All Mr Burchell’s villainy at once detected. The folly of being
over-wise.
That evening and a part of the following day was employed in fruitless
attempts to discover our enemies: scarce a family in the neighbourhood
but incurred our suspicions, and each of us had reasons for our opinion
best known to ourselves. As we were in this perplexity, one of our
little boys, who had been playing abroad, brought in a letter-case,
which he found on the green. It was quickly known to belong to Mr
Burchell, with whom it had been seen, and, upon examination, contained
some hints upon different subjects; but what particularly engaged our
attention was a sealed note, superscribed, _the copy of a letter to be
sent to the ladies at Thornhill-castle._ It instantly occurred that he
was the base informer, and we deliberated whether the note should not
be broke open. I was against it; but Sophia, who said she was sure that
of all men he would be the last to be guilty of so much baseness,
insisted upon its being read, In this she was seconded by the rest of
the family, and, at their joint solicitation, I read as follows:—
‘LADIES,—The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to the person from
whom this comes: one at least the friend of innocence, and ready to
prevent its being seduced. I am informed for a truth, that you have
some intention of bringing two young ladies to town, whom I have some
knowledge of, under the character of companions. As I would neither
have simplicity imposed upon, nor virtue contaminated, I must offer it
as my opinion, that the impropriety of such a step will be attended
with dangerous consequences. It has never been my way to treat the
infamous or the lewd with severity; nor should I now have taken this
method of explaining myself, or reproving folly, did it not aim at
guilt. Take therefore the admonition of a friend, and seriously reflect
on the consequences of introducing infamy and vice into retreats where
peace and innocence have hitherto resided.’
Our doubts were now at an end. There seemed indeed something applicable
to both sides in this letter, and its censures might as well be
referred to those to whom it was written, as to us; but the malicious
meaning was obvious, and we went no farther. My wife had scarce
patience to hear me to the end, but railed at the writer with
unrestrained resentment. Olivia was equally severe, and Sophia seemed
perfectly amazed at his baseness. As for my part, it appeared to me one
of the vilest instances of unprovoked ingratitude I had met with. Nor
could I account for it in any other manner than by imputing it to his
desire of detaining my youngest daughter in the country, to have the
more frequent opportunities of an interview. In this manner we all sate
ruminating upon schemes of vengeance, when our other little boy came
running in to tell us that Mr Burchell was approaching at the other end
of the field. It is easier to conceive than describe the complicated
sensations which are felt from the pain of a recent injury, and the
pleasure of approaching vengeance. Tho’ our intentions were only to
upbraid him with his ingratitude; yet it was resolved to do it in a
manner that would be perfectly cutting. For this purpose we agreed to
meet him with our usual smiles, to chat in the beginning with more than
ordinary kindness, to amuse him a little; and then in the midst of the
flattering calm to burst upon him like an earthquake, and overwhelm him
with the sense of his own baseness. This being resolved upon, my wife
undertook to manage the business herself, as she really had some
talents for such an undertaking. We saw him approach, he entered, drew
a chair, and sate down.—‘A fine day, Mr Burchell.’—‘A very fine day,
Doctor; though I fancy we shall have some rain by the shooting of my
corns.’—‘The shooting of your horns,’ cried my wife, in a loud fit of
laughter, and then asked pardon for being fond of a joke.—‘Dear madam,’
replied he, ‘I pardon you with all my heart; for I protest I should not
have thought it a joke had you not told me.’—‘Perhaps not, Sir,’ cried
my wife, winking at us, ‘and yet I dare say you can tell us how many
jokes go to an ounce.’—‘I fancy, madam,’ returned Burchell, ‘you have
been reading a jest book this morning, that ounce of jokes is so very
good a conceit; and yet, madam, I had rather see half an ounce of
understanding.’—‘I believe you might,’ cried my wife, still smiling at
us, though the laugh was against her; ‘and yet I have seen some men
pretend to understanding that have very little.’—‘And no doubt,’
replied her antagonist, ‘you have known ladies set up for wit that had
none.’—I quickly began to find that my wife was likely to gain but
little at this business; so I resolved to treat him in a stile of more
severity myself. ‘Both wit and understanding,’ cried I, ‘are trifles,
without integrity: it is that which gives value to every character. The
ignorant peasant, without fault, is greater than the philosopher with
many; for what is genius or courage without an heart? _An honest man is
the noblest work of God._
‘I always held that hackney’d maxim of Pope,’ returned Mr Burchell, ‘as
very unworthy a man of genius, and a base desertion of his own
superiority. As the reputation of books is raised not by their freedom
from defect, but the greatness of their beauties; so should that of men
be prized not for their exemption from fault, but the size of those
virtues they are possessed of. The scholar may want prudence, the
statesman may have pride, and the champion ferocity; but shall we
prefer to these the low mechanic, who laboriously plods on through
life, without censure or applause? We might as well prefer the tame
correct paintings of the Flemish school to the erroneous, but sublime
animations of the Roman pencil.’
