"I conceive I know many." Mr. Hermsprong said, "not indeed amongst civilized Europeans. Man may be in a situation betwixt a state of nature and extreme civilization, such that intrepidity and possession of mind, in sudden danger, may be necessary, even for existence. The Aborigines of America, when they hunt or go to war, are exposed to instant peril in many ways. They get a habit of presence of mind, and habit is nature."
"No doubt," Mr. Glen answered, "but this habit so seldom offers itself to our notice, one cannot easily conceive it."
"Oh," said Mr. Hermsprong, smiling, "you are upon your guard, I see, against the marvellous."
"No, Sir,—indeed no," replied Glen; "I assure you I have not the least suspicion, —not the least—"
"Nay, Sir, if you had, it gives me no offence. Travellers have always imposed upon credulity; and sensible men receive their reports now more circumspectly. I am a stranger; you know me not; I relate something that appears to you incredible; you have a right to withhold your assent, till more and better information may have convinced you. I believe I am talking to Mr. Glen."
Mr. Glen bowed his answer.
"They say here you are an intelligent man; that you are humane; honest in actions, and open in speech. All these are to my taste. I ask your friendship. If you grant it, I hope to convince you that I hold a manly freedom of thinking and speaking, amongst the most estimable qualities of man."
Was it possible to refuse a friendship so engagingly asked? No. From that hour it has been the greatest source of Mr. Glen's felicity; and you, my dear readers, owe to it this invaluable book.
There was in Hermsprong a superiority in science, and in elevation of sentiment, which Glen found it impossible not to admire, and difficult not to regard with envy. This weakness vanished after some days familiarity, and the reserve, which was its consequence, vanished after it.
Their acquaintance was not cultivated after the ordinary manner; they neither eat nor drank together; for Hermsprong's residence was an inn, and Glen boarded and lodged; and each had more taste for morning excursions, for the discovery of nature's more rare productions, plants or minerals; and especially for the reciprocal communication of mind with mind.
A sight of the encampment put Mr. Hermsprong in mind of his rencontre with Dr. Blick. Mr. Glen did not seem in the humour for panegyric; for his portrait of the Doctor was rather unfavourable. That he united pride with meanness; that he was as haughty to his inferiors, as cringing to superiors. An eternal flatterer of Lord Grondale, he did not even presume to preach against a vice, if it happened to be a vice of his patron. And yet, said Glen, this man is rich; has great church preferment, two good livings, and a stall; keeps his chariot, and does not chuse to marry.
"I hope," said Mr. Hermsprong, "you are not now giving a general picture of the English clergy?"
"By no means," replied Mr. Glen; "as individuals, I think them generally worthy; and if you desire to see a contrast to Dr. Blick, you may find it in his curate; a man of learning; of high probity; simple in his manners; attentive to his duties; and so attached to his studies, that he may be said to be almost unacquainted with mankind. This man is married; has four daughters; and from the bountiful rector of Grondale has forty-five pounds per annum, for doing half the duties of Grondale, and the whole of Sithin, a village a mile hence, where he resides. It is true, he derives about an equal revenue from his patrimonial fortune, otherwise it would be impossible his family could be supported."
"I am as desirous to court the acquaintance of such a man," said Mr. Hermsprong, "as of avoiding the Dr. Blicks; and will take an opportunity to call of him. Or what do you say to bringing him to spend a social evening at the Golden Ball?"
To this Mr. Glen agreed; and the succeeding night was the appointed time.
The good curate willingly accepted the invitation, and was so punctual that he arrived at the Golden Ball an hour before he was expected; and before Mr. Hermsprong had returned from his afternoon's excursion. Mr. Tunny, the landlord, however, accommodated him with an easy chair in the best parlour, a pipe, and a tankard; and was, moreover, so obliging as to favour him with his own company. The Reverend Mr. Woodcock took this opportunity to enquire concerning his guest.
"Sir," said the landlord, with the air of a man who has something important to communicate, "this Mr. Hermsprong is—a— a—sort of a man—one does not often see— nor is it every man who would know what to make of him. But I have seen the world, Mr. Woodcock; I was a private in the 27th, and rose to be corporal solely by merit. I was in the hottest of the last German war. Sir, I have lived upon gun-powder. My wife, the late widow Trott, preferred me to six; she knew men; and I'll be bold to say, I have not deceived her. This house is much altered since I came to it. I am sorry not to see you oftener in it, Mr. Woodcock; I have very good company. Doctor Blick has done me the honour more than once. I threw out that bow window; I set up the butts. I know the world, Sir, and I know men must be attracted. Sir, my respectful service to you."
