CHAPTER I.

CALEB WILLIAMS

OR THINGS AS THEY ARE

BY WILLIAM GODWIN

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY ERNEST A. BAKER, M.A.

LONDON

1903

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

MR. FERDINANDO FALKLAND, a high-spirited and highly cultured gentleman,

a country squire in "a remote county of England."

CALEB WILLIAMS, a youth, his secretary, the discoverer of his secret,

and the supposed narrator of the consequent events.

MR. COLLINS, Falkland's steward and Caleb's friend.

THOMAS, a servant of Falkland's.

MR. FORESTER, Falkland's brother-in-law.

MR. BARNABAS TYRREL, a brutal and tyrannical squire.

MISS EMILY MELVILLE, his cousin and dependent, whom he cruelly maltreats

and does to death.

GRIMES, a brutal rustic, suborned by Tyrrel to abduct Miss Melville.

DR. WILSON; MRS. HAMMOND, friends of Miss Melville. MR. HAWKINS, farmer;

YOUNG HAWKINS, his son, Victims of Tyrrel's brutality, and wrongfully

hanged as his murderers.

GINES, a robber and thief-taker, instrument of Falkland's vengeance upon

Caleb.

MR. RAYMOND, an "Arcadian" captain of robbers.

LARKINS, one of his band.

AN OLD HAG, housekeeper to the robbers.

A GAOLER.

MISS PEGGY, the gaoler's daughter.

MRS. MARNEY, a poor gentlewoman, Caleb's friend in distress.

MR. SPURREL, a friend who informs on Caleb.

MRS. DENISON, a cultivated lady with whom Caleb is for a while on

friendly terms.

INTRODUCTION

The reputation of WILLIAM GODWIN as a social philosopher, and the merits

of his famous novel, "Caleb Williams," have been for more than a century

the subject of extreme divergencies of judgment among critics. "The

first systematic anarchist," as he is called by Professor Saintsbury,

aroused bitter contention with his writings during his own lifetime, and

his opponents have remained so prejudiced that even the staid

bibliographer Allibone, in his "Dictionary of English Literature," a

place where one would think the most flagitious author safe from

animosity, speaks of Godwin's private life in terms that are little less

than scurrilous. Over against this persistent acrimony may be put the

fine eulogy of Mr. C. Kegan Paul, his biographer, to represent the

favourable judgment of our own time, whilst I will venture to quote one

remarkable passage that voices the opinions of many among Godwin's most

eminent contemporaries.

In "The Letters of Charles Lamb," Sir T.N. Talfourd says:

"Indifferent altogether to the politics of the age, Lamb could

not help being struck with productions of its newborn energies

so remarkable as the works and the character of Godwin. He

seemed to realise in himself what Wordsworth long afterwards

described, 'the central calm at the heart of all agitation.'

Through the medium of his mind the stormy convulsions of society

were seen 'silent as in a picture.' Paradoxes the most daring

wore the air of deliberate wisdom as he pronounced them. He

foretold the future happiness of mankind, not with the

inspiration of the poet, but with the grave and passionless

voice of the oracle. There was nothing better calculated at once

to feed and to make steady the enthusiasm of youthful patriots

than the high speculations in which he taught them to engage, on

the nature of social evils and the great destiny of his species.

No one would have suspected the author of those wild theories

which startled the wise and shocked the prudent in the calm,

gentlemanly person who rarely said anything above the most

gentle commonplace, and took interest in little beyond the

whist-table."

WILLIAM GODWIN (1756-1836) was son and grandson of Dissenting ministers,

and was destined for the same profession. In theology he began as a

Calvinist, and for a while was tinctured with the austere doctrines of

the Sandemanians. But his religious views soon took an unorthodox turn,

and in 1782, falling out with his congregation at Stowmarket, he came up

to London to earn his bread henceforward as a man of letters. In 1793

Godwin became one of the most famous men in England by the publication

of his "Political Justice," a work that his biographer would place side

by side with the "Speech for Unlicensed Printing," the "Essay on

Education," and "Emile," as one of "the unseen levers which have moved

the changes of the times." Although the book came out at what we should

call a "prohibitive price," it had an enormous circulation, and brought

its author in something like 1,000 guineas. In his first novel, "Caleb

Williams," which was published the next year, he illustrated in scenes

from real life many of the principles enunciated in his philosophical

work. "Caleb Williams" went through a number of editions, and was

dramatized by Colman the younger under the title of "The Iron Chest." It

has now been out of print for many years. Godwin wrote several other

novels, but one alone is readable now, "St. Leon," which is

philosophical in idea and purpose, and contains some passages of

singular eloquence and beauty.

Godwin married the authoress of the "Rights of Woman," Mary

Wollstonecraft, in 1797, losing her the same year. Their daughter was

the gifted wife of the poet Shelley. He was a social man, particularly

fond of whist, and was on terms of intimacy and affection with many

celebrated men and women. Tom Paine, Josiah Wedgwood, and Curran were

among his closest male friends, while the story of his friendships with

Mrs. Inchbald, Amelia Opie, with the lady immortalized by Shelley as

Maria Gisborne, and with those literary sisters, Sophia and Harriet Lee,

authors of the "Canterbury Tales," has a certain sentimental interest.

Afterwards he became known to Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Lamb. He

married Mrs. Clairmont in 1801. His later years were clouded by great

embarrassments, and not till 1833 was he put out of reach of the worst

privations by the gift of a small sinecure, that of yeoman usher of the

Exchequer. He died in 1836.

Among the contradictory judgments passed on "Caleb Williams" by Godwin's

contemporaries those of Hazlitt, Sir James Mackintosh, and Sir T. N.

Talfourd were perhaps the most eulogistic, whilst De Quincey and Allan

Cunningham criticized the book with considerable severity. Hazlitt's

opinion is quoted from the "Spirit of the Age":

"A masterpiece, both as to invention and execution. The romantic

and chivalrous principle of the love of personal fame is

embodied in the finest possible manner in the character of

Falkland; as in Caleb Williams (who is not the first, but the

second character in the piece), we see the very demon of

curiosity personified. Perhaps the art with which these two

characters are contrived to relieve and set off each other has

never been surpassed by any work of fiction, with the exception

of the immortal satire of Cervantes."

Sir Leslie Stephen said of it the other day:

"It has lived--though in comparative obscurity--for over a

century, and high authorities tell us that vitality prolonged

for that period raises a presumption that a book deserves the

title of classic."--_National Review, February_, 1902.

To understand how the work came to be written, and its aim, it is

advisable to read carefully all three of Godwin's prefaces, more

particularly the last and the most candid, written in 1832. This will, I

think, dispose of the objection that the story was expressly constructed

to illustrate a moral, a moral that, as Sir Leslie Stephen says, "eludes

him." He says:

"I formed a conception of a book of fictitious adventure that

should in some way be distinguished by a very powerful interest.

Pursuing this idea, I invented first the third volume of my

tale, then the second, and, last of all, the first. I bent

myself to the conception of a series of adventures of flight and

pursuit; the fugitive in perpetual apprehension of being

overwhelmed with the worst calamities, and the pursuer, by his

ingenuity and resources, keeping his victim in a state of the

most fearful alarm. This was the project of my third volume."

He goes on to describe in more detail the "dramatic and impressive"

situations and the "fearful events" that were to be evolved, making it

pretty clear that the purpose somewhat vaguely and cautiously outlined

in the earliest preface was rather of the nature of an afterthought.

Falkland is not intended to be a personification of the evils caused by

the social system, nor is he put forward as the inevitable product of

that system. The reader's attention is chiefly absorbed by the

extraordinary contest between Caleb Williams and Falkland, and in the

tragic situations that it involves. Compared with these the denunciation

of the social system is a matter of secondary interest; but it was

natural that the author of the "Political Justice," with his mind

preoccupied by the defects of the English social system, should make

those defects the, evil agencies of his plot. As the essential

conditions of the series of events, as the machinery by which everything

is brought about, these defects are of the utmost importance to the

story. It is the accused system that awards to Tyrrel and Falkland their

immense preponderance in society, and enables them to use the power of

the law for the most nefarious ends. Tyrrel does his cousin to death and

ruins his tenant, a man of integrity, by means of the law. This is the

occasion of Falkland's original crime. His more heinous offence, the

abandonment of the innocent Hawkinses to the gallows, is the consequence

of what Godwin expressly denounces, punishment for murder. "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 be

retrieved." Then a new element is imported into the train of causation,

Caleb's insatiable curiosity, and the strife begins between these

well-matched antagonists, the man of wealth and station utilizing all

the advantages granted him by the state of society to crush his enemy.

Godwin, then, was justified in declaring that his book comprehended "a

general view of the modes of domestic and unrecorded despotism by which

man becomes the destroyer of man." Such were the words of the original

preface, which was suppressed for a short time owing to the fears caused

by the trial of Horne Tooke, Thomas Holcroft and other revolutionists,

with whom Godwin was in profound sympathy. Had he intended "Caleb

Williams," however, from its first inception, to be an imaginative

version of the "Political Justice," he would have had to invent a

different plan and different characters. The arguments of a sociological

novel lack cogency unless the characters are fairly representative of

average mankind. Godwin's principal actors are both, to say the least,

exceptional. They are lofty idealizations of certain virtues and powers

of mind. Falkland is like Jean Valjean, a superhuman creature; and,

indeed, "Caleb Williams" may well be compared on one side with "Les

Misérables," for Victor Hugo's avowed purpose, likewise, was the

denunciation of social tyranny. But the characteristics that would have

weakened the implied theorem, had such been the main object, are the

very things that make the novel more powerful as drama of a grandiose,

spiritual kind. The high and concentrated imagination that created such

a being as Falkland, and the intensity of passion with which Caleb's

fatal energy of mind is sustained through that long, despairing

struggle, are of greater artistic value than the mechanical symmetry by

which morals are illustrated.

E. A. B.

PREFACE

BY THE AUTHOR.

The following narrative is intended to answer a purpose more general and

important than immediately appears upon the face of it. The question now

afloat in the world respecting THINGS AS THEY ARE is the most

interesting that can be presented to the human mind. While one party

pleads for reformation and change, the other extols in the warmest terms

the existing constitution of society. It seemed as if something would be

gained for the decision of this question if that constitution were

faithfully developed in its practical effects. What is now presented to

the public is no refined and abstract speculation; it is a study and

delineation of things passing in the moral world. It is but of late that

the inestimable importance of political principles has been adequately

apprehended. It is now known to philosophers that the spirit and

character of the Government intrudes itself into every rank of society.

But this is a truth highly worthy to be communicated to persons whom

books of philosophy and science are never likely to reach. Accordingly,

it was proposed, in the invention of the following work, to comprehend,

as far as the progressive nature of a single story would allow, a

general review of the modes of domestic and unrecorded despotism by

which man becomes the destroyer of man. If the author shall have taught

a valuable lesson, without subtracting from the interest and passion by

which a performance of this sort ought to be characterised, he will have

reason to congratulate himself upon the vehicle he has chosen.

_May_ 12, 1794.

This preface was withdrawn in the original edition, in compliance with

the alarms of booksellers. "Caleb Williams" made his first appearance in

the world in the same month in which the sanguinary plot broke out

against the liberties of Englishmen, which was happily terminated by the

acquittal of its first intended victims in the close of that year.

Terror was the order of the day; and it was feared that even the humble

novelist might be shown to be constructively a traitor.

_October_ 29, 1795.

AUTHOR'S LATEST PREFACE.

LONDON,

_November_ 20, 1832.

"CALEB WILLIAMS" has always been regarded by the public with an unusual

degree of favour. The proprietor of "THE STANDARD NOVELS" has therefore

imagined that even an account of the concoction and mode of writing of

the work would be viewed with some interest.

I finished the "Enquiry concerning Political Justice," the first work

which may be considered as written by me in a certain degree in the

maturity of my intellectual powers, and bearing my name, early in

January, 1793; and about the middle of the following month the book was

published. It was my fortune at that time to be obliged to consider my

pen as the sole instrument for supplying my current expenses. By the

liberality of my bookseller, Mr. George Robinson, of Paternoster Row, I

was enabled then, and for nearly ten years before, to meet these

expenses, while writing different things of obscure note, the names of

which, though innocent and in some degree useful, I am rather inclined

to suppress. In May, 1791, I projected this, my favourite work, and from

that time gave up every other occupation that might interfere with it.

My agreement with Robinson was that he was to supply my wants at a

specified rate while the book was in the train of composition. Finally,

I was very little beforehand with the world on the day of its

publication, and was therefore obliged to look round and consider to

what species of industry I should next devote myself.

I had always felt in myself some vocation towards the composition of a

narrative of fictitious adventure; and among the things of obscure note

which I have above referred to were two or three pieces of this nature.

It is not therefore extraordinary that some project of the sort should

have suggested itself on the present occasion.

But I stood now in a very different situation from that in which I had

been placed at a former period. In past years, and even almost from

boyhood, I was perpetually prone to exclaim with Cowley:

"What shall I do to be for ever known,

And make the age to come my own?"

But I had endeavoured for ten years, and was as far from approaching my

object as ever. Everything I wrote fell dead-born from the press. Very

often I was disposed to quit the enterprise in despair. But still I felt

ever and anon impelled to repeat my effort.

At length I conceived the plan of Political Justice. I was convinced

that my object of building to myself a name would never be attained by

merely repeating and refining a little upon what other men had said,

even though I should imagine that I delivered things of this sort with a

more than usual point and elegance. The world, I believed, would accept

nothing from me with distinguishing favour that did not bear upon the

face of it the undoubted stamp of originality. Having long ruminated

upon the principles of Political Justice, I persuaded myself that I

could offer to the public, in a treatise on this subject, things at once

new, true, and important. In the progress of the work I became more

sanguine and confident. I talked over my ideas with a few familiar

friends during its progress, and they gave me every generous

encouragement. It happened that the fame of my book, in some

inconsiderable degree, got before its publication, and a certain number

of persons were prepared to receive it with favour. It would be false

modesty in me to say that its acceptance, when published, did not nearly

come up to everything that could soberly have been expected by me. In

consequence of this, the tone of my mind, both during the period in

which I was engaged in the work and afterwards, acquired a certain

elevation, and made me now unwilling to stoop to what was insignificant.

I formed a conception of a book of fictitious adventure that should in

some way be distinguished by a very powerful interest. Pursuing this

idea, I invented first the third volume of my tale, then the second, and

last of all the first. I bent myself to the conception of a series of

adventures of flight and pursuit; the fugitive in perpetual apprehension

of being overwhelmed with the worst calamities, and the pursuer, by his

ingenuity and resources, keeping his victim in a state of the most

fearful alarm. This was the project of my third volume. I was next

called upon to conceive a dramatic and impressive situation adequate to

account for the impulse that the pursuer should feel, incessantly to

alarm and harass his victim, with an inextinguishable resolution never

to allow him the least interval of peace and security. This I

apprehended could best be effected by a secret murder, to the

investigation of which the innocent victim should be impelled by an

unconquerable spirit of curiosity. The murderer would thus have a

sufficient motive to persecute the unhappy discoverer, that he might

deprive him of peace, character, and credit, and have him for ever in

his power. This constituted the outline of my second volume.

The subject of the first volume was still to be invented. To account

for the fearful events of the third, it was necessary that the pursuer

should be invested with every advantage of fortune, with a resolution

that nothing could defeat or baffle, and with extraordinary resources of

intellect. Nor could my purpose of giving an overpowering interest to my

tale be answered without his appearing to have been originally endowed

with a mighty store of amiable dispositions and virtues, so that his

being driven to the first act of murder should be judged worthy of the

deepest regret, and should be seen in some measure to have arisen out of

his virtues themselves. It was necessary to make him, so to speak, the

tenant of an atmosphere of romance, so that every reader should feel

prompted almost to worship him for his high qualities. Here were ample

materials for a first volume.

I felt that I had a great advantage in thus carrying back my invention

from the ultimate conclusion to the first commencement of the train of

adventures upon which I purposed to employ my pen. An entire unity of

plot would be the infallible result; and the unity of spirit and

interest in a tale truly considered gives it a powerful hold on the

reader, which can scarcely be generated with equal success in any other

way.

I devoted about two or three weeks to the imagining and putting down

hints for my story before I engaged seriously and methodically in its

composition. In these hints I began with my third volume, then proceeded

to my second, and last of all grappled with the first. I filled two or

three sheets of demy writing-paper, folded in octavo, with these

memorandums. They were put down with great brevity, yet explicitly

enough to secure a perfect recollection of their meaning, within the

time necessary for drawing out the story at full, in short paragraphs of

two, three, four, five, or six lines each.

I then sat down to write my story from the beginning. I wrote for the

most part but a short portion in any single day. I wrote only when the

afflatus was upon me. I held it for a maxim that any portion that was

written when I was not fully in the vein told for considerably worse

than nothing. Idleness was a thousand times better in this case than

industry against the grain. Idleness was only time lost; and the next

day, it may be, was as promising as ever. It was merely a day perished

from the calendar. But a passage written feebly, flatly, and in a wrong

spirit, constituted an obstacle that it was next to impossible to

correct and set right again. I wrote therefore by starts; sometimes for

a week or ten days not a line. Yet all came to the same thing in the

sequel. On an average, a volume of "Caleb Williams" cost me four months,

neither less nor more.

It must be admitted, however, that during the whole period, bating a few

intervals, my mind was in a high state of excitement. I said to myself a

thousand times, "I will write a tale that shall constitute an epoch in

the mind of the reader, that no one, after he has read it, shall ever be

exactly the same man that he was before."--I put these things down just

as they happened, and with the most entire frankness. I know that it

will sound like the most pitiable degree of self-conceit. But such

perhaps ought to be the state of mind of an author when he does his

best. At any rate, I have said nothing of my vainglorious impulse for

nearly forty years.

When I had written about seven-tenths of the first volume, I was

prevailed upon by the extreme importunity of an old and intimate friend

to allow him the perusal of my manuscript. On the second day he returned

it with a note to this purpose: "I return you your manuscript, because I

promised to do so. If I had obeyed the impulse of my own mind, I should

have thrust it in the fire. If you persist, the book will infallibly

prove the grave of your literary fame."

I doubtless felt no implicit deference for the judgment of my friendly

critic. Yet it cost me at least two days of deep anxiety before I

recovered the shock. Let the reader picture to himself my situation. I

felt no implicit deference for the judgment of my friendly critic. But

it was all I had for it. This was my first experiment of an unbiassed

decision. It stood in the place of all the world to me. I could not, and

I did not feel disposed to, appeal any further. If I had, how could I

tell that the second and third judgment would be more favourable than

the first? Then what would have been the result? No; I had nothing for

it but to wrap myself in my own integrity. By dint of resolution I

became invulnerable. I resolved to go on to the end, trusting as I could

to my own anticipations of the whole, and bidding the world wait its

time before it should be admitted to the consult.

I began my narrative, as is the more usual way, in the third person. But

I speedily became dissatisfied. I then assumed the first person, making

the hero of my tale his own historian; and in this mode I have persisted

in all my subsequent attempts at works of fiction. It was infinitely the

best adapted, at least, to my vein of delineation, where the thing in

which my imagination revelled the most freely was the analysis of the

private and internal operations of the mind, employing my metaphysical

dissecting knife in tracing and laying bare the involutions of motive,

and recording the gradually accumulating impulses which led the

personages I had to describe primarily to adopt the particular way of

proceeding in which they afterwards embarked.

When I had determined on the main purpose of my story, it was ever my

method to get about me any productions of former authors that seemed to

bear on my subject. I never entertained the fear that in this way of

proceeding I should be in danger of servilely copying my predecessors. I

imagined that I had a vein of thinking that was properly my own, which

would always preserve me from plagiarism. I read other authors, that I

might see what they had done, or, more properly, that I might forcibly

hold my mind and occupy my thoughts in a particular train, I and my

predecessors travelling in some sense to the same goal, at the same time

that I struck out a path of my own, without ultimately heeding the

direction they pursued, and disdaining to inquire whether by any chance

it for a few steps coincided or did not coincide with mine.

Thus, in the instance of "Caleb Williams," I read over a little old

book, entitled "The Adventures of Mademoiselle de St. Phale," a French

Protestant in the times of the fiercest persecution of the Huguenots,

who fled through France in the utmost terror, in the midst of eternal

alarms and hair-breadth escapes, having her quarters perpetually beaten

up, and by scarcely any chance finding a moment's interval of security.

I turned over the pages of a tremendous compilation, entitled "God's

Revenge against Murder," where the beam of the eye of Omniscience was

represented as perpetually pursuing the guilty, and laying open his most

hidden retreats to the light of day. I was extremely conversant with the

"Newgate Calendar" and the "Lives of the Pirates." In the meantime no

works of fiction came amiss to me, provided they were written with

energy. The authors were still employed upon the same mine as myself,

however different was the vein they pursued: we were all of us engaged

in exploring the entrails of mind and motive, and in tracing the various

rencontres and clashes that may occur between man and man in the

diversified scene of human life.

I rather amused myself with tracing a certain similitude between the

story of Caleb Williams and the tale of Bluebeard, than derived any

hints from that admirable specimen of the terrific. Falkland was my

Bluebeard, who had perpetrated atrocious crimes, which, if discovered,

he might expect to have all the world roused to revenge against him.

Caleb Williams was the wife who, in spite of warning, persisted in his

attempts to discover the forbidden secret; and, when he had succeeded,

struggled as fruitlessly to escape the consequences, as the wife of

Bluebeard in washing the key of the ensanguined chamber, who, as often

as she cleared the stain of blood from the one side, found it showing

itself with frightful distinctness on the other.

When I had proceeded as far as the early pages of my third volume, I

found myself completely at a stand. I rested on my arms from the 2nd of

January, 1794, to the 1st of April following, without getting forward in

the smallest degree. It has ever been thus with me in works of any

continuance. The bow will not be for ever bent:

"Opere in longo fas est obrepere somnum."

I endeavoured, however, to take my repose to myself in security, and not

to inflict a set of crude and incoherent dreams upon my readers. In the

meantime, when I revived, I revived in earnest, and in the course of

that month carried on my work with unabated speed to the end.

Thus I have endeavoured to give a true history of the concoction and

mode of writing of this mighty trifle. When I had done, I soon became

sensible that I had done in a manner nothing. How many flat and insipid

parts does the book contain! How terribly unequal does it appear to me!

From time to time the author plainly reels to and fro like a drunken

man. And, when I had done all, what had I done? Written a book to amuse

boys and girls in their vacant hours, a story to be hastily gobbled up

by them, swallowed in a pusillanimous and unanimated mood, without

chewing and digestion. I was in this respect greatly impressed with the

confession of one of the most accomplished readers and excellent critics

that any author could have fallen in with (the unfortunate Joseph

Gerald). He told me that he had received my book late one evening, and

had read through the three volumes before he closed his eyes. Thus, what

had cost me twelve months' labour, ceaseless heartaches and industry,

now sinking in despair, and now roused and sustained in unusual energy,

he went over in a few hours, shut the book, laid himself on his pillow,

slept, and was refreshed, and cried,

"To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new."

I had thought to have said something here respecting the concoction of

"St. Leon" and "Fleetwood." But all that occurs to me on the subject

seems to be anticipated in the following

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

_February 14, 1805._

Yet another novel from the same pen, which has twice before claimed the

patience of the public in this form. The unequivocal indulgence which

has been extended to my two former attempts, renders me doubly

solicitous not to forfeit the kindness I have experienced.

One caution I have particularly sought to exercise: "not to repeat

myself." Caleb Williams was a story of very surprising and uncommon

events, but which were supposed to be entirely within the laws and

established course of nature, as she operates in the planet we inhabit.

The story of St. Leon is of the miraculous class; and its design, to

"mix human feelings and passions with incredible situations, and thus

render them impressive and interesting."

Some of those fastidious readers--they may be classed among the best

friends an author has, if their admonitions are judiciously

considered--who are willing to discover those faults which do not offer

themselves to every eye, have remarked that both these tales are in a

vicious style of writing; that Horace has long ago decided that the

story we cannot believe we are by all the laws of criticism called upon

to hate; and that even the adventures of the honest secretary, who was

first heard of ten years ago, are so much out of the usual road that not

one reader in a million can ever fear they will happen to himself.

Gentlemen critics, I thank you. In the present volumes I have served you

with a dish agreeable to your own receipt, though I cannot say with any

sanguine hope of obtaining your approbation.

The following story consists of such adventures as for the most part

have occurred to at least one half of the Englishmen now existing who

are of the same rank of life as my hero. Most of them have been at

college, and shared in college excesses; most of them have afterward run

a certain gauntlet of dissipation; most have married, and, I am afraid,

there are few of the married tribe who have not at some time or other

had certain small misunderstandings with their wives.[A] To be sure,

they have not all of them felt and acted under these trite adventures as

my hero does. In this little work the reader will scarcely find anything

to "elevate and surprise;" and, if it has any merit, it must consist in

the liveliness with which it brings things home to the imagination, and

the reality it gives to the scenes it pourtrays.

[Footnote A: I confess, however, the inability I found to weave a

catastrophe, such as I desired, out of these ordinary incidents. What I

have here said, therefore, must not be interpreted as applicable to the

concluding sheets of my work.]

Yes, even in the present narrative, I have aimed at a certain kind of

novelty--a novelty which may be aptly expressed by a parody on a

well-known line of Pope; it relates:

"Things often done, but never yet described."

In selecting among common and ordinary adventures, I have endeavoured to

avoid such as a thousand novels before mine have undertaken to develop.

Multitudes of readers have themselves passed through the very incidents

I relate; but, for the most part, no work has hitherto recorded them. If

I have told them truly, I have added somewhat to the stock of books

which should enable a recluse, shut up in his closet, to form an idea of

what is passing in the world. It is inconceivable, meanwhile, how much,

by this choice of a subject, I increased the arduousness of my task. It

is so easy to do, a little better, or a little worse, what twenty

authors have done before! If I had foreseen from the first all the

difficulty of my project, my courage would have failed me to undertake

the execution of it.

Certain persons, who condescend to make my supposed inconsistencies the

favourite object of their research, will perhaps remark with exultation

on the respect expressed in this work for marriage, and exclaim, "It was

not always thus!" referring to the pages in which this subject is

treated in the "Enquiry concerning Political Justice" for the proof of

their assertion. The answer to this remark is exceedingly simple. The

production referred to in it, the first foundation of its author's claim

to public distinction and favour, was a treatise, aiming to ascertain

what new institutions in political society might be found more

conducive to general happiness than those which at present prevail. In

the course of this disquisition it was enquired whether marriage, as it

stands described and supported in the laws of England, might not with

advantage admit of certain modifications. Can anything be more distinct

than such a proposition on the one hand and a recommendation on the

other that each man for himself should supersede and trample upon the

institutions of the country in which he lives? A thousand things might

be found excellent and salutary, if brought into general practice, which

would in some cases appear ridiculous, and in others be attended with

tragical consequences, if prematurely acted upon by a solitary

individual. The author of "Political Justice," as appears again and

again in the pages of that work, is the last man in the world to

recommend a pitiful attempt, by scattered examples, to renovate the face

of society, instead of endeavouring, by discussion and reasoning, to

effect a grand and comprehensive improvement in the sentiments of its

members.

* * * * *

VOLUME THE FIRST.

CHAPTER 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

prospects have been blasted. My enemy has shown himself inaccessible to

entreaties, 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 incited 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 county 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.

There are other circumstances deserving to be mentioned as having

influenced the history of my future life. I was somewhat above the

middle stature. Without being particularly athletic in appearance, or

large in my dimensions, I was uncommonly vigorous and active. My joints

were supple, and I was formed to excel in youthful sports. The habits of

my mind, however, were to a certain degree at war with the dictates of

boyish vanity. I had considerable aversion to the boisterous gaiety of

the village gallants, and contrived to satisfy my love of praise with an

unfrequent apparition at their amusements. My excellence in these

respects, however, gave a turn to my meditations. I delighted to read of

feats of activity, and was particularly interested by tales in which

corporeal ingenuity or strength are the means resorted to for supplying

resources and conquering difficulties. I inured myself to mechanical

pursuits, and devoted much of my time to an endeavour after mechanical

invention.

The spring of action which, perhaps more than any other, characterised

the whole train of my life, was curiosity. It was this that gave me my

mechanical turn; I was desirous of tracing the variety of effects which

might be produced from given causes. It was this that made me a sort of

natural philosopher; I could not rest till I had acquainted myself with

the solutions that had been invented for the phenomena of the universe.

In fine, this produced in me an invincible attachment to books of

narrative and romance. I panted for the unravelling of an adventure with

an anxiety, perhaps almost equal to that of the man whose future

happiness or misery depended on its issue. I read, I devoured

compositions of this sort. They took possession of my soul; and the

effects they produced were frequently discernible in my external

appearance and my health. My curiosity, however, was not entirely

ignoble: village anecdotes and scandal had no charms for me: my

imagination must be excited; and when that was not done, my curiosity

was dormant.

The residence of my parents was within the manor of Ferdinando Falkland,

a country squire of considerable opulence. At an early age I attracted

the favourable 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. Falkland visited his estate in our

county after an absence of several months. This was a period of

misfortune 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 present occasion. I

found Mr. Falkland a man of small stature, with an extreme delicacy of

form and appearance. In place of the hard-favoured and inflexible

visages I had been accustomed to observe, every muscle and petty line of

his countenance seemed to be in an inconceivable degree pregnant with

meaning. His manner was kind, attentive, and humane. His eye was full of

animation; 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 instrument by which the distance between them and their inferiors

was maintained. His look bespoke the unquietness of his mind, and

frequently wandered 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 my

self-possession, though I still felt restrained by the graceful, but

unaltered dignity of his carriage. When Mr. Falkland had 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 acknowledgments. 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 in the world, upon whose kindness and

interposition I had any direct claim. 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 in the

transcribing and arranging certain papers, and partly in 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 detection of their errors, or the

carrying forward their discoveries. All of them bore powerful marks of a

profound and elegant mind, 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 being 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 situation included in it

circumstances totally different from those which attended me in my

father's cottage. In early life my mind had been much engrossed by

reading and reflection: my intercourse with my fellow mortals was

occasional and short. But, in my new residence, I was excited by every

motive of interest and novelty to study my master's character; and I

found in it an ample 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 compensate for this privation

by the confidence of friendship. He appeared a total stranger to every

thing which usually bears the appellation of pleasure. His features were

scarcely ever relaxed into a smile, nor did that air which spoke the

unhappiness of his mind at any time forsake them: yet his manners were

by no means such as denoted moroseness and misanthropy. He was

compassionate and considerate for others, though the stateliness 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 kindness to which one might otherwise have been

prompted.

Such was the general appearance of Mr. Falkland: but his disposition 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 reflection recurred, he appeared

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 distorted, 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

intrude.

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, they 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 to 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 intended

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 anguish. The sound of the door in opening seemed to alarm

the person within; I heard the lid of a trunk hastily shut, and the

noise as of fastening a lock. I conceived that Mr. Falkland was there,

and was going instantly 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 face betrayed strong symptoms of confusion. With a violent effort,

however, these symptoms vanished, and instantaneously gave place to a

countenance sparkling with rage.

