BEFORE all these affairs were brought to the close which we have
recorded, our hero was returned to Cambridge, to prepare for his
ensuing graduation. He renewed his mathematical studies, but sometimes
could not help reflecting on poor Jenny Collings more than either Sir
Isaac Newton or Maclaurin. The exertion of his faculties, however,
and not desponding regret, were the means by which he could make any
atonement.--The intenseness of his former application had now rendered
only revision necessary. The important period arrived, he stood the
various contests, and attained the honour of senior wrangler, the
highest that a bachelor of arts can reach, and was generally esteemed
one of the ablest and most promising young men that Cambridge had
raised for many years.
He now set out for London, where his father had intended he should be
brought up to the law. He was accordingly entered at Lincolns Inn,
and began the usual course of studies. He had not been long in his
new situation, when one morning, sitting ruminating on his future
prospects, a gentle knock was heard at the door; he opened it himself,
and a female fainted in his arms. Instantly recognizing Jenny Collings,
he carried her into his apartment, and at length brought her to
herself. Having recovered her recollection, she gently reproached him
for his omission, in having suffered a whole month to pass since he
left Cambridge, without writing to her. He declared he had written to
her twice, and was much surprised he had received no answer. “Where
did you address to me?”--“At Doncaster, to be sure: I wrote to you, my
dear Jenny, that I hoped I should in a few weeks have affairs properly
arranged for receiving you here.”--“Good God,” said she, “I dare say
our letters have been opened, and every thing discovered, which I
hoped to conceal. I wrote to you last from Sheffield, having, as I
before mentioned, bade adieu to Doncaster.” Hamilton having declared
he never had received the intelligence; he now inquired tenderly into
her adventures and situation. She acknowledged with a faint blush and
downcast eyes, that in the subject of his anxious interrogatories,
which she had never answered, his apprehensions had been but too well
founded. Conscious of her condition, she had with a broken heart
communicated it to her widowed mother, whose chief hope she had
been. Mrs. Collings, borne down by former afflictions, had not once
reproached her for the grievous addition which her conduct had made;
and by her forbearance had cut her to the heart. “I have,” said Jenny,
“two younger sisters, to whom she intended me as an example, and hoped
I would be a support. I know she must look on me as having blasted all
her expectations. Two days ago she came into the room where we were,
and looking at us alternately, burst out into a fit of crying, which
tore my very soul. I thought her tears and sobs a reproach to me. I
could not bear them. I left the room, went to my own, and resolved to
seek my fortune in the capital. I had six guineas hoarded up, from
different presents of relations, and also of ladies who were pleased
with my attention to their orders. I left the half inclosed in a
farewell letter to my mother, and with the rest sallied out unobserved
to the office of a stage coach, that passed about that time, found a
seat, and this morning arrived in town.--Knowing from yourself that you
were to be in Lincolns Inn, I hurried hither.”
“My dearest Collings,” said our hero, “whatever I can do to atone for
the injury, and to gratify affection, shall be performed. My means
are not great, but I trust they will increase. I understand there is
a considerable market for literary efforts in this place; I am not
without hopes of rising by such exercises; and my dear Jenny shall
share all the fruits of my labours.” “Mr. Hamilton,” said the young
lady, “in what way you mean that proposal, I am very anxious to know:
in one way, in my rank, and after my indiscretion, I cannot flatter
myself it is intended; in another, though my conduct justifies it,
still I am grieved that you should make such an offer.” Here she burst
into a paroxysm of affliction, exclaiming in hysterical shrieks: “I am
ruined, but will not be your mistress.” Our hero, tenderly affected,
disavowed any such intention, and, with a high sense of retributive
justice, and of compassion for a misfortune caused by himself, went
farther than in the calm moments of prudence he would have proposed,
and actually declared that he would by marriage atone for the evil.
Miss Collings answered, “No, sir, I am charmed to find that the man
whom I have trusted so far beyond the bounds of prudence and honour
should prove himself worthy of any trust that can be honourably reposed
in; but I will not avail myself of a generosity that would be ruinous
to yourself. Poor Jenny Collings, the daughter of a lowly mechanic,
shall not be the wife of the noble gentleman that she doats on to
distraction. I know my own business well, and can by it earn the means
of subsisting myself, and lending aid to my mother and her orphan
children. Mr. Hamilton, I love you too well to hear an offer dictated
by pity, or at best the feeling gratitude of a kind heart.” “No, upon
my soul,” said Hamilton, “’tis love for the woman who possesses so many
charms, and, highest of them all, such an affection for myself.”
