Things as they are: or, The adventures of Caleb Williams. By William Godwin. ; In two volumes. Vol. I[-II]. ; [Three lines of verse]

THE ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS.

CHAP. I.

MY life has for several years been a theatre of calamity. I have been a mark for the vigilance of tyranny, and I could not escape. My fairest pros|pects have been blasted. My enemy has shown himself inaccessible to intreaties and untired in persecution. My fame, as well as my happiness, has become his victim. Every one, as far as my story has been known, has refused to assist me in my distress, and has execrated my name. I have not deserved this treatment. My own conscience witnesses in behalf of that innocence my pretensions

to which are regarded in the world as incredible. There is now however little hope that I shall escape from the toils that universally beset me. I am in|cited to the penning of these memoirs, only by a desire to divert my mind from the deplorableness of my situation, and a faint idea that posterity may by their means be induced to render me a justice which my contemporaries refuse. My story will at least appear to have that consistency, which is seldom attendant but upon truth.

I was born of humble parents in a remote coun|ty of England. Their occupations were such as usually fall to the lot of peasants, and they had no portion to give me but an education free from the usual sources of depravity, and the inheritance, long since lost by their unfortunate progeny! of an honest fame. I was taught the rudiments of no science, except reading, writing and arithmetic. But I had an inquisitive mind, and neglected no means of information from conversation or books. My improvement was greater than my condition in life afforded room to expect.

Our residence was within the manor of Fer|dinando Falkland, a country squire of considerable opulence. At an early age I attracted the favour|able notice of Mr. Collins, this gentleman's steward, who used to call in occasionally at my father's. He observed the particulars of my progress with approbation, and made a favourable report to his master of my industry and genius.

In the summer of the year _____ _____ Mr. Falk|land visited his estate in our county after an absence of several months. This was a period of misfor|tune to me. I was then eighteen years of age. My father lay dead in our cottage. I had lost my mother some years before. In this forlorn situation I was surprised with a message from the squire,

ordering me to repair to the mansion-house the morning after my father's funeral.

Though I was not a stranger to books, I had no practical acquaintance with men. I had never had occasion to address a person of this elevated rank, and I felt no small uneasiness and awe on the pre|sent occasion. I found Mr Falkland a man of small stature, with an extreme 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of form and appearance. In place of the hard-favoured and inflexible visages I had been accustomed to ob|serve, every muscle and petty line of his coun|tenance seemed to be in an inconceivable degree pregnant with meaning. His manner was kind, attentive and humane. His eye was full of ani|mation, but there was a grave and sad solemnity in his air, which for want of experience I imagined was the inheritance of the great, and the instru|ment by which the distance between them and their inferiors was maintained. His look bespoke the unquietness of his mind, and frequently wan|dered with an expression of disconsolateness and anxiety.

My reception was as gracious and encouraging as I could possibly desire. Mr. Falkland questioned me respecting my learning, and my conceptions of men and things, and listened to my answers with condescension and approbation. This kindness soon restored to me a considerable part of myself-possession, though I still felt restrained by the graceful, but unaltered dignity of his carriage. I have already said that I was not unacquainted with books. I had not failed to derive advantage from the opportunities which offered themselves, and some of those opportunities were of very for|tunate occurrence. But it is not my purpose to draw out this narrative by unnecessary detail; I leave the reader to collect what my acquisitions had been from the incidents which followed. When

Mr. Falkland had sufficiently satisfied his curiosity, he proceeded to inform me that he was in want of a secretary, that I appeared to him sufficiently qualified for that office, and that, if in my present change of situation occasioned by the death of my father I approved of the employment, he would take me into his family.

I felt highly flattered by the proposal, and was warm in the expression of my acknowledgements. I set eagerly about the disposal of the little property my father had left, in which I was assisted by Mr. Collins. I had not now a relation, upon whose kindness and interposition I had any direct claim, in the world. But far from regarding this deserted situation with terror, I formed golden visions of the station I was about to occupy. I little suspected that the gaiety and lightness of heart I had hitherto enjoyed were upon the point of leaving me for ever, and that the rest of my days were devoted to misery and alarm.

My employment was easy and agreeable. It consisted partly of the transcribing and arranging certain papers, and partly of writing from my master's dictation letters of business, as well as sketches of literary composition. Many of these latter consisted of an analytical survey of the plans of different authors, and conjectural speculations upon hints they afforded, tending either to the de|tection of their errors or the carrying forward their discoveries. All of them bore powerful marks of a profound and elegant understanding, well stored with literature, and possessed of an uncommon share of activity and discrimination.

My station was in that part of the house which was appropriated for the reception of books, it be|ing my duty to perform the functions of librarian as well as secretary. Here my hours would have glided in tranquillity and peace, had not my situa|tion

included in it circumstances totally different from those which attended me in my father's cot|tage. In early life my mind had been almost wholly engrossed by reading and reflexion. My intercourses with my fellow mortals were occasional and short. But in my new residence I was excited by every motive of interest and curiosity to study my master's character, and I found in it an am|ple field for speculation and conjecture.

His mode of living was in the utmost degree recluse and solitary. He had no inclination to scenes of revelry and mirth. He avoided the busy haunts of men; nor did he seem desirous to com|pensate for this privation by the confidence of friendship. He appeared a total stranger to every thing which usually bears the appellation of plea|sure. His features were scarcely ever relaxed into a smile, nor did that air which bespoke the unhap|piness of his mind, at any time forsake them. Yet his manners were by no means such as denoted moroseness and misanthropy. He was compas|sionate and considerate for others, though the state|liness of his carriage and the reserve of his temper were at no time interrupted. His appearance and general behaviour might have strongly interested all persons in his favour; but the coldness of his address and the impenetrableness of his sentiments seemed to forbid those demonstrations of kind|ness to which one might otherwise have been prompted.

Such was the general appearance of Mr. Falk|land; but his temper was extremely unequal. The distemper which afflicted him with incessant gloom, had its paroxysms. Sometimes he was hasty, peevish and tyrannical; but this proceeded rather from the torment of his mind than an unfeeling disposition, and, when reflexion recurred, he ap|peared willing that the weight of his misfortune

should fall wholly upon himself. Sometimes he entirely lost his self possession, and his behaviour was changed into frenzy. He would strike his forehead, his brows became knit, his features dis|torted, and his teeth ground one against the other. When he felt the approach of these symptoms, he would suddenly rise, and, leaving the occupation whatever it was in which he was engaged, hasten into a solitude upon which no person dared to in|trude.

It must not be supposed that the whole of what I am describing was visible to the persons about him; nor indeed was I acquainted with it in the extent here stated, but after a considerable time, and in gradual succession. With respect to the domestics in general, they saw but little of their master. None of them, except myself from the nature of my functions, and Mr. Collins from the antiquity of his service and the respectableness of his character, approached Mr. Falkland, but at stated seasons and for a very short interval. They knew him only by the benevolence of his actions and the principles of inflexible integrity by which he was ordinarily guided; and, though they would sometimes indulge their conjectures respecting his singularities, regarded him upon the whole with veneration as a being of a superior order.

One day when I had been about three months in the service of my patron, I went into a closet or small apartment which was separated from the library by a narrow gallery that was lighted by a small window near the roof. I had conceived that there was no person in the room, and went only to put any thing in order that I might find out of its place. As I opened the door, I heard at the same instant a deep groan expressive of intolerable an|guish. The sound of the door in opening seemed to alarm the person within; I heard the lid of a

chest hastily shut, and the noise as of fastening a lock. I immediately conceived that Mr. Falkland was there, and was going hastily to retire; but at that moment a voice that seemed supernaturally tremendous exclaimed, Who is there? The voice was Mr. Falkland's. The sound of it thrilled my very vitals. I endeavoured to answer, but my speech failed, and being incapable of any other reply, I instinctively advanced within the door into the room. Mr. Falkland was just risen from the floor upon which he had been sitting or kneeling. His countenance betrayed strong symptoms of con|fusion. With a violent effort however these symp|toms suddenly vanished, and instantaneously gave place to a countenance sparkling with rage. Vil|lain, cried he, what has brought you here? I he|sitated a confused and irresolute answer. Wretch, interrupted Mr. Falkland with uncontrolable im|patience, you want to ruin me. You set yourself as a spy upon my actions. But bitterly shall you repent your insolence. Do you think you shall watch my privacies with impunity? I attempted to defend myself. Begone, devil! rejoined he. Quit the room, or I will trample you into atoms. Saying this, he advanced towards me. But I was already sufficiently terrified, and vanished in a mo|ment. I heard the door shut after me with vio|lence, and thus ended this extraordinary scene.

I saw him again in the evening, and he was then tolerably composed. His behaviour, which was always kind, was now doubly attentive and sooth|ing. He seemed to have something of which he wished to disburthen his mind, but to want words in which to convey it. I looked at him with anx|iety and affection. He made two unsuccessful efforts, shook his head, and then, putting five guineas into my hand, pressed it in a manner that I could feel proceeded from a mind pregnant with

various emotions, though I could not interpret them. Having done this, he seemed immediately to recollect himself, and to take refuge in the usual distance and solemnity of his manner.

I easily understood that secrecy was one of the things expected from me, and indeed my mind was too much disposed to meditate upon what I had heard and seen, to make it a topic of indiscri|minate communication. Mr. Collins however and myself happened to sup together that evening, which was but seldom the case, his avocations obliging him to be much abroad. He could not help observing an uncommon dejection and anxiety in my countenance, and affectionately enquired into the reason. I endeavoured to evade his ques|tions, but my youth and ignorance of the world gave me but little advantage for that purpose. Beside this, I had been accustomed to view Mr. Collins with considerable attachment, and I con|ceived from the nature of his situation that there could be but small impropriety in making him my confident in the present instance. I repeated to him minutely every thing that had passed, and con|cluded with a solemn declaration that, though treated with caprice, I was not anxious for my|self: no inconvenience or danger to myself should ever lead me to a pusillanimous behaviour; and I felt only for my master, who, with every advan|tage for happiness, and being in the highest degree worthy of it, seemed fated to undergo unmerited distress.

In answer to my communication Mr. Collins in|formed me that some incidents of a nature similar to that which I related had fallen under his own knowledge, and that from the whole he could not help concluding that our unfortunate patron was at times disordered in his intellects. Alas, continued he, it was not always thus! Ferdinando

Falkland was once the gayest of the gay. Not in|deed of that frothy sort, who excite contempt in|stead of admiration, and whose levity argues thoughtlessness rather than felicity. His gaiety was always accompanied with dignity. It was chastened with reflexion and sensibility, and never lost sight either of good taste or humanity. Such as it was however, it denoted a genuine hilarity of heart, gave an inconceivable brilliancy to his com|pany and conversation, and rendered him the per|petual delight of the diversified circles he then wil|lingly frequented. You see nothing of him, my dear Williams, but the ruin of that Falkland, who was courted by sages, and adored by the fair. His youth, distinguished in its outset by the most ge|nerous promise, is tarnished. His sensibility is shrunk up and withered by events the most dis|gustful to his feelings. His mind was fraught with all the rhapsodies of visionary honour; and in his sense nothing but the gro••••er part, the mere shell of Falkland, was capable to survive the wound that his pride has sustained.

These reflexions of my friend Collins strongly tended to inflame my curiosity, and I requested him to enter into a more copious explanation. With this request he readily complied; as con|ceiving that whatever delicacy it became him to exercise in ordinary cases, it would be out of place in my situation, and thinking it not improbable that Mr. Falkland, but for the disturbance and in|flammation of his mind, would be disposed to a similar communication. I shall join to Mr. Col|lins's story various information which I afterwards received from other quarters, that I may give all possible perspicuity to the series of events. To the reader it may appear at first sight as if this detail of the preceding life of Mr. Falkland were foreign to my history. Alas, I know from bitter experi|ence

that it is otherwise. My heart bleeds at the recollection of his misfortunes as if they were my own. How can it fail to do so? To his story the whole fortune of my life was linked; because he was miserable, my happiness, my name, and my existence have been irretrievably blasted.

CHAP. II.

AMONG the favourite authors of his early years were the heroic poets of Italy. From them he imbibed the love of chivalry and romance. He had too much good sense to regret the times of Charlemagne and Arthur. But, while his imagi|nation was purged by a certain infusion of philo|sophy, he conceived that there was in the manners depicted by these celebrated poets, something to imitate, as well as something to avoid. He be|lieved that nothing was so well calculated to make men delicate, gallant and humane, as a temper perpetually alive to the sentiments of birth and honour. The opinions he entertained upon those topics were illustrated in his conduct, which was assiduously conformed to the model of heroism that his fancy suggested.

With these sentiments he set out upon his tra|vels at the age at which the grand tour is usually made, and they were rather confirmed than shaken by the adventures that be••el him. By inclination he was led to make his longest stay in Italy, and here he fell into company with several young no|blemen whose studies and principles were congenial to his own. By them he was assiduously courted and treated with the most distinguished applause. They were delighted to meet with a foreigner who had imbibed all the peculiarities of the most liberal and honourable among themselves. Nor was he less favoured and admired by the softer sex. Though his stature were small, his person had an air of uncommon dignity. His dignity was then

heightened by certain additions which were after|wards obliterated, an expression of frankness, in|genuity and unreserve, and a spirit of the most ardent enthusiasm. Perhaps no Englishman was ever in an equal degree idolised by the inhabitants of Italy.

It was not possible for him to have drank so deeply of the fountain of chivalry without being engaged occasionally in affairs of honour, all of which were terminated in a manner that would not have disgraced the chevalier Bayard himself. In Italy the young men of rank divide themselves into two classes, those who adhere to the pure principles of ancient gallantry, and those who, being actuated by the same acute sense of injury and insult, accustom themselves to the employment of hired bravoes as their instruments of vengeance. The whole difference indeed consists in the preca|rious application of a generally received distinc|tion. The most generous Italian still conceives that there are certain persons whom it would be contamination to call into the open field. He ne|vertheless believes that an indignity cannot be expi|ated but with blood, and is persuaded that the life of a fellow creature is a very trifling consideration in comparison with the indemnification to be made to his injured honour. There is therefore scarcely any Italian that would upon some occasions scruple assassination. Men of spirit among them, not|withstanding the prejudices of their education, cannot fail to have a secret conviction of its base|ness, and will be desirous of extending as far as possible the cartel of honour. Real or affected arrogance teaches others to regard almost the whole human species as their inferiors, and of conse|quence incites them to gratify their vengeance without danger to their persons. Mr. Falkland fell in with some of these. But his undaunted spirit

and resolute temper gave him a decisive advantage even in such perilous rencounters. One instance among many of his manner of conducting him|self among this proud and high-spirited people, it may be proper to relate. Mr. Falkland is the principal agent in my history; and Mr. Falkland, in the autumn and decay of his vigour such as I found him, cannot be completely understood with|out a knowledge of his previous character as it was in all the gloss of youth, yet unassailed by ad|versity, and unbroken in upon by anguish or re|morse.

At Rome he was received with particular dis|tinction at the house of marquis Pisani, who had an only daughter, the heir of his immense fortune, and the admiration of all the young nobility of that metropolis. Lady Lucretia Pisani was tall, of a dignified form and uncommonly beautiful. She was not deficient in amiable qualities, but her ••oul was haughty, and her carriage not unfre|quently contemptuous. Her pride was nourished by the consciousness of her charms, by her ele|vated rank and the universal adoration she was accustomed to receive.

Among her numerous lovers count Malvesi was the individual most favoured by her father, nor did his addresses seem indifferent to her. The count was a man of considerable accomplishments, and of great integrity and benevolence of dispo|sition. But he was too ardent a lover to be able always to preserve the affability of his temper. The admirers, whose addresses were a source of gratification to his mistress, were a perpetual tor|ment to him. Placing his whole happiness in the possession of this imperious beauty, the most trifling circumstances were capable of alarming him for the security of his pretensions. But most of all he was jealous of the English cavalier. The marquis

Pisani, who had spent many years in France, was by no means partial to the suspicious precautions of Italian fathers, and indulged his daughter in considerable freedoms. His house and his daugh|ter, within certain judicious restraints, were open to the resort of male visitants. But above all Mr. Falkland, as a foreigner, and a person little likely to form pretensions to the hand of Lucretia, was received upon a footing of great familiarity. The lady herself, conscious of her innocence, enter|tained no scruple about trifles, and acted with the confidence and frankness of one who is superior to suspicion.

Mr. Falkland, after a residence of several weeks at Rome, proceeded to Naples. Mean while cer|tain incidents occurred that delayed the intended nuptials of the heiress of Pisani. When he re|turned to Rome count Malvesi was absent. Lady Lucretia, who had been considerably amused before with the conversation of Mr. Falkland, and who had an active and enquiring mind, had conceived in the interval between his first and second residence at Rome a passion for learning the English lan|guage, inspired by the lively and ardent encomi|ums of our best authors that she had heard from their countryman. She had provided herself with the usual implements for that purpose, and made some progress during his absence. But upon his return she was desirous of making use of the op|portunity which, if missed, might never occur again with equal advantages, of reading select passages of our poets in company with an English|man of uncommon taste and capacity.

This proposal necessarily led to a more frequent intercourse. When count Malvesi returned, he found Mr. Falkland established almost as an inmate of the Pisani palace. His mind could not fail to be struck with the criticalness of the situation. He

was perhaps secretly conscious that the qualifica|tions of the Englishman were superior to his own, and he trembled for the progress that each of them might have made in the affection of the other, even before they were aware of the danger. He believed that the match was in every respect such as to flatter the ambition of Mr. Falkland, and he was stung even to madness by the idea of being de|prived of the object dearest to his heart by this insolent upstart.

He had however a sufficient share of discretion to go first to demand an explanation of lady Lu|cretia. She in the gaiety of her heart trifled with his anxiety. His patience was already exhausted, and he proceeded in his expostulation in language that it was by no means possible for her to endure with apathy. Lady Lucretia had always been ac|customed to deference and submission; and having got over something like terror that was first inspired by the imperious manner in which he was now ca|techised, her next feeling was that of the warmest resentment. She disdained to satisfy so insolent a questioner, and even indulged herself in some ob|lique hints calculated to strengthen his suspicions. For some time she described his folly and presump|tion in terms of the most ludicrous sarcasm, and then suddenly changing her style, bid him never let her see him more except upon a footing of the most distance acquaintance, as she was determined never again to subject herself to so unworthy and inexcusable a treatment. She was happy that he had at length disclosed to her his true character, and would well know how to profit of her present experience to avoid a repetition of the same danger. All this passed in the full career of the passions on both sides, and lady Lucretia had no time to reflect what might be the consequence of having thus ex|asperated her lover.

Count Malvesi left her in all the torments of hell. He believed that this was a premeditated scene to find a pretence for breaking off an engage|ment that was already all but concluded; or rather his mind was racked with a thousand conjectures, he alternately thought that the injustice might be hers or his own, and he quarrelled with lady Lu|cretia, himself and all the world. In this temper of mind he hastened to the hotel of the English cavalier. The moment of expostulation was now over, and he found himself irresistibly impelled to justify his precipitate conduct with the lady, by taking for granted that the prosperous amours of Falkland were beyond the reach of doubt.

Mr. Falkland was at home. The first words of the count were an abrupt accusation of dupli|city in the affair of lady Lucretia, and a challenge. The Englishman had an unaffected esteem for Mal|vesi, who was in reality a man of considerable merit, and who had been one of Mr. Falkland's earliest Italian acquaintance, they having originally met at Milan. But more than this, the possible consequences of a duel in the present instance burst upon his mind. He had the warmest admiration for lady Lucretia, though his feelings were not those of a lover: and he knew that, however her haughtiness might endeavour to disguise it, she was impressed with a tender regard for count Mal|vesi. He could not bear to think that any miscon|duct of his should interrupt the prospects of so de|serving a pair. Guided by these sentiments he en|deavoured to expostulate with the Italian. But all his attempts in this respect were ineffectual. His antagonist was drunk with choler, and would not listen to a word that tended to check the impetuo|sity of his thoughts. He traversed the room with perturbed steps, and even foamed with anguish and fury. Mr. Falkland, finding that every thing

else was to no purpose, told the count that, if he would return tomorrow at the same hour, he would attend him to any scene of action he would think proper to select.

From count Malvesi Mr. Falkland immediately proceeded to the palace of Pisani. Here ••e found a considerable difficulty in appeasing the indigna|tion of lady Lucretia. Honour forbad him to dis|close the cartel he had received, though he was se|cretly determined never to draw his sword in the present quarrel; otherwise that disclosure would immediately have operated as the strongest motive with this disdainful beauty. But, though she fear|ed a similar defiance, yet the vague apprehension was not strong enough to induce her without qua|lification to surrender all the stateliness of her re|sentment. Mr. Falkland however drew ••o interest|ing a picture of the disturbance of count Malvesi's mind, and accounted in so flattering a manner for the abruptness of his conduct, that this, together with the arguments he adduced, completed the conquest of lady Lucretia's resentment. Having thus far accomplished his purpose, he proceeded to disclose to her every thing that had passed.

The next day count Malvesi appeared, punctual to his appointment, at Mr. Falkland's hotel. Mr. Falkland came to the door to receive him, but re|quested him to enter the house for a moment, as he had still an affair of three minutes to dispatch. They proceeded to a parlour. Here Mr. Falkland left him, and presently returned leading in lady Lucretia herself adorned in all her charms, and those charms heightened upon the present occasion with a consciousness of the spirited and generous condescension she now exerted. Mr. Falkland led her up to the astonished count; and she, gently laying her hand upon the arm of her lover, ex|claimed with the most attractive grace, Will you

allow me to retract the precipitate haughtiness into which I was betrayed? The enraptured count, scarcely able to believe his senses, threw himself upon his knees before her, and stammered out a reply, signifying that the precipitation had been all his own, that he only had any forgiveness to de|mand, and, though they might pardon, he could never pardon himself for the sacrilege he had com|mitted against her and this god-like Englishman. As soon as the first tumults of his joy were subsided, Mr. Falkland addressed him thus:

"Count Malvesi, I feel the utmost pleasure in having thus by peaceful means disarmed your re|sentment, and effected your happiness. But I must confess you put me to a severe trial. My temper is not less impetuous and fiery than your own, and it is not at all times that I should have been thus able to subdue it. But I considered that in reality the original blame was mine. Though your sus|picion was groundless, it was not absurd. We have been trifling too much in the face of danger. I ought not, under the present weakness of our nature and forms of society, to have been so assi|duous in my attendance upon this enchanting wo|man. It would have been little wonder, if, having so many opportunities, and playing the preceptor with her as I have done, I had been entangled be|fore I was aware, and harboured a wish which I might not afterwards have had the courage to sub|due. I owed you an atonement for this impru|dence.

"But the laws of honour are in the utmost de|gree rigid, and there was reason to fear that, how|ever anxious I were to be your friend, I might be obliged to be your murderer. Fortunately the re|putation of my courage is sufficiently established, not to expose it to any impeachment by my de|clining your present defiance. It was lucky how|ever

that in our interview of yesterday you found me alone, and that accident by that means threw the management of the affair entirely into my dis|posal. If the transaction should become known, the conclusion would now become known along with the provocation, and I am satisfied. But, if the challenge had been public, the proofs I had formerly given of my courage would not have excused my present moderation; and though de|sirous to have avoided the combat, it would not have been in my power. Let us hence each of us learn to avoid haste and indiscretion, the conse|quences of which may be inexpiable but with blood; and may heaven bless you in a consort of whom I deem you every way worthy!"

I have already said that this was by no means the only instance in the course of his travels in which Mr. Falkland acquitted himself in the most bril|liant manner as a man of gallantry and virtue. He continued abroad during several years, every one of which brought some fresh accession to the estima|tion in which he was held, as well as to his own impatience of stain or dishonour. At length he thought proper to return to England, with the in|tention of spending the rest of his days at the resi|dence of his ancestors.

CHAP. III.

FROM the moment of his taking a step like this, dictated as it probably was by an unaffected principle of duty, his misfortunes took their com|mencement. All I have farther to state of his his|tory is one uninterrupted persecution of a malig|nant destiny, a series of adventures which seemed to take their rise in various accidents, but pointing to one termination. Him they overwhelmed with an anguish he was of all others least qualified to bear; and these waters of bitterness, extending beyond him, powered their deadly venom upon others, I myself being the most unfortunate of their victims.

The person in whom these calamities principally originated, was Mr. Falkland's nearest neighbour, a man of estate equal to his own, by name, Bar|nabas Tyrrel. This man one might at first have supposed of all others least qualified from instruc|tion, or inclined by the habits of his life, to in|terfere with and disturb the enjoyments of a mind so richly endowed as that of Mr. Falkland. Mr. Tyrrel might have passed for a true model of the English squire. He was very early left under the tuition of his mother, a woman of very narrow capacity, and who had no other child. This mo|ther seemed to think that there was nothing in the world so precious as her hopeful Barnabas. Every thing must give way to his accommodation and ad|vantage; every one must yield the most servile obedience to his commands. He must not be teased or restricted by any forms of instruction;

and of consequence his proficiency even in the arts of writing and reading was extremely slender. From his birth he was muscular and sturdy; and, confined to the ruelle of his mother, he made much such a figure as the whelp-lion that a bar|barian might have given for a lap-dog to his mis|tress. But he soon broke loose from these tram|mels, and formed an acquaintance with the groom and the game-keeper. Under their instruction he proved as ready a scholar as he had been indocile and restive to the pedant who held the office of his tutor. It was now evident that his small pro|ficiency in literature was by no means to be ascribed to want of capacity. He discovered no contempti|ble sagacity and quick-wittedness in the science of horse-flesh, and was eminently expert in the arts of shooting, fishing and hunting. Nor did he confine himself to these, but added the theory and practice of boxing, cudgel-play and quarter-staff. These exercises added tenfold robustness and vigour to his former qualifications. His stature, when grown, was somewhat more than six feet, and his form might have been selected by a painter as a model for that hero of antiquity, whose prowess consisted in felling an ox with his fist, and then devouring him at a meal. Conscious of his advantage in this respect, he was insupportably arrogant, tyrannical to his inferiors, and insolent to his equals. The activity of his mind, being diverted from the ge|nuine field of utility and distinction, showed itself in the rude tricks of an overgrown lubber. Here, as in all other qualifications, he rose above his competitors; and, if it had been possible to over|look the callous and unrelenting disposition in which they were generated, you would not have denied your applause to the invention these freaks display|ed, and the rough, sarcastic wit with which they were accompanied.

Mr. Tyrrel was by no means inclined to permit these extraordinary merits to rest in oblivion. There was a weekly assembly at the nearest market-town, the resort of all the rural gentry. Here he had hitherto figured to the greatest advantage, as grand master of the cotérie, no one among them having an equal share of opulence, and the ma|jority, though still pretending to the rank of gen|try, greatly his inferiors in this essential article. The young men in this circle looked up to this in|solent bashaw with timid respect, conscious of the comparative eminence that unquestionably belonged to the powers of his mind; and he well knew how to maintain his rank with an inflexible hand. Fre|quently indeed he relaxed his features, and assumed a temporary appearance of affableness and fami|liarity; but they found by experience, that, if any one, encouraged by his condescension, forgot the deference which Mr. Tyrrel considered as his due, he was soon taught to repent his presumption. It was a tyger that, thought proper to toy with a mouse, the little animal every moment in danger of being crushed by the fangs of his ferocious asso|ciate. As Mr. Tyrrel had a considerable copious|ness of speech and a rich but undisciplined ima|gination, he was always sure of an audience. His neighbours crowded round, and joined in the ready laugh, partly from obsequiousness, and partly from unfeigned admiration. It frequently happened however that in the midst of his good humour a characteristic refinement of tyranny would suggest itself to his mind. When his subjects, encouraged by his familiarity, had discarded their precaution, the wayward fit would seize him, a sudden cloud overspread his brow, his voice transform from the pleasant to the terrible, and a quarrel of a straw immediately ensue with the first man whose face he did not like. The pleasure that resulted to

others from the exuberant sallies of his imagination was therefore not unalloyed with sudden qualms of apprehension and terror. It may be believed that this despotism did not gain its final ascendancy without being contested in the outset. But all op|position had been quelled with a high hand by this rural Antaeus. By the ascendancy of his fortune, and his character among his neighbours, he always reduced his adversary to the necessity of encoun|tering him at his own weapons, and did not dis|miss him without making him feel his presumption through every joint in his frame. The tyranny of Mr. Tyrrel would not have been so patiently en|dured, had not his colloquial accomplishments per|petually come in aid of that authority which his rank and prowess originally obtained.

The situation of our squire with the fair was still more enviable than that which he maintained among persons of his own sex. Every mother taught her daughter to consider the hand of Mr. Tyrrel as the highest object of her ambition. Every daughter regarded his athletic form and his ac|knowledged prowess with a favourable eye. As no man was adventurous enough to contest his supe|riority, so hardly any woman in this provincial circle would have scrupled to prefer his addresses to those of any other admirer. His boisterous wit had peculiar charms for them; and there was no spectacle more flattering to their vanity than the seeing this Hercules exchange his club for a dis|taff. It was pleasing to them to consider that the fangs of this wild beast, the very idea of which inspired trepidation into the boldest hearts, might be played with by them with the utmost security.

The arrival of Mr. Falkland gave a dreadful shock to the authority of Mr. Tyrrel. The dispo|sition of the former by no means inclined him to withhold himself from scenes of fashionable resort;

and he and his competitor were like two stars fated never to appear at once above the horizon. The advantages that Mr. Falkland possessed in the com|parison are palpable; and, had it been otherwise, the subjects of his rustic neighbour were suffi|ciently disposed to revolt against his merciless domi|nion. They had hitherto submitted not from love, but fear; and, if they had not actually rebelled, it was only for want of a leader. Even the ladies regarded Mr. Falkland with particular complacence. His polished manners were admirably in unison with feminine delicacy. The sallies of his wit were far beyond those of Mr. Tyrrel in variety and vi|gour; in addition to which they had the advan|tage of having their spontaneous exuberance guided and restrained by the sagacity of a cultivated mind. The graces of his person were enhanced by the elegance of his deportment; and the benevolence and liberality of his temper were upon all occasions conspicuous. It was common indeed to Mr. Tyr|rel together with Mr. Falkland to be little accessible to sentiments of awkwardness and confusion. But for this Mr. Tyrrell was indebted to a self-satisfied effrontery and a boisterous and over-bearing elo|cution by which he was accustomed to discomfit his assailants; while Mr. Falkland, with great in|genuity and candour of mind, was enabled, by his extensive knowledge of the world and acquaintance with his own resources, to perceive almost instan|taneously the proceeding it most became him to adopt.

Mr. Tyrrel contemplated the progress of his rival with uneasiness and aversion. He often comment|ed upon it to his particular confidents as a thing altogether inconceivable. Mr. Falkland he describ|ed as an animal that was beneath contempt. Di|minutive and dwarfish in his form, he wanted to set up a new standard of human nature adapted to

his own miserable condition. He wished to per|suade people that the human species were made to be nailed to a chair and to pore over books. He would have them exchange those robust exercises which made us joyous in the performance and vigorous in the consequences, for the wise labour of scratching our heads for a rhyme and counting our fingers for a verse. Monkeys were as good men as these. A nation of such animals would have no chance with a single regiment of the old English votaries of beef and pudding. For his own part he never saw any thing come of learning but to make people foppish and impertinent; and a sensible man would not wish any worse calamity to the enemies of his nation than to see them run mad after such pernicious absurdities. It was im|possible that people could seriously feel any liking for such a ridiculous piece of goods as this out|landish, foreign-made Englishman. But he knew very well how it was; it was all a miserable piece of mummery that was played only in spite to him. But G—for ever blast his soul, if he were not bit|terly revenged upon them all!

If such were the sentiments of Mr. Tyrrel, his patience found ample exercise in the language which was held by the rest of his neighbours on the same subject. While he saw nothing in Mr. Falkland but matter for contempt, they appeared to be never weary of recounting his praises. Such dignity, such affability, so perpetual an attention to the hap|piness of others, such delicacy of sentiment and expression! Learned without ostentation, refined without foppery, elegant without effeminacy! Per|petually anxious to prevent his superiority either in wealth or accomplishments from being painfully felt, it was felt so much the more certainly, and excited congratulation instead of envy in the spec|tator. It is hardly necessary to remark that the

revolution in this case belongs to one of the most obvious features of the human mind. The rudest exhibition of art is at first admired; till a nobler is presented, and we are taught to wonder at the fa|cility with which before we had been satisfied. Mr. Tyrrel thought there would be no end to the commendation; and expected when their common acquaintance would fall down and adore him. The most inadvertent expression of applause towards his rival inflicted upon him the torment of demons. He writhed with agony, his features became dis|torted, and his looks inspired terror. Such suffer|ing would probably have soured the kindest tem|per; what must have been its effect upon Mr. Tyr|rel's, always fierce, unrelenting and abrupt?

The advantages of Mr. Falkland seemed by no means to diminish with their novelty. Every new sufferer from Mr. Tyrrel's tyranny immediately went over to the standard of his adversary. The ladies, though treated by their rustic swain with more gentleness than the men, were occasionally exposed to his capriciousness and insolence. They could not help remarking the contrast between these two leaders in the fields of Venus, the one of whom paid no attention to any one's pleasure but his own, while the other seemed all good humour and bene|volence. It was in vain that Mr. Tyrrel endea|voured to restrain the ruggedness of his character. His motive was impatience, his thoughts were gloomy, and his courtship was like the pawings of an elephant. It appeared as if his temper were more human while he had indulged it in its free bent, than now that he sullenly endeavoured to put fetters upon its excesses.

Among the ladies of the village assembly already mentioned there was none that seemed to engage more of the kindness of Mr. Tyrrel than Miss Hardingham. She was also one of the few that

had not yet gone over to the enemy, either because she really preferred the gentleman who was her oldest acquaintance, or conceiving from calculation that this conduct would best insure success to her object in a husband. One day however she thought proper, probably only by way of temporary expe|riment, to show Mr. Tyrrel that she could engage in hostilities, if he should at any time give her suffi|cient provocation. She accordingly so adjusted her manoeuvres as to be engaged by Mr. Falkland as his partner for the dance of the evening, though without the smallest intention on the part of that gentleman of giving offence to his country neigh|bour.

A short time before the dances began, Mr. Tyr|rel went up to his fair inamorata, and entered into some trifling conversation with her to fill up the time, as intending in a few minutes to lead her forward to the field. He had accustomed himself to neglect the ceremony of soliciting beforehand a promise in his favour, as not supposing it possible that any one should dare to dispute his behests; and, had it been otherwise, he would have thought the formality unnecessary in this case, his general preference to Miss Hardingham being sufficiently notorious.

While he was thus engaged, Mr. Falkland came up. Mr. Tyrrel always regarded him with aver|sion and loathing. Mr. Falkland however ••lided in a graceful and unaffected manner into the conver|sation that was already begun, and the well-mean|ing ingenuousness of his manner was such, as might for the time have disarmed the devil of his malice. Mr. Tyrrel probably conceived that his accosting Miss Hardingham might be only an accidental piece of general ceremony, and expected every moment when he would withdraw to another part of the

room. Still he staid, as if determined to tire out the patience of the rustic.

The company now began to be in motion for the dance, and Mr. Falkland informed Miss Harding|ham that it was time to advance.—Sir, interrupted Mr. Tyrrel abruptly, that lady is my partner.—I think not, sir: I apprehend the lady has done me that favour, and I am very sure she has not pro|mised herself to both.—I tell you, sir, she is mine: I pretend to think that I have some interest in that lady's affections; and I will suffer no man to in|trude upon my claims.—The lady's affections are not the subject of the present question.—And pray, what is the subject? Observe, sir, I will not re|cede.—Mr. Tyrrel, there is no need of altercation in the present business: the master of the ceremo|nies is the proper person to decide; and, as neither of us can intend to disturb the good humour of the assembly, or exhibit our valour before the ladies, we shall either of us chearfully submit to his ver|dict.—Damn me, sir, if I understand—Softly, Mr. Tyrrel. It really is not worth the while of either of us to quarrel about a question that the forms of good company have long ago decided. I intended you no offence. But, sir, I shall be absolute in asserting that to which I have once acquired a claim. And you will please to observe that it is not my custom to submit to any unbecoming liberties.

Mr. Falkland uttered these words with the most even temper in the world. There was not in his manner the slightest appearance of defiance. The words, delivered with a certain tone, might have had the appearance of an a••••ront. But they were uttered with the tone of a remonstrance, calm, unassuming, and benevolent, without being con|temptuous. Miss Hardingham had begun to re|pent of her experiment, but her alarm was sud|denly quieted by the irresistible composure of her

new partner. Mr. Tyrrel walked away without answering a word. He muttered curses as he went, which the laws of honour did not oblige Mr. Falk|land to overhear, and which indeed it would have been no easy task to have overheard with accuracy. Mr. Tyrrel would not perhaps have so easily given up his point, had not his own good sense presently taught him that, however eager he might be for revenge, this was not the ground he should desire to occupy. Add to this, that unaccustomed as he was to strenuous opposition, he was less prepared instantaneously to encounter it; and indeed there was something in Mr. Falkland's manner that ex|torted assent for the present, however prejudice might reassume its dominion. But, though Mr. Tyrrel could not openly resent this rebellion against his authority, he brooded over it in the recesses of a malignant mind; and it was evident enough that he was accumulating materials for a bitter account, to which he trusted that his adversary should one day be brought.

CHAP. IV.

THIS was only one out of innumerable in|stances that every day seemed to enlarge, of petty mortifications which Mr. Tyrrel was destined to endure on the part of Mr. Falkland. In every one of them Mr. Falkland conducted himself with such propriety and unaffected mildness, as perpetually to make some addition to the stock of his reputation. The more Mr. Tyrrel struggled with his misfortune, the more conspicuous and in|veterate it became. A thousand times he cursed his stars, which took, as he apprehended, a mali|cious pleasure in making Mr. Falkland at every turn the instrument of his humiliation. Smarting as he was under a succession of untoward events, he appeared to feel in the most exquisite manner the distinctions paid to his adversary, even in those particulars to which he had not the slightest pre|tensions. An instance of this speedily occurred.