"Villain!" cried he, "what has brought you here?" I hesitated a

confused and irresolute answer. "Wretch!" interrupted Mr. Falkland, with

uncontrollable impatience, "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 moment. I heard the

door shut after me with violence; 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 soothing.

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 anxiety

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 indiscriminate 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 questions, but my youth and ignorance of the

world gave me little advantage for that purpose. Beside this, I had been

accustomed to view Mr. Collins with considerable attachment, and I

conceived from the nature of his situation that there could be small

impropriety in making him my confident in the present instance. I

repeated to him minutely every thing that had passed, and concluded with

a solemn declaration that, though treated with caprice, I was not

anxious for myself; no inconvenience or danger should ever lead me to a

pusillanimous behaviour; and I felt only for my patron, who, with every

advantage for happiness, and being in the highest degree worthy of it,

seemed destined to undergo unmerited distress.

In answer to my communication, Mr. Collins informed 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 indeed of that frothy sort, who excite

contempt instead of admiration, and whose levity argues thoughtlessness

rather than felicity. His gaiety was always accompanied with dignity. It

was the gaiety of the hero and the scholar. It was chastened with

reflection and sensibility, and never lost sight either of good taste or

humanity. Such as it was however, it denoted a genuine hilarity of

heart, imparted an inconceivable brilliancy to his company and

conversation, and rendered him the perpetual delight of the diversified

circles he then willingly 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

unusual promise, is tarnished. His sensibility is shrunk up and withered

by events the most disgustful to his feelings. His mind was fraught with

all the rhapsodies of visionary honour; and, in his sense, nothing but

the grosser part, the mere shell of Falkland, was capable of surviving

the wound that his pride has sustained."

These reflections 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 conceiving 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 inflammation of his mind, would be disposed

to a similar communication. I shall interweave with Mr. Collins's story

various information which I afterwards received from other quarters,

that I may give all possible perspicuity to the series of events. To

avoid confusion in my narrative, I shall drop the person of Collins, and

assume to be myself the historian of our patron. 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 experience

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.

CHAPTER 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 imagination was purged by a certain infusion of philosophy, he

conceived that there was in the manners depicted by these celebrated

poets something to imitate, as well as something to avoid. He believed

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 these 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 travels, at the age at which

the grand tour is usually made; and they were rather confirmed than

shaken by the adventures that befel him. By inclination he was led to

make his longest stay in Italy; and here he fell into company with

several young noblemen 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 was small, his person had an air of uncommon

dignity. His dignity was then heightened by certain additions which were

afterwards obliterated,--an expression of frankness, ingenuity, 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 drunk 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 precarious application of a generally received

distinction. The most generous Italian conceives that there are certain

persons whom it would be contamination for him to call into the open

field. He nevertheless believes that an indignity cannot be expiated but

with blood, and is persuaded that the life of a man is a trifling

consideration, in comparison of 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,

notwithstanding the prejudices of their education, cannot fail to have a

secret conviction of its baseness, 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 species as their inferiors, and of

consequence incites them to gratify their vengeance without danger to

their persons. Mr. Falkland met 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 himself 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 without a knowledge of his previous

character, as it was in all the gloss of youth, yet unassailed by

adversity, and unbroken in upon by anguish or remorse.

At Rome he was received with particular distinction 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 soul was haughty, and her carriage not unfrequently contemptuous.

Her pride was nourished by the consciousness of her charms, by her

elevated 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 disposition. 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 uneasiness 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. 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 daughter, 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 innocence, entertained

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. Meanwhile certain incidents occurred that delayed the intended

nuptials of the heiress of Pisani. When he returned 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 desire to be acquainted with the English

language, inspired by the lively and ardent encomiums of our best

authors that she had heard from their countryman. She had provided

herself with the usual materials for that purpose, and had made some

progress during his absence. But upon his return she was forward to make

use of the opportunity, which, if missed, might never occur again with

equal advantage, of reading select passages of our poets with an

Englishman 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 qualifications of the Englishman were superior to his own; and he

trembled for the progress that each party 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 deprived of the object dearest to his heart by this tramontane

upstart.

He had, however, sufficient discretion first to demand an explanation of

Lady Lucretia. 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 she was by no means prepared to endure

with apathy. Lady Lucretia had always been accustomed to deference and

submission; and, having got over something like terror, that was at

first inspired by the imperious manner in which she was now catechised,

her next feeling was that of the warmest resentment. She disdained to

satisfy so insolent a questioner, and even indulged herself in certain

oblique hints calculated to strengthen his suspicions. For some time she

described his folly and presumption in terms of the most ludicrous

sarcasm, and then, suddenly changing her style, bid him never let her

see him more except upon the footing of the most distant acquaintance,

as she was determined never again to subject herself to so unworthy a

treatment. She was happy that he had at length disclosed to her his true

character, and would know how to profit of her present experience to

avoid a repetition of the same danger. All this passed in the full

career of passion on both sides, and Lady Lucretia had no time to

reflect upon what might be the consequence of thus exasperating her

lover.

Count Malvesi left her in all the torments of frenzy. He believed that

this was a premeditated scene, to find a pretence for breaking off an

engagement 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

Lucretia, himself, and the whole world. In this temper he hastened to

the hotel of the English cavalier. The season of expostulation was now

over, and he found himself irresistibly impelled to justify his

precipitation with the lady, by taking for granted that the subject of

his suspicion was beyond the reach of doubt.

Mr. Falkland was at home. The first words of the count were an abrupt

accusation of duplicity in the affair of Lady Lucretia, and a challenge.

The Englishman had an unaffected esteem for Malvesi, 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 consequence 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 Malvesi. He could not bear to

think that any misconduct of his should interrupt the prospects of so

deserving a pair. Guided by these sentiments, he endeavoured to

expostulate with the Italian. But his attempts were ineffectual. His

antagonist was drunk with choler, and would not listen to a word that

tended to check the impetuosity of his thoughts. He traversed the room

with perturbed steps, and even foamed with anguish and fury. Mr.

Falkland, finding that all was to no purpose, told the count, that, if

he would return to-morrow at the same hour, he would attend him to any

scene of action he should think proper to select.

From Count Malvesi Mr. Falkland immediately proceeded to the palace of

Pisani. Here he found considerable difficulty in appeasing the

indignation of Lady Lucretia. His ideas of honour would by no means

allow him to win her to his purpose by disclosing the cartel he had

received; otherwise that disclosure would immediately have operated as

the strongest motive that could have been offered to this disdainful

beauty. But, though she dreaded such an event, the vague apprehension

was not strong enough to induce her instantly to surrender all the

stateliness of her resentment. Mr. Falkland, however, drew so

interesting 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

requested him to enter the house for a moment, as he had still an affair

of three minutes to despatch. 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 by a consciousness of the spirited and generous

condescension she was exerting. Mr. Falkland led her up to the

astonished count; and she, gently laying her hand upon the arm of her

lover, exclaimed 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 his reply, signifying that

the precipitation had been all his own, that he only had any forgiveness

to demand, and, though they might pardon, he could never pardon himself

for the sacrilege he had committed against her and this god-like

Englishman. As soon as the first tumults of his joy had subsided, Mr.

Falkland addressed him thus:--

"Count Malvesi, I feel the utmost pleasure in having thus by peaceful

means disarmed your resentment, 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 suspicion 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 assiduous in my attendance upon this enchanting

woman. 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 before I was aware, and harboured a wish which I might

not afterwards have had courage to subdue. I owed you an atonement for

this imprudence.

"But the laws of honour are in the utmost degree rigid; and there was

reason to fear that, however anxious I were to be your friend, I might

be obliged to be your murderer. Fortunately, the reputation of my

courage is sufficiently established, not to expose it to any impeachment

by my declining your present defiance. It was lucky, however, that in

our interview of yesterday you found me alone, and that accident by

that means threw the management of the affair into my disposal. If the

transaction should become known, the conclusion will 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 courage would not have

excused my present moderation; and, though desirous 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 consequences 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 brilliant manner as a man of gallantry and virtue. He continued

abroad during several years, every one of which brought some fresh

accession to the estimation 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 intention of spending the rest of his days at the

residence of his ancestors.

CHAPTER III.

From the moment he entered upon the execution of this purpose, dictated

as it probably was by an unaffected principle of duty, his misfortunes

took their commencement. All I have further to state of his history is

the uninterrupted persecution of a malignant destiny, a series of

adventures that 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, poured their deadly venom upon others.

I being myself the most unfortunate of their victims.

The person in whom these calamities originated was Mr. Falkland's

nearest neighbour, a man of estate equal to his own, by name Barnabas

Tyrrel. This man one might at first have supposed of all others least

qualified from instruction, or inclined by the habits of his life, to

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 early left under the tuition of his mother, a woman of

narrow capacity, and who had no other child. The only remaining member

of the family it may be necessary to notice was Miss Emily Melville, the

orphan daughter of Mr. Tyrrel's paternal aunt; who now resided in the

family mansion, and was wholly dependent on the benevolence of its

proprietors.

Mrs. Tyrrel appeared to think that there was nothing in the world so

precious as her hopeful Barnabas. Every thing must give way to his

accommodation and advantage; 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 barbarian might have

given for a lap-dog to his mistress.

But he soon broke loose from these trammels, 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

proficiency in literature was by no means to be ascribed to want of

capacity. He discovered no contemptible 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 ten-fold robustness and vigour to his former

qualifications.

His stature, when grown, was somewhat more than five feet ten inches in

height, 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 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 genuine field of utility and distinction, showed

itself in the rude tricks of an overgrown lubber. Here, as in all his

other qualifications, he rose above his competitors; and if it had been

possible to overlook the callous and unrelenting disposition which they

manifested, one could scarcely have denied his applause to the invention

these freaks displayed, and the rough, sarcastic wit with which they

were accompanied.

Mr. Tyrrel was by no means inclined to permit these extraordinary merits

to rust 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 _coterie_, no

one having an equal share of opulence, and the majority, though still

pretending to the rank of gentry, greatly his inferior in this essential

article. The young men in this circle looked up to this insolent 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. Frequently indeed he

relaxed his features, and assumed a temporary appearance of affableness

and familiarity; 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 tiger that thought proper to toy with a mouse, the little animal

every moment in danger of being crushed by the fangs of his ferocious

associate. As Mr. Tyrrel had considerable copiousness of speech, and a

rich, but undisciplined imagination, 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 opposition was 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

encountering him at his own weapons, and did not dismiss him without

making him feel his presumption through every joint in his frame. The

tyranny of Mr. Tyrrel would not have been so patiently endured, had not

his colloquial accomplishments perpetually 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 acknowledged prowess with a favourable eye. A form eminently

athletic is, perhaps, always well proportioned; and one of the

qualifications that women are early taught to look for in the male sex,

is that of a protector. As no man was adventurous enough to contest his

superiority, so scarcely 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 seeing this Hercules exchange his

club for a distaff. 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.

Such was the rival that Fortune, in her caprice, had reserved for the

accomplished Falkland. This untamed, though not undiscerning brute, was

found capable of destroying the prospects of a man the most eminently

qualified to enjoy and to communicate happiness. The feud that sprung up

between them was nourished by concurring circumstances, till it attained

a magnitude difficult to be paralleled; and, because they regarded each

other with a deadly hatred, I have become an object of misery and

abhorrence.

The arrival of Mr. Falkland gave an alarming shock to the authority of

Mr. Tyrrel in the village assembly and in all scenes of indiscriminate

resort. His disposition by no means inclined him to withhold himself

from scenes of fashionable amusement; and he and his competitor were

like two stars fated never to appear at once above the horizon. The

advantages Mr. Falkland possessed in the comparison are palpable; and

had it been otherwise, the subjects of his rural neighbour were

sufficiently disposed to revolt against his merciless dominion. They had

hitherto submitted from fear, and not from love; and, if they had not

rebelled, it was only for want of a leader. Even the ladies regarded Mr.

Falkland with particular complacence. His polished manners were

peculiarly in harmony with feminine delicacy. The sallies of his wit

were far beyond those of Mr. Tyrrel in variety and vigour; in addition

to which they had the advantage 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. Tyrrel, together with Mr.

Falkland, to be little accessible to sentiments of awkwardness and

confusion. But for this Mr. Tyrrel was indebted to a self-satisfied

effrontery, and a boisterous and over-bearing elocution, by which he was

accustomed to discomfit his assailants; while Mr. Falkland, with great

ingenuity and candour of mind, was enabled by his extensive knowledge of

the world, and acquaintance with his own resources, to perceive almost

instantaneously the proceeding it most became him to adopt.

Mr. Tyrrel contemplated the progress of his rival with uneasiness and

aversion. He often commented upon it to his particular confidents as a

thing altogether inconceivable. Mr. Falkland he described as an animal

that was beneath contempt. Diminutive and dwarfish in his form, he

wanted to set up a new standard of human nature, adapted to his

miserable condition. He wished to persuade 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 make 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. He never saw any thing come of learning but to make people

foppish and impertinent; and a sensible man would not wish a worse

calamity to the enemies of his nation, than to see them run mad after

such pernicious absurdities. It was impossible that people could

seriously feel any liking for such a ridiculous piece of goods as this

outlandish foreign-made Englishman. But he knew very well how it was: it

was a miserable piece of mummery that was played only in spite of him.

But God for ever blast his soul, if he were not bitterly 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 of

contempt, they appeared to be never weary of recounting his praises.

Such dignity, such affability, so perpetual an attention to the

happiness of others, such delicacy of sentiment and expression! Learned

without ostentation, refined without foppery, elegant without

effeminacy! Perpetually anxious to prevent his superiority from being

painfully felt, it was so much the more certainly felt to be real, and

excited congratulation instead of envy in the spectator. It is scarcely

necessary to remark, that the revolution of sentiment in this rural

vicinity 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 facility 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 the intruder. The most inadvertent expression of applause

inflicted upon him the torment of demons. He writhed with agony, his

features became distorted, and his looks inspired terror. Such suffering

would probably have soured the kindest temper; what must have been its

effect upon Mr. Tyrrel'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

chivalry, the one of whom paid no attention to any one's pleasure but

his own, while the other seemed all good-humour and benevolence. It was

in vain that Mr. Tyrrel endeavoured 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 had been more human while he indulged 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 that she conceived from calculation this conduct

best adapted to insure her success in a husband. One day, however, she

thought proper, probably only by way of experiment, to show Mr. Tyrrel

that she could engage in hostilities, if he should at any time give her

sufficient provocation. She 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 (who was

unpardonably deficient in the sciences of anecdote and match-making) of

giving offence to his country neighbour. Though the manners of Mr.

Falkland were condescending and attentive, his hours of retirement were

principally occupied in contemplations too dignified for scandal, and

too large for the altercations of a vestry, or the politics of an

election-borough.

A short time before the dances began, Mr. Tyrrel 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 would dare 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 notorious.

While he was thus engaged, Mr. Falkland came up. Mr. Tyrrel always

regarded him with aversion and loathing. Mr. Falkland, however, slided

in a graceful and unaffected manner into the conversation already begun;

and the animated 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 was an accidental piece of

general ceremony, and expected every moment when he would withdraw to

another part of the room.

The company now began to be in motion for the dance, and Mr. Falkland

signified as much to Miss Hardingham. "Sir," interrupted Mr. Tyrrel

abruptly, "that lady is my partner."--"I believe not, sir: that lady has

been so obliging as to accept my invitation."--"I tell you, sir, no.

Sir, I have an interest in that lady's affections; and I will suffer no

man to intrude upon my claims."--"The lady's affections are not the

subject of the present question."--"Sir, it is to no purpose to parley.

Make room, sir!"--Mr. Falkland gently repelled his antagonist. "Mr.

Tyrrel!" returned he, with some firmness, "let us have no altercation in

this business: the master of the ceremonies is the proper person to

decide in a difference of this sort, if we cannot adjust it: we can

neither of us intend to exhibit our valour before the ladies, and shall

therefore cheerfully submit to his verdict."--"Damn me, sir, if I

understand--" "Softly, Mr. Tyrrel; I intended you no offence. But, sir,

no man shall prevent my asserting that to which I have once acquired a

claim!"

Mr. Falkland uttered these words with the most unruffled temper in the

world. The tone in which he spoke had acquired elevation, but neither

roughness nor impatience. There was a fascination in his manner that

made the ferociousness of his antagonist subside into impotence. Miss

Hardingham had begun to repent of her experiment, but her alarm was

speedily quieted by the dignified 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. Falkland 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. But, though he 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 his adversary should one day be

brought.

CHAPTER IV.

This was only one out of innumerable instances, that every day seemed to

multiply, of petty mortifications which Mr. Tyrrel was destined to

endure on the part of Mr. Falkland. In all of them Mr. Falkland

conducted himself with such unaffected propriety, as perpetually to add

to the stock of his reputation. The more Mr. Tyrrel struggled with his

misfortune, the more conspicuous and inveterate it became. A thousand

times he cursed his stars, which took, as he apprehended, a malicious

pleasure in making Mr. Falkland, at every turn, the instrument of his

humiliation. Smarting under a succession of untoward events, he

appeared to feel, in the most exquisite manner, the distinctions paid to

his adversary, even in those points in which he had not the slightest

pretensions. An instance of this now occurred.

Mr. Clare, a poet whose works have done immortal honour to the country

that produced him, had lately retired, after a life spent in the

sublimest efforts 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 degree 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

deficient in gratitude when they saw him, who had left them an

adventurer, return into the midst of them, in the close of his days,

crowned with honours 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 indifference.

One of the features that most eminently distinguished him was a

perpetual suavity of manners, a comprehensiveness of mind, that regarded

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

mistakes with frankness and unreserve, his remonstrances produced

astonishment and conviction, but without uneasiness, in the party to

whom they were addressed: they felt the instrument that was employed 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 accomplishments he exhibited were,

principally, a tranquil and mild enthusiasm, and a richness of

conception which 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 remote situation that were

capable of participating in his ideas and amusements. It has been among

the weaknesses 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. Falkland's arrival in the

neighbourhood, Mr. Clare distinguished 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 materials of his judgment had long

since been accumulated; and, at the close of so illustrious 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 his neighbour 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 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 procuring justice to

merit.

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 sets 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 a 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 was much at their service, provided

its being thus produced would not be disagreeable to the author. The

whole circle immediately entreated Mr. Falkland to comply with their

wishes, and Mr. Clare, who was one of the company, enforced their

petition. Nothing gave this gentleman so much pleasure as to have an

opportunity of witnessing and doing justice to the exhibition of

intellectual excellence. Mr. Falkland had no false modesty or

affectation, and therefore readily yielded his consent.

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

agreeable to him. He appeared to wish to withdraw himself, but there

seemed to be 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 for him.

The poem was read to the rest of the company by Mr. Clare, whose

elocution was scarcely inferior to his other accomplishments.

Simplicity, discrimination, 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 hearer. What was impetuous, and what was solemn,

were delivered with a responsive feeling, and a flowing and unlaboured

tone. The pictures conjured up by the creative fancy of the poet were

placed full to view, at one time overwhelming the soul with

superstitious awe, and 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 refinement. 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 peculiar vein of glowing inspiration. This very poem

would probably have been seen by many of them with little effect; but

the accents of Mr. Clare carried it home to the heart. He ended: and, as

the countenances of his auditors had before sympathised with the

passions of the composition, so now they emulated each other in

declaring their approbation. Their sensations were of a sort to which

they were little accustomed. One spoke, and another followed by a sort

of uncontrollable 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,

addressing Mr. Falkland, said with emphasis and animation, "Ha! this is

as it should be. It is of the right stamp. I have seen too many hard

essays strained from the labour of a pedant, and pastoral ditties

distressed in lack of a meaning. They are such as you sir, that we want.

Do not forget, however, that the Muse was not given to add refinements

to idleness, but for the highest and most invaluable purposes. Act up to

the magnitude of your destiny."

A moment after, Mr. Clare quitted his seat, and with Mr. Falkland and

two or three more withdrew. As soon as they were gone, Mr. Tyrrel edged

further 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 himself, and not addressing any particular person: "why,

ay, the verses are well enough. Damnation! 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 an agreeable and

elegant amusement."

"Elegant, quotha!--Why, look at this Falkland! A puny bit of a thing! In

the devil's name, madam, 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, contributed 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 indolent 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 accompanied by a young man,

whom similitude of manners had rendered one of his principal confidents,

and whose road home was in part the same as his own. One might have

thought that Mr. Tyrrel had sufficiently vented his spleen in the

dialogue he had just been holding. But he was unable to dismiss from his

recollection 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 notion of things: 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 neighbours, are only more artful. They mean the same thing,

though they take a different road. He deceived me for a while, but it is

all out now. They are the makers of 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. Mr. Falkland proceeded, without ceremony, to

explain the motive of his coming.

"Mr. Tyrrel," said he, "I am come to have an amicable explanation with

you."

"Explanation! What is my offence?"

"None in the world, sir; and for that reason I conceive this the fittest

time to come to a right understanding."

"You are in a 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 purity of my intentions,

and I will not doubt, when you perceive the view with which I come, that

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 given you

reason to be displeased."

"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 reason to hug yourself upon

the experiment."

"Nothing, sir, 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."

"Mr. Tyrrel! sir--have a care!"

"Of what, sir!--Do you threaten me? Damn my soul! who are you? what do

you come here for?"

The fieriness of Mr. Tyrrel brought Mr. Falkland to his recollection.

"I am wrong," said he. "I confess it. I came for purposes of peace. With

that view I have taken the liberty to visit you. Whatever therefore

might be my feelings upon another occasion, I am bound to suppress them

now."

"Ho!--Well, sir: and what have you further to offer?"

"Mr. Tyrrel," proceeded Mr. Falkland, "you will readily imagine that

the cause that brought me was not a slight one. I would not have

troubled 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 further deliberation

impotent. An unfortunate jealousy seems to have insinuated itself

between us, which I would willingly remove; and I come to ask your

assistance. We are both of us nice of temper; we are both apt to kindle,

and warm of resentment. Precaution in this stage can be dishonourable to

neither; the time may come when we shall wish we had employed it, and

find it too late. Why should we be enemies? Our tastes are different;

our pursuits need not interfere. We both of us amply possess the means

of happiness; We may be respected by all, and spend a long life of

tranquillity and enjoyment. Will it be wise in us to exchange this

prospect for the fruits of strife? A strife between persons with our

peculiarities and our weaknesses, includes consequences that I shudder

to think of. I fear, sir, that it is pregnant with death at least to one

of us, and with misfortune and remorse to the survivor."

"Upon my soul, you are a strange man! Why trouble me with your

prophecies and forebodings?"

"Because it is necessary to your happiness! Because it becomes me to

tell you of our danger now, rather than wait till my character will

allow this tranquillity no longer!

"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 magnanimity to contemn petty misunderstandings. By thus

judging we shall do ourselves most substantial honour. By a contrary

conduct we shall 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; 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 offered his hand to Mr. Tyrrel in token of

fellowship. But the gesture was too significant. The wayward rustic, who

seemed to have been somewhat impressed by what had preceded, taken as he

now was by surprise, shrunk back. Mr. Falkland was again ready to take

fire upon this new slight, but he checked himself.

"All this is very unaccountable," cried Mr. Tyrrel. "What the devil can

have made you so forward, if you had not some sly 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

regard 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 controlled. Mayhap you may think it is 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 humoured me.

But now the case is entirely altered; 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 rhymes and your rebusses, your

quirks and your conundrums, may then be every thing that is grand for

what I care."

"Mr. Tyrrel, be reasonable! Might not I as well desire you to leave the

county, as you desire me? I come to you, not as to a master, but an

equal. In the society of men we must have something to endure, as well

as to enjoy. No man must think that the world was made for him. Let us

take things as we find them; and accommodate ourselves as we can to

unavoidable circumstances."

"True, sir; all this is 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 consequences, 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 pragmatical 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 consequences, and came as a friend.

I had hoped that, by mutual explanation, we should have come to a better

understanding. I am disappointed; but, perhaps, when you coolly reflect

on what has passed, you will give me credit for my intentions, and think

that my proposal was not an unreasonable one."

Having said this, Mr. Falkland departed. Through the interview he, no

doubt, conducted himself in a way that did him peculiar credit. Yet the

warmth of his temper could not be entirely suppressed: and even when he

was most exemplary, there was an apparent loftiness in his manner that

was calculated to irritate; and the very grandeur with which he

suppressed his passions, operated indirectly as a taunt to his opponent.

The interview was prompted by the noblest sentiments; but it

unquestionably served to widen the breach it was intended to heal.

For Mr. Tyrrel, he had recourse to his old expedient, and unburthened

the tumult of his thoughts to his confidential friend. "This," cried he,

"is a new artifice of the fellow, to prove his imagined superiority. We

knew well enough that he had 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! But what signifies prating? Business must be

done in another 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 hangs

like a dead weight upon my heart, and I have a right to shake 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. He regarded him, indeed, with

added dislike; but he no longer regarded him as a despicable foe. He

avoided his encounter; he forbore to treat him with random hostility; he

seemed to lie in wait for his victim, and to collect his venom for a

mortal assault.

CHAPTER V.

It was not long after that a malignant distemper broke out in the

neighbourhood, 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 conceived, what grief and alarm

this incident spread through the vicinity. Mr. Clare was considered by

them as something more than mortal. The equanimity of his behaviour, his

unassuming 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 no enemy. All mourned the

danger that now threatened him. He appeared to have had 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 intellectual

efforts he had made, which were occasionally more sudden, violent, and

unintermitted, than a strict regard to health would have dictated, had

laid the seed of future disease. But a sanguine observer would

infallibly have predicted, that his temperate habits, activity of mind,

and unabated cheerfulness, would be able even to keep death at bay for a

time, and baffle the attacks of distemper, provided their approach were

not uncommonly rapid and violent. The general affliction, therefore, was

doubly pungent upon the present occasion.

But no one was so much affected as Mr. Falkland. Perhaps no man 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 persons 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 proved most effectual for counteracting infection.

He found Mr. Clare in his bed-chamber, but not in bed. He was sitting in

his night-gown at a bureau near the window. His appearance was composed

and cheerful, but death was in his countenance. "I had a great

inclination, 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, I trust, be

taken through the treachery of the commander. 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."

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 the frequent

change from the extremes of a pure to a tainted air, and desisted from

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 himself."

Mr. Clare continued to act in the same easy and disengaged manner as in

perfect health. To judge from the cheerfulness of his tone and the

firmness of his manner, the thought would never once have occurred 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. Yesterday 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 stores

of knowledge at one's command, capable of delighting, instructing, and

animating mankind, and the next, lifeless and loathsome, 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 merciless for me;

he will not give me time so much as to breathe. These things are not yet

at least 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 further 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. Mankind would have

little to envy to future ages, if they had all enjoyed a serenity as

perfect as mine has been for the latter half of my existence."

Mr. Clare sat up through the whole day, indulging himself in easy and

cheerful exertions, which were perhaps better calculated to refresh and

invigorate 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 impotence of

these attacks. They might destroy him, but they could not disturb. 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, decided to go to bed, it

being already night. "Falkland," said he, pressing his hand, "the task

of dying is not so difficult as some imagine. When one looks back from

the brink of it, one wonders that so total a subversion can take place

at so easy a price."

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 destined to have the worst in

this battle.

"Falkland, I have been thinking about you. I do not know any one whose

future usefulness I contemplate with greater hope. Take care of

yourself. Do not let the world be defrauded of your virtues. I am

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. Think seriously of exterminating this error!

"But if I cannot, in the brief expostulation my present situation will

allow, produce 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 unworthy to be compared with

you, should be capable of changing your whole history into misery and

guilt. I have a painful presentiment upon my heart, as if something

dreadful would reach you from that quarter. Think of this. I exact no

promise from you. I would not shackle you with the fetters of

superstition; I would have you governed by justice and reason."

Mr. Falkland was deeply affected with this expostulation. His sense of

the generous attention of Mr. Clare at such a moment, 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 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 connections, 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 desire 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 morning 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 Falkland 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;

farewell! 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

sometimes imagined 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 withheld, 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! yesterday! 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 different kind. He avowed that he had not forgiven him his partial

attachment to Mr. Falkland, and therefore could not recall his

remembrance with kindness. But if he could have overlooked his past

injustice, sufficient care, it seems, was taken to keep alive his

resentment. "Falkland, forsooth, attended him on his death-bed, as if

nobody else were worthy 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 upon his betters? Is every

body incapable of saying what kind of stuff a man is made of? caught

with mere outside? choosing the flimsy before the substantial? And upon

his death-bed too? [Mr. Tyrrel with his uncultivated brutality mixed, as

usually happens, certain rude notions of religion.] 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 uneasy; and, whatever may be

the consequences, it is he we have to thank for them."

The death of Mr. Clare removed the person who could most effectually

have moderated the animosities of the contending parties, and took away

the great operative check upon the excesses of Mr. Tyrrel. This rustic

tyrant had been held in involuntary restraint by the intellectual

ascendancy of his celebrated neighbour: and, notwithstanding the general

ferocity of his temper, he 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. Falkland from the

Continent, the conduct of Mr. Tyrrel had even shown tokens of

improvement. He would indeed have been better satisfied not to have had

even this intruder into a circle where he had been accustomed to reign.

But with Mr. Clare he could have no rivalship; the venerable character

of Mr. Clare disposed him to submission: this great man seemed to have

survived all the acrimony of contention, and all the jealous subtleties

of a mistaken honour.

The effects of Mr. Clare's suavity however, so far as related to Mr.

Tyrrel, had been in a certain degree suspended by considerations of

rivalship between this gentleman and Mr. Falkland. And, now that the

influence of Mr. Clare's presence and virtues was entirely removed, Mr.

Tyrrel's temper broke out into more criminal excesses than ever. The

added gloom which Mr. Falkland's neighbourhood inspired, overflowed upon

all his connections; and the new examples of his sullenness and tyranny

which every day afforded, reflected back upon this accumulated and

portentous feud.

CHAPTER VI.

The consequences of all this speedily manifested 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 rapid and tremendous. The death-dealing mischief advances with an

accelerated motion, appearing to defy human wisdom and strength to

obstruct its operation.

The vices of Mr. Tyrrel, in their present state of augmentation, were

peculiarly exercised upon his domestics and dependents. But the

principal sufferer was the young lady mentioned on a former occasion,

the orphan daughter of his father's sister. Miss Melville's mother had

married imprudently, or rather unfortunately, 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

consequence of the irreconcilableness of her family was less than he

expected, and had broken her heart. Her infant daughter was left without

any resource. In this situation the representations 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 forfeited

by her imprudence, and which had gone to swell the property 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 admitting Miss Emily into a sort of

equivocal 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 housekeeper, 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 learned with great docility the few

accomplishments Mrs. Jakeman was able to communicate. But most of all

she imbibed her cheerful 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. Besides the advantages Emily derived

from Mrs. Jakeman, she was permitted to take lessons from the masters

who were employed at 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 Melville. Mrs. Tyrrel therefore

encouraged the studies of Emily on that score; in addition to which she

imagined that this living exhibition of instruction might operate as an

indirect allurement to her darling Barnabas, the only species of motive

she would suffer to be presented. Force she absolutely forbade; and of

the intrinsic allurements of literature and knowledge she had no

conception.