Soothing speeches and caresses unbent, in considerable degree, the
resolution of Miss Collings, and though she continued firmly determined
not to marry a youth whom she regarded as the first of human beings,
and destined to arrive at the highest situations, yet she felt that
she could not exercise the same firmness in resisting the repetition
of former errors. She was resolved not to live with him, and even,
if possible, to estrange herself from his knowledge: but her purpose
was not immediately executed. Several days passed, the transactions of
which we shall not particularize, but content ourselves with observing,
that nothing is more dangerous to the votaries of penitence, than
renewed intercourse with the partners of frailty. Poor Jenny, with
all her virtuous intentions, passed the chief part of her time with
Hamilton.--One evening she expressed an earnest inclination to see the
Fair Penitent. Our hero attended her to Drury-lane, where she beheld
the effects of indiscretion so strongly drawn by the poet, exhibited
with such force and poignant effect, doubly poignant to the conscious
_Calistas_. Our fair penitent had never seen Mrs. Siddons, and had no
idea that it was possible for acting to approach so near to actual
life and feeling. In the scene between Calista and her parent, she, in
great agitation, exclaimed, “That is no acting, heavenly God, that is
natural.” In the last scene her interest was wound up to the highest
pitch. When Calista is frantic, poor Collings was frantic also; when
Calista died, Collings gave one shriek, and became lifeless in her
lover’s arms. With much difficulty she recovered her consciousness,
but not her perfect recollection, and gazing eagerly in our hero’s
face, and pressing him to her arms, she said, “You are not Lothario,
I was undone by myself.” At length entirely recovering the use of
her reason, and becoming sensible that she had exposed herself, she
was extremely distressed, and begged immediately to retire, and
was conducted home to a lodging which Hamilton had provided in his
neighbourhood. There she was taken very ill; the consequence was, a
very premature change in her condition.--Whilst she was recovering, our
hero, aware that his finances could not easily bear this additional
expence, without additional resources, resolved to exert his literary
abilities, and to feel his way by gratuitous essays and newspapers, and
had the satisfaction to see that his performances were received with
flattering approbation. Understanding that one of the earliest stages
of literary progress was reporting debates, he offered his services for
that purpose. His exertions were received with applause, and procured
him so much emolument as to afford his Jenny a country lodging, which
he thought necessary for the re-establishment of her health. During
her convalescence Miss Collings formed her plans: ardent to adhere in
future to the dictates of virtue, and knowing the weakness of her
heart, she resolved to withdraw entirely from her beloved Hamilton. She
wrote her mother an account of what had happened, and also to her late
employer, at Doncaster, praying an introduction to a correspondent in
London, but desiring that the truth should be fairly stated, though
confidentially imparted. Her employer by return of post complied with
her request, sent her a letter to be delivered to an eminent milliner
in London, informing her at the same time, that she had by another
prepared the lady for Miss Collings’s visit. She accordingly repaired
to the house of Mrs. Fashion, was kindly engaged, and (that being on a
Wednesday) appointed to come to the house the following Saturday, and
commence her labours on the Monday.