Mr. Clare, a poet whose works have done im|mortal honour to the country that produced him, had lately retired, after a life spent in the sublimest e••••orts of genius, to enjoy the produce of his economy and the reputation he had acquired, in this very neighbourhood. Such an inmate was looked up to by the country gentlemen with a de|gree of adoration. They felt a conscious pride in recollecting that the boast of England was a native of their vicinity, and they were by no means defi|cient in gratitude to him, when they saw him who had left them an adventurer, return into the midst of them in the close of his days crowned with ho|nours

and opulence. The reader is acquainted with his works; he has probably dwelt upon them with transport: and I need not remind him of their excellence. But he is perhaps a stranger to his personal qualifications. He does not know that his productions were scarcely more admirable than his conversation. In company he seemed to be the only person ignorant of the greatness of his fame. To the world his writings will long remain a kind of specimen of what the human mind is capable of performing; but no man perceived their defects so acutely as he, or saw so distinctly how much yet remained to be effected. He alone appeared to look upon his works with superiority and in|difference. One of the features that most emi|nently distinguished him was a perpetual suavity of manners, a comprehensiveness of mind, that re|garded the errors of others without a particle of resentment, and made it impossible for any one to be his enemy. He pointed out to men their mis|takes with frankness and unreserve: his remon|strances produced astonishment and conviction, but without uneasiness to the party to whom they were addressed: they felt the instrument that was em|ployed to correct their irregularities, but it never mangled what it was intended to heal. Such were the moral qualities that distinguished him among his acquaintance. The intellectual accomplish|ments he exhibited were principally a tranquil and mild enthusiasm, and a richness of conception that dictated spontaneously to his tongue, and flowed with so much ease, that it was only by retrospect you could be made aware of the amazing variety of ideas that had been presented.

Mr. Clare certainly found few men in this re|mote situation that were capable of participating in his ideas and amusements. It has not seldom been the weakness of great men to fly to solitude,

and converse with woods and groves, rather than with a circle of strong and comprehensive minds like their own. From the moment of Mr. Falk|land's arrival in the neighbourhood Mr. Clare dis|tinguished him in the most flattering manner. To so penetrating a genius there was no need of long experience and patient observation to discover the merits and defects of any character that presented itself. The foundations of his judgment had long since been accumulated, and at the close of so il|lustrious a life he might almost be said to see through nature at a glance. What wonder that he took some interest in a mind in a certain degree congenial with his own? But to Mr. Tyrrel's diseased imagination every distinction bestowed on another seemed to be expressly intended as an insult to him. On the other hand Mr. Clare, though gentle and benevolent in his remonstrances to a degree that made the taking of offence impossible, was by no means parsimonious of praise, or slow to make use of the deference that was paid him, for the purpose of doing justice to merit. The pain which Mr. Tyrrel endured from this circum|stance in the present instance was extreme.

It happened at one of those public meetings at which Mr. Falkland and Mr. Tyrrel were present, that the conversation, in one of the most numerous knots into which the company was broken, turned upon the poetical talents of the former. A lady, who was present, and was distinguished for the acuteness of her understanding, said, she had been favoured with the sight of a poem he had just written, entitled, an Ode to the Genius of Chivalry, which appeared to her of exquisite merit. The curiosity of the company was immediately excited, and the lady added, she had a copy in her pocket, which would be very much at their service, provided its being thus produced would not be dis|agreeable

to the author. The whole circle imme|diately intreated Mr. Falkland to comply with their wishes, and Mr. Clare, who was one of the com|pany, inforced their petition. Nothing gave this gentleman so much pleasure as to have an oppor|tunity of witnessing and doing justice to the exhi|bition of intellectual excellence. Mr. Falkland had no false modesty or affectation, and therefore readily yielded his consent. If their kindness led them to expect too much, the loss, he said, was theirs. What he ought most to desire was to be set right, and he hoped he had fortitude enough tranquilly to abide the verdict of justice.

Mr. Tyrrel accidentally sat at the extremity of this circle. It cannot be supposed that the turn the conversation had taken was by any means agree|able to him. He seemed to wish to withdraw him|self, but there was some unknown power that as it were by enchantment retained him in his place, and made him consent to drink to the dregs the bitter potion which envy had prepared from him.

The poem was read to the rest of the company by Mr. Clare, whose elocution was scarcely inferior to his other accomplishments. Simplicity, discri|mination and energy constantly attended him in the act of reading, and it is not easy to conceive a more refined delight than fell to the lot of those who had the good fortune to be his auditors. The beauties of Mr. Falkland's poem were accordingly exhibited with every advantage. The successive passions of the author were communicated to the reader. Every word was impressed with its true value, and none was brought forward with dispro|portioned and elaborate emphasis. The pictures conjured up by the creative ••ancy of the poet were placed full to view, at one time overwhelming the soul with superstitious awe, at another transporting it with luxuriant beauty.

The character of the hearers upon this occasion has already been described. They were for the most part plain, unlettered, and of little refine|ment. Poetry in general they read, when read at all, from the mere force of imitation and with few sensations of pleasure; but this poem had a pecu|liar vein of glowing inspiration. This very poem would probably have been seen by many of them with little effect; but the rhetoric of Mr. Clare carried it home to the heart. He ended; and, as the countenances of his auditors had before gone along with the passions of the composition, so now they emulated each other in giving language to their approbation. They were surprised into a sort of applause to which they were little accustomed. One spoke and another followed by a sort of un|controulable impulse; and the rude and broken manner of their commendations rendered them the more singular and remarkable. But what was least to be endured was the behaviour of Mr. Clare. He returned the manuscript to the lady from whom he had received it, and then turning to Mr. Falk|land said with emphasis and animation: Why, this is well, sir. It is of the right stamp; none of your hard essays strained from the ninefold labour of a pedant, or of your pastoral ditties most dis|mally distressed in search of a meaning. We want such people as you. But remember, young man, the muse was not given to add new refinements to idleness, but for the deliverance of the world.

A moment after Mr. Clare had thus express|ed himself, he quitted his seat, and with Mr. Falkland and two or three more withdrew. As soon as they were gone, Mr. Tyrrel edged farther into the circle. He had sat silent so long that he seemed ready to burst with gall and indignation. Mighty pretty verses, said he, half talking to him|self, and not addressing any particular person:

why, aye, the verses were well enough. Damna|tion! I should like to know what a ship-load of such stuff is good for.

Why, surely, said the lady who had introduced Mr. Falkland's ode on the present occasion, you must allow that poetry is a very agreeable and ele|gant amusement.

Elegant, quotha!—Why, look at this Falkland! A puny bit of a thing! In the devil's name, ma|dam, do you think he would write poetry if he could do any thing better?

The conversation did not stop here. The lady expostulated. Several other persons, fresh from the sensation they had felt, put in their share. Mr. Tyrrel grew more violent in his invectives, and found ease in uttering them. The persons who were able in any degree to check his vehemence were withdrawn. One speaker after another shrunk back into silence, too timid to oppose, or too indo|lent to contend with the fierceness of his passion. He found the appearance of his old ascendancy; but he felt its deceitfulness and uncertainty, and was gloomily dissatisfied.

In his return from this assembly he was accom|panied by a young man whom similitude of man|ners had rendered one of his principal confidents, and whose road home was in part the same as his own. One would have thought that Mr. Tyrrel had sufficiently vented his spleen in the dialogue he had just been holding with the lady and her asso|ciates. But he was unable to dismiss from his re|collection the anguish he had endured. Damn Falkland! said he. What a pitiful scoundrel is here to make all this bustle about! But women and fools always will be fools; there is no help for that! Those that set them on have most to answer for; and most of all Mr. Clare. He is a man that ought to know something of the world, and past

being duped by gewgaws and tinsel. He seemed too to have some sense of justice: I should not have suspected him of hallooing to a cry of mongrels without honesty or reason. But the world is all alike. Those that seem better than their neigh|bours are only more artful. They mean the same thing, though they take a different road. He de|ceived me for a while, but it is all out now. They are the makers of all the mischief. Fools might blunder, but they would not persist, if people that ought to set them right, did not encourage them to go wrong.

A few days after this adventure Mr. Tyrrel was surprised to receive a visit from Mr. Falkland. It was the first that had ever passed, they having never before seen each other but at a third place. Mr. Falkland proceeded without ceremony to explain the motive of his coming.

Mr. Tyrrel, said he, I am come to have an ami|cable explanation with you.

Explanation! What is my offence?

None in the world, sir; and for that reason I conceive this the fittest time for us to come to a right understanding.

You are in the devil of a hurry, sir. Are you clear that this haste will not mar, instead of make an understanding?

I think I am, sir. I have great faith in the pu|rity of my intentions, and I will not doubt that, when you perceive the view with which I come, you will willingly co-operate with it.

Mayhap, Mr. Falkland, we may not agree about that. One man thinks one way, and another man thinks another. Mayhap I do not think I have any great reason to be pleased with you already.

It may be so. I cannot however charge myself with having giving you reason to be displeased.

Mr. Tyrrel, proceeded Mr. Falkland, you will readily imagine that the cause that brought me hi|ther was not a slight one. I would not have trou|bled you with a visit but for important reasons. My coming is a pledge how deeply I am myself impressed with what I have to communicate.

We are in a critical situation. We are upon the brink of a whirlpool which, if once it get hold of us, will render all farther deliberation impotent. Shall we be enemies? What benefit will be derived from that? Who ever found in gall, malice, sus|picion and hatred the materials of happiness? No; to the breast where they enter, happiness is for ever a stranger. They haunt our relaxations, they poison our pleasures, they hardly allow us a mo|ment of unmixed satisfaction. A brow of care, a cankered heart, a bosom bursting with rage, these are their retinue.—If we be enemies, who shall tell where our enmity shall stop? Every new event will feed it; it will swell beyond imagination or li|mit; ever seeming enlarged to its utmost size, it will still become more monstrous, more intolerable!

Upon my soul, you are an extraordinary man,—an impertinent man! Why intrude upon me your prophecies and forebodings?

Because it is necessary to your happiness. Be|cause it becomes me to tell you of our danger now, rather than wait till my character will permit me to be silent no longer.

Sir, I mean to take care of my own happiness. I do not thank you for your interference. Damn me, if I think this is any thing else but a trick to put a new feather in your cap at your neighbour's expence.

Mr. Tyrrel, it is to provide against such miscon|structions on either part that I have sought you. I know the infirmity of my temper, but at least upon this occasion I am determined not to take any

thing ill. If my intention had been to outshine you, should I have come alone?

Well, sir, you have no right to put me out of humour with myself. If you come to play upon me, and try what sort of a fellow you shall have to deal with, damn me, if you shall have any rea|son to hug yourself upon the experiment.

Mr. Tyrrel, nothing is more easy for us than to quarrel. If you desire that, there is no fear that you will find opportunities.

Damn me, sir, if I do not believe you are come to bully me.

Good God, Mr. Tyrrel, be less unjust! My character is too well known to allow it to be sup|posed that I fear any man, and I do not in the least suspect you of a weakness in that respect to which I am myself a stranger.

Well, sir, that is thereafter as it may be.

By quarrelling we shall but imitate the great mass of mankind who could easily quarrel in our place. Let us do better. Let us show that we have the wisdom to avoid vulgar errors, and the magnani|mity to condemn petty misunderstandings. We are formed in different habits; why should we in|terfere? The world is wide enough for both. By thus judging we shall do ourselves most substantial honour. By a contrary conduct we shall be our|selves the sufferers, and merely present a comedy for the amusement of our acquaintance.

Do you think so? There may be something in that. Damn me, if I consent to be the jest of any man living.

You are right, Mr. Tyrrel. Let us each act in the manner best calculated to excite respect. We neither of us wish to change roads with the other; let us each suffer the other to pursue his own track unmolested. Be this our compact; and by mutual forbearance let us preserve mutual peace.

Saying this, Mr. Falkland put out his hand in token of fellowship. But the gesture was too significant. The wayward Tyrrel, who seemed to have been somewhat impressed by what had pre|ceded, taken as he was now by surprise, shrunk back.

All this is very unaccountable, cried he. What the devil can have made you so forward, if you had not some ••ly purpose to answer by which I am to be overreached?

My purpose, replied Mr. Falkland, is a manly and an honest purpose. Why should you refuse a proposition dictated by reason, and an equal re|gard to the interest of each?—Mr. Tyrrel had had an opportunity for pause, and fell back into his habitual character.

Well, sir, in all this I must own there is some frankness. Now I will return you like for like. It is no matter how I came by it, my temper is rough, and will not be controuled. Mayhap you may think it a weakness, but I do not desire to see it altered. Till you came, I found myself very well: I liked my neighbours, and my neighbours hu|moured me. But now the case is entirely alter|ed; and, as long as I cannot stir abroad without meeting with some mortification in which you are directly or remotely concerned, I am determined to hate you. Now, sir, if you will only go out of the county or the kingdom, to the devil if you please, so as I may never hear of you any more, I will promise never to quarrel with you as long as I live. Your poetry and your delicacy, your quirks and your conundrums may then be the very paragon of excellence for what I care.

Mr. Tyrrel, attend to reason. I might as well desire you to leave the county, as you desire me. I came here to you, not as to a master, but an equal. In the society of men we must have some|thing

to bear, as well as to perform. No man must think that the world was made for him alone. Let us then take things as we find them; and ac|commodate ourselves with prudence to unavoid|able circumstances.

True, sir, all that is very fine talking. But I return to my text; we are as God made us. I am neither a philosopher nor a poet, to set out upon a wild-goose chase of making myself a different man from what you find me. As for conse|quences, what must be must be. As we brew, we must bake. And so, do you see, I shall not trouble myself about what is to be, but stand up to it with a stout heart when it comes. Only this I can tell you, that, as long as I find you thrust into my dish every day, I shall hate you as bad as senna and valerian. And damn me, if I do not think I hate you the more for coming to-day in this prag|matical way when nobody sent for you, on purpose to show how much wiser you are than all the world besides.

Mr. Tyrrel, I have done. I foresaw conse|quences, and came as a friend to advise you. I did hope that by mutual explanation we should each of us have improved in the good opinion of the other. I am partly disappointed; but I still believe that when you coolly reflect on what has passed, you will give me credit for the honesty of my intentions, and be disposed to think of me with the same consideration and liberality as I am determined to exercise towards you.

Having said this, Mr. Falkland departed; and Mr. Tyrrel had recourse to his old friend, to whom he unburthened the tumult of his thoughts. This, cried he, is a new artifice of the fellow to prove his imagined superiority. We know very well that he has the gift of the gab. To be sure, if the world were to be governed by words, he would

be in the right box. Oh, yes, he had it all hollow before him! But what signifies prating? Business must be done in an other-guess way than that. I wonder what possessed me that I did not kick him! But that is all to come. This is only a new debt added to the score which he shall one day richly pay. This Falkland haunts me like a demon. I cannot wake, but I think of him. I cannot sleep, but I see him. He poisons all my pleasures. I should be glad to see him torn with tenter-hooks, and to grind his heart-strings with my teeth. I shall know no joy, till I see him ruined. There may be some things right about him; but he is my perpetual torment. The thought of him presses like a dead weight upon my heart, and I have a right to throw it off. Does he think I will feel all that I endure for nothing?

In spite of the acerbity of Mr. Tyrrel's feelings, it is probable however he did some justice to his rival. Upon ordinary occasions at least he seemed disposed to treat him with an involuntary defe|rence. He was no longer equally voluble in mixed companies in his abuse of him; a part of the topics of his invective seemed to be gone. He was no longer eager to treat him with random hostility; if he regarded him with equal dislike, he at least appeared to regard him as a formidable foe. He avoided his encounter; he forbore to contradict his opinions; he seemed to lie in wait for his victim, and to collect his venom for a mortal assault.

CHAP. V.

IT was not long after that a malignant contagious distemper broke out in the neighbour••ood, which proved fatal to many of the inhabitants, and was of unexampled rapidity in its effects. One of the first persons that was seized with it was Mr. Clare. It may be believed that this incident spread grief and alarm through the vicinity. Mr. Clare was considered by them as something more than a mor|tal. The equanimity of his behaviour, his un|assuming carriage, his exuberant benevolence and goodness of heart, joined with his talents, his inoffensive wit, and the comprehensiveness of his intelligence made him the idol of all that knew him. In the scene of his rural retreat at least he had not an enemy. All mourned the danger that now threatened him. He appeared to have the prospect of long life, and of going down to his grave full of years and of honour. Perhaps these appearances were deceitful. Perhaps the intel|lectual efforts he had exerted, which were occa|sionally more sudden, violent and unintermitted than a strict regard to health would have dictated, had laid the seeds of future disease. But a san|guine observer would infallibly have predicted, that his good sense, presence of mind and unaltered chearfulness would be able even to keep death at bay for a time and baffle the attacks of distemper, provided this universal foe did not take him by sur|prise. The general affliction therefore was doubly pungent upon the present occasion.

But no one was so much affected as Mr. Falk|land. Perhaps no man living so well understood the value of the life that was now at stake. He immediately hastened to the spot; but he found some difficulty in gaining admission. Mr. Clare, aware of the infectious nature of his disease, had given directions that as few people as possible should approach him. Mr. Falkland sent up his name. He was told that he was included in the general orders. He was not however of a temper to be easily repulsed; he persisted with obstinacy, and at length carried his point, being only reminded in the first instance to employ those precautions which experience has approved as most effectual for coun|teracting infection.

He found Mr. Clare in his bedchamber, but not in bed. He was sitting in his night-gown at a bureau near the window. His appearance was composed and chearful, but death was in his coun|tenance. I had a great inclination, Mr. Falkland, said he, not to have suffered you to come in; and yet there is not a person in the world it could give me more pleasure to see. But upon second thoughts I believe there are few people that could run into a danger of this kind with a better prospect of escaping. In your case, at least the garrison will not be taken through the treachery of the com|mander. I cannot tell how it is that I, who can preach wisdom to you, have myself been caught. But do not be discouraged by my example. I had no notice of my danger, or I would have acquitted myself better. These strange seeds of distemper seem to float in the air, and to fasten upon the frame without its being possible for us to tell what was the method of their approach.

Mr. Falkland, having once established himself in the apartment of his friend, would upon no terms consent to retire. Mr. Clare considered that there

was perhaps less danger in this choice than in a frequent change from the extremes of a pure to a tainted air, and desisted from his expostulation. Falkland, said he, when you came in, I had just finished making my will. I was not pleased with what I had formerly drawn up upon that subject, and I did not choose in my present situation to call in an attorney. In fact it would be strange if a man of sense with pure and direct intentions should not be able to perform such a function for him|self.

Mr. Clare continued to act in the same easy and disengaged manner as in perfect health. To judge from the chearfulness of his tone and the firmness of his manner, the thought would never once have occurred to you that he was dying. He walked, he reasoned, he jested, in a way that argued the most perfect self-possession. But his appearance changed perceptibly for the worse every quarter of an hour. Mr. Falkland kept his eye perpetually fixed upon him with mingled sentiments of anxiety and admiration.

Falkland, said he, after having appeared for a short period absorbed in thought, I feel that I am dying. This is a strange distemper of mine. Yes|terday I seemed in perfect health, and to-morrow I shall be an insensible corpse. How curious is the line that separates life and death to mortal men! To be at one moment active, gay, penetrating, with immense stores of knowledge at one's com|mand, capable of delighting, instructing and ani|mating mankind, and the next, lifeless and loath|some, an incumbrance upon the face of the earth. Such is the history of many men, and such will be mine.

I feel as if I had yet much to do in the world; but it will not be. I must be contented with what is past. It is in vain that I muster all my spirits to

my heart. The enemy is too mighty and too mer|ciless for me; he will not give me time so much as to breathe. These things are not yet in our power. They are parts of a great series that is perpetually flowing. The general welfare, the great business of the universe, will go on, though I bear no far|ther share in promoting it. That task is reserved for younger strengths, for you, Falkland, and such as you. We should be contemptible indeed, if the prospect of human improvement did not yield us a pure and perfect delight, independently of the question of our existing to partake of it. Man|kind would have little to envy to future ages, if they had all enjoyed a serenity as perfect as mine.

Mr. Clare sat up through the whole day, indulg|ing himself in easy and chearful exertions, which were perhaps better calculated to refresh and invi|gorate the frame, than if he had sought repose in its direct form. Now and then he was visited with a sudden pang; but it was no sooner felt, than he seemed to rise above it, and smiled at the impo|tence of the attack. Three or four times he was bedewed with profuse sweats, and these again were succeeded by an extreme dryness and burning heat of the skin. He was next covered with small livid spots. Symptoms of shivering followed, but these he drove away with a determined resolution. He then became tranquil and composed, and after some time determined to go to bed, it being al|ready night. Falkland, said he, pressing his hand, the task of dying is not so difficult, as some people imagine. When one looks back from the brink of it, one wonders that so total a subversion can take place at so easy a rate.

He had now been some time in bed, and, as every thing was still, Mr. Falkland hoped that he slept. But in that he was mistaken. Presently Mr. Clare threw back the curtain, and looked in

the countenance of his friend. I cannot sleep, said he. No, if I could sleep, it would be the same thing as to recover; and I am fated to have the worst in this battle.

Falkland, I have been thinking about you. I do not know any one whose future usefulness I con|template with greater hope. Take care of your|self. Do not let the world be defrauded of the benefit of your virtues. I am well acquainted with your weakness as well as your strength. You have an impetuosity and an impatience of imagined dishonour, that, if once set wrong, may make you as eminently mischievous, as you will otherwise be useful. Would to God you would think seriously of exterminating this error!

But, if I cannot, in the brief expostulation my present situation will allow, work this desirable change in you, there is at least one thing I can do. I can put you upon your guard against a mischief I foresee to be imminent. Beware of Mr. Tyrrel. Do not commit the mistake of despising him as an unequal opponent. Petty causes may produce great mischiefs. Mr. Tyrrel is boisterous, rugged and unfeeling; and you are too passionate, too acutely sensible of injury. It would be truly to be lamented, if a man so inferior, so utterly unwor|thy to be compared with you, should be capable of changing your whole history into misery and guilt. Think of this. I exact no promise from you. I would not shackle you with the fetters of super|stition; I would have you be governed by reason and justice.

Mr. Falkland was deeply affected with this ex|postulation. His sense of the generous attention of Mr. Clare at such a moment as this, was so great as almost to deprive him of utterance. He spoke in short sentences and with visible effort. I will behave better, replied he. Never fear me! Your

kind admonitions shall not be thrown away upon me.

Mr. Clare adverted to another subject. I have made you my executor; you will not refuse me this last office of friendship. It is but a short time that I have had the happiness of knowing you; but in that short time I have examined you well, and seen you thoroughly. Do not disappoint the sanguine hope I have entertained!

I have left some legacies. My former connec|tions, while I lived amidst the busy haunts of men, as many of them as were intimate, are all of them dear to me. I have not had time to summon them about me upon the present occasion, nor did I de|sire it. The remembrances of me will, I hope, answer a better purpose than such as are usually thought of on similar occasions.

Mr. Clare, having thus unburthened his mind, spoke no more for several hours. Towards morn|ing Mr. Falkland quietly withdrew the curtain, and looked at the dying man. His eyes were open, and were now gently turned towards his young friend. His countenance was sunk, and of a death|like appearance. I hope you are better, said Falk|land in a half-whisper, as if afraid of disturbing him. Mr. Clare drew his hand from the bed|clothes, and stretched it forward; Mr. Falkland advanced, and took hold of it 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Much better, said Mr. Clare in a voice, inward and hardly articulate: the struggle is now over; I have finished my part: farewel; remember! These were his last words. He lived still a few hours; his lips were sometimes seen to move; he expired without a groan

Mr. Falkland had witnessed the scene with much anxiety. His hopes of a favourable crisis, and his fear of disturbing the last moments of his friend, had held him dumb. For the last half hour he had stood up with his eyes intently fixed upon Mr.

Clare. He witnessed the last gasp, the last little convulsive motion of the frame. He continued to look; he seemed sometimes to imagine that he saw life renewed. At length he could deceive himself no longer, and exclaimed with a distracted accent, And is this all? He would have thrown himself upon the body of his friend; the attendants with|held, and would have forced him into another apartment. But he struggled from them, and hung fondly over the bed. Is this the end of genius, virtue and excellence? Is the luminary of the world thus for ever gone? Oh, yesterday! yester|day! Clare, why could not I have died in your stead? Dreadful moment! Irreparable loss! Lost in the very maturity and vigour of his mind! Cut off from a usefulness ten thousand times greater than any he had already exhibited! Oh, his was a mind to have instructed sages, and guided the moral world! This is all we have left of him! The eloquence of those lips is gone! The incessant activity of that heart is still! The best and wisest of men is gone, and the world is insensible of its loss!

Mr. Tyrrel heard the intelligence of Mr. Clare's death with emotion, but of a very different kind. He avowed that he had not forgiven him his partial attachment to Falkland, and therefore could not recal his remembrance with kindness. But, if he could have overlooked his past injustice, sufficient care was taken to employ means to keep alive his resentment. Falkland forsooth attended him on his death-bed, as if nobody else was worthy to par|take of his confidential communications. But what was worst of all was this executorship. In every thing this pragmatical rascal throws me behind. Contemptible wretch, that has nothing of the man about him! Must he perpetually trample on his betters? Is every body incapable of reason, and

making a right estimate of the merits of men? caught with mere outside? choosing the flimsy be|fore the substantial? And upon his death-bed too! [Mr. Tyrrel with his uncultivated brutality mixed, as usually happens, certain rude notions of reli|gion.] Sure the sense of his situation might have shamed him. Poor wretch! his soul has a great deal to answer for. He has made my pillow un|easy; and whatever may be the consequences, it is him we have to thank for them.

The death of Mr. Clare removed the person who could most effectually have moderated the animosi|ties of the contending parties, and took away the great operative check upon the excesses of Mr. Tyrrel. This rustic tyrant had been held in invo|luntary restraint by the intellectual ascendancy of his celebrated neighbour; and, notwithstanding the general ferocity of his temper, did not appear till lately to have entertained a hatred against him. In the short time that had elapsed from the period in which Mr. Clare had fixed his residence in the neighbourhood to that of the arrival of Mr. Falk|land from the Continent, the conduct of Mr. Tyrrel had even shown certain tokens of improvement. Such was the felicity of Mr. Clare's manners that, even while he corrected, he conciliated, and ex|cited no angry emotions in those whose actions were most curbed by the apprehension of his dis|pleasure. The effects of his suavity however, so far as related to Mr. Tyrrel, had been in a certain degree suspended by considerations of rivalship be|tween this gentleman and Mr. Falkland. And, now that the influence of Mr. Clare's presence and virtues were entirely removed, Mr. Tyrrel's temper broke out into more criminal excesses than at any former period, having the additional stimulus of mortified pride and disappointed ambition.

CHAP. VI.

THE consequences of all this speedily manifest|ed themselves. The very next incident in the story was in some degree decisive of the catastrophe. Hitherto I have spoken only of preliminary matters, seemingly unconnected with each other, though leading to that state of mind in both parties, which had such fatal effects. But all that remains is ra|pid and tremendous. The death-dealing mischief advances with an accelerated motion, appearing to defy human wisdom and human strength to ob|struct its operation.

There was a tenant of Mr. Tyrrel, one Hawk|ins;—I cannot mention his name without recol|lecting the painful tragedies that are annexed to it! This Hawkins had originally been taken up by Mr. Tyrrel with a view of protecting him from the arbitrary proceedings of a neighbouring squire, though he had now in his turn become an object of persecution to Mr. Tyrrel himself. The first ground of their connection was this. Hawkins, beside a farm which he rented under the above|mentioned squire, had a small freehold estate that he inherited from his father. This of course en|titled him to a vote in the county elections; and, a warmly contested election having occurred, he was required by his landlord to vote for the candi|date in whose favour he had himself engaged. Hawkins refused to obey the mandate, and soon after received notice to quit the farm he at that time rented.

It happened that Mr. Tyrrel had interested him|self strongly in behalf of the opposite candidate;

and, as Mr. Tyrrel's estate bordered upon the seat of Hawkins's residence, the ejected countryman could think of no better expedient than that of riding over to this gentleman's mansion, and re|lating the case to him. Mr. Tyrrel heard him through with attention. Well, friend, said he, it is very true that I wished Mr. Jackman to carry his election; but you know it is usual in these cases for tenants to vote just as their landlords please. I do not think proper to encourage rebellion.—All that is very right, and please you, replied Hawkins; and I would have voted at my landlord's bidding for any other man in the three kingdoms but squire Marlow. You must know one day his huntsman rode over my fence, and so through my best field of standing corn. It was not above a dozen yards about, if he had kept the cart-road. The fellow had served me the same sauce, an it please your honour, three or four times before. So I only asked him, What he did that for, and whether he had not more conscience than to spoil people's crops a' that fashion? Presently the squire came up. He is but a poor, weazen-face chicken of a gentleman, saving your honour's reverence. And so he flew into a woundy passion, and threatened to horsewhip me. I will do as much in reason to pleasure my landlord as arr a tenant he has; but I will not give my vote to a man that threatens to horsewhip me. And so, your honour, I and my wife and three children are to be turned out of house and home, and what I am to do to maintain them God knows. I have been a hard-working man, and have always lived very well, and I do think the case is main hard. Squire Underwood turns me out of my farm; and, if your honour do not take me in, I know none of the neighbour|ing gentry will, for fear as they say of encouraging their own tenants to run rusty too.

This representation was not without its effect upon Mr. Tyrrel. Well, well, man, replied he, we will see what can be done. Order and subor|dination are very good things; but people should know how much to require. As you tell the story, I cannot see that you are greatly to blame. Marlow is a coxcombical prig, that is the truth on't; and, if a man will expose himself, why, he must even take what follows. I do hate a Frenchified fop with all my soul; and I cannot say that I am much pleased with Mr. Underwood for taking the part of such a rascal. Hawkins, I think is your name? You may call on Barnes, my steward, to-morrow, and he shall speak to you.

While Mr. Tyrrel was speaking, he recollected that he had a farm vacant of nearly the same va|lue as that which Hawkins at present rented under Mr. Underwood. He immediately consulted his steward, and, finding the thing suitable in every respect, Hawkins was admitted out of hand into the catalogue of Mr. Tyrrel's tenants. Mr. Un|derwood extremely resented this proceeding, which indeed, as being contrary to the understood con|ventions of the country gentlemen, few people but Mr. Tyrrel would have ventured upon. He said that there was an end to all regulation, if tenants were to be encouraged in such inexcusable disobe|dience. It was not a question of this or that can|didate, seeing that any gentleman, who was a true friend to his country, would rather lose his elec|tion, than do a thing which if once established into a practice, would deprive them for ever of the power of managing any election. The labouring people were sturdy and resolute enough of their own accord; it became every day mo•••• difficult to keep them under any subordinations and, if the gentlemen were so ill-advised as to neglect the pub|lic

good, and encourage them in their insolence, there was no foreseeing where it would end.

Mr. Tyrrel was not of a stamp to be influenced by these remonstrances. Their general spirit was sufficiently conformable to the sentiments he him|self entertained; but he was of too vehement a temper to maintain the character of a consistent politician; and, however wrong his conduct might be, he would by no means admit of its being set right by the suggestions of others. The more his patronage of Hawkins was criticised, the more in|flexibly he adhered to it; and he was at no loss in clubs and other assemblies to overbear and silence, if not to confute his censurers. Beside which, Hawkins had certain accomplishments which qua|lified him to be a favourite with Mr. Tyrrel. The bluntness of his manner and the ruggedness of his temper gave him some resemblance to his landlord; and, as these qualities were likely to be more fre|quently exercised on such persons as had incurred Mr. Tyrrel's displeasure than upon Mr. Tyrrel him|self, they were not observed without some degree of complacency. In a word, he every day receiv|ed new marks of distinction from his patron, and after some time was appointed coadjutor to Mr. Barnes in the capacity of bailiff. It was about the same period that he obtained a lease of the ••arm of which he was tenant.

Mr. Tyrrel was determined, as occasion offered, to promote every part of the family of this favour|ed dependent. Hawkins had a son, a lad of se|venteen, of a very agreeable person, a ruddy com|plexion, and of quick and lively parts. This lad was in an uncommon degree the favourite of his father, who seemed to have nothing so much at heart as the future welfare of his son. Mr. Tyrrel had noticed him two or three times with approba|tion; and the boy, being fond of the sports of the

field, had occasionally followed the hounds, and displayed various instances both of agility and saga|city in presence of the squire. One day in parti|cular he exhibited himself with uncommon advan|tage; and Mr. Tyrrel without farther delay propo|sed to his father to take him into his family, and make him whipper-in to his hounds, till he could provide him with some more lucrative appointment in his service.

This proposal was received by Hawkins with various marks of mortification. He excused him|self with hesitation for not accepting the offered favour; said the lad was in many ways useful to him; and hoped his honour would not insist upon depriving him of his assistance. This apology might perhaps have been sufficient with any other man than Mr. Tyrrel; but it was frequently observ|ed of this gentleman that, when he had once form|ed a determination however slight in favour of any measure, he was never afterwards known to give it up, and that the only effect of opposition was to make him eager and inflexible in pursuit of that to which he had before been nearly indifferent. At first he seemed to receive the apology of Hawkins with good humour, and to see nothing in it but what was reasonable; but afterwards every time he saw the boy his desire of retaining him in his service was increased, and he more than once re|peated to his father the good disposition in which he felt himself towards him. At length he observ|ed that the lad was no more to be seen mingling in his favourite sports, and he began to suspect that this originated in a determination to thwart him in his projects.

Roused by this suspicion, which was not of a nature with Mr. Tyrrel to brook a delay, he sent for Hawkins to confer with him. Hawkins, said he, in a tone of displeasure, I am not satisfied with

you. I have spoken to you two or three times about this lad of yours, whom I am desirous of taking into favour. What is the reason, sir, that you seem unthankful and averse to my kindness? You ought to know that I am not to be trifled with. I shall not be contented, when I offer my favours to have them rejected by such fellows as you. I made you what you are; and, if I please, can make you more helpless and miserable than you were when I found you. Have a care!

An it please your honour, said Hawkins, you have been a very good master to me, and I will tell you the whole truth. I hope you will na be angry. This lad is my favourite, my comfort and the stay of my age.

Well, and what then? Is that a reason you should hinder his preferment?

Nay, pray your honour, hear me. I may be very weak for aught I know in this case, but I cannot help it. My father was a clergyman. We have all of us lived in a creditable way; and I cannot bear to think that this poor lad of mine should go to service. For my part, I do not see any good that comes of servants. God forgive me, if I am unjust! But this is a very dear case, and I cannot bear to risk my poor boy's welfare, when I can so easily, if you please, keep him out of harm's way. At present he is sober and indus|trious, and, without being conceited or surly, knows what is due to him. I know, your honour, that it is main foolish of me to talk to you thus; but your honour has been a good master to me, and I cannot bear to tell you a lie.

Mr. Tyrrel had heard the whole of this harangue in silence, because he was too much astonished to open his mouth. If a thunderbolt had fallen un|expectedly at his feet, he could not have testified greater surprise. He had thought that Hawkins

was so foolishly fond of his son that he could not bear to trust him out of his presence, but had never in the slightest degree suspected what he now found to be the truth.

Oh, oh, you are a gentleman, are you? A pretty gentleman truly! Your father was a cler|gyman! Your family is too good to enter into my service! Why, you impudent rascal! was it for this that I took you up, when Mr. Underwood dismissed you for your insolence to him? Have I been nursing a viper in my bosom? Pretty mas|ter's manners will be contaminated truly! He will not know what is due to him, but will be ac|customed to obey orders! You insufferable vil|lain! Get out of my sight! Depend upon it, I will have no gentlemen on my estate! I will off with them, root and branch, bag and baggage! So, do you hear, sir? come to me to-morrow morning, bring your son, and ask my pardon; or take my word for it, I will make you so miserable, you shall wish you had never been born

This treatment was too much for Hawkins's patience. There is no need, your honour, that I should come to you again about this affair. I have taken up my determination, and no accident or time can make any change in it. I am main sorry to displease your worship, and I know very well that you can do me a great deal of mischief. But I hope you will not be so hard hearted, as to ruin a father only for being fond of his child, even if so be that his fondness should make him do a foolish thing. But I cannot help it, your honour: you must do as you please. The poorest slave in the world has some point that he does not part with. I will lose all that I have, and go to day-labour, and my son too, if needs must; but I will not make a gentleman's servant of him.

Very well, friend; very well! replied Tyrrel, foaming with rage. Depend upon it, I will re|member you! Your pride shall have a downfal! G—damn it! is it come to this? Shall a lousy rascal, that farms his forty acres, pretend to beard the lord of the manor? I will tread you into paste! Let me advise you, scoundrel, to shut up your house, and quit my estate, and fly as if the devil was behind you! You may think yourself happy, if I be not too quick for you yet, if you escape in a whole skin! I would not suffer such a villain to remain upon my land a day longer, if I could gain the Indies by it!

Not so fast, your honour, answered Hawkins sturdily. I hope you will think better of it, and see that I have not been to blame. But, if you should not, there is some harm that you can do me, and some harm that you cannot. Though I am a plain working man, your honour, do you see? yet I am a man still. No; I have got a lease of my farm, and I shall not quit it o'thaten. I hope there is some law for poor folk, as well as for rich ones.

Mr. Tyrrel, unused to contradiction, was pro|voked beyond bearing at the courage and indepen|dent spirit of his retainer. There was not a tenant upon his estate, or at least not one of Hawkins's mediocrity of fortune, whom the general policy of land-owners, and still more the arbitrary and un|controulable temper of Mr. Tyrrel, did not effectu|ally restrain from acts of open defiance.