Emily, as she grew up, displayed an uncommon degree of sensibility,

which under her circumstances would have been a source of perpetual

dissatisfaction, 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

savoured of the _brunette_; and her face was marked with the small-pox,

sufficiently to destroy its evenness and polish, though not enough to

destroy 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 impression of an active discernment and a good-humoured

frankness. The instruction she had received, as it was entirely of a

casual nature, exempted 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 contained; or

rather, having never been debauched with applause, she set light by her

own qualifications, and talked from the pure gaiety of a youthful heart

acting upon the stores of a just understanding, 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 considered Miss Melville as a branch of the stock of the Tyrrels,

took no more notice of her in her will than barely putting her down for

one hundred pounds in a catalogue of legacies to her servants. She had

never been admitted into the intimacy and confidence 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 in 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 himself solitary and forlorn

without the society of Miss Melville. Nearness of kindred, and Emily's

want of personal beauty, prevented him from ever looking on her with the

eyes of desire. Her accomplishments were chiefly of the customary and

superficial kind, dancing and music. Her skill in the first led him

sometimes to indulge her with a vacant 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 frequently employed for

his amusement. She had the honour occasionally of playing him to sleep

after the fatigues of the chase; 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 mediator to whom his tenants and domestics, when

they had incurred his displeasure, were accustomed to apply; the

privileged companion, that could approach this lion with impunity in the

midst of his roarings. She spoke to him without fear; her solicitations

were always good-natured and disinterested; 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 Melville. Its

precariousness had been beguiled by the uncommon forbearance with which

she was treated by her savage protector. But his disposition, always

brutal, had acquired a gradual accession of ferocity since the

settlement of Mr. Falkland in his neighbourhood. He now frequently

forgot the gentleness 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

blandishments with an impatient sternness that made her tremble. The

careless ease of her disposition, however, soon effaced these

impressions, and she fell without variation into her old habits.

A circumstance occurred about this time which gave peculiar strength to

the acrimony of Mr. Tyrrel, and ultimately brought to its close the

felicity that Miss Melville, 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 because 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 custom has placed between 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 impatience. 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 richest 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 perpetual subject of her reveries and her dreams; but his image

excited no sentiment in her mind beyond that of the immediate pleasure

she took in his idea.

The notice Mr. Falkland bestowed on her in return, appeared sufficiently

encouraging to a mind so full of prepossession as that of Emily. There

was a particular complacency in his looks when directed towards her. He

had said in a company, of which one of the persons present repeated his

remarks to Miss Melville, that she appeared to him amiable and

interesting; that he felt for her unprovided and destitute situation;

and that he should have been glad to be more particular in his attention

to her, had he not been apprehensive of doing her a prejudice in the

suspicious mind of Mr. Tyrrel. All this she considered 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 confused feeling as if some event,

that was yet in the womb of fate, might reconcile things apparently the

most incompatible. Fraught with these prepossessions, the civilities

that had once or twice occurred in the bustle of a public circle, the

restoring her fan which she had dropped, or the disembarrassing 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 Melville's mind. One evening,

a short time after the death of Mr. Clare, Mr. Falkland had been at 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 expected. He did not set out upon his return

till two o'clock in the morning. 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 marked with strong variations of light and shade, gave a kind of

sacred solemnity to the scene. Mr. Falkland 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 recollect who he was. The

attractive solemnity of the scene made him break off the talk somewhat

abruptly, that he might enjoy it without interruption. They had not

ridden far, before a hollow wind seemed 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

became more distinct, and it was at length sufficiently visible that it

was occasioned by a fire. Mr. Falkland put spurs to his horse; and, as

they approached, the object presented every instant a more alarming

appearance. The flames ascended with fierceness; they embraced a large

portion of the horizon; and, as they carried up with them numerous

little fragments of the materials that fed them, impregnated with fire,

and of an extremely bright and luminous colour, they presented some

feeble image of the tremendous 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 previous experience of a similar

calamity. They conveyed with haste their moveables and furniture into

the adjoining fields. When any of them had effected this as far as it

could be attempted with safety, they were unable to conceive any further

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 an element in arms. The wind in the mean time was

rising, and the flames spread with more and more rapidity.

Mr. Falkland contemplated this scene for a few moments, 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 itself was yet untouched. They seemed

astonished at a direction which implied a voluntary destruction of

property, and considered the task as too much in the heart of the danger

to be undertaken. Observing that they were motionless, he dismounted

from his horse, and called upon them in an authoritative 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 chimneys, he

pushed them headlong into the midst of the fire. He passed and repassed

along the roof; and, having set people to work in 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

consternation was painted in her looks; and, as soon as she could

recollect herself enough to have a proper 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

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 staircase. Mr. Falkland saw, pursued,

and seized her by the arm; it was Mrs. Jakeman. "Stop!" he cried, with a

voice of grand, yet benevolent authority. "Remain you in the street! I

will seek, and will save her!" Mrs. Jakeman obeyed. He charged the

persons who were near to detain her; 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 ascended a

neighbouring house, and entered that in which Emily was, by a window in

the roof.

He found her already awaked from her sleep; and, becoming sensible of

her danger, she had that instant wrapped a loose gown round her. Such is

the almost irresistible result of feminine habits; but, having done

this, she examined the surrounding objects with the wildness of despair.

Mr. Falkland entered the chamber. She flew into his arms with the

rapidity of lightning. She embraced and clung to him, with an impulse

that did not wait to consult the dictates of her understanding. Her

emotions were indescribable. In a few short moments she had lived an age

in love. In two minutes Mr. Falkland was again in the street with his

lovely, half-naked burthen in his arms. Having restored her to her

affectionate protector, snatched from the immediate grasp of death, from

which, if he had not, none would have delivered her, he returned to his

former task. By his presence of mind, by his indefatigable 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, who by this time had obtained a substitute for the garments

she had lost in the fire. 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 Melville had never seen so much of Mr. Falkland upon

any former occasion; and the spectacle of such humanity, delicacy,

firmness, and justice in the form of man, as he crowded into this small

space, was altogether new to her, and in the highest degree fascinating.

She had a confused feeling as if there had been something indecorous in

her behaviour or appearance, when Mr. Falkland had appeared to her

relief; and this combined with her other emotions to render the whole

critical and intoxicating.

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 displayed those unpremeditated emotions which

are common 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 catastrophe which had thus broken out in the 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 under the well known roof than

her spirits were brisk, and her tongue incessant in describing her

danger and her deliverance. Mr. Tyrrel had formerly been tortured with

the innocent eulogiums she pronounced of Mr. Falkland. But these were

lameness itself, compared with the rich and various eloquence that now

flowed from her lips. Love had not the same effect upon her, especially

at the present moment, which it would have had upon a person instructed

to feign a blush, and inured to a consciousness of wrong. She described

his activity and 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 surveying and controlling the

whole, but could have no notion of any human means by which his purposes

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 amplification

became nauseous, and he at length with some roughness 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 had entered into the

confederacy that disturbed his repose. For herself, she was wholly

unconscious of offence, and upon every occasion quoted Mr. Falkland as

the model of elegant manners and true wisdom. She was a total stranger

to dissimulation; and she could not conceive that any one beheld the

subject of her admiration with less partiality than herself. Her

artless love became more fervent than ever. She flattered herself that

nothing 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 declare itself, as well as induce the

object of her adoration to overlook her comparative unworthiness.

Mr. Tyrrel endeavoured at first with some moderation to check Miss

Melville in her applauses, and to convince her by various tokens that

the subject was disagreeable to him. He was accustomed to treat her with

kindness. Emily, on her part, was disposed to yield an 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 had preserved her from obstinate contention with the persons

under whose protection she was placed; and, as her compliance was

unhesitating, she 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 Melville 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 impatience and

fierceness.

At length she wholly conquered her heedlessness and inattention. But it

was too late. Mr. Tyrrel already suspected the existence of that passion

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 unnatural restraint. Her present reserve upon the

subject was even more insufferable than her former loquacity. All his

kindness for this unhappy orphan gradually subsided. Her partiality for

the man who was the object of his unbounded abhorrence, 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 artificial, and holding the rude and genuine offspring of nature in

mortal antipathy. Impressed with these gloomy presages, he saw Miss

Melville with no sentiments but those of rancorous aversion; and,

accustomed as he was to the uncontrolled indulgence of his propensities,

he determined to wreak upon her a signal revenge.

CHAPTER VII.

Mr. Tyrrel consulted his old confident respecting the plan he should

pursue; who, sympathising as he did in the brutality and insolence of

his friend, had no 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 as she could. 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 Melville, who, he

shrewdly suspected, guided by the tender sentiments she had

unfortunately conceived for Mr. Falkland, would listen with reluctance

to any matrimonial proposal. Grimes he selected 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 misshapen 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 himself. 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 exempted 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

unexpected a suggestion. But as soon as she recovered her speech, she

replied, "No, sir, I do not want a husband."

"You do! Are not you always hankering after the men? It is high time you

should be settled."

"Mr. Grimes! No, indeed! when I do have a husband, it shall not be such

a man as Mr. Grimes neither."

"Be silent! How dare you give yourself such unaccountable liberties?"

"Lord, I wonder what I should do with him. You might as well give me

your great rough water-dog, and bid me make him a silk cushion to lie in

my dressing-room. Besides, 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 impudence to think yourself one

of our family?"

"Why, sir, was not your grandpapa my grandpapa? How then can we be of a

different family?"

"From the strongest reason in the world. You are the daughter of a

rascally Scotchman, who spent every shilling of my aunt Lucy's fortune,

and left you a beggar. You have got an hundred pounds, and Grimes's

father promises to give him as much. How dare you look down upon your

equals?"

"Indeed, sir, I am not proud. But, indeed and indeed, I can never love

Mr. Grimes. I am very happy as I am: why should I be married?"

"Silence 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."

"Nay, I am sure, sir--you are not in earnest?"

"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.--Ay, this comes of

indulgence. You must be taken down, miss. You must be taught the

difference 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 the blame of it."

The tone in which Mr. Tyrrel spoke was so different from any thing to

which Miss Melville had been accustomed, that she felt herself wholly

unable 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 presently she

rejected this idea as an unworthy imputation 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 housekeeper,) "you cannot think

so? But I do not care. I will never marry Grimes, happen what 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 my cousin is one of these."

"I hope he is not."

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

him angry."

"What then! Why then my poor 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, is not that the case with a thousand other folks?

Why should I grieve, for what they bear and are merry? Do not make

yourself uneasy, mamma. I am determined that I will do any thing rather

than marry Grimes; 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 proposed the question,

sufficiently indicated the judgment she had formed of the match.

"That is true," said Mr. Tyrrel, "I wanted to speak to you about this

affair. The girl has got unaccountable notions in her head, that will be

the ruin of her. You perhaps can tell where she had them. But, be that

as it will, 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 desire, 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 appointment, 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. Speak the word; a nod is as good as a wink to

a blind horse."

Emily was already sufficiently mortified at the unexpected proposal of

Mr. Tyrrel. She was confounded at the novelty of the situation, and

still more at the uncultivated rudeness of her lover, which even

exceeded her expectation. This confusion 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 fine 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 harvestmen, 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 further 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. I know what is what, and can see as far into a

millstone 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 entreated him to desist from all further application. This

remonstrance on her part would have become more intelligible, had it not

been for his boisterous manners and extravagant cheerfulness, which

indisposed him to silence, and made him suppose that at half a word he

had sufficient intimation of another's meaning. Mr. Tyrrel, in the mean

time, was too impatient not to interrupt the scene before they could

have time to proceed far in explanation; and he was studious in the

sequel to prevent the young folks from being too intimately acquainted

with each other's inclinations. Grimes, of consequence, attributed the

reluctance of Miss Melville to maiden coyness, and the skittish shyness

of an unbroken filly. Indeed, had it been otherwise, it is not probable

that it would have made any effectual impression upon him; as he was

always accustomed to consider women as made for the recreation of the

men, and to exclaim against the weakness of people who taught them to

imagine they were to judge for themselves.

As the suit proceeded, and Miss Melville 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 terrified at 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 extremities. She could not

believe that Mr. Tyrrel would persist in such an unaccountable

persecution, and she exhorted Miss Melville to forget for a moment the

unaffected independence of her character, and pathetically to deprecate

her cousin's obstinacy. She had great confidence in the ingenuous

eloquence of her ward. Mrs. Jakeman did not know what was passing in the

breast of the tyrant.

Miss Melville complied with the suggestion of her mamma. One morning

immediately after breakfast, she went to her harpsichord, and played one

after another several of those airs that were most the favourites of Mr.

Tyrrel. Mrs. Jakeman had 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 apartment. Sometimes he traversed it with

impatient steps; 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 relaxed; his features were brightened into a smile; the

kindness with which he had upon former occasions 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 not I done it nicely? and after this will not you give me a

reward?"

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

"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 have not forgot all the

kindness you once had for me?" added she anxiously.

"Forgot? No, no. How can you ask such a question? You shall be my dear

Emily still!"

"Ah, those were happy times!" she replied, a little mournfully. "Do you

know, cousin, I wish I could wake, and find that the last month--only

about a month--was a dream?"

"What do you mean by that?" said Mr. Tyrrel with an altered voice. "Have

a care! Do not put me out of humour. Do not come with your romantic

notions now."

"No, no: I have no romantic notions in my head. I speak of something

upon which the happiness of my life depends."

"I see 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 humour

with you for a moment. What my mind is determined upon about Grimes, all

the world shall not move me to give up."

"Dear, dear cousin! why, 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 into your head. But now, for

goodness' sake, give it up! Marriage is a serious thing. You should not

think of joining two people for a whim, who are neither of them fit for

one another in any respect in the world. We should feel mortified and

disappointed 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 an enemy?"

"I am not your enemy. I tell you that it is necessary 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 continually singing the praises of

Falkland? Are not you in love with Falkland? That man is a legion of

devils to me! 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, a tyrant! It is true that I cannot talk in finical phrases,

flatter people with hypocritical praise, or suppress the real feelings

of my mind. The scoundrel knows his pitiful advantages, and insults me

upon them without ceasing. He is my rival and my persecutor; and, at

last, as if all this were not enough, he has found 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 that of all others I could least

bear. If I were your enemy, should not I have reason? Could I ever

inflict upon you such injuries as you have made me suffer? And who are

you? The lives of fifty such 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 this thief, this

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 suggested new ideas to the tender

mind of Miss Melville. He had never confessed the emotions of his soul

so explicitly before; but the 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 had 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 nothing 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 all that is

reasonable, I will obey you still. But you urge me too far. What do you

tell me of Mr. Falkland? Have I ever done any thing to deserve your

unkind suspicions? I am innocent, and will continue innocent. Mr. Grimes

is well enough, and will no doubt find women that like him; but he is

not fit 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.

"God 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--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 assure you. If you knew your own interest, you would be glad to

take the young fellow while he is willing."

Miss Melville rejoiced in the prospect, which the last words of her

kinsman afforded her, of a termination at no great distance to her

present persecutions. Mrs. Jakeman, to whom she communicated them,

congratulated Emily on the returning moderation and good sense of the

squire, and herself on her prudence in having urged the young lady to

this happy expostulation. But their mutual felicitations lasted not

long. Mr. Tyrrel informed 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 several 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 separation. Mrs. Jakeman, in the mean time,

exhorted her ward to persevere, reminded her of the compunction 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. Falkland. 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 which was not without its pleasures.

CHAPTER VIII.

Nothing could be further from Mr. Tyrrel's intention than to suffer his

project to be thus terminated. No sooner was he freed from the fear of

his housekeeper's interference, than he changed the whole system of his

conduct. He ordered Miss Melville to be closely confined to her

apartment, and deprived of all 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 the amorous notices of the squire, considered the

distinctions that were paid to Emily at Tyrrel Place as an usurpation

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 these precautions as necessary, to prevent her from eloping

to his neighbour, and plunging herself in total ruin.

As soon as Miss Melville 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 a 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 mother 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 resolution I exert.

But ought I not to turn again, when I am trampled upon? I should have

left you before now, if Mrs. Jakeman had not over-persuaded 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

insist upon it, that you do not endeavour to prevent me."

Thus saying, she rose, 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, strumpet; that you shall get

the better of me by sheer impudence? Sit down! rest you satisfied!--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 Falkland to bully for

you. I have countermined you, damn me! and blown up your schemes. 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 be browbeaten by a chitty-faced girl?--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!"

"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 further distant the end for which I am thus unjustly treated.

You are not used to have your will contradicted! When did I ever

contradict it? And, in a concern that is so completely my own, shall my

will go for nothing? Would you lay down this rule for yourself, and

suffer 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, to live

unmolested in poverty and innocence? What sort of a man do you show

yourself, you that lay claim to the respect 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

presence of this unprotected innocent. But his confusion was the result

of surprise. When the first emotion wore off, he cursed himself for

being moved by her expostulations; and was ten times more exasperated

against her, for daring to defy his resentment at a time when she had

every thing to fear. His despotic and unforgiving propensities

stimulated him to a degree little short of madness. At the same time his

habits, which were pensive and gloomy, led him to meditate a variety of

schemes to punish her obstinacy. He began to suspect that there was

little hope of succeeding by open force, and therefore determined to

have recourse to treachery.

He found in Grimes an instrument sufficiently adapted to his purpose.

This fellow, without an atom of intentional malice, was fitted, by the

mere coarseness of his perceptions, for the perpetration of the greatest

injuries. He regarded both injury and advantage merely as they related

to the gratifications of appetite; and considered it an essential in

true wisdom, to treat with insult the effeminacy of those who suffer

themselves to be tormented with ideal misfortunes. He believed that no

happier destiny could befal a young woman than to be his wife; and he

conceived that that termination would amply compensate for any

calamities she might suppose herself to undergo in the interval. He was

therefore easily prevailed upon, by certain temptations which Mr. Tyrrel

knew how to employ, to take part in the plot into which Miss Melville

was meant to be betrayed.

Matters being thus prepared, Mr. Tyrrel proceeded, through the means of

the gaoler (for the experience he 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 the pretence of friendship, and

sometimes with open malice, informed Emily, from time to time, of the

preparations that were making for her marriage. One day, "the squire had

rode over to look at a neat little farm which was destined for the

habitation of the new-married couple;" and at another, "a quantity of

live stock and household 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 readiness, and a day fixed for the nuptials." When

Emily endeavoured, though with increased misgivings, to ridicule these

proceedings as absolutely nugatory without her consent, her artful

gouvernante related several 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

performed.

The situation of Miss Melville was in an eminent degree pitiable. She

had no intercourse but with her persecutors. She had not a human being

with whom to consult, who might afford her the smallest degree of

consolation and encouragement. She had fortitude; 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 under 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 had never cared for the match,

and since she was so averse to it, would be better pleased that it

should never take place. Between one and the other however, he was got

into a scrape, and now he supposed he must marry, will he, nill he. The

two squires would infallibly ruin him upon the least appearance of

backwardness on his part, as they were accustomed to do every inferior

that resisted their will. Emily was rejoiced to find her admirer in so

favourable a disposition; and earnestly pressed him to give effect to

this humane declaration. Her representations were full of eloquence and

energy. Grimes appeared to be moved at the fervency of her manner; but

objected the resentment of Mr. Tyrrel and his landlord. At length,

however, he suggested 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 that their suspicions would fix upon

him. "To be sure," said he, "you have refused me in a disdainful sort of

a way, as a man may say. Mayhap you thought I was no better 'an a brute:

but I bear you no malice, and I will show you that I am more

kind-hearted 'an you have been willing to think. 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, 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 follow your own inclinations."

Emily listened to these suggestions at first with eagerness and

approbation. But her fervency 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 conceal 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

imagination. 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 not

less than seven from that in which Mrs. Jakeman's sister resided, under

whose protection Miss Melville was desirous of placing herself. The

ingenuous character of Emily did not allow her once to suspect Grimes of

intending to make an ungenerous and brutal advantage of these

circumstances; but her mind involuntarily revolted against the idea of

committing herself, alone, to the disposal of a man, whom she had lately

been accustomed to consider as the instrument of her treacherous

relation.

After having for some time revolved these considerations, 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 determined, 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 consequences herself. He was resolved to condescend no

further to the whims of a person who, in her treatment of him, had

shown herself as proud as Lucifer himself.

Emily exerted herself to appease his resentment; but all the eloquence

of her new confederate could not prevail upon her instantly to give up

her objection. 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 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 moment's intermission upon the

subject, her female attendant was sure, by some sly hint or sarcastical

remark, to put a speedy termination to her tranquillity. She felt

herself, as she afterwards remarked, 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 never knew

an 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 at least, if not unrelentingly bent on her destruction.

She now, for the first time, experienced the anguish of never having

known her parents, and being cast upon the charity of people with whom

she had too little equality, to hope to receive from them the offices 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 falsehood; she saw herself

in the hands of her determined enemies, who did not hesitate by the most

daring 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 determination was no sooner made, than she felt her

heart sensibly lightened. She could not conceive any evil which could

result from this proceeding, that deserved to be put in the balance

against those which, under the roof of her kinsman, appeared

unavoidable.

When she communicated her determination to Grimes, it was not possible

to say whether he received 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 assurances of

fidelity to his engagements and punctuality of execution. Meanwhile the

day was interspersed with nuptial presents and preparations, all

indicating the firmness as well as security of the directors 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 reluctantly chosen confederate. But, though

extremely vigilant for that purpose, she found the execution of the 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 vigilance of her

attendant. This insolent and unfeeling 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 staircase. "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 gipsy! 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 remained 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 ee 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

farewell, that suggested the question to Emily, "What does she mean? Is

it possible that she should know what has been planned for the few next

hours?"--This was the first moment that suspicion had offered itself,

and its continuance was short. With an aching heart she folded up the

few necessaries she intended to take with her. She instinctively

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; for a

second time she began to doubt the honesty of Grimes. The suggestion was

now more anxious than before; but it was too late. Presently she heard

the sound of a key in her chamber-door, and the rustic 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 he, "all is safe!" He took her by the hand, led her in

silence out of the house, and then across the garden. Emily examined

with her eye the doors and passages as they proceeded, and looked on all

sides with fearful suspicion; but every thing was as vacant and still as

she herself could have wished. Grimes opened a back-door of the garden

already unlocked, that led into an unfrequented lane. There stood two

horses ready equipped for the journey, and fastened by their bridles 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 to

you, 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." Saying this, he

assisted Miss Melville to mount. He troubled her little during the

route; on the contrary, he was remarkably silent and contemplative, a

circumstance by no means disagreeable to Emily, to whom his conversation

had never been acceptable.

After having proceeded about two miles, they turned into a wood, through

which the road 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

Melville, and then, suddenly reaching out his hand, seized 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 were such a goose, 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

grand-dad. 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 ye 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

protection!

"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, call me spade. Faith, you

are a delicate morsel, and there is no time to be lost!"

Miss Melville had but an instant in which to collect her thoughts. She

felt that there was little hope of softening the obstinate and

insensible brute in whose power she was placed. But the presence of mind

and intrepidity annexed 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 recovered from his surprise, and pursued her,

inexpressibly 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 chase 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 any body would appear to interrupt

his designs, in such a place, and in the dead and silence of the night.

By the most extraordinary accident, however, they found 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 Melville, and that under circumstances the most

unexpected and singular. But in this instance it is 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, another of the victims of Mr. Tyrrel's rural tyranny, whom

I shall immediately have occasion to introduce. Mr. Falkland's

compassion had already been strongly excited in favour of Hawkins; he

had in vain endeavoured 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 further, to save from a perilous offence against

the laws and society a man who appeared to have strongly imbibed the

principles of justice and virtue. He took with him two servants,

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 encounter.

This new adventure promised something extraordinary. Mr. Falkland did

not immediately recognise Miss Melville; and the person of Grimes was

that of a total stranger, whom he did not recollect to have ever seen.

But it was easy to understand the merits of the case, and the propriety

of interfering. The resolute manner of Mr. Falkland, conjoined with the

dread which Grimes, oppressed with a sense of wrong, entertained of the

opposition of so elevated a personage, speedily put the ravisher to

flight. Emily was left 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 eminently 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 neighbour seemed to realise all that

has been told of the passions of fiends. Miss Melville was obliged to

repeat, in the course of her tale, her kinsman's rude accusation against

her, of entertaining a passion 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 infernal kinsman.

They arrived without accident at the house of the good lady under whose

protection Emily desired to place herself. Here Mr. Falkland willingly

left her as in a place of security. Such conspiracies 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 detected, 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.

CHAPTER IX.

Mr. Falkland had experienced the nullity of all expostulation with Mr.

Tyrrel, and was therefore content in the present case with confining his

attention to the intended victim. The indignation with which he thought

of his neighbour's character was now grown to such a height, as to fill

him with reluctance to the idea of a voluntary interview. There was

indeed another affair which had been contemporary with this, that had

once more brought these mortal enemies into a state of contest, and had

contributed to raise into a temper little short of madness, the already

inflamed and corrosive bitterness of Mr. Tyrrel.

There was a tenant of Mr. Tyrrel, one Hawkins;--I cannot mention his

name without recollecting 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

entitled 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 candidate 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 himself strongly in behalf of

the opposite candidate; and, as Mr. Tyrrel's estate bordered upon the

seat of Hawkins's present residence, the ejected countryman could think

of no better expedient than that of riding over to this gentleman's

mansion, and relating 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 kingdom 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

o' 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 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 neighbouring 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

subordination 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 my neighbour 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 value 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 installed out of hand in

the catalogue of Mr. Tyrrel's tenants. Mr. Underwood extremely resented

this proceeding, which indeed, as being contrary to the understood

conventions of the country gentlemen, few people but Mr. Tyrrel would

have ventured upon. There was an end, said Mr. Underwood, to all

regulation, if tenants were to be encouraged in such disobedience. It

was not a question of this or that candidate, seeing that any gentleman,

who was a true friend to his country, would rather lose his election

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 more difficult to keep them under any subordination;

and, if the gentlemen were so ill advised as to neglect the public 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

himself 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 inflexibly 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

qualified 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

landord; and, as these qualities were likely to be more frequently

exercised on such persons as had incurred Mr. Tyrrel's displeasure, than

upon Mr. Tyrrel himself, they were not observed without some degree of

complacency. In a word, he every day received new marks of distinction

from his patron, and after some time was appointed coadjutor to Mr.

Barnes under the denomination of bailiff. It was about the same period

that he obtained a lease of the farm of which he was tenant.

Mr. Tyrrel determined, as occasion offered, to promote every part of the

family of this favoured dependent. Hawkins had a son, a lad of

seventeen, of an agreeable person, a ruddy complexion, 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

approbation; and the boy, being fond of the sports of the field, had

occasionally followed the hounds, and displayed various instances, both

of agility and sagacity, in presence of the squire. One day in

particular he exhibited himself with uncommon advantage; and Mr. Tyrrel

without further delay proposed 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 himself 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 observed of this gentleman that, when he

had once formed 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 repeated to his father the good disposition in which he

felt himself towards him. At length he observed 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, to a man of Mr. Tyrrel's character,

was not of a nature to brook 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 by servants. I do not know, your honour, but, I think, I

should not like my Leonard to be such as they. God forgive me, if I

wrong them! 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 industrious, and, without being

pert 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

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, ho, you are a gentleman, are you? A pretty gentleman truly! your

father was a clergyman! 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 master's manners will be

contaminated truly? He will not know what is due to him, but will be

accustomed to obey orders! You insufferable villain! 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 time can make any change in it. I am

main sorry to displease your worship, and I know that you can do me a

great deal of mischief. But I hope you will not be so hardhearted 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 neger, as a man may say,

has some point that he will 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 Mr. Tyrrel, foaming with rage.

"Depend upon it, I will remember you! Your pride shall have a downfal!

God damn it! is it come to this? Shall a 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 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."

Mr. Tyrrel, unused to contradiction, was provoked beyond bearing at the

courage and independent 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 landowners, and still more the arbitrary and

uncontrollable temper of Mr. Tyrrel, did not effectually restrain from

acts of open defiance.

"Excellent, upon my soul! God 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 fellows as you against

the lord of a manor! But you are for a trial of skill? 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 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

resentment, 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 extravagancies

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 as the coadjutors of their oppression, which were

perhaps at first intended [witless and miserable precaution!] for the

safeguards of the poor.

From this moment Mr. Tyrrel was bent upon Hawkins's destruction; and he

left no means unemployed that could either harass or injure the object

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 circumstance afforded him frequent

opportunities of petty altercation. The land of one part of Hawkins's

farm, though covered with corn, was lower than the rest; and

consequently exposed to occasional 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 season 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 mortality took place among Hawkins's live stock,

attended with very suspicious circumstances. Hawkins'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, notwithstanding the injuries he

had suffered, the attempting to right himself by 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

community against their usurpations. In this last instance however he

conceived that the offence was so atrocious, 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 persuade 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 repelling of the charge exhibited against him

was the least part of his care; the business was, by affidavits,

motions, pleas, demurrers, flaws, and appeals, to protract the question

from term to term, and from court to court. It would, as Mr. Tyrrel

argued, 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 engrossed 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

particular situation of Hawkins's house, barns, stacks, and outhouses.

They were placed at the extremity of a slip 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 his landlord. The road to the market-town ran at the bottom

of the largest of these fields, and was directly in view of the front of

the house. No inconvenience had yet arisen from that circumstance, as

there had always been a broad path, that intersected this field, and led

directly from Hawkins's house to the road. This path, or private 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 uncontrollable indignation against the successive acts of

despotism of which he was a witness. His resentment 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 obstructions 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 meeting of justices, and by them committed to the county gaol,

to take his trial for the felony at the next assizes. Mr. Tyrrel was

determined to prosecute the offence with the greatest severity; and his

attorney, having made the proper enquiries for that purpose, undertook

to bring it under that clause of the act 9 Geo. I. commonly called the

Black Act, which declares that "any person, armed with a sword, or other

offensive weapon, and having his face blackened, or being otherwise

disguised, appearing in any warren or place where hares or conies have

been or shall be usually kept, and being thereof duly convicted, shall

be adjudged guilty of felony, and shall suffer death, as in cases of

felony, without benefit of clergy." Young Hawkins, it seemed, had

buttoned the cape of his great coat over his face, as soon as he

perceived himself to be observed, and he was furnished with a

wrenching-iron for the purpose of breaking the padlocks. The attorney

further undertook to prove, by sufficient witnesses, that the field in

question was a warren in which hares were regularly fed. Mr. Tyrrel

seized upon these pretences with inexpressible satisfaction. He

prevailed upon the justices, by the picture he drew of the obstinacy and

insolence of the Hawkinses, fully to commit the lad upon this miserable

charge; and it was by no means so certain as paternal affection would

have desired, that the same overpowering influence would not cause in

the sequel the penal clause to be executed in all its strictness.

This was the finishing stroke to Hawkins's miseries: 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 nature that

would not allow him to retract, and he suffered himself to hope, rather

than expect, a favourable 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 gaol. 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 vulgar spite of his landlord. But he had now no longer any

spirit to exert those efforts which his situation more than ever

required. Mr. Tyrrel proceeded 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 landlord's malice. He had been just made acquainted with the tale of

this persecution. It had indeed been an additional aggravation of

Hawkins's calamity, 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 bewailing his hard hap, in the beginning of the

contention, and, when the extremity grew more urgent, and he would have

been willing to recede in some degree from the stubbornness of his

measures, 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 yeoman, he resolved to

ride over to his house the next morning, and surprise him with all the

relief it was in his power to bestow.