It was now near the end of May, and our hero had established, through
his reporting exertions, such a character and connection as insured
him an engagement for the next season, should it be required; and he
was preparing on a Saturday to visit his Collings, while she at the
very instant was writing him a farewell letter;--when the postman’s
knock called him to the door, and a letter was delivered in his
mother’s hand, but hardly legible. Hastily opening it, he found these
words: “My beloved William, your father is extremely ill, we fear
dangerously;--lose no time,--spare no expence,--come instantly.” Though
the letter had no date but Friday morning, it appeared to have been
put into the Doncaster post-office, whence he concluded that they
were now at Brotherton, and therefore trusted he would reach them
in four and twenty hours. Having a credit on his father’s agent, he
went immediately; in half an hour he was on horseback, for the sake
of expedition preferring that mode to a chaise. His father dying was
the only idea present to his mind. Leaving London about twelve, in
ten hours he reached Stamford; where taking chaise during the night,
he met the dawning day at Newark. At Doncaster he found his father’s
servant waiting with horses, and learned that he was still alive
and sensible, and calling every moment, “When do you expect my dear
William?” Our hero galloped, without waiting to hear more, to the
vicarge, and arriving before nine, found that his father was still
alive, but that he had the gout in his stomach, and that the physicians
had very little hopes. One, indeed, said he thought the paroxysms
somewhat abated, and that this fit might leave him, but that he would
be so much reduced, that another would certainly carry him off. Our
hero having spent some minutes in the arms of his weeping mother, and
venerable grand-father, the physician apprized his patient of his son’s
arrival. “Do, dear doctor,” he said, “bring him to my embrace, he will
do me more good than all your prescriptions.” William was introduced,
and eagerly pressed by his languid father. He desired they might be
left alone, and had signified to his son his highest approbation of
his abilities, character, and conduct; when feeling himself exhausted,
he said, he hoped he would by-and-by be able to go on. The physician
now returning, his patient observed, he felt a disposition to sleep;
“That,” said the other, “must be by all means encouraged.” The
colonel soon fell into a slumber, which lasted several hours, and he
awoke free from pain, and very much refreshed. The physician was now
confirmed in his hopes, that the fit was over for the present, though
he apprehended a very speedy return. The next morning the colonel was
able to leave his bed. Resuming the conversation with his son, he
opened to him the whole state of his affairs, the disposition of his
property, and strongly recommended to him, his mother, sister, and
younger brother. “I know, my dear son, my respite is only short, but it
is very satisfactory to me, that it permits me to unfold to the chief
pride of my heart, my thoughts, sentiments, prospects, and wishes. To
you, my eldest son and representative, I have left the half of a very
moderate fortune, and the other half divided between Eliza and Henry.
Your mother, during life, is to have the half of the interest of the
whole, besides the pension which she will receive as a colonel’s widow.
What I have acquired will, if properly managed, prevent indigence,
but will require industry to procure a comfortable independence. I
firmly rely on your efforts and conduct, and have no doubt that you in
your profession will, if you live, attain still higher rank and a much
greater fortune than I have been able to reach in mine.” This subject,
and also his wife and other children, he often resumed.
Our hero, in his eager anxiety to see his father, had entirely
forgotten Miss Collings: but his apprehensions being for the time
relieved, he with much concern fancied to himself the uneasiness and
alarm which his absence would create, and wrote immediately an account
of its cause. In five or six days he received an answer, assuring him
of her unalterable love, but at the same time announcing her fixed
determination never more to behold her adored Hamilton: she informed
him that she had a very advantageous situation in her professional
employment. Our hero, who notwithstanding his success still continued
extremely fond of Jenny, determined, as soon as he should return to
London, to discover her abode. Meanwhile the colonel was able to walk
out, and for a fortnight appeared pretty well. His old friend Maxwell
told him he hoped his honour had got a long furlough, and trusted he
would not be called hastily from his family. The colonel shook his
head, and declared he had a very different opinion. “However,” he said
“with the assistance of my venerable father-in-law, I endeavour to hold
myself in readiness.”
About this time the laird of Etterick, having heard that his brother
was ill, hastened to pay him a visit, which he had before intended, in
order to consult him on several affairs that gave him uneasiness.
Mr. O’Rourke, conceiving himself by his marriage not merely the heir
but the rightful proprietor of the Etterick fortune, had chosen
to assume the state and importance he considered befitting such a
character. Being naturally arrogant and overbearing, he treated
Etterick with an insolence and contempt which he could not bear. This
deportment rather gave a shake to the laird’s new religion, which,
hastily built, and on a very slight foundation, had never been secure.