A long draught gave Mr. Woodcock an opportunity to put his landlord in mind of Mr. Hermsprong.
"I'll tell you, Sir," says Tunny; "it is by little things you know a man. That was a maxim of the king of Prussia and Marshall Keith. I served under Marshall Keith. He was a great commander. I was not 500 yards from him, when he fell. If he had lived I should not have been landlord of the Golden Ball at Grondale. But providence is over all: Things will be as God pleases. Marshall Keith took a liking to me. I never think of him without abundance of sorrow. So, Sir, my respectful service to you."
"Thank you, landlord; but Mr. Hermsprong."
"Why, Sir, when I think of my dear Marshall Keith, I can think of nobody else. If he had lived, things would not have been quite as they are. Not but the late king of Prussia was a good soldier too; but then he had no religion; and a soldier without religion, Mr. Woodcock,—what is he? D—n my blood, if I value any man that has no religion. The tankard stands at you, Sir. A man never sights his best that don't believe a cannon ball may carry him to heaven."
"It is a good foundation for a soldier to build upon. But we forget Mr. Hermsprong."
"Why, Sir, here he comes about ten days ago, at seventeen minutes past five in the evening; himself on foot; his servant on horseback, with his portmanteau, not coming in till eight. Now, what do you think, Mr. Woodcock, was the first thing he called for?"
"Perhaps," said the curate, "a private room for prayer and thanksgiving."
"No, Lord bless you! I never had but one guest of that stamp, and he went off with two silver spoons in his pocket."
"No, Sir, he called for a tub of water."
"Water!"
"Water, Sir! that's his way. He will walk you forty miles in a morning. His shoes are as soft and pliable as silk. Well, Sir, after his cold bath, he dined upon a cold round of beef; and faith, he played his part like a man. A couple of pounds vanished in a twinkling; and he seasoned them with a quart or two of good spring water, Not a drop of good liquor has he drank in my house. His servant, indeed, might have made up the deficiency a little, but he was off the next morning, and I have not seen him since. The gentleman himself took a morning's walk; and to tell you the truth, I did not much expect to see him again. However, he did return at last, and called for coffee. I observed him attentively while he eat me a twopenny loaf; for I learned to read men under Marshall Keith; and when he had finished, he did, for the first time, notice Tom Tunny, at the Golden Ball; a man that, no disgrace to Mr. Hermsprong, has conversed with as good men as himself. He talked to me about prospects and old castles, and other trifling things; it is true, he did not then know I had served under Marshall Keith. Since then, we have been better acquainted. I suppose at that time I might answer rather glum; so he ceased his questions, and demanded his bill. It came to four shillings and three-pence. So he takes out a purse; to say truth, it did not seem to want ammunition; and giving me one pound one, desired change. Then, says he, in a droll way enough, I have learned to divide landlords into three classes: Those who charge with primitive modesty; those who charge with the modesty of men—who know the world; and those who charge without any modesty at all. The first, I make it a rule to pay double; the second, according to my sense of their modesty; to the last, I pay their bills. You know the world, Mr. Tunny, and my system requires, that I should pay you three half-crowns. Sir, says I, your servant. For really the man's manner was so gracious and comical, that, though I thought it beneath me to take the overplus,—for, Sir, I had the command of a company once on the occasion of a retreat for twenty-four hours,—yet, as this fort of humour was rather scarce, I put the affront, if it was one, quietly in my pocket. Well, Sir; he then told me he liked the country and my house; perhaps he might stay a few weeks; and as he was a stranger, and did not like daily reckonings, I must do him the favour to lock up a bank note for him in my bureau. Sir, says I, I cannot doubt the honour of a gentleman who behaves so generously. The simple language of truth, say she, is the best. Now, you know, this was not polite; but he is an odd gentleman; sometimes you would think him the politest man in the world; and at others, he minds it no more than my dragon. Have you seen my dragon, Mr. Woodcock?"
"No, really," the curate answered, "I never saw one in my life."
"Never saw a stallion in your life! Well you scholars see, or rather do not see, strange things."
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Hermsprong, along with Mr. Glen.
The proper civilities over, Mr. Hermsprong enquired of Mr. Woodcock what liquor he chose; to which the curate answered, Ale and a pipe were his luxuries.
