THE next morning, Mr. O’Rourke again applied to Scribble, to interpose
on his behalf for leave of absence. Hamilton, who really was somewhat
ashamed of having such a figure in their parties, was not much averse
to the proposition; he conversed on the subject with his uncle and
cousin; the former of whom cared little about the preacher; the latter,
though averse to his absence, yet afraid, that by being crossed, he
might relax into his former practices, judged it most expedient to
consent. Accordingly, he set off that very afternoon on the road to
Lewes, and was, by appointment, joined by a female devotee, with whom
he had made acquaintance at Brighton, and who agreed to accompany him
in his spiritual peregrination. This evening was spent at the theatre.
Here, as usual, they were joined by Mr. Scribble, who, at the end
of the first act, was very cordially accosted by a strange looking
figure that entered the box. This was a tall thin man, with a pale
countenance, goggling grey eyes, and a remarkably long nose. Scribble
returned the address with great pleasure. “My dear friend, Mr. William
Nincompoop, to what do I owe the unexpected happiness of seeing you
so far from home? I thought you had spared no time for pleasure;”
“I don’t spare time for pleasure now, I have come upon business,”
whispered Nincompoop; “but come and sup with me at the tavern, and I
will tell you all about it.” Scribble accepted this invitation, and
when the play was finished, the bookseller and the author set off to
Hicks’s. When they were seated, Nincompoop opened: “My valued friend,
Scribble, I know I can depend on you in whatever you undertake, and on
your recommendation and advice, as well as your services; I prefer you
to any of my authors, for your readiness to undertake any thing. Let
me see,” said he, “what you are all doing for me at present. First,
there is biography, the history of Katerfelto and his black cat;” “yes,
I reckon that one of the best things I ever wrote;” “the life of the
noted Charles Price, hanged for forgery; the life and adventures of
Hawke the highwayman, and of Macdonald the thief-catcher; but take care
of borrowing from the Newgate Calendar. Secondly, travels; tour through
Ireland, including picturesque descriptions;” “yes, I got through the
bog of Allen in Bunhill-row, and here at Brighton I am at the lake of
Killarney;” “very well. Thirdly, metaphysics.--How comes your treatise
on?” “I have already proved, that Locke, Hutchinson, Berkeley, Hume,
and Reid, are blockheads, and I am now demonstrating, that nobody knows
any of the matter but myself.” “Very well. Fourthly, divinity. How are
you proceeding against Horseley and Priestley?” “Demonstrating that
both know nothing about the matter, and as before, that no one knows
any thing about the subject but myself.” “Fifthly, mathematics. How
goes your essay upon the Cycloid?” “It’s not quite so far advanced,
really,” “I must begin another hand,” said Nincompoop. “Sixthly,
Ethics. What are you doing against Paley?” “I demonstrate him to be a
fool, and myself only thoroughly to understand the subject; but history
is my sheet anchor.” “Do you think you would have time to do any
thing for me there?” “Oh yes,” “I want a smart history; I don’t care
on what subject,--or two or three.” “Suppose a second edition of my
Jack the giant killer, or to make it a more general title, the history
of British Giants. I have got some valuable materials about Gog and
Magog myself,” “I should like something more modern. Could you cut me
out from the gazettes and magazines, a good dashing original history
of the American war?” “Oh yes, if I cannot write a better history than
Hume, Robertson, or Gibbon, I will promise never to write another
line.” “Do not make rash vows,” said Billy, “for you would assuredly
break them.” “Another very clever man is strongly recommended to me as
a capital hand for the military part.” “Aye, who’s that,” “Spontoon,
drum-major of militia, now, I am told, at Brighton. I think if he do
the military part, and you the rest, it will be a capital job. I shall
agree on the usual terms; three half crowns a sheet, thirty shillings
a volume for books to be broken up;” “but I must have an additional
six-pence per sheet for flour paste.” “I dont like to find the flour;
it would be establishing a bad precedent for my other authors, and
would stand me in a sack of flour each quarter; besides they might be
making puddings as well as books. No; all my authors must find their
own scissars and paste; you know the workman at every craft finds his
own tools; and the master only finds the materials. I must hear of no
charge for paste:” “well, be it so, we shall not out about that, let’s
see about Spontoon to-morrow.” “Scribble,” resumed Nincompoop, “do you
know of any good hand at methodist sermons and hymns?” “Oh yes, I can
undertake them myself.” “No; you have enough in hand already.” “Well
then, there is a tall Irishman, called O’Rourke, I think he might be
brought to do; he is gone a-preaching now; a good sharp fellow, but I
rather doubt if he can spell.”--“Spell indeed, what does that signify?