Excellent, upon my soul! G—damn my blood! but you are a rare fellow. You have a lease, have you? You will not quit, not you! A pretty pass things are come to, if a lease can protect such fel|lows as you against the lord of a manor! But you are for a trial of skill, are you? Oh, very well, friend, very well! With all my soul! Since it is

come to that, we will show you some pretty sport before we have done! But get you out of my sight, you rascal! I have not another word to say to you! Never darken my doors again!

Hawkins, to borrow the language of the world, was guilty in this affair of a double imprudence. He talked to his landlord in a more peremptory manner than the constitution and practices of this country allow a dependent to assume. But above all, having been thus hurried away by his resent|ment, he ought to have foreseen the consequences. It was mere madness in him to think of contesting with a man of Mr. Tyrrel's eminence and fortune. It was a fawn contending with a lion. Nothing could have been more easy to predict, than that it was of no avail for him to have right on his side, when his adversary had influence and wealth, and therefore could so victoriously justify any extrava|gancies that he might think proper to commit. This maxim was completely illustrated in the sequel. Wealth and despotism easily know how to engage those laws, which were perhaps at first in|tended [witless and miserable precaution!] for the safeguards of the poor, as the coadjutors of their oppression.

From this moment Mr. Tyrrel was bent upon Hawkins's destruction; and he left no means un|employed that could either harass or injure the ob|ject of his persecution. He deprived him of his appointment of bailiff, and directed Barnes and his other dependents to do him ill offices upon all occasions. Mr. Tyrrel by the tenure of his manor was impropriator of the great tithes, and this cir|cumstance afforded him frequent opportunities of petty altercation. The land of one part of Haw|kins's farm, though covered with corn, was lower than the rest; and consequently exposed to occa|sional inundations from a river by which it was

bounded. Mr. Tyrrel had a dam belonging to this river privately cut about a fortnight before the sea|son of harvest, and laid the whole under water. He ordered his servants to pull away the fences of the higher ground during the night, and to turn in his cattle to the utter destruction of the crop. These expedients however applied to only one part of the property of this unfortunate man. But Mr. Tyrrel did not stop here. A sudden morta|lity took place among Hawkins's live stock, at|tended with very suspicious circumstances. Haw|kins's vigilance was strongly excited by this event, and he at length succeeded in tracing the matter so accurately that he conceived he could bring it home to Mr. Tyrrel himself.

Hawkins had hitherto carefully avoided, not|withstanding the injuries he had suffered, attempt|ing to right himself by a legal process, being of opinion that law was better adapted for a weapon of tyranny in the hands of the rich, than for a shield to protect the humbler part of the commu|nity against their usurpations. In this last instance however he conceived that the offence was so atro|cious as to make it impossible that any rank could protect the culprit against the severity of justice. In the sequel he saw reason to applaud himself for his former inactivity in this respect, and to repent that any motive had been strong enough to per|suade him into a contrary system.

This was the very point to which Mr. Tyrrel wanted to bring him, and he could scarcely credit his good fortune, when he was told that Hawkins had entered an action. His congratulation upon this occasion was immoderate, as he now conceived that the ruin of his late favourite was irretrievable. He consulted his attorney, and urged him by every motive he could devise to employ the whole series of his subterfuges in the present affair. The direct re|pelling

of the charge exhibited against him was the least part of his care; the business was, by affida|vits, motions, pleas, demurrers, flaws and appeals, to protract the question from term to term and from court to court. It would, as Mr. Tyrrel ar|gued, be the disgrace of a civilized country, if a gentleman, when insolently attacked in law by the scum of the earth, could not convert the cause into a question of the longest purse, and stick in the skirts of his adversary till he had reduced him to beggary.

Mr. Tyrrel however was by no means so far en|grossed by his law-suit, as to neglect other methods of proceeding offensively against his tenant. Among the various expedients that suggested themselves there was one, which, though it tended rather to torment than irreparably injure the sufferer, was not rejected. This was derived from the particu|lar situation of Hawkins's house, barns, stacks and out-houses. These were placed at the extremity of a strip of land connecting them with the rest of the farm, and were surrounded on three sides by fields in the occupation of one of Mr Tyrrel's tenants most devoted to the pleasures of the land|lord. The road to the market town ran at the bottom of the largest of these fields, and was di|rectly in view of the front of the house. No in|convenience had yet arisen from that circumstance, as there had been a broad path time out of mind, that intersected this field, and led directly from Hawkins's house to the road. This path, or pri|vate road, was now by concert of Mr. Tyrrel and his obliging tenant shut up, so as to make Hawkins a sort of prisoner in his own domains, and oblige him to go near a mile about for the purposes of his traffic.

Young Hawkins, the lad who had been the original subject of dispute between his father and

the squire, had much of his father's spirit, and felt an uncontroulable indignation against the successive acts of despotism of which he was a witness. His resentment of them was the greater, because the sufferings to which his parent was exposed, all of them, flowed from affection to him, at the same time that he could not propose removing the ground of dispute, as by so doing he would seem to fly in the face of his father's paternal kindness. Upon the present occasion, without asking any counsel but of his own impatient resentment, he went in the middle of the night and removed all the ob|structions that had been placed in the way of the old path, broke the padlocks that had been fixed, and threw open the gates. In these operations he did not proceed unobserved, and the next day a warrant was issued for apprehending him. He was accordingly carried before a bench of justices, and by them committed to the county jail, to take his trial for the burglary at the next assizes.

This was the finishing stroke to Hawkins's mi|series: as he was not deficient in courage, he had stood up against his other persecutions without flinching. He was not unaware of the advantages which our laws and customs give to the rich over the poor in contentions of this kind. But, being once involved, there was a stubbornness in his na|ture that would not allow him to retract, and he suffered himself to hope rather than expect a fa|vourable issue. But in this last event he was wounded in the point that was nearest his heart. He had feared to have his son contaminated and debased by a servile station, and he now saw him transferred to the seminary of a jail. He was even uncertain as to the issue of his imprisonment, and trembled to think what the tyranny of wealth might effect to blast his hopes for ever.

From this moment his heart died within him. He had trusted to persevering industry and skill to save the wreck of his little property from the vul|gar spite of his landlord. But he had now no lon|ger any spirit to exert those efforts which his situ|ation more than ever required. Mr. Tyrrel pro|ceeded without remission in his machinations; Hawkins's affairs every day grew more desperate; and the squire, watching the occasion, took the earliest opportunity of seizing upon his remaining property in the mode of a distress for rent.

It was precisely in this stage of the affair that Mr. Falkland and Mr. Tyrrel accidentally met in a private road near the habitation of the latter. They were on horseback, and Mr. Falkland was going to the house of the unfortunate tenant who seemed upon the point of perishing under his land|lord's malice. He had been just made acquainted with the tale of this persecution. It had indeed been an additional aggravation of Hawkins's cala|mity that Mr. Falkland, whose interference might otherwise have saved him, had been absent from the neighbourhood for a considerable time. He had been three months in London, and from thence had gone to visit his estates in another part of the island. The proud and self-confident spirit of this poor fellow always disposed him to depend as long as possible upon his own exertions. He had avoided applying to Mr. Falkland, or indeed indulging himself in any manner in communicating and be|wailing his hard hap, in the beginning of the con|tention; and, when the extremity grew more urgent, and he would have been willing to recede in some degree from the stubbornness of his mea|sures, he found it no longer in his power. After an absence of considerable duration Mr. Falkland at length returned somewhat unexpectedly; and, having learned among the first articles of country

intelligence the distresses of this unfortunate yeo|man, ••e resolved to ride over to his house the next morning, and surprize him with all the relief it was in his power to bestow.

At sight of Mr. Tyrrel in this unexpected ren|counter, his face reddened with indignation. His first feeling, as he afterwards said, was to avoid him; but, finding that he must pass him, he con|ceived that it would be a want of spirit and deser|tion of duty not to acquaint him with his feelings on the present occasion.

Mr. Tyrrel, said he somewhat abruptly, I am sorry for a piece of news which it has just been my fortune to hear.

Well, sir, and what is that? What have I to do with your sorrow?

A great deal, sir. It is caused by the distresses of a poor tenant of your's, Hawkins. If your steward have proceeded without your authority, I think it right to inform you of what he has done; and, if he has had your authority, I would gladly persuade you to think better of it.

Mr. Falkland, it would be quite as well if you would mind your own business, and leave me to mind mine. I want no monitor, and I will have none.

You mistake, Mr. Tyrrel; I am minding my own business. If I see you fall into a pit, it is my business to draw you out, and save your life. If I see you pursuing a wrong line of conduct, it is my business to set you right and save your honour.

Zounds, sir, do not think to put any of your conundrums upon me! Is not the man my tenant? Is not my estate my own? What signifies calling it mine, if I am not to have the direction of it? Sir, I pay for what I have; I owe no man a penny; and I will not put my estate to nurse to you, nor the best he that wears a head.

Mr. Tyrrel, I do not dispute your authority; I do not desire to dictate to you; I simply wish to do you a good office.

Do not desire to dictate! no, nor you shall not, sir. How dare you attempt to stop me upon the king's highway!

Sir, I know that you bear me no good will. I am but an ill mediator in this case, and should not have sought you. But, thus thrust by acci|dent in your way, I must have leave to tell you my thoughts.

True, sir, I hate you. And what I hate you most for is this damned impertinence of pretending to be wiser than every body else. Is not this a free country, and may not every body do as he likes?

Mr. Tyrrel, I know your humour, and will bear as much as I can. What do you mean, sir, by a free country? I put no compulsion upon you. There is room enough; ride by me, if you please! Sir, I defy you not to hear me, while I tell you coolly and firmly, you are greatly to blame, and must change your mode of proceeding!

This is very extraordinary usage! Sir, I am not to blame. You know nothing about the matter. Do you think I will let a paltry fellow like this Hawkins insult me for nothing? Damn my soul, if I will not have the heart's blood of him!

It is very true, Mr. Tyrrel, that there is a dis|tinction of ranks. I believe that distinction to be a good thing. But, however necessary it may be, we must acknowledge that it puts some hardships upon the lower orders of society. It makes one's heart ache to think that one man is born to the inherit|ance of every superfluity, while the whole share of another, without any demerit of his, is drud|gery and starving; and that all this is indispensable. We that are rich, Mr. Tyrrel, must do every thing in our power to lighten the yoke of these unfor|tunate

people. We must not use the advantage that accident has given us, with an unmerciful hand. Poor wretches! they are pressed almost be|yond bearing as it is; and if we unfeelingly give another turn to the machine, they will be crushed into atoms.

This picture was not without its effect even upon the obdurate mind of Mr. Tyrrel.—Well, sir, I am no tyrant. I know very well that tyranny is a bad thing. But you do not infer from thence that these people are to do as they please, and never to meet with their deserts?

Mr. Tyrrel, I see that you are shaken in your animosity. Suffer me to hail the new-born bene|volence of your nature. Go with me to Hawkins. Do not let us talk of his deserts! poor fellow! he has suffered almost all that human nature can en|dure. Let your forgiveness upon this occasion be the earnest of good neighbourhood and friendship between you and me.

No, sir, I will not go. I own there is something in what you say. I always knew you had the wit to make good your own story, and tell a plausible tale. But I will not be come over thus. It has always been my character, when I had once con|ceived a scheme of vengeance never to forego it; and I will not change that character. I took up Hawkins when every body forsook him, and made a man of him; and the ungrateful rascal has only insulted me for my pains. Curse me, if ever I forgive him! It would be a good jest indeed, if I were to forgive the insolence of my own creature, at the desire of a man like you that has been my perpetual plague.

For God's sake, Mr. Tyrrel, have some reason in your resentment! Let us suppose that Hawkins has behaved unjustifiably, and insulted you. Is that an offence that can never be expiated? Must

the father be ruined, and the son hanged, to glut your resentment?

Damn me, sir, but you may talk your heart out; you shall get nothing of me. I shall never forgive myself for having listened to you for a moment. I will suffer nobody to stop the stream of my resent|ment; if I ever were to forgive him, it should be at nobody's intreaty but my own. But, sir, I never will. If he and all his family were at my feet, I would order them all to be hanged the next minute, if my power were as good as my will.

Very well, sir, I have done. I have only to tell you beforehand that such tyranny as your's will make you the universal abhorrence of mankind. You may hug yourself in your wealth and impu|nity, but be sure the genuine sense of the world will pierce through all your intrenchments, and fully avenge those for whose blood you so cruelly thirst. Good day to you.

Such was the conference of Mr. Falkland and Mr. Tyrrel respecting this odious transaction. In one part it seemed to promise a more favourable issue. But the rooted depravity of the one, and perhaps the haughty impatience of the other, soon put an end to this agreeable prospect. For Mr. Tyrrel, the aversion he entertained for his accom|plished neighbour hourly increased. It seemed as if, the more incontestibly his excellencies displayed themselves, the more bitter and inexpiable was the abhorrence he conceived for him. Having set out with contempt, and persuaded himself of the un|pardonable injustice of those by whom Mr. Falk|land was esteemed, he was probably anxious to ex|clude the evidence of his worth; and, as that evi|dence went on to increase, the struggle became more painful, and the situation more excruciating. In this respect the state of Mr. Tyrrel's mind was perhaps peculiarly critical; and, if we should allow

ourselves to judge from the appearances exhibited in the present case, we should be apt to lay it down as a sort of general maxim, that the greatest cri|minal, when he perpetrates the most atrocious act, is upon the very eve of yielding to the energy of truth, and relinquishing for ever his odious de|signs.

Mr. Falkland departed from this conference with a confirmed disapprobation of the conduct of his neighbour, and an unalterable resolution to do every thing in his power to relieve the distresses of Hawkins. But he was too late. When he ar|rived, he found the house already evacuated by its master. The family was removed nobody knew whither; Hawkins was absconded; and, what was still more extraordinary, the boy Hawkins had escaped on the very same day from the county jail. The enquiries Mr. Falkland set on foot after them were fruitless; no traces could be found of the catastrophe of these unhappy people. That catas|trophe I shall have occasion shortly to relate; and it will be found pregnant with horror, beyond what the blackest misanthropy could readily have sug|gested.

I go on with my tale. I go on to relate those incidents in which my own fate was so mysteriously involved. The temper of Mr. Tyrrel, soured with perpetual disappointment, became every day more peevish, arrogant and morose. The reader has seen what it was in the commencement. But every thing has its limits beyond which it can aug|ment no farther. I lift the curtain, and bring for|ward the last act of the tragedy.

CHAP. VII.

THE vices of Mr. Tyrrel, in their present state of augmentation, were peculiarly exercised upon his domestics and dependents. But the principal sufferer was Miss Emily Melvile, the orphan daugh|ter of his father's sister. Miss Melvile's mother had married unfortunately, or rather imprudently, against the consent of her relations, all of whom had agreed to withdraw their countenance from her in consequence of that precipitate step. Her husband had turned out to be no better than an adventurer; had spent her fortune, which in con|sequence of the irreconcilableness of her family was less than he expected, and broken her heart. Her infant daughter was left without any resource upon the wide world. In this situation the representa|tions of the people with whom she happened to be placed prevailed upon Mrs. Tyrrel, the mother of the squire, to receive her into her family. In equity perhaps she was entitled to that portion of fortune which her mother had for••eited by her im|prudence, and which had gone to swell the pro|perty of the male representative. But this idea had never entered into the conceptions of either mother or son. Mrs. Tyrrel conceived that she performed an act of the most exalted benevolence in admit|ting Miss Emily into a sort of amphibious situation, which was neither precisely that of a domestic, nor yet marked with the treatment that might seem due to one of the family.

She had not however at first been sensible of all the mortifications that might have been expected

from her condition. Mrs. Tyrrel, though proud and imperious, was not ill-natured. The female, who lived in the family in the capacity of house-keeper, was a person who had seen better days, and whose disposition was extremely upright and amiable. She early contracted a friendship for the little Emily, who was indeed for the most part committed to her care. Emily on her side fully repaid the affection of her instructress, and learn|ed with great docility the little accomplishments Mrs. Jakeman was able to communicate. But most of all she imbibed her chearful and artless temper, that extracted the agreeable and encouraging from all events, and prompted her to communicate her sentiments, which were never of the cynical cast, without modification or disguise. Beside the ad|vantages Emily derived from Mrs. Jakeman, she was permitted to take lessons from the masters who came to Tyrrel Place for the instruction of her cousin; and, indeed, as the young gentleman was most frequently indisposed to attend to them, they would commonly have had nothing to do, had it not been for the fortunate presence of Miss Melvile. Mrs. Tyrrel therefore encouraged the studies of Emily on that score; in addition to which she ima|gined that this living exhibition of instruction might operate as an indirect allurement to her dar|ling Barnabas, the only species of motive she would suffer to be presented.

Emily, as she grew up, displayed an uncommon degree of sensibility, which under her circumstan|ces would have been a source of perpetual dissatis|faction, had it not been qualified with an extreme sweetness and easiness of temper. She was far from being entitled to the appellation of a beauty. Her person was petite and trivial; her complexion favoured of the brunette; and her face was marked with the small pox, sufficiently to destroy its even|ness

and polish, though not enough to annihilate its expression. But, though her appearance was not beautiful, it did not fail to be in a high degree engaging. Her complexion was at once healthful and delicate; her long dark eye-brows adapted themselves with facility to the various conceptions of her mind; and her looks bore the united im|pression of an active discernment and a good-hu|moured frankness. The instruction she had re|ceived, as it was entirely of a casual nature, ex|empted her from the evils of untutored ignorance, but not from a sort of native wildness, arguing a mind incapable of guile itself, or of suspecting it in others. She amused, without seeming conscious of the refined sense which her observations con|tained: or rather having never been debauched with applause, she set light by her own qualifica|tions; and talked from the pure gaiety of a youth|ful heart acting upon the stores of a just under|standing, and not with any expectation of being distinguished and admired.

The death of her aunt made very little change in her situation. This prudent lady, who would have thought it little less than sacrilege to have consider|ed miss Melvile as a branch of the stock of the Tyr|rels, took no other notice of her in her will, than barely putting her down for a hundred pounds in a catalogue of legacies to her servants. She had never been admitted into the intimacy and confi|dence of Mrs. Tyrrel; and the young squire, now that she was left under his sole protection, seemed inclined to treat her with even more liberality than his mother had done. He had seen her grow up under his eye, and therefore, though there were but six years difference between their ages, he felt a kind of paternal interest in her welfare. Habit had rendered her in a manner necessary to him, and in every recess from the occupations of the

field and the pleasures of the table, he found him|self solitary and forlorn without the society of miss Melvile. Nearness of kindred and Emily's want of personal beauty prevented him from ever look|ing on her with the eyes of desire. Her accom|plishments were chiefly of the customary and su|perficial kind, dancing and music. Her skill in the first led him sometimes to indulge her with a va|cant corner in his carriage when he went to the neighbouring assembly; and, in whatever light he might himself think proper to regard her, he would have imagined his chambermaid, introduced by him, entitled to an undoubted place in the most splendid circle. Her musical talents were frequent|ly employed for his amusement. She had the ho|nour occasionally of playing him to sleep after the fatigues of the chace; and as he had some relish for harmonious sounds, she was frequently able to soothe him by their means from the perturbations of which his gloomy disposition was so eminently a slave. Upon the whole she might be considered as in some sort his favourite. She was the media|tor to whom his tenants and domestics, when they had incurred his displeasure, were accustom|ed to apply; the privileged companion that could handle this lion with impunity in the midst of his roarings. She spoke to him without fear; her so|licitations were always good-natured and disinte|rested; and when he repulsed her, he disarmed himself of half his terrors, and was contented to smile at her presumption.

Such had been for some years the situation of Miss Melvile. Its precariousness had been beguil|ed, by the chearfulness of her own temper, and the uncommon forbearance with which she was treated by her savage protector. But his disposi|tion, always brutal, had acquired a new degree of ferocity since the settlement of Mr. Falkland in his

neighbourhood. He occasionally forgot the gentle|ness with which he had been accustomed to treat his good-natured cousin. Her little playful arts were not always successful in softening his rage; and he would sometimes turn upon her blandish|ment with an impatient sternness that made her tremble. The careless ease of her disposition how|ever soon effaced these impressions, and she fell without variation into her old habits.

A circumstance occurred about this time which put an end to the felicity, that miss Melvile in spite of the frowns of fortune had hitherto enjoyed. Emily was exactly seventeen when Mr. Falkland returned from the Continent. At this age she was peculiarly susceptible of the charms of beauty, grace and moral excellence, when united in a person of the other sex. She was imprudent, precisely be|cause her own heart was incapable of guile. She had never yet felt the sting of the poverty to which she was condemned, and had not reflected on the insuperable distance that fortune has placed be|tween the opulent and the poorer classes of the community. She beheld Mr. Falkland, whenever he was thrown in her way at any of the public meetings with admiration; and, without having precisely explained to herself the sentiments she indulged, her eyes followed him through all the changes of the scene with eagerness and impa|tience. She did not see him, as the rest of the assembly did, born to one of the amplest estates in the county, and qualified to assert his title to the rich|est heiress. She thought only of Falkland, with those advantages which were most intimately his own, and of which no persecution of adverse fortune had the ability to deprive him. In a word she was transported when he was present; he was the per|petual subject of her reveries and her dreams; but

his image excited no sentiment in her mind beyond that of the immediate pleasure annexed to the idea.

The notice Mr. Falkland had taken of her in re|turn appeared sufficiently encouraging to a mind so full of prepossession as that of Emily. There was a particular complacency in his looks when direct|ed towards her. He had said in a company, of which one of the persons present repeated his re|marks to Miss Melvile, that she appeared to him amiable and interesting, that he felt for her unpro|vided and destitute situation, and that he should have been glad to be more particular in his notice of her, had he not been apprehensive of doing her a prejudice in the suspicious mind of Mr. Tyrrel. All this she treated as the ravishing condescension of a superior nature; for, if she did not recollect with sufficient assiduity his gifts of fortune, she was on the other hand filled with reverence for his unrivalled accomplishments. But, while she thus seemingly disclaimed all comparison between Mr. Falkland and herself, she probably cherished a con|fused idea that some event was yet in the womb of fate which might reconcile things apparently the most incompatible. Fraught with these prepos|sessions, the civilities that had once or twice oc|curred in the bustle of a public circle, the restor|ing her fan which she had dropped, or the discom|moding her of an empty tea-cup, made her heart palpitate, and gave birth to the wildest chimeras in her deluded imagination.

About this time an event happened that helped to give a precise determination to the fluctuations of Miss Melvile's mind. One evening, a short time after the death of Mr. Clare, Mr. Falkland had been to the house of his deceased friend in his quality of executor, and by some accidents of little intrinsic importance had been detained three or

four hours later than he intended. He did not set out upon his return till two o'clock in the morn|ing. At this time, in a situation so remote from the metropolis, every thing is as silent as it would be in a region wholly uninhabited. The moon shone bright, and the objects around, being mark|ed with strong variations of light and shade at the same time that they were not distinctly seen, gave a kind of sacred solemnity to the scene. Mr. Falk|land had taken Collins with him, the business to be settled at Mr. Clare's being in some respects similar to that to which this faithful domestic had been accustomed in the routine of his ordinary service. They had entered into some conversation, for Mr. Falkland was not then in the habit of obliging the persons about him by formality and reserve to re|collect who he was. The attractions of the scene made them break off the talk somewhat abruptly, that they might enjoy it without interruption. They had not rode far, before a hollow wind seem|ed to rise at a distance, and they could hear the hoarse roarings of the sea. Presently the sky on one side assumed the appearance of a reddish brown, and a sudden angle in the road placed this phenomenon directly before them. As they proceeded it be|came more distinct, and it was at length suffi|ciently visible that it was occasioned by a fire. Mr. Falkland put spurs to his horse; and, as they ap|proached, the object presented every instant a more tremendous appearance. The flames ascended with fierceness; they embraced a large portion of the horizon; and, as they carried up along with them numerous little fragments of the materials that fed them, impregnated with fire, and of an extremely bright and luminous colour, they pre|sented no inadequate image of the eruption of a volcano.

The flames proceeded from a village directly in their road. There were eight or ten houses already on fire, and the whole seemed to be threatened with immediate destruction. The inhabitants were in the utmost consternation, having had no pre|vious experience of a similar calamity. They con|veyed with haste their moveables and furniture into the adjoining fields, the whole surface of which was heated to an uncommon degree. When any of them had effected this as far as it could be at|tempted with safety, they were unable to conceive any farther remedy, but stood wringing their hands and contemplating the ravages of the fire in an agony of powerless despair. The water that could be procured in any mode practised in that place, was but as a drop contending with a whole element in arms. The wind in the mean time was rising, and the flames spread with more and more ra|pidity.

Mr. Falkland contemplated this scene for a few minutes, as if ruminating with himself as to what could be done. He then directed some of the country people about him to pull down a house, next to one that was wholly on fire, but which it|self was not yet touched. They seemed astonished at a direction which implied a voluntary destruc|tion of property, and considered the task as too much in the heart of the danger to be undertaken. Observing that they were motionless, he dismount|ed from his horse, and called upon them in an au|thoritative voice to follow him. He ascended the house in an instant, and presently appeared upon the top of it as if in the midst of the flames. Having, with the assistance of two or three of the persons that followed him most closely, and who by this time had supplied themselves with whatever tools came next to hand, loosened the support of a stack of chimnies, he pushed them headlong into

the midst of the fire. He passed and repassed along the roof; and, having set people to work on all parts, descended in order to see what could be done in any other quarter.

At this moment an elderly woman burst from the midst of a house in flames. The utmost con|sternation was painted in her looks; and, as soon as she could recollect herself enough to have a pro|per idea of her situation, the subject of her anxiety seemed in an instant to be totally changed. Where is my child? cried she, and cast an anxious and piercing look among the surrounding crowd. Oh, she is lost! she is in the midst of the flames! Save her! save her! my child! She filled the air with heart-rending shrieks. She turned towards the house. The people that were near endeavoured to prevent her, but she shook them off in a moment. She entered the passage; viewed the hideous ruin; and was then going to plunge into the blazing stair|case. Mr. Falkland seized her arm; it was Mrs. Jakeman. Stop! he cried, with a voice that seem|ed more than human. Stay you here! I will seek, I will save her! He charged the attendants to detain Mrs. Jakeman; he enquired which was the apartment of Emily. Mrs. Jakeman was upon a visit to a sister who lived in the village, and had brought Emily along with her. Mr. Falkland as|cended a neighbouring house; entered that in which Emily was, by a window in the roof; and in two minutes re-appeared with his lovely burthen in his arms. Having restored her to her affec|tionate protector snatched from the immediate grasp of death, from which, if he had not, none would have delivered her, he returned to his for|mer task. By his presence of mind, by his inde|fatigable humanity and incessant exertions, he saved three-fourths of the village from destruction. The conflagration being at length abated, he sought

again Mrs. Jakeman and Emily. He displayed the tenderest solicitude for the young lady's safety, and directed Collins to go with as much speed as he could, and send his chariot to attend her. More than an hour elapsed in this interval. Miss Mel|vile had never seen so much of Mr. Falkland upon any former occasion, and the spectacle of such hu|manity, delicacy, firmness and justice in the form of man, as he crowded into this small space, was both altogether new to her, and in the highest de|gree fascinating.

Emily no sooner arrived at the family mansion, than Mr. Tyrrel ran out to receive her. He had just heard of the melancholy accident that had taken place at the village, and was terrified for the safety of his good-humoured cousin. He display|ed those unpremeditated emotions which are com|mon to almost every individual of the human race. He was greatly shocked at the suspicion that Emily might possibly have become the victim of a catas|trophe which had thus broken out in the very dead of night. His sensations were of the most pleasing sort, when he folded her in his arms, and fearful apprehension was instantaneously converted into joyous certainty. Emily no sooner entered the well-known roof, than she forgot all she had suffer|ed; her spirits were brisk, and her tongue inces|sant in describing her danger and her deliverance. Mr. Tyrrel had formerly been tortured with the innocent eulogiums she pronounced of Mr. Falk|land. But these were tameness itself, compared with the rich and various eloquence that now flowed from her lips. She described his activity and his resources, the promptitude with which every thing was conceived, and the cautious, but daring wisdom with which it was executed. All was fairy-land and enchantment in the tenour of her artless tale; you saw a beneficent genius sur|veying

and controuling the whole, but could have no notion of any human means by which his pur|poses were effected.

Mr. Tyrrel listened for a while to these innocent effusions with patience; he could even bear to hear the man applauded by whom he had just obtained so considerable a benefit. But the theme by am|plification became nauseous, and he was at length obliged with some roughness to put an end to the tale. Probably upon recollection it appeared still more insolent and intolerable than while it was passing; the sensation of gratitude wore off, but the hyperbolical praise that had been bestowed still haunted his memory, and sounded in his ear: Emily seemed to have entered into the confederacy that disturbed his repose. As for the young lady herself, she was wholly unconscious of the offence that had been given, and upon every occasion quoted Mr. Falkland as the model of elegant man|ners and true wisdom. She was a total stranger to dissimulation; and she could not conceive that any body beheld the object of her admiration with less partiality than her inexperienced heart had enter|tained. Meanwhile her artless love became more fervent than ever. She flattered herself that no|thing less than a reciprocal passion could have prompted Mr. Falkland to the desperate attempt of saving her from the flames; and she trusted that this passion would speedily burst the barriers of silence, as well as induce the object of her affec|tion to overlook her comparative unworthiness.

Mr. Tyrrel endeavoured at first to check Miss Melvile in her applauses, and to convince her by various tokens that the subject was disagreeable to him. Emily was accustomed to yield implicit and unreluctant obedience, and therefore it was not difficult to restrain her; but upon the very next occasion her favourite topic would force its way to

her lips. Her obedience was the acquiescence of a frank and benevolent heart; but it was the most difficult thing in the world to inspire her with fear. Conscious herself that she would not hurt a worm, she could not conceive that any one would harbour cruelty and rancour against her. Her temper pre|served her from obstinate contention with the per|sons under whose protection she was placed; and, as her compliance was unhesitating, she had had no experience of a severe and rigorous treatment. As Mr. Tyrrel's objection to the very name of Falkland became more palpable and uniform, Miss Melvile increased in her precaution. She would stop herself in the half-pronounced sentences that were meant to his praise. This circumstance had necessarily an ungracious effect; it was a cutting satire upon the imbecility of her kinsman. Upon these occasions she would sometimes venture upon a good-humoured expostulation: Dear sir! well, I wonder how you can be so ill-natured! I am sure Mr. Falkland would do you any good office in the world: till she was checked by some gesture of im|patience and fierceness.

At length she wholly conquered her heedlessness and inattention. But it was now too late. Mr. Tyrrel already suspected the existence of that pas|sion which she had thoughtlessly imbibed. His imagination, ingenious in torment, suggested to him all the different openings in conversation in which she would have introduced the praise of Mr. Falkland, had she not been placed under this un|natural restraint. Her present reserve upon the subject was more insufferable than even her former loquacity. All his kindness for this unhappy or|phan gradually subsided. Her partiality for the man who of all others was most the object of his hatred, appeared to him as the last persecution of a malicious destiny. He figured himself as about

to be deserted by every creature in human form, all men under the influence of a fatal enchantment approving only what was sophisticated and arti|ficial, and holding the rude and genuine offspring of nature in mortal antipathy. Impressed with these gloomy presages, he saw miss Melvile with no sentiments but those of rancorous abhorrence; and, accustomed as he was to the uncontrouled in|dulgence of all his propensities, determined to wreak upon her a signal revenge.

CHAP. VIII.

MR. TYRREL consulted his old confident re|specting the plan he should pursue, who on his part felt no compunction upon the subject, nor had any idea that an insignificant girl, without either wealth or beauty, ought to be allowed for a moment to stand in the way of the gratifications of a man of Mr. Tyrrel's importance. The first idea of her now-unrelenting kinsman was to thrust her from his doors, and leave her to seek her bread in the wide world. But he was conscious that this proceeding would involve him in considerable obloquy; and he at length fixed upon a scheme which, at the same time that he believed it would sufficiently shelter his reputation, would much more certainly secure her mortification and punishment.

For this purpose he fixed upon a young man of twenty, the son of one Grimes, who occupied a small farm the property of his confident. This fellow he resolved to impose as a husband on Miss Melvile, who he shrewdly suspected, guided by the tender sentiments she had unfortunately con|ceived for Mr. Falkland, would listen with reluc|tance to any matrimonial proposal. Grimes he se|lected as being in all respects the diametrical reverse of Mr. Falkland. He was not precisely a lad of vicious propensities, but in an inconceivable degree boorish and uncouth. His complexion was scarcely human; his features were coarse, and strangely discordant and disjointed from each other. His lips were thick, and the tone of his voice broad

and unmodulated. His legs were of equal size from one end to the other, and his feet mishapen and clumsy. He had nothing spiteful or malicious in his disposition, but he was a total stranger to tenderness; he could not feel for those refinements in others, of which he had no experience in him|self. He was an expert boxer; his inclination led him to such amusements as were most boisterous; and he delighted in a sort of manual sarcasm, which he could not conceive to be very injurious, as it left no traces behind it. His general manners were noisy and obstreperous; inattentive to others; and obstinate and unyielding, not from any cruelty and ruggedness of temper, but from an incapacity to conceive those finer feelings that make so large a part of the history of persons who are cast in a gentler mould.

Such was the uncouth and half-civilised animal which the industrious malice of Mr. Tyrrel fixed upon as most happily adapted to his purpose. Emily had hitherto been in an unusual degree ex|empted from the oppression of despotism. Her happy insignificance had served her as a protection. No one thought it worth his while to fetter her with those numerous petty restrictions, with which the daughters of opulence are commonly tormented. She had the wildness as well as the delicate frame of the bird that warbles unmolested in its native groves.

When therefore she heard from her kinsman the proposal of Mr. Grimes for a husband, she was for a moment silent with astonishment at so unex|pected a suggestion. But, as soon as she recovered her speech, she replied: No, sir, I thank you. Bless me! I do not want a husband: I am but a child.

You are a woman! Are not you always han|kering after the men? It is high time you should be settled.

Mr. Grimes is such a strange man. Why, I do not know what he is like! He is like for all the world a great huge porpuss. No, I thank you! when I do have a husband, it shall not be such a man as Grimes neither.

Be silent! How dare you give your tongue such unaccountable liberties?

Well, I wonder what I should do with him. Why, it is like as if you should give me your great rough water-dog, and bid me make him a silk cushion to lie on in my dressing-room. Beside, sir, Grimes is a common labouring man, and I am sure I have always heard my aunt say that ours is a very great family.

It is a lie. Our family! Have you the impu|dence to think yourself one of our family?

Lord, sir! was not your grandpapa my grand|papa? And how then can we be of a different family?

For a damned strong reason. You are the daughter of a rascally Scotchman, who spent every shilling of my aunt Hannah's fortune, and left you a beggar. You have got a hundred pounds, and Grimes's father promises to give him as much. How dare you look down upon your equals?

Nay, now, sir, I am sure I am not proud. But indeed and indeed, sir, I can never love Mr. Grimes. Dear, dear! he is more like a cart-horse than a husband. I am very happy as I am. I love you, and I love Mrs. Jakeman: why should I be married?

Cease your prating! Grimes will be here this afternoon. Look that you behave well to him. If you do not, he will remember and repay when you least like it.

Now, I am sure, sir, you—you are not in ear|nest?

Not in earnest! Damn me but we will see that. I can tell what you would be at. You had rather be Mr. Falkland's miss, than the wife of a plain downright yeoman. But I shall take care of you.—Aye, this comes of indulgence. You must be taken down, miss. You must be taught the dif|ference between high-flown notions and realities. Mayhap you may take it a little in dudgeon or so. But never mind that. Pride always wants a little smarting. If you should be brought to shame, it is I that shall bear all the blame of it.

The tone in which Mr. Tyrrel spoke was so different from any thing to which Miss Melvile had been accustomed, that she felt herself wholly un|able to determine what construction to put upon it. Sometimes she thought he had really formed a plan for imposing upon her a condition, that she could not bear so much as to think of. But pre|sently she rejected this idea as an unworthy impu|tation upon her kinsman, and concluded that it was only his way, and that all he meant was to try her. To be resolved however she determined to consult her constant adviser, Mrs. Jakeman, and accordingly repeated to her what had passed. Mrs. Jakeman saw the whole in a very different light from that in which Emily had conceived it, and trembled for the future peace of her beloved ward.

Lord bless me, my dear mamma! cried Emily, (this was the appellation she delighted to bestow upon the good house-keeper) sure you cannot think so. But I do not care. I will never marry Grimes let them do as they will.

But how will you help yourself? My master will oblige you.

Nay, now you think you are talking to a child indeed. It is I am to have the man, not Mr. Tyrrel. Do you think I will let any body else

choose a husband for me? I am not such a fool as that neither.

Ah, Emily! you little know the disadvantages of your situation. Your cousin is a violent man, and perhaps will turn you out of doors, if you oppose him.

Oh, mamma, it is very wicked of you to say so. I am sure Mr. Tyrrel is a very good man, though he be a little cross now and then. He knows very well that I am right to have a will of my own in such a thing as this, and nobody is punished for doing what is right.

Nobody ought, my dear child. But there are very wicked and tyrannical men in the world.

Well, well, I will never believe that my cousin is one of those.

I hope he is not.

And, if he were, what then? To be sure I should be very sorry to make him angry.

What then? Why then my poor, dear Emily would be a beggar. Do you think I could bear to see that?

No, no. Mr. Tyrrel has just told me that I have a hundred pounds. But, if I had no fortune at all, is not that the case with a thousand other folks? Why should I grieve, for what they ••ear and are merry? Do not make yourself uneasy, mamma. I am determined that I will do any thing rather than marry Grimes however; that is what I will.

Mrs. Jakeman could not bear the uneasy state of suspense in which this conversation left her mind, and went immediately to the squire to have her doubts resolved. The manner in which she pro|posed the question sufficiently indicated the judg|ment she had formed of the match in question.