At sight of Mr. Tyrrel in this unexpected rencounter, his face reddened

with indignation. His first feeling, as he afterwards said, was to avoid

him; but finding that he must pass him, he conceived that it would be

want of spirit 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 I have just heard."

"And pray, sir, what is your sorrow to me?"

"A great deal, sir: it is caused by the distresses of a poor tenant of

yours, Hawkins. If your steward have proceeded without your authority, I

think it right to inform you what he has done; and, if he have 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 mode of conduct, it is my business to set

you right and save your honour."

"Zounds, sir, do not think to put 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."

"It is very true," said Mr. Falkland, avoiding any direct notice of the

last words of Mr. Tyrrel, "that there is a distinction of ranks. I

believe that distinction is a good thing, and necessary to the peace of

mankind. But, however necessary it may be, we must acknowledge that it

puts some hardship upon the lower orders of society. It makes one's

heart ache to think, that one man is born to the inheritance of every

superfluity, while the whole share of another, without any demerit of

his, is drudgery 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 unfortunate people. We must not use the advantage that

accident has given us with an unmerciful hand. Poor wretches! they are

pressed almost beyond 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 meet with their deserts?"

"Mr. Tyrrel, I see that you are shaken in your animosity. Suffer me to

hail the new-born benevolence 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 endure. 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 been my

character, when I had once conceived 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 I ever 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 never can 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 resentment; if I

ever were to forgive him, it should be at nobody's, entreaty 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."

"And this is your decision, is it? Mr. Tyrrel, I am ashamed of you!

Almighty God! to hear you talk gives one a loathing for the institutions

and regulations of society, and would induce one to fly the very face of

man! But, no! society casts you out; man abominates you. No wealth, no

rank, can buy out your stain. You will live deserted in the midst of

your species; you will go into crowded societies, and no one will deign

so much as to salute you. They will fly from your glance as they would

from the gaze of a basilisk. Where do you expect to find the hearts of

flint that shall sympathise with yours? You have the stamp of misery,

incessant, undivided, unpitied misery!"

Thus saying, Mr. Falkland gave spurs to his horse, rudely pushed beside

Mr. Tyrrel, and was presently out of sight. Flaming indignation

annihilated even his favourite sense of honour, and he regarded his

neighbour as a wretch, with whom it was impossible even to enter into

contention. For the latter, he remained for the present motionless and

petrified. The glowing enthusiasm of Mr. Falkland was such as might well

have unnerved the stoutest foe. Mr. Tyrrel, in spite of himself, was

blasted with the compunctions of guilt, and unable to string himself

for the contest. The picture Mr. Falkland had drawn was prophetic. It

described what Mr. Tyrrel chiefly feared; and what in its commencements

he thought he already felt. It was responsive to the whispering of his

own meditations; it simply gave body and voice to the spectre that

haunted him, and to the terrors of which he was an hourly prey.

By and by, however, he recovered. The more he had been temporarily

confounded, the fiercer was his resentment when he came to himself. Such

hatred never existed in a human bosom without marking its progress with

violence and death. Mr. Tyrrel, however, felt no inclination to have

recourse to personal defiance. He was the furthest in the world from a

coward; but his genius sunk before the genius of Falkland. He left his

vengeance to the disposal of circumstances. He was secure that his

animosity would never be forgotten nor diminished by the interposition

of any time or events. Vengeance was his nightly dream, and the

uppermost of his waking thoughts.

Mr. Falkland had 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 arrived, he found the house

already evacuated by its master. The family was removed nobody knew

whither; Hawkins had absconded, and, what was still more extraordinary,

the boy Hawkins had escaped on the very same day from the county gaol.

The enquiries Mr. Falkland set on foot after them were fruitless; no

traces could be found of the catastrophe of these unhappy people. That

catastrophe I shall shortly have occasion to relate, and it will be

found pregnant with horror, beyond what the blackest misanthropy could

readily have suggested.

I go on with my tale. I go on to relate those incidents in which my own

fate was so mysteriously involved. I lift the curtain, and bring forward

the last act of the tragedy.

CHAPTER X.

It may easily be supposed, that the ill temper cherished by Mr. Tyrrel

in his contention with Hawkins, and the increasing animosity between him

and Mr. Falkland, added to the impatience with which he thought of the

escape of Emily.

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 Melville was lost, the

moment after fled from his presence with the most dreadful

apprehensions. Presently 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 unconquerable inferiority.

He no sooner obtained a moment's pause than he began to recall 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 sufferings, 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 which

delighted to cross his most deep-laid schemes. "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. [In the bitterness of his anguish, he forgot his recent

triumph over Hawkins, or perhaps he regarded it less as a triumph, than

an overthrow, because it had failed of coming up to the extent of his

malice.] To what purpose had Heaven given him a feeling of injury, and

an instinct to resent, while he could in no case make his resentment

felt! It was only necessary for him to be the enemy of any person, to

insure that person's being safe against the reach of misfortune. What

insults, the most shocking and repeated, had he 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 mows and

mockery at his insufferable tortures."

There was one other reflection 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 compulsion she had suffered. But

this security was now lost, and Mr. Falkland would take a pride in

publishing his dishonour. Though the provocations he had received from

Miss Melville would, in his own opinion, have justified him in any

treatment he should have thought proper to inflict, he was sensible the

world would see the matter in a different light. This reflection

augmented the violence 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

danger 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, powerfully 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 more powerful

effect, than the same indisposition upon a delicate valetudinarian. Such

was the case with Miss Melville. 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 tranquillity 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 arrested at the suit of Mr. Tyrrel, for a debt

contracted for board and necessaries for the last fourteen years.

The idea of this arrest, as the reader will perhaps recollect, first

occurred, in the conversation between Mr. Tyrrel and Miss Melville, soon

after he had thought proper to confine her to her chamber. But at that

time he had probably 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 long been accustomed

to contemplate every possible instrument of tyranny and revenge. But

now, that the unlooked-for rescue and escape of his poor kinswoman had

wrought up his thoughts to a degree of insanity, and that he revolved in

the gloomy recesses of his mind, how he might best shake off the load of

disappointment which 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 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 vivacity, and 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 instantly 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

pounds.--The law justifies it.--What do you think laws were made for? I

do nothing but right, and right 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 arrested.

She is not of age."

"Will you have done?--Do not tell me of--It cannot, and It can. 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 cannot

hear it! 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 life!"

"I have done, your honour. I will not say another 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! 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 bearing,--and they

shall feel me! Tell Swineard, in bed or up, day or night, I will not

hear of an instant's delay."

Such were the directions of Mr. Tyrrel, and in strict conformity to his

directions were the proceedings of that respectable limb of the law he

employed upon the present occasion. Miss Melville 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, exhausted 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 rap of the bailiff. He said he wanted to speak with

Miss Melville, 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 Melville."

"Indeed, but you must not. Tell me your business. The poor child has

been light-headed all day. She has 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? Pray let me

be quiet."

"Miss, I want to speak with you. I have got a writ against you for

eleven hundred pounds 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 connection 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 authority. 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! Cannot you read?"

"This is all a trick! The paper is forged! It is a vile contrivance to

get the poor orphan 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 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 orders 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

satisfy you as to any harm that can come to you, without its being

necessary to take the poor child 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

immediately!"

Emily had listened to the course of this conversation, which had

sufficiently explained to her whatever was enigmatical in the first

appearance of the bailiffs. The painful and incredible reality that was

thus presented effectually dissipated the illusions 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 affirmed to be a devil

incarnate, and not a man. At another she expostulated, with bitter

invective, against the hardheartedness of the bailiff, and exhorted him

to mix some humanity and moderation with the discharge of his function;

but he was impenetrable 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 orders 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 precaution that was not in

direct hostility to his functions. 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 interrupt a direct process; and that,

accordingly, in all doubtful questions and presumptive murders, the

practice of the law inclined, with a laudable partiality, to the

vindication of its own officers. In addition to these general rules, he

was influenced by the positive injunctions and assurances of Swineard,

and the terror which, through a circle of many miles, was annexed to the

name of Tyrrel. Before they departed, Mrs. Hammond despatched 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 seemed

in this instance to favour the vengeance of Mr. Tyrrel, for he had

himself been too much under the dominion of an uncontrollable fury, to

take a circumstance of this sort into his estimate.

The forlorn state of these poor women, who were conducted, the one by

compulsion, the other a volunteer, to a scene so little adapted to their

accommodation as that of a common jail, may easily be imagined. Mrs.

Hammond, however, was endowed with a masculine courage and impetuosity

of spirit, eminently necessary in the difficulties they had to

encounter. She was in some degree fitted by a sanguine temper, and an

impassioned sense of injustice, for the discharge of those very offices

which sobriety and calm reflection might have prescribed. The health of

Miss Melville was materially affected by the surprise and removal she

had undergone at the very time that repose was most necessary for her

preservation. Her fever became more violent; her delirium was stronger;

and the tortures of her imagination were proportioned to the

unfavourableness of the state in which the removal had been effected. It

was highly improbable that she could recover.

In the moments of suspended reason she was perpetually calling on the

name of Falkland. Mr. Falkland, she said, was her first and only love,

and he should be her husband. A moment after 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 show 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 conduct 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 affected a heart of stone.

Then the figure of Falkland presented itself to her distracted fancy,

deformed with wounds, and of a deadly paleness, and she shrieked with

agony, while she exclaimed that such was the general hardheartedness,

that no one would make the smallest exertion for his rescue. In such

vicissitudes of pain, perpetually imagining to her self unkindness,

insult, conspiracy, and murder, she passed a considerable part of two

days.

On the evening of the second Mr. Falkland arrived, accompanied by Doctor

Wilson, the physician by whom she had previously been attended. The

scene he was called upon to witness was such as to be most exquisitely

agonising 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 Melville, haggard, and a warrant of death written in her

countenance, a victim to the diabolical passions of her kinsman, it

seemed too much to be endured. When he entered, she was in the midst of

one of her fits of delirium, and immediately 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 Wilson with his patient, desired

him, when he had given the necessary directions, to follow him to his

inn.

The perpetual hurry of spirits in which Miss Melville had been kept for

several days, by the nature 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 signs of life. Doctor Wilson, who had

withdrawn, to soothe, if possible, the disturbed and impatient thoughts

of Mr. Falkland, was summoned afresh upon this change of symptoms, and

sat by the bed-side during the remainder of the night. The situation of

his patient was such, as to keep him in momentary apprehension of her

decease. While Miss Melville lay in this feeble and exhausted condition,

Mrs. Hammond betrayed every token of the tenderest anxiety. Her

sensibility 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 Wilson had introduced another nurse, in consideration of

the incessant fatigue Mrs. Hammond had undergone; and he endeavoured, by

representations, and even by authority, to compel her to quit the

apartment of the patient. But she was uncontrollable; 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 inclination. Her eye was a thousand times

turned, with the most eager curiosity, upon the countenance of Doctor

Wilson, 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 attention to every thing

that dropped either from the physician or the nurse, hoping to collect

as it were 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. Falkland had

brought the physician to attend her, and was himself in her

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 miserable residence, to a more airy and commodious

apartment. When he appeared, the sight of him revived in the mind of

Miss Melville an imperfect recollection of the wanderings of her

delirium. She covered her face with her fingers, and betrayed the most

expressive confusion, while she thanked him, with her usual unaffected

simplicity, for 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 subjected. But,

while she said this, she was still extremely weak. She tried to assume a

cheerful 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 avoid for the

present all occasions of exertion.

Encouraged by these appearances, Mrs. Hammond ventured to follow the two

gentlemen out of the room, in order to learn from the physician what

hopes he entertained. Doctor Wilson acknowledged, that he 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 before morning, he would then undertake

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 Wilson seized this opportunity to press

her to give herself a little repose, to which she consented, a bed being

first procured for her in the room next to Miss Melville's, she having

charged the nurse to give her notice of any alteration in the state of

the patient.

Mrs. Hammond enjoyed an uninterrupted sleep of several hours. It was

already night, when she was awaked by an unusual bustle in the next

room. She listened for a few moments, and then determined to go and

discover the occasion of it. As she opened her door for that purpose,

she met the nurse coming to her. The countenance 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 Melville expiring. The

appearances that had at first been so encouraging were of short

duration. The calm of the morning proved to be only a sort of lightening

before death. In a few hours the patient grew worse. The bloom of her

countenance faded; she drew her breath with difficulty; and her eyes

became fixed. Doctor Wilson came in at this period, and immediately

perceived 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 pleasures 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. This was her last

word; in less than two hours from that time she breathed her last in the

arms of this faithful friend.

CHAPTER XI.

Such was the fate of Miss Emily Melville. 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

disgust at his unparalleled cruelty.

If such were the feelings of men bred to the commission of injustice, it

is difficult to say what must have been those of Mr. Falkland. He raved,

he swore, he beat his head, he rent up his hair. He was unable to

continue in one posture, and to remain in one place. He burst away from

the spot with vehemence, as if he sought to leave behind him his

recollection and his existence. He seemed to tear up the ground with

fierceness and rage. He returned soon again. He approached the sad

remains of what had been Emily, and gazed on them with such intentness,

that his eyes appeared, ready to burst from their sockets. Acute and

exquisite as were his notions of virtue and honour, he could not prevent

himself from reproaching the system of nature, for having given birth to

such a monster as Tyrrel. He was ashamed of himself for wearing the same

form. He could not think of the human species with patience. He foamed

with indignation against the laws of the universe, that did not permit

him to crush such reptiles at a blow, as we would crush so many noxious

insects. 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 Wilson. The doctor was a man of cool

and methodical habits of acting. One of the first ideas that suggested

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 discharge

every expense that might be further incident to the melancholy remains

of this unfortunate victim; but he conceived that the laws of fashion

and decorum required some notification of the event to be made to the

head of the family. Perhaps, too, he had an eye to his interest in his

profession, and was reluctant to expose himself to the resentment of a

person of Mr. Tyrrel's consideration in the neighbourhood. But, with

this weakness, he had nevertheless some feelings in common with the rest

of the world, and must have suffered considerable violence, before he

could have persuaded himself to be the messenger; beside which, he did

not think it right in the present situation to leave Mr. Falkland.

Doctor Wilson 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 determined, she said, to see what sort of impression the

catastrophe would make upon the author of it; and she promised to

comport herself with moderation and civility. The journey was soon

performed.

"I am come, sir," said she to Mr. Tyrrel, "to inform you that your

cousin, Miss Melville, died this afternoon."

"Died?"

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

"Died? Who killed her? What do you mean?"

"Who? Is it for you to ask that question? Your cruelty and malice killed

her!"

"Me?--my?--Poh! she is not dead--it cannot be--it is not a week since

she left this house."

"Do not you believe me? I say she is dead!"

"Have a care, woman! this is no matter for jesting. No: though she used

me ill, I would not believe her dead for all the world!"

Mrs. Hammond shook her head in a manner expressive at once of grief and

indignation.

"No, no, no, no! I will never believe that!--No, never!"

"Will you come with me, and convince your 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 kinsman,--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 men pay respect to wealth and rank, this would

extend to such a deed? They will laugh at so barefaced a cheat. The

meanest beggar will spurn and spit at you. Ay, 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 humbled, "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 she is dead! You have murdered the sweetest innocent 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 things this way and that, as you pleased?"

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, abhorrence, and insult,

that was reserved for him. The words of Mrs. Hammond were prophetic. It

evidently appeared, that though wealth and hereditary 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 murderer 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 stood astonished at the novelty of his

situation. Accustomed as he had been to the obedience 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 slightest provocation

broke forth with an impetuous tide, and swept away the mounds of

subordination and fear. His large estate could not 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, 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 his excesses, and it was, no doubt, a fearful

catalogue that rose up in judgment against him. It seemed as if the

sense of public resentment had long been gathering strength unperceived,

and now burst forth into insuppressible violence.

There was scarcely a human being upon whom this sort of retribution

could have sat more painfully than upon Mr. Tyrrel. Though he had not a

consciousness of innocence prompting him continually to recoil from the

detestation of mankind as a thing totally unallied to his character, yet

the imperiousness of his temper and the constant experience he had had

of the pliability of other men, prepared him to feel the general and

undisguised condemnation into which he was sunk with uncommon emotions

of anger and impatience. That he, at the beam of whose eye every

countenance fell, and to whom in the fierceness of his wrath no one was

daring enough to reply, should now be regarded with avowed dislike, and

treated with unceremonious 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 situation appeared to become. At length he determined 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

story. Miss Melville had now been dead one month. Mr. Falkland had been

absent the last week in a distant part of the country, and was not

expected to return for a week longer. Mr. Tyrrel willingly embraced the

opportunity, trusting, if he could now effect his re-establishment, that

he should easily preserve the ground he had gained, even in the face of

his formidable rival. Mr. Tyrrel was not deficient in courage; but he

conceived the present to be too important an epoch in his life to allow

him to make any unnecessary risk in his chance for future ease and

importance.

There was a sort of bustle that took place at his entrance into the

assembly, it having been agreed by 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, with 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 endeavoured to repeat his prohibition: but he was

thrust aside by Mr. Tyrrel with an air of native authority and ineffable

contempt. As he entered; every eye was turned upon him. Presently all

the gentlemen in the room assembled round him. Some endeavoured 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

ascendancy, 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 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 ignorant 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

expression of his countenance and a peremptory tone, by well-timed

interruptions and pertinent insinuations, 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

same abhorrence and condemnation of his character; but they could not

help admiring the courage and resources 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. Mere accident had

enabled him to return sooner than he expected.

Both he and Mr. Tyrrel reddened at sight of each other. He advanced

towards Mr. Tyrrel without a moment's pause, and in a peremptory voice

asked him what he did there?

"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 anything 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 the universal

indignation of mankind, you must not come into the society of men.--Miss

Melville!--Shame upon you, inhuman, unrelenting tyrant! Can you hear her

name, and not sink into the earth? Can you retire 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 unresentful

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

them 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, shrink into your miserable self! Begone, and let

me never be blasted with your sight again!"

And here, incredible as 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 torrent 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 hootings, tumult, and a deafening noise of indignation. At

length he willingly retired from the public scene, unable any longer to

endure the sensations 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

interval 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 in 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 redoubled 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 dragging him along the floor. All this passed in a moment,

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 any event more terrible to the individual

upon whom it fell, than the treatment which Mr. Falkland in this

instance experienced. Every passion of his life was calculated to make

him feel it more acutely. He had repeatedly exerted an uncommon energy

and prudence, to prevent the misunderstanding between Mr. Tyrrel and

himself from proceeding to extremities; but in vain! It was closed with

a catastrophe, 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 circumstances

of provocation, could scarcely have perpetrated it. Mr. Falkland's mind

was full of uproar like the war of contending elements, and of such

suffering as casts contempt on the refinements of inventive cruelty. He

wished for annihilation, to lie down in eternal oblivion, in an

insensibility, which, compared with what he experienced, was scarcely

less enviable than beatitude itself. Horror, detestation, revenge,

inexpressible longings to shake off the evil, and a persuasion that in

this case all effort was powerless, 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.

CHAPTER 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 the subject

were uncommonly judicious.

"This day was the crisis of Mr. Falkland's history. From hence took its

beginning that gloomy and unsociable melancholy, of which he has since

been the victim. No two characters can be in certain 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 produce.

Though the habits of his life were those of a serious and sublime

visionary they were nevertheless full of cheerfulness and tranquillity.

But from this moment, his pride, and the lofty adventurousness 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 more

exquisitely enjoyed, became a burden to him. No more self-complacency,

no more rapture, no more self-approving and heart-transporting

benevolence! He who had lived beyond any man upon the grand and

animating reveries of the imagination, seemed now to have no visions but

of anguish and despair. His case was peculiarly worthy of sympathy,

since, no doubt, if rectitude and purity of disposition could give a

title to happiness, few men could exhibit a more consistent and powerful

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 divinity 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 not

to be endured! No future lustration could ever remove the stain: and,

what was perhaps still worse in the present case, the offender having

ceased 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 manner 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 perfect 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 duellist,

do we find in Themistocles, the most gallant of the Greeks; who, when

Eurybiades, his commander in chief, in answer to some of his

remonstrances, 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 inconvenience that your folly

can inflict upon me? Perhaps a human being would be more accomplished,

if he understood the science of personal defence; but how few would be

the occasions upon which he would be called to exert it? How few persons

would he encounter so unjust and injurious as you, if his own conduct

were directed by the principles of reason 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. Further

than immediate defence against actual violence, it could never be of use

to me. The man who can deliberately meet his adversary for the purpose

of exposing the person of one or both of them to injury, tramples upon

every principle of reason and equity. Duelling is the vilest of all

egotism, treating the public, who has a claim to all my powers and

exertions, as if it were nothing, and myself, or rather an

unintelligible chimera I annex to 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 unjust 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 unnecessary evil. I refuse that;

but I am not therefore pusillanimous: when I refuse any danger or

suffering by which the general good may be promoted, then brand me for a

coward!

"These reasonings, however simple and irresistible they must be found by

a dispassionate enquirer, 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 chastisement that had been imposed upon

him, intolerable as they were to be recollected, were not the whole of

the mischief that redounded to our unfortunate 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 continuance 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

more dear than 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 adored 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 the most serious

magnitude, and the rumour unchecked seemed daily to increase in

strength. Mr. Falkland appeared sometimes inclined to adopt such steps

as might have been best calculated to bring the imputation to a speedy

trial. But he probably feared, by too direct an appeal to judicature, to

render more precise an imputation, 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 accused, to prove in the most satisfactory manner that the

accusation was unjust.

"The neighbouring magistrates at length conceived it necessary to take

some steps upon the subject. Without causing Mr. Falkland to be

apprehended, they sent to desire he would appear before them at one of

their meetings. The proceeding being thus opened, Mr. Falkland expressed

his hope that, if the business were likely to stop there, their

investigation might at least be rendered as solemn as possible. The

meeting was numerous; every person of a respectable class in society was

admitted to be an auditor; the whole town, one of the most considerable

in the county, was apprised of the nature of the business. Few trials,

invested with all the forms of judgment, have excited so general an

interest. A trial, under the present circumstances, was scarcely

attainable; and it seemed to be the wish both of principal and umpires,

to give to this transaction all the momentary notoriety and decisiveness

of a trial.

"The magistrates investigated the particulars of the story. Mr.

Falkland, it appeared, had left the rooms immediately after his

assailant; and though he had been attended by one or two of the

gentlemen to his inn, it was proved that he had left them upon some

slight occasion, as soon as he arrived at it, and that, when they

enquired for him of the waiters, he had already mounted his horse and

ridden home.

"By the nature of the case, no particular facts could be stated in

balance against these. As soon as they had been sufficiently detailed,

Mr. Falkland therefore proceeded to his defence. Several copies of his

defence were-made, and Mr. Falkland seemed, for a short time, to have

had the idea of sending it to the press, though, for some reason or

other, he afterwards suppressed it. I have one of the copies in my

possession, and I will read it to you."

Saying this, Mr. Collins rose, and took it from a private drawer in his

escritoire. During this action he appeared to recollect himself. He did

not, in the strict sense of the word, hesitate; but he was prompted to

make some apology for what he was doing.

"You seem never to have heard of this memorable transaction; 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 defended himself from a criminal imputation, though with

circumstances the most satisfactory and honourable. It may be supposed

that this suppression 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."

Saying this, he proceeded to read from the paper in his hand.

"Gentlemen,

"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 company acknowledge my innocence. In

the mean time, what must be my feelings? Conscious as I am of deserving

approbation and not censure, of having passed my life in acts of

justice and philanthropy, can any thing be more deplorable than for me

to answer to a charge of murder? So wretched is my situation, that I

cannot accept your gratuitous acquittal, if you should be disposed to

bestow it. I must answer to an imputation, the very thought of which is

ten thousand times worse to me 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 character is that which must be supported by witnesses?

But, if I must speak, look round the company, ask of every one present,

enquire of your own hearts! Not one word of reproach was ever whispered

against me. 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 decision to restore to me my unblemished reputation, to obliterate

the disgrace I have suffered, or to prevent it from being remembered

that I have been brought to examination upon a charge of murder. Your

decision can never have the efficacy to prevent the miserable remains of

my existence from being the most intolerable 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 preserved his life. His

life was precious to me, beyond 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 recollection 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 compelled to drag

for ever the intolerable load of existence, upon penalty, if at any

period, however remote, I shake it off, of having that impatience

regarded as confirming a charge of murder. Gentlemen, if by your

decision you could take away my life, without that act being connected

with my disgrace, I would bless the cord that stopped 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 is in your power! My life is a worthless thing.

But my honour, the empty remains of honour I have now to boast, is in

your judgment, and you will each of you, from this day, have imposed

upon yourselves the task of its vindicators. 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 consolation of this day!"

"You will easily imagine that Mr. Falkland was discharged with every

circumstance of credit. Nothing is more to be deplored in human

institutions, than that the ideas of mankind should have annexed a

sentiment of disgrace to a purgation thus satisfactory and decisive. No

one entertained the shadow of a doubt upon the subject, and yet a mere

concurrence of circumstances made it necessary that the best of men

should be publicly put on his defence, 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 further 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 expense 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?

Did any man, and, least of all, a man of the purest honour, ever pass in

a moment, from a life unstained by a single act of injury, to the

consummation of human depravity?

"When the decision of the magistrates was declared, a general murmur of

applause and involuntary transport burst forth from every one present.

It was at first low, and gradually became louder. As it was the

expression of rapturous delight, and an emotion disinterested and

divine, so there was an indescribable something in the very sound, that

carried it home to the heart, and convinced every spectator that there

was no merely personal pleasure which ever existed, that would not be

foolish 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 present determined to give a still further

sanction to the business, by their congratulations. They immediately

named a deputation to wait upon him for that purpose. Every one

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 along in triumph, and attended him many miles on his return

to his own habitation. It seemed as if a public examination upon a

criminal charge, which had hitherto been considered in every event as a

brand of disgrace, was converted, in the present instance, into an

occasion of enthusiastic adoration and unexampled honour.

"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 scene 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 about thirty miles distant, in want of all the

necessaries of life. He had lived there, from the period of his flight,

in so private a manner, that all the enquiries 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 that, 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 suspicion was

immediately roused. A diligent search being made, the rusty handle, with

part of the blade of a knife, was found 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

further enquiry two rustics, who had been accidentally on the spot,

remembered to have seen Hawkins and his son in the town that very

evening 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 persuaded that their disbelief is precipitate and groundless.

"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 untimely end. This poor Hawkins was surely entitled 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. Falkland, and who had been

so desirous of doing him good, to be exposed to the risk of being tried

for a murder that he had committed.

"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 thenceforward 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 persecution 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 general

know nothing of him, but the uncommunicative and haughty, but mild,

dejection that accompanies every thing he does."

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

* * * * *

VOLUME THE SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

I have stated the narrative of Mr. Collins, interspersed with such other

information as I was able to collect, with all the exactness that my

memory, 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, except so much as fell under my own knowledge, and that part

shall be given 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. Collins'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 history.

The intention of my friend in this communication was to give me ease;

but he in reality added to my embarrassment. Hitherto I had had no

intercourse with the world and its passions; and, though I was not

totally unacquainted with them as they appear in books, this proved 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 narrative, which made it altogether unlike the

little village incidents I had hitherto known. My feelings were

successively interested for the different persons that were brought upon

the scene. My veneration was excited for Mr. Clare, and my applause 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 Melville. I found

a thousand fresh reasons to admire and love Mr. Falkland.

At present 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 import. I turned

it a thousand ways, and examined it in every point of view. In the

original communication it appeared sufficiently distinct and

satisfactory; but as I brooded over it, it gradually became 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 favour! To be sure, if he

were guilty, it was unpardonable in him to permit a man of so much

dignity and worth as Mr. Falkland to suffer under the imputation of his

crime! And yet I could not help bitterly compassionating the honest

fellow, brought to the gallows, as he was, strictly speaking, by the

machinations 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 character. 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 patron.

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 prohibition. 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, and his

terrible looks; and the recollection gave a kind of tingling sensation,

not altogether unallied to enjoyment. The further 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 impenetrable Mr. Falkland was determined to be, the more

uncontrollable was my curiosity. Through the whole, my alarm and

apprehension of personal danger had a large mixture of frankness and

simplicity, 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

rendered me cautious and reserved. The distant and solemn manners of my

master seemed to have annihilated 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 activity, eagerness, and courage. I had always had a

propensity to communicate my thoughts; my age was, of course, inclined

to talkativeness; and I ventured occasionally in a sort of hesitating

way, as if questioning whether such a conduct might be allowed, 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 inclined to encourage me,

and yet doubtful whether he might venture.

He had long been a stranger to pleasure of every sort, and my artless

and untaught remarks appeared to promise him some amusement. Could an

amusement of this sort be dangerous?

In this uncertainty he could not probably find it in his heart to treat

with severity my innocent effusions. 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 therefore perpetually unexpected, at one time implying

extreme ignorance, and at another some portion of acuteness, but at all

times having an air of innocence, frankness, and courage. There was

still an apparent want of design in the manner, even after I was excited

accurately to compare my observations, 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 yet scarcely 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

countenance 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 paroxysm 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. Falkland, whenever my gesture or his consciousness

impressed him with the idea of my knowing more than I expressed, looked

at me with wistful earnestness, as questioning what was the degree of

information 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

innuendoes were perpetually regulated with the cunning of a grey-headed

inquisitor. The secret wound of Mr. Falkland's mind was much more

uniformly present to his recollection 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 application, till some singularity in his

manner brought it back to my thoughts. The consciousness of this morbid

sensibility, and the imagination that its influence 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 disturbance that was

almost daily endured by a mind so tremblingly alive as that of my

patron.

"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 history?"

"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 so

famous; but every man that is talked of is not admired. Judges differ

about the merits of Alexander. Doctor Prideaux says in his Connection,

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 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,

sensibility, and taste, no securities to exempt their possessor 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 reserving 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

Westminster justice. Examine for yourself, and you will find in

Alexander a model of honour, generosity, and disinterestedness,--a man

who, for the cultivated liberality of his mind, and the unparalleled

grandeur of his projects, must stand alone the spectacle and admiration

of all ages of the world."

"Ah, sir! it is a fine thing for us to sit here and compose his

panegyric. But shall I forget what a vast expense was bestowed in

erecting the monument of his fame? Was not he the common disturber of

mankind? Did not he over-run nations that would never have heard of him

but for his devastations? How many hundred thousands of lives did he

sacrifice in his career? What must I think of his cruelties; a whole

tribe massacred for a crime committed by their ancestors 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 sight very

shocking; but what in reality are a hundred thousand such men, more than

a hundred thousand 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

delivered 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 project. Grecian

literature and cultivation, the Seleucidae, the Antiochuses, and the

Ptolemies followed, 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 remorse 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 sort 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

Libya, merely to visit a temple, and persuade mankind that he was the

son of Jupiter Ammon?"

"Alexander, my boy, has been much misunderstood. 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 bigoted Persians. It was

this, and not a mad vanity, 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 Macedonians?"