"Then," said Hermsprong, "this evening they shall be mine. I wish we could make them so to honest Tom Tunny here; but, alas! to him they are absolute necessaries. Mr. Glen, provide for yourself and Mr. Tunny, whose company will be an additional pleasure to us, for he knows the world, and has served under Marshal Keith."
"Sir," says the landlord, "I shall be happy to have the honour of drinking the first glass with you, you have chose to drink in my house."
"Heaven gave us wine for a cordial," Mr. Hermsprong replied, "and ale for a luxury; and I make it a point of conscience to keep them so."
"But," says our landlord, "how any gentleman can relish water, as
you do, is to me surprising. Why, it has no more taste than—"
"Water," replied Mr. Hermsprong. "But salt itself will become
insipid to a man who is always spreading coian over his tongue."
"Coian, Sir!" said the landlord; "zounds, I have lived upon gunpowder. Are martial spirits to be kept up by water?"
"No certainly," Mr. Hermsprong answered; "Englishmen are lions with beer, and heroes with brandy. The field of battle is the bed of honour; and I dare say Mr. Tunny has a thousand times regretted the not lying in it with Marshal Keith."
"Curse me if I have though," says honest Thomas. "No, Sir, I have attacked a battery, and stormed a breach; I have seen death all around and about me; but to tell you a secret, the devil take me, if ever I wished him an inch nearer."
"That sentiment is so natural," said the curate; "one may rely upon the truth of it, without swearing."
"Why, as to the swearing," returned the landlord, "its as natural to a soldier as praying to a parson; a soldier has not a bit less religion for it in his heart."
A carriage this instant stopping at the door, obliged Mr. Tunny to postpone what more he had to say in defence of swearing. It was Dr. Blick, who had taken an airing this evening as far as Sithin, to order his journeyman to double duty the next Sunday; and being informed where Mr. Woodcock was gone, was returning that way home.
When the Doctor had given his orders to the poor curate, he condescended to ask who his company were; and being informed, said, "If I could get a good tiff of punch now, I would come in for half an hour."
"As good as good rum, lemon, and sugar can make it," says Tunny.
Doctor Blick was announced by the landlord, at his entrance into the parlour.
Hermsprong had almost begun sternly to say, "By what right, Sir, do you introduce a stranger to a select company without leave," when the cast down humble look of poor Woodcock disarmed his anger, and made him forbear. He contented himself, however, with slightly rising, and sitting down again. Glen was equally unpolite; but Tunny's bustling assiduity made it the less observable.
When the Doctor was accommodated with the easy chair, his punch, and a pipe, and no one seeming inclined to speak, "I beg," says the Doctor, "I may not interrupt the conversation."
Still silence prevailing, Mr. Tunny says, "Why, Doctor, I happened to swear a little, and Mr. Woodcock reproved me; whereas, if he had been chaplain to a regiment, he would have known that a soldier must swear; I don't see, for my part, how the service can be carried on without it."
"I do not see why," said the curate.
"Sir, I will tell you," replied the Doctor; "you cannot suppose that a clergyman can be an advocate for swearing in general; but I have heard sensible officers, both in the sea and land service say, that it supports a certain energy; and if soldiers and sailors were forbidden it, their courage would droop."
"There now," cried Tunny, with exultation, "did not I tell you? Doctor Blick has seen life. One always expects sensible observations from gentlemen that have seen life. I served under Marshall Keith, and know a thing or two. Now, here is Mr. Hermsprong has been supposing that I must be sorry that I did not fall in the field of honour with Marshall Keith; but he is confoundedly mistaken."
"Yes," said the Doctor, "it is a mistake which no man could have fallen into, who has studied human nature to any purpose. The love of life is so strong, that scarcely any calamity can weaken it."
"No," says Hermsprong; "nor in very civilized countries, any affection,—not even the love of heaven."
"I have been told," said Glen, "that savages are taught, and really learn to despise it."
"Sir," says the Doctor, "man cannot despise it."
"I believe," Mr. Hermsprong said, "despise is not the proper term. A savage, put to his choice, will, in all common situations, prefer life; but without dreading death with the timidity of nations, who are taught from infancy to fear it."
"Sir," replied Doctor Blick, "you may say what you please of savages; it is all nonsense. Man must fear death. It is a lesson of nature. You teach in vain, if you teach lessons contrary to nature."
"Pray, Sir," asked Hermsprong, "what is nature?"
"Ask a school boy, Sir," said the Doctor.