That is true, said Mr. Tyrrel, I wanted to speak to you about this affair. The girl has got unac|countable

notions in her head, that will be the ruin of her. You perhaps can tell where she had them. But, be that as it may, it is high time something should be done. The shortest way is the best, and to keep things well while they are well. In short, I am determined she shall marry this lad: you do not know any harm of him, do you? You have a good deal of influence with her, and I de|sire, do you see! that you will employ it to lead her to her good: you had best, I can tell you. She is a pert vixen! By and by she would be a whore, and at last no better than a common trull, and rot upon a dunghill, if I were not at all these pains to save her from destruction. I would make her an honest farmer's wife, and my pretty miss cannot bear the thoughts of it!

In the afternoon Grimes came according to ap|pointment, and was left alone with the young lady. Well, miss, said he, it seems the squire has a mind to make us man and wife. For my part, I cannot say I should have thought of it. But, being as how the squire has broke the ice, if so be as you like of the match, why I am your man. Say the word; a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse; and then, do you see, why there is no more to be said.

Emily was already sufficiently mortified at the unexpected proposal of Mr. Tyrrel. She was con|founded at the novelty of the situation, and still more at the uncultivated rudeness of her lover, which even exceeded her expectation. This con|fusion was interpreted by Grimes into diffidence.

Come, come, never be cast down. Put a good face upon it. What though? My first sweetheart was Bet Butterfield, but what of that? What must be must be; grief will never fill the belly. She was a ••ine strapping wench, that is the truth of it! Five foot ten inches, and as stout as a

trooper. Oh, she would do a power of work! Up early and down late; milked ten cows with her own hands; on with her cardinal, rode to market between her panniers, fair weather and foul, hail, blow or snow. It would have done your heart good to have seen her frost-bitten cheeks, as red as a beefen from her own orchard! Ah, she was a maid of mettle; would romp with the harvest men, slap one upon the back, wrestle with another, and had a rogue's trick and a joke for all round. Poor girl! she broke her neck down stairs at a christening. To be sure I shall never meet with her fellow! But never you mind that! I do not doubt that I shall find more in you upon farther acquaintance. As coy and bashful as you seem, I dare say you are rogue enough at bottom. When I have touzled and rumpled you a little, we shall see. I am no chicken, miss, whatever you may think me. I know what is what, and can see as far into a milstone as another. Ay▪ ay; you will come to. The fish will snap at the bait, never doubt it. Yes, yes, we shall rub on main well together.

Emily by this time had in some degree mustered up her spirits, and began, though with hesitation, to thank Mr. Grimes for his good opinion, but to confess that she could never be brought to favour his addresses. She therefore intreated him to de|sist from all farther application. This remonstrance on her part would have become more intelligible, had 〈◊〉〈◊〉 not been for his boisterous manners and ex|travagant chearfulness, which indisposed him 〈…〉〈…〉 made him suppose that at half a word he had a sufficient intimation of another's meaning. Mr. Tyrrel 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the mean time took care to interrupt the scene before they could have time to proceed far in explanation, and was studious in the sequel to prevent the young folks from being too intimately

acquainted with each other's inclinations. Grimes of consequence attributed all the reluctance of miss Melvile to maiden coyness, and the skittish shyness of an unbroken colt. Indeed had it been other|wise, it is not probable that it would have made any effectual impression upon him; as he was always accustomed to talk of women as made for the recreation of the men, and to exclaim against the ill-judged weakness of people who taught them to imagine that they were entitled to judge for themselves.

As the suit proceeded and miss Melvile saw more of her new admirer, her antipathy increased. But, though her character was unspoiled by those false wants which frequently make people of family miserable while they have every thing that nature requires within their reach, yet she had been little used to opposition, and was really terrified by the growing sternness of her kinsman. Sometimes she thought of flying from a house which was now become her dungeon; but the habits of her youth, and her ignorance of the world made her shrink from this project when she contemplated it more nearly. Mrs. Jakeman indeed could not think with patience of young Grimes as a husband for her darling Emily, but her prudence determined her to resist with all her might the idea on the part of the young lady of proceeding to extremi|ties. She could not believe that Mr. Tyrrel would persist in such an unaccountable persecution, and she exhorted miss Melvile to forget for a moment the unaffected independence of her character, and pathetically to deprecate Mr. Tyrrel's obstinacy. She had great confidence in the ingenuous elo|quence of her ward. Mrs. Jakeman did not know what was passing in the mind of the tyrant.

Miss Melvile complied with the suggestion of her mamma. One morning immediately after break|fast

she went to the harpsichord, and played one after another several of those airs that were most the favòurites of Mr. Tyrrel. Mrs. Jakeman was retired; the servants were gone to their respective employments. Mr. Tyrrel would have gone also; his mind was untuned, and he did not take the pleasure he had been accustomed to take in the musical performances of Emily. But her finger was now more tasteful than common. Her mind was probably wrought up to a firmer and bolder tone by the recollection of the cause she was going to plead, at the same time that it was exempt from those incapacitating tremors which would have been felt by one that dared not look poverty in the face. Mr. Tyrrel was unable to leave the apart|ment. Sometimes he traversed it with impatient step; then he hung over the poor innocent whose powers were exerted to please him; at length he threw himself in a chair opposite, with his eyes turned towards Emily. It was easy to trace the progress of his emotions. The furrows into which his countenance was contracted were gradually re|laxed; his features were brightened into a smile; the kindness with which he had upon former occa|sions contemplated Emily seemed to revive in his heart.

Emily watched her opportunity. As soon as she had finished one of the pieces, she rose and went to Mr. Tyrrel.

Now have I not done it nicely? And after all this will not you give me a reward?

A reward! Ay, come here, and I will give you a kiss.

Pooh! no, that is not it. And yet you have not kissed me this many a day. Formerly you said you loved me, and called me your Emily. I am sure you did not love me better than I loved you. You would not make me miserable, would you?

Miserable! how can you ask such a question? But have a care! Do not put me out of humour. Do not come with any of your romantic notions now.

No, no. I had no romantic notions in my head. I want to speak to you about something upon which the happiness of my life depends.

I know what you would be at. Be silent. You know it is to no purpose to plague me with your stubbornness. You will not let me be in good hu|mour with you for a moment. What my mind is determined on about Grimes, all the world shall not move me to give up.

Dear, dear cousin, why do but consider now. Grimes is a rough rustic lout, like Orson in the story-book. He wants a wife like himself. He would be as uneasy and as much at a loss with me, as I with him. Why should we both of us be forced to do what neither of us is inclined to? I cannot think what could ever have put it in your head. But now, for goodness' sake, give it up. Marriage is a serious thing. You should not think of join|ing two people for a whim, who are neither of them fit for one another in any respect in the world. We should ••eel mortified and disappoint|ed all our lives. Month would go after month, and year after year, and I could never hope to be my own but by the death of a person I ought to love. I am sure, sir, you cannot mean me all this harm. What have I done, that I should deserve to have you for this enemy?

I am not your enemy. I tell you that it is ne|cessary to put you out of harm's way. But, if I were your enemy, I could not be a worse torment to you than you are to me. Are not you conti|nually singing the praises of Falkland? Are not you in love with Falkland? That man is a legion of devils to me! Plausible and empty himself, he

cheats every body, he crosses me in all my wishes; he runs away with the applause of the men, and the admiration of your foolish sex. An unspoiled, genuine country-gentleman has no chance with him. I might as well have been a beggar! I might as well have been a dwarf or a monster! Time was when I was thought entitled to respect. But now, debauched by this Frenchified rascal, they call me rude, surly, brutal, a tyrant! It is true that I can|not talk in these finical phrases, flatter people with hypocritical praise, or suppress the real feelings of my mind! The scoundrel knows all his pitiful ad|vantages, and insults me upon them without cea|sing. He is my rival and my persecutor. And 〈◊〉〈◊〉 last, as if all this were not enough, he has 〈◊〉〈◊〉 means to spread the pestilence in my own family. You, whom we took up out of charity, the chance-born brat of a stolen marriage! you, must turn upon your benefactor, and wound me in the point where of all others I could least bear it. If I were your enemy, should I not have reason? Could I ever inflict upon you such injuries as you have made me suffer? And who are you? The lives of twenty such as you cannot atone for an hour of my uneasiness. If you were to linger for twenty years upon the rack, you would never feel what I have felt. But I am your friend. I see which way you are going, and I am determined to save you from the thief, the hypocritical destroyer of us all. Every moment that the mischief is left to itself it does but make bad worse, and I am determined to save you out of hand.

The angry expostulations of Mr. Tyrrel suggest|ed new ideas to the tender mind of miss Melvile. He had never confessed the emotions of his soul so explicitly before; but the growing tempest of his thoughts suffered him to be no longer master of himself. She saw with astonishment that he was

the irreconcilable foe of Mr. Falkland, whom she fondly imagined it was the same thing to know and admire; and that he harboured a deep and rooted resentment against herself. She recoiled without well knowing why before the ferocious passions of her kinsman, and was convinced that she had no|thing to hope from his implacable temper. But her alarm was the prelude of firmness and not of cowardice.

No, sir, replied she, indeed I will not be driven any way that you happen to like. I have been used to obey you, and in any thing that is reason|able I will obey you still. But you urge me a little too far. Why do you tell me of Mr. Falkland? 〈◊〉〈◊〉 I ever done any thing to deserve your unkind ••••spicions? I am innocent, and will continue in|nocent. Mr. Grimes is well enough, and will no doubt find women that like him. But he is not sit for me, and torture shall not force me to be his wife.

Mr. Tyrrel was not a little astonished at the spirit which Emily displayed upon this occasion. He had calculated too securely upon the general mildness and suavity of her disposition. He now endeavoured to qualify the harshness of his former sentiments.

G—damn my soul! And so you can scold can you? You expect every body to turn out of his way, and fetch and carry, just as you please? I could find in my heart to break your heart. But you know my mind. I insist upon it that you let Grimes court you, and that you lay aside your sulks, and give him a fair hearing. Will you do that? If then you persist in your wilfulness, why there, I suppose, is an end of the matter. Do not think that any body is going to marry you, whether you will or no. You are no such mighty prize, I as|sure you. If you knew your own interest, you

would be glad to take the young fellow, while he is willing.

Miss Melvile rejoiced in the prospect which the last words of her kinsman afforded her, of a ter|mination at no great distance to her present perse|cutions. Mrs. Jakeman, to whom she communi|cated them, congratulated Emily on the returning moderation and good sense of the squire, and her|self on her prudence in having urged the young lady to this happy expostulation. But their mu|tual felicitations lasted not long. Mr. Tyrrel in|formed Mrs. Jakeman of the necessity in which he found himself of sending her to a distance upon a business which would not fail to detain her seve|ral weeks; and, though the errand by no means wore an artificial or ambiguous face, the two friends drew a melancholy presage from this ill-timed se|paration. Mrs. Jakeman in the mean time exhort|ed her ward to persevere, reminded her of the com|punction which had already been manifested by her kinsman, and encouraged her to hope every thing from her courage and good temper. Emily on her part, though grieved at the absence of her protector and counsellor at so interesting a crisis, was unable to suspect Mr. Tyrrel of such a degree either of malice or duplicity as could afford ground for serious alarm. She congratulated herself upon her delivery from so alarming a persecution, and drew a prognostic of future success from this happy termination of the first serious affair of her life. She exchanged a state of fortitude and alarm for her former pleasing dreams respecting Mr. Falk|land. These she bore without impatience. She was even taught by the uncertainty of the event to desire to prolong rather than abridge a situation, which might be delusive, but was not without its pleasures.

CHAP. IX.

NOTHING could be farther from Mr. Tyrrel's intention than to suffer his project to be thus ter|minated. No sooner was he wholly freed from the fear of his housekeeper's interference, than he changed the whole system of his conduct. He ordered Miss Melvile to be closely confined to her own apartment, and deprived of all the means of communicating her situation to any one out of his own house. He placed over her a female servant in whose discretion he could confide, and who, having formerly been honoured with some amorous notices from the squire, considered the distinctions that were paid to Emily at Tyrrel Place as an usur|pation upon her more reasonable claims. The squire himself did every thing in his power to blast the young lady's reputation, and represented to his attendants all these precautions as necessary, to prevent her from eloping to his neighbour, and plunging herself in total ruin.

As soon as Miss Melvile had been twenty-four hours in durance, and there was some reason to suppose that her spirit might be subdued to the emergency of her situation, Mr. Tyrrel thought proper to go to her, to explain the grounds of her present treatment, and acquaint her with the only means by which she could hope for any change. Emily no sooner saw him, than she turned towards him with an air of greater firmness than perhaps she had ever assumed in her life, and accosted him thus:

Well, sir, is it you? I wanted to see you. It seems I am shut up here by your orders? What does this mean? What right have you to make a prisoner of me? What do I owe you? Your mo|ther left me a hundred pounds: have you ever offered to make any addition to my fortune? But, if you had, I do not want it I do not pretend to be better than the children of other poor parents; I can maintain myself as they do I prefer liberty to wealth. I see you are surprised at the resolu|tion I exert. But ought I not to turn again, when I am trampled upon? I should have left you be|fore now, if Mrs. Jakeman had not overpersuaded me, and if I had not thought better of you than by your present behaviour I find you deserve. But now, sir, I intend to leave your house this moment, and I insist upon it that you do not endeavour to prevent me.

Thus saying, she arose, and went towards the door, while Mr. Tyrrel stood thunderstruck at her magnanimity. Seeing however that she was upon the point of being out of the reach of his power, he recovered himself, and pulled her back.

What is in the wind now? Do you think, you nasty strumpet, that you shall get the better of me by sheer impudence? Sit down! rest you satis|fied!—So you want to know by what right you are here, do you? By the right of possession. This house is mine, and you are in my power. There is no Mrs. Jakeman now to spirit you away; no, nor no Mr. Falkland to bully for you. Damn me, I have countermined you, and blown up all your schemes. Do you think I want any other ••ight, to punish an audacious rebel like you? Do you think I will be contradicted and opposed for nothing? When did you ever know any body resist my will without being made to repent? And shall I now see myself brow-beaten by a chitty-faced girl? I

am not come to that neither.—I have not given you a fortune? Damn you, who brought you up? I will make you a bill for clothing and lodging. Do not you know that every creditor has a right to stop his runaway debtor? You may think as you please; but here you are till you marry Grimes. Heaven and earth shall not prevent but I will get the better of your obstinacy yet.

Ungenerous, unmerciful man! and so it is enough for you that I have nobody to defend me! But I am not so helpless as you may imagine. You may imprison my body, but you cannot conquer my mind. Marry Mr. Grimes! And is this the way to bring me to your purpose? Every hardship I suffer puts still farther distant the end for which I am thus unjustly treated. You are not used to have your will contradicted! When did I ever con|tradict it? And in an affair that is so completely my own concern shall my will go for nothing? Are you not ashamed of laying down this rule for yourself, and suffering no other creature to take the benefit of it? I want nothing of you; how dare you refuse me the privilege of a reasonable being, and deny me to live unmolested in poverty and innocence? What sort of man do you show yourself in this case, you who lay claim to the re|spect and applause of every one that knows you?

The spirited reproaches of Emily had at first the effect to fill Mr. Tyrrel with astonishment, and make him feel abashed and overawed in the pre|sence of this unprotected innocent. But his con|fusion was the result of surprise. When the first emotion wore off, his habitual passion returned. He cursed himself for an ass in being moved be her expostulations, and was ten times more exas|perated against Emily for daring to talk to him in this provoking language, at a time when she had every thing to fear from his power. His despotic

and unforgiving propensities were stimulated to a degree little short of madness. At the same time his manners, which were gloomy and thoughtful, led him to meditate a variety of schemes for the punishment of her obstinacy. He began to suspect that there was little hope of succeeding by open force; he therefore determined to have recourse to treachery.

He found in Grimes an instrument sufficiently adapted to his purpose. This fellow, who would not perhaps intentionally have hurt a worm, was fitted by the mere coarseness of his perceptions for the perpetration of the greatest injuries. He re|garded both injury and advantage merely as they related to the gratifications of appetite; and con|sidered it as an essential part of true wisdom to treat with contempt the effeminacy of those who suffer themselves to be tormented with ideal mis|fortunes. He conceived that no happier destiny could befal a young woman than to be his wife, and believed that that termination would be an am|ple compensation for any calamines she might sup|pose herself to undergo in the interval. He was therefore easily prevailed upon by certain tempta|tions which Mr. Tyrrel knew how to employ, to take a part in the plot into which Miss Melvile was meant to be betrayed.

Matters being thus prepared, Mr. Tyrrel pro|ceeded through the means of the jailor, (for the experience he had already had of personal discussion did not incline him to repeat his visits) to play upon the fears of his prisoner. This woman, sometimes under pretence of friendship, and some|times with open malice, informed Emily from time to time of the preparations that were making for consummating her fate. One day the squire had rode over to look at a neat little farm which was destined for the habitation of the new-married cou|ple,

and at another a quantity of live stock and houshold furniture was procured that every thing might be ready for their reception. She then told her of a licence that was bought, a parson in rea|diness, and a day fixed for the nuptials. When Emily endeavoured, though with increasing mis|givings, to ridicule these proceedings as absolutely nugatory without her consent, her artful gouver|nante told her various stories of forced marriages, and assured her that neither protestations, nor silence, nor fainting would be of any avail, either to suspend the ceremony, or to set it aside when once performed.

The situation of Miss Melvile was in an eminent degree pitiable. She had no intercourse but with her persecutors. She had not a human being with whom to consult, and who might afford her the smallest degree of consolation and encouragement. She had courage; but it was neither confirmed nor directed by the dictates of experience▪ It could not therefore be expected to be so inflexible as with better information it would no doubt have been found. She had a clear and noble spirit; but she had some of her sex's errors. Her mind sunk un|der the uniform terrors with which she was assailed, and her health became visibly impaired.

Her firmness being thus far undermined, Grimes, in pursuance of his instructions, took care in his next interview to throw out an insinuation, that for his own part he never cared much for the match, and, since she was so averse to it, would be very well contented that it should never take place. Emily was rejoiced to find her admirer in so favour|able a disposition; and earnestly pressed him to give effect to this humane declaration. Her repre|sentations to him on this subject were full of elo|quence and energy. Grimes appeared to be moved at the fervency of her manner; but objected the

resentment of Mr. Tyrrel and his landlord, who would infallibly ruin him upon the least appearance of backwardness on his part, as poor Hawkins had been ruined before. At length however he sug|gested a project in consequence of which he might assist her in her escape, without its ever coming to their knowledge, as indeed there was no likelihood their suspicions in this case would fix upon him. To be sure, said he, you have refused me in a dis|dainful sort of a way, as a man may say. Mayhap you thought I was no better than a brute. But I bear you no malice, and I will show you that I am more kind-hearted than you have been willing to believe. It is a strange sort of a vagary you have taken, to stand in your own light, and disoblige all your friends. But, if you are resolute to be off, do you see, I scorn to be the husband of a lass that is not every bit as willing as I; and so I will even help to put you in a condition to be free and follow your own inclinations.

Emily listened to these suggestions at first with eagerness and approbation. But her fervency was somewhat abated, when they came to discuss the minute parts of the undertaking▪ It was necessary, as Grimes informed her, that her escape should be effected in the dead of the night. He would con|ceal himself for that purpose in the garden, and be provided with false keys by which to deliver her from her prison These circumstances were by no means adapted to calm her perturbed ima|gination. To throw herself into the arms of the man, whose intercourse she was employing every method to avoid, and whom under the idea of a partner for life she could least of all men endure, was no doubt an extraordinary proceeding. The attendant circumstances of darkness and solitude aggravated the picture. The situation of Tyrrel Place was uncommonly lonely: it was three miles

from the nearest village, and no less than seven miles from that in which Mrs. Jakeman's sister re|sided, into whose protection Miss Melvile was de|sirous of throwing herself. The ingenuous cha|racter of Emily did not allow her to suspect Grimes of intending to make an ungenerous and brutal ad|vantage of these circumstances; but her mind in|voluntarily revolted against the idea of committing herself alone to the disposal of a man whom she had lately been accustomed to consider as the in|strument of her treacherous relation.

After having for some time revolved these con|siderations, she thought of the expedient of desiring Grimes to engage Mrs. Jakeman's sister to wait for her at the outside of the garden. But this Grimes peremptorily refused. He even flew into a passion at the proposal. It showed very little gratitude, to desire him to disclose to other people his concern in this dangerous affair. For his part he was de|termined in consideration of his own safety never to appear in it to any living soul. If Miss did not believe him, when he made this proposal out of pure good nature, and would not trust him, a single inch, she might even see to the conse|quences herself. He was resolved to condescend no farther to the whims of a person who in her treatment of him had shown herself as proud as Lucifer himself.

〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 herself to appease his resentment; but all the eloquence of her new confederate could not prevail upon her instantly to give up her ob|jection. She desired till the next day to consider of it. The day after was fixed by Mr. Tyrrel for the marriage ceremony. In the mean time she was pestered with intimations in a thousand dif|ferent forms of the fate that so nearly awaited her. The preparations were so continued, methodical and regular, as to produce in her the most painful

and aching anxiety. If her heart attained a mo|ment's intermission upon the subject, her female attendant was sure by some sly hint or sarcastical remark to put a speedy termination to her tran|quillity. She felt herself, as she afterwards re|marked, alone, uninstructed, just broken loose as it were from the trammels of infancy, without one single creature to concern himself in her fate. She, who till then had never known ••n enemy, had now for three weeks not seen the glimpse of a human countenance that she had not good reason to consider as wholly estranged to her. She now for the first time experienced the anguish of never having known her parents, and being cast entirely upon the charity of people with whom she had too little equality to hope to receive from them the dues of friendship.

The succeeding night was filled with the most anxious thoughts. When a momentary oblivion stole upon her senses, her distempered imagination conjured up a thousand images of violence and falshood, she saw herself in the hands of her de|termined enemies, who did not hesitate by the most unintermitted treachery to complete her ruin. Her waking thoughts were not more consoling. The struggle was too great for her constitution. As morning approached, she resolved at all hazards to put herself into the hands of Grimes. This de|termination was no sooner made, than she felt her heart sensibly lightened. She could not conceive of any purposes of injustice that might not be perpetrated by him with even more security at present than under any change of her situation.

When she communicated her determination to Grimes, it was not possible to say whether he re|ceived pleasure or pain from the intimation. He smiled indeed, but his smile was accompanied by a certain abrupt ruggedness of countenance, so that

it might equally well be the smile of sarcasm or of congratulation. He however renewed his assurance of fidelity to his engagements and punctuality of execution. Meanwhile the day was interspersed with nuptial presents and preparations, all indi|cating the firmness as well as security of the di|rectors of the scene. Emily had hoped that, as the crisis approached, they might have remitted something of their usual diligence. She was resolved in that case, if a fair opportunity had offered, to give the slip both to her jailors, and to her new and half trusted confederate▪ But, though extremely vigilant for that purpose, she found the execution of this idea impracticable.

At length the night so critical to her happiness approached. The mind of Emily could not fail on this occasion to be extremely agitated. She had first exerted all her perspicacity to elude the vigi|lance of her attendant. This insolent and un|feeling tyrant, instead of any relentings, had only sought to make sport of her anxiety. Accordingly in one instance she hid herself, and, suffering Emily to suppose that the coast was clear, met her at the end of the gallery, near the top of the stair|case. How do you do, my dear? said she, with an insulting tone. And so the little dear thought itself cunning enough to outwit me, did it? Oh, it was a sly little gipsey! Go, go back, love; troop! Emily felt deeply the trick that was played upon her. She sighed, but disdained to return any answer to this low vulgarity. Being once more in her chamber, she sat down in a chair, and re|mained buried in reverie for more than two hours. After this she went to her drawers, and turned over in a hurrying, confused way her linen and clothes, having in her mind the provision it would be necessary to make for her elopement. Her jailor officiously followed her from place to place

and observed what she did for the present in silence. It was now the hour of rest. Good night, child, said this saucy girl, in the act of retiring. It is time to lock up. For the few next hours the time is your own. Make the best use of it! Do'ee think you can creep out at the key hole, lovey? At eight o'clock you see me again. And then, and then, added she, clapping her hands, it is all over. The sun is not surer to rise, than you and your honest man to be made one.

There was something in the tone with which this slut uttered her farewel, that for a moment suggested the question to Emily, What does she mean? Is it possible she should know what has been planned for the few next hours? If she do, what will become of me then? But surely her manner of speaking was very unlike that of de|tection and reprimand!—With an aching heart she folded up the few necessaries she thought proper to take with her. She then listened with an anxiety that would almost have enabled her to hear the stirring of a leaf. From time to time she thought her ear was struck with the sound of feet; but the treading, if treading it were, was so soft, that she could never ascertain whether it were a real sound or the mere creature of the fancy. Then all was still as if the universal motion had been at rest. By and by she conceived she overheard a noise as of buzzing and low muttered speech. Her heart palpitated; she said, Am I betrayed? Am I the dupe of base artifice and deceit? Presently she heard the sound of a key in her chamber door, and Grimes made his appearance. She started, and cried, Are we discovered? did not I hear you speak? Grimes advanced on tiptoe with his finger to his lip. No, no, replied be, all is safe! He took her by the hand, led her in silence out of the house and then across the garden. Emily ex|amined

with her eye the doors and passages as they proceeded, looked on all sid••s with fearful suspi|cion, but every thing was as she herself could have wished. Grimes opened a back ••oor of the gar|den already unlocked, that led into an unfrequented lane. There stood two horses ready equipped for the journey, their bridles hung to a post not six yards distant from the garden. Grimes pushed the door after them. By Gemini, said he, my heart was in my mouth▪ As I comed along, I saw Mun, coachey, pop along from the back door to the stables. He was within a hop, step, and jump of me. But he had a lanthorn in his hand, and he did not see me, being as I was darkling.—Say|ing 〈◊〉〈◊〉, he assisted Miss Melvile to mount. He troubled her little during the route. On the con|trary, he was remarkably silent and contemplative, a circumstance by no means disagreeable to Emily, to whom his conversation had never been accept|able.

After having proceeded about two miles, they turned into a wood, through which the road lay that led to the place of their destination. The night was extremely dark, at the same time that the air was soft and mild, it being now the middle of summer. Under pretence of exploring the way, Grimes contrived, when they had already penetrated into the midst of this gloomy solitude, to get his horse abreast with that of Miss Melvile, and then suddenly reaching out his hand, to seize hold of her bridle. I think we may as well stop here a bit, said he.

Stop, exclaimed Emily with surprise. Why should we stop? Mr. Grimes, what do you mean?

Come, come, said he, never trouble yourself to wonder. Did you think I was such a goose, as to take all this trouble merely to gratify your whim? I' faith, nobody shall find me a pack horse, to go

of other folks' errands, without knowing a reason why. I cannot say that I much minded to have you at first; but your ways are enough to stir the blood of my grandad. Far fetched and dear bought is always relishing. Your consent was so hard to gain, that squire thought it was surest asking in the dark. A' said however a' would have no such doings in his house, and so, do you see? we are comed here.

For God's sake, Mr. Grimes, think what you are about! You cannot be base enough to ruin a poor creature who has put herself under your pro|tection!

That is all bother. Ruin! no, no, I will make an honest woman of you, when all is done. Nay, none of your airs; no tricks upon travellers! I have you here as safe as a horse in a pound; there is not a house nor a shed within a mile of us; and, if I miss the opportunity, you shall call me spade. Faith, you are a delicate morsel, and there is no time to be lost!

Miss Melvile had but an instant in which to col|lect her thoughts. She felt that there was but little hope of softening the obstinate and insensible brute in whose power she was placed. But the presence of mind and intrepidity, so peculiar to her character, did not now desert her. Grimes had scarcely finished his harangue, when with a strong and unexpected jerk she disengaged the bridle from his grasp, and at the same time put her horse upon full speed. She had scarcely advanced twice the length of her horse, when Grimes re|covered from his surprise, and pursued her, inex|pressibly mortified at being so easily overreached. The sound of his horse behind served but to rouse more completely the mettle of that of Emily; whether by accident or sagacity the animal pursued

without a fault the narrow and winding way; and the chace continued the whole length of the wood.

At the extremity of this wood there was a gate. The recollection of this softened a little the cutting disappointment of Grimes, as he thought himself secure of putting an end by its assistance to the career of Emily, nor was it very probable that they should find any body to interrupt him there in the dead and silence of the night. By the most extraordinary accident however they sound a man on horseback in wait at this gate. Help, help! exclaimed the affrighted Emily! thieves! murder! help! The man was Mr. Falkland. Grimes knew his voice, and therefore, though he attempted a sort of sullen resistance, it was feebly made. Two other men, whom by reason of the darkness he had not at first seen, and who were Mr. Falkland's servants, hearing the bustle of the rencounter, and alarmed for the safety of their master, rode up; and then Grimes, disappointed at the loss of his gratification, and admonished by conscious guilt, shrunk from farther parley and rode off in silence.

It may seem strange that Mr. Falkland should thus a second time have been the saviour of Miss Melvile, and that under circumstances the most unexpected and singular. But in this instance it is very easily to be accounted for. He had heard of a man who lurked about this wood for robbery or some other bad design, and that it was conjectured this man was Hawkins. Mr. Falkland's compassion had already been strongly interested in behalf of this victim of rural tyranny; he had in vain en|deavoured to find him, and do him good; and he easily conceived that, if the conjecture which had been made in this instance proved true, he might have it in his power not only to do what he had always intended, but farther to save from a peril|ous offence against the laws 〈◊〉〈◊〉 society a man who

appeared to have strongly imbibed the principles of justice and virtue. He took with him two ser|vants, because, going with the express design of encountering robbers, if robbers should be found, he believed he should be inexcusable if he did not go provided against possible accidents. But he had directed them, at the same time that they kept within call, to be out of the reach of being seen; and it was only the eagerness of their zeal that had brought them up thus early in the present encoun|ter. Mr. Falkland had a little before had the op|portunity to convince himself that the village con|jecture in relation to Hawkins was untrue; and was now upon the point of returning home, with no other satisfaction than that of having intended an act of benevolence, when Grimes and Emily came up to the spot upon which he had posted himself.

This new adventure promised something extra|ordinary. Mr. Falkland did not immediately re|cognise Miss Melvile, and the person of Grimes was that of a total stranger whom he did not re|collect to have ever seen. But it was easy to un|derstand the merits of the case, and the propriety of interfering. The resolute manner of Mr. Falk|land, combined with the dread which Grimes, op|pressed with a sense of wrong, entertained of the opposition of so elevated a personage, speedily put the ravisher to flight. Emily was lest alone with her deliverer. He found her much more collected and calm than could reasonably have been expected from a person who had been a moment before in the most alarming situation. She told him of the place to which she desired to be conveyed, and he immediately undertook to escort her. As they went along, she recovered that state of mind which inclined her to make a person to whom she had such repeated obligations, and who was so emi|nently

the object of her admiration, acquainted with the events that had recently befallen her. Mr. Falkland listened with eagerness and surprise. Though he had already known various instances of Mr. Tyrrel's mean jealousy and unfeeling tyranny, this surpassed them all, and he could scarcely credit his ears while he heard the tale. His brutal neigh|bour seemed to realise all that had ever been told of the passions of fiends. Miss Melvile was obliged to repeat in the course of her tale her kinsman's rude accusation against her of entertaining a pas|sion for Mr. Falkland; and this she did with the most bewitching simplicity and charming confusion. Though this part of the tale was a source of real pain to her deliverer, yet it is not to be supposed but that the flattering partiality of this unhappy girl increased the interest he felt in her welfare and the indignation he conceived against her in|fernal kinsman.

They arrived without accident at the house of the good lady under whose protection Emily de|sired to place herself. Here Mr. Falkland willingly left her as in a place of security. Such conspira|cies as that of which she was intended to have been the victim, depend for their success upon the person against whom they are formed being out of the reach of help, and the moment they are de|tected they are annihilated. Such reasoning will no doubt be generally found sufficiently solid, and it appeared to Mr. Falkland perfectly applicable to the present case. But he was mistaken.

CHAP. X.

MR. TYRREL heard with astonishment of the miscarriage of an expedient, of the success of which he had not previously entertained the slightest suspicion. He became frantic with vexation. Grimes had not dared to signify the event of his expedition in person, and the footman whom he desired to announce to his master that Miss Mel|vile was lost, the moment after fled from his pre|sence with the most dreadful apprehensions. Pre|sently he bellowed for Grimes, and the young man at last appeared before him, more dead than alive. Grimes he compelled to repeat the particulars of the tale, which he had no sooner done than he once again slunk away, shocked at the execrations with which Mr. Tyrrel overwhelmed him. Grimes was no coward; but he reverenced the inborn divinity that attends upon rank, as Indians worship the devil. Nor was this all. The rage of Mr. Tyrrel was so ungovernable and fierce, that few hearts could have been found so stout as not to have trembled before it with a sort of unconquer|able inferiority.

He no sooner obtained a moment's pause than he began to recal to his tempestuous mind the various circumstances of the case. His complaints were bitter; and in a tranquil observer might have produced the united feeling of pity for his suffer|ings and horror at his depravity. He recollected all the precautions he had used; he could scarcely find a flaw in the process; and he cursed that blind and malicious power that delighted to cross his most deep laid designs. Of this malice he was

beyond all other human beings the object. He was mocked with the shadow of power; and, when he lifted his hand to smite, it was struck with sudden palsy. To what purpose had heaven given him a feeling of injury and an instinct to resent, while he could in no case make his resent|ment felt! It was only necessary for him to be the enemy of any person, in order to that person's being insured against the reach of misfortune. What insults, the most shocking and repeated, had he not received from this paltry girl? And by whom was she now torn from his indignation? By that devil that haunted him at every moment, that crossed him at every step, that fixed at pleasure his arrows in his heart, and made ••ows and mockery at his insufferable tortures.

There was one other reflexion that increased his anguish, and made him careless and desperate as to his future conduct. It was in vain to conceal from himself that his reputation would be cruelly wounded by this event. He had imagined that, while Emily was forced into this odious marriage, she would be obliged by decorum, as soon as the event was decided, to draw a veil over the com|pulsion she had suffered. But this security was now lost, and Mr. Falkland would take a pride in publishing his dishonour. Though the provoca|tions he had received from Miss Melvile would in his opinion have justified him in any treatment he should have thought proper to inflict, he was sensi|ble the world would see the matter in a very dif|ferent light. This reflection augmented the vio|lence of his resolutions, and determined him to refuse no means by which he could transfer the anguish that now preyed upon his own mind to that of another.

Meanwhile the composure and magnanimity of Emily had considerably subsided, the moment she

believed herself in a place of safety. While dan|ger and injustice assailed her with their menaces, she found in herself a courage that disdained to yield. The succeeding appearance of calm was more fatal to her. There was nothing now power|fully to foster her courage, or excite her energy. She looked back at the trials she had passed, and her soul sickened at the recollection of that which, while it was in act, she had had the fortitude to endure. Till the period at which Mr. Tyrrel had been inspired with this cruel antipathy, she had been in all instances a stranger to anxiety and fear. Uninured to misfortune, she had suddenly and without preparation been made the subject of the most infernal malignity. When a man of robust and vigorous constitution has a fit of sickness, it produces a much more powerful effect than the same indisposition upon a delicate valetudinarian. Such was the case with Miss Melvile. She passed the succeeding night sleepless and uneasy, and was found in the morning with a high fever. Her distemper resisted for the present all attempts to assuage it, though there was reason to hope that the goodness of her constitution, assisted by tran|quillity and the kindness of those about her, would ultimately surmount it. On the second day she was delirious. On the night of that day she was ar|rested at the suit of Mr. Tyrrel for a debt contract|ed for board and necessaries for the fourteen last years.

The idea of this arrest, as the reader will per|haps recollect, first occurred in the conversation between Mr. Tyrrel and Miss Melvile soon after he had thought proper to confine her to her cham|ber. But at that time he had probably had no serious conception of ever being induced to carry it into execution. It had merely been mentioned by way of threat, and as the suggestion of a mind whose

habits had been long familiarised to the recollection of every possible medium of tyranny and revenge. But now that the unlooked-for rescue and escape of his poor kinswoman had wrought up the thoughts of Mr. Tyrrel to a degree of insanity, and he re|volved in the gloomy resources of his mind how he might most effectually shake off the load of disap|pointment that oppressed him, the idea recurred with double force. He was not long in forming his resolution; and, calling for Barnes, his steward, immediately gave him directions in what manner to proceed.

Barnes had been for several years the instrument of Mr. Tyrrel's injustice. His mind was hardened by use, and he could without remorse officiate as the spectator, or even as the immediate author and director of a scene of vulgar distress. But even he was somewhat startled upon the present occasion. The character and conduct of Emily in Mr. Tyrrel's family had been without a blot. She had not a single enemy; and it was impossible to contemplate her youth, her harmless vivacity, her guileless innocence, without emotions of sympathy and compassion.

Your worship?—I do not understand you!—Arrest miss!—miss Emily!

Yes, I tell you! What is the matter with you? Go immediately to Swineard, the lawyer, and bid him finish the business out of hand!

Lord love your honour! Arrest her! Why, she does not owe you a brass farthing; she always lived upon your charity!

Ass! Scoundrel! I tell you she does owe me, owes me—eleven hundred pound.—The law justi|fies it.—What do you think laws were made for?—I do nothing but right, and my rights I will have.

Your honour, I never questioned your orders in my life; but I must now. I cannot see you ruin miss Emily, poor girl! nay, and yourself too, for the matter of that, and not say which way you are going. I hope you will bear with me. Why if she owed you ever so much, she cannot be ar|rested. She is not of age.

Will you have done, sir? Do not tell me of It cannot▪ and It can. To my knowledge it has been done before, and it shall be done again. Let him dispute it that dares. I will do it now, and stand to it afterwards. Tell Swineard, if he make the least boggling, it is as much as his life is worth; he shall starve by inches.