Moreover he happened to get an insight into the preacher’s real
dispositions and morals, and had evidence which he could not possibly
doubt, that this saint, like many other saints, was a profligate
sinner. This discovery (being a quiet and peaceable man) he did not
communicate to the females of the family; but, renouncing Methodism, he
immediately repaired to his old friend the parson of the parish, and
by his advice made such a settlement of his affairs as would preclude
Mr. O’Rourke’s interference in any of his property. The clergyman
had gone to Edinburgh to have a deed for this purpose properly and
legally formed. Trustees were intended, and the blanks left for their
names. The laird proposed that they should be his brother, nephew,
an eminent counsellor, and Mr. Kerr the clergyman.--An event long
wished for, though unexpected when it actually happened, interrupted
the execution of this deed: this was the death of the dowager,
who, after having spent the evening very cheerfully over a rubber
at whist, and afterwards very piously in prayers and meditations,
and, lastly, very heartily over a hot supper, had withdrawn to her
apartment; where without any ceremony she departed this life about
midnight. Her daughter and grand-daughter hoped she was only in a
fit. “By G--d,” said Roger, who had been that evening very free with
his bottle, “’tis a fit that will last till the day of judgment.” The
old lady having never entertained any apprehensions that death was
a probable contingency, had made no will, so that all her property
devolved upon Etterick. In this state of things the laird, hearing
that his brother was ill, hastened to Yorkshire, and arrived when, as
we have seen, the colonel was recovered. Having explained all these
circumstances, and requested his brother’s acceptance of the trust,
the colonel told him, he was thoroughly convinced that his life would
be very short, and advised him to insert the name of Dr. Wentbridge.
The advice was accepted, and a deed was executed accordingly. The
laird, having of late been extremely uncomfortable at home, was in
no great hurry to return; and, after frequent consultations with his
friends, instructed his counsellor in Edinburgh to repair to Etterick,
and inform his daughter, that for various reasons he was resolved that
Mr. O’Rourke and he should not live in the same house, that a suitable
allowance should be made for her establishment, but that they must
remove immediately. The lady of Etterick, in addition to her spirit of
methodism, had recently very much addicted herself to the spirit of
brandy, and was between both in a state of perpetual intoxication, and
incapable of attending to any business. When the intimation was given,
O’Rourke declared he would have no objection to change quarters, but
that he must have the whole of Mrs. Sourkrout’s fortune, and half the
estate made over to him. The counsellor assured him that there was no
such intention, but that he would inform the lady of the mansion and
her daughter of the allowance which Mr. Hamilton of Etterick intended
as a free gift to bestow on Mrs. O’Rourke. “Inform the lady of the
mansion!” said O’Rourke, “inform a stupid old drunkard! tell me; I
am the person chiefly concerned. I shall accept no less than I said,
Mr. Counsellor, and if I were by that stupid old fool of a laird,
I would make him agree to my terms.” The counsellor declining any
farther conversation upon the subject, O’Rourke determined to set out
immediately in quest of his father-in-law, not doubting but he would
intimidate him to return home, and agree to whatever terms he should
dictate. Adventurous without judgment, he never thought of the various
obstacles he might have to encounter. He ordered the steward into his
presence, and demanded an immediate account of the money he had in
his hands. The man answered, he had settled with the laird before his
departure. “Don’t tell me of the laird, I shall be laird here. What
cash is there at the banker’s? I suppose about seven hundred pounds;
give me a draft for five hundred. I want it immediately.” “You a draft
for five hundred! I cannot give you a draft for a farthing without my
master’s orders.” “Cannot you write a hand like your master’s?” “Sir,”
said the steward, in indignant rage, “you may try that expedient if you
please: and so good morning to you.” As the steward was a very strong
athletic man, and the hero of the country for all manly exercises, the
preacher, gigantic as he was, did not choose forcibly to prevent his
departure. Calling for his horse, he rode to Selkirk, repaired to the
bank, and being known as the son-in-law and heir apparent of Etterick,
easily procured cash for a draft upon Edinburgh, for a hundred pounds,
and ordering a chaise, set off in pursuit of the laird. On the way he
determined to appropriate to himself the whole fortune, and to leave
to the laird and his wife a small annuity. He anticipated opposition
to his designs upon the laird from his Yorkshire connections, and had
worked himself into a very violent rage against colonel Hamilton. The
second day he stopped to dine at Weatherby, where he found the landlord
so much to his mind as a companion, that he indulged himself in a
hearty glass, and in less than two hours they had finished a bottle of
sherry and three of port. In this trim he entered his chaise, and, the
wine operating on the passions before kindled, he resolved to fetch
the laird away by force that very night, if any obstruction should
be made. From the quantity he had drunk, the heat of the weather, and
the dustiness of the roads, being excessively thirsty, he had at every
hedge-alehouse that he passed poured in large potations, and by the
time he arrived at Ferrybridge was in that state of drunkenness in
which a man says whatever he thinks or feels, without any regard to
time, place, or company. He inquired for Brotherton, and informed the
landlord, waiters, and hostlers, that he was going to fetch the fool
his father-in-law from the clutches of that scoundrel colonel Hamilton.