If I were to employ no authors, but those who could spell, I would not
do one quarter of my present business,” “and you do a great deal, my
respectable patron.” “Aye, how do I do so much business? Why by not
being nice, either in my subject or my writing.” “I will introduce
you to that young man that you saw with me; a decent enough youth.”
“Oh, Hamilton you mean; I know him by sight; he is a very able writer
I am told.” “Who tells you so?” says Scribble. “The booksellers, the
public, the world.” “The booksellers, the public, the world, are a
parcel of ignorant blockheads. I tell you, Hamilton is not a clever
fellow, and you, and whoever says he is,” continued Scribble, “only
shew their own ignorance.” Scribble was warm with liquor, otherwise he
would never have ventured to talk so cavalierly to his supreme employer
in the book manufactory. Nincompoop was a cunning fellow; regarded
his own set of authors merely as productive journeymen, and, as many
saleable books could be compiled without learning or genius, the chief
qualifications he sought, in the usual routine of his business, were
laborious drudgery, and readiness of raking. He could not distinguish
between pains-taking dullness, and real ability: and therefore prized
Mr. Scribble. Proud and irritable, however, he replied disdainfully to
his journeyman: “I will not suffer such language from any man; no, if
instead of being a common literary hack, a jade of all work, he had
the powers and learning of Dr. Strongbrain.” Scribble, too intoxicated
for prudence, screamed with rage, “let me tell you, sir, I am superior
to a hundred Strongbrains put together.” Nincompoop, who was perfectly
sober, and extremely quick in surveying his own interest, recollecting
the serviceableness of Scribble’s manufacturing talents, resolved to
avoid a quarrel; and, by unsaying all that he had said, imputing it to
the hastiness of his temper, and asserting his thorough conviction,
that Scribble far surpassed Strongbrain, and every other literary man,
he pacified the enraged author, called for a fresh bowl, and spent the
remainder of the evening in friendly conversation, that was ended, by
Dicky’s falling from his chair on the carpet, where he slept without
disturbance till the following morning. This day, a party was proposed
to Worthing; and to the great pleasure of the ladies, Scribble not
being to be found, was not of the company. Even Hamilton himself,
though from his satirical humour, he relished occasional meetings
with the vanity, self-conceit, and absurdity of Dicky; yet, tired of
him a daily dish, and agreed with the rest in thinking him, to use
the fashionable language of that time, a shocking _bore_. Arriving
at the pleasant village of Worthing, they repaired to the inn of the
celebrated Mr. Hogsflesh; where, while the elderly part of the company
took a short walk on the sands, the two young gentlemen and ladies
directed their steps towards an eminence on the right, which, as they
heard, commanded a prospect that included Hampshire and the Isle of
Wight. It was near the end of September, and a very charming day. The
scene was rural and solitary, being a succession of fields, leading
to a small and scattered village, containing a venerable old church,
which, at different turnings of the path, presented several points of
picturesque aspect.
When a young gentleman and a young lady, and another young gentleman
and young lady, respectively, brothers and sisters, happen to be
members of the same company, custom and politeness require that the
chief attention should not be shewn to the nearest relation. Our
youthful perambulators, on this occasion, found no difficulty in
obeying those rules. John Mortimer prevailed on Miss Hamilton to take
hold of his arm, while his fair sister graciously vouchsafed the same
honour to our hero. Mortimer was already deeply impressed with the
charms of his friend’s sister, nor was she altogether insensible to
the charms of her friend’s brother. In such a disposition, there
was no great chance that the parties should find their walk tedious.
Mortimer had as yet made no declaration of his sentiments, so that
Charlotte could hear him without any consciousness of impropriety;
and, as his conversation was very pleasing, she could not help
listening with complacency. Hamilton had often and strongly urged
his passion, and though he had not obtained any literal and verbal
avowals of mutual affection, yet in the softness of Maria’s smiles,
and the bewitching glances of her eyes, he received such testimonies,
as he could not easily misinterpret. The respective couples were so
much occupied themselves, that they did not attend to each other.
By some means, Hamilton and our heroine seeing a path lead off to
a still more pleasant scene, directed their steps thither. Their
friends, not observing this movement, kept straight forward. Hamilton
and his lady now found themselves in a sloping copse, through which
there was a narrow track, forming a vista, terminated by the church.