Pray, your honour, think better of it. Upon my life, the whole country will cry shame of it.

Barnes?—What do you mean? I am not used to be talked to, and I will not bear it!—They have driven me already with their parleying and their disobedience to the very end of my patience. You have been a good fellow to me upon many occasions. But, if I find you out for making one with them that dispute my authority, damn my soul, if I do not make you sick of your very life!

I have done, your honour. I will not say ano|ther word, except this. I have heard as how that miss Emily is sick a-bed. You are determined, you say, to put her in jail. You do not mean to kill her, I take it.

Let her die, if she will! I will not spare her for an hour. I will not always be insulted. She had no consideration for me, and I have no mercy for her. I am in for it! They have provoked me past all bearing, and they shall feel me! Tell Swineard, in bed or up, day or night, I will not have him hear of a minute's delay.

Such were the directions of Mr. Tyrrel, and in strict conformity to his directions were the pro|ceedings of that respectable limb of the law he em|ployed upon the present occasion. Miss Melvile had been delirious through a considerable part of the day on the evening of which the bailiff and his follower arrived. By the direction of the physician whom Mr. Falkland had ordered to attend her, a composing draught was administered; and, ex|hausted as she was by the wild and distracted images that for several hours had haunted her fancy, she was now sunk into a refreshing slumber. Mrs. Hammond, the sister of Mrs. Jakeman, was sitting by her bed-side, full of compassion for the lovely sufferer, and rejoicing in the calm tranquillity that had just taken possession of her, when a little girl, the only child of Mrs. Hammond, opened the street-door to the tap of the bailiff. He said ••e wanted to speak with miss Melvile, and the child answered that she would go tell her mother. So saying, she advanced to the door of the back-room upon the ground-floor in which Emily lay; but the moment it was opened, instead of waiting for the appearance of the mother, the bailiff entered along with the girl.

Mrs. Hammond looked up. Who are you, said she? Why do you come in here? Hush! be quiet!

I must speak with miss Melvile.

Indeed, but you must not. Tell me your busi|ness. The poor lady has been light-headed all day. She is just fallen asleep, and must not be disturbed.

That is no business of mine. I must obey orders.

Orders? Whose orders? What is it you mean?

At this moment Emily opened her eyes. What noise is that? I wish you would let me be quiet.

Miss, I want to speak with you. I have got a writ against you for eleven hundred pound at the suit of squire Tyrrel.

At these words both Mrs. Hammond and Emily were dumb. The latter was scarcely able to annex any meaning to the intelligence; and, though Mrs. Hammond was somewhat better acquainted with the sort of language that was employed, yet in this strange and unexpected connexion it was almost as mysterious to her, as to poor Emily herself.

A writ! How can she be in Mr. Tyrrel's debt? A writ against a child!

It is no signification putting your questions to us. We only do as we are directed. There is our au|thority. Look at it.

Lord Almighty! exclaimed Mrs. Hammond, what does this mean? It is impossible Mr. Tyrrel should have sent you.

Good woman, none of your jabber to us! Can|not you read?

This is all a trick! This paper is forged! It is a vile contrivance to get the poor lady out of the hands of those with whom only she can be safe. Proceed upon it at your peril!

Rest you content; that is exactly what we mean to do. Take it at my word, we know very well what we are about.

Why, you would not tear her from her bed? I tell you, she is in a high fever; she is light-headed; it would be death to remove her! You are bailiffs, are not you? You are not murderers?

The law says nothing about that. We have or|ders to take her sick or well. We will do her no harm; except so far as we must perform our office, be it how it will.

Where would you take her? What is it you mean to do?

To the county jail. Bullock, go, order a post-chaise from the Griffin!

Stay, I say! Give no such orders! Wait only three hours; I will send off a messenger express to squire Falkland, and I am sure he will sa|tisfy you as to any harm that can come to you, without its being necessary to take the poor lady to jail.

We have particular directions against that. We are not at liberty to lose a minute. Why are not you gone? Order the horses to be put to imme|diately!

Emily had listened to the course of this conver|sation, which had sufficiently explained to her whatever was enigmatical at the first appearance of the bailiffs. The painful and incredible reality that was thus presented, effectually dissipated the illu|sions of frenzy to which she had just been a prey. My dear madam, said she to Mrs. Hammond, do not harass yourself with useless efforts. I am very sorry for all the trouble I have given you. But my misfortune is inevitable. Sir, if you will step into the next room, I will dress myself, and attend you immediately.

Mrs. Hammond began to be equally aware that her struggles were to no purpose; but she could not be equally patient. At one moment she raved upon the brutality of Mr. Tyrrel, whom she affirm|ed to be a devil incarnate, and not a man. At another she expostulated with bitter invective against the hard-heartedness of the bailiff, and ex|horted him to mix some humanity and moderation with the discharge of his duty; but he was impe|netrable to all she could urge. In the mean while Emily yielded with the sweetest resignation to an inevitable evil. Mrs. Hammond insisted that at least they should permit her to attend her young lady in the chaise; and the bailiff, though the or|ders

he had received were so peremptory that he dared not exercise his discretion as to the execution of the writ, began to have some apprehensions of danger, and was willing to admit of any precau|tion that was not in direct hostility to his func|tions. For the rest he understood, that it was in all cases dangerous to allow sickness, or apparent unfitness for removal as a sufficient cause to inter|rupt a direct process, and that accordingly in all doubtful questions and presumptive murders the practice of the law inclined [with a laudable par|tiality] to the vindication of its own officers. In addition to these general rules he was influenced by the positive injunctions and assurances of Swine|ard, and the terror which universally through a circle of many miles was annexed to the name of Tyrrel. Before they departed Mrs. Hammond dis|patched a messenger with a letter of three lines to Mr. Falkland informing him of this extraordinary event. Mr. Falkland was from home when the messenger arrived, and not expected to return till the second day; accident seeming in this instance to favour the vengeance of Mr. Tyrrel, for he had himself been too much under the dominion of an uncontroulable fury to have leisure to take a cir|cumstance of this sort into his estimate.

The forlorn state of these poor women, who were conducted, the one by compulsion, the other as a volunteer, to a scene so little adapted to their accommodation as that of a common jail, may easily be imagined. There were however a mascu|line courage and impetuosity of spirit in Mrs. Hammond, eminently necessary in the difficulties they had to encounter. She was in some degree sitted by a sanguine temper and an impassioned sense of injustice for the discharge of those very offices which sobriety and calm reflexion might prescribe. The health of miss Melvile, as might

have been expected, was very materially affected by the surprise and removal she had undergone, at the very time when repose was most necessary for her preservation. Her fever became more violent than ever; her delirium was stronger; and the tor|tures of her imagination were in some degree pro|portioned to the extreme unfavourableness of the state in which the removal had been effected. It was highly improbable she could at all recover.

In the moments of suspended reason she was perpetually calling on the name of Mr. Falkland. Mr. Falkland, she said, was her first and only love, and he should be her husband. A moment after|wards she exclaimed upon him in a disconsolate, yet reproachful tone, for his unworthy deference to the prejudices of the world. It was very cruel of him to shew himself so proud, and tell her that he would never consent to marry a beggar. But, if he were proud, she was determined to be proud too. He should see that she would not demean herself like a slighted maiden, and that, though he could reject her, it was not in his power to break her heart. At another time she imagined she saw Mr. Tyrrel and his engine Grimes, their hands and garments dropping with blood, and the pathetic reproaches she vented against them might have af|fected a heart of stone. Then the figure of Falk|land presented itself to her distracted fancy, de|formed with wounds and of a deadly paleness, and she shrieked with agony, while she exclaimed that such was the general hard-heartedness, that no one would make the smallest exertion for his rescue. In such vicissitudes of pain, perpetually imagining to herself unkindness, insult, conspiracy and murder, she passed a considerable part of two days.

On the evening of the second Mr. Falkland ar|rived, accompanied by doctor Arnold, the physi|cian by whom she had previously been attended.

The scene he was called upon to witness was such as to be most exquisitely agonizing to a man of his acute sensibility. The news of the arrest had given him an inexpressible shock; he was transported out of himself at the unexampled malignity of its author. But, when he saw the figure of Miss Melvile, haggard, and a warrant of death written in her countenance, a victim to the diabolical pas|sions of her kinsman, the scene seemed too much to be endured. When he entered, she was in the midst of one of her ••its of delirium, and immedi|ately mistook her visitors for two assassins. She asked, where they had hid her Falkland, her lord, her life, her husband! and demanded that they should restore to her his mangled corpse, that she might embrace him with her dying arms, breathe her last upon his lips, and be buried in the same grave. She reproached them with the sordidness of their conduct in becoming the tools of her vile cousin, who had deprived her of her reason, and would never be contented, till he had murdered her. Mr. Falkland tore himself away from this painful scene, and, leaving doctor Arnold with his patient, desired him when he had given the necessary di|rections to follow him to his inn.

The perpetual hurry of spirits in which Miss Melvile had for several days been kept by the na|ture of her indisposition was extremely exhausting to her; and in about an hour from the visit of Mr. Falkland her delirium subsided, and left her in so low a state as to render it difficult to perceive any marks of life. Doctor Arnold, who had before withdrawn, to soothe, if possible, the disturbed and impatient thoughts of Mr. Falkland, was sum|moned afresh upon this change of symptoms, and sat by the bed-side during 〈◊〉〈◊〉 remainder of the night. The situation of his patient was such as to keep him in momentary apprehension of her de|cease.

While Miss Melvile lay in this feeble and exhausted condition, Mrs. Hammond betrayed every token of the tenderest, anxiety. Her sensi|bility was habitually of the acutest sort, and the qualities of Emily were such as powerfully to fix her affection. She loved her like a mother, Upon the present occasion every sound, every motion made her tremble. Doctor Arnold had introduced another nurse in consideration of the incessant fa|tigue Mrs. Hammond had undergone; and he en|deavoured by representations and even by autho|rity to compel her to quit the apartment of the pa|tient. But she was uncontroulable; and he at length found that he should probably do her more injury by the violence that would be necessary to separate her from the suffering innocent, than by allowing her to follow her own inclinations. Her eye was a thousand times turned with the most eager curiosity upon the countenance of doctor Arnold, without her daring to breathe a question respecting his opinion, lest he should answer her by a communication of the most fatal tidings. In the mean time she listened with the deepest atten|tion to every thing that dropped either from the physician or the nurse, hoping as it were to collect from some oblique hint the intelligence which she had not courage expressly to require.

Towards morning the state of the patient seemed to take a favourable turn. She dozed for near two hours, and, when she awoke, appeared perfectly calm and sensible. Understanding that Mr. Falk|land had brought the physician to attend her, and was himself in the neighbourhood, she requested to see him. Mr. Falkland had gone in the mean time with one of his tenants to bail the debt, and now entered the prison to enquire whether the young lady might be safely removed from her present mi|serable residence to a more airy and commodious

apartment. When he appeared, the sight of him revived in the mind of Miss Melvile an imperfect rencollection of the wanderings of her delirium. She covered her face with her hand, and betrayed the most expressive confusion, while she thanked him with her usual unaffected simplicity for all the trouble he had taken. She hoped she should not give him much more; she thought she should get better. It was a shame, she said, if a young and lively girl as she was, could not contrive to outlive the trifling misfortunes to which she had been sub|jected. But, while she said this, she was still ex|tremely weak. She tried to assume a chearful countenance; but it was a faint effort, which the feeble state of her frame did not seem sufficient to support. Mr. Falkland and the doctor joined to request her to keep herself quiet, and to avoid for the present all occasions of exertion.

Encouraged by these appearances, Mrs. Ham|mond now ventured to follow the two gentlemen out of the room in order to learn from the physi|cian what hopes he entertained. Doctor Arnold acknowledged that he had found his patient at first in a very unfavourable situation, that the symptoms were changed for the better, and that he was not without some expectation of her recovery. He added however, that he could answer for nothing, that the next twelve hours would be exceedingly critical, but that, if she did not grow worse be|fore morning, he would then undertake to answer for her life. Mrs. Hammond, who had hitherto seen nothing but despair, now became frantic with joy. She burst into tears of transport, blessed the physician in the most emphatic and impassioned terms, and uttered a thousand extravagancies. Doctor Arnold seized this opportunity to press her to give herself a little repose, to which she consent|ed, a chamber being first procured for her next to

that of Miss Melvile, and she having charged the nurse to give her notice of any alteration in the patient.

Mrs. Hammond enjoyed an uninterrupted sleep of several hours, when towards the afternoon, she was alarmed by an unusual bustle in the next room. She listened for a few moments, and then deter|mined to go and see what was the occasion of it. As she opened her door for that purpose, she met the nurse who was coming to her. The counte|nance of the messenger told her what it was she had to communicate, without the use of words. She hurried to the bed side, and found Miss Mel|vile expiring. The appearances that had at first been so encouraging were but of short duration. The calm of the morning proved to be only a sort of lightning before death. In a few hours the patient grew worse. The bloom of her counte|nance faded; she drew her breath with difficulty; and her eyes became fixed. Doctor Arnold had come in at this period, and had immediately per|ceived that all was over. She was for some time in convulsions; but, these subsiding, she addressed the physician with a composed, though feeble voice. She thanked him for his attention; and expressed the most lively sense of her obligations to Mr. Falkland. She sincerely forgave her cousin, and hoped he might never be visited by too acute a recollection of his barbarity to her. She would have been contented to live; few persons had a sincerer relish of the good things of life; but she was well pleased to die rather than have become the wife of Grimes. As Mrs. Hammond entered, she turned her countenance towards her, and with an affectionate expression repeated her name. These were her last words; in less than two hours from that time she breathed her last in the arms of this faithful friend.

CHAP. XI.

SUCH was the fate of Miss Emily Melvile. Perhaps tyranny never exhibited a more painful memorial of the detestation in which it deserves to be held. The idea irresistibly excited in every spectator of the scene was that of regarding Mr. Tyrrel as the most diabolical wretch that had ever dishonoured the human form. The very attendants upon this house of oppression, for the scene was acted upon too public a stage not to be generally understood, expressed their astonishment and dis|gust at his unparalleled cruelty. If such were the feelings of men bred to the commission of injustice, it is easy to conceive what must have been those of Mr. Falkland. His whole life had tended to culti|vate in him a mind tremblingly alive to moral good and evil. Upon such occasions he was unable ma|turely to collect his thoughts and firmly resolve upon the proceeding which the nature of the case required. His habits urged him to madness and ungovernable fury. He could not think of such complicated depravity but with sentiments of pre|ternatural loathing and horror. Perhaps the ago|nies of the wretch broken upon the wheel, whom the very first sight of that engine of torture had thrown into convulsions, did not exceed those of Mr. Falkland in the present situation. He was therefore deprived for a time of all that composure of mind which is requisite to enable us to act with discretion. It was necessary to guard him like a madman. The whole office of judging what was

proper to be done under the present circumstances devolved upon doctor Arnold.

The doctor was a man of cool and methodical habits of acting. One of the first ideas that sug|gested itself to him was, that Miss Melvile was a branch of the family of Tyrrel. He did not doubt of the willingness of Mr. Falkland to dis|charge every expence that might be farther incident to the melancholy remains of this unfortunate victim; but he suspected that the laws of fashion and decorum required that some notification of the event should be made to the head of the family▪ His manners were formal, his temper phlegmatic, and his whole character was such as to render him little susceptible of those impetuous impulses which have so considerable a share in the history of the mass of mankind. Perhaps too he had an eye to his own interest in his profession, and was reluc|tant to expose himself to the resentment of a per|son of Mr. Tyrrel's consideration in the neighbour|hood. Inaccessible to the sympathies of the mind, he was little qualified to calculate their operation in the present instance. But, with this weakness, he had nevertheless some feelings in common with the rest of the world, and must have suffered a con|siderable degree of violence before he could have persuaded himself to be the messenger; beside which he did not think it right in the present situ|ation to leave Mr. Falkland.

Doctor Arnold no sooner mentioned these ideas, than they seemed to make a sudden impression on Mrs. Hammond, and she earnestly requested that she might be permitted to carry the intelligence. The proposal was unexpected; but the doctor did not very obstinately refuse his assent. She was de|termined, she said, to see what sort of impression the catastrophe would make upon the author of it; and she promised to comport herself with modera|tion and civility. The journey was soon per|formed.

I am come, sir, said she to Mr. Tyrrel, to in|form you that your cousin, Miss Melvile, died this afternoon.

Died! Is it possible? are you serious?

Yes, sir. I saw her die. She died in my arms.

Dead! Who killed her? What do you mean?

Who killed her? Is it for you to ask that question? It was your cruelty and malice that killed her?

Me?—my?—Poh! she is not dead—it cannot be—it is not a week since she left this house.

Will you not believe me? I say she is dead!

Have a care, woman! this is no jesting matter. No: though she used me ••ll, I would not believe her dead for all the world!

Mrs. Hammond shook her head in token of the truth of her assertion.

No, no, no, no!—I will never believe that!—No, never!

Will you come with me, and convince your own eyes? It is a sight worthy of you, and will be a feast to such a heart as yours!—Saying this, Mrs. Hammond offered her hand, as if to conduct him to the spot.

Mr. Tyrrel shrunk back.

If she be dead, what is that to me? Am I to answer for every thing that goes wrong in the world?—What do you come here for? Why bring your messages to me?

To whom should I bring them, but to her kins|man,—and her murderer?

Murderer!—Did I employ knives or pistols? Did I give her poison? I did nothing but what the law allows. If she be dead, nobody can say that I am to blame!

To blame!—All the world will abhor and curse you. Were you such a fool as to think, because in some cases men pay respect to wealth and rank,

that this excuse would extend to such a deed? They will laugh at so barefaced a cheat. The meanest beggar will spurn and spit at you. Aye▪ you may well stand confounded at what you have done. I will proclaim you to the whole world, and you will be obliged to fly the very face of a human creature!

Good woman, said Mr. Tyrrel, extremely hum|bled, talk no more in this strain!—Emmy is not dead! I am sure—I hope—she is not dead!—Tell me that you have only been deceiving me, and I will forgive you every thing.—I will forgive her—I will take her into favour—I will do any thing you please!—I never meant her any harm!

I tell you, sir, she is dead! You have murdered the sweetest lady that lived! Can you bring her back to life, as you have driven her out of it? If you could, I would kneel to you twenty times a day!—What is it you have done? Miserable wretch! did you think you could do and undo, and change the laws of nature, as you please?

If she is dead,—what care I? It is no concern of mine. Did I tell her to run away? I meant every thing for her good. If she took things to heart so, as to die of the pip like a chicken, is that my fault?

The reproaches of Mrs. Hammond were the first instance in which Mr. Tyrrel was made to drink the full cup of retribution. This was however only a specimen of a long series of contempt, ab|horrence and insult that was reserved for him. The words of Mrs. Hammond were prophetic. It evidently appeared that, though wealth and here|ditary elevation operate as an apology for many delinquencies, there are some which so irresistibly address themselves to the indignation of mankind, that, like death, they level all distinctions, and reduce their perpetrator to an equality with the

most indigent and squalid of his species. Against Mr. Tyrrel, as the tyrannical and unmanly mur|derer of Emily, those who dared not venture the unreserved avowal of their sentiments, muttered curses, deep, not loud; while the rest joined in an universal cry of abhorrence and execration. He himself stood astonished at the novelty of his situ|ation. Accustomed as he had been to the obe|dience and trembling homage of mankind, he had imagined they would be perpetual, and that no excess on his part would ever be potent enough to break the enchantment. Now he looked round and saw sullen detestation in every face, which with difficulty restrained itself, and upon the slight|est provocation broke forth with an impetuous tide, and swept away all the mounds of subordi|nation and fear. His large estate could not n••w purchase civility from the gentry, the peasantry, scarcely from his own servants. In the indignation of all around him he found a ghost that haunted him with every change of place, and a remorse that stung his conscience and exterminated his peace. The neighbourhood appeared more and more every day to be growing too hot for him to endure the fierceness of its temperature, and it became evident that he would ultimately be obliged to quit the country. Urged by the flagitiousness of this last example, people learned to recollect every other instance of Mr. Tyrrel's excesses, and upon the whole it was no doubt a fearful cata|logue of wanton injustice that now rose up in judgment against him. It seemed as if the sense of public resentment had been long gathering strength unperceived, and now at length burst forth into inextinguishable violence.

There was scarcely a human being upon whom this sort of retribution could have sat more un|easily than upon Mr. Tyrrel. Though he had not

a consciousness of innocence prompting him con|tinually to recoil from the detestation of mankind as a thing totally unallied to his character, yet the imperiousness of his temper and the constant ex|perience he had had of the pliability of other men, prepared him to feel the general and undisguised condemnation into which he was sunk with un|common emotions of anger and impatience. That he, at the beam of whose eye every countenance fell, and whom in the fierceness of his wrath no one was daring enough to answer, should now be regarded with avowed dislike and treated with un|ceremonious censure, was a thing he could not endure to recollect or believe. Symptoms of the universal disgust smote him at every instant, and at every blow he writhed with intolerable anguish. His rage was unbounded and raving. He repelled every attack with the fiercest indignation; while the more he struggled, the more desperate his situ|ation appeared to become. At length he deter|mined to collect his strength for a decisive effort, and to meet the whole tide of public opinion in a single scene.

In pursuance of these thoughts he resolved to repair without delay to the rural assembly which I have already mentioned in the course of my history. Miss Melvile had now been dead one month. There was a sort of bustle that took place at his entrance, it having been agreed by a private vote among the gentlemen of the assembly that Mr. Tyrrel was to be refused admittance, as a person with whom they did not choose to associate. This vote had already been notified to him by letter by the master of the ceremonies, but the intelligence was rather calculated to a man of Mr. Tyrrel's disposition to excite defiance than to overawe. At the door of the assembly he was personally met by the master of the ceremonies, who had perceived

the arrival of an equipage, and who now endea|voured to repeat his prohibition; but he was thrust aside by Mr. Tyrrel with an air of native autho|rity and ineffable contempt. As he entered, every eye was turned upon him. Presently all the gen|tlemen in the room assembled round him. Some endeavored to hustle him, and others began to expostulate. But he found the secret effectually to silence the one set, and to shake off the other. His muscular form, the well-known eminence of his intellectual powers, the long habits to which every man was formed of acknowledging his as|cendancy, were all in his favour. He considered himself as playing a desperate stake, and had roused all the energies he possessed to enable him to do justice to so interesting a transaction. Disengaged from the insects that had at first pestered him, he paced up and down the room with a magisterial stride, and flashed an angry glance on every side. He then broke silence. "If any one had any thing to say to him, he should know where and how to answer him. He would advise any such person however to consider well what he was about. If any man imagined he had any thing personally to complain of, it was very well. But he did expect that nobody there would be igno|rant and raw enough to meddle with what was no business of theirs, and intrude into the concerns of any man's private family".

This being a sort of defiance, one and another gentleman advanced to answer it. He that was first began to speak; but Mr. Tyrrel, by the ex|pression of his countenance and a peremptory tone, by well-timed interruptions and pertinent insinu|ations, caused him first to hesitate, and then to be silent. He seemed to be fast advancing to the triumph he had promised himself. The whole company were astonished. They felt the ••ame ab|horrence

and condemnation of his character; but they could not help admiring the courage and re|sources he displayed upon the present occasion. They could without difficulty have concentred afresh their indignant feelings, but they seemed to want a leader.

At this critical moment Mr. Falkland entered the room. He had been absent the last week in a distant part of the country, and was now return|ed two or three days sooner than he expected, Mr. Tyrrel had willingly embraced this oppor|tunity, trusting that, if he could now effect his re|establishment, he should easily preserve the ground he had regained even in the face of his most for|midable rival. Mr. Tyrrel was certainly not defi|cient in courage; but he conceived that the present was too important an epocha in his life to allow him to make any unnecessary risk in his chance for future ease and importance. He would gladly have dispensed with the arrival of the new comer.

Both he and Mr. Falkland reddened at sight of each other. Mr. Falkland advanced towards him without a moment's pause, and in a peremptory voice asked him, what he did here?

Here! What do you mean by that? This place is as free to me as you, and you are the last person to whom I shall deign to give an account of myself.

Sir, the place is not free to you. Do not you know you have been voted out? Whatever were your rights, your infamous conduct has forfeited them.

Mr. what do you call yourself, if you have any thing to say to me, choose a proper time and place. Do not think to put on your bullying airs under shelter of this company! I will not endure it.

You are mistaken, sir. This public scene is the only place where I can have any thing to say to you. If you would not hear of the universal in|dignation of mankind, you must not come into the society of men. Miss Melvile! Shame upon you, inhuman, unrelenting tyrant! Can you hear her name, and not sink into the earth? Can you re|tire into solitude, and not see her pale and patient ghost rising to reproach you? Can you recollect her virtues, her innocence, her spotless manners, her unresenting temper, and not run distracted with remorse? Have you not killed her in the first bloom of her youth? Can you bear to think that she now lies mouldering in the grave through your cursed contrivance, that deserved a crown, ten thousand times more than you deserve to live? And do you expect that mankind will ever forget, or forgive such a deed? Go, miserable wretch; think yourself too happy that you are permitted to fly the face of man! Why, what a pitiful figure do you make at this moment! Do you think that any thing could bring so hardened a wretch as you are, to shrink from reproach, if your conscience were not in confederacy with him that reproached you? And were you fool enough to believe that any obstinacy however determined could enable you to despise the keen rebuke of justice? Go, go, shrink into your miserable self! Begone, and let me never be blasted with your fight again!

And here, however incredible it may appear, Mr. Tyrrel began to obey his imperious censurer. His looks were full of wildness and horror; his limbs trembled; and his tongue refused its office. He felt no power of resisting the impetuous tor|rent of reproach that was poured upon him. He hesitated; he was ashamed of his own defeat; he seemed to wish to deny it. But his struggles were ineffectual; every attempt perished in the moment

it was made. The general voice was eager to abash him. As his confusion became more visible, the outcry increased. It swelled gradually to hoot|ings, tumult, and a deafening noise of indigna|tion. At length he willingly retired from the public scene, unable any longer to endure the sen|sations it inflicted.

In about an hour and a half he returned. No precaution had been taken against this incident, for nothing could be more unexpected. In the in|terval he had intoxicated himself with large draughts of brandy. In a moment he was in a part of the room where Mr. Falkland was standing, and with one blow of his muscular arm levelled him with the earth. The blow however was not stunning, and Mr. Falkland rose again immediately. It is obvious to perceive how unequal he must have been to this species of contest. He was scarcely risen, before Mr. Tyrrel repeated his blow. Mr. Falkland was now upon his guard, and did not fall. But the blows of his adversary were redou|bled with a rapidity difficult to conceive, and Mr. Falkland was once again brought to the earth. In this situation Mr. Tyrrel kicked his prostrate enemy, and stooped, apparently with the intention of drag|ging him along the floor. All this passed in a mo|ment, and the gentlemen present had not time to recover their surprise. They now interfered, and Mr. Tyrrel once more quitted the apartment.

It is difficult to conceive of any event more ter|rible to the individual upon whom it fell, than the treatment which Mr. Falkland in this instance ex|perienced. Every passion of his life was calculated to make him feel it more acutely He had repeated|ly exerted the most uncommon energy and pru|dence to prevent the misunderstanding between Mr. Tyrrel and himself from proceeding to extre|mities; but in vain! It was closed with a cata|strophe

exceeding all that he had feared, or that the most penetrating foresight could have suggested. To Mr. Falkland disgrace was worse than death. The slightest breath of dishonour would have stung him to the very soul. What must it have been with this complication of ignominy, base, humiliating and public? Could Mr. Tyrrel have understood the evil he inflicted, even he under all his circum|stances of provocation could hardly have perpe|trated it. Mr. Falkland's mind must have been full of uproar like the war of contending elements, and of such suffering as casts contempt on the re|finements of inventive cruelty. He wished no doubt for annihilation, to lie down in eternal obli|vion, in an insensibility, which compared with what he experienced was scarcely less enviable than beatitude itself. Horror, detestation, revenge, in|expressible longings to shake off the evil, and a per|suasion that in this case all effort was powerless, must have filled his soul even to bursting.

One other event closed the transactions of this memorable evening. Mr. Falkland was baffled of the vengeance that yet remained to him. Mr. Tyrrel was found by some of the company dead in the street, having been murdered at the distance of a few yards from the assembly house.

CHAP. XII.

I SHALL endeavour to state the remainder of this narrative in the words of Mr. Collins. The reader has already had occasion to perceive that Mr. Collins was a man of no vulgar order; and his reflections on this subject were uncommonly judi|cious.

"This day was the crisis of Mr. Falkland's his|tory. From hence took its beginning that gloomy and unsociable melancholy of which he has since been the victim. No two characters can be in cer|tain respects more strongly contrasted, than the Mr. Falkland of a date prior and subsequent to these events. Hitherto he had been attended by a fortune perpetually prosperous. His mind was sanguine; full of that undoubting confidence in its own powers which prosperity is qualified to pro|duce. Though the habits of his life were those of a serious and sublime visionary, they were never|theless full of chearfulness and tranquillity. But from this moment his pride and the lofty adven|turousness of his spirit were effectually subdued. From an object of envy he was changed into an object of compassion. Life, which hitherto no one had so exquisitely enjoyed, became a burthen to him. No more self-complacency, no more rapture, no more self-approving and heart-transporting be|nevolence! He, who had lived beyond any man upon the grand and animating reveries of the ima|gination, seemed now to have no visions but of an|guish and despair. His case was peculiarly worthy of sympathy, since no doubt, if rectitude and pu|rity

of disposition could give a title to happiness, few men could exhibit a more consistent and pow|erful claim than Mr. Falkland.

"He was too deeply pervaded with the idle and groundless romances of chivalry ever to forget the situation, humiliating and dishonourable according to his ideas, in which he had been placed upon this occasion. There is a mysterious sort of divi|nity annexed to the person of a true knight, that makes any species of brute violence committed upon it indelible and immortal. To be knocked down, cuffed, kicked, dragged along the floor! sacred heaven, the memory of such a treatment was intolerable! No future lustration could ever remove the stain: and, what was perhaps still worse in the present case, the offender having ceas|ed to exist, the lustration which the laws of knight-errantry prescribe was rendered impossible.

"In some future period of human improvement it is probable that that calamity will be in a man|ner unintelligible, which in the present instance contributed to tarnish and wither the excellence of one of the most elevated and amiable of human minds. If Mr. Falkland had reflected with per|fect accuracy upon the case, he would probably have been able to look down with indifference upon a wound which, as it was, pierced to his very vitals. How much more dignity than in the modern duel|list do we find in Themistocles, the most gallant of the Greeks; who, when Eurybiades, his comman|der in chief, in answer to some of his remonstran|ces, lifted his cane over him with a menacing air, accosted him in that noble apostrophe, Strike, but hear?

"How would a man of true discernment in such a case reply to his brutal assailant?

I make it my boast that I can endure calamity and pain: shall I not be able to endure the trifling incon|venience

that your folly can inflict upon me? Perhaps a human being would be more accom|plished, if he understood the science of person|al defence; but how few would be the occa|sions upon which he would be called to exert it? How few human beings would he encoun|ter so unjust and injurious as you, if his own conduct were directed by the principles of rea|son and benevolence? Beside, how narrow would be the use of this science, when acquired? It will scarcely put the man of delicate make and petty stature upon a level with the athletic pugilist; and, if it did in some measure secure me against the malice of a single adversary, still my person and my life, so far as mere force is concerned, would▪ always be at the mercy of two. Farther than immediate defence against actual violence it could never be of use to me. The man who can deliberately meet his adver|sary for the purpose of exposing the persons of one or both of them to injury, tramples upon every principle of reason and equity. Duel••ing is the vilest of all egotism, treating the public, which has a claim to all my powers and exer|tions, as if it were nothing, and myself, or ra|ther an unintelligible chimera I annex ••o myself, as if it were entitled to my exclusive attention. I am unable to cope with you: what then? Can that circumstance dishonour me? No; I can only be dishonoured by perpetrating an un|just action. My honour is in my own keeping, beyond the reach of all mankind. Strike! I am passive. No injury that you can inflict shall provoke me to expose you or myself to unneces|sary evil. I refuse that; but I am not therefore pusillanimous: when I refuse any danger or suf|fering by which the general good may be pro|moted, then brand me for a coward!

"These reasonings, however simple and irre|sistible they must be found by a dispassionate en|quirer, are little reflected on by the world at large, and were most of all uncongenial to the prejudices of Mr. Falkland. But the public disgrace and chas|tisement that had been imposed upon him, intole|rable as they were to be recollected, were not the whole of the mischief that redounded to our un|fortunate patron from the transactions of that day. It was presently whispered that he was no other than the murderer of his antagonist. This rumour was of too much importance to the very continu|ance of his life, to justify its being concealed from him. He heard it with inexpressible astonishment and horror; it formed a dreadful addition to the load of intellectual anguish that already oppressed him. No man had ever held his reputation so dear to him as Mr. Falkland; and now in one day he was fallen under the most exquisite calamities, a complicated personal insult, and the imputation of the foulest of crimes. He might have fled; for no one was forward to proceed against a man so a|dored as Mr. Falkland, or in revenge of one so universally execrated as Mr. Tyrrel. But flight he disdained. In the mean time the affair was of too serious a magnitude, the rumour unchecked seem|ed daily to increase in strength, and the magistrates were at length obliged to take some steps upon the subject. Without causing him to be apprehended, they sent to desire he would appear before them at 〈◊〉〈◊〉 their meetings. They investigated the par|ticulars of the story. What could they do? The 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of the quarrel, and the odious nature of the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 give•• by Mr. Tyrrel were notorious. Mr. Falkland had left the rooms immediately after his 〈◊〉〈◊〉; and, though he had been attended by one 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of the gentlemen to his inn, it ap|peared 〈◊〉〈◊〉 had left them upon some slight pre|tence

as soon as he arrived at it, and, when they enquired for him of the waiters, they were given to understand that he had mounted his horse and rode home. In consideration of these particulars the magistrates concluded that they could not be justified but in committing Mr. Falkland to prison. His defence was manly, logical, and impressive. But, though they entertained the strongest presump|tion of his innocence, they conceived that they were obliged in their capacity to proceed upon the unfortunate circumstances that appeared against the accused, and commit him for his deliverance to a trial by his country. In all this Mr. Falkland was nearly passive. He seemed to fear by too direct an appeal to judicature to render more precise an im|putation the memory of which he deprecated, at the same time that he was sufficiently willing to meet the severest scrutiny, and, if he could not hope to have it forgotten that he had ever been ac|cused, to prove in the most satisfactory manner that the accusation was unjust.

"Never in this quarter of the island was a court more crowded with persons of the highest distinc|tion than upon Mr. Falkland's trial. Never was expectation wrought to a higher pitch, or the pas|sions of men more profoundly interested. You seem never to have heard of this memorable trans|action; and indeed that is little to be wondered at, since the good nature of the world is interested in suppressing it, and it is deemed a disgrace to a man to have held up his hand at a criminal bar, though acquitted with circumstances the most satisfactory and honourable. It may be supposed that this sup|pression is particularly acceptable to Mr. Falkland; and I should not have acted in contradiction to his modes of thinking in communicating the story to you, had there not been circumstances of peculiar urgency that seemed to render the communication desirable.

"The facts adduced upon the trial were precise|ly those which had already been laid before the magistrates. By the nature of the case no particu|lar facts could be stated in balance against these. As soon as the evidence for the crown had been gone through, Mr. Falkland immediately proceed|ed to his defence. Several copies of the trial were made, and Mr. Falkland seemed for a short time to have the idea of sending it to the press. I have one of these copies in my possession, and I will read from it the speech of the accused, as it was taken down in court."—Saying this, Mr. Collins rose, and took it from a private drawer in his escri|••oire.

"My lord, and gentlemen of the jury,

"I stand here accused of a crime the most black that any human creature is capable of perpetrating. I am innocent. I have no fear that I shall fail to make every person in this court acknowledge my innocence. In the mean time what must be my feelings? Conscious as I am of deserving approba|tion and not censure, of having passed my life in acts of justice and philanthropy, can any thing be more deplorable than for me to stand here to an|swer a charge of murder? So wretched is my situa|tion, that I cannot accept your gratuitous acquit|tal, if you should be disposed to bestow it. I must answer to an imputation, the very thought of which is ten thousand times worse than death. I must exert the whole energy of my mind to prevent my being ranked with the vilest of men.

"Gentlemen, this is a situation in which a man may be allowed to boast. Accursed situation! No man need envy me the vile and polluted triumph I am now to gain! I have called no witnesses to my character. Great God! what sort of a character is that which must be supported by witnesses? But, if I must speak, look round the court, ask of every one present, enquire of your own hearts!

Not one word of reproach was ever whispered against my character. I do not hesitate to call upon those who have known me most to afford me the most honourable testimony.

"My life has been spent in the keenest and most unintermitted sensibility to reputation. I am almost indifferent as to what shall be the event of this day. I would not open my mouth upon the occasion, if my life were the only thing that was at stake. It is not in the power of your verdict to restore to me my unblemished reputation, to obli|terate the disgrace I have suffered, or to prevent it from being remembered that I have been brought to trial upon a charge of murder. Your verdict can never have the efficacy to prevent the miserable remains of my existence from being the most in|tolerable of all burthens.

"I am accused of having committed murder upon the body of Barnabas Tyrrel. I would most joyfully have given every farthing I possess, and devoted myself to perpetual beggary, to have pre|served his life. His life was precious to me, be|yond that of all mankind. In my opinion the greatest injustice committed by his unknown assassin was that of defrauding me of my just revenge. I confess that I would have called him out to the field, and that our encounter should not have been terminated but by the death of one or both of us. This would have been a pitiful and inadequate compensation for his unparalleled insult, but it was all that remained.