"It is not your rudeness," replied Hermsprong; "your imposing tone, nor airs of superior knowledge, that shall deter me from telling you, Sir, that even Doctors may make superficial distinctions. Man cannot be taught any thing contrary to nature. However he acts, he must act by nature's laws; howsoever he thinks, he must think by nature's laws."
"Sir," says the Doctor, "if I have rudeness, you have presumption. Let me ask you a simple question. Is a fever natural?"
"Most certainly. Its whole process is according to the immutable laws of nature."
"Very true; in an enlarged sense; but by natural we mean only the common course of things."
"What philosopher calls earthquakes and storms unnatural?"
"Well, Sir; but this does not prove that man can get above the fear of death."
"Will you accept, as proof, the bravery of our sailors, in the hour of battle?"
"No, Sir."
"Suicide, at least, must be proof compleat."
"No, Sir; it is lunacy."
"Alas! half the actions of our lives are lunacies, I think; and none more than those we reason ourselves into. War is lunacy, and we call in all the powers of reason to prove it wisdom. Perhaps, the fear of death itself is a lunacy; for to a reflecting mind, at least, death is not an evil."
"Death not an evil!" says the Doctor, in a tone of surprise.
"Zounds, Sir! death not an evil!" cries Tunny.
"I should suppose not," Mr. Hermsprong answered; "death is privation of sense; can any evil happen to that stone?"
This appeared to the Doctor to border on infidelity; a thing so execrable, root and branch, that it ought to be burnt out of the world by fire and faggot.
"Sir," said he, "are you an atheist's? Death, privation of sensation! No, Sir; it is enlargement of sensation. It is renovation— it is the gate of life—it is passport to eternal joys."
"Then surely," said Hermsprong, "it is not an evil."
Now the good Doctor was vexed at this; he had like to have broke his pipe; and so much the more vexed, as the fool of a landlord cried out, "But, zounds! Doctor, he has flanked you."
His anger fell on poor Tunny, whom he rebuked severely, and then returned with fresh vigour to the contest.
"It must be supposed I must mean what I last said only for the good. To the wicked death surely is an evil."
"Let Tom Tunny look to that," said Hermsprong, gaily.
"Then, Sir, you think yourself the man without sin."
"Syllogistically, all men are sinners. All men who do not do what the church requires, are sinners. But all men do not do what the church requires. The, all men are sinners."
"Sir, you have quick parts; but all the parts in the world, without faith, will not ensure salvation."
"Oh! if it depends upon faith, I have no reason to despair. At Lisbon I believed all holy catholic things; at Rome I believed in the infallibility of the tiara; and in England I believe in church and king, the first article of faith; which, if a man do not do, he cannot be saved."
"Mr. Hermsprong,—that is your name, I think,—religion is not a jest."
"Well, Doctor, dispute is disagreeable; altercation pitiful. It is easy on this subject to give offence by innocent or careless expressions. I desire to give no offence; therefore beg leave to decline the subject."
"Young gentleman, I must not let you off so. It is my duty to put you right, if I find you wrong. I suspect you have imbibed some of the abominable doctrines of the French philosophers; some heretical tenets, which will plunge you into the bottomless pit."
The Doctor now began to drink off his glasses of punch very quick; and as he had preached against infidelity but the last sabbath, he remembered much of the sermon; and, meeting with no interruption from the company, who preserved a profound silence, he preached it over again with much animation.
When he had finished, Mr. Hermsprong thanked him for the trouble he had taken, and drank his health.
"But," said the Doctor, "you say nothing to my discourse; I hope I have not preached in vain."
"In vain, I fear, to Tom Tunny here."
The Doctor looked, and, lo! the man was asleep. He was presently awaked, and received a sharp reprimand.
"Doctor," says the landlord, "I always thought a pulpit a fitter place to preach in than an alehouse; and that a man must fall asleep when he cannot keep himself awake. It is not orthodox here, to preach over our liquor. Gentlemen, my service to you. Solomon said there was a time for all things; a time to preach, and a time to let it alone; and I am sure there is no better time to let it alone, than when good company meet together to be merry."
"You are beneath my notice," said the Doctor, with great dignity; "but for this young gentleman—" "I request, Sir, you will do me the favour to consider me as beneath your notice also," said Hermsprong.
"I don't like obstinacy in a young man. You was the person who had the good luck to do a piece of service to Miss Campinet?"
No answer.
"That," continues the Doctor, "was a fortunate event for the young lady, and might have been so to you, had you thought proper to treat his lordship with proper respect."