‘Sir,’ replied I, ‘your present observation is just, when there are
shining virtues and minute defects; but when it appears that great
vices are opposed in the same mind to as extraordinary virtues, such a
character deserves contempt.’ ‘Perhaps,’ cried he, ‘there may be some
such monsters as you describe, of great vices joined to great virtues;
yet in my progress through life, I never yet found one instance of
their existence: on the contrary, I have ever perceived, that where the
mind was capacious, the affections were good. And indeed Providence
seems kindly our friend in this particular, thus to debilitate the
understanding where the heart is corrupt, and diminish the power where
there is the will to do mischief. This rule seems to extend even to
other animals: the little vermin race are ever treacherous, cruel, and
cowardly, whilst those endowed with strength and power are generous,
brave, and gentle.’
‘These observations sound well,’ returned I, ‘and yet it would be easy
this moment to point out a man,’ and I fixed my eye stedfastly upon
him, ‘whose head and heart form a most detestable contrast. Ay, Sir,’
continued I, raising my voice, ‘and I am glad to have this opportunity
of detecting him in the midst of his fancied security. Do you know
this, Sir, this pocket-book?’—‘Yes, Sir,’ returned he, with a face of
impenetrable assurance, ‘that pocket-book is mine, and I am glad you
have found it.’—‘And do you know,’ cried I, ‘this letter? Nay, never
falter man; but look me full in the face: I say, do you know this
letter?’—‘That letter,’ returned he, ‘yes, it was I that wrote that
letter.’—‘And how could you,’ said I, ‘so basely, so ungratefully
presume to write this letter?’—‘And how came you,’ replied he, with
looks of unparallelled effrontery, ‘so basely to presume to break open
this letter? Don’t you know, now, I could hang you all for this? All
that I have to do, is to swear at the next justice’s, that you have
been guilty of breaking open the lock of my pocket-book, and so hang
you all up at his door.’ This piece of unexpected insolence raised me
to such a pitch, that I could scare govern my passion. ‘Ungrateful
wretch, begone, and no longer pollute my dwelling with thy baseness.
Begone, and never let me see thee again: go from my doors, and the only
punishment I wish thee is an alarmed conscience, which will be a
sufficient tormentor!’ So saying, I threw him his pocket-book, which he
took up with a smile, and shutting the clasps with the utmost
composure, left us, quite astonished at the serenity of his assurance.
My wife was particularly enraged that nothing could make him angry, or
make him seem ashamed of his villainies. ‘My dear,’ cried I, willing to
calm those passions that had been raised too high among us, ‘we are not
to be surprised that bad men want shame; they only blush at being
detected in doing good, but glory in their vices.
‘Guilt and shame, says the allegory, were at first companions, and in
the beginning of their journey inseparably kept together. But their
union was soon found to be disagreeable and inconvenient to both; guilt
gave shame frequent uneasiness, and shame often betrayed the secret
conspiracies of guilt. After long disagreeement, therefore, they at
length consented to part for ever. Guilt boldly walked forward alone,
to overtake fate, that went before in the shape of an executioner: but
shame being naturally timorous, returned back to keep company with
virtue, which, in the beginning of their journey, they had left behind.
Thus, my children, after men have travelled through a few stages in
vice, shame forsakes them, and returns back to wait upon the few
virtues they have still remaining.’