"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 murders--"

The instant I had uttered these words, I felt what it was that I had

done. There was a magnetical sympathy between me and my patron, 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 relinquish? 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 merits 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 soul, it is scarcely

possible to keep it from finding its way to the lips. Error, once

committed, has a fascinating power, like that ascribed to the eyes of

the rattlesnake, to draw us into a second error. It deprives us of that

proud confidence in our own strength, to which we are indebted 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 employment,

strode about the room in anger, his visage gradually assumed an

expression as of supernatural barbarity, he quitted the apartment

abruptly, 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?"

CHAPTER II.

The reader will feel how rapidly I was advancing 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 world, 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

forward to entertain the accusation?"

I felt indeed that Mr. Falkland would not hastily incline to dismiss me,

for the same reason that restrained him from many other actions, which

might seem to savour of a too tender and ambiguous sensibility. But this

reflection 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 favourable 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 accident, had slipped behind one of the

drawers, and been overlooked. At another time perhaps my curiosity might

have given way to the laws of decorum, and I should have restored it

unopened to my master, its owner. But my eagerness for information 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 Warnes and his dame, who are left 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 any body. 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 but the wit to do for ourselves, the great

folks would not be such maggotty changelings as they are. They would

begin 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 differently. It is most likely you will never hear of me any

more. If it should be so, set your worthy heart at rest. 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 malice; 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 undergo, among strangers, and being obliged to hide

ourselves like housebreakers 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 melancholy

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 finished 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 never 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 manner 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 dominion, I was willing that the way

in which it offered 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 appearances 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!"

"Humph!--why do you suppose, sir, that learning and ingenuity do not

often serve people rather to hide their crimes than to restrain them

from committing them? History tells us strange things in that respect."

"Williams," said Mr. Falkland, a little disturbed, "you are extremely

given to censure and severity."

"I hope not. I am sure I am most fond of looking on the other side of

the picture, and considering 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 dying 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 an affecting story of a poor man in the reign of

Queen Elizabeth, who would have infallibly been hanged for murder upon

the strength of circumstantial evidence, if the person really concerned

had not been himself upon the jury and prevented it."

In saying this I touched the spring that wakened 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, "Detested 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. Its affairs cannot be

better than in the direction of the genuine heroes; and as in the end

they will be found the truest friends of the whole, so the multitude

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 opinion that mistakes will ultimately be

cleared up, justice 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 temporary 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 philanthropy; and here I

am--miserable--miserable beyond expression or endurance."

Having said this, he seemed suddenly to recollect himself, and

re-assumed his accustomed dignity and command. "How came this

conversation?" cried he. "Who gave you a right to be my confidant? 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 treasures of my soul? Begone, and fear lest 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 passively to quit the apartment.

CHAPTER III.

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 between us. His

countenance was habitually animated and expressive, much beyond that of

any other man I have seen. The curiosity which, as I have said,

constituted my ruling passion, stimulated me to make it my perpetual

study. It will also most probably happen, while I am thus employed in

collecting the scattered incidents of my history, that I shall upon some

occasions 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.]

When I entered the apartment, I remarked in Mr. Falkland's countenance

an unwonted composure. This composure 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 voluntary 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 much disturbance. You ought to have known that, though I allow

you to talk with me upon indifferent subjects, it is very improper 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 consists. 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 feelings, which, as a man of resolution, I am determined to

bring to an end. I expect you therefore 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 unparalleled mortification and

hardship, and my wounds will not bear this perpetual tampering."

"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 demon 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 Melville 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 Hawkins 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 forgive 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 accused of 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

somewhat frightful, I had almost said diabolical, in his countenance]--I

have not had an hour's peace; I became changed from the happiest to 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 am. 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 calamity to me, which must flow for ever! Am I then,

thus miserable and ruined, a proper subject upon which for you 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

dishonour? No: in addition to this, I have been charged with having in

this critical moment 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

innocence, which, after the fullest and most solemn examination, has

been completely established. You have forced me to this explanation. You

have extorted from me a confidence which I had no inclination to make.

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 distress. Be content. You have brought me low enough."

"Oh, sir, I am not content; I cannot be content! I cannot bear to think

what I have done. I shall never again be able to look in the face of 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 emotions 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 these;--but never did a thought of

disloyalty to your service enter into my heart."

Here our conversation ended; and the impression it made upon my youthful

mind it is impossible 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

enough wonder at finding myself, humble as I was by my birth, obscure as

I had hitherto been, thus suddenly become of so much importance to the

happiness of one of the most enlightened and accomplished men in

England. But this consciousness attached me to my patron more eagerly

than ever, and made me swear a thousand times, as I meditated upon my

situation, that I would never prove unworthy of so generous a protector.

CHAPTER IV.

Is it not unaccountable that, in the midst of all my increased

veneration for my patron, 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 my 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 supposition of the

most atrocious guilt. Knowing, as he did, that such a charge had once

been connected with his name, he would of course be perpetually 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 suspicion 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 refinement 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

consider 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

surrendered 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 indifferent actions. Mr. Falkland, who was most

painfully alive to every thing that related to his honour, saw these

variations, and betrayed his consciousness of them now in one manner,

and now in another, frequently before I was myself aware, sometimes

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

forbearance 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. Curiosity 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 continually approaching to the end of

its race; and as the insatiable desire of satisfaction is its principle

of conduct, so it promises itself in that satisfaction an unknown

gratification, which seems as if it were capable of fully compensating

any injuries 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 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 extraordinary nature of my

situation it is necessary to mention. The constant state of vigilance

and suspicion 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 variety of conjectures into which I was led, appeared, 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 already passed upon the subject, it was

not without considerable pain, that I felt myself unable to discover any

way in which I could be perfectly and unalterably satisfied of my

patron'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 circumstances, and all the delight which a young and unfledged mind

receives from ideas that give scope to all that imagination can picture

of terrible or sublime, 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 Mr. Falkland, 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 the 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 servant or attendant. 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 found 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, inattentive 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 that occupied his own mind.

At first, when we received intelligence at any time of the place to

which Mr. Falkland had withdrawn himself, some person of his household,

Mr. Collins or myself, but most generally myself, as I was always at

home, and always, in the received sense of the word, at leisure, went to

him to persuade him to return. But, after a few experiments, we thought

it advisable to desist, and leave him 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 uneasily upon Mr. Falkland than this

insinuation as if he wanted a guardian to take care of him, or as if he

were in, or in danger of falling into, a state in which he would be

incapable of deliberately controlling his own words and actions. At one

time he would suddenly 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 occasions 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 sustained, beyond any thing of which I should have

thought human nature to be capable. These sallies seemed always to

constitute a sort of crisis in his indisposition; and, whenever he was

induced to such a premature return, he would fall immediately after into

a state of the most melancholy inactivity, 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!

CHAPTER V.

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 valetudinarian, it is probable he would not have been called

upon to act in his official character upon the present 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

employed the word insanity in describing Mr. Falkland'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 unaccountable; 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

condescending, considerate, and benevolent, that, far from having

forfeited the esteem of the unfortunate 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 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

entered, a strong reluctance to the business in which he was engaged;

but there was no possibility of retreating. His countenance was

embarrassed and anxious; he scarcely saw any body. The examination 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 instances--we

exchanged a silent look, by which we told volumes to each other. Mr.

Falkland's complexion 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 engaged; I

was rooted to the spot; though my own life, that of my master, or almost

of a whole nation 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 maintained, 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 deceased as having acted from the most rooted malice. 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 trickled down his manly

cheeks; and at another he started with apparent 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 ingenuous 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 he 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 defence, 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 effort

to overcome his animosity, but in vain. The deceased had upon all

occasions sought to mortify him, and do him an ill turn; but he had

resolved 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 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 rudeness. 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 harass 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 persist 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 assailant. The challenge was accepted; a

ring was formed; he confided the care of his sweetheart 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 kindness in

them to hang him out of the way; for his conscience would reproach him

as long as he lived, and the figure of the deceased, as he had lain

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 occasion 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 countenance

fell, the muscles of his face trembled with agony, and he looked the

statue of despair.

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 belonged to the adventures of the preceding volume, and there had

been much less policy and skill displayed 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.

In each case it was a human brute persisting in a course of hostility to

a man of benevolent character, and suddenly and terribly cut off in the

midst of his career. These points perpetually smote upon the heart of

Mr. Falkland. He at one time started with astonishment, and at another

shifted 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 anguish roll down his cheeks. He dared

not trust his eyes to glance towards 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 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 detained about half an hour. Mr. Falkland had

already 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 vengeance

of the brother however, as I afterwards found, did not rest here, and he

met with a magistrate, more scrupulous or more despotic, by whom the

culprit was committed for trial.

This affair was no sooner concluded, than I hastened 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 fit of uncontrollable enthusiasm, "This is

the murderer; the Hawkinses were innocent! I am sure of it! I will

pledge my life for 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 rapture for which I could not account. I was solemn, yet full of

rapid emotion, burning with indignation and energy. In the very tempest

and hurricane 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 never so perfectly alive as at that moment.

This state of mental elevation continued for several 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

knowledge 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 understood 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 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 besides myself

present at the scene from which I pretend to derive such entire

conviction. Not one of them saw it in the light that I did. It either

appeared to them a casual and unimportant circumstance, 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. Falkland

is the murderer! He is guilty! I see it! I feel it! I am sure of it!"

Thus was I hurried along by an uncontrollable destiny. The state of my

passions in their progressive career, the inquisitiveness and impatience

of my thoughts, appeared to make this determination unavoidable.

An incident occurred 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

immediately 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 circumstance was, that he

was gone upon one of his accustomed melancholy rambles.

CHAPTER VI.

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 chimneys of the house

was on fire. No accident could be apparently more trivial; but presently

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 apprehended 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 judged qualified by my understanding and mental

resources.

Having given some general directions, I conceived, that it was not

enough to stand by and superintend, 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 trunk 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 number of chisels and other carpenter's tools. I know not

what infatuation instantaneously seized me. The idea was too powerful to

be resisted. I forgot the business upon which I came, the employment of

the servants, and the urgency of general danger. I should have done the

same if the flames that seemed to extend as they proceeded, and already

surmounted the house, had reached this very apartment. 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 of uncontrollable

passion was added to my bodily strength, the fastenings gave way, the

trunk 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, distracted in his looks! He had been brought home from a

considerable distance by the sight of the flames. At the moment of his

appearance the lid dropped down from my hand. He no sooner saw me than

his eyes emitted sparks of rage. He ran with eagerness to a brace of

loaded pistols which hung 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 formed his resolution, he changed it, and

instantly went to the window, and flung the pistol into the court below.

He bade me begone with his usual irresistible energy; and, overcome as

I was already by the horror of the detection, I eagerly complied.

A moment after, a considerable part of the chimney tumbled with noise

into the court below, and a voice exclaimed that the fire was more

violent than ever. These circumstances seemed to produce a mechanical

effect upon my patron, who, having first locked the closet, appeared on

the outside of the house, ascended the roof, and was in a moment in

every place where his presence was required. The flames were at length

extinguished.

The reader can with difficulty form a conception 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 himself 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 cruelty and murder. How great were

the resources of his mind, resources henceforth to be confederated for

my destruction! This was the termination of an ungoverned curiosity, an

impulse that I had represented to myself as so innocent or so venial.

In the high tide of boiling passion I had overlooked 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 Falkland, and the inexorable fury I should awake in his soul? No

thought of future security had reached 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 situation, 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 monstrous. There is something in it of

unexplained and involuntary sympathy. One sentiment flows, by necessity

of nature, into another sentiment of the same general character. This

was the first instance in which I had witnessed a danger by fire. All

was confusion around me, and all changed into hurricane within. The

general situation, to my unpractised apprehension, appeared 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 successor.

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 harboured 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

knowledge. 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 has been 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 expectation

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 consciousness 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 roused me from my trance. In recovering, I felt those sickening

and loathsome sensations, which a man may be supposed 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 fire 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 composure that crowned the whole. For the present,

all appearance of gloom, stateliness, and austerity was gone. As I

entered he looked up, and, seeing who it was, ordered me to bolt the

door. I obeyed. He went round the room, and examined its other avenues.

He then returned to where I stood. I trembled in every joint of my

frame. I exclaimed within myself, "What scene of death has Roscius now

to act?"

"Williams!" said he, in a tone which 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 on 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 madness.

But I can put an end to it and its consequences; 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, and 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 incommoded 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 with terror, and was silent.

"What a story is mine! Insulted, disgraced, polluted 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 harrowing and intolerable!

"Well, thus far fortune favoured me; she favoured me beyond my desire.

The guilt was removed 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 miraculous

accident, Hawkins was passing by, and endeavoured to assist his

oppressor in the agonies of death. You have heard his 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 shrine 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 illustrious 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 confidence? 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 confidant 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 my affection. I will benefit 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 suspicion,

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. Surrounded as I am

with horrors, I will at least preserve my fortitude to the last. If I

had been reserved 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 preserve my presence of mind and discretion."

Such was the story I had been so desirous to know. Though my mind had

brooded upon the subject for months, there was not a syllable 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 control 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 vicious.

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 recollected the offence I had given, so

contrary to every received principle of civilised society, so insolent

and rude, so intolerable to a man of Mr. Falkland's elevation, and in

Mr. Falkland's peculiarity of circumstances, I was astonished at his

forbearance. There were indeed sufficiently obvious 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 mildness 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 having 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 injure my patron; and therefore he will

not be my enemy. With all his misfortunes and all his errors, I feel

that my soul yearns for his welfare. If he have been criminal, that is

owing to circumstances; the same qualities under other circumstances

would have been, or rather were, sublimely beneficent."

My reasonings were, no doubt, infinitely more favourable to Mr.

Falkland, 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 myself just been trampling on the

established boundaries 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 notwithstanding sufficiently miserable. The

ease and light-heartedness of my youth were for ever gone. The voice of

an irresistible necessity had commanded me to "sleep no more." I was

tormented with a secret, of which I must never disburthen 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, compared 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 operation. I

was at first indeed lulled in a certain degree to security upon the

verge of the precipice. But it was not long before I found a thousand

circumstances perpetually reminding me of my true situation. Those I am

now to relate are among the most memorable.

CHAPTER VII.

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 patron's habits and inclinations. He had broken off, as I have

already said, all intercourse of visiting with 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 returned

from a residence of several years upon the continent; 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 allege, 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. Forester 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. Falkland opposed him no further. He would have been sorry

to be thought unkind to a kinsman for whom he had a particular esteem;

and the consciousness 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. His very appearance indicated the singularity of his

disposition. His figure was short and angular. His eyes were sunk far

into his head, and were overhung with eye-brows, black, thick, and

bushy. His complexion was swarthy, and his lineaments hard. He had seen

much of the world; but, to judge of him from his appearance and manners,

one would have thought that he had never moved from his fire-side.

His temper was acid, petulant, and harsh. He was easily offended by

trifles, respecting which, previously to the offence, the persons with

whom he had intercourse could have no suspicion of such a result. When

offended, his customary behaviour was exceedingly rugged. He thought

only of setting the delinquent right, and humbling him for his error;

and, in his eagerness to do this, overlooked the sensibility of the

sufferer, and the pains he inflicted. Remonstrance in such a case he

regarded as the offspring of cowardice, which was to be extirpated with

a steady and unshrinking hand, and not soothed with misjudging kindness

and indulgence. As is usual in human character, he had formed a system

of thinking to suit the current of his feelings. He held that the

kindness we entertain for a man should be veiled and concealed, exerted

in substantial benefits, but not disclosed, lest an undue advantage

should be taken of it by its object.

With this rugged outside, Mr. Forester had a warm and generous heart. At

first sight all men were deterred by his manner, and excited to give him

an ill character. But the longer any one knew him, the more they

approved him. His harshness was then only considered as habit; and

strong sense and active benevolence were uppermost in the recollection

of his familiar acquaintance. His conversation, when he condescended to

lay aside his snappish, rude, and abrupt half-sentences, became flowing

in diction, and uncommonly amusing with regard to its substance. He

combined, with weightiness of expression, a dryness of characteristic

humour, that demonstrated at once the vividness of his observation, and

the force of his understanding. The peculiarities of this gentleman's

character were not undisplayed in the scene to which he was now

introduced. Having much kindness in his disposition, 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.

With a mind so accomplished and a spirit so susceptible as that of Mr.

Falkland, Mr. Forester did not venture to let loose his usual violence

of manner; but, if he carefully abstained from harshness, he was however

wholly incapable of that sweet and liquid eloquence of the soul, which

would perhaps have stood the fairest chance of seducing Mr. Falkland for

a moment to forget his anguish. He exhorted his host to rouse up his

spirit, and defy the foul fiend; but the tone of his exhortations found

no sympathetic chord in the mind of my patron. He had not the skill to

carry conviction to an understanding so well fortified in error. 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 was so

little capable of serving him. Both parties 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 in any degree a

dangerous companion to the master of the house. They had scarcely one

point of contact in their characters. Mr. Forester was incapable 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, notwithstanding appearances, of a peculiarly

sociable disposition, and, where he was neither interrupted nor

contradicted, considerably loquacious. He began to feel himself

painfully out of his element upon the present occasion. Mr. Falkland

was devoted to contemplation and solitude. He put upon himself some

degree 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 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 found me better qualified for his purpose than any other of

Mr. Falkland's household.

The manner in which he began this sort of correspondence was

sufficiently characteristical. It was abrupt; but it was strongly

stamped with essential benevolence. It was blunt and humorous; but there

was attractiveness, especially in a case of unequal intercourse, in that

very rusticity by which he levelled himself with the mass of his

species. He had to reconcile himself as well as to invite me; not to

reconcile himself to the postponing an aristocratical vanity, for of

that he had a very slender portion, but to the trouble of invitation,

for he loved his ease. All this produced some irregularity and

indecision in his own mind, and gave a whimsical impression to his

behaviour.

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

reserve 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 inclination was

in no degree diminished. Mr. Forester was the second man I had seen

uncommonly worthy of my analysis, and who seemed to my thoughts, arrived

as I was at the end of my first essay, almost as much deserving to be

studied as Mr. Falkland himself. I was glad to escape from the

uneasiness of my reflections; and, while engaged with this new friend, I

forgot the criticalness of the evils with which I was hourly menaced.

Stimulated by these feelings, I was what Mr. Forester wanted, a diligent

and zealous hearer, I was strongly susceptible of impression; and the

alternate impressions my mind received, visibly displayed themselves in

my countenance and gestures. The observations Mr. Forester had made in

his travels, the set of opinions he had formed, all amused and

interested me. His manner of telling a story, or explaining his

thoughts, was forcible, perspicuous, and original: his style in

conversation had an uncommon zest. Every thing he had to relate

delighted me; while, in return, my sympathy, my eager curiosity, and my

unsophisticated passions, rendered me to Mr. Forester a most desirable

hearer. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that every day rendered

our intercourse more intimate and cordial.

Mr. Falkland was destined to be for ever unhappy; 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. The first overtures of

intimacy between me and Mr. Forester probably gave birth to sentiments

of jealousy in the mind of my master. The irregular, variable character

of his visitor tended to heighten them, by producing an appearance of

inexplicableness and mystery. At this time he intimated to me that it

was not agreeable to him, that there should be much intercourse between

me and this gentleman.

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?

Imprudent though I had been, could I voluntarily subject myself to an

eternal penance, and estrangement from human society? Could I discourage

a frankness so perfectly in consonance with my wishes, and receive in an

ungracious way a kindness that stole away my heart?

Besides this, I was but ill prepared for the servile submission Mr.

Falkland demanded. In early life I had been 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 succeeded: curiosity, so long as it lasted, was

a principle stronger in my bosom than even the love of independence. To

that I would have sacrificed my liberty or my life; to gratify it, 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 conscious of the unbecoming action I had committed,

and this rendered me humble. But, when he went further, and undertook to

prescribe to every article of my conduct, my patience was at an end. My

mind, before sufficiently sensible to the unfortunate situation to which

my imprudence had reduced me, now took a nearer and a more alarming view

of the circumstances of the case. Mr. Falkland was not an old man; he

had in him the principles of vigour, however they might seem to be

shaken; he might live as long as I should. I was his prisoner; and what

a prisoner! All my actions observed; all my gestures marked. I could

move neither to the right nor the left, but the eye of my keeper was

upon me. He watched me; and his vigilance was a sickness to my heart.

For me there was no more freedom, no more of hilarity, of

thoughtlessness, or of youth. Was this the life upon which I had entered

with such warm and sanguine expectation? Were my days to be wasted in

this cheerless gloom; a galley-slave in the hands of the system of

nature, whom death only, the death of myself or my inexorable superior,

could free?

I had been adventurous in the gratification of an infantine and

unreasonable curiosity; and I 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 amicable 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 encroachment,

but be left 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 intimacy that does not decline, progressively to

increase. Mr. Falkland observed these symptoms with visible

perturbation. Whenever I was conscious of their being perceived by him,

I betrayed tokens of confusion: this did not tend to allay his

uneasiness. One day he spoke to me alone; and, with a look of mysterious

but terrible import, expressed himself 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 enclosed with the snares of my vengeance

unseen by you, and, at the instant that you flatter yourself you are

already beyond their reach, they will close upon you. You might as well

think of escaping from the power 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 torment, 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

endured, and yet I could not utter a word. Why could not I speak the

expostulations of my heart, or propose the compromise I meditated? It

was inexperience, and not want of strength, that awed me. Every act of

Mr. Falkland contained something 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 encountering difficulties, and calling out

with promptness the energies of his mind.

I contemplated the proceedings of my patron with the deepest

astonishment. Humanity and general kindness were fundamental parts of

his character; 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 anxiety. I

ruminated with the most mournful sensations 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 to believe

that Mr. Falkland's threats were not empty words. I knew his ability; I

felt his ascendancy. If I encountered 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 devoted to slavish subjection. Miserable

sentence! And, if it were, what security had I against the injustice of

a man, vigilant, capricious, and criminal? I envied the condemned wretch

upon the scaffold; I envied the victim of the inquisition in the midst

of his torture. They know what they have to suffer. I had 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 transient: human nature

could not long support itself 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 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, totally abjuring the offensive, I resolved to stand firmly upon the

defensive. The liberty of acting as I pleased I would preserve, whatever

might be the risk. 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 determined, I drew off my forces from

petty incursions, and felt the propriety of acting with premeditation

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, rough way, reproached 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, which

seemed fated to make all its inhabitants miserable, without its being

possible for a bystander to penetrate the reason.

CHAPTER VIII.

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 habitation 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 circumstances of my condition, and by

degrees lost, in the profoundness of my contemplation, all attention to

the surrounding objects. The first determination 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

accompanied.

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 previously 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 surmounted with some difficulty the hedges and other

obstacles that from time to time presented themselves. My thoughts were

gloomy and disconsolate; 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 overcome with hunger and fatigue,

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. Forester'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, prepared for me; I sat down, and partook of it.

Still this thought dwelt upon my recollection:--"Mr. Falkland will never

be made acquainted with our meeting; I have an opportunity thrown in my

way, which if I do not improve, I shall deserve all the consequences

that may result. I can 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 experience,

which might perhaps be adequately done without entering into any detail

injurious to my patron?

Mr. Forester, on his part, expressed a desire to learn why it was 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 replied, that I could give him but an

imperfect satisfaction upon these points; but what I could, I would

willingly explain. The fact, I proceeded, was, that there were 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 myself to withdraw

from his service. I added, that I was sensible, by this half-confidence,

I might rather seem to merit the disapprobation of Mr. Forester 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 reserve.

He appeared to muse for a moment upon what I had said, and then asked

what reason I could have to complain of Mr. Falkland? I replied, that I

entertained the deepest reverence for my patron; I admired his

abilities, and considered him as formed for the benefit of his species.

I should in my own opinion be the vilest of miscreants, if I uttered a

whisper to his disadvantage. But 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 enquired, 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 contributed to my misfortune. Mr. Falkland was not ignorant

of my dislike to my present situation; perhaps 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 over-rated my own importance; adding, that he would

undertake to remove 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 entreat him upon no account to think of

applying to Mr. Falkland upon the subject. I added, that perhaps I was

only betraying my imbecility; but in reality, unacquainted as I was with

experience and the world, I was afraid, though disgusted with my present

residence, to expose myself upon a mere project of my own, to the

resentment 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 accident, this was

all I presumed to request; and, thus encouraged. I would venture to obey

the dictates 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,

and a characteristic fierceness of manner and voice, he thus addressed

me: "Young man, perhaps you are ignorant of the nature of the conduct

you at present hold. May be, you do not know that where there is

mystery, there is always something at bottom that will not bear the

telling. Is this the way to obtain the favour of a man of consequence

and respectability? To pretend to make a confidence, and then tell him a

disjointed story that has not common sense in it!"

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: "You do so; do you? I tell you, sir, the rectitude of my

nature is an enemy to disguise. Come, boy, you must know that I

understand these things better than you. Tell all, or expect nothing

from me but censure and contempt."

"Sir," replied I, "I have spoken from deliberation; I have told you my

choice, and, whatever be the result, I must abide by it. If in this

misfortune you refuse me your assistance, here I must end, having gained

by the communication only your ill opinion and displeasure."

He looked hard at me, as if he would see me through. At length he

relaxed his features, and softened his manner. "You are a foolish,

headstrong boy," said he, "and I shall have an eye upon you. I shall

never place in you the confidence I have done. But--I will not desert

you. At present, the balance between approbation and dislike is in your

favour. How long it will last, I cannot tell; I engage for nothing. But

it is my rule to act as I feel. I will for this time do as you

require;--and, pray God, it may answer. I will receive you, either now

or hereafter, under my roof, trusting that I shall have no reason to

repent, and that appearances will terminate as favourably as I wish,

though I scarcely know how to hope it."

We were engaged in the earnest discussion of subjects thus interesting

to my peace, when we were interrupted by an event the most earnestly to

have been 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 at the next stage. Mr. Forester was detained 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, proceeded thus far towards the house of his

kinsman. To me the meeting was most unaccountable 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

relation must appear not accidental, but, on my part at least, the

result of design. 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 without design, and purely

in consequence of having lost my way, must appear to be the most

palpable 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 frank and unconcealed; and therefore the

presumption was, that it was for purposes that required no concealment.

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

imagination. Such a meeting therefore could not have been concerted

under such circumstances, for a trivial purpose, or for any purpose

that his heart did not ache 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 suppose that the penalty I had to expect would be

proportionable. 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 circumstances, 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

degree hurried away by passion. 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 of the

manner in which I came there, the ingenuousness 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 overcome; I yielded, as in a

former instance, to the discomfiting influence of surprise. I dared

scarcely breathe; I observed the appearances with equal anxiety and

surprise. 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 minutely of Mr. Forester the

circumstances of our meeting; and that that gentleman, perceiving that

the meeting itself was discovered, and guided by habits of frankness,

which, when once rooted in a character, it is 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 calculated to produce, Mr. Falkland not being

unwilling to encourage prejudices against a character which might one

day come in competition with his own.

As to me, I went home indeed, for this was not a moment to resist. Mr.

Falkland, with a premeditation to which he had given the appearance 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 come forth alive; and when I entered 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. My 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

conscious 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 unaccountable tranquillity which Mr. Falkland had manifested, when

he discovered me in company with Mr. Forester. I was not deceived by

this. I knew that the calm was temporary, and would be succeeded by a

tumult and whirlwind 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, "This tranquillity is a period it is incumbent upon me to

improve; the shorter its duration may be found, the more speedy am I

obliged to be in the use of it." In a word, I took the resolution,

because I already stood in fear of the vengeance of Mr. Falkland, to

risk the possibility of provoking it in a degree still more inexpiable,

and terminate at once my present state of uncertainty. I had now opened

my case to Mr. Forester, and he had given me positive assurances of his

protection. I determined immediately to address the following letter to

Mr. Falkland. The consideration that, if he meditated any thing

tragical, such a letter would only tend to confirm him, did not enter

into the present feelings of my mind.

"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, master of my own actions. You will be delivered from the

presence of a person, whom you cannot prevail upon yourself to behold

without unpleasing emotions.

"Why should you subject me to an eternal penance? Why should you consign

my youthful hopes to suffering and despair? Consult the principles of

humanity that have marked the general course of your proceedings, and do

not let me, I entreat you, be made the subject of a useless severity. My

heart is impressed with gratitude for your favours. I sincerely ask your

forgiveness for the many errors of my conduct. I consider the treatment

I have received under your roof, as one almost uninterrupted scene of

kindness and generosity. 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

pretence of fatigue to avoid an interview. I went to bed. It may be

imagined that my slumbers were neither deep nor refreshing.

The next morning I was informed that my patron did not come home till

late; that he had enquired for me, and, being told that I was in bed,

had said nothing further upon the subject. Satisfied in this respect, I

went to the breakfasting parlour, and, though full of anxiety and

trepidation, endeavoured to busy myself in arranging the books, and a

few other little occupations, till Mr. Falkland should come down. After

a short time I heard his step, which I perfectly well 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 at

which he usually sat, and made my exit at one door as Mr. Falkland

entered at the other. This done, I withdrew, with flutterings and

palpitation, 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. His manner was that

of a man labouring with some dreadful thought, and endeavouring to give

an air of carelessness and insensibility to his behaviour. Perhaps no

carriage of any other sort could have produced a sensation of such

inexplicable horror, or have excited, in the person who was its object,

such anxious uncertainty about the event.--"That is your letter," said

he, throwing it.

"My lad," continued he, "I believe now you have played all your tricks,

and the farce is nearly at an end! With your apishness and absurdity

however you have taught me one thing; and, whereas before 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 am unable to tell what brought about your meeting with Mr. Forester

yesterday. It might be design; it might be accident. But, 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 never shall 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 article, 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 impotent. I have dug a pit for you; and, whichever way

you move, backward or forward, to the right or 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 however plausible, or

however true, the whole world shall execrate you for 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,

whatever be the expense; 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 insurmountable

power!"

The part of my history which I am now relating is that which I reflect

upon with the least complacency. Why was it, that I was once more

totally overcome by the imperious carriage of Mr. Falkland, 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 irresolute, overawed, and

abashed.

The speech I had heard was the dictate of frenzy, and it created in me a

similar frenzy. It determined me to do the very thing against which I

was thus solemnly warned, and fly from my patron's house. I could not

enter into parley with him; I could no longer endure the vile

subjugation he imposed on me. It was in vain that my reason 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 prudence, truth, and common sense on their side; and then

answer, I am under the guidance of a director more energetic than you.

I was not long in executing what I had thus rapidly 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 deliberation. 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.

In searching the apartment where I slept, I had formerly discovered a

concealed door, which led to a small apartment of the most secret

nature, not uncommon in houses so old as that of Mr. Falkland, and which

had perhaps served as a refuge from persecution, or a security from the

inveterate hostilities of a barbarous age. I believed no person was

acquainted with this hiding-place but myself. I felt unaccountably

impelled to remove into it the different articles of my personal

property. I could not at present take them away with me. If I were never

to recover them, I felt that it would be a gratification to my

sentiment, that no trace of my existence should be found after my

departure. Having completed their removal, and waited till the hour I

had previously chosen, 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 garden, to a gate that intersected an

elm-walk and a private horse-path on the outside.