"Sir, I have no respect for his lordship."
"No, young man; nor for any body else, I think."
"I pay it, Sir, where I owe it."
"The man will have something to do, who sets himself the task of correcting your errors."
"It is too much even for a Doctor of divinity. I ought to be grateful, however, for the intention; and to return the obligation where I can. You yourself, Sir, seem to have one small error. I recommend officiousness to your correction."
The Doctor's face grew red with anger. In a raised tone he said,
"Let me tell you, young man—"
"Stop, Sir," said Hermsprong, rising; "by what right do you
presume to speak to me with the tone of a master? I owe you no
obedience; and despise you for your tyrannical and contentious spirit.
Mr. Tunny, let another room be prepared for Mr. Glen and I. Mr.
Woodcock, when the Doctor chuses to leave a place where he had no right
to intrude, we shall be glad of your company."
Mr. Hermsprong left the room as he said this, and was followed by Glen.
"Is this," Mr. Hermsprong asked, "a general specimen of the English clergy?"
"By no means," replied Mr. Glen; "except a certain portion of rancour against those who differ from them in religion or politics (an effect probably springing from their l'esprit du corps,) they are in general rather amiable than otherwise. But they are men. Sometimes, in their too earnest desire of the good things here below, they are apt to forget get those above. They are wise, however; and if unfortunately they are assaulted by any violent cupidities, they commonly take the proper means of obtaining them. Doctor Blick, for example, having been seized with that capital disorder, the love of accumulation, has furnished himself with a prudent quantity of adulation, which has answered his purpose well; he has church preferment to near 1000l. per annum; and has not, I am told, laid aside his expectations of a bishopric."
"And is the want of this agreeable quality," asked Hermsprong, "to be assigned as the cause of Mr. Woodcock's not rising in the church?"
"Alas!" replied Glen, "not having been in the way of subjects on whom to practise, he has not taken the trouble to acquire it. Nor is this the only point of contrast betwixt himself and his reverend master. Besides, taking care not to lose any thing of his dues, by a foolish lenity, or by a love of peace, the Doctor knows it is his duty rather to govern than to teach his flock; and he governs à la royale, with imperious airs, and imperious commands. Woodcock, on the contrary, is one of the mildest of the sons of men. It is true, he preaches humility, but he practises it also; and takes pains, by example, as well as precept, to make his parishioners good, in all their offices, their duties, and relations. To the poor, he is indeed a blessing; for he gives comfort, when he has nothing else to give. To him they apply when sick; he gives them simple medicines; when they are in doubt, he gives them wholesome counsels. He is learned too, and liberal in his opinions; but of manners so simple, and so ignorant of fashion and folly, that to appear in the world would subject him to infinite ridicule."
"You give me," said Mr. Hermsprong, "a desire to know all that can be known of so good, and I suppose so odd a man."
"He was," says Glen, "the only child of an honest shop-keeper at Truro, who having saved some money, yielded to the instigation of his wife, who wished to see her son a gentleman. In consequence he went to Cambridge, went through his respondentia with applause, and took his degrees. After this he returned home, to shew his father and mother how well they had laid their money out, and to wait promotion. This, however, never came. Instead of it, there happened a bankruptcy of a capital miner; with whom Mr. Woodcock, the father, had lodged all the money he did not employ in trade. This broke the old man's heart; and after his death, his debts and effects, compared, exclusive of the money due from the miner, left a balance in his mother's favour of only 200l. A little time the widow kept on trade; but not understanding it, she had more of loss than gain. The young man then advertized for a curacy; which happened at the lucky moment, when Dr. Blick had obtained the patronage of Lord Grondale, by activity and certain skilful manoeuvres, in a contested election, which, but for him, it was said, would have gone against his lordship's candidate. The opposite party, indeed, threatened the Doctor with a prosecution for certain matters which had only prescription to support them, not law; and which trenched a little upon moral honestly; but it soon appeared to be a hopeless business. For, besides that moral honesty is seldom applied as an agent in elections, it was found that Dr. Blick was an approved man, orthodox in church and state; such a man as these bad times want.
"The livings of Grondale and Sithin had been vacant almost a month. Lord Grondale had promised them to a Mr. Edwards, a very worthy man. It was pity. Dr. Blick applied, and it was almost impossible not to reward such and such recent merit. Mr. Edwards was abroad, tutor to a young gentleman, but daily expected home. So Lord Grondale ventured to give the livings, and excuse it to Edwards in the best manner possible. At last it occurred to his lordship, that the promise was verbal, and made three or four years ago; and that he might easily forget it. So he forgot it.