It was now the end of June; and the colonel, having continued free from
any fresh attack, was sitting with his wife and son at a parlour window
facing the gate, while his brother and the reverend old gentleman were
amusing themselves at another window with a hit at backgammon, and
old Maxwell, who had been paying them a visit, was just opening the
gate to depart, when a chaise came up, and a loud, boisterous, and
angry voice called out, “Pray, old fellow, is Hamilton of Etterick
here?” “Old fellow!” replied Maxwell, “I do not know who the devil
you are, but you’re a fellow, and a damned unmannerly fellow.” “Keep
a good tongue in your head, or by Jasus I will give you a touch of
the shillala, my boy.” “O! ’tis your own self, Mr. Patrick,” said
Maxwell, “with a drop of whisky in your head, and therefore I make
allowances. Mr. Hamilton of Etterick is here, what do you want with
him?” During this dialogue our hero went to the gate, where by this
time Mr. O’Rourke was alighted; and accosting him civilly, inquired
his commands. “I am come after that old fool Etterick; are you one
of the Hamiltons?”--“Yes.”--“Then I am Roger O’Rourke, Esq. of
Carrick, and heir apparent of the Etterick estate. You have inveigled
my father-in-law from Etterick, among you, without my privity and
concurrence; and I am come to bring him back. So now, honey, you have
my name, designation, and business; but where is the old one, he must
come off with me immediately. I have ordered a supper and beds at the
Inn there by the bridge.” “You appear, sir,” said Hamilton, “not to
understand what you are saying; but if you are really Mr. O’Rourke
that married my cousin, if you will step in and repose, you may in the
morning be better able to explain yourself.” “What the devil, do you
suppose I am tipsy? Well to be sure I do feel a little comical; but
where is Etterick?”--“He is within.” Our hero’s sister, a fine young
girl about sixteen, had just entered the parlour from the garden,
without having heard of this visitor, when the first object she beheld
was O’Rourke staggering into the room. This person was about six feet
four inches high, about twenty-one inches across the shoulders, with
legs large and muscular in proportion. Projecting from his face was
a huge Roman nose, like the proboscis of an elephant; his eyes were
light grey, and beamed with vivacity mixed with stolidity, and now
farther illuminated and inflamed by the liquor that he had drunk. His
neck, naturally long, now manifested the full dimensions, as from the
heat he had been induced to take off his cravat, and to unbutton his
shirt. Thus easy and disengaged about the throat, still retaining the
outward semblance of methodism, his breast was adorned with a band,
stiff, straight, and perpendicular. This holy teacher of the new light
having made his way into the parlour, to the astonishment of all to
whom he was a stranger, and to the amazement of Etterick, accosted that
gentleman; “Laird, I am come to bring you home, that we may settle our
accounts together; I have taken every thing into consideration, and
have determined how all matters are to be settled: but who are all
these good people in the room?” On being introduced successively, he
thought it incumbent on him to pay his best compliments. Addressing
Miss Hamilton, our hero’s sister, with an expression of mixed
impudence, drollery, and folly, he looked in her face and said, “So
you’re cousin-german to my spouse Sukey: well, you are a sweet little
angel; if I had you instead of her, I should not have looked abroad.