I could scarcely believe my good fortune in having thus far executed my

design without interruption. The terrible images Mr. Falkland's menaces

had suggested to my mind, made me expect impediment and detection at

every step; though the impassioned state of my mind impelled me to

advance with desperate resolution. He probably however counted too

securely upon the ascendancy of his sentiments, when imperiously

pronounced, to think it necessary to take precautions against a sinister

event. For myself, I drew a favourable omen as to the final result of my

project, from the smoothness of success that attended it in the outset.

CHAPTER IX.

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 vengeance 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. Forester in my arrangement, as a last resource, not to be

called forth unless for immediate protection from the hand of

persecution and power. I was destitute of that experience of the world,

which can alone render us fertile in resources, or enable us to

institute a just comparison between the resources that offer themselves.

I was like the fascinated animal, that is seized with the most terrible

apprehensions, at the same time that he is incapable of adequately

considering for his own safety.

The mode of my proceeding being digested, I traced, with a cheerful

heart, the unfrequented path it was now necessary for me to pursue. 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 concern 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 determined? What power can cause that

man to die, whose whole soul commands him to continue to live?" I looked

back with abhorrence to the subjection 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 consequence of

which every man is fated to be, more or less, the tyrant or the slave. I

was astonished at the folly 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 myself, I resolved--and this

resolution has never been entirely forgotten by me--to hold myself

disengaged from this 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 fear

as served rather to keep up a state of pleasurable emotion than to

generate anguish and distress, during the whole of this nocturnal

expedition. After 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 sound of any

thing human saluted my ear. It was with difficulty that I gained

admittance into the yard of the inn, where I found 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

day after to-morrow, its route through that town recurring only three

times a week.

This intelligence gave the first check to the rapturous inebriation by

which my mind had been possessed 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 clew to what I most of

all dreaded, the persecution of Mr. Falkland. There was nothing I so

ardently desired as the annihilation 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 repetition of a name which

had been so fatal to my peace.

Thus circumstanced, I conceived frugality to be an object by no means

unworthy of my attention, unable as I was to prognosticate what

discouragements 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 eventful delay of twenty-four hours from becoming, by any

untoward event, a source of new calamity. It was by no means advisable

to remain in the village where I now was during this interval; nor did I

even think 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 taking a different inclination, 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 persuaded myself that it was

the best which, under the circumstances, could be adopted, I dismissed,

for the most part, all further anxieties from my mind, and eagerly

yielded myself up to the different amusements 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 occupied myself entirely in dreams

of future novelty 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

terrors which had preceded, and the dreadful scenes that awaited me.

In the evening I arrived at the place of my destination, and enquired

for the inn at which the coach was accustomed to call. A circumstance

however had previously excited my attention, and reproduced in me a

state of alarm.

Though it was already dark before I reached the town, my observation

had been attracted by a man, who passed me on horseback in the opposite

direction, about half a mile on the other side of the town. There was an

inquisitiveness in his gesture that I did not like; and, as far as I

could discern his figure, I pronounced him an ill-looking man. He had

not passed me more than two minutes before I heard the sound of a horse

advancing slowly behind me. These circumstances impressed some degree of

uneasy sensation upon my mind. I first mended my pace; and, this not

appearing to answer the purpose, I afterwards loitered, that the

horseman might pass me. He did so; and, as I glanced at him, I thought I

saw that it was the same man. He now put his horse into a trot, and

entered the town. I followed; and it was not long before I perceived him

at the door of an alehouse, drinking a mug of beer. This however the

darkness prevented me from discovering, till I was in a manner upon him.

I pushed forward, and saw him no more, till, as I entered the yard of

the inn where I intended to sleep, the same man suddenly rode up to me,

and asked if my name were Williams.

This adventure, _while it had been passing_, expelled the gaiety of my

mind, and filled me with anxiety. The apprehension however that I felt,

appeared to me groundless: if I were pursued, I took it for granted it

would be by some of Mr. Falkland's people, and not by a stranger. The

darkness took from me some of the simplest expedients of precaution. I

determined at least to proceed to the inn, and make the necessary

enquiries.

I no sooner heard the sound of the horse as I entered the yard, and the

question proposed to me by the rider, than the dreadful certainty of

what I feared instantly took possession of my mind. Every incident

connected with my late abhorred situation was calculated 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 this was

scarcely practicable: I remarked that my enemy was alone; and I believed

that, man to man, I might reasonably hope to get the better of him,

either by the firmness of my determination, or the subtlety of my

invention.

Thus resolved, I replied in an impetuous and peremptory tone, that I was

the man he took me for; adding, "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 strong reasons; and all the world shall not persuade me to alter

it. I am an Englishman, and it is the privilege of an Englishman to be

sole judge and master of his own actions."

"You are in the devil of a hurry," replied the man, "to guess my

intentions, and tell your own. But your guess is right; and mayhap you

may have reason to be thankful that my errand is not something worse.

Sure enough the squire expects you;--but I have a letter, and when you

have read that, I suppose you will come off a little of your stoutness.

If that does not answer, it will then be time to think what is to be

done next."

Thus saying, he gave me his letter, which was from Mr. Forester, whom,

as he told me, he had left at Mr. Falkland's house. I went into a room

of the inn for the purpose of reading it, and was followed by the

bearer. The letter was as follows:--

WILLIAMS,

"My brother Falkland has sent the bearer in pursuit of you. He expects

that, if found, you will return with him: I expect it 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

endeavour to fly; if your conscience tells you, you are innocent, you

will, out of all doubt, come back. Show me then whether I have been your

dupe: and, while I was won over by your seeming ingenuousness, have

suffered myself to be made 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 assistance in my

power to give. Remember, I engage for nothing further 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. My mind was full

of confidence and energy. I felt my own innocence, and was determined to

assert it. I was willing to be driven out a fugitive; I even rejoiced in

my escape, and cheerfully went out into the world destitute of every

provision, and depending for my future prospects upon my own ingenuity.

Thus much, said I, Falkland! you may do. Dispose of me as you please

with respect to the goods of fortune; but you shall neither make prize

of my liberty, nor sully the whiteness of my name. I repassed in my

thoughts every memorable incident that had happened to me under his

roof. I could recollect nothing, except the affair of the mysterious

trunk, out of which the shadow of a criminal accusation could be

extorted. In that instance 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 could still less persuade myself

that Mr. Falkland, who shuddered at the very possibility of detection,

and who considered himself as completely in my power, would dare to

bring forward a subject so closely connected with the internal agony of

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, did not

suffice to overwhelm my courage. My mind seemed to undergo an entire

revolution. Timid and embarrassed as I had felt myself, when I regarded

Mr. Falkland as my clandestine and domestic foe, I now conceived that

the case was entirely altered. "Meet me," said I, "as an open accuser:

if we must contend, let us contend in the face of day; and then,

unparalleled as your resources may be, I will not fear you." Innocence

and guilt were, in my apprehension, the things in the whole world the

most opposite to each other. I would not suffer myself to believe, that

the former could be confounded with the latter, unless the innocent man

first allowed himself to be subdued in mind, before he was defrauded of

the good opinion of mankind. Virtue rising superior to every calamity,

defeating by a plain unvarnished tale all the stratagems of Vice, and

throwing back upon her adversary the confusion with which he had hoped

to overwhelm her, was one of the favourite subjects of my youthful

reveries. I determined never to prove an instrument of destruction to

Mr. Falkland; but I was not less resolute to obtain justice to myself.

The issue of all these confident hopes I shall immediately have

occasion to relate. It was thus, with the most generous and undoubting

spirit, that I rushed upon irretrievable ruin.

"Friend," said I to the bearer, after a considerable interval of

silence, "you are right. This is, indeed, an extraordinary letter you

have brought me; but it answers its purpose. I will certainly go with

you now, whatever be the consequence. No person shall ever impute blame

to me, so long as I have it in my power to clear myself."

I felt, in the circumstances in which I was placed by Mr. Forester's

letter, not merely a willingness, but an alacrity and impatience, to

return. We procured a second horse. We proceeded on our journey in

silence. My mind was occupied again in endeavouring to account for Mr.

Forester's letter. I knew the inflexibility and sternness of Mr.

Falkland's mind in accomplishing the purposes he had at heart; but I

also knew that every virtuous and magnanimous principle was congenial to

his character.

When we arrived, midnight was already past, and 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 immediately 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. I suffered however no reduction of courage:

the singularity of my situation, my conjectures with respect to the

present, my eagerness for the future, did not allow me to sink into a

languid 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 elopement having been given a few hours

before. Mr. Falkland had despatched servants in all directions in

pursuit of me; and the servant from the market-town arrived at the same

moment with Mr. Forester, with intelligence that a person answering the

description he gave, had been there very early in the morning enquiring

respecting the stage to London.

Mr. Falkland seemed extremely disturbed at this information, and

exclaimed on me with acrimony, as an unthankful and unnatural villain.

Mr. Forester replied, "Have more command of yourself, sir! Villain is a

serious appellation, and must not be trifled with. Englishmen are free;

and no man is to be charged with villainy, because he changes one source

of subsistence for another."

Mr. Falkland shook his head, and with a smile, expressive of acute

sensibility, said, "Brother, brother, you are the dupe of his art. 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 that, in a

moment of acrimony, you might be employing harsh epithets in a sort of

random style. But if you have a serious accusation to state, we must not

be told of that, till it is known whether the lad is within reach of a

hearing. I am indifferent myself about the good opinion of others. It is

what the world bestows and retracts with so little thought, that I can

make no account of its decision. But that does not authorise me lightly

to entertain an ill opinion of another. The slenderest allowance I think

I can make to such as I consign to be the example and terror of their

species, is that of being heard in their own defence. It is a wise

principle that requires the judge to come into court uninformed of the

merits of the cause he is to try; and to that principle I am determined

to conform as an individual. I shall always think it right to be severe

and inflexible in my treatment of offenders; but the severity I exercise

in the sequel, must be accompanied with impartiality and caution in what

is preliminary."

While Mr. Forester related to me these particulars, he observed me ready

to break out into some of the expressions which the narrative suggested;

but he would not suffer me to speak. "No," said he; "I would not hear

Mr. Falkland against you; and I cannot hear you in your defence. I come

to you at present to speak, and not to hear. I thought it right 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 what

self-defence requires from every man, where, as it always happens to a

man upon his trial, he has the whole world against him, and has his own

battle to fight against the world. Farewell; and God send you a good

deliverance! If Mr. Falkland's accusation, whatever it be, shall appear

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 encourage me. 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 accuser 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 natural, the

real criminal at his mercy. I was still more astonished at the

superhuman power Mr. Falkland seemed to possess, of bringing the object

of his persecution within the sphere of his authority; a reflection

attended with some check to that eagerness and boldness of spirit, 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 direction, and he is hurried along with an

irresistible force, without finding it within the compass of his efforts

to check their rapidity. I was allowed only a short time to recollect

myself, when my trial commenced. I was conducted to the library, where I

had passed so many happy and so many contemplative hours, and found

there Mr. Forester and three or 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

concerned, and had nothing to hope from their indulgence. Mr. Falkland

entered at one door, almost as soon as I entered at the other.

CHAPTER X.

He began: "It has been the principle of my life, never to inflict a

wilful injury upon any thing that lives; I need not express my regret,

when I find myself obliged to be the promulgator of a criminal charge.

How gladly would I pass unnoticed the evil I have sustained; but I owe

it to society to detect an offender, and prevent other men from being

imposed upon, as I have been, by an appearance of integrity."

"It would be better," interrupted Mr. Forester "to speak directly to the

point. We ought not, though unwarily, by apologising for ourselves, to

create at such a time a prejudice against an individual, against whom a

criminal accusation will always be prejudice enough."

"I strongly suspect," continued Mr. Falkland, "this young man, who has

been peculiarly the object of my kindness, of having robbed me to a

considerable amount."

"What," replied Mr. Forester, "are the grounds of your suspicion?"

"The first of them is the actual loss I have sustained, in notes,

jewels, and plate. I have missed bank-notes to the amount of nine

hundred pounds, three gold repeaters of considerable value, a complete

set of diamonds, the property of my late mother, and several other

articles."

"And why," continued my arbitrator, astonishment, grief, and a desire to

retain his self-possession, strong contending in his countenance and

voice, "do you fix on this young man as the instrument of the

depredation?"

"I found him, on my coming home, upon the day when every thing was in

disorder from the alarm of fire, in the very act of quitting the private

apartment where these articles were deposited. He was confounded at

seeing me, and hastened to withdraw as soon as he possibly could."

"Did you say nothing to him--take no notice of the confusion your sudden

appearance produced?"

"I asked what was his errand in that place. He was at first so terrified

and overcome, that he could not answer me. Afterwards, with a good deal

of faltering, he said that, when all the servants were engaged in

endeavouring to save the most valuable part of my property, he had come

hither with the same view; but that he had as yet removed nothing."

"Did you immediately examine to see that every thing was safe?"

"No. I was accustomed to confide in his honesty, and I was suddenly

called away, in the present instance, to attend to the increasing

progress of the flames. I therefore only took out the key from the door

of the apartment, having first locked it, and, putting it in my pocket,

hastened to go where my presence seemed indispensably necessary."

"How long was it before you missed your property?"

"The same evening. The hurry of the scene had driven the circumstance

entirely out of my mind, till, going by accident near the apartment, the

whole affair, together with the singular and equivocal behaviour of

Williams, rushed at once upon my recollection. I immediately entered,

examined the trunk in which these things were contained, and, to my

astonishment, found the locks broken, and the property gone."

"What steps did you take upon this discovery?"

"I sent for Williams, and talked to him very seriously upon the

subject. But he had now perfectly recovered his self-command, and calmly

and stoutly denied all knowledge of the matter. I urged him with the

enormousness of the offence, but I made no impression. He did not

discover either the surprise and indignation one would have expected

from a person entirely innocent, or the uneasiness that generally

attends upon guilt. He was rather silent and reserved. I then informed

him, that I should proceed in a manner different from what he might

perhaps expect. I would not, as is too frequent in such cases, make a

general search; for I had rather lose my property for ever without

redress, than expose a multitude of innocent persons to anxiety and

injustice. My suspicion, for the present, unavoidably fixed upon him.

But, in a matter of so great consequence, I was determined not to act

upon suspicion. I would neither incur the possibility of ruining him,

being innocent, nor be the instrument of exposing others to his

depredations, if guilty. I should therefore merely insist upon his

continuing in my service. He might depend upon it he should be well

watched, and I trusted the whole truth would eventually appear. Since he

avoided confession now, I advised him to consider how far it was likely

he would come off with impunity at last. This I determined on, that the

moment he attempted an escape, I would consider that as an indication of

guilt, and proceed accordingly."

"What circumstances have occurred from that time to the present?"

"None upon which I can infer a certainty of guilt; several that agree to

favour a suspicion. From that time Williams was perpetually uneasy in

his situation, always desirous, as it now appears, to escape, but

afraid to adopt such a measure without certain precautions. It was not

long after, that you, Mr. Forester, became my visitor. I observed, with

dissatisfaction, the growing intercourse between you, reflecting on the

equivocalness of his character, and the attempt he would probably make

to render you the dupe of his hypocrisy. I accordingly threatened him

severely; and I believe you observed the change that presently after

occurred in his behaviour with relation to you."

"I did, and it appeared at that time mysterious and extraordinary."

"Some time after, as you well know, a rencounter took place between you,

whether accidental or intentional on his part I am not able to say, when

he confessed to you the uneasiness of his mind, without discovering the

cause, and openly proposed to you to assist him in his flight, and

stand, in case of necessity, between him and my resentment. You offered,

it seems, to take him into your service; but nothing, as he

acknowledged, would answer his purpose, that did not place his retreat

wholly out of my power to discover."

"Did it not appear extraordinary to you, that he should hope for any

effectual protection from me, while it remained perpetually in your

power to satisfy me of his unworthiness?"

"Perhaps he had hopes that I should not proceed to that step, at least

so long as the place of his retreat should be unknown to me, and of

consequence the event of my proceeding dubious. Perhaps he confided in

his own powers, which are far from contemptible, to construct a

plausible tale, especially as he had taken care to have the first

impression in his favour. After all, this protection, on your part, was

merely reserved in case all other expedients failed. He does not appear

to have had any other sentiment upon the subject, than that, if he were

defeated in his projects for placing himself beyond the reach of

justice, it was better to have bespoken a place in your patronage than

to be destitute of every resource."

Mr. Falkland having thus finished his evidence, called upon Robert, the

valet, to confirm the part of it which related to the day of the fire.

Robert stated, that he happened to be coming through the library that

day, a few minutes after Mr. Falkland's being brought home by the sight

of the fire; that he had found me standing there with every mark of

perturbation and fright; that he could not help stopping to notice it;

that he had spoken to me two or three times before he could obtain an

answer; and that all he could get from me at last was, that I was the

most miserable creature alive.

He further said, that in the evening of the same day Mr. Falkland called

him into the private apartment adjoining to the library, and bid him

bring a hammer and some nails. He then showed him a trunk standing in

the apartment with its locks and fastening broken, and ordered him to

observe and remember what he saw, but not to mention it to any one.

Robert did not at that time know what Mr. Falkland intended by these

directions, which were given in a manner uncommonly solemn and

significant; but he entertained no doubt, that the fastenings were

broken and wrenched by the application of a chisel or such-like

instrument, with the intention of forcibly opening the trunk.

Mr. Forester observed upon this evidence, that as much of it as related

to the day of the fire seemed indeed to afford powerful reasons for

suspicion; and that the circumstances that had occurred since strangely

concurred to fortify that suspicion. Meantime, that nothing proper to

be done might be omitted, he asked whether in my flight I had removed my

boxes, to see whether by that means any trace could be discovered to

confirm the imputation. Mr. Falkland treated this suggestion slightly,

saying, that if I were the thief, I had no doubt taken the precaution to

obviate so palpable a means of detection. To this Mr. Forester only

replied, that conjecture, however skilfully formed, was not always

realised in the actions and behaviour of mankind; and ordered that my

boxes and trunks, if found, should be brought into the library. I

listened to this suggestion with pleasure; and, uneasy and confounded as

I was at the appearances combined against me, I trusted in this appeal

to give a new face to my cause. I was eager to declare the place where

my property was deposited; and the servants, guided by my direction,

presently produced what was enquired for.

The two boxes that were first opened, contained nothing to confirm the

accusation against me; in the third were found a watch and several

jewels, that were immediately known to be the property of Mr. Falkland.

The production of this seemingly decisive evidence excited emotions of

astonishment and concern; but no person's astonishment appeared to be

greater than that of Mr. Falkland. That I should have left the stolen

goods behind me, would of itself have appeared incredible; but when it

was considered what a secure place of concealment I had found for them,

the wonder diminished; and Mr. Forester observed, that it was by no

means impossible I might conceive it easier to obtain possession of them

afterwards, than to remove them at the period of my precipitate flight.

Here however I thought it necessary to interfere. I fervently urged my

right to a fair and impartial construction. I asked Mr. Forester,

whether it were probable, if I had stolen these things, that I should

not have contrived, at least to remove them along with me? And again,

whether, if I had been conscious they would he found among my property,

I should myself have indicated the place where I had concealed it?

The insinuation I conveyed against Mr. Forester's impartiality

overspread his whole countenance, for an instant, with the flush of

anger.

"Impartiality, young man! Yes, be sure, from me you shall experience an

impartial treatment! God send that may answer your purpose! Presently

you shall be heard at full in your own defence.

"You expect us to believe you innocent, because you did not remove these

things along with you. The money is removed. Where, sir, is that? We

cannot answer for the inconsistences and oversights of any human mind,

and, least of all, if that mind should appear to be disturbed with the

consciousness of guilt.

"You observe that it was by your own direction these boxes and trunks

have been found: that is indeed extraordinary. It appears little less

than infatuation. But to what purpose appeal to probabilities and

conjecture, in the face of incontestable facts? There, sir, are the

boxes: you alone knew where they were to be found; you alone had the

keys: tell us then how this watch and these jewels came to be contained

in them?"

I was silent.

To the rest of the persons present I seemed to be merely the subject of

detection; but in reality I was, of all the spectators, that individual

who was most at a loss to conceive, through every stage of the scene,

what, would come next, and who listened to every word that was uttered

with the most uncontrollable amazement. Amazement however alternately

yielded to indignation and horror. At first I could not refrain from

repeatedly attempting to interrupt; but I was checked in these attempts

by Mr. Forester; and I presently felt how necessary it was to my future

peace, that I should collect the whole energy of my mind to repel the

charge, and assert my innocence.

Every thing being now produced that could be produced against me, Mr.

Forester turned to me with a look of concern and pity, and told me that

now was the time, if I chose to allege any thing in my defence. In reply

to this invitation, I spoke nearly as follows:--

"I am innocent. It is in vain that circumstances are accumulated against

me; there is not a person upon earth less capable than I of the things

of which I am accused. I appeal to my heart--I appeal to my looks--I

appeal to every sentiment my tongue ever uttered."

I could perceive that the fervour with which I spoke made some

impression upon every one that heard me. But in a moment their eyes were

turned upon the property that lay before them, and their countenances

changed. I proceeded:--

"One thing more I must aver;--Mr. Falkland is not deceived; he perfectly

knows that I am innocent."

I had no sooner uttered these words, than an involuntary cry of

indignation burst from every person in the room. Mr. Forester turned to

me with a look of extreme severity, and said--

"Young man, consider well what you are doing! It is the privilege of the

party accused to say whatever he thinks proper; and I will take care

that you shall enjoy that privilege in its utmost extent. But do you

think it will conduce in any respect to your benefit, to throw out such

insolent and intolerable insinuations?"

"I thank you most sincerely," replied I, "for your caution; but I well

know what it is I am doing. I make this declaration, not merely because

it is solemnly true, but because it is inseparably connected with my

vindication. I am the party accused, and I shall be told that I am not

to be believed in my own defence. I can produce no other witnesses of my

innocence; I therefore call upon Mr. Falkland to be my evidence. I ask

him--

"Did you never boast to me in private of your power to ruin me? Did you

never say that, if once I brought on myself the weight of your

displeasure, my fall should be irreparable? Did you not tell me that,

though I should prepare in that case a tale however plausible or however

true, you would take care that the whole world should execrate me as an

impostor? Were not those your very words? Did you not add, that my

innocence should be of no service to me, and that you laughed at so

feeble a defence? I ask you further,--Did you not receive a letter from

me the morning of the day on which I departed, requesting your consent

to my departure? Should I have done that if my flight had been that of a

thief? I challenge any man to reconcile the expressions of that letter

with this accusation. Should I have begun with stating that I had

conceived a desire to quit your service, if my desire and the reasons

for it, had been of the nature that is now alleged? Should I have dared

to ask for what reason I was thus subjected to an eternal penance?"

Saying this, I took out a copy of my letter, and laid it open upon the

table.

Mr. Falkland returned no immediate answer to my interrogations. Mr.

Forester turned to him, and said.

"Well, sir, what is your reply to this challenge of your servant?"

Mr. Falkland answered, "Such a mode of defence scarcely calls for a

reply. But I answer, I held no such conversation; I never used such

words; I received no such letter. Surely it is no sufficient refutation

of a criminal charge, that the criminal repels what is alleged against

him with volubility of speech, and intrepidity of manner."

Mr. Forester then turned to me: "If," said he, "you trust your

vindication to the plausibility of your tale, you must take care to

render it consistent and complete. You have not told us what was the

cause of the confusion and anxiety in which Robert professes to have

found you, why you were so impatient to quit the service of Mr.

Falkland, or how you account for certain articles of his property being

found in your possession."

"All that, sir," answered I, "is true. There are certain parts of my

story that I have not told. If they were told, they would not conduce to

my disadvantage, and they would make the present accusation appear still

more astonishing. But I cannot, as yet at least, prevail upon myself to

tell them. Is it necessary to give any particular and precise reasons

why I should wish to change the place of my residence? You all of you

know the unfortunate state of Mr. Falkland's mind. You know the

sternness, reservedness, and distance of his manners. If I had no other

reasons, surely it would afford small presumption of criminality that I

should wish to change his service for another.

"The question of how these articles of Mr. Falkland's property came to

be found in my possession, is more material. It is a question I am

wholly unable to answer. Their being found there, was at least as

unexpected to me as to any one of the persons now present. I only know

that, as I have the most perfect assurance of Mr. Falkland's being

conscious of my innocence--for, observe! I do not shrink from that

assertion; I reiterate it with new confidence--I therefore firmly and

from my soul believe, that their being there is of Mr. Falkland's

contrivance."

I no sooner said this, than I was again interrupted by an involuntary

exclamation from every one present. They looked at me with furious

glances, as if they could have torn me to pieces. I proceeded:--

"I have now answered every thing that is alleged against me.

"Mr. Forester, you are a lover of justice; I conjure you not to violate

it in my person. You are a man of penetration; look at me! do you see

any of the marks of guilt? Recollect all that has ever passed under your

observation; is it compatible with a mind capable of what is now alleged

against me? Could a real criminal have shown himself so unabashed,

composed, and firm as I have now done?

"Fellow-servants! Mr. Falkland is a man of rank and fortune; he is your

master. I am a poor country lad, without a friend in the world. That is

a ground of real difference to a certain extent; but it is not a

sufficient ground for the subversion of justice. Remember, that I am in

a situation that is not to be trifled with; that a decision given

against me now, in a case in which I solemnly assure you I am innocent,

will for ever deprive me of reputation and peace of mind, combine the

whole world in a league against me, and determine perhaps upon my

liberty and my life. If you believe--if you see--if you know, that I am

innocent, speak for me. Do not suffer a pusillanimous timidity to

prevent you from saving a fellow-creature from destruction, who does not

deserve to have a human being for his enemy. Why have we the power of

speech, but to communicate our thoughts? I will never believe that a

man, conscious of innocence, cannot make other men perceive that he has

that thought. Do not you feel that my whole heart tells me I am not

guilty of what is imputed to me?

"To you, Mr. Falkland, I have nothing to say: I know you, and know that

you are impenetrable. At the very moment that you are urging such odious

charges against me, you admire my resolution and forbearance. But I have

nothing to hope from you. You can look upon my ruin without pity or

remorse. I am most unfortunate indeed in having to do with such an

adversary. You oblige me to say ill things of you; but I appeal to your

own heart, whether my language is that of exaggeration or revenge."

Every thing that could be alleged on either side being now concluded,

Mr. Forester undertook to make some remarks upon the whole.

"Williams," said he, "the charge against you is heavy; the direct

evidence strong; the corroborating circumstances numerous and striking.

I grant that you have shown considerable dexterity in your answers; but

you will learn, young man, to your cost, that dexterity, however

powerful it may be in certain cases, will avail little against the

stubbornness of truth. It is fortunate for mankind that the empire of

talents has its limitations, and that it is not in the power of

ingenuity to subvert the distinctions of right and wrong. Take my word

for it, that the true merits of the case against you will be too strong

for sophistry to overturn; that justice will prevail, and impotent

malice be defeated.

"To you, Mr. Falkland, society is obliged for having placed this black

affair in its true light. Do not suffer the malignant aspersions of the

criminal to give you uneasiness. Depend upon it that they will be found

of no weight. I have no doubt that your character, in the judgment of

every person that has heard them, stands higher than ever. We feel for

your misfortune, in being obliged to hear such calumnies from a person

who has injured you so grossly. But you must be considered in that

respect as a martyr in the public cause. The purity of your motives and

dispositions is beyond the reach of malice; and truth and equity will

not fail to award, to your calumniator infamy, and to you the love and

approbation of mankind.

"I have now told you, Williams, what I think of your case. But I have no

right to assume to be your ultimate judge. Desperate as it appears to

me, I will give you one piece of advice, as if I were retained as a

counsel to assist you. Leave out of it whatever tends to the

disadvantage of Mr. Falkland. Defend yourself as well as you can, but do

not attack your master. It is your business to create in those who hear

you a prepossession in your favour. But the recrimination you have been

now practising, will always create indignation. Dishonesty will admit of

some palliation. The deliberate malice you have now been showing is a

thousand times more atrocious. It proves you to have the mind of a

demon, rather than of a felon. Wherever you shall repeat it, those who

hear you will pronounce you guilty upon that, even if the proper

evidence against you were glaringly defective. If therefore you would

consult your interest, which seems to be your only consideration, it is

incumbent upon you by all means immediately to retract that. If you

desire to be believed honest, you must in the first place show that you

have a due sense of merit in others. You cannot better serve your cause

than by begging pardon of your master, and doing homage to rectitude and

worth, even when they are employed in vengeance against you."

It is easy to conceive that my mind sustained an extreme shock from the

decision of Mr. Forester; but his call upon me to retract and humble

myself before my accuser penetrated my whole soul with indignation. I

answered:--

"I have already told you I am innocent. I believe that I could not

endure the effort of inventing a plausible defence, if it were

otherwise. You have just affirmed that it is not in the power of

ingenuity to subvert the distinctions of right and wrong, and in that

very instant I find them subverted. This is indeed to me a very awful

moment. New to the world, I know nothing of its affairs but what has

reached me by rumour, or is recorded in books. I have come into it with

all the ardour and confidence inseparable from my years. In every

fellow-being I expected to find a friend. I am unpractised in its wiles,

and have even no acquaintance with its injustice. I have done nothing to

deserve the animosity of mankind; but, if I may judge from the present

scene, I am henceforth to be deprived of the benefits of integrity and

honour. I am to forfeit the friendship of every one I have hitherto

known, and to be precluded from the power of acquiring that of others. I

must therefore be reduced to derive my satisfaction from myself. Depend

upon it, I will not begin that career by dishonourable concessions. If I

am to despair of the good-will of other men, I will at least maintain

the independence of my own mind. Mr. Falkland is my implacable enemy.

Whatever may be his merits in other respects, he is acting towards me

without humanity, without remorse, and without principle. Do you think I

will ever make submissions to a man by whom I am thus treated, that I

will fall down at the feet of one who is to me a devil, or kiss the hand

that is red with my blood?"

"In that respect," answered Mr. Forester, "do as you shall think

proper. I must confess that your firmness and consistency astonish me.

They add something to what I had conceived of human powers. Perhaps you

have chosen the part which, all things considered, may serve your

purpose best; though I think more moderation would be more conciliating.

The exterior of innocence will, I grant, stagger the persons who may

have the direction of your fate, but it will never be able to prevail

against plain and incontrovertible facts. But I have done with you. I

see in you a new instance of that abuse which is so generally made of

talents, the admiration of an undiscerning public. I regard you with

horror. All that remains is, that I should discharge my duty, in

consigning you, as a monster of depravity, to the justice of your

country."

"No," rejoined Mr. Falkland, "to that I can never consent. I have put a

restraint upon myself thus far, because it was right that evidence and

enquiry should take their course. I have suppressed all my habits and

sentiments, because it seemed due to the public that hypocrisy should be

unmasked. But I can suffer this violence no longer. I have through my

whole life interfered to protect, not overbear, the sufferer; and I must

do so now. I feel not the smallest resentment of his impotent attacks

upon my character; I smile at their malice; and they make no diminution

in my benevolence to their author. Let him say what he pleases; he

cannot hurt me. It was proper that he should be brought to public shame,

that other people might not be deceived by him as we have been. But

there is no necessity for proceeding further; and I must insist upon it

that he be permitted to depart wherever he pleases. I am sorry that

public interest affords so gloomy a prospect for his future happiness."