This sequestered retirement, which might have excited ideas of love
in the bosoms of two agreeable young persons that had been before
unengaged, could not fail to promote them in hearts that already glowed
so warmly. Our hero, the whole of whose expressions both of tongue,
voice, and countenance, had been even more than ever impressive during
this short excursion, had quite enchanted and dissolved the heart of
Maria. All her darting quickness of penetration, the brilliancy of
genius, appeared to suspend their wonted operation on her countenance
and manners. Every look and tone spoke the tenderness of love. Gentle
pressure of her fair hand, while he held it in his, progressively led
to farther caresses, and encircling the charming creature in his eager
arms, he had imprinted a glowing kiss on her pouting lips, which her
unsuspicious innocence had not chid from the object of impassioned
love and undoubting confidence. The reception favoured repetition. Our
hero had almost forgotten every consideration but one, that he had in
his arms her whom he thought the loveliest of women; when suddenly
a voice struck their ears, uttering the following words: “This way,
honey; come, my dear girl, here is an opening through the bushes;” and
presently Mr. O’Rourke made his appearance. He started at the sight
of Hamilton, who was now walking on; but his companion having joined
him, he saw concealment was impracticable, and without regarding the
young lady’s presence, he began to try his hand at an apology. “The
lady with me,” he said, “is a young person that, like himself, was
of the methodistical sect: and having heard me preach privately at
Brighton, was so pleased with me, that she agreed to accompany me in
my public ministry.” Our hero made no comment upon this defence, but
wishing the preacher success in his labours, departed. Maria, though
from the innocent purity of her heart, not altogether sensible of
the dangerous situation in which she had been, blushed deeply at the
consciousness of the dalliance which she had permitted. Hamilton,
skilled in its tendency and progressive effects, and loving Maria with
a passion as honourable as ardent, on recollection and reflection,
rejoiced at an intervention, which had tantalised him at the moment.
But he was more than ever eager for an immediate marriage, and with
impassioned earnestness, entreated the consent of Miss Mortimer, that
he might instantly apply to her father. Maria could hardly constrain
herself to refuse, but from an apprehension that he might think she had
been too easily won, and be lessened in the esteem which, next to his
love, it was her chief wish to secure, she withheld her consent. She,
however, blessed him with a full acknowledgment, that he was master
of her affections, and as soon as prudence and propriety would admit,
she would either be his wife, or remain unmarried. Now having doubled
the village, they beheld their friends at a considerable distance,
in the ascent of the hill; and Maria, before they rejoined the other
couple, had time to recover from the agitation which her acknowledgment
and other occurrences of the day had occasioned. Having reached the
summit, they participated with their companions, in the extensive and
grand prospect which opened to the West, comprehending the channel,
the Isle of Wight, Arundel, Chichester, and the Downs, until gradually
flattening, they are lost in the forests of Hampshire. Having regaled
themselves with contemplating these objects, they returned, well
appetized for regaling themselves with the dainties which Mr. Hogsflesh
had promised to furnish, and though their friends at the inn rather
complained of their separation from the rest of the company, and their
long stay, yet on their return, good humour was resumed. The contents
of Mr. Hogsflesh’s larder were excellent, and of his cellars equally
good. In the evening, they set off for the captain’s house, and having
spent the following day at this villa, the second morning returned to
Brighton. Hamilton, on his arrival, found several letters; one was
from a bookseller of great eminence and liberality, offering very
considerable terms, if he would undertake a work of magnitude, on a
subject which the bookseller specified. Our hero being a man of real
genius, erudition, and science, would write upon no subject which he
did not understand, and was not _an undertaker-general in the trade
of book-making_. The subject in question, he was conscious he knew,
and equally conscious, that whatever he did know, he could communicate
clearly, forcibly, and impressively, to the public. He therefore
resolved to accept the offer, and having imparted the proposal to his
mother and his friend John, he answered in the affirmative. Having
concluded this important treaty, he perused his other letters, two of
which were from fair correspondents; the first in the well known hand
of Mrs. Blossom, containing an intimation that she was urging the
squire to take her to Brighton, and expressing the happiness which she
anticipated from a meeting with her beloved Hamilton. The third epistle
was also in a woman’s hand, but disguised, and contained a request
of an interview on the Downs, near the well. On looking on the date,
however, he found that the proposed time was passed; there being no
postmark on this epistle, he made some inquiries of the servants, and
learned that it had been brought by a porter, and that the same had
repeatedly called to inquire if Mr. Hamilton was returned. The fourth
letter proved to be from the worthy apostle, Mr. O’Rourke, and was
conceived in the following terms:
“Honoured Sir and Dare Couzen,
Arundale, September 28th, 1789.
Having promised Mrs. O’Rourke her a few lines, I think it my humble
duty to write you a few lines in the blank cover. I am here by the
providence of God, propagating, as the phrase is, the Gospel in humble
imitation, as St. Patrick and St. Whitfield did before me. This
Arundale is a nice plaash, with a great call of hulliness and sprituous
devotion: the girls are dainty bagooragh bits, and seem well disposed
to the communion of saints. Plase take no notice to my wife as you
see me yesterday, as she might take the thing wrong up; with my best
respects to Miss Mortimer, who is a sweet companion for a woody walk.