Did you ever see your cousin, my dear?”--“Yes, sir.”--“I don’t suppose
you think her a great beauty; but how the devil should she with such
a father and mother?” Our hero endeavoured to change this discourse,
and at last succeeded; and O’Rourke happening to sit down near old
Mr. Wentbridge, asked him whether he had not e’er a barrel of good
ale among his other tithe pigs. A jug was produced, which gave him
perfect satisfaction. At supper Mr. O’Rourke unfolded the purposes of
his journey; he proposed, he said, to take the estates into his own
possession; he would act very generous. The whole property was not
more than three thousand five hundred a year; he would content himself
with the three thousand, and allow, as he expressed himself, the
five hundred to the proprietor during life. The rest of the company,
considering this modest proposition as the effect of intoxication,
suffered it to pass without remark. The next morning, Mr. O’Rourke
being now refreshed by sleep, and exempt from the fumes of liquor,
though still possessed by the maggots of folly, applied to the laird,
and seriously proposed to him to relinquish his estate, and retire upon
an annuity. It was, he said, much more becoming that a young man in the
vigour of life should enjoy such a property, than an old man with one
foot in the grave. The laird, though totally unmoved by this reasoning,
yet standing in some awe of O’Rourke, very mildly informed him, that if
he would open his pretensions to the colonel, or his son William, he
would receive a complete answer, as they were entirely in the secret
of all his plans and intentions. “I don’t see,” said O’Rourke, “any
business they have with it. You have acted like a fool as you always do
in trusting any one but me.” The laird, whose quietness was the result
of indolence, and not of timidity, fired at this insolence, and he
answered: “You are a very ignorant and impertinent fellow. I consider
my daughter and family disgraced by a connection with a strolling
adventurer.” “Do you know,” said the other, loudly, “whom you are
talking to, you silly old fool?” “Old I am,” replied the laird, “but
not so old as to bear an insult from a low scoundrel. So, sir, leave
this room instantly. I shall take care of my unfortunate daughter,
but for you, a single shilling of mine shall never pass through your
hands again.” “O, I see,” said O’Rourke, “it is all as I suspected,
that old villain, colonel Hamilton, has for his own purposes been
working on your poor weak head.” Etterick, incensed at this, proceeded
to such violence as his feebleness would admit; and the fellow, with
unmanly rage exerting his strength, pushed the old man against the
wall, and he was severely bruised. The noise brought our hero into the
room. “Heaven,” said he, “what’s the meaning of all this?” “’Tis the
old fool’s own fault;” said O’Rourke; “he’s let me into some of your
tricks, but you won’t cheat me.” “Tricks, and cheat!” said our hero,
breasting the other. “Be easy now,” said O’Rourke, “or by Jasus I’ll
throw you down by the old one there. I say your father and you have
been acting like villains.” To such a charge Hamilton could only make
one answer, which he instantaneously did by a blow, that drove the
preacher to the farther end of the room; and, before he could recollect
himself, followed it with a second, which hitting his temples levelled
him with the ground. The whole family was alarmed, the colonel and
even the old clergyman could not help approving William’s conduct.
Meanwhile the reverend missionary recovered, and was blustering and
threatening vengeance upon his antagonist, when the old clergyman
interposed, and William called that if he would follow him to the green
he would give him all the satisfaction he could take. O’Rourke, though
very strong, was not much addicted to fighting, unless he considered
his adversary much his under match, and could have dispensed with this
invitation: hoping, however, to intimidate his opponent by a display of
his size and muscles, (an artifice which had frequently succeeded in
former rencounters,) he went down and stripped. Our hero was not slow
in imitating his example; and old Maxwell, who was present, exultingly
swore, that young Mr Hamilton was the more muscular man of the two.
The conflict began; our hero, who was really somewhat superior to
his adversary in strength and activity, was far before him in cool
intrepidity and skill. The Irishman, wild and furious, struck at
random; the Englishman, parrying his blows, reserved his own efforts,
only irritating the savage impetuosity of the other by fetching blood.
When the preacher was exhausted by ill-directed exertions, Hamilton
began with such tremendous force, that his adversary, who had little
of what amateurs call bottom, after the first knockdown blow, called
for quarter, and Hamilton coolly returned into the house. As it had
been resolved not to admit O’Rourke again into the vicarage, he was
conducted to a public house in the neighbourhood. Our hero, with Dr.