"Mr. Falkland," answered Mr. Forester, "these sentiments do honour to

your humanity; but I must not give way to them. They only serve to set

in a stronger light the venom of this serpent, this monster of

ingratitude, who first robs his benefactor, and then reviles him. Wretch

that you are, will nothing move you? Are you inaccessible to remorse?

Are you not struck to the heart with the unmerited goodness of your

master? Vile calumniator! you are the abhorrence of nature, the

opprobrium of the human species, and the earth can only be freed from an

insupportable burthen by your being exterminated! Recollect, sir, that

this monster, at the very moment that you are exercising such unexampled

forbearance in his behalf, has the presumption to charge you with

prosecuting a crime of which you know him to be innocent, nay, with

having conveyed the pretended stolen goods among his property, for the

express purpose of ruining him. By this unexampled villainy, he makes it

your duty to free the world from such a pest, and your interest to admit

no relaxing in your pursuit of him, lest the world should be persuaded

by your clemency to credit his vile insinuations."

"I care not for the consequences," replied Mr. Falkland; "I will obey

the dictates of my own mind. I will never lend my assistance to the

reforming mankind by axes and gibbets. I am sure things will never be as

they ought, till honour, and not law, be the dictator of mankind, till

vice be taught to shrink before the resistless might of inborn dignity,

and not before the cold formality of statutes. If my calumniator were

worthy of my resentment, I would chastise him with my own sword, and not

that of the magistrate; but in the present case I smile at his malice,

and resolve to spare him, as the generous lord of the forest spares the

insect that would disturb his repose."

"The language you now hold," said Mr. Forester, "is that of romance, and

not of reason. Yet I cannot but be struck with the contrast exhibited

before me, of the magnanimity of virtue, and the obstinate impenetrable

injustice of guilt. While your mind overflows with goodness, nothing can

touch the heart of this thrice-refined villain. I shall never forgive

myself for having once been entrapped by his detestable arts. This is no

time for us to settle the question between chivalry and law. I shall

therefore simply insist as a magistrate, having taken the evidence in

this felony, upon my right and duty of following the course of justice,

and committing the accused to the county jail."

After some further contest Mr. Falkland, finding Mr. Forester obstinate

and impracticable, withdrew his opposition. Accordingly a proper officer

was summoned from the neighbouring village, a mittimus made out, and one

of Mr. Falkland's carriages prepared to conduct me to the place of

custody. It will easily be imagined that this sudden reverse was very

painfully felt by me. I looked round on the servants who had been the

spectators of my examination, but not one of them, either by word or

gesture, expressed compassion for my calamity. The robbery of which I

was accused appeared to them atrocious from its magnitude; and whatever

sparks of compassion might otherwise have sprung up in their ingenuous

and undisciplined minds, were totally obliterated by indignation at my

supposed profligacy in recriminating upon their worthy and excellent

master. My fate being already determined, and one of the servants

despatched for the officer, Mr. Forester and Mr. Falkland withdrew, and

left me in the custody of two others.

One of these was the son of a farmer at no great distance, who had been

in habits of long-established intimacy with my late father. I was

willing accurately to discover the state of mind of those who had been

witnesses of this scene, and who had had some previous opportunity of

observing my character and manners. I, therefore, endeavoured to open a

conversation with him. "Well, my good Thomas," said I, in a querulous

tone, and with a hesitating manner, "am I not a most miserable

creature?"

"Do not speak to me, Master Williams! You have given me a shock that I

shall not get the better of for one while. You were hatched by a hen, as

the saying is, but you came of the spawn of a cockatrice. I am glad to

my heart that honest farmer Williams is dead; your villainy would else

have made him curse the day that ever he was born."

"Thomas, I am innocent! I swear by the great God that shall judge me

another day, I am innocent!"

"Pray, do not swear! for goodness' sake, do not swear! your poor soul is

damned enough without that. For your sake, lad, I will never take any

body's word, nor trust to appearances, tho' it should be an angel. Lord

bless us! how smoothly you palavered it over, for all the world, as if

you had been as fair as a new-born babe! But it will not do; you will

never be able to persuade people that black is white. For my own part, I

have done with you. I loved you yesterday, all one as if you had been my

own brother. To-day I love you so well, that I would go ten miles with

all the pleasure in life to see you hanged."

"Good God, Thomas! have you the heart? What a change! I call God to

witness, I have done nothing to deserve it! What a world do we live in!"

"Hold your tongue, boy! It makes my very heart sick to hear you! I

would not lie a night under the same roof with you for all the world! I

should expect the house to fall and crush such wickedness! I admire that

the earth does not open and swallow you alive! It is poison so much as

to look at you! If you go on at this hardened rate, I believe from my

soul that the people you talk to will tear you to pieces, and you will

never live to come to the gallows. Oh, yes, you do well to pity

yourself; poor tender thing! that spit venom all round you like a toad,

and leave the very ground upon which you crawl infected with your

slime."

Finding the person with whom I talked thus impenetrable to all I could

say, and considering that the advantage to be gained was small, even if

I could overcome his prepossession, I took his advice, and was silent.

It was not much longer before every thing was prepared for my departure,

and I was conducted to the same prison which had so lately enclosed the

wretched and innocent Hawkinses. They too had been the victims of Mr.

Falkland. He exhibited, upon a contracted scale indeed, but in which the

truth of delineation was faithfully sustained, a copy of what monarchs

are, who reckon among the instruments of their power prisons of state.

CHAPTER XI.

For my own part, I had never seen a prison, and, like the majority of my

brethren, had given myself little concern to enquire what was the

condition of those who committed offence against, or became obnoxious to

suspicion from, the community. Oh, how enviable is the most tottering

shed under which the labourer retires to rest, compared with the

residence of these walls!

To me every thing was new,--the massy doors, the resounding locks, the

gloomy passages, the grated windows, and the characteristic looks of the

keepers, accustomed to reject every petition, and to steel their hearts

against feeling and pity. Curiosity, and a sense of my situation,

induced me to fix my eyes on the faces of these men; but in a few

minutes I drew them away with unconquerable loathing. It is impossible

to describe the sort of squalidness and filth with which these mansions

are distinguished. I have seen dirty faces in dirty apartments, which

have nevertheless borne the impression of health, and spoke carelessness

and levity rather than distress. But the dirt of a prison speaks sadness

to the heart, and appears to be already in a state of putridity and

infection.

I was detained for more than an hour in the apartment of the keeper, one

turnkey after another coming in, that they might make themselves

familiar with my person. As I was already considered as guilty of felony

to a considerable amount, I underwent a rigorous search, and they took

from me a penknife, a pair of scissars, and that part of my money which

was in gold. It was debated whether or not these should be sealed up, to

be returned to me, as they said, as soon as I should be acquitted; and

had I not displayed an unexpected firmness of manner and vigour of

expostulation, such was probably the conduct that would have been

pursued. Having undergone these ceremonies, I was thrust into a

day-room, in which all the persons then under confinement for felony

were assembled, to the number of eleven. Each of them was too much

engaged in his own reflections, to take notice of me. Of these, two were

imprisoned for horse-stealing, and three for having stolen a sheep, one

for shop-lifting, one for coining, two for highway-robbery, and two for

burglary.

The horse-stealers were engaged in a game at cards, which was presently

interrupted by a difference of opinion, attended with great

vociferation,--they calling upon one and another to decide it, to no

purpose; one paying no attention to their summons, and another leaving

them in the midst of their story, being no longer able to endure his own

internal anguish, in the midst of their mummery.

It is a custom among thieves to constitute a sort of mock tribunal of

their own body, from whose decision every one is informed whether he

shall be acquitted, respited, or pardoned, as well as respecting the

supposed most skilful way of conducting his defence. One of the

housebreakers, who had already passed this ordeal, and was stalking up

and down the room with a forced bravery, exclaimed to his companion,

that he was as rich as the Duke of Bedford himself. He had five guineas

and a half, which was as much as he could possibly spend in the course

of the ensuing month; and what happened after that, it was Jack Ketch's

business to see to, not his. As he uttered these words, he threw himself

abruptly upon a bench that was near him, and seemed to be asleep in a

moment. But his sleep was uneasy and disturbed, his breathing was hard,

and, at intervals, had rather the nature of a groan. A young fellow from

the other side of the room came softly to the place where he lay, with a

large knife in his hand: and pressed the back of it with such violence

upon his neck, the head hanging over the side of the bench, that it was

not till after several efforts that he was able to rise. "Oh, Jack!"

cried this manual jester, "I had almost done your business for you!" The

other expressed no marks of resentment, but sullenly answered, "Damn

you, why did not you take the edge? It would have been the best thing

you have done this many a day!"[B]

[Footnote B: An incident exactly similar to this was witnessed by a

friend of the author, a few years since, in a visit to the prison of

Newgate.]

The case of one of the persons committed for highway-robbery was not a

little extraordinary. He was a common soldier of a most engaging

physiognomy, and two-and-twenty years of age. The prosecutor, who had

been robbed one evening, as he returned late from the alehouse, of the

sum of three shillings, swore positively to his person. The character of

the prisoner was such as has seldom been equalled. He had been ardent in

the pursuit of intellectual cultivation, and was accustomed to draw his

favourite amusement from the works of Virgil and Horace. The humbleness

of his situation, combined with his ardour for literature, only served

to give an inexpressible heightening to the interestingness of his

character. He was plain and unaffected; he assumed nothing; he was

capable, when occasion demanded, of firmness, but, in his ordinary

deportment, he seemed unarmed and unresisting, unsuspicious of guile in

others, as he was totally free from guile in himself. His integrity was

proverbially great. In one instance he had been intrusted by a lady to

convey a sum of a thousand pounds to a person at some miles distance: in

another, he was employed by a gentleman, during his absence, in the care

of his house and furniture, to the value of at least five times that

sum. His habits of thinking were strictly his own, full of justice,

simplicity, and wisdom. He from time to time earned money of his

officers, by his peculiar excellence in furbishing arms; but he declined

offers that had been made him to become a Serjeant or a corporal,

saying that he did not want money, and that in a new situation he should

have less leisure for study. He was equally constant in refusing

presents that were offered him by persons who had been struck with his

merit; not that he was under the influence of false delicacy and pride,

but that he had no inclination to accept that, the want of which he did

not feel to be an evil. This man died while I was in prison. I received

his last breath.[C]

[Footnote C: A story extremely similar to this is to be found in the

Newgate Calendar, vol. i. p. 382.]

The whole day I was obliged to spend in the company of these men, some

of them having really committed the actions laid to their charge, others

whom their ill fortune had rendered the victims of suspicion. The whole

was a scene of misery, such as nothing short of actual observation can

suggest to the mind. Some were noisy and obstreperous, endeavouring by a

false bravery to keep at bay the remembrance of their condition; while

others, incapable even of this effort, had the torment of their thoughts

aggravated by the perpetual noise and confusion that prevailed around

them. In the faces of those who assumed the most courage, you might

trace the furrows of anxious care and in the midst of their laboured

hilarity dreadful ideas would ever and anon intrude, convulsing their

features, and working every line into an expression of the keenest

agony. To these men the sun brought no return of joy. Day after day

rolled on, but their state was immutable. Existence was to them a scene

of invariable melancholy; every moment was a moment of anguish; yet did

they wish to prolong that moment, fearful that the coming period would

bring a severer fate. They thought of the past with insupportable

repentance, each man contented to give his right hand to have again the

choice of that peace and liberty, which he had unthinkingly bartered

away. We talk of instruments of torture; Englishmen take credit to

themselves for having banished the use of them from their happy shore!

Alas! he that has observed the secrets of a prison, well knows that

there is more torture in the lingering existence of a criminal, in the

silent intolerable minutes that he spends, than in the tangible misery

of whips and racks!

Such were our days. At sunset our jailors appeared, and ordered each man

to come away, and be locked into his dungeon. It was a bitter

aggravation of our fate, to be under the arbitrary control of these

fellows. They felt no man's sorrow; they were of all men least capable

of any sort of feeling. They had a barbarous and sullen pleasure in

issuing their detested mandates, and observing the mournful reluctance

with which they were obeyed. Whatever they directed, it was in vain to

expostulate; fetters, and bread and water, were the sure consequences of

resistance. Their tyranny had no other limit than their own caprice. To

whom shall the unfortunate felon appeal? To what purpose complain, when

his complaints are sure to be received with incredulity? A tale of

mutiny and necessary precaution is the unfailing refuge of the keeper,

and this tale is an everlasting bar against redress.

Our dungeons were cells, 7-1/2 feet by 6-1/2, below the surface of the

ground, damp, without window, light, or air, except from a few holes

worked for that purpose in the door. In some of these miserable

receptacles three persons were put to sleep together.[D] I was fortunate

enough to have one to myself. It was now the approach of winter. We

were not allowed to have candles, and, as I have already said, were

thrust in here at sunset, and not liberated till the returning day. This

was our situation for fourteen or fifteen hours out of the

four-and-twenty. I had never been accustomed to sleep more than six or

seven hours, and my inclination to sleep was now less than ever. Thus

was I reduced to spend half my day in this dreary abode, and in complete

darkness. This was no trifling aggravation of my lot.

[Footnote D: See Howard on Prisons.]

Among my melancholy reflections I tasked my memory, and counted over the

doors, the locks, the bolts, the chains, the massy walls, and grated

windows, that were between me and liberty. "These," said I, "are the

engines that tyranny sits down in cold and serious meditation to invent.

This is the empire that man exercises over man. Thus is a being, formed

to expatiate, to act, to smile, and enjoy, restricted and benumbed. How

great must be his depravity or heedlessness, who vindicates this scheme

for changing health and gaiety and serenity, into the wanness of a

dungeon, and the deep furrows of agony and despair!"

"Thank God," exclaims the Englishman, "we have no Bastile! Thank God,

with us no man can be punished without a crime!" Unthinking wretch! Is

that a country of liberty, where thousands languish in dungeons and

fetters? Go, go, ignorant fool! and visit the scenes of our prisons!

witness their unwholesomeness, their filth, the tyranny of their

governors, the misery of their inmates! After that, show me the man

shameless enough to triumph, and say, England has no Bastile! Is there

any charge so frivolous, upon which men are not consigned to those

detested abodes? Is there any villainy that is not practised by justices

and prosecutors? But against all this perhaps you have been told there

is redress. Yes; a redress, that it is the consummation of insult so

much as to name! Where shall the poor wretch reduced to the last

despair, to whom acquittal perhaps comes just time enough to save him

from perishing,--where shall this man find leisure, and much less money,

to fee counsel and officers, and purchase the tedious dear-bought remedy

of the law? No; he is too happy to leave his dungeon, and the memory of

his dungeon, behind him; and the same tyranny and wanton oppression

become the inheritance of his successor.

For myself, I looked round upon my walls, and forward upon the premature

death I had too much reason to expect: I consulted my own heart, that

whispered nothing but innocence; and I said, "This is society. This is

the object, the distribution of justice, which is the end of human

reason. For this sages have toiled, and midnight oil has been wasted.

This!"

The reader will forgive this digression from the immediate subject of my

story. If it should be said these are general remarks, let it be

remembered that they are the dear-bought, result of experience. It is

from the fulness of a bursting heart that reproach thus flows to my pen.

These are not the declamations of a man desirous to be eloquent. I have

felt the iron of slavery grating upon my soul.

I believed that misery, more pure than that which I now endured, had

never fallen to the lot of a human being. I recollected with

astonishment my puerile eagerness to be brought to the test, and have my

innocence examined. I execrated it, as the vilest and most insufferable

pedantry. I exclaimed, in the bitterness of my heart, "Of what value is

a fair fame? It is the jewel of men formed to be amused with baubles.

Without it, I might have had serenity of heart and cheerfulness of

occupation, peace, and liberty; why should I consign my happiness to

other men's arbitration? But, if a fair fame were of the most

inexpressible value, is this the method which common sense would

prescribe to retrieve it? The language which these institutions hold out

to the unfortunate is, 'Come, and be shut out from the light of day; be

the associate of those whom society has marked out for her abhorrence,

be the slave of jailers, be loaded with fetters; thus shall you be

cleared from every unworthy aspersion, and restored to reputation and

honour!' This is the consolation she affords to those whom malignity or

folly, private pique or unfounded positiveness, have, without the

smallest foundation, loaded with calumny." For myself, I felt my own

innocence; and I soon found, upon enquiry, that three fourths of those

who are regularly subjected to a similar treatment, are persons whom,

even with all the superciliousness and precipitation of our courts of

justice, no evidence can be found sufficient to convict. How slender

then must be that man's portion of information and discernment, who is

willing to commit his character and welfare to such guardianship!

But my case was even worse than this. I intimately felt that a trial,

such as our institutions have hitherto been able to make it, is only the

worthy sequel of such a beginning. What chance was there after the

purgation I was now suffering, that I should come out acquitted at last?

What probability was there that the trial I had endured in the house of

Mr. Falkland was not just as fair as any that might be expected to

follow? No; I anticipated my own condemnation.

Thus was I cut off, for ever, from all that existence has to

bestow--from all the high hopes I had so often conceived--from all the

future excellence my soul so much delighted to imagine,--to spend a few

weeks in a miserable prison, and then to perish by the hand of the

public executioner. No language can do justice to the indignant and

soul-sickening loathing that these ideas excited. My resentment was not

restricted to my prosecutor, but extended itself to the whole machine of

society. I could never believe that all this was the fair result of

institutions inseparable from the general good. I regarded the whole

human species as so many hangmen and torturers; I considered them as

confederated to tear me to pieces; and this wide scene of inexorable

persecution inflicted upon me inexpressible agony. I looked on this side

and on that: I was innocent; I had a right to expect assistance; but

every heart was steeled against me; every hand was ready to lend its

force to make my ruin secure. No man that has not felt, in his own most

momentous concerns, justice, eternal truth, unalterable equity engaged

in his behalf, and on the other side brute force, impenetrable

obstinacy, and unfeeling insolence, can imagine the sensations that then

passed through my mind. I saw treachery triumphant and enthroned; I saw

the sinews of innocence crumbled into dust by the gripe of almighty

guilt.

What relief had I from these sensations? Was it relief, that I spent the

day in the midst of profligacy and execrations--that I saw reflected

from every countenance agonies only inferior to my own? He that would

form a lively idea of the regions of the damned, need only to witness,

for six hours, a scene to which I was confined for many months. Not for

one hour could I withdraw myself from this complexity of horrors, or

take refuge in the calmness of meditation. Air, exercise, series,

contrast, those grand enliveners of the human frame, I was for ever

debarred from, by the inexorable tyranny under which I was fallen. Nor

did I find the solitude of my nightly dungeon less insupportable. Its

only furniture was the straw that served me for my repose. It was

narrow, damp, and unwholesome. The slumbers of a mind, wearied, like

mine, with the most detestable uniformity, to whom neither amusement nor

occupation ever offered themselves to beguile the painful hours, were

short, disturbed, and unrefreshing. My sleeping, still more than my

waking thoughts, were full of perplexity, deformity, and disorder. To

these slumbers succeeded the hours which, by the regulations of our

prison, I was obliged, though awake, to spend in solitary and cheerless

darkness. Here I had neither books nor pens, nor any thing upon which to

engage my attention; all was a sightless blank. How was a mind, active

and indefatigable like mine, to endure this misery? I could not sink it

in lethargy; I could nor forget my woes: they haunted me with

unintermitted and demoniac malice. Cruel, inexorable policy of human

affairs, that condemns a man to torture like this; that sanctions it,

and knows not what is done under its sanction; that is too supine and

unfeeling to enquire into these petty details; that calls this the

ordeal of innocence, and the protector of freedom! A thousand times I

could have dashed my brains against the walls of my dungeon; a thousand

times I longed for death, and wished, with inexpressible ardour, for an

end to what I suffered; a thousand times I meditated suicide, and

ruminated, in the bitterness of my soul, upon the different means of

escaping from the load of existence. What had I to do with life? I had

seen enough to make me regard it with detestation. Why should I wait the

lingering process of legal despotism, and not dare so much as to die,

but when and how its instruments decreed? Still some inexplicable

suggestion withheld my hand. I clung with desperate fondness to this

shadow of existence, its mysterious attractions, and its hopeless

prospects.

CHAPTER XII.

Such were the reflections that haunted the first days of my

imprisonment, in consequence of which they were spent in perpetual

anguish. But, after a time, nature, wearied with distress, would no

longer stoop to the burthen; thought, which is incessantly varying,

introduced a series of reflections totally different.

My fortitude revived. I had always been accustomed to cheerfulness, good

humour, and serenity; and this habit now returned to visit me at the

bottom of my dungeon. No sooner did my contemplations take this turn,

than I saw the reasonableness and possibility of tranquillity and peace;

and my mind whispered to me the propriety of showing, in this forlorn

condition, that I was superior to all my persecutors. Blessed state of

innocence and self-approbation! The sunshine of conscious integrity

pierced through all the barriers of my cell, and spoke ten thousand

times more joy to my heart, than the accumulated splendours of nature

and art can communicate to the slaves of vice.

I found out the secret of employing my mind. I said, "I am shut up for

half the day in total darkness, without any external source of

amusement; the other half I spend in the midst of noise, turbulence,

and, confusion. What then? Can I not draw amusement from the stores of

my own mind? Is it not freighted with various knowledge? Have I not been

employed from my infancy in gratifying an insatiable curiosity? When

should I derive benefit from these superior advantages, if not at

present?" Accordingly I tasked the stores of my memory, and my powers of

invention. I amused myself with recollecting the history of my life. By

degrees I called to mind a number of minute circumstances, which, but

for this exercise, would have been for ever forgotten. I repassed in my

thoughts whole conversations, I recollected their subjects, their

arrangement, their incidents, frequently their very words. I mused upon

these ideas, till I was totally absorbed in thought. I repeated them,

till my mind glowed with enthusiasm. I had my different employments,

fitted for the solitude of the night, in which I could give full scope

to the impulses of my mind; and for the uproar of the day, in which my

chief object was, to be insensible to the disorder with which I was

surrounded.

By degrees I quitted my own story, and employed myself in imaginary

adventures. I figured to myself every situation in which I could be

placed, and conceived the conduct to be observed in each. Thus scenes of

insult and danger, of tenderness and oppression, became familiar to me.

In fancy I often passed the awful hour of dissolving nature. In some of

my reveries I boiled with impetuous indignation, and in others patiently

collected the whole force of my mind for some fearful encounter. I

cultivated the powers of oratory suited to these different states, and

improved more in eloquence in the solitude of my dungeon, than perhaps I

should have done in the busiest and most crowded scenes.

At length I proceeded to as regular a disposition of my time, as the man

in his study, who passes from mathematics to poetry, and from poetry to

the law of nations, in the different parts of each single day; and I as

seldom infringed upon my plan. Nor were my subjects of disquisition less

numerous than his. I went over, by the assistance of memory only, a

considerable part of Euclid during my confinement, and revived, day

after day, the series of facts and incidents in some of the most

celebrated historians. I became myself a poet; and, while I described

the sentiments cherished by the view of natural objects, recorded the

characters and passions of men, and partook with a burning zeal in the

generosity of their determinations, I eluded the squalid solitude of my

dungeon, and wandered in idea through all the varieties of human

society. I easily found expedients, such as the mind seems always to

require, and which books and pens supply to the man at large, to record

from time to time the progress that had been made.

While I was thus employed, I reflected with exultation upon the degree

in which man is independent of the smiles and frowns of fortune. I was

beyond her reach, for I could fall no lower. To an ordinary eye I might

seem destitute and miserable, but in reality I wanted for nothing. My

fare was coarse; but I was in health. My dungeon was noisome; but I felt

no inconvenience. I was shut up from the usual means of exercise and

air; but I found the method of exercising myself even to perspiration in

my dungeon. I had no power of withdrawing my person from a disgustful

society, in the most cheerful and valuable part of the day; but I soon

brought to perfection the art of withdrawing my thoughts, and saw and

heard the people about me, for just as short a time, and as seldom, as I

pleased.

Such is man in himself considered; so simple his nature; so few his

wants. How different from the man of artificial society! Palaces are

built for his reception, a thousand vehicles provided for his exercise,

provinces are ransacked for the gratification of his appetite, and the

whole world traversed to supply him with apparel and furniture. Thus

vast is his expenditure, and the purchase slavery. He is dependent on a

thousand accidents for tranquillity and health, and his body and soul

are at the devotion of whoever will satisfy his imperious cravings.

In addition to the disadvantages of my present situation, I was reserved

for an ignominious death. What then? Every man must die. No man knows

how soon. It surely is not worse to encounter the king of terrors, in

health, and with every advantage for the collection of fortitude, than

to encounter him, already half subdued by sickness and suffering. I was

resolved at least fully to possess the days I had to live; and this is

peculiarly in the power of the man who preserves his health to the last

moment of his existence. Why should I suffer my mind to be invaded by

unavailing regrets? Every sentiment of vanity, or rather of independence

and justice within me, instigated me to say to my persecutor, "You may

cut off my existence, but you cannot disturb my serenity."

CHAPTER XIII.

In the midst of these reflections, another thought, which had not before

struck me, occurred to my mind. "I exult," said I, "and reasonably, over

the impotence of my persecutor. Is not that impotence greater than I

have yet imagined? I say, he may cut off my existence, but cannot

disturb my serenity. It is true: my mind, the clearness of my spirit,

the firmness of my temper, are beyond his reach; is not my life equally

so, if I please? What are the material obstacles, that man never

subdued? What is the undertaking so arduous, that by some has not been

accomplished? And if by others, why not by me? Had they stronger motives

than I? Was existence more variously endeared to them? or had they more

numerous methods by which to animate and adorn it? Many of those who

have exerted most perseverance and intrepidity, were obviously my

inferiors in that respect. Why should not I be as daring as they?

Adamant and steel have a ductility like water, to a mind sufficiently

bold and contemplative. The mind is master of itself; and is endowed

with powers that might enable it to laugh at the tyrant's vigilance." I

passed and repassed these ideas in my mind; and, heated with the

contemplation, I said, "No, I will not die!"

My reading, in early youth, had been extremely miscellaneous. I had read

of housebreakers, to whom locks and bolts were a jest, and who, vain of

their art, exhibited the experiment of entering a house the most

strongly barricaded, with as little noise, and almost as little trouble,

as other men would lift up a latch. There is nothing so interesting to

the juvenile mind, as the wonderful; there is no power that it so

eagerly covets, as that of astonishing spectators by its miraculous

exertions. Mind appeared, to my untutored reflections, vague, airy, and

unfettered, the susceptible perceiver of reasons, but never intended by

nature to be the slave of force. Why should it be in the power of man to

overtake and hold me by violence? Why, when I choose to withdraw myself,

should I not be capable of eluding the most vigilant search? These

limbs, and this trunk, are a cumbrous and unfortunate load for the power

of thinking to drag along with it; but why should not the power of

thinking be able to lighten the load, till it shall be no longer

felt?--These early modes of reflection were by no means indifferent to

my present enquiries.

Our next-door neighbour at my father's house had been a carpenter. Fresh

from the sort of reading I have mentioned, I was eager to examine his

tools, their powers and their uses. This carpenter was a man of strong

and vigorous mind; and, his faculties having been chiefly confined to

the range of his profession, he was fertile in experiments, and

ingenious in reasoning upon these particular topics. I therefore

obtained from him considerable satisfaction; and, my mind being set in

action, I sometimes even improved upon the hints he furnished. His

conversation was particularly agreeable to me; I at first worked with

him sometimes for my amusement, and afterwards occasionally for a short

time as his journeyman. I was constitutionally vigorous; and, by the

experience thus attained, I added to the abstract possession of power,

the skill of applying it, when I pleased, in such a manner as that no

part should be inefficient.

It is a strange, but no uncommon feature in the human mind, that the

very resource of which we stand in greatest need in a critical

situation, though already accumulated, it may be, by preceding industry,

fails to present itself at the time when it should be called into

action. Thus my mind had passed through two very different stages since

my imprisonment, before this means of liberation suggested itself. My

faculties were overwhelmed in the first instance, and raised to a pitch

of enthusiasm in the second; while in both I took it for granted in a

manner, that I must passively submit to the good pleasure of my

persecutors.

During the period in which my mind had been thus undecided, and when I

had been little more than a month in durance, the assizes, which were

held twice a year in the town in which I was a prisoner, came on. Upon

this occasion my case was not brought forward, but was suffered to stand

over six months longer. It would have been just the same, if I had had

as strong reason to expect acquittal as I had conviction. If I had been

apprehended upon the most frivolous reasons upon which any justice of

the peace ever thought proper to commit a naked beggar for trial, I must

still have waited about two hundred and seventeen days before my

innocence could be cleared. So imperfect are the effects of the boasted

laws of a country, whose legislators hold their assembly from four to

six months in every year! I could never discover with certainty, whether

this delay were owing to any interference on the part of my prosecutor,

or whether it fell out in the regular administration of justice, which

is too solemn and dignified to accommodate itself to the rights or

benefit of an insignificant individual.

But this was not the only incident that occurred to me during my

confinement, for which I could find no satisfactory solution. It was

nearly at the same time, that the keeper began to alter his behaviour to

me. He sent for me one morning into the part of the building which was

appropriated for his own use, and, after some hesitation, told me he was

sorry my accommodations had been so indifferent, and asked whether I

should like to have a chamber in his family? I was struck with the

unexpectedness of this question, and desired to know whether any body

had employed him to ask it. No, he replied; but, now the assizes were

over, he had fewer felons on his hands, and more time to look about him.

He believed I was a good kind of a young man, and he had taken a sort of

a liking to me. I fixed my eye upon his countenance as he said this. I

could discover none of the usual symptoms of kindness; he appeared to me

to be acting a part, unnatural, and that sat with awkwardness upon him.

He went on however to offer me the liberty of eating at his table;

which, if I chose it, he said, would make no difference to him, and he

should not think of charging me any thing for it. He had always indeed

as much upon his hands as one person could see to; but his wife and his

daughter Peggy would be woundily pleased to hear a person of learning

talk, as he understood I was; and perhaps I might not feel myself

unpleasantly circumstanced in their company.

I reflected on this proposal, and had little doubt, notwithstanding what

the keeper had affirmed to the contrary, that it did not proceed from

any spontaneous humanity in him, but that he had, to speak the language

of persons of his cast, good reasons for what he did. I busied myself in

conjectures as to who could be the author of this sort of indulgence and

attention. The two most likely persons were Mr. Falkland and Mr.

Forester. The latter I knew to be a man austere and inexorable towards

those whom he deemed vicious. He piqued himself upon being insensible to

those softer emotions, which, he believed, answered no other purpose

than to seduce us from our duty. Mr. Falkland, on the contrary, was a

man of the acutest sensibility; hence arose his pleasures and his pains,

his virtues and his vices. Though he were the bitterest enemy to whom I

could possibly be exposed, and though no sentiments of humanity could

divert or control the bent of his mind, I yet persuaded myself, that he

was more likely than his kinsman, to visit in idea the scene of my

dungeon, and to feel impelled to alleviate my sufferings.