"I ask for no pity, but I must openly declare that never was any misfortune so horrible as mine. I would willingly have taken refuge from the re|collection of that night in a voluntary death. Life was now stripped of all those recommendations for the sake of which it was dear to me. But even this consolation is denied me. I am com|pelled

to drag for ever the intolerable load of ex|istence, upon penalty, if at any period however remote I shake it off, of having that impatience regarded as confirming a charge of murder. Gen|tlemen, if by your verdict you could take away my life, without that act being connected with my disgrace, I would bless the cord that suspended the breath of my existence for ever.

"You all know how easily I might have fled from this purgation. If I had been guilty, should I not have embraced the opportunity? But, as it was, I could not. Reputation has been the idol, the jewel of my life. I could never have borne to think that a human creature in the remotest part of the globe should believe that I was a criminal. Alas! what a deity it is that I have chosen for my worship! I have entailed upon myself everlasting agony and despair!

"I have but one word to add. Gentlemen, I charge you to do me the imperfect justice that your office puts in your power! My life is a worthless thing. But my honour, the paltry remains of honour I have now to boast, is in your judgment. It is little that you can do for me; but it is not less your duty to do that little. May that God who is the fountain of honour and good, prosper and protect you! The man who now stands before you is devoted to perpetual barrenness and blast! He has nothing to hope for beyond the feeble con|solation of this day!"

"You will easily imagine that Mr. Falkland was acquitted with every circumstance of honour. Nothing is more to be deplored in human institu|tions than that the forms of justice should thus subject a man, of whose innocence every one was convinced, to a species of purgation to which the ideas of mankind have annexed a sentiment of dis|grace. Nobody entertained the shadow of a doubt

upon the subject, and yet a mere incidental con|currence of circumstances made it necessary that the best of men should be publicly arraigned as if really under suspicion of an atrocious crime. It may be granted indeed that Mr. Falkland had his faults, but those very faults placed him at a still farther distance from the criminality in question. He was the fool of honour and fame; a man whom in the pursuit of reputation nothing could divert; who would have purchased the character of a true, gallant and undaunted hero at the expence of worlds, and who thought every calamity nominal but a stain upon his honour. How atrociously absurd to suppose any motive capable of inducing such a man to play the part of a lurking assassin? How unfeeling to oblige him to defend himself from such an imputation in a court of justice? Did any man, and least of all a man of the purest honour, ever pass in a moment from a life unstain|ed by a single act of injury to the consummation of human depravity?

"When the verdict of the jury was given, a general murmur of applause and involuntary trans|port burst forth in the court. It was at first low, and gradually became louder. As it was the ex|pression of rapturous delight and an emotion disin|terested and divine, so there was an indescribable something in the very sound that carried it home to the heart, and convinced every spectator that no personal pleasure ever existed that was not fool|ish and feeble in the comparison. Every one strove who should most express his esteem of the amiable accused. Mr. Falkland was no sooner withdrawn, than the gentlemen in the court crowded together to consult how they should most effectually express their congratulation. They immediately named a deputation to wait upon him for that purpose. The grand jury and the petty jury drew up an ad|dress

of a similar nature. The very judges and counsel, though less acquainted with his personal character, were strongly impressed with the mute and universal testimony they witnessed in his fa|vour, and zealously concurred to assist the general sentiment. It was a sort of sympathetic feeling that took hold upon all ranks and degrees. The multitude received him with huzzas, they took his horses from his carriage, dragged him in triumph, and attended him many miles in his return to his own habitation. It seemed as if a public trial be|fore a criminal judge, which had hitherto been considered in every event as a brand of disgrace, was converted in the present instance into an occa|sion of enthusiastic adoration and unexampled honour.

"But nothing could reach the heart of Mr. Falkland. He was not insensible to the general kindness and exertions; but it was too evident that the melancholy that had taken hold of his mind was invincible.

"It was only a few weeks after this memorable trial that the real murderer was discovered. Every part of this story was extraordinary. The real murderer was Hawkins. He was found with his son under a feigned name at a village at about thirty miles distance, in want of all the necessaries of life. He had lived here from the period of his flight in so private a manner, that all the enqui|ries that had been set on foot by the benevolence of Mr. Falkland or the insatiable malice of Mr. Tyrrel had been insufficient to discover him. The first thing that had led to the detection was a parcel of clothes covered with blood that were found in a ditch, and which, when drawn out, were known by the people of the village to belong to this man. The murder of Mr. Tyrrel was not a circumstance that could be unknown, and sus|picion

was immediately roused. A diligent search being made, the rusty handle with part of the blade of a knife was sound thrown in a corner of his lodging, which being applied to a piece of the point of a knife that had been broken in the wound, appeared exactly to correspond. Upon farther enquiry two rustics, who had been acci|dentally on the spot, remembered to have seen Hawkins and his son in the town that very even|ing, and to have called after them, and received no answer, though they were sure of their persons. Upon this accumulated evidence both Hawkins and his son were tried, condemned and afterwards executed. In the interval between the sentence and execution Hawkins confessed his guilt with many marks of compunction; though there are persons by whom this is denied; but I have taken some pains to enquire into the fact, and am per|suaded that their disbelief is precipitate and ground|less.

"The cruel injustice that this man had suffered from his village tyrant was not forgotten upon the present occasion. It was by a strange fatality that the barbarous proceedings of Mr. Tyrrel seemed never to fall short of their completion; and even his death served eventually to consummate the ruin of a man he hated, a circumstance, which, if it could have come to his knowledge, would perhaps have in some measure consoled him for his un|timely end. This poor Hawkins was surely en|titled to some pity, since his being finally urged to desperation, and brought, together with his son, to an ignominious fate, was originally owing to the sturdiness of his virtue and independence. But the compassion of the public was in a great measure shut against him, as they thought it a piece of barbarous and unpardonable selfishness, that he had not rather come boldly forward to

meet the consequences of his own conduct, than suffer a man of so much public worth as Mr. Falk|land, and who had been so desirous of doing him good, to be tried for a murder that he had com|mitted.

"From this time to the present Mr. Falkland has been nearly such as you at present see him. Though it be several years since these transactions, the impression they made is for ever fresh in the mind of our unfortunate patron. From thence|forward his habits became totally different. He had before been fond of public scenes, and acting a part in the midst of the people among whom he immediately resided. He now made himself a rigid recluse. He had no associates, no friends. Inconsolable himself, he yet wished to treat others with kindness. There was a solemn sadness in his manner, attended with the most perfect gentleness and humanity. Every body respects him, for his benevolence is unalterable; but there is a stately coldness and reserve in his behaviour, which makes it difficult for those about him to regard him with the familiarity of affection. These symptoms are uninterrupted, except at certain times when his sufferings become intolerable, and he displays the marks of a furious insanity. At those times his language is fearful and mysterious, and he seems to figure to himself by turns every sort of perse|cution and alarm which may be supposed to attend upon an accusation of murder. But, sensible of his own weakness, he is anxious at such times to withdraw into solitude; and his domestics in ge|neral know nothing of him but the uncommunica|tive and haughty, yet mild dejection that accom|panies every thing he does."

CHAP. XIII.

I HAVE stated the narrative of Mr. Collins, in|terspersed with such other information as I was able to collect, with all the exactness that my me|mory, assisted by certain memorandums I made at the time, will afford. I do not pretend to warrant the authenticity of any part of these memoirs ex|cept so much as fell under my own knowledge, and that part shall be stated with the same simplicity and accuracy that I would observe towards a court which was to decide in the last resort upon every thing dear to me. The same scrupulous fidelity restrains me from altering the manner of Mr. Col|lins's narrative to adapt it to the precepts of my own taste; and it will soon be perceived how essential that narrative is to the elucidation of my own history.

The intention of my friend in this communica|tion was to give me ease; but he in reality added to my embarrassment. Hitherto I had had no in|tercourse with the world and its passions; and, though I was not totally unacquainted with them as they appear in books, this proved to be of little service to me when I came to witness them myself. The case seemed entirely altered, when the subject of those passions was continually before my eyes, and the events had happened but the other day as it were, in the very neighbourhood where I lived. There was a connection and progress in this nar|rative, which made it altogether unlike the little village incidents I had hitherto known. My feel|ings

were successively interested for the different persons that were brought upon the scene. My veneration was excited for Mr. Clare, and my ap|plause for the intrepidity of Mrs. Hammond. I was astonished that any human creature should be so shockingly perverted as Mr. Tyrrel. I paid the tribute of my tears to the memory of the artless Miss Melvile. I found a thousand fresh reasons to admire and love my master.

At first I was satisfied with thus considering every incident in its obvious sense. But the story I had heard was for ever in my thoughts, and I was peculiarly interested to comprehend its full im|port. I turned it a thousand ways, and examined it in every point of view. In the original commu|nication it appeared sufficiently distinct and satis|factory; but, as I brooded over it, it gradually be|came mysterious. There was something strange in the character of Hawkins. So firm, so sturdily honest and just, as he appeared at first; all at once to become a murderer! His first behaviour under the prosecution, how accurately was it calculated to prepossess one in his favor! To be sure, if he were guilty, it was very cruel of him to suffer a man of so much worth as Mr. Falkland to be tried for his crime! And yet I could not help bitterly com|passionating the honest fellow, brought to the gal|lows, as he was, strictly speaking, by the machi|nations of that devil incarnate, Mr. Tyrrel. His son too, that son for whom he voluntarily sacrificed his all, to die with him at the same tree; surely never was a story more affecting!

Was it possible after all that Mr. Falkland should be the murderer? The reader will scarcely believe that the idea suggested itself to my mind, that I would ask him. It was but a passing thought; but it serves to mark the simplicity of my charac|ter. Then I recollected the virtues of my master,

almost too sublime for human nature; I thought of his sufferings so unexampled, so unmerited; and chid myself for the suspicion. The dying confession of Hawkins recurred to my mind; and I felt that there was no longer a possibility of doubting. And yet what was the meaning of all Mr. Falkland's agonies and terrors? In fine, the idea having once occurred to my mind, it was fixed there for ever. My thoughts fluctuated from conjecture to conjecture, but this was the centre about which they revolved. I determined to place myself as a watch upon my master.

The instant I had chosen this employment for myself, I found a strange sort of pleasure in it. To do what is forbidden always has its charms, because we have an indistinct apprehension of something arbitrary and tyrannical in the prohibi|tion. To be a spy upon Mr. Falkland! That there was danger in the employment served to give an alluring pungency to the choice. I remembered the stern reprimand I had received, his terrible looks; and the recollection gave a kind of tingling sensation, not altogether unallied to enjoyment. The farther I advanced, the more the sensation was irresistible. I seemed to myself perpetually upon the brink of being countermined, and perpetually roused to guard my designs. The more impene|trable Mr. Falkland was determined to be, the more uncontroulable was my curiosity. Through the whole my alarm and apprehension of personal danger, had a large mixture of frankness and sim|plicity, conscious of meaning no ill, that made me continually ready to say every thing that was upon my mind, and would not suffer me to believe that, when things were brought to the test, any one could be seriously angry with me.

These reflections led gradually to a new state of my mind. When I had first removed into Mr.

Falkland's family, the novelty of the scene render|ed me cautious and reserved. The distant and so|lemn manners of my master seemed to have anni|hilated my constitutional gaiety. But the novelty by degrees wore off, and my constraint in the same degree diminished. The story I had now heard, and the curiosity it excited, restored to me acti|vity, eagerness and ••ourage. I had always had a propensity to communicate my thoughts; my age was naturally inclined to talkativeness; and I ven|tured occasionally in a sort of hesitating way, as if questioning whether such a conduct might be al|lowed to express my sentiments as they arose, in the presence of Mr. Falkland.

The first time I did so, he looked at me with an air of surprise, made me no answer, and presently took occasion to leave me. The experiment was soon after repeated. My master seemed half in|clined to encourage me, and yet doubtful whether he might venture. He had been long a stranger to pleasure of every sort, and my artless and untaught remarks appeared to promise him some amusement. In this uncertainty he could not probably find it in his heart to treat with severity my innocent ef|fusions. I needed but little encouragement: for the perturbation of my mind stood in want of this relief. My simplicity, arising from my being a total stranger to the intercourse of the world, was accompanied with a mind in some degree cultivated with reading, and perhaps not altogether destitute of observation and talent. My remarks were there|fore perpetually unexpected, at one time implying extreme ignorance, and at another some portion of acuteness, but at all times having an air of in|nocence, frankness and courage. There was still an apparent want of design in the manner, even after I was excited accurately to compare my obser|vations and study the inferences to which they led;

for the effect of old habit was more visible, than that of a recently-conceived purpose which was hardly yet mature. Mr. Falkland's situation was like that of a fish that plays with the bait employed to entrap him. By my manner he was in a certain degree encouraged to lay aside his usual reserve and relax his stateliness; till some abrupt observation or interrogatory stung him into recollection and brought back his alarm. Still it was evident that he bore about him a secret wound. Whenever the cause of his sorrows was touched, though in a manner the most indirect and remote, his coun|tenance altered, his distemper returned, and it was with difficulty that he could suppress his emotions, sometimes conquering himself with painful effort, and sometimes bursting into a sort of paroxism of insanity, and hastening to bury himself in solitude. These appearances I too frequently interpreted into grounds of suspicion, though I might with equal probability and more liberality have ascribed them to the cruel mortifications he had encountered in the objects of his darling ambition. Mr. Collins had strongly urged me to secrecy; and Mr. Falk|land, whenever my gesture or his consciousness impressed him with the idea of my knowing more than I expressed, looked at me with wistful earnest|ness, as questioning what was the degree of infor|mation I possessed, and how it was obtained. But again at our next interview the simple vivacity of my manner restored his tranquillity, obliterated the emotion of which I had been the cause, and placed things afresh in their former situation. The longer this humble familiarity on my part had continued, the more effort it would require to suppress it; and Mr. Falkland was neither willing to mortify me by a severe prohibition of speech, nor even perhaps to make me of so much consequence as that prohibition might seem to imply. Though I

was curious, it must not be supposed that I had the object of my enquiry for ever in my mind, or that my questions and innuendos were perpetually re|gulated with the cunning of a grey-headed inqui|sitor. The secret wound of Mr. Falkland's mind was much more uniformly present to his recol|lection than to mine; and a thousand times he applied the remarks that occurred in conversation, when I had not the remotest idea of such an ap|plication till some singularity in his manner brought it back to my thoughts. The consciousness of this morbid sensibility, and the imagination that its in|fluence might perhaps constitute the whole of the case, served probably to spur Mr. Falkland again to the charge, and connect a sentiment of shame with every project that suggested itself for interrupting the freedom of our intercourse.

I will give a specimen of the conversations to which I allude, and as it shall be selected from those which began upon topics the most general and remote, the reader will easily imagine the dis|turbance that was almost daily endured by a mind so tremblingly alive as that of my master.

Pray, sir, said I, one day as I was assisting Mr. Falkland in arranging some papers previously to their being transcribed into his collection, how came Alexander of Macedon to be surnamed the Great?

How came it? Did you never read his his|tory?

Yes, sir.

Well, Williams, and could you find no reasons there?

Why, I do not know, sir. I could find reasons why he should be famous; but every man that is talked of, is not admired. Judges differ about the merits of Alexander. Doctor Prideaux says in his Connections that he deserves only to be called the

Great Cut-throat, and the author of Tom Jones has written a volume to prove that he and all other conquerors ought to be classed with Jonathan Wild.

Mr. Falkland involuntarily reddened at these citations.

Accursed blasphemy! Did these authors think that by the coarseness of their ribaldry they could destroy his well-earned fame? Are learning, sensi|bility and taste no securities to exempt their pos|sessor from this vulgar abuse? Did you ever read, Williams, of a man more gallant, generous and free? Was ever mortal so completely the reverse of every thing engrossing and selfish? He formed to himself a sublime image of excellence, and his only ambition was to realise it in his own story. Remember his giving away every thing when he set out upon his grand expedition, professedly re|serving for himself nothing but hope. Recollect his heroic confidence in Philip, the physician, and his entire and unalterable friendship for Ephestion. He treated the captive family of Darius with the most cordial urbanity, and the venerable Sysigambis with all the tenderness and attention of a son to his mother. Never take the judgment, Williams, upon such a subject of a clerical pedant or a West|minster justice. Examine for yourself, and you will find in Alexander a model of honour, gene|rosity and disinterestedness, a man who for the cultivated liberality of his mind and the unparallel|ed grandeur of his projects must stand alone the spectacle and admiration of all ages of the world.

Ah, sir! it is a very fine thing for us to sit here and compose his panegyric. But would you have me forget what a vast expence was bestowed in erecting the monument of his fame? Was not he the common disturber of mankind? Did nor he overrun nations that would never have heard of him, but for his devastations? How many hun|dred

thousands of lives did 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••acrifice in his ca|reer? What must I think of his cruelties; a whole tribe massacred for a crime committed by their an|cestors one hundred and fifty years before; fifty thousand sold into slavery; two thousand crucified for their gallant defence of their country? Man is surely a strange sort of creature, who never praises any one more heartily than him who has spread destruction and ruin over the face of nations!

The way of thinking you express, Williams, is natural enough, and I cannot blame you for it. But let me hope that you will become more liberal. The death of a hundred thousand men is at first fight very shocking; but what in reality are a hun|dred thousand such men more than a hundred thou|sand sheep? It is mind, Williams, the generation of knowledge and virtue that we ought to love. This was the project of Alexander; he set out in a great undertaking to civilise mankind; he de|livered the vast continent of Asia from the stupidity and degradation of the Persian monarchy; and, though he was cut off in the midst of his career, we may easily perceive the vast effects of his pro|ject. Grecian literature and cultivation, the Seleucidae, the Antiochuses and the Prolomies fol|lowed, in nations which before had been sunk to the condition of brutes. Alexander was the builder as notoriously as the destroyer of cities.

And yet, sir, I am afraid that the pike and the battle-axe are not the right instruments for making men wise. Suppose it were admitted that the lives of men were to be sacrificed without re|morse if a paramount good were to result, it seems to me as if murder and massacre were but a very left-handed way of producing civilisation and love. But pray, do not you think this great hero was a ••ort of a madman? What now will you say to his

firing the palace of Persepolis, his weeping for other worlds to conquer, and his marching his whole army over the burning sands of Lybia, merely to visit a temple, and persuade mankind that he was the son of Jupiter Ammon?

Alexander, my boy, has been much misunder|stood. Mankind have revenged themselves upon him by misrepresentation, for having so far eclipsed the rest of his species. It was necessary to the realising his project that he should pass for a God. It was the only way by which he could get a firm hold upon the veneration of the stupid and bi|goted Persians. It was this, and not a mad va|nity, that was the source of his proceeding. And how much had he to struggle with in this respect in the unapprehending obstinacy of some of his Ma|cedonians?

Why then, sir, at last Alexander did but employ means that all politicians profess to use, as well as he. He dragooned men into wisdom, and cheated them into the pursuit of their own happiness. But what is worse, sir, this Alexander in the paroxysm of his headlong rage spared neither friend nor foe. You will not pretend to justify the excesses of his ungovernable passion. It is impossible sure that a word can be said for a man whom a momentary provocation can hurry into the commission of mur|ders—

The instant I had uttered these words, I felt what it was that I had done. There was a mag|netical sympathy between me and my master, so that their effect was not sooner produced upon him, than my own mind reproached me with the inhumanity of the allusion. Our confusion was mutual. The blood forsook at once the transparent complexion of Mr. Falkland, and then rushed back again with rapidity and fierceness. I dared not

utter a word, lest I should commit a new error worse than that into which I had just fallen. After a short, but severe, struggle to continue the conversation, Mr. Falkland began with trepidation, but afterwards became calmer:

You are not candid—Alexander—You must learn more clemency—Alexander, I say, does not deserve this rigour. Do you remember his tears, his remorse, his determined abstinence from food, which he could scarcely be persuaded to alter? Did not that prove acute feeling and a rooted principle of equity?—Well, well, Alexander was a true and judicious lover of mankind, and his real me|rits have been little comprehended.

I know not how to make the state of my mind at that moment accurately understood. When one idea has got possession of the mind, it is scarcely possible to keep it from finding its way to the lips. Error, once committed, has a fascinating power, like the eyes of the rattle-snake, to draw us into a second error. It deprives us of that proud confi|dence in our own strength, to which we are in|debted for so much of our virtue. Curiosity is a restless propensity, and often does but hurry us forward the more irresistibly, the greater is the danger that attends its indulgence.

Clitus, said I, was a man of very coarse and provoking manners, was he not?

Mr. Falkland felt the full force of this appeal. He gave me a penetrating look as if he would see my very soul. His eyes were then in an instant withdrawn. I could perceive him seized with a convulsive shuddering, which, though strongly counteracted, and therefore scarcely visible, had I know not what of terrible in it. He left his em|ployment, strode about the room in anger, his visage gradually assumed an expression as of super|natural

barbarity, he quitted the apartment abrupt|ly, and flung the door with a violence that seemed to shake the house.

Is this, said I, the fruit of conscious guilt, or of the disgust that a man of honour conceives at guilt undeservedly imputed?

CHAP. XIV.

THE reader will feel how rapidly I was advanc|ing to the brink of the precipice. I had a confused apprehension of what I was doing, but I could not stop myself. Is it possible, said I, that Mr. Falkland, who is thus overwhelmed with a sense of the unmerited dishonour that has been fastened upon him in the face of the word, will long endure the presence of a raw and unfriended youth, who is perpetually bringing back that dishonour to his recollection, and who seems himself the most for|ward to entertain the accusation?

I felt indeed that Mr. Falkland would not hastily incline to dismiss me, for the same reason that re|strained him from many other actions which might seem to savour of a too tender and ambiguous sen|sibility. But this reflexion was little adapted to comfort me. That he should cherish in his heart a growing hatred against me, and that he should think himself obliged to retain me a continual thorn in his side, was an idea by no means of fa|vourable augury to my future peace.

It was some time after this that in clearing out a case of drawers I found a paper that by some acci|dent had slipped behind one of the drawers, and been overlooked. At another time perhaps my curiosity might have given way to the laws of de|corum, and I should have restored it unopened to my master, its owner. But my eagerness for in|formation had been too much stimulated by the preceding incidents to allow me at present to neglect

any occasion of obtaining it. The paper proved to be a letter written by the elder Hawkins, and from its contents seemed to have been penned when he had first been upon the point of absconding from the persecutions of Mr. Tyrrel. It was as follows.

Honourable Sir,

I have waited some time in daily hope of your honour's return into these parts. Old Gines and his dame, who are lest to take care of your house, tell me, they cannot say when that will be, nor justly in what part of England you are at present. For my share misfortune comes so thick upon me, that I must determine upon something (that is for certain), and out of hand. Our squire, who I must own at first used me kindly enough, though I am afraid that was partly out of spite to squire Underwood, has since determined to be the ruin of me. Sir, I have been no craven; I fought it up stoutly; for after all, you know, God bless your honour! it is but a man to a man; but he has been too much for me.

Perhaps if I were to ride over to the market town and enquire of Munsle, your lawyer, he could tell me how to direct to you. But having hoped and waited o' this fashion, and all in vain, has put me upon other thoughts. I was in no hurry, sir, to apply to you; for I do not love to be a trouble to other people. I kept that for my last stake. Well, sir, and now that has failed me like, I am ashamed as it were to have thought of it. Have not I, thinks I, arms and legs as well as other people? I am driven out of house and home. Well, and what then? Sure I arn't a cabbage, that if you pull it out of the ground, it must die. I am pennyless. True; and how many hundreds are there that live from hand to mouth all the days

of their life? (Begging your honour's pardon) thinks I, if we little folks had ••ut the wit to do for ourselves, the great folks would not be such maggoty changelings as they are. They would be|gin to look about them.

But there is another thing that has swayed with me more than all the rest. I do not know how to tell you, sir—My poor boy, my Leonard, the pride of my life, has been three weeks in the county jail. It is true indeed, sir. Squire Tyrrel put him there. Now, sir, every time that I lay my head upon my pillow under my own little roof, my heart smites me with the situation of my Leonard. I do not mean so much for the hardship; I do not so much matter that. I do not expect him to go through the world upon velvet; I am not such a fool. But who can tell what may hap in a jail? I have been three times to see him; and there is one man in the same quarter of the prison that looks so wicked! I do not much fancy the looks of the rest. To be sure Leonard is as good a lad as ever lived. I think he will not give his mind to such. But, come what will, I am determined he shall not stay among them twelve hours longer. I am an obstinate old fool perhaps; but I have taken it into my head, and I will do it. Do not ask me what. But, if I were to write to your honour, and wait for your answer, it might take a week or ten days more. I must not think of it!

Squire Tyrrel is very headstrong, and you, your honour, might be a little hottish or so. No, I would not have any body quarrel for me. There has been mischief enough done already; and I will get myself out of the way. So I write this, your honour, merely to unload my mind. I feel myself equally as much bound to respect and love you, as if you had done every thing for me that I believe you would have done if things had chanced dif|ferently.

It is most likely you will never hear of me any more. If it should be so, set your worthy heart at ••est. I know myself too well ever to be tempted to do any thing that is really bad. I have now my fortune to seek in the world. I have been used ill enough, God knows. But I bear no ma|lice; my heart is at peace with all mankind; and I forgive every body. It is like enough that poor Leonard and I may have hardship enough to un|dergo, among strangers and being obliged to hide ourselves like house-breakers or highwaymen. But I defy all the malice of fortune to make us do an ill thing. That consolation we will always keep against all the crosses of a heart-breaking world.

God bless you! So prays, Your honour's humble servant to command, BENJAMIN HAWKINS.

I read this letter with considerable attention, and it occasioned me many reflections. To my way of thinking it contained a very interesting picture of a blunt, downright, honest mind. It is a me|lancholy consideration, said I to myself; but such is man! To have judged from appearances one would have said, This is a fellow, to have taken fortune's buffets and rewards with an incorruptible mind. And yet see where it all ends! This man was capable of afterwards becoming a murderer, and finishing his life at the gallows. O poverty! thou art indeed omnipotent! Thou grindest us into desperation; thou confoundest all our boasted and most deep-rooted principles; thou fillest us to the very brim with malice and revenge, and renderest us capable of acts of unknown horror! May I ne|ver be visited by thee in the fulness of thy power!

Having satisfied my curiosity with respect to this paper, I took care to dispose of it in such a man|ner as that it should be found by Mr. Falkland; at the same time that, in obedience to the principle which at present governed me with absolute domi|nion, I was willing that the way in which it offer|ed itself to his attention, should suggest to him the idea that it had possibly passed through my hands. The next morning I saw him, and I exerted myself to lead the conversation, which by this time I well knew how to introduce, by insensible degrees to the point I desired. After several previous questions, remarks and rejoinders, I continued:

Well, sir, after all, I cannot help feeling very uncomfortably as to my ideas of human nature, when I find that there is no dependence to be placed upon its perseverance, and that, at least among the illiterate, the most promising appearan|ces may end in the foulest disgrace.

You think then that literature and a cultivated mind are the only assurance for the constancy of our principles?

Um!—why do you suppose, sir, that learning and ingenuity do not often serve people rather to hide their crimes, than to restrain them from com|mitting them? History tells us strange things in that respect.

Williams! said Mr. Falkland, a little disturbed, you are strangely given to censure and severity.

I hope not. I am sure I am most fond of look|ing on the other side of the picture, and consider|ing how many men have been aspersed, and even at some time or other almost torn to pieces by their fellow creatures, whom, when properly understood, we find worthy of our reverence and love.

Indeed, replied Mr. Falkland with a sigh, when I consider these things, I do not wonder at the dy|ing exclamation of Brutus, O Virtue! I sought

thee as a substance, but I find thee an empty name! I am too much inclined to be of his opinion.

Why to be sure, sir, innocence and guilt are too much confounded in human life. I remember a very affecting story of a poor man in the reign of queen Elizabeth, who would have infallibly been hanged for murder upon the strength of circum|stantial evidence, if the person really concerned had not been himself upon the jury, and prevent|ed it.

In saying this I touched the spring that waken|ed madness in his mind. He came up to me with a ferocious countenance as if determined to force me into a confession of my thoughts. A sudden pang however seemed to change his design; he drew back with trepidation; and exclaimed, De|tested be the universe, and the laws that govern it! Honour, justice, virtue are all the juggle of knaves! If it were in my power, I would instantly crush the whole system into nothing!

I replied; Oh, sir! things are not so bad as you imagine. The world was made for men of sense to do what they will with it. Its affairs cannot be better than in the direction of the ge|nuine heroes; and, as in the end they will be found the truest friends of the whole, so the mul|titude have nothing to do, but to look on, be fashioned and admire.

Mr. Falkland made a powerful effort to recover his tranquillity. Williams! said he, you instruct me well. You have a right notion of things, and I have great hopes of you. I will be more of a man. I will forget the past, and do better for the time to come. The future, the future is always our own.

I am sorry, sir, that I have given you pain. I am afraid to say all that I think. But it is my opi|nion that mistakes will ultimately be cleared up,

justice be done, and the true state of things come to light in spite of the false colours that may for a time obscure it.

The idea I suggested did not give Mr. Falkland the proper degree of delight. He suffered a tem|porary relapse. Justice!—he muttered. I do not know what is justice. My case is not within the reach of common remedies; perhaps of none. I only know that I am miserable. I began life with the best intentions and the most fervid philanthro|py; and here I am—miserable—miserable beyond expression or endurance.

Having said this, he seemed suddenly to recol|lect himself, and re-assume his accustomed dignity and command. How came this conversation? cried he. Who gave you a right to be my confi|dent? Base, artful wretch that you are! learn to be more respectful! Are my passions to be wound and unwound by an insolent domestic? Do you think I will be an instrument to be played on at your pleasure, till you have extorted all the trea|sures of my soul? Begone, and fear le••t you be made to pay for the temerity you have already committed.

There was an energy and determination in the gestures with which these words were accompanied that did not admit of their being disputed. My mouth was closed; I felt as if deprived of all share of activity, and was only able silently and passive|ly to quit the apartment.

CHAP. XV.

TWO days subsequent to this conversation Mr. Falkland ordered me to be called to him. [I shall continue to speak in my narrative of the silent, as well as the articulate part of the intercourse be|tween us. His countenance was habitually ani|mated and expressive much beyond that of any other man I have seen. The curiosity, which, as I have said, constituted at this time my ruling pas|sion, stimulated me to make it my perpetual study. It will also most probably happen, while I am thus employed in collecting together the scattered inci|dents of my history, that I shall upon some occa|sions annex to appearances an explanation, which I was far from possessing at the time, and was only suggested to me through the medium of subsequent events.]

Upon this occasion Mr. Falkland's countenance exhibited an unwonted composure. This compo|sure however did not seem to result from internal ease, but from an effort which, while he prepared himself for an interesting scene, was exerted to prevent his presence of mind and power of volun|tary action from suffering any diminution.

Williams, said he, I am determined, whatever it may cost me, to have an explanation with you. You are a rash and inconsiderate boy, and have given me a great deal of disturbance. You ought to have known that, though I allow you to talk with me upon indifferent subjects, it is very impro|per in you to lead the conversation to any thing

that relates to my personal concerns. You have said many things lately in a very mysterious way, and appear to know something more than I am aware of. I am equally at a loss to guess how you came by your knowledge, as of what it con|sists. But I think I perceive too much inclination on your part to trifle with my peace of mind. That ought not to be, nor have I deserved any such treatment from you. But, be that as it will, the guesses in which you oblige me to employ myself are too painful. It is a sort of sporting with my feeling, which, as a man of resolution, I am de|termined to bring to an end. I expect you there|fore to lay aside all mystery and equivocation, and inform me explicitly what it is upon which your allusions are built. What is it you know? What is it you want? I have been too much exposed already to an unparalleled mortification and hard|ship, and my wounds will not bear this perpetual handling.

I feel, sir, answered I, how wrong I have been, and am ashamed that such a one as I should have given you all this trouble and displeasure. I felt it at the time; but I have been hurried along I do not know how. I have always tried to stop myself, but the devil that possessed me was too strong for me. I know nothing, sir, but what Mr. Collins told me. He told me the story of Mr. Tyrrel and Miss Melvile and Hawkins. I am sure, sir, he said nothing but what was to your honour, and proved you to be more an angel than a man.

Well, sir: I found a letter written by that Haw|kins the other day: did not that letter fall into your hands? Did not you read it?

For God's sake, sir, turn me out of your house. Punish me in some way or other, that I may for|give myself. I am a foolish, wicked, despicable wretch. I confess, sir, I did read the letter.

And how dared you read it? It was indeed very wrong of you. But we will talk of that by and by. Well, and what did you say to the letter? You know it seems that Hawkins was hanged.

I say, sir? why it went to my heart to read it. I say, as I said the day before yesterday, that, when I see a man of so much principle, afterwards deliberately proceeding to the very worst of crimes, I can scarcely bear to think of it.

That is what you say? It seems too you know, accursed remembrance! that I was tried for this crime?

I was silent.

Well, sir. You know too perhaps that, from the hour the crime was committed,—yes, sir, that was the date [and, as he said this, there was some|what frightful, I had almost said diabolical, in his countenance]—I have not had an hour's peace; I became changed from the happiest into the most miserable thing that lives; sleep has fled from my eyes; joy has been a stranger to my thoughts; and annihilation I should prefer a thousand times to the being that I lead. As soon as I was capable of a choice, I chose honour and the esteem of mankind as a good I preferred to all others. You know, it seems, in how many ways my ambition has been disappointed,—I do not thank Collins for having been the historian of my disgrace,—Would to God that night could be blotted from the memory of man!—But the scene of that night, instead of perishing, has been a source of ever new cala|mity to me, which must flow for ever! Am I then, thus miserable and ruined, a proper subject for you upon which to exercise your ingenuity, and improve your power of tormenting? Was it not enough that I was publicly dishonoured? that I was deprived by the pestilential influence of some demon of the opportunity of avenging my dis|honour?

No: in addition to this I have been tried upon the charge of having in this critical mo|ment intercepted my own vengeance by the foulest of crimes. That trial is past. Misery itself has nothing worse in store for me except what you have inflicted: the seeming to doubt of my inno|cence which neither persecutor, nor judge, nor jury ever ventured to do. You have forced me to this explanation. You have extorted from me a confidence which I had no inclination to confer. But it is a part of the misery of my situation, that I am at the mercy of every creature, however little, who feels himself inclined to sport with my dis|tress. Be content. You have brought me low enough.

Oh, sir! I am not content; I cannot be con|tent! I cannot bear to think what I have done. I shall never again be able to look in the face the best of masters and the best of men. I beg of you, sir, to turn me out of your service. Let me go and hide myself where I may never see you more.

Mr. Falkland's countenance had indicated great severity through the whole of this conversation; but now it became more harsh and tempestuous than ever. How now, rascal! cried he. You want to leave me, do you? Who told you that I wished to part with you? But you cannot bear to live with such a miserable wretch as I am! You are not disposed to put up with the caprices of a man so dissatisfied and unjust!

Oh, sir! do not talk to me thus! Do with me any thing you will. Kill me if you please.

Kill you! [Volumes could not describe the emo|tions with which this echo of my words was given and received.]

Sir, I could die to serve you! I love you more than I can express. I worship you as a being of a superior nature. I am foolish, raw, inexperienced,

—worse than any of th••se;—but never did a thought of disloyalty to your service enter into my heart.

Here our conversation ended; and the impres|sion it made upon my youthful mind it is impossi|ble to describe. I thought with astonishment, even with rapture, of the attention and kindness towards me I discovered in Mr. Falkland through all the roughness of his manner. I could never wonder enough at finding myself, humble as I was by my birth, obscure as I had hitherto been, thus sud|denly become of so much importance to the hap|piness of one of the most enlightened and accom|plished men in England. But this consciousness attached me to my master more eagerly than ever, and made me swear a thousand times as I medi|tated upon my situation, that I would never prove unworthy of so generous a protector.

CHAP. XVI.

IS it not unaccountable that, in the midst of all my increased veneration for my master, the first tumult of my emotion was scarcely subsided, before the old question that had excited my conjectures recurred to my mind, Was he the murderer? It was a kind of fatal impulse that seemed destined to hurry me to destruction. I did not wonder at the disturbance that was given to Mr. Falkland by any allusion however distant to this fatal affair. That was as completely accounted for from the consideration of his excessive sensibility in matters of honour, as it would have been upon the sup|position of the most atrocious guilt. Knowing as he did, that such a charge had once been connect|ed with his name, he would of course be perpe|tually uneasy, and suspect some latent insinuation at every possible opportunity. He would doubt and fear, lest every man with whom he conversed harboured the foulest suspicions against him. In my case he found that I was in possession of some information more than he was aware of, without its being possible for him to decide to what it amounted, whether I had heard a just or unjust, a candid or calumniatory tale. He had also reason to suppose that I gave entertainment to thoughts derogatory to his honour, and that I did not form that favourable judgment which the exquisite re|finement of his ruling passion made indispensable to his peace. All these considerations would of course maintain in him a state of perpetual uneasiness.

But, though I could find nothing that I could con|sider as justifying me in persisting in the shadow of a doubt, yet, as I have said, the uncertainty and restlessness of my contemplations would by no means depart from me.

The fluctuating state of my mind produced a contention of opposite principles that by turns usurped dominion over my conduct. Sometimes I was influenced by the most complete veneration for my master; I placed an unreserved confidence in his integrity and his virtue, and implicitly surren|dered my understanding for him to set it to what point he pleased. At other times the confidence, which had before flowed with the most plenteous tide, began to ebb; I was, as I had already been, watchful, inquisitive, suspicious, full of a thousand conjectures as to the meaning of the most indif|ferent actions. Mr. Falkland, who was most pain|fully alive to every thing that related to his honour, saw these variations, and betrayed his conscious|ness of them now in one manner and now in an|other, frequently before I was myself aware, some|times almost before they existed. The situation of both was distressing; we were each of us a plague to the other; and I often wondered that the for|bearance and benignity of my master was not at length exhausted, and that he did not determine to thrust from him for ever so incessant an observer. There was indeed one eminent difference between his share in the transaction and mine. I had some consolation in the midst of my restlessness. Curi|osity is a principle that carries its pleasures as well as its pains along with it. The mind is urged by a perpetual stimulus; it seems as if it were con|tinually approaching to the end of its race; and, as the insatiable desire of satisfaction is its princi|ple of conduct, so it promises itself in that satis|faction an unknown gratification, which seems as

if it were capable of fully compensating any inju|ries that may be suffered in the career. But to Mr. Falkland there was no consolation. What he endured in the intercourse between us appeared to be all gratuitous evil. He had only to wish that there was no such person as myself in the world, and to curse the hour when his humanity led him to rescue me from my obscurity, and place me in his service.