Wentbridge, who arrived that morning, called on him in the course of
the day, to learn more fully the purpose of his visit, and to explain
to him that every expectation of his having now or hereafter any
share of the property, or management of the Etterick estate, was
totally groundless. They carried with them, for his inspection, a
copy of the trust deed. O’Rourke, crestfallen by his defeat, was now
totally dejected, and was as abject under disappointment as he had
been arrogant and insolent in fancied prosperity. He saw that all his
expectations of revelling in the riches of Etterick were forever gone,
and that even if the laird were to change his mind, he had put it out
of his own power. He balanced with himself, whether it would be wise
to return. On the one hand there was the annuity settled on his wife,
which, though only a fourth of what he had proposed to possess, might
enable him to live very comfortably; on the other, his achievements
in the course of his methodistical mission, some of which were now
likely to become public, were not such as would make his reception very
pleasing in that country, and especially from his own wife, whom he now
regarded, as upon her he must depend. If methodistical missionaries
are, perhaps, not directly beneficial to the order and virtue of a
community, they promote one valuable branch of political œconomy: they
are accounted extremely conducive to population; first, unhinging
moral principles by establishing the all-sufficiency of faith, and the
uselessness of virtuous conduct, they open the way for the uncontrolled
dominion of passion; secondly, inflaming the heart with a fanatical
enthusiasm, they facilitate enthusiasms of other kinds; and as the
pastors have an absolute influence over the minds of their votaries,
itinerant preachers, either spontaneous or missionary, are in the
country deemed more effectual and successful ministers of sedition
and profligacy than packmen, strolling players, gypsies, or any other
fraternity of vagabonds. This observation Mr. O’Rourke could testify
from his own experience; for having at different times exercised
the several professions in question, and being indefatigable in his
addresses, was greater in his evangelical itinerancy than in any other.
The result he was now apprehensive would be much greater than his
finances could bear. Besides, his adventure at the Selkirk bank would
not increase the agreeableness of his reception in that part of the
country. He, therefore, thought it best to defer his return, and to try
his methodistical talents in countries to which neither Scotch bailiffs
nor Scotch parish officers could carry their authority. He accordingly
set off towards the manufacturing towns, to exercise his ministry in
its various and extensive functions. In this expedition, we shall for
the present leave the holy Roger O’Rourke.
For two months the colonel continued free of his complaints, and in
this time his second son, who had been mate of an Indiaman, commanded
by his uncle captain Wentbridge, arrived in Britain, and hurried down
to see his parents.--The colonel rejoiced extremely to see young Henry,
and anticipating, from some twinges and spasms, an early and fatal
return of his distemper, expressed himself thankful to Providence
for allowing him, before his death, to have all his children in his
presence. A fortnight more, however, passed without any important
occurrence; when early one morning Mrs. Hamilton ran into William’s
room, and in the greatest consternation and grief told him his father
was dying. The alarm proved too well founded; the gout had returned to
his stomach, with more violence than ever; every regimen and medicine
requisite in such cases was employed, but all to no purpose. A few
hours brought the malady to a fatal termination. The family was long
inconsolable for the loss of such a head. By degrees, reflection and
time allayed their affliction. Mrs. Hamilton, tenderly loving all her
children, was most strongly attached to her eldest son, who was the
exact image of his father; she could not bear the thought of parting
with him. When the time approached that he must return to London, she
proposed to make the metropolis her residence, and considered her
finances, if œconomically managed, as adequate to such an undertaking.
Her late husband, ever since his marriage, had been extremely
œconomical, and, in addition to his own fifteen hundred pounds, having
received as much by the death of Mrs. Hamilton’s aunt and god-mother,
the sum, by frugality and judicious purchases in the funds, had now
risen to about sixteen thousand consols. Her moiety of the interest
of which, she did not doubt, would be sufficient. Accordingly it was
determined that she should remove to London, as soon as a house was
procured. Old Etterick, who was become extremely fond of his nephew and
niece, would have with much pleasure made one of the party; but the
urgent entreaties and remonstrances of his daughter, who represented
herself and her mother as heart-broken by affliction for the conduct of
O’Rourke (now completely discovered), and her mother as approaching her
dissolution, impelled him to take a different course. The last piece of
intelligence he bore with much resignation, but thought that decency
required his presence on that occasion, and accordingly set off for
Etterick, about the middle of November. Our hero, taking a contrary
direction, proceeded to London.