This conjecture was by no means calculated to serve as balm to my mind.

My thoughts were full of irritation against my persecutor. How could I

think kindly of a man, in competition with the gratification of whose

ruling passion my good name or my life was deemed of no consideration? I

saw him crushing the one, and bringing the other into jeopardy, with a

quietness and composure on his part that I could not recollect without

horror. I knew not what were his plans respecting me. I knew not whether

he troubled himself so much as to form a barren wish for the

preservation of one whose future prospects he had so iniquitously

tarnished. I had hitherto been silent as to my principal topic of

recrimination. But I was by no means certain, that I should consent to

go out of the world in silence, the victim of this man's obduracy and

art. In every view I felt my heart ulcerated with a sense of his

injustice; and my very soul spurned these pitiful indulgences, at a time

that he was grinding me into dust with the inexorableness of his

vengeance.

I was influenced by these sentiments in my reply to the jailor; and I

found a secret pleasure in pronouncing them in all their bitterness. I

viewed him with a sarcastic smile, and said, I was glad to find him of a

sudden become so humane: I was not however without some penetration as

to the humanity of a jailor, and could guess at the circumstances by

which it was produced. But he might tell his employer, that his cares

were fruitless: I would accept no favours from a man that held a halter

about my neck; and had courage enough to endure the worst both in time

to come and now.--The jailor looked at me with astonishment, and turning

upon his heel, exclaimed, "Well done, my cock! You have not had your

learning for nothing, I see. You are set upon not dying dunghill. But

that is to come, lad; you had better by half keep your courage till you

shall find it wanted."

The assizes, which passed over without influence to me, produced a great

revolution among my fellow-prisoners. I lived long enough in the jail to

witness a general mutation of its inhabitants. One of the housebreakers

(the rival of the Duke of Bedford), and the coiner, were hanged. Two

more were cast for transportation, and the rest acquitted. The

transports remained with us; and, though the prison was thus lightened

of nine of its inhabitants, there were, at the next half-yearly period

of assizes, as many persons on the felons' side, within three, as I had

found on my first arrival.

The soldier, whose story I have already recorded, died on the evening of

the very day on which the judges arrived, of a disease the consequence

of his confinement. Such was the justice, that resulted from the laws of

his country to an individual who would have been the ornament of any

age; one who, of all the men I ever knew, was perhaps the kindest, of

the most feeling heart, of the most engaging and unaffected manners, and

the most unblemished life. The name of this man was Brightwel. Were it

possible for my pen to consecrate him to never-dying fame, I could

undertake no task more grateful to my heart. His judgment was

penetrating and manly, totally unmixed with imbecility and confusion,

while at the same time there was such an uncontending frankness in his

countenance, that a superficial observer would have supposed he must

have been the prey of the first plausible knavery that was practised

against him. Great reason have I to remember him with affection! He was

the most ardent, I had almost said the last, of my friends. Nor did I

remain in this respect in his debt. There was indeed a great

congeniality, if I may presume to say so, in our characters, except that

I cannot pretend to rival the originality and self-created vigour of his

mind, or to compare with, what the world has scarcely surpassed, the

correctness and untainted purity of his conduct. He heard my story, as

far as I thought proper to disclose it, with interest; he examined it

with sincere impartiality; and if, at first, any doubt remained upon his

mind, a frequent observation of me in my most unguarded moments taught

him in no long time to place an unreserved confidence in my innocence.

He talked of the injustice of which we were mutual victims, without

bitterness; and delighted to believe that the time would come, when the

possibility of such intolerable oppression would be extirpated. But

this, he said, was a happiness reserved for posterity; it was too late

for us to reap the benefit of it. It was some consolation to him, that

he could not tell the period in his past life, which the best judgment

of which he was capable would teach him to spend better. He could say,

with as much reason as most men, he had discharged his duty. But he

foresaw that he should not survive his present calamity. This was his

prediction, while yet in health. He might be said, in a certain sense,

to have a broken heart. But, if that phrase were in any way applicable

to him, sure never was despair more calm, more full of resignation and

serenity.

At no time in the whole course of my adventures was I exposed to a shock

more severe, than I received from this man's death. The circumstances of

his fate presented themselves to my mind in their full complication of

iniquity. From him, and the execrations with which I loaded the

government that could be the instrument of his tragedy, I turned to

myself. I beheld the catastrophe of Brightwel with envy. A thousand

times I longed that my corse had lain in death, instead of his. I was

only reserved, as I persuaded myself, for unutterable woe. In a few days

he would have been acquitted; his liberty, his reputation restored;

mankind perhaps, struck with the injustice he had suffered, would have

shown themselves eager to balance his misfortunes, and obliterate his

disgrace. But this man died; and I remained alive! I, who, though not

less wrongfully treated than he, had no hope of reparation, must be

marked as long as I lived for a villain, and in my death probably held

up to the scorn and detestation of my species!

Such were some of the immediate reflections which the fate of this

unfortunate martyr produced in my mind. Yet my intercourse with

Brightwel was not, in the review, without its portion of comfort. I

said, "This man has seen through the veil of calumny that overshades me:

he has understood, and has loved me. Why should I despair? May I not

meet hereafter with men ingenuous like him, who shall do me justice, and

sympathise with my calamity? With that consolation I will be satisfied.

I will rest in the arms of friendship, and forget the malignity of the

world. Henceforth I will be contented with tranquil obscurity, with the

cultivation of sentiment and wisdom, and the exercise of benevolence

within a narrow circle." It was thus that my mind became excited to the

project I was about to undertake.

I had no sooner meditated the idea of an escape, than I determined upon

the following method of facilitating the preparations for it. I

undertook to ingratiate myself with my keeper. In the world I have

generally found such persons as had been acquainted with the outline of

my story, regarding me with a sort of loathing and abhorrence, which

made them avoid me with as much care as if I had been spotted with the

plague. The idea of my having first robbed my patron, and then

endeavouring to clear myself by charging him with subornation against

me, placed me in a class distinct from, and infinitely more guilty than

that of common felons. But this man was too good a master of his

profession, to entertain aversion against a fellow-creature upon that

score. He considered the persons committed to his custody, merely as so

many human bodies, for whom he was responsible that they should be

forthcoming in time and place; and the difference of innocence and guilt

he looked down upon as an affair beneath his attention. I had not

therefore the prejudices to encounter in recommending myself to him,

that I have found so peculiarly obstinate in other cases. Add to which,

the same motive, whatever it was, that had made him so profuse in his

offers a little before, had probably its influence on the present

occasion.

I informed him of my skill in the profession of a joiner, and offered to

make him half a dozen handsome chairs, if he would facilitate my

obtaining the tools necessary for carrying on my profession in my

present confinement; for, without his consent previously obtained, it

would have been in vain for me to expect that I could quietly exert an

industry of this kind, even if my existence had depended upon it. He

looked at me first, as asking himself what he was to understand by this

novel proposal; and then, his countenance most graciously relaxing,

said, he was glad I was come off a little of my high notions and my

buckram, and he would see what he could do. Two days after, he signified

his compliance. He said that, as to the matter of the present I had

offered him, he thought nothing of that; I might do as I pleased in it;

but I might depend upon every civility from him that he could show with

safety to himself, if so be as, when he was civil, I did not offer a

second time for to snap and take him up short.

Having thus gained my preliminary, I gradually accumulated tools of

various sorts--gimlets, piercers, chisels, _et cetera_. I immediately

set myself to work. The nights were long, and the sordid eagerness of my

keeper, notwithstanding his ostentatious generosity, was great; I

therefore petitioned for, and was indulged with, a bit of candle, that I

might amuse myself for an hour or two with my work after I was locked up

in my dungeon. I did not however by any means apply constantly to the

work I had undertaken, and my jailor betrayed various tokens of

impatience. Perhaps he was afraid I should not have finished it, before

I was hanged. I however insisted upon working at my leisure as I

pleased; and this he did not venture expressly to dispute. In addition

to the advantages thus obtained, I procured secretly from Miss Peggy,

who now and then came into the jail to make her observations of the

prisoners, and who seemed to have conceived some partiality for my

person, the implement of an iron crow.

In these proceedings it is easy to trace the vice and duplicity that

must be expected to grow out of injustice. I know not whether my readers

will pardon the sinister advantage I extracted from the mysterious

concessions of my keeper. But I must acknowledge my weakness in that

respect; I am writing my adventures, and not my apology; and I was not

prepared to maintain the unvaried sincerity of my manners, at the

expense of a speedy close of my existence.

My plan was now digested. I believed that, by means of the crow, I could

easily, and without much noise, force the door of my dungeon from its

hinges, or if not, that I could, in case of necessity, cut away the

lock. This door led into a narrow passage, bounded on one side by the

range of dungeons, and on the other by the jailor's and turnkeys'

apartments, through which was the usual entrance from the street. This

outlet I dared not attempt, for fear of disturbing the persons close to

whose very door I should in that case have found it necessary to pass. I

determined therefore upon another door at the further end of the

passage, which was well barricaded, and which led to a sort of garden in

the occupation of the keeper. This garden I had never entered, but I had

had an opportunity of observing it from the window of the felons'

day-room, which looked that way, the room itself being immediately over

the range of dungeons. I perceived that it was bounded by a wall of

considerable height, which I was told by my fellow-prisoners was the

extremity of the jail on that side, and beyond which was a back-lane of

some length, that terminated in the skirts of the town. Upon an accurate

observation, and much reflection upon the subject, I found I should be

able, if once I got into the garden, with my gimlets and piercers

inserted at proper distances to make a sort of ladder, by means of which

I could clear the wall, and once more take possession of the sweets of

liberty. I preferred this wall to that which immediately skirted my

dungeon, on the other side of which was a populous street.

I suffered about two days to elapse from the period at which I had

thoroughly digested my project, and then in the very middle of the night

began to set about its execution. The first door was attended with

considerable difficulty; but at length this obstacle was happily

removed. The second door was fastened on the inside. I was therefore

able with perfect ease to push back the bolts. But the lock, which of

course was depended upon for the principal security, and was therefore

strong, was double-shot, and the key taken away. I endeavoured with my

chisel to force back the bolt of the lock, but to no purpose. I then

unscrewed the box of the lock; and, that being taken away, the door was

no longer opposed to my wishes.

Thus far I had proceeded with the happiest success; but close on the

other side of the door there was a kennel with a large mastiff dog, of

which I had not the smallest previous knowledge. Though I stepped along

in the most careful manner, this animal was disturbed, and began to

bark. I was extremely disconcerted, but immediately applied myself to

soothe the animal, in which I presently succeeded. I then returned along

the passage to listen whether any body had been disturbed by the noise

of the dog; resolved, if that had been the case, that I would return to

my dungeon, and endeavour to replace every thing in its former state.

But the whole appeared perfectly quiet, and I was encouraged to proceed

in my operation.

I now got to the wall, and had nearly gained half the ascent, when I

heard a voice at the garden-door, crying, "Holloa! who is there? who

opened the door?" The man received no answer, and the night was too dark

for him to distinguish objects at any distance. He therefore returned,

as I judged, into the house for a light. Meantime the dog, understanding

the key in which these interrogations were uttered, began barking again

more violently than ever. I had now no possibility of retreat, and I was

not without hopes that I might yet accomplish my object, and clear the

wall. Meanwhile a second man came out, while the other was getting his

lantern, and by the time I had got to the top of the wall was able to

perceive me. He immediately set up a shout, and threw a large stone,

which grazed me in its flight. Alarmed at my situation, I was obliged

to descend on the other side without taking the necessary precautions,

and in my fall nearly dislocated my ankle.

There was a door in the wall, of which I was not previously apprised;

and, this being opened, the two men with the lantern were on the other

side in an instant. They had then nothing to do but to run along the

lane to the place from which I had descended. I endeavoured to rise

after my fall; but the pain was so intense, that I was scarcely able to

stand, and, after having limped a few paces, I twisted my foot under me,

and fell down again. I had now no remedy, and quietly suffered myself to

be retaken.

CHAPTER XIV.

I was conducted to the keeper's room for that night, and the two men sat

up with me. I was accosted with many interrogatories, to which I gave

little answer, but complained of the hurt in my leg. To this I could

obtain no reply, except "Curse you, my lad! if that be all, we will give

you some ointment for that; we will anoint it with a little cold iron."

They were indeed excessively sulky with me, for having broken their

night's rest, and given them all this trouble. In the morning they were

as good as their word, fixing a pair of fetters upon both my legs,

regardless of the ankle which was now swelled to a considerable size,

and then fastening me, with a padlock, to a staple in the floor of my

dungeon. I expostulated with warmth upon this treatment, and told them,

that I was a man upon whom the law as yet had passed no censure, and who

therefore, in the eye of the law, was innocent. But they bid me keep

such fudge for people who knew no better; they knew what they did, and

would answer it to any court in England.

The pain of the fetter was intolerable. I endeavoured in various ways to

relieve it, and even privily to free my leg; but the more it was

swelled, the more was this rendered impossible. I then resolved to bear

it with patience: still, the longer it continued, the worse it grew.

After two days and two nights, I entreated the turnkey to go and ask the

surgeon, who usually attended the prison, to look at it, for, if it

continued longer as it was, I was convinced it would mortify. But he

glared surlily at me, and said, "Damn my blood! I should like to see

that day. To die of a mortification is too good an end for such a

rascal!" At the time that he thus addressed me, the whole mass of my

blood was already fevered by the anguish I had undergone, my patience

was wholly exhausted, and I was silly enough to be irritated beyond

bearing, by his impertinence and vulgarity: "Look, you, Mr. Turnkey,"

said I, "there is one thing that such fellows as you are set over us

for, and another thing that you are not. You are to take care we do not

escape; but it is no part of your office to call us names and abuse us.

If I were not chained to the floor, you dare as well eat your fingers as

use such language; and, take my word for it, you shall yet live to

repent of your insolence."

While I thus spoke, the man stared at me with astonishment. He was so

little accustomed to such retorts, that, at first, he could scarcely

believe his ears; and such was the firmness of my manner, that he seemed

to forget for a moment that I was not at large. But, as soon as he had

time to recollect himself, he did not deign to be angry. His face

relaxed into a smile of contempt; he snapped his fingers at me; and,

turning upon his heel, exclaimed, "Well said, my cock! crow away! Have a

care you do not burst!" and, as he shut the door upon me, mimicked the

voice of the animal he mentioned.

This rejoinder brought me to myself in a moment, and showed me the

impotence of the resentment I was expressing. But, though he thus put an

end to the violence of my speech, the torture of my body continued as

great as ever. I was determined to change my mode of attack. The same

turnkey returned in a few minutes; and, as he approached me, to put down

some food he had brought, I slipped a shilling into his hand, saying at

the same time, "My good fellow, for God's sake, go to the surgeon; I am

sure you do not wish me to perish for want of assistance." The fellow

put the shilling into his pocket, looked hard at me, and then with one

nod of his head, and without uttering a single word, went away. The

surgeon presently after made his appearance; and, finding the part in a

high state of inflammation, ordered certain applications, and gave

peremptory directions that the fetter should not be replaced upon that

leg, till a cure had been effected. It was a full month before the leg

was perfectly healed, and made equally strong and flexible with the

other.

The condition in which I was now placed, was totally different from that

which had preceded this attempt. I was chained all day in my dungeon,

with no other mitigation, except that the door was regularly opened for

a few hours in an afternoon, at which time some of the prisoners

occasionally came and spoke to me, particularly one, who, though he

could ill replace my benevolent Brightwel, was not deficient in

excellent qualities. This was no other than the individual whom Mr.

Falkland had, some months before, dismissed upon an accusation of

murder. His courage was gone, his garb was squalid, and the comeliness

and clearness of his countenance was utterly obliterated. He also was

innocent, worthy, brave, and benevolent. He was, I believe, afterwards

acquitted, and turned loose, to wander a desolate and perturbed spectre

through the world. My manual labours were now at an end; my dungeon was

searched every night, and every kind of tool carefully kept from me. The

straw, which had been hitherto allowed me, was removed, under pretence

that it was adapted for concealment; and the only conveniences with

which I was indulged, were a chair and a blanket.

A prospect of some alleviation in no long time opened upon me; but this

my usual ill fortune rendered abortive. The keeper once more made his

appearance, and with his former constitutional and ambiguous humanity.

He pretended to be surprised at my want of every accommodation. He

reprehended in strong terms my attempt to escape, and observed, that

there must be an end of civility from people in his situation, if

gentlemen, after all, would not know when they were well. It was

necessary, in cases the like of this, to let the law take its course;

and it would be ridiculous in me to complain, if, after a regular trial,

things should go hard with me. He was desirous of being in every respect

my friend, if I would let him. In the midst of this circumlocution and

preamble, he was called away from me, for something relating to the

business of his office. In the mean time I ruminated upon his overtures;

and, detesting as I did the source from which I conceived them to flow,

I could not help reflecting how far it would be possible to extract from

them the means of escape. But my meditations in this case were vain.

The keeper returned no more during the remainder of that day, and, on

the next, an incident occurred which put an end to all expectations from

his kindness.

An active mind, which has once been forced into any particular train,

can scarcely be persuaded to desert it as hopeless. I had studied my

chains, during the extreme anguish that I endured from the pressure of

the fetter upon the ankle which had been sprained; and though, from the

swelling and acute sensibility of the part, I had found all attempts at

relief, in that instance, impracticable, I obtained, from the coolness

of my investigation, another and apparently superior advantage. During

the night, my dungeon was in a complete state of darkness; but, when the

door was open, the case was somewhat different. The passage indeed into

which it opened, was so narrow, and the opposite dead wall so near, that

it was but a glimmering and melancholy light that entered my apartment,

even at full noon, and when the door was at its widest extent. But my

eyes, after a practice of two or three weeks, accommodated themselves to

this circumstance, and I learned to distinguish the minutest object. One

day, as I was alternately meditating and examining the objects around

me, I chanced to observe a nail trodden into the mud-floor at no great

distance from me. I immediately conceived the desire of possessing

myself of this implement; but, for fear of surprise, people passing

perpetually to and fro, I contented myself, for the present, with

remarking its situation so accurately, that I might easily find it again

in the dark. Accordingly, as soon as my door was shut, I seized upon

this new treasure, and, having contrived to fashion it to my purpose,

found that I could unlock with it the padlock that fastened me to the

staple in the floor. This I regarded as no inconsiderable advantage,

separately from the use I might derive from it in relation to my

principal object. My chain permitted me to move only about eighteen

inches to the right or left; and, having borne this confinement for

several weeks, my very heart leaped at the pitiful consolation of being

able to range, without constraint, the miserable coop in which I was

immured. This incident had occurred several days previously to the last

visit of my keeper.

From this time it had been my constant practice to liberate myself every

night, and not to replace things in their former situation till I awoke

in the morning, and expected shortly to perceive the entrance of the

turnkey. Security breeds negligence. On the morning succeeding my

conference with the jailor, it so happened, whether I overslept myself,

or the turnkey went his round earlier than usual, that I was roused from

my sleep by the noise he made in opening the cell next to my own; and

though I exerted the utmost diligence, yet having to grope for my

materials in the dark, I was unable to fasten the chain to the staple,

before he entered, as usual, with his lantern. He was extremely

surprised to find me disengaged, and immediately summoned the principal

keeper. I was questioned respecting my method of proceeding; and, as I

believed concealment could lead to nothing but a severer search, and a

more accurate watch, I readily acquainted them with the exact truth. The

illustrious personage, whose functions it was to control the inhabitants

of these walls, was, by this last instance, completely exasperated

against me. Artifice and fair speaking were at an end. His eyes sparkled

with fury; he exclaimed, that he was now convinced of the folly of

showing kindness to rascals, the scum of the earth, such as I was; and,

damn him, if any body should catch him at that again towards any one. I

had cured him effectually! He was astonished that the laws had not

provided some terrible retaliation for thieves that attempted to deceive

their jailors. Hanging was a thousand times too good for me!

Having vented his indignation, he proceeded to give such orders as the

united instigations of anger and alarm suggested to his mind. My

apartment was changed. I was conducted to a room called the strong room,

the door of which opened into the middle cell of the range of dungeons.

It was under-ground, as they were, and had also the day-room for felons,

already described, immediately over it. It was spacious and dreary. The

door had not been opened for years; the air was putrid; and the walls

hung round with damps and mildew. The fetters, the padlock, and the

staple, were employed, as in the former case, in addition to which they

put on me a pair of handcuffs. For my first provision, the keeper sent

me nothing but a bit of bread, mouldy and black, and some dirty and

stinking water. I know not indeed whether this is to be regarded as

gratuitous tyranny on the part of the jailor; the law having providently

directed, in certain cases, that the water to be administered to the

prisoners shall be taken from "the next sink or puddle nearest to the

jail."[E] It was further ordered, that one of the turnkeys should sleep

in the cell that formed a sort of anti-chamber to my apartment. Though

every convenience was provided, to render this chamber fit for the

reception of a personage of a dignity so superior to the felon he was

appointed to guard, he expressed much dissatisfaction at the mandate:

but there was no alternative.

[Footnote E: In the case of the _peine forte et dure_. See State Trials,

Vol. I. _anno_ 1615.]

The situation to which I was thus removed was, apparently, the most

undesirable that could be imagined but I was not discouraged; I had for

some time learned not to judge by appearances. The apartment was dark

and unwholesome; but I had acquired the secret of counteracting these

influences. My door was kept continually shut, and the other prisoners

were debarred access to me; but if the intercourse of our fellow-men has

its pleasure, solitude, on the other hand, is not without its

advantages. In solitude we can pursue our own thoughts undisturbed; and

I was able to call up at will the most pleasing avocations. Besides

which, to one who meditated such designs as now filled my mind, solitude

had peculiar recommendations. I was scarcely left to myself, before I

tried an experiment, the idea of which I conceived, while they were

fixing my handcuffs; and, with my teeth only, disengaged myself from

this restraint. The hours at which I was visited by the keepers were

regular, and I took care to be provided for them. Add to which, I had a

narrow grated window near the ceiling, about nine inches in

perpendicular, and a foot and a half horizontally, which, though small,

admitted a much stronger light than that to which I had been accustomed

for several weeks. Thus circumstanced, I scarcely ever found myself in

total darkness, and was better provided against surprises than I had

been in my preceding situation. Such were the sentiments which this

change of abode immediately suggested.

I had been a very little time removed, when I received an unexpected

visit from Thomas, Mr. Falkland's footman, whom I have already mentioned

in the course of my narrative. A servant of Mr. Forester happened to

come to the town where I was imprisoned, a few weeks before, while I was

confined with the hurt in my ankle, and had called in to see me. The

account he gave of what he observed had been the source of many an

uneasy sensation to Thomas. The former visit was a matter of mere

curiosity; but Thomas was of the better order of servants. He was

considerably struck at the sight of me. Though my mind was now serene,

and my health sufficiently good, yet the floridness of my complexion was

gone, and there was a rudeness in my physiognomy, the consequence of

hardship and fortitude, extremely unlike the sleekness of my better

days. Thomas looked alternately in my face, at my hands, and my feet;

and then fetched a deep sigh. After a pause,

"Lord bless us!" said he, in a voice in which commiseration was

sufficiently perceptible, "is this you?"

"Why not, Thomas? You knew I was sent to prison, did not you?"

"Prison! and must people in prison be shackled and bound of that

fashion?--and where do you lay of nights?"

"Here."

"Here? Why there is no bed!"

"No, Thomas, I am not allowed a bed. I had straw formerly, but that is

taken away."

"And do they take off them there things of nights?"

"No; I am expected to sleep just as you see."

"Sleep! Why I thought this was a Christian country; but this usage is

too bad for a dog."

"You must not say so, Thomas; it is what the wisdom of government has

thought fit to provide."

"Zounds, how I have been deceived! They told me what a fine thing it was

to be an Englishman, and about liberty and property, and all that there;

and I find it is all a flam. Lord, what fools we be! Things are done

under our very noses, and we know nothing of the matter; and a parcel of

fellows with grave faces swear to us, that such things never happen but

in France, and other countries the like of that. Why, you ha'n't been

tried, ha' you?"

"No."

"And what signifies being tried, when they do worse than hang a man, and

all beforehand? Well, master Williams, you have been very wicked to be

sure, and I thought it would have done me good to see you hanged. But, I

do not know how it is, one's heart melts, and pity comes over one, if we

take time to cool. I know that ought not to be; but, damn it, when I

talked of your being hanged, I did not think of your suffering all this

into the bargain."

Soon after this conversation Thomas left me. The idea of the long

connection of our families rushed upon his memory, and he felt more for

my sufferings, at the moment, than I did for myself. In the afternoon I

was surprised to see him again. He said that he could not get the

thought of me out of his mind, and therefore he hoped I would not be

displeased at his coming once more to take leave of me. I could perceive

that he had something upon his mind, which he did not know how to

discharge. One of the turnkeys had each time come into the room with

him, and continued as long as he staid. Upon some avocation however--a

noise, I believe, in the passage--the turnkey went as far as the door to

satisfy his curiosity; and Thomas, watching the opportunity, slipped

into my hand a chisel, a file, and a saw, exclaiming at the same time

with a sorrowful tone, "I know I am doing wrong; but, if they hang me

too, I cannot help it; I cannot do no other. For Christ's sake, get out

of this place; I cannot bear the thoughts of it!" I received the

implements with great joy, and thrust them into my bosom; and, as soon

as he was gone, concealed them in the rushes of my chair. For himself

he had accomplished the object for which he came, and presently after

bade me farewell.

The next day, the keepers, I know not for what reason, were more than

usually industrious in their search, saying, though without assigning

any ground for their suspicion, that they were sure I had some tool in

my possession that I ought not; but the depository I had chosen escaped

them.

I waited from this time the greater part of a week, that I might have

the benefit of a bright moonlight. It was necessary that I should work

in the night; it was necessary that my operations should be performed

between the last visit of the keepers at night and their first in the

morning, that is, between nine in the evening and seven. In my dungeon,

as I have already said, I passed fourteen or sixteen hours of the

four-and-twenty undisturbed; but since I had acquired a character for

mechanical ingenuity, a particular exception with respect to me was made

from the general rules of the prison.

It was ten o'clock when I entered on my undertaking. The room in which I

was confined was secured with a double door. This was totally

superfluous for the purpose of my detention, since there was a sentinel

planted on the outside. But it was very fortunate for my plan; because

these doors prevented the easy communication of sound, and afforded me

tolerable satisfaction that, with a little care in my mode of

proceeding, I might be secure against the danger of being overheard. I

first took off my handcuffs. I then filed through my fetters; and next

performed the same service to three of the iron bars that secured my

window, to which I climbed, partly by the assistance of my chair, and

partly by means of certain irregularities in the wall. All this was the

work of more than two hours. When the bars were filed through, I easily

forced them a little from the perpendicular, and then drew them, one by

one, out of the wall, into which they were sunk about three inches

perfectly straight, and without any precaution to prevent their being

removed. But the space thus obtained was by no means wide enough to

admit the passing of my body. I therefore applied myself, partly with my

chisel, and partly with one of the iron bars, to the loosening the

brick-work; and when I had thus disengaged four or five bricks, I got

down and piled them upon the floor. This operation I repeated three or

four times The space was now sufficient for my purpose: and, having

crept through the opening, I stepped upon a shed on the outside.

I was now in a kind of rude area between two dead walls, that south of

the felons' day-room (the windows of which were at the east end) and the

wall of the prison. But I had not, as formerly, any instruments to

assist me in scaling the wall, which was of considerable height. There

was, of consequence, no resource for me but that of effecting a

practicable breach in the lower part of the wall, which was of no

contemptible strength, being of stone on the outside, with a facing of

brick within. The rooms for the debtors were at right angles with the

building from which I had just escaped; and, as the night was extremely

bright, I was in momentary danger, particularly in case of the least

noise, of being discovered by them, several of their windows commanding

this area. Thus circumstanced, I determined to make the shed answer the

purpose of concealment. It was locked; but, with the broken link of my

fetters, which I had had the precaution to bring with me, I found no

great difficulty in opening the lock. I had now got a sufficient means

of hiding my person while I proceeded in my work, attended with no

other disadvantage than that of being obliged to leave the door, through

which I had thus broken, a little open for the sake of light. After some

time, I had removed a considerable part of the brick-work of the outer

wall; but, when I came to the stone, I found the undertaking infinitely

more difficult. The mortar which bound together the building was, by

length of time, nearly petrified, and appeared to my first efforts one

solid rock of the hardest adamant. I had now been six hours incessantly

engaged in incredible labour: my chisel broke in the first attempt upon

this new obstacle; and between fatigue already endured, and the

seemingly invincible difficulty before me, I concluded that I must

remain where I was, and gave up the idea of further effort as useless.

At the same time the moon, whose light had till now been of the greatest

use to me, set, and I was left in total darkness.

After a respite of ten minutes however, I returned to the attack with

new vigour. It could not be less than two hours before the first stone

was loosened from the edifice. In one hour more, the space was

sufficient to admit of my escape. The pile of bricks I had left in the

strong room was considerable. But it was a mole-hill compared with the

ruins I had forced from the outer wall. I am fully assured that the work

I had thus performed would have been to a common labourer, with every

advantage of tools, the business of two or three days. But my

difficulties, instead of being ended, seemed to be only begun. The day

broke, before I had completed the opening, and in ten minutes more the

keepers would probably enter my apartment, and perceive the devastation

I had left. The lane, which connected the side of the prison through

which I had escaped with the adjacent country, was formed chiefly by

two dead walls, with here and there a stable, a few warehouses, and some

mean habitations, tenanted by the lower order of people. My best

security lay in clearing the town as soon as possible, and depending

upon the open country for protection. My arms were intolerably swelled

and bruised with my labour, and my strength seemed wholly exhausted with

fatigue. Speed I was nearly unable to exert for any continuance; and, if

I could, with the enemy so close at my heels, speed would too probably

have been useless. It appeared as if I were now in almost the same

situation as that in which I had been placed five or six weeks before,

in which, after having completed my escape, I was obliged to yield

myself up, without resistance, to my pursuers. I was not however

disabled as then; I was capable of exertion, to what precise extent I

could not ascertain; and I was well aware, that every instance in which

I should fail of my purpose would contribute to enhance the difficulty

of any future attempt. Such were the considerations that presented

themselves in relation to my escape; and, even if that were effected, I

had to reckon among my difficulties, that, at the time I quitted my

prison, I was destitute of every resource, and had not a shilling

remaining in the world.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

* * * * *

VOLUME THE THIRD.

CHAPTER I.

I passed along the lane I have described, without perceiving or being

observed by a human being. The doors were shut, the window-shutters

closed, and all was still as night. I reached the extremity of the lane

unmolested. My pursuers, if they immediately followed, would know that

the likelihood was small, of my having in the interval found shelter in

this place; and would proceed without hesitation, as I on my part was

obliged to do, from the end nearest to the prison to its furthest

termination.

The face of the country, in the spot to which I had thus opened myself a

passage, was rude and uncultivated. It was overgrown with brushwood and

furze; the soil was for the most part of a loose sand; and the surface

extremely irregular. I climbed a small eminence, and could perceive, not

very remote in the distance, a few cottages thinly scattered. This