A consequence produced upon me by the ex|traordinary nature of my situation it is necessary to mention. The constant state of vigilance and sus|picion in which my mind was retained worked a very rapid change in my character. It seemed to have all the effect that might have been expected from years of observation and experience. The strictness with which I endeavoured to remark what passed in the mind of one man, and the va|riety of conjectures into which I was led, appear|ed as it were to render me a competent adept in the different modes in which the human intellect displays its secret workings. I no longer said to myself, as I had done in the beginning, "I will ask Mr. Falkland whether he were the murderer." On the contrary, after having carefully examined the different kinds of evidence of which the subject was susceptible, and recollecting all that had al|ready passed upon the subject, it was not with|out considerable pain that I felt myself unable to discover any way in which I could be perfectly and unalterably satisfied of my master's innocence. As to his guilt, I could scarcely bring myself to doubt that in some way or other, sooner or later, I should arrive at the knowledge of that, if it really existed. But I could not endure to think almost for a moment of that side of the alternative as true; and, with all my ungovernable suspicion, arising from the mysteriousness of the circum|stances,

and the delight which a young and un|fledged mind receives from ideas that give scope to all that imagination can picture of terrible or sub|lime, I could not yet bring myself to consider Mr. Falkland's guilt as a supposition attended with the remotest probability.

I hope the reader will forgive me for dwelling thus long on preliminary circumstances. I shall come soon enough to the story of my own misery. I have already said that one of the motives which induced me to the penning of this narrative was to console myself in my insupportable distress. I derive a melancholy pleasure from dwelling upon the circumstances which imperceptibly paved the way to my ruin. While I recollect or describe past scenes which occurred in a more favourable period of my life, my attention is called off for a short interval from the hopeless misfortune in which I am at present involved. The man must indeed possess an uncommon portion of hardness of heart, who can envy me so slight a relief.—To proceed.

For some time after the explanation which had thus taken place between me and my master, his melancholy, instead of being in the slightest degree diminished by the lenient hand of time, went on perpetually to increase. His fits of insanity, for such I must denominate them for want of a distinct appellation, though it is possible they might not fall under the definition that either the faculty or the court of chancery appropriate to that term, became stronger and more durable than ever. It was no longer practicable wholly to conceal them from the family and even from the neighbourhood. He would sometimes without any previous notice absent himself from his house for two or three days, unaccompanied by any servants or attendants. This was the more extraordinary, as it was well

known that he paid no visits, nor kept up any sort of intercourse with the gentlemen of the vicinity. But it was impossible that a man of Mr. Falkland's distinction and fortune should long continue in such a practice without its being discovered what was become of him, though a considerable part of our county was among the wildest and most desolate districts that are to be sound in South Britain. Mr. Falkland was sometimes seen climbing among the rocks, reclining motionless for hours together upon the edge of a precipice, or lulled into a kind of nameless lethargy of despair by the dashing of the torrents. He would remain for whole nights together under the naked cope of heaven, inatten|tive to the consideration either of place or time, insensible to the variations of the weather, or rather seeming to be delighted with that uproar of the elements which partially called off his attention from the discord and dejection which occupied his own mind.

At first, when we received intelligence at any time of the place to which Mr. Falkland had with|drawn himself, some person of his houshold, Mr. Collins or myself, but most generally myself, as I was always at home, and always in the received sense of that word at leisure, went to him to per|suade him to return. But after a few experiments we thought it adviseable to desist, and to leave my master to prolong his absence, or to terminate it, as might happen to suit his own inclination. Mr. Collins, whose grey hairs and long services seemed to give him a sort of right to be importunate, sometimes succeeded; though even in that case there was nothing that could sit more uneasy upon Mr. Falkland than this insinuation as if he wanted a guardian to take care of him, or as if he were, or were in danger of, falling into a state in which he would be incapable of deliberately controuling

his own words and actions. At one time he would sullenly yield to his humble, venerable friend, murmuring grievously at the constraint that was put upon him, but without spirit enough even to complain of it with energy. At another time, even though complying, he would suddenly burst out in a paroxysm of resentment. Upon these oc|casions there was something inconceivably, savagely terrible in his anger, that gave to the person against whom it was directed the most humiliating and insupportable sensations. Me he always treated at these times with fierceness, and drove me from him with a vehemence, lofty, emphatical and sus|tained beyond any thing of which I should have thought human nature to be capable. These sal|lies seemed always to constitute a sort of crisis in his indisposition; and, whenever he was induced to such a premature return, he would fall imme|diately after into a state of the most melancholy in|activity, in which he usually continued for two or three days. It was by an obstinate fatality that, whenever I saw Mr. Falkland in these deplorable situations, and particularly when I lighted upon him after having sought him among the rocks and precipices, pale, emaciated, solitary and haggard, the suggestion would continually recur to me, in spite of inclination, in spite of persuasion, and in spite of evidence, Surely this man is a murderer!

CHAP. XVII.

IT was in one of the lucid intervals, as I may term them, that occurred during this period, that a peasant was brought before him, in his character of a justice of peace, upon an accusation of having murdered his fellow. As Mr. Falkland had by this time acquired the repute of a melancholy valetudi|narian, it is probable he would not have been called upon to act in his official character upon the pre|sent occasion, had it not been that two or three of the neighbouring justices were all of them from home at once, so that he was the only one to be found in a circuit of many miles. The reader however must not imagine, though I have em|ployed the word insanity in describing Mr. Falk|land's symptoms, that he was by any means reckoned for a madman by the generality of those who had occasion to observe him. It is true that his behaviour at certain times was singular and un|accountable; but then at other times there was in it so much dignity, regularity and economy; he knew so well how to command and make himself respected; his actions and carriage were so conde|scending, considerate and benevolent; that, far from having forfeited the esteem of the unfortu|nate or the many, they were loud and earnest in his praises.

I was present at the examination of this peasant. The moment I heard of the errand which had brought this rabble of visitors, a sudden thought struck me. I conceived the possibility of rendering

the incident subordinate to the great enquiry which drank up all the currents of my soul. I said, This man is arraigned of murder, and murder is the master-key that wakes distemper in the mind of Mr. Falkland. I will watch him without remission. I will trace all the mazes of his thought. Surely at such a time his secret anguish must betray itself. Surely, if it be not my own fault, I shall now be able to discover the true state of his plea before the tribunal of unerring justice.

I took my station in a manner most favourable to the object upon which my mind was intent. I could perceive in Mr. Falkland's features as he en|tered a strong reluctance to the business in which he was engaged; but there was no possibility of re|treating. His countenance was embarrassed and anxious; he scarcely saw any body. The exami|nation had not proceeded far before he chanced to turn his eye to the part of the room where I was. It happened in this, as in some preceding in|stances; we exchanged a silent look by which we told volumes to each other. Mr. Falkland's com|plexion turned from red to pale, and from pale to red. I perfectly understood his feelings, and would willingly have withdrawn myself. But it was impossible; my passions were too deeply en|gaged; I was rooted to the spot: though my own life, that of my master, or almost of a whole na|tion had been at stake, I had no power to change my position.

The first surprise however having subsided, Mr. Falkland assumed a look of determined constancy, and even seemed to increase in self-possession much beyond what could have been expected from his first entrance. This he could probably have main|tained, had it not been that the scene, instead of being permanent, was in some sort perpetually changing. The man who was brought before him

was vehemently accused by the brother of the de|ceased as having acted from the most rooted ma|lice. He swore that there had been an old grudge between the parties, and related several instances of it. He affirmed that the murderer had sought the earliest opportunity of wreaking his revenge, had struck the first blow, and, though the contest was in appearance only a common boxing match, had watched the occasion of giving a fatal stroke which was followed by the instant death of his antagonist.

While the accuser was giving in his evidence, the accused discovered every token of the most poignant sensibility. At one time his features were convulsed with anguish, tears unbidden rolled down his manly cheeks; and at another be started with astonishment at the unfavourable turn that was given to the narrative, though without betraying any impatience to interrupt. I never saw a man less ferocious in his appearance. He was tall, well made and comely. His countenance was ingenu|ous and benevolent, without folly. By his side stood a young woman, his sweetheart, extremely agreeable in her person, and her looks testifying how deeply she interested herself in the fate of her lover. The accidental spectators were divided between indignation against the enormity of the supposed criminal, and compassion for the poor girl that accompanied him. They seemed to take little notice of the favourable appearances visible in the person of the accused, till in the sequel those appearances were more forcibly suggested to their attention. For Mr. Falkland, he was at one moment engrossed by curiosity and earnestness to investigate the tale, while at another be betrayed a sort of revulsion of sentiment which made the investigation too painful for him to support.

When the accused was called upon for his de|fence, he readily owned the misunderstanding that

had existed, and that the deceased was the worst enemy he had in the world. Indeed he was his only enemy, and he could not tell the reason that had made him so. He had employed every possi|ble effort to overcome his animosity, but in vain. The deceased had upon all occasions sought to mor|tify him, and do him an ill turn; but he had re|solved never to be engaged in a broil with him, and till this day he had succeeded. If he had met with a misfortune with any other man, people at least might have thought it matter of accident; but now it would always be believed that he had acted from secret malice and a bad heart.

The fact was that he and his sweetheart had gone to a neighbouring fair, where this man had met them. The man had often tried to affront him, and his passiveness, interpreted into cowardice, had perhaps encouraged the other to additional rude|ness. Finding that he had endured trivial insults to himself with an even temper, the deceased now thought proper to turn his brutality upon the young woman that accompanied him. He pursued them; he endeavoured in various manners to harrass and vex them; they had sought in vain to shake him off. The young woman was considerably terrified. The accused expostulated with their persecutor, and asked him how he could be so barbarous as to per|sist in frightening a woman? He replied with an insulting tone, Then the woman should find some one able to protect her; people that encouraged and trusted to such a thief as that, deserved no better! The accused tried every expedient he could invent; at length he could endure it no longer; he became exasperated, and challenged the assail|ant. The challenge was accepted; a ring was formed; he confided the care of his sweet-heart to a bystander; and unfortunately the first blow he struck proved fatal.

The accused added that he did not care what became of him. He had been anxious to go through the world in an inoffensive manner, and now he had the guilt of blood upon him. He did not know but it would be a kindness in them to hang him out of the way; for his conscience would re|proach him as long as he lived, and the figure of the deceased, as he had laid senseless and without motion at his feet, would perpetually haunt him. The thought of this man, at one moment full of life and vigour, and the next lifted a helpless corpse from the ground, and all owing to him, was a thought too dreadful to be endured. He had loved the poor maiden who had been the innocent occa|sion of this with all his heart, but from this time he should never support the sight of her. The sight would bring a tribe of fiends in its rear. One unlucky minute had poisoned all his hopes, and made life a burden to him.—Saying this his coun|tenance fell, the muscles of his face trembled with agony, and he looked the statue of depair.

This was the story of which Mr. Falkland was called upon to be the auditor. Though the incidents were for the most part wide of those which be|longed to the adventures we have just related, and there had been much less policy and skill dis|played on either part in this rustic encounter, yet there were many points which, to a man who bore the former strongly in his recollection, suggested a sufficient resemblance. These points perpetually smote upon the heart of Mr. Falkland. He at one time started with astonishment, and at another shift|ed his posture like a man who is unable longer to endure the sensations that press upon him. Then he new-strung his nerves to stubborn patience. I could see, while his muscles preserved an inflexible steadiness, tears of unbidden anguish roll down his cheeks. He dared not trust his eyes to glance to|wards

the side of the room where I stood; and this gave an air of embarrassment to his whole figure. But, when the accused came to speak of his own feelings, to describe the depth of his compunction for an involuntary fault, he could endure it no longer. He suddenly rose, and with every mark of horror and despair rushed out of the room.

This circumstance made no material difference in the affair of the accused. The parties were de|tained about half an hour. Mr. Falkland had al|ready heard the material parts of the evidence in person. At the expiration of that interval, he sent for Mr. Collins out of the room. The story of the culprit was confirmed by many witnesses who had seen the transaction. Word was brought that my master was indisposed, and at the same time the accused was ordered to be discharged. The ven|geance of the brother however, as I afterwards un|derstood, did not rest here, and he sound a magi|strate more scrupulous or more despotic, by whom the culprit was committed.

This affair was no sooner concluded than I hasten|ed into the garden, and plunged into the deepest of its thickets. My mind was full almost to bursting. I no sooner conceived myself sufficiently removed from all observation, than my thoughts forced their way spontaneously to my tongue, and I exclaimed in a sit of uncontroulable enthusiasm: "This is the murderer! the Hawkinses were innocent! I am sure of it! I will pledge my life of it! It is out! It is discovered! Guilty upon my soul!"

While I thus proceeded with hasty steps along the most secret paths of the garden, and from time to time gave vent to the tumult of my thoughts in involuntary exclamations, I felt as if my animal system had undergone a total revolution. My blood boiled within me. I was conscious to a kind of rap|ture for which I could not account. I was solemn,

yet full of rapid emotion, burning with indigna|tion and energy. In the very tempest and hurri|cane of the passions, I seemed to enjoy the most soul-ravishing calm. I cannot better express the then state of my mind, than by saying, I was ne|ver so perfectly alive as at that moment.

This state of mental elevation continued for se|veral hours, but at length subsided and gave place to more deliberate reflection. One of the first questions that then occurred was, What shall I do with the knowlege I have been so eager to acquire? I had no inclination to turn informer. I felt, what I had had no previous conception of, that it was possible to love a murderer, and, as I then under|stood it, the worst of murderers. I conceived it to be in the highest degree absurd and iniquitous to cut off a man qualified for the most essential and extensive utility merely out of retrospect to an act which, whatever were its merits, could not now be retrieved.

This thought led me to another which had at first passed unnoticed. If I had been disposed to turn informer, what had occurred amounted to no evidence that was admissible in a court of justice. Well then, added I, if it be such as would not be admitted at a criminal tribunal, am I sure it is such as I ought to admit? There were twenty persons beside myself present at the scene from which I pre|tend to derive such entire conviction. Not one of them saw it in the light that I did. It either ap|peared to them a casual and unimportant circum|stance, or they thought it sufficiently accounted for by Mr. Falkland's infirmity and misfortunes. Did it really contain such an extent of arguments and application, that nobody but I was discerning enough to see?

But all this reasoning produced no alteration in my way of thinking. For this time I could not

get it out of my mind for a moment: "Mr. Falk|land is the murderer! He is guilty! I see it! I feel it! I am sure of it!" Thus was I hurried along by an uncontroulable destiny. The state of my passions in their progressive career, the inquisitive|ness and impatience of my thoughts, appeared to make this determination unavoidable.

An incident occured while I was in the garden, that seemed to make no impression upon me at the time, but which I recollected when my thoughts were got into somewhat of a slower motion. In the midst of one of my paroxysms of exclamation, and when I thought myself most alone, the shadow of a man as avoiding me passed transiently by me at a small distance. Though I had scarcely caught a faint glimpse of his person, there was something in the occurrence that persuaded me it was Mr. Falkland. I shuddered at the possibility of his having overheard the words of my soliloquy. But this idea, alarming as it was, had not power im|mediately to suspend the career of my reflections. Subsequent circumstances however brought back the apprehension to my mind. I had scarcely a doubt of its reality, when dinner time came, and Mr. Falkland was not to be found. Supper and bed-time passed in the same manner. The only conclusion made by his servants upon this circum|stance was, that he was gone upon one of his ac|customed melancholy rambles.

CHAP. XVIII.

THE period at which my story is now arrived seemed as if it were the very crisis of the fortune of Mr. Falkland. Incident followed upon incident in a kind of breathless succession. About nine o'clock the next morning an alarm was given that one of the chimnies of the house was on fire. No accident could be apparently more trivial; but pre|sently it blazed with such fury, as to make it clear that some beam of the house, which in the first building had been improperly placed, had been reached by the flames. Some danger was appre|hended for the whole edifice. The confusion was the greater, in consequence of the absence of the master, as well as of Mr. Collins, the steward. While some of the domestics were employed in endeavouring to extinguish the flames, it was thought proper that others should busy themselves in removing the most valuable moveables to a lawn in the garden. I took some command in the affair, to which indeed my station in the family seemed to entitle me, and for which I was thought qua|lified by my understanding and mental resources.

Having given some general directions, I con|ceived that it was not enough to stand by and su|perintend, but that I should contribute my personal labour in the public concern. I set out for that purpose; and my steps by some mysterious fatality were directed to the private apartment at the end of the library. Here, as I looked round, my eye

was suddenly caught by the chest mentioned in the first pages of my narrative.

My mind was already raised to its utmost pitch. In a window-seat of the room lay a parcel of chis|sels and other carpenter's tools. I know not what infatuation instantaneously seized me. The idea was too powerful to be resisted. I forgot the busi|ness upon which I came, the employment of the servants and the urgency of general danger. I should have done the same, if the apartment round me had been in flames. I snatched a tool suitable for the purpose, threw myself upon the ground, and applied with eagerness to a magazine which inclosed all for which my heart panted. After two or three efforts, in which the energy or uncontroul|able passion was added to my bodily strength, the fastenings gave way, the chest opened, and all that I sought was at once within my reach.

I was in the act of lifting up the lid, when Mr. Falkland entered, wild, breathless, distraction in his looks! He had been brought home from a con|siderable distance by the sight of the flames. At the moment of his appearance the lid dropt down from my hand. He no sooner saw me, than his eyes emitted sparks of rage. He ran with eager|ness to a brace of loaded pistols which hung up in the room, and, seizing one, presented it to my head. I saw his design, and sprang to avoid it; but with the same rapidity with which he had form|ed his resolution, he changed it, and instantly went to the window and slung the pistol into the court below. He bade me begone with his usual irresisti|ble energy; and, overcome as I was already by the horror of the detection, I eagerly complied.

A moment after a considerable part of the chim|ney was tumbled with noise into the court below, and a voice exclaimed that the fire was more vio|lent than ever. These circumstances seemed to

produce a mechanical effect upon my master, who, having first locked the closet, appeared on the out|side of the house, ascended the roof, and was in a moment in every place where his presence was re|quired. The flames were presently extinguished.

The reader can with difficulty form a concep|tion of the state to which I was now reduced. My act was in some sort an act of insanity; but how undescribable are the feelings with which I looked back upon it! It was an instantaneous impulse, a short lived and passing alienation of mind; but what must Mr. Falkland think of that alienation? To any man a person, who had once shown him|self capable of so wild a flight of the mind, must appear dangerous; how must he appear to a man under Mr. Falkland's circumstances? I had just had a pistol held to my head by a man resolved to put a period to my existence. That indeed was past; but what was it that fate had yet in reserve for me! The insatiable vengeance of a Falkland, of a man whose hands were to my apprehension red with blood and his thoughts familiar with cru|elty and murder. How great were the resources of his mind, resources henceforth to be confede|rated for my destruction! This was the termina|tion of an ungoverned curiosity, an impulse that I had represented to myself as so innocent and so venial.

In the high tide of boiling passion I had over|looked all consequences. It now appeared to me like a dream. Is it in man to leap from the high|raised precipice, or rush unconcerned into the midst of flames? Was it possible I could have forgotten for a moment the awe-creating manners of Falk|land, and the inexorable fury I should awake in his soul? No thought of future security had reach|ed my mind. I had acted upon no plan. I had conceived no means of concealing my deed, after

it had once been effected. But it was over now. One short minute had effected a reverse in my situ|ation, the suddenness of which the history of man perhaps is unable to surpass.

I have always been at a loss to account for my having plunged thus headlong into an act so mon|strous. There is something in it of unremarked and involuntary sympathy. One sentiment flows by necessity of nature into another sentiment of the same general character. This was the first in|stance in which I had witnessed a danger by fire. All was confusion around me, and all changed in|to hurricane within. The general situation to my unpractised apprehension partook of desperate, and I by contagion became alike desperate. At first I had been in some degree calm and collected, but that too was a desperate effort, and when it gave way, a kind of instant insanity became its suc|cessor.

I had now every thing to fear. And yet what was my fault? It proceeded from none of those errors which are justly held up to the aversion of mankind; my object had been neither wealth, nor the means of indulgence, nor the usurpation of power. No spark of malignity had ••arboured in my soul. I had always reverenced the sublime mind of Mr. Falkland; I reverenced it still. My offence had merely been a mistaken thirst of know|ledge. Such however it was as to admit neither of forgiveness nor remission. This epoch was the crisis of my fate, dividing what may be called the offensive part, from the defensive which was the sole business of my remaining years. Alas, my offence was short, not aggravated by any sinister intention: but the reprisals I was to suffer, are long, and can terminate only with my life!

In the state in which I found myself, when the recollection of what I had done flowed back upon

my mind, I was incapable of any resolution. All was chaos and uncertainty within me. My thoughts were too full of horror to be susceptible of activity. I felt deserted of my intellectual powers, palsied in mind, and compelled to sit in speechless expecta|tion of the misery to which I was destined. To my own conception I was like a man, who, though blasted with lightning and deprived for ever of the power of motion, should yet retain the conscious|ness of his situation. Death-dealing despair was the only idea of which I was sensible.

I was still in this situation of mind when Mr. Falkland sent for me. His message roufed me from my trance. In recovering I felt those sickening and loathsome sensations, which a man may be sup|posed at first to endure who should return from the sleep of death. Gradually I recovered the power of arranging my ideas and directing my steps. I understood that the minute the affair of the chim|ney was over Mr. Falkland had retired to his own room. It was evening before he ordered me to be called.

I found in him every token of extreme distress, except that there was an air of solemn and sad com|posure that crowned the whole. For the present all appearance of gloom, stateliness and austerity was gone. As I entered, he looked up, and, see|ing who it was, ordered me to bolt the door. I obeyed. He himself went round the room, and examined all its other avenue••. He then returned to where I was. I trembled in every joint of my frame. I exclaimed within myself, "What bloody 〈◊〉〈◊〉 scene has Roscius now to act?"

Williams, said he, in a tone that had more in it of sorrow than resentment, I have attempted your life! I am a wretch devoted to the scorn and execration of mankind!—There he stopped.

If there be one being in the whole earth, that feels the scorn and execration due to such a wretch more strongly than another, it is myself. I have been kept in a state of perpetual torture and mad|ness. But I can put an end to it and its conse|quences; and, so far at least as relates to you, I am determined to do it. I know the price, and—I will make the purchase.

You must swear, said he. You must attest every sacrament, divine and human, never to disclose what I am now to tell you.—He dictated the oath, and I repeated it with an aching heart. I had no power to offer a word of remark.

This confidence, said he, is of your seeking, not of mine. It is odious to me, as it is dangerous to you.

Having thus prefaced the disclosure he had to make, he paused. He seemed to collect himself as for an effort of magnitude. He wiped his face with his handkerchief. The moisture that incom|moded him appeared not to be tears, but sweat.

Look at me. Observe me. Is it not strange that such a one as I should retain lineaments of a human creature? I am the blackest of villains. I am the murderer of Tyrrel. I am the assassin of the Hawkinses.

I started, as if I had trod upon a rattle-snake.

What a story is mine! Insulted, disgraced, pol|luted in the face of hundreds, I was capable of any act of desperation. I watched my opportunity, followed Mr. Tyrrel from the rooms, seized a sharp-pointed knife that fell in my way, came behind him, and stabbed him to the heart. My gigantic oppressor rolled at my feet.

All are but links of one chain. A blow! A murder! My next business was to defend myself, to tell so well digested a lie, as that all mankind

should believe it true. Never was a task so har|rowing and intolerable!

Well: thus far fortune favoured me. She fa|voured me beyond my desire. The guilt was re|moved from me, and cast upon another; but this I was to endure. Whence came the circumstantial evidence against him, the broken knife and the blood, I am unable to tell. I suppose by some mi|raculous accident he was passing by, and endea|voured to assist his oppressor in the agonies of death. You have heard Hawkins's story; you have read one of his letters. But you do not know the thousandth part of the proofs of his simple and unalterable rectitude that I have known. His son suffered with him, that son for the sake of whose happiness and virtue he ruined himself, and would have died a hundred times.—I have had feelings, but I cannot describe them.

This it is to be a gentleman! a man of honour! I was the fool of fame. My virtue, my honesty, my everlasting peace of mind were cheap sacrifices to be made at the shine of this divinity. But, what is worse, there is nothing that has happened that has in any degree contributed to my cure. I am as much the fool of fame as ever, I cling to it to my last breath. Though I be the blackest of villains, I will leave behind me a spotless and il|lustrious name. There is no crime so malignant, no scene of blood so horrible, in which that object cannot engage me. It is no matter that I regard these things at a distance with aversion;—I am sure of it; bring me to the test, and I shall yield. I despise myself; but thus I am; things are gone too far to be recalled.

Why is it that I am compelled to this confi|dence? From the love of fame. I should tremble at the sight of every pistol, or instrument of death that offered itself to my hands; and perhaps my

next murder may not be so fortunate as those I have already committed. I had no alternative but to make you my confident or my victim. It was better to trust you with the whole truth under every seal of secrecy, than to live in perpetual fear of your penetration or your rashness.

Do you know what it is you have done? To gratify a foolishly inquisitive humour you have sold yourself. You shall continue in my service, but can never share in my affection. I will bene|fit you in respect of fortune, but I shall always hate you. If ever an unguarded word escape from your lips, if ever you excite my jealousy or suspi|cion, expect to pay for it by your death or worse. It is a dear bargain you have made. But it is too late to look back. I charge and adjure you by every thing that is sacred and that is tremendous, preserve your faith!

My tongue has now for the first time for several years spoken the language of my heart; and the intercourse from this hour shall be shut for ever. I want no pity. I desire no consolation. Sur|rounded as I am with horrors, I will at least pre|serve my fortitude to the last. If I had been re|served to a different destiny, I have qualities in that respect worthy of a better cause. I can be mad, miserable and frantic, but even in frenzy I can pre|serve my presence of mind and discretion.

Such was the story I had been so earnestly de|sirous to know. Though my mind had brooded upon the subject for months, there was not a syl|lable of it that did not come to my ear with the most perfect sense of novelty. Mr. Falkland is a murderer! said I, as I retired from the conference. This dreadful appellative "a murderer," made my very blood run cold within me. He killed Mr. Tyrrel, for he could not controul his resentment and anger: he sacrificed Hawkins the elder and

Hawkins the younger, because he could upon no terms endure the public loss of honour: how can I expect that a man thus passionate and unrelenting will not sooner or later make me his victim?

But notwithstanding this terrible application of the story, an application to which perhaps in some form or other mankind are indebted for nine-tenths of their abhorrence against vice, I could not help occasionally recurring to reflections of an opposite nature. Mr. Falkland is a murderer! resumed I. He might yet be a most excellent man, if he did but think so. It is the thinking ourselves vicious then, that principally contributes to make us vi|cious?

Amidst the shock I received from finding, what I had never suffered myself constantly to believe, that my suspicions were true; I still discovered new cause of admiration for my master. His menaces indeed were terrible. But, when I re|collected the offence I had given, so contrary to every received principle of civilized society, so in|solent and rude, so intolerable to a man of Mr. Falkland's elevation and in Mr. Falkland's pecu|liarity of circumstances, I was astonished at his forbearance. There were indeed sufficiently ob|vious reasons why he might not choose to proceed to extremities with me. But how different from the fearful expectations I had conceived were the calmness of his behaviour and the regulated mild|ness of his language! In this respect I for a short time imagined that I was emancipated from the mischiefs which had appalled me, and that in hav|ing to do with a man of Mr. Falkland's liberality I had nothing rigorous to apprehend.

It is a miserable prospect, said I, that he holds up to me. He imagines that I am restrained by no principles, and deaf to the claims of personal excellence. But he shall find himself mistaken. I

will never become an informer. I will never in|jure my master; and therefore he will not be my enemy. With all his misfortunes and all his er|rors, I feel that my soul yearns for his welfare. If he have been criminal, that is owing to circum|stances; the same qualities under other circum|stances would have been, or rather were sublimely beneficent.

My reasonings were no doubt infinitely more fa|vourable to my master than those which human beings are accustomed to make in the case of such as they style great criminals. This will not be wondered at, when it is considered that I had my|self just been trampling on the established boun|daries of obligation, and therefore might well have a fellow-feeling for other offenders. Add to which, I had known Mr. Falkland from the first as a beneficent divinity. I had observed at leisure and with a minuteness which could not deceive me the excellent qualities of his heart, and I found him possessed of a mind beyond comparison the most fertile and accomplished I had ever known.

But, though the terrors which had impressed me were considerably alleviated, my situation was not|withstanding sufficiently miserable. The ease and light-heartedness of my youth were for ever gone. The voice of an irresistible necessity had command|ed me to "sleep no more." I was tormented with a conscious secret of which I must never disbur|then myself; and this consciousness was at my age a source of perpetual melancholy. I had made myself a prisoner, in the most intolerable sense of that term, for years, perhaps for the rest of my life. Though my prudence and discretion should be invariable, I must remember that I should have an overseer, vigilant from conscious guilt, full of resentment at the unjustifiable means by which I had extorted from him a confession, and whose

lightest caprice might at any time decide upon every thing that was dear to me. The vigilance even of a public and systematical despotism is poor, com|pared with a vigilance which is thus goaded by the most anxious passions of the soul. Against this species of persecution I knew not how to invent a refuge. I dared neither fly from the observation of Mr. Falkland, nor continue exposed to its opera|tion. I was at first indeed lulled in a certain de|gree to security upon the verge of the precipice. But it was not long before I found a thousand cir|cumstances perpetually reminding me of my true situation. Those I am now to relate are among the most memorable.

CHAP. XIX.

IN no long time after the disclosure Mr. Falkland had made. Mr. Forester, his elder brother by the mother's side, came to reside for a short period in our family. This was a circumstance peculiarly adverse to my master's habits and inclinations. He had broken off, as I have already said, all inter|course of visiting his neighbours. He debarred himself every kind of amusement and relaxation. He shrunk from the society of his fellows, and thought he could never be sufficiently buried in obscurity and solitude. This principle was in most cases of no difficult execution to a man of firmness. But Mr. Falkland knew not how to avoid the visit of Mr. Forester. This gentleman was just return|ed from a residence of several years upon the con|tinent, and his demand of an apartment in the house of his half-brother till his own house at the distance of thirty miles should be prepared for his reception, was made with an air of confidence that scarcely admitted of a refusal. Mr. Falkland could only say that the state of his health and spirits was such, that he feared a residence at his house would be little agreeable to his kinsman; and Mr. Fores|ter conceived that this was a disqualification which would always augment in proportion as it was tolerated, and hoped that his society, by inducing Mr. Falkland to suspend his habits of seclusion, would be the means of essential benefit. Mr. Falk|land opposed him no farther. He would have been sorry to be thought unkind to a kinsman for

whom he had a particular esteem; and the consci|ousness of not daring to assign the true reason, made him cautious of adhering to his objection.

The character of Mr. Forester was in many respects the reverse of that of my master. Like him he had seen much of the world; but to judge of him from the unfashioned bluntness of his manner, you would have thought he had never stirred from his fire-side. Yet under this rude ex|terior it was easy to distinguish various knowledge, nice discrimination, and a strong and active mind. Nor was it ill-humour or misanthropy that gave this turn to Mr. Forester's behaviour. He disclaimed exaggeration of every kind, and was equally averse to the cynic who paints every thing in the most splenetic colours, and the sanguine enthusiast to whom the whole appears to be exactly as it ought. In the mean time, while he hated exaggeration, he was himself one of its grossest dupes. He was positive in all things, even where good sense re|quired him to be sceptical; and he roughly imputed perverseness, where true wisdom would have taught him to correct mistake. The same incon|sistency followed him throughout. Full of origi|nality and genius, he pretended to despise them in others. His favourite principle was to care nothing for what the world should say, and to aim only at doing right. So long as that debt was discharged, he would not stoop to purchase, at the expence of moving a finger, the applause of mankind in prefe|rences to their hatred. He believed that the credit which is sometimes given to men of ability, was the dishonest gains of a combination, not the just reward of merit; and he took pleasure in stating this opinion in its harshest form. He held that 〈◊〉〈◊〉 honest ploughman is a more useful member of society, than all the poets and philosophers that ever existed. In a word, Mr. Forester was one of

those men who, with every seeming requisite for the discovery of important truth, are all their lives in subjection to the most contemptible prejudices.

The peculiarities of this gentleman's character were not undisplayed in the scene to which he was now introduced. Having much kindness in his dis|position, he soon became deeply interested in the unhappiness of his relation. He did every thing in his power to remove it; but his attempts were rude and unskilful. He exhorted his host to pluck up a spirit, and defy the foul fiend; but the tone of his exhortations found no sympathetic chord in the mind of Mr. Falkland. The more he ex|plained the articles of his creed, the more irrecon|cileable did they appear with those of my master. He had not the skill to carry conviction to an un|derstanding so well fortified in error; and the less so as the effort of his reflections had long been turned to a bold and intelligible enunciation of principles, rather than to analysing the rudiments out of which they were formed. In a word, after a thousand efforts of kindness to his entertainer, he drew off his forces, growling and dissatisfied with his own impotence, rather than angry at the obstinacy of Mr. Falkland. He felt no diminution of his affection for him, and was sincerely grieved to find that he did him so little good. Both par|ties in this case did justice to the merits of the other; at the same time that the disparity of their humours was such as to prevent the stranger from being even a dangerous companion to the master of the house. They had scarcely any points of contact in their characters; Mr. Forester was in|capable of giving Mr. Falkland that degree either of pain or pleasure, which can raise the soul into a tumult and deprive it for a while of tranquillity and self-command.

Our visitor was a man of an extremely commu|nicative disposition, and he began to feel himself painfully out of his element upon the present oc|casion. Mr. Falkland was devoted to contempla|tion and solitude. He put upon himself some de|gree of restraint upon the arrival of his kinsman, though even then his darling habits would break out. But when they had seen each other a certain number of times, and it was sufficiently evident that the society of either would be a burthen rather than a pleasure to the other, they consented by a sort of silent compact that each should be at liberty to follow his own inclination. Mr. Falkland was in a certain sense the greatest gainer by this. He returned to the habits of his choice, and acted as nearly as possible just as he would have done if Mr. Forester had not been in existence. But the latter was wholly at a loss. He had all the disadvantages of retirement, without being able, as he might have done at his house, to bring his own associates or his own amusements about him.

In this situation he cast his eyes upon me. It was his principle to do every thing that his thoughts suggested, without caring for the forms of the world. He saw no reason why a peasant, with certain advantages of education and opportunity, might not be as eligible a companion as a lord: at the same time that he was deeply impressed with the venerableness of old institutions. Reduced as he was to a kind of last resort, he sound me better qualified for his purpose than any other person of Mr. Falkland's houshold. My habitual simplicity was extremely agreeable to him: and, be it ob|served by the way, he loved to countenance the appearance of talents, while he professed to be their enemy.

The manner in which he began this sort of cor|respondence was sufficiently characteristical. It

was abrupt; but it was strongly stamped with essen|tial benevolence. It was blunt and humorous; but there was attractiveness, especially in a case of un|equal intercourse, in that very rusticity by which he levelled himself with the great bulk of his spe|cies. He had to reconcile himself, as well as to invite me; not to reconcile himself to the post|poning an aristocratical vanity, for of that he had a very slender portion, but to the trouble of invi|tation, for he loved his ease. All this produced some irregularity and indecision in his own mind, and gave a very whimsical impression to his beha|viour.

On my part I was by no means ungrateful for the distinction that was paid me. My mind had been relaxed into temporary dejection, but my re|serve had no alloy of moroseness or insensibility. It did not long hold out against the condescending attentions of Mr. Forester. I became gradually heedful, encouraged, confiding. I had a most eager thirst for the knowledge of mankind; and, though no person perhaps ever purchased so dearly the instructions he received in that school, the in|clination was in no degree diminished. Mr. Fo|rester was the second man I had seen who seemed almost as much worth being studied as Mr. Falk|land himself. I was glad to escape from the un|easiness of my thoughts; and, while engaged with this new friend, I forgot the criticalness of the evils with which I was hourly menaced.

Stimulated by these feelings on either part we were never at a loss for subjects of conversation. The observations Mr. Forester had made in his travels, the set of opinions he had formed to him|self, all amused and interested me. His manner of telling a story or explaining his thoughts was forcible, perspicuous and original: his style in con|versation had an uncommon zest, which while it

seemed to disdain ornament, was unconsciously in|terspersed with the boldest figures; and often wan|dered into all the vehemence of oratory, while it affected to be blunt, simple, and abrupt. Nor was the part I sustained upon these occasions with|out its recommendations. I received the commu|nications of my friend with an ingenuous and un|prejudiced mind. If I objected to any of his views, my objections were not drawn from the stores of common place, and had therefore the grace of novelty. And I may venture to say that my objections depended more for effect upon their inherent value, than upon any positiveness and pa|rade with which they were announced.

Mr. Falkland was destined to be for ever un|happy; and it seemed as if no new incident could occur from which he was not able to extract food for this imperious propensity. He was wearied with a perpetual repetition of similar impressions, and entertained an invincible disgust against all that was new. The visit of Mr. Forester he regarded with antipathy. He was scarcely able to look at him without shuddering; an emotion which his guest perceived, and pitied as the result of habit and disease rather than of judgment. None of his actions passed unremarked; the most indifferent excited uneasiness and apprehension. No sooner had the first overtures of a sort of intimacy be|tween me and Mr. Forester taken place, than they probably gave birth to sentiments of jealousy in the mind of my master. It was not long before he intimated to me that it would not be agreeable to him that there should be too much intercourse be|tween me and his visitor.