I have not yet preached in public at this plaash; but performed in
private at the house of Mr. Deputy Dowlass. After sarvice, we had a
very comfortable love-feast; there was roast goose and apple sauce, as
well as the other rarities of the season. Wishing you and your party
equally good fare, and praying that you may all, through this wale
of tears and of trials, provide food for your souls. I am your humble
servant to command,
ROGER O’ROURKE.”
Though at most of this composition our hero smiled; yet, the allusion
to the walk in the grove, he did not relish, and was not without alarm
lest the gross conception of the writer might misinterpret the matter.
While he was ruminating on this subject, a female servant, with a
simper, informed him, that the porter who had before made inquiries was
now below, to ask if he was returned; but brought no message. In the
evening, the young ladies staid at home, to prepare for a ball that
was to be given in a day or two. The elderly part played a rubber at
whist; Hamilton and Mortimer took a stroll to the library. At the door,
they heard the voice of that worthy author, Richard Scribble, exerted
in a loud tone, that they soon found to be preceptorial; and entering,
observed, that his back was towards them, while he accosted a lady
of a pleasing countenance, expressing intelligence and sensibility,
but tinged with a pensiveness that approached to melancholy. The
interesting sadness of her countenance they ascribed, though, as they
afterwards learned, unjustly, to some disappointment in love. The
gleams of transient mirth, that occasionally shot across her visage,
they justly imputed to the absurdities which the speaker was uttering.
Approaching to the orator, unobserved, they heard him pouring forth
the following words: “Yes, ma’am, as I have before observed, I have
read your novel really with a good deal of pleasure, and I must say,
there are traits of genius in it; and if you will suspend a future
publication, until you see a treatise that I myself am composing, on
novel-writing, you may be enabled to make very important improvements
in your materials, disposition, and expression. I shall demonstrate,
that the art of novel-writing is hitherto unknown. Both Johnson
and myself think meanly of Fielding; there Johnson is right: but
Johnson thinks highly of Richardson; I don’t, there Johnson is wrong.
Richardson is a poor paltry writer, without any of that knowledge or
exhibition of sentiment, which the philologist erroneously ascribes
to him. I have not the honour to be personally known to you, madam;
but on announcing my name, I trust I shall immediately be recognized
by any member of the republic of letters. I am Mr. Richard Scribble,
author of the history of Jack the giant-killer, whose fame, I dare say,
may have reached your ears.” “I am sorry,” said the lady, “I never
had the pleasure of hearing of it.” “No!” said Dicky; “you surprise
me, ma’am. I will venture to say, it is a history that contains views,
neither to be found in Hume, Robertson, or Gibbon.” The lady answered,
“I have not the least doubt of it, sir.” At this reply, our hero
perceiving that the lady comprehended Mr. Scribble, burst out into a
laugh. Scribble turning about angrily, to his great surprise saw that
Hamilton was the laugher, and was sitting close by him. “Hamilton,”
said Scribble, “is it you that are making so boisterous a noise?
You seem to form your manners on the model of Squire Western, whose
character you so greatly admire; though, as I have often demonstrated,
it contains not one particle of humour, but to please the very grossest
taste and conception.” “Oh yes, I can imitate Squire Western,” said
Hamilton; then gravely assuming an expression of anger, and looking
at Scribble in the face, “What, dost thee open upon me? If thee dost
begin to babble, I shall whip thee in presently.” Scribble, not
perfectly understanding this quotation, and afraid its last part
might be intended literally, thought proper to draw in his horns, and
immediately assured Hamilton he meant no offence. The lady, happening
to recollect the passage, turned to Hamilton, and said, “Fie, brother,
Mr. Supple is a man of sense.” “There,” said our hero, “the comparison
breaks.” Hamilton, who had learned who the lady was, now entered into
conversation. “I see,” said he, “madam, you are a stranger to the
valuable Mr. Richard Scribble; had you ever been in company with him,
you would not have failed to have known what he has written; and if
it should be of consequence to be known at all, I must confess, such
a nomenclator is not unnecessary.” Hamilton now, with all the elegant
politeness of which he was so completely master, begged pardon for the
question he was going to ask; whether he was not right in a conjecture
that he had formed, that the lady whom he was now accosting, was
Mrs. Somerive, author of the Orphan of Pembroke? She answered in the
affirmative; and Hamilton, as far as delicacy would admit, expressed
his admiration of the performance, and in such terms as convinced his
fair auditor, that he was well acquainted with the work, and that
his judgment could thoroughly comprehend and appreciate its merits.
Mortimer now joined in the conversation, and, as they inquired,
whether she often frequented the library on an evening, she told them,
when she was unengaged, she did: that the following day she should not
be there; but probably might the day after. Soon after, they departed.