"Dr. Blick accepted Mr. Woodcock as his curate, on the stipend of 40l. per annum, to which he afterwards generously added 5l. more, on condition of undertaking the duty of both churches, when the Doctor happened to be absent, or indisposed; and he has been so often indisposed to the office, that it has almost wholly devolved upon the curate.
"Upon this splendid revenue, Woodcock and his mother supported existence some years, till the bankrupt's affairs were settled; and at length received 1400l. This was wealth indeed. The mother enjoyed it three years, and died. The son, after his first sorrows were over, found himself very much alone; and at length discovered that the summit of human felicity is not to be reached without a wife. But on the subject of women he was peculiarly delicate. The lady he honoured with his hand, must be as perfect as the frail state of mortality will permit. For her person, it must be genteel; she must be beautiful in face, and elegant in dress. She must be pious and charitable; well read, and well instructed in domestic affairs; moreover she must be richly endowed with all the virtues.
"Miss Dorothea Barton was the daughter of a farmer, a mile distant. Mr. Woodcock had seen her once or twice during the life of his mother; but he did not then think of a wife; and, indeed, the young lady did not perfectly correspond with the beautiful idea in the parson's mind. So he thought not of her, till happening to drink tea at Mr. Snape's, the miller, he met her there, and as Mrs. Snape lamented that her husband was not at home, to attend the young lady back, it became a necessary piece of gallantry in the parson, to offer himself as her escort. Miss Barton had been a virgin ten years longer than the fitness of things required, no doubt, owing to her extreme cruelty; but time disposes maidens to abate their rigour towards men. She was well read; for her brother had the goodness to bring her all the novels from the circulating library of the next market town; and she spoke of love with an enthusiasm thusiasm that must have been irresistible to a man of feeling. She said it was the cordial drop of life; and she said it as she was getting over a stile. The stile was high; she was rather awkward; and there was a breeze which did not permit her petticoats the full force of gravitation. Instead of looking up in her beauteous face, and assisting her properly, the curate had thrown his eyes upon a sweet pretty foot, and a pillar, perhaps of the Corinthian order, which it supported. All this created a sort of confusion of idea probably in both their heads. Miss Barton said, O dear! and almost tumbled into the parson's arms. What would have been the consequence, had they not opened to receive her, I cannot tell; what was the consequence, his own church bells, within fifteen days, proclaimed to the universe. So Mr. Woodcock got a wife; a good one; one of the notables; and as fruitful as the vine which covers the south-west end of his parsonage house. I fear, however, that this will prove a most unfortunate night."
Mr. Hermsprong was about to enquire why, when a distant noise was heard, as it should seem, of angry people. Soon after the parlour door was opened; Dr. Blick walked in hasty majesty to his carriage; saying, as he went, I have done with you, Woodcock,—I have done with you; a parson, and tainted with principles almost republican! I have done with you; I repeat my warning; get another curacy, if you are able, in a month. I,—I foster a man whose divinity is unsound, and his loyalty questionable!"
"My opinions," answered Woodcock, "you have long known: I neither conceal them, as if they disgraced me,—nor officiously promulgate them, as if they did me honour. How is it, that borne so long, you are so enraged against them to-night?"
"If," the Doctor replied, "I have borne with them, it was out of pity to your family. I never liked them, nor you; and I don't like you the better, for taking the part of a young coxcomb against me; and telling me to my teeth, that I was wrong in argument, and rude in manner."
"I told you so," said the curate, "because it was truth; which, as you are so little able to bear, and since you have explained yourself so fully, I accept your warning; and give you warning, in my turn, to provide yourself, if you are able, with another curate in a month. So, I wish you a good night."
The Doctor vociferated something about insolence, mounted his carriage, and was driven off.
The curate, animated by the spirit which prompted the reply of the
last chapter, entered to his friends; to whom he was beginning an
apology for the introduction of the Doctor—
"Who, notwithstanding, introduced himself," said Glen, smiling.
"That is true," the curate replied; "but I was the cause."
"But I did not do it with malice aforethought," said Glen, taking the curate's tone and manner. "But," he continued, "how should I be angry at a thing which has exhibited my friend in a new and interesting light? I thought him almost incapable of indignation."
"I own," says the curate, "I do not love the stormy passions; and employ all my poor stock of philosophy to keep them down. B