What could I do? Young as I was, could it be expected that I should play the philosopher, and put a perpetual curb upon my inclinations? Im|prudent though I had been, could I voluntarily

subject myself to an eternal penance, and estrange|ment from human society? Could I discourage a frankness so perfectly in consonance with my wishes, and receive in an ungracious way a kind|ness that stole away my heart?

Beside this, I was but ill prepared for the servile submission Mr. Falkland demanded. In early life I was accustomed to be much my own master. When I first entered into Mr. Falkland's service, my personal habits were checked by the novelty of my situation, and my affections were gained by the high accomplishments of my patron. To novelty and its influence, curiosity had immediately suc|ceeded. Curiosity, so long as it lasted, was a prin|ciple stronger in my bosom than even the love of independence. To that I would have sacrificed my liberty or my life; I would have submitted to the condition of a West Indian Negro, or to the tortures inflicted by North American savages. But the turbulence of curiosity had now subsided.

As long as the threats of Mr. Falkland had been confined to generals, I endured it. I was consci|ous of the unbecoming action I had committed, and this rendered me humble. But, when he went farther, and undertook to prescribe to every article of my conduct, my patience was at an end. He stretched his power beyond the limits of policy and prudence, and thus brought its very existence into question. I believed that nothing which his rage irritated by the most open rebellion could inflict, would be worse than the slavery he now pretended to impose. I had been adventurous in the gratifi|cation of an infantine and unreasonable curiosity, and I was resolved not to be less adventurous, if need were, in the defence of every thing that can make life a blessing. I was prepared for an amica|ble adjustment of interests; I would undertake that Mr. Falkland should never sustain injury through

my means; but I expected in return that I should suffer no incroachment, but be lest to the direction of my own understanding.

I went on then to seek Mr. Forester's society with eagerness; and it is the nature of an inter|course that does not decline, progressively to in|crease. Mr. Falkland observed these symptoms with visible perturbation. Whenever I was con|scious of their being perceived by him, I betrayed tokens of confusion; this did not tend to allay his uneasiness. One day he drew me aside; and, with a look of mysterious, but terrible import, address|ed me thus:

Young man, take warning! Perhaps this is the last time you shall have an opportunity to take it! I will not always be the butt of your simplicity and inexperience, nor suffer your weakness to triumph over my strength! Why do you trifle with me? You little suspect the extent of my power. At this moment you are surrounded with the engines of my vengeance, and before you are aware they will close upon you. You might as well think of escaping from the reach of the omnipresent God, as from mine! If you could touch so much as my finger, you should expiate it in hours and months and years of a tor|ment of which as yet you have not the remotest idea! Remember! I am not talking at random! I do not utter a word, that, if you provoke me, shall not be executed to the severest letter!

It may be supposed that these menaces were not without their effect. I withdrew in silence. My whole soul revolted against the treatment I endur|ed, and yet I could not utter a word. Why could not I speak the expostulations of my heart, or pro|pose the compromise I meditated? It was inex|perience, and not want of strength, that awed me. Every act of Mr. Falkland contained some|thing of new, and I was unprepared to meet it.

Perhaps it will be found that the greatest hero owes the propriety of his conduct to the habit of encoun|tering difficulties and calling out with promptness the energies of his mind.

I contemplated ••he proceedings of my master with the deepest astonishment. Humanity and ge|neral kindness were fundamental parts of his cha|racter, but in relation to me they were sterile and inactive. His own interest required that he should purchase my kindness; but he preferred to govern me by terror, and watch me with unceasing anxie|ty. I ruminated with the most mournful sensa|tions upon the nature of my calamity. I believed that no human being was ever placed in a situation so pitiable as mine. Every atom of my frame seemed to have a several existence, and to crawl within me. I had but too much reason indeed to believe that Mr. Falkland's were not empty words. I knew his ability; I felt his ascendancy. If I en|countered him, what chance had I of victory? If I were defeated, what was the penalty I had to suffer? Well then, the rest of my life must be de|voted to slavish subjection? Miserable sentence! And, if it were, what security have I against the injustice of a man, vigilant, capricious and crimi|nal? I envied the condemned wretch upon the scaffold. I envied the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of the inquisition in the midst of his torture. They know what they have to suffer. I have only to imagine every thing terrible, and then say, The fate reserved for me is worse than this!

It was well for me that these sensations were but transient: human nature could not long support it|self under what I then felt. By degrees my mind shook off its burthen. Indignation succeeded to emotions of terror. The hostility of Mr. Falkland excited hostility in me. I was determined I would never calumniate him in matters of the most trivial

import; much less betray the grand secret upon which every thing dear to him depended. But, to|tally abjuring the offensive, I resolved to stand firmly upon the defensive. The liberty of acting as I pleased I would preserve at whatever risque. If I were worsted in the contest, I would at least have the consolation of reflecting that I had exerted myself with energy. In proportion as I thus de|termined, I drew off my forces from petty incur|sions, and felt the propriety of acting with preme|ditation and system. I ruminated incessantly upon plans of deliverance, but I was anxious that my choice should not be precipitately made.

It was during this period of my deliberation and uncertainty that Mr. Forester terminated his visit. He observed a strange distance in my behaviour, and in his good-natured, encouraging way chid me for it. I could only answer with a gloomy look of mysterious import, and a mournful and expressive silence. He sought me for an explanation, but I was now as ingenious in avoiding, as I had before been ardent to seek him; and he quitted our house, as he afterwards told me, with an impression, that there was some ill destiny that hung over it, that seemed fated to make all its inhabitants miser|able, without its being possible for a by-stander to penetrate the reason.

CHAP. XX.

MR. Forester had left us about three weeks, when Mr. Falkland sent me upon some business to an estate he possessed in a neighbouring county about fifty miles from his principal residence. The road led in a direction wholly wide of the habita|tion of our late visitor. I was upon my return from the place to which I had been sent, when I began in fancy to take a survey of the various cir|cumstances of my condition, and by degrees lost in the profoundness of my contemplation all atten|tion to the surrounding objects. The first deter|mination of my mind was to escape from the lynx-eyed jealousy and despotism of Mr. Falkland; the second to provide, by every effort of prudence and deliberation I could devise, against the danger with which I well knew my attempt must be accompa|nied.

Occupied with these meditations, I rode many miles before I perceived that I had totally deviated from the right path. At length I roused myself, and surveyed the horizon round me; but I could observe nothing with which my organ was previ|ously acquainted. On three sides the heath stretched as far as the eye could reach; on the fourth I discovered at some distance a wood of no ordinary dimensions. Before me scarcely a single track could be found to mark that any human being had ever visited the spot. As the best expedient I could devise, I bent my course towards the wood I have mentioned, and then pursued as well as I

was able the windings of the inclosure. This led me after some time to the end of the heath, but I was still as much at a loss as ever respecting the road I should pursue. The sun was hid from me by a grey and cloudy atmosphere; I was induced to continue along the skirts of the wood, and sur|mounted with some difficulty the hedges and other obstacles that from time to time presented them|selves. My thoughts were gloomy and disconso|late; the dreariness of the day and the solitude which surrounded me seemed to communicate a sadness to my soul. I had proceeded a considerable way, and was quite overcome with hunger and fa|tigue, when I discovered a road and a little inn at no great distance. I made up to them, and upon enquiry found that, instead of pursuing the proper direction, I had taken one that led to Mr. Fo|rester's, rather than to my own habitation. I alighted, and was entering the house, when the appearance of that gentleman struck my eyes.

Mr. Forester accosted me with kindness, invited me into the room where he had been sitting, and enquired what accident had brought me to that place. While he was speaking, I could not help recollecting the extraordinary manner in which we were thus once more brought together, and a train of ideas was by this means suggested to my mind. Some refreshment was by Mr. Forester's order pre|pared for me; I sat down and partook of it. Still this thought dwelt upon my recollection:—Mr. Falkland would never be made acquainted with our meeting; I had an opportunity thrown in my way, which if I did not improve, I should deserve all the consequences that might result. I could now converse with a friend, and a powerful friend, without fear of being watched and overlooked. What wonder that I was tempted to disclose, not Mr. Falkland's secret, but my own situation, and

receive the advice of a man of worth and experi|ence, which might perhaps be adequately done without entering into any detail injurious to my master?

Mr. Forester was forward on his part, to learn why it was that I thought myself unhappy, and why I had avoided him during the latter part of his residence under the same roof, as evidently as I had before taken pleasure in his communications. I told him that I could give him but an imper|fect satisfaction upon these points, but what I could I would willingly explain. The fact, I pro|ceeded, was, that there were certain reasons which rendered it impossible for me to have a tranquil moment under the roof of Mr. Falkland. I had revolved the matter again and again in my mind, and was finally convinced that I owed it to my|self to withdraw from his service. I added, that I was sensible by this half confidence I might ra|ther seem to merit the disapprobation of Mr. Fo|rester than his countenance; but I declared my persuasion that, if he could be acquainted with the whole affair, however strange my behaviour might at present appear, he would applaud my re|serve.

He asked what reason I had to complain of Mr. Falkland? I replied, that I entertained the deepest reverence for my master; I admired his abilities, and considered him as formed for the be|nefit of his species. I should in my own opi|nion be the vilest of miscreants, if I uttered a whisper to his disadvantage. But all this did not avail: I was not fit for him; perhaps I was not good enough for him; at all events I must be perpetually miserable so long as I continued to live with him.

I observed Mr. Forester gaze upon me eagerly with curiosity and surprise, but this circumstance I

did not think proper to notice. Having recovered himself, he asked, Why then, that being the case, I did not quit his service? I answered, What he now touched upon was that which most of all con|tributed to my misfortune. Mr. Falkland was not ignorant of my dislike to my present situation; per|haps he thought it unreasonable, unjust; but I knew that he would never be brought to consent to my giving way to it.

Here Mr. Forester interrupted me: and, smiling, said, I magnified obstacles, and overrated my own importance, adding that he would undertake to re|move that difficulty, as well as to provide me with a more agreeable appointment. This suggestion produced in me a serious alarm. I replied, that I must intreat him upon no account to think of ap|plying to Mr. Falkland upon the subject. I added, that perhaps I was only betraying my own imbeci|lity; but in reality, unacquainted as I was with experience and the world, I was afraid, though disgusted with my present residence, to expose my|self upon a mere project of my own, to the resent|ment of so considerable a man as Mr. Falkland, If he would favour me with his advice upon the subject, or if he would only give me leave to hope for his protection in case of any unforeseen ac|cident, this was all I presumed to request; and, thus encouraged, I would venture to obey the dic|tates of my inclination, and fly in pursuit of my lost tranquillity.

Having thus opened myself to this generous friend as far as I could do it with propriety and safety, he sat for some time silent with an air of deep reflection. At length with a countenance of unusual severity he thus addressed me: Young man, I am afraid you are ignorant of the nature of the tale you have been telling me. There is mys|tery in it; there is something you cannot prevail

upon yourself to disclose. Mystery always implies somewhere or other an uncommon portion of wrong; what am I to think of you? Are you aware of the prejudice you are voluntarily creating against yourself thus upon the threshold of life?

I answered that, whatever were the amount of that prejudice, I must submit. I placed my hope of a candid construction in the present instance, in the rectitude of his nature.

He went on: Well, be it as you please. It was absolutely necessary I should tell you what you were doing. I am in some respects the worst person you could have applied to under these circum|stances. I am the idolator of frankness, and have an unconquerable abhorrence to every thing that is the reverse of it. If any body had told me six months ago that I could have been brought to coun|tenance a person that practised that reverse, I should not have believed him. But I will tell you fairly the state of my mind. Your conduct in this re|spect has not, as yet at least; destroyed the early predilection I conceived in your favour. The ba|lance, so far as I am able at present to adjust it, is with you. I will therefore, though in total oppo|sition to my principles, yield to this instigation. I put myself into your hands; I will do exactly what you require. I will receive you either now or hereafter under my own roof, trusting that you will not deceive my confidence, and that I shall find unfavourable appearances ultimately terminat|ing as the man most solicitous for your welfare would desire.

We were engaged in the earnest discussion of subjects thus interesting to my peace, when we were interrupted by an event of all others the most seriously to be deprecated. Without the smallest notice, and as if he had dropped upon us from the clouds, Mr. Falkland burst into the room. I found

afterwards that Mr. Forester had come thus far upon an appointment to meet Mr. Falkland, and that the place of their intended rendezvous was the next stage. Mr. Forester was detained unex|pectedly at the inn where we now were, by our accidental rencounter, and in reality had for the moment forgotten his appointment; while Mr. Falkland, not finding him where he expected, had proceeded thus far towards the house of his kins|man. To me the meeting was the most unac|countable in the world.

I instantly foresaw the dreadful complication of misfortune that was included in this event. To Mr. Falkland the meeting between me and his re|lation must appear, not accidental, but concerted. I was totally out of the road I had been travelling by his direction; I was in a road that led directly to the house of Mr. Forester. What must he think of this? How must he suppose I came to that place? The truth, if told, that I came there with|out design, and purely in consequence of having lost my way, must appear to be the most impudent lie that ever was devised.

Here then I stood detected in the fact of that intercourse which had been so severely forbidden. But in this instance it was infinitely worse, than in those which had already given so much disturbance to Mr. Falkland. It was then open, frank and unconcealed; and therefore the presumption was that it was for purposes that required no conceal|ment. But the present interview, if concerted, was in the most emphatical degree clandestine. Nor was it less perilous than it was clandestine. It had been forbidden with the most dreadful menaces, and Mr. Falkland was not ignorant how deep an impression those menaces had made upon my ima|gination. Such a meeting therefore could not have been concerted under such circumstances for a tri|vial

purpose, or for any purpose that his heart did not quake to think of. Such was the amount of my crime; such was the agony my appearance was calculated to inspire; and it was reasonable to sup|pose that the penalty I had to expect would be pro|portionable. The threats of Mr. Falkland still sounded in my ears, and I was in a transport of terror.

The conduct of the same man in different cir|cumstances is often so various as to render it very difficult to be accounted for▪ Mr. Falkland, in this to him terrible crisis, did not seem to be in any de|gree hurried away by his passions. For a moment he was dumb, his eyes glared with astonishment; and the next moment as it were, he had the most perfect calmness and self-command. Had it been otherwise I have no doubt that I should instantly have entered into an explanation, the ingenuous|ness and consistency of which could not but have been in some degree attended with a favourable event. But as it was, I suffered myself to be over|come; I yielded as in a former instance to the dis|comfiting influence of surprise. I dared scarcely breathe; I observed the appearances with anxiety and wonder. Mr. Falkland quietly ordered me to return home, and take along with me the groom he had brought with him. I obeyed in silence.

I afterwards understood that he enquired mi|nutely of Mr. Forester the circumstances of our meeting, and that that gentleman, perceiving that the meeting itself was discovered, and guided by ha|bits of frankness, which, when once rooted in a character, it is very difficult to counteract, told Mr. Falkland every thing that had passed, together with the remarks it had suggested to his own mind. Mr. Falkland received the communication with an ambiguous and studied silence, which by no means operated to my advantage in the already-poisoned

mind of Mr. Forester. His silence was partly the direct consequence of a mind watchful, inquisitive and doubting; and partly perhaps was adopted for the sake of the effect it was qualified to produce, Mr. Falkland not being unwilling to encourage a prejudice against the character of a person who might one day become the adversary of his own.

As to me, I went home indeed, for this was not a moment to resist. Mr. Falkland, with a preme|ditation to which he had artfully given the appear|ance of accident, had taken care to send with me a guard to attend upon his prisoner. I seemed as if conducting to one of those fortresses, famed in the history of despotism, from which the wretched victim is never known to escape; and, when I en|tered my chamber, I felt as if I were entering a dungeon. I reflected that I was at the mercy of a man, exasperated at my disobedience, and who was already formed to cruelty by successive murders. I had occasionally indulged in visions of pleasure, authority and honour as the attendants of my ma|turer years: who has not? especially who, with an imagination as busy and a spirit as ardent as mine? All these prospects were now closed; I was cut off for ever from pursuits that I had meditated with ineffable delight; my death might be the event of a few hours. I was a victim at the shrine of con|scious guilt that knew neither rest nor satiety; I should be blotted from the catalogue of the living, and my fate remain eternally a secret; the man who added my murder to his former crimes, would show himself the next morning, and be hailed with the admiration and applause of his species.

In the midst of these terrible imaginations one idea presented itself that alleviated my feelings. This was the recollection of the strange and un|accountable tranquillity which Mr. Falkland had

manifested, when he discovered me in company with Mr. Forester. I was not deceived by this. I knew full well that this calm was temporary, and would be succeeded by a tumult and whirlwind of the passions of the most dreadful sort. But a man under the power of such terrors as now occupied me, catches at every reed. I said to myself, that this tranquil••ity was a period it was incumbent upon me to improve; and the shorter its duration might be found, the more speedy was I obliged to be in the use of it. I could not endure the thought that the apprehensions I now entertained, should be realised through the neglect of any exer|tion or even daring on my part. In a word, I took the resolution, because I already stood in fear of the vengeance of Mr. Falkland, to risque the possibility of provoking it in a degree still more inexpiable, and terminate at once my present state of uncertainty. Add to which, I had now opened my case to Mr. Forester, and he had given me posi|tive assurances of his protection. This in the pre|sent desperation of my fortune was an idea to which my mind willingly had recourse for support and consolation.—Instigated by these reflections, I sat down to address the following letter to Mr. Falkland.

SIR,

I have conceived the intention of quitting your service. This is a measure we ought both of us to desire. I shall then be, what it is my duty to be, the master of my own actions. You will be delivered from the presence of a person, whom you cannot prevail upon yourself to behold without un|pleasing emotions.

Why should you subject me to an eternal pe|nance? Why should you consign all my youthful hopes to suffering and despair? Consult the princi|ples of humanity that have marked the general course of your proceedings, and do not let me, I intreat you, be made the subject of a useless seve|rity. My heart is impressed with gratitude for your favours. I sincerely ask your forgiveness for the many errors of my conduct. I consider the treat|ment I have received under your roof as one al|most uninterrupted scene of kindness and genero|sity. I shall never forget my obligations to you, and will never betray them.

I remain, SIR, Your most grateful, respectful and dutiful servant, CALEB WILLIAMS.

Such was my employment of the evening of a day, which will be ever memorable in the history of my life. Mr. Falkland not being yet returned, though expected every hour, I was induced to make use of the pretext of fatigue to avoid an in|terview. I went to bed. The next morning I was informed, that he did not come home till late, that h•• ••ad enquired for me, and being told that I was in bed, had said nothing farther upon the subject. Satisfied in this respect, I went to the breakfasting parlour, and busied myself for some time in arrang|ing a few books and some other little occupations, till Mr. Falkland should appear. After a little time I heard his step, which I perfectly knew how to distinguish, in the passage. Presently, he stopped, and, speaking to some one in a sort of deliberate, but smothered voice, I overheard him repeat my

name as enquiring for me. In conformity to the plan I had persuaded myself to adopt, I now laid the letter I had written upon the table, near where he usually sat, and made my exit at one door as Mr. Falkland entered at the other. This done, I withdrew in expectation of the event to a private apartment, a sort of light-closet at the end of the library, where I was accustomed not unfrequently to sit.

I had not been here three minutes when I heard the voice of Mr. Falkland calling me. I went to him in the library. That is your letter, said he, throwing it. His manner was that of a man la|bouring with some dreadful thought, and endea|vouring to give an air of carelessness and insensibi|lity to his behaviour. I think no carriage of any other sort could have produced a sensation of such inexplicable horror, or have excited in the person who was most immediately its object, such an alarm for the event.

My lad, continued he, I believe now you have played almost all your tricks, and, damn me, if the farce be not nearly at an end! With your apish|ness and absurdity however you have taught me one thing, and, whereas before now I have winced at them with torture, I am now as tough as an elephant. I shall crush you in the end with the same indifference that I would any other little insect that disturbed my serenity.

I believe you have decided your fate. I think myself sure that you will never have done till you have brought my whole weight upon you. You may try however. Your only chance is in passive|ness. I am now perfectly insensible to every thing you can suffer, but I have no pleasure in it. I will let you alone, if I can.

I am unable to tell what brought about your meeting with Mr. Forester yesterday. It might be design; it might be accident. But, be it which it will, I shall not forget it. You write me here, that you are desirous to quit my service. To that I have a short answer, You shall never quit it with life. If you attempt it, you shall never cease to rue your folly as long as you exist. That is my will; and I will not have it resisted. The very next time you disobey me in that or any other ar|ticle, there is an end of your vagaries for ever. Perhaps your situation may be a pitiable one; it is for you to look to that. I only know that it is in your power to prevent its growing worse; no time nor chance shall ever make it better.

Do not imagine I am afraid of you! I wear an armour, against which all your weapons are impo|tent. I have dug a pit for you; and, whichever way you move, backward or forward, to the right or to the left, it is ready to swallow you. Be still! If once you fall, call as loud as you will, no man on earth shall hear your cries; prepare a tale ever so plausible, or ever so true, the whole world shall execrate you as an impostor. Your innocence shall be of no service to you; I laugh at so feeble a defence. It is I that say it; you may believe what I tell you. Do you not know, miserable wretch! added he, suddenly altering his tone, and stamping upon the ground with fury, that I have sworn to preserve my reputation at whatever ex|pence, that I love it more than the whole world and its inhabitants taken together? And do you think that you shall wound it? Begone, miscreant! reptile! and cease to contend with unsurmountable power!

The part of my history which I am now relating is that which I reflect upon with the least compla|cency.

Why was it that I was once more totally overcome by the imperious carriage of Mr. Falk|land, and unable to utter a word? The reader will be presented with many occasions in the sequel in which I wanted neither facility in the invention of expedients, nor fortitude in entering upon my justification. Persecution at length gave firmness to my character, and taught me the better part of manhood. But in the present instance I was irre|solute, overawed and abashed.

The speech I had heard was the dictate of frenzy, and it created in me a similar frenzy. It deter|mined me to do the very thing against which I was thus solemnly warned, and fly from my master's house. I could not enter into parley with him; I could no longer endure the vile subjugation he im|posed on me. It was in vain that my reason came to my aid, and warned me of the rashness of a measure to be taken without concert or preparation. I seemed to be in a state in which reason had no power. I felt as if I could coolly survey the several arguments of the case, perceive that they had pru|dence, truth and common sense on their side: and then answer, I am under the guidance of a direc|tor more energetic than you.

I was not long in executing what I had thus ra|pidly determined. I fixed on the evening of that very day as the period of my evasion. Even in this short interval I had perhaps sufficient time for de|liberation. But all opportunity was useless to me; my mind was fixed, and each succeeding moment only increased the unspeakable eagerness with which I meditated my escape. The hours usually observed by our family in this country residence were regular; and one in the morning was the time I selected for my undertaking. I stole down quietly from my chamber with a lamp in my hand;

I went along a passage that led to a small door opening into the garden, and then crossed the gar|den to a gate that intersected an elm walk and a private horse-path on the outside.

I could scarcely believe my good-fortune in hav|ing thus far executed my design without interrup|tion. The terrible images Mr. Falkland's menaces had suggested to my mind, made me expect impe|diment and detection at every step, though the im|passioned state of my mind impelled me to advance with desperate resolution. I drew a favourable omen as to the final result of my project, from the desirable event which had attended me in the outset.

CHAP. XXI.

THE first plan that had suggested itself to me was, to go to the nearest public road, and take the earliest stage for London. There I believed I should be most safe from discovery, if the venge|ance of Mr. Falkland should prompt him to pursue me; and I did not doubt, among the multiplied resources of the metropolis, to find something which should suggest to me an eligible mode of disposing of my person and industry. I reserved Mr. Fores|ter in my arrangement as a last resource, not to be called forth unless for immediate protection from the hand of persecution and power.

The mode of my proceeding being thus far di|gested, I traced with a chearful heart the unfre|quented path it was now necessary for me to pur|sue. The night was gloomy, and it drizzled with rain. But these were circumstances I had scarcely the power to perceive; all was sunshine and joy within me. I hardly felt the ground; I repeated to myself a thousand times, I am free. What con|cern have I with danger and alarm; I feel that I am free; I feel that I will continue so. What power is able to hold in chains a mind ardent and deter|mined? What power can cause that man to die, whose whole soul commands him to continue to live? I looked back with abhorrence to the sub|jection in which I had been held. I did not hate the author of my misfortunes; truth and justice acquit me of that; I rather pitied the hard destiny

to which he seemed condemned. But I thought with unspeakable loathing of those errors, in con|sequence of which every man is fated to be more or less the tyrant or the slave. I was astonished at the ••olly of my species, that they did not rise up as one man, and shake off chains so ignominious and misery so insupportable. So far as related to my|self, I resolved, and this resolution has never been entirely forgotten by me, to hold myself disengaged from the odious scene, and never fill the part either of the oppressor or the sufferer.

My mind continued in this enthusiastical state, full of confidence, and accessible only to such a portion of sear as served rather to keep up a state of pleasurable emotion, than to generate anguish and distress, during the whole of this nocturnal expedition. A••ter a walk of three hours I arrived without accident at the village from which I hoped to have taken my passage for the metropolis. At this early hour every thing was quiet; no found of any thing human saluted my ear. It was with difficulty that I gained admittance into the yard of the inn, where I ••ound a single ostler taking care of some horses. From him I received the unwelcome tidings that the coach was not expected till six o'clock in the morning of the following day, its route through that town recurring only three times a-week.

This intelligence gave the first check to the rap|turous inebriation by which my mind had been pos|sessed from the moment I quitted the habitation of Mr. Falkland. The whole of my fortune in ready cash consisted of about eleven guineas. I had about fifty more that had fallen to me from the disposal of my property at the death of my father; but that was so vested as to preclude it from immediate use, and I even doubted whether it would not be found

better ultimately to resign it, than by claiming it to risk the furnishing a clue to what I most of all dreaded to incur, the persecution of Mr. Falkland. There was nothing I so ardently desired as the an|nihilation of all future intercourse between us, that he should not know there was such a person on the earth as myself, and that I should never more hear the name of my quondam master.

Thus circumstanced, I conceived frugality to be an object by no means unworthy of my attention, unable as I was to prognosticate what discourage|ments and delays might present themselves to the accomplishment of my wishes, after my arrival in London. For this and other reasons I determined to adhere to my design of travelling by the stage; it only remaining for me to consider in what manner I should prevent the eventual delay of twenty-four hours from becoming by any untoward event a source of new calamity. It was by no means ad|visable to remain at the village where I now was, during this interval; nor did I even think it proper to employ it in proceeding on foot along the great road. I therefore decided upon making a circuit, the direction of which should seem at first extremely wide of my intended route, and then suddenly striking into a different path should enable me to arrive by the close of day at a market-town twelve miles nearer to the metropolis.

Having fixed the economy of the day, and per|suaded myself that it was the best which under the circumstances could be adopted, I dismissed for the most part all farther anxieties from my mind, and eagerly yielded myself up to the different amuse|ments that arose. I rested and went forward at the impulse of the moment. At one time I reclined upon a bank immersed in contemplation, and at another exerted myself to analyse the prospects

which succeeded each other. The haziness of the morning was followed by a spirit-stirring and beautiful day. With the ductility so characteristic of a youthful mind, I forgot the anguish which had lately been my continual guest, and occu|pied myself entirely in dreams of future no|velty and felicity. I scarcely ever in the whole course of my existence spent a day of more various or exquisite gratification. It furnished a strong and perhaps not an unsalutary contrast to the ter|rors which had preceded, and the dreadful scenes that awaited me.

In the evening I arrived at the place of my des|tination, enquired for the inn at which the coach was accustomed to call, and ordered myself refresh|ment and a bed. I had not been long here, before, having occasion to cross the inn yard upon some oc|casion, just as I was going again to enter the house I saw one of Mr. Falkland's footmen riding into the gate-way. I had no doubt that I was myself the object of his journey. But it was too late to think of avoiding his observation; he was almost upon me before I saw him. Every incident con|nected with my late abhorred situation was calcu|lated to impress me with the deepest alarm. My first thought was to betake myself to the fields, and trust to the swiftness of my flight for safety. But I presently remarked that he was alone; and I be|lieved that it would be disgraceful to fly, when, man to man, I might reasonably hope I could at any time get the better, either by the firmness of my deter|mination, or the subtlety of my invention.

Thus determined, I came up to him as he alight|ed from his horse and bade him follow into the room where I had been sitting. Well, Thomas, said I, I guess your errand; but it is to no purpose. You come to conduct me back to Falkland House; but no force shall ever drag me to that place alive. I

have not taken my resolution without great consi|deration and strong reasons; and, having taken it, all the world shall never persuade me to alter. I am an Englishman; and it is the privilege of an Englishman to be sole judge and master of his own actions.

Why, master Williams, replied Thomas, to be sure you should know best what you are about. We are all at a stound, as a man may say, to think what you have got in your head. But that is none of my business. Sure enough the squire expects you to go back with me; but I have a letter for you, and mayhap when you have read that, you may come off from a little of your stoutness. For my part I knew poor farmer Williams, your father, these many a day, and I should be main ••oth for his fake and your own too, that you should come to any sorrow.

Thus saying, he gave me his letter, which was from Mr. Forester, whom, as he told me, he had left at my master's house. It was as follows:

WILLIAMS,

My brother Falkland has sent his man Thomas in pursuit of you. He expects that, if found, you will return with him. I expect so too. It is of the utmost consequence to your future honour and character. After reading these lines, if you are a villain and a rascal, you will perhaps endea|vour to fly. If your conscience tells you, You are innocent, you will out of all doubt come back. Let me know whether I have been your dupe; and whether, while I was won over by your seeming ingenuity, I was the tool of a designing knave. If you come, I pledge myself that, if you clear your reputation, you shall not only be free to go wherever you please, but shall receive every assist|ance

it is in my power to give. Remember! 〈◊〉〈◊〉 en|gage for nothing farther than that.

VALENTINE FORESTER.

What a letter was this? To a mind like mine glowing with the love of virtue, such an address was strong enough to draw the person to whom it was addressed from one end of the earth to the other. Prisons, racks and gibbets would have shrunk into nothing in comparison with it. The ideas it suggested had a tendency to fill the mind, and shut out the possibility of competition.

I repassed in my thoughts every memorable in|cident that had happened to me under the roof of Mr. Falkland. I could recollect nothing, except the affair of the mysterious chest, out of which the shadow of an accusation of the nature alluded to in Mr. Forester's letter could be extorted. In that instance no doubt my conduct had been highly reprehensible, and I had never looked back upon it without remorse and self-condemnation. But I did not believe that it was of the nature of those actions which can be brought under legal censure. I still less could persuade myself to believe, that Mr. Falkland, who shuddered at the very possibility of his own detection, and who considered himself as completely in my power, would dare to bring forward a subject so closely connected with that topic, which wakened eternal agony in his soul. In a word, the more I reflected on the phrases of Mr. Forester's billet, the less could I imagine the nature of those scenes to which they were to serve as a prelude.

The inscrutableness however of the mystery they contained was by no means calculated to mitigate my apprehensions. It served on the contrary to give new pungency to my alarm. It overwhelmed

every quality of my mind; except my fortitude. What resources had not my persecutor at his com|mand? It was now that I began to fear him. All the apprehensions that had before haunted my mind seemed, in comparison with what I now felt, like the gambols of children. But what could I do? This was an enemy to face and not to fly. Tear me to pieces, exclaimed I, tremendous and incomprehensible genius! hang up this miserable car••ass to writhe beneath a burning ••un! inflict upon me unheard of and lingering tortures!—that in some part or other of the earth you might do! But my good name shall never be your victim! I will be heard; I will be understood! All the arts of hell shall not prevent that! I may be unfortu|nate; but my very persecutors shall confess my in|nocence!

Thomas, said I, after a considerable interval spent in silence, to my attendant, You are right. This is indeed a very extraordinary letter you have brought me; but it answers its purpose. I will certainly go with you now, whatever be the con|sequence. No person shall ever be able to lay any blame to me, so long as I have it in my power to clear myself. So, get ready immediately!

Bless us, cried Thomas, this is a surprising change indeed! But I should think, sir, if you please, that there is no need of being in such a devil of a hurry. It is now dark night, and I am woundy tired. Whatever it is you may have got in your head, I dare to say neither you nor master will do any thing till to-morrow.

To this remonstrance I replied, that I would willingly consent to a respite of an hour or two hours, if he desired it, but longer than that I was determined I would not wait, and, if he were not then ready, I would proceed without him. I con|ceived that, in the circumstances in which I was

placed by Mr. Forester's letter, it became me to show, not merely a willingness, but an alacrity and impatience to return. Thomas confessed that it was in his orders not to part from me when I was once found, and of consequence he was obliged to agree to the compromise I proposed. We pro|cured a second horse from the village. As we rode home, my mind was occupied again and again in endeavouring to account for Mr. Forester's letter; but none of my attempts were productive of satis|faction. I knew the inflexibility and sternness of Mr. Falkland's mind in accomplishing the purposes he had most at heart; but I also knew that every virtuous and magnanimous principle was congenial to his character.

When we arrived it was still dark, though the greater part of the night had already elapsed. We were obliged to waken one of the servants to give us admittance. I found that Mr. Forester had left a message for me in consideration of the possibility of my arrival during the night, directing me im|mediately to go to bed, and to take care that I did not come weary and exhausted to the business of the following day. I endeavoured to take his advice; but my slumbers were unrefreshing and disturbed. This did not discourage me; the singularity of my situation, my conjectures with respect to the pre|sent, my apprehensions for the future did not allow me to think it possible that I could sink into a lan|guid and inactive state.

Next morning the first person I saw was Mr. Forester. He told me that he did not yet know what Mr. Falkland had to allege against me, for that he had refused to know. He had arrived at the house of his brother by appointment on the preceding day to settle some indispensable business, his intention having been to depart the moment the business was finished, as he knew that conduct on

his part would be most agreeable to Mr. Falkland. But he was no sooner come than he found the whole house in confusion, the alarm of my elope|ment having been given a little before. Mr. Falk|land had dispatched servants in all directions in pursuit of me; and the servant from the market town arrived at the same moment with Mr. Fo|rester, with intelligence that a person answering to the description h•• gave had been there very ear|ly in the morning enquiring respecting the stage to London.

Mr. Falkland seemed extremely disturbed at this information, and exclaimed upon me with great acrimony as an unthankful and unnatural villain.

Mr. Forester replied: Have more command of yourself, sir! Villain is a very serious appellation, and ought not to be trifled with. Englishmen are free; and no man ought to be charged with villai|ny because he chooses to change one source of sub|sistence for another.

Mr. Falkland shook his head, and with a smile expressive of acute sensibility said, Brother, bro|ther, you are the dupe of his art. For my part I always considered him with an eye of suspicion, and was aware of his depravity. But I have just discovered—

Stop, sir! interrupted Mr. Forester. I own I thought you might be employing in a moment of acrimony harsh epithets without any accurate mean|ing. But, if you have any serious accusation to make against Williams, let us not be told of that, till it be known whether the poor lad is within reach of a hearing. Though a just man will chear|fully suffer the ill opinion of others, he will not lightly entertain an ill opinion against them. For my part the slenderest allowance I can make to such as are unhappy enough to incur the detesta|tion of their species, is that of being previously

heard in their own defence. It is a wise principle in English law that requires the judge to come into court totally uninformed of the merits of the cause he is to try; and to that principle I am determin|ed to conform as an individual. I think it right to be severe and inflexible in proceeding against offen|ders, but the severity I exercise in the sequel shall always be accompanied with impartiality in the preliminary.

While Mr. Forester related to me th••se parti|culars, he observed me ready to break out into some of the expressions which the narrative sug|gested, but he would not suffer me to speak. No, Williams, said he; I would not hear Mr. Falkland against you; neither will I hear you in your de|fence. I am come to you at present to speak, and not to hear. I thought it became me to warn you of your danger, but I have nothing more to do now. Reserve what you have to say to the proper time. Make the best story you can for yourself; true, if truth, as I hope, will serve your purpose; but, if not, the most plausible and ingenious you can invent. That is an exertion which self-defence requires from every man in cases where, as it al|ways happens when a man is put upon his trial, he has the whole world against him, and has his own battle to fight against the world. Farewel, and God send you a good deliverance! If Mr. Falkland's accusation, whatever it be, shall appear to be premature, depend upon having me more zealously your friend than ever. If not, this is the last act of friendship you will ever receive from me!

It may be believed that this address, so singular, so solemn, so big with conditional menace, did not greatly tend to assuage my anxieties. I was totally ignorant of the charge to be advanced against me; and not a little astonished, when it was in my

power to be in the most formidable degree the ac|cuser of Mr. Falkland, to find the principles of equity so completely reversed, as for the innocent, but instructed individual, to be the party accused and suffering, instead of having, as was just, the real criminal at his mercy. I was still more asto|nished at the supernatural power Mr. Falkland seemed to possess of bringing back by the most irresistible means the object of his persecution within the sphere of his authority; a reflection attended with some discouragement to that thirst of independence which now constituted the ruling passion of my mind.

But this was no time for meditation. To the sufferer the course of events is taken out of his di|rection, and he is hurried along with an irresisti|ble force, without finding it within the compass of his efforts to check their rapidity. I was allowed only a very short time to recollect myself, when my trial commenced. I was conducted to the li|brary where I had passed so many happy and so many contemplative hours, and found there Mr. Forester and three of four of the servants already assembled in expectation of me and my accuser. Every thing was calculated to suggest to me that I must trust only in the justice of the parties con|cerned, and had nothing to hope from their mercy. Mr. Falkland entered at one door, almost as soon as I entered at the other.

END OF VOL. I.