CHAPTER I.

Produced by Jonathan Ingram, David Widger, Charles Franks

and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

TALES AND NOVELS

VOLUME II (of X)

POPULAR TALES

By Maria Edgeworth

1857.

PREFACE.

Some author says, that a good book needs no apology; and, as a preface

is usually an apology, a book enters into the world with a better grace

without one. I, however, appeal to those readers who are not gluttons,

but epicures, in literature, whether they do not wish to see the bill of

fare? I appeal to monthly critics, whether a preface that gives a view

of the pretensions of the writer is not a good thing? The author may

overvalue his subject, and very naturally may overrate the manner in

which it is treated; but still he will explain his views, and facilitate

the useful and necessary art which the French call _reading with the

thumb_. We call this _hunting a book_, a term certainly invented by a

sportsman. I leave the reader to choose which he pleases, whilst I lay

before him the contents and design of these volumes.

Burke supposes that there are eighty thousand readers in Great Britain,

nearly one hundredth part of its inhabitants! Out of these we may

calculate that ten thousand are nobility, clergy, or gentlemen of the

learned professions. Of seventy thousand readers which remain, there

are many who might be amused and instructed by books which were not

professedly adapted to the classes that have been enumerated. With this

view the following volumes{1} have been composed. The title of POPULAR

TALES has been chosen, not as a presumptuous and premature claim to

popularity, but from the wish that they may be current beyond circles

which are sometimes exclusively considered as polite.

The art of printing has opened to all classes of people various new

channels of entertainment and information.--Amongst the ancients, wisdom

required austere manners and a length of beard to command attention;

but in our days, instruction, in the dress of innocent amusement, is

not denied admittance amongst the wise and good of all ranks. It is

therefore hoped that a succession of stories, adapted to different

ages, sexes, and situations in life, will not be rejected by the public,

unless they offend against morality, tire by their sameness, or disgust

by their imitation of other writers.

RICHARD LOVELL EDGEWORTH.

{Footnote 1: This Work was originally published in three volumes.}

CONTENTS

LAME JERVAS 1

THE WILL 55

THE LIMERICK GLOVES 101

OUT OF DEBT OUT OF DANGER 129

THE LOTTERY 161

ROSANNA 195

MURAD THE UNLUCKY 245

THE MANUFACTURERS 281

THE CONTRAST 317

THE GRATEFUL NEGRO 399

TO-MORROW 421

LAME JERVAS

CHAPTER I.

Some years ago, a lad of the name of William Jervas, or, as he was

called from his lameness, Lame Jervas, whose business it was to tend the

horses in one of the Cornwall tin-mines, was missing. He was left one

night in a little hut, at one end of the mine, where he always slept;

but in the morning, he could no where be found; and this his sudden

disappearance gave rise to a number of strange and ridiculous stories

among the miners. The most rational, however, concluded that the lad,

tired of his situation, had made his escape during the night. It was

certainly rather surprising that he could no where be traced; but after

the neighbours had wondered and talked for some time about it, the

circumstance was by degrees forgotten. The name of William Jervas was

scarcely remembered by any, except two or three of the oldest miners,

when, twenty years afterward, there came a party of gentlemen and ladies

to see the mines! and, as the guide was showing the curiosities of the

place, one among the company, a gentleman of about six-and-thirty years

of age, pointed to some letters that were carved on the rock, and asked,

“Whose name was written there?” “Only the name of one William Jervas,”

answered the guide; “a poor lad, who ran away from the mines a great

long while ago.” “Are you sure that he ran away?” said the gentleman.

“Yes,” answered the guide, “sure and certain I am of that.” “Not at

all sure and certain of any such thing,” cried one of the oldest of the

miners, who interrupted the guide, and then related all that he knew,

all that he had heard, and all that he imagined and believed concerning

the sudden disappearance of Jervas; concluding by positively assuring

the stranger that the ghost of the said Jervas was often seen to walk,

slowly, in the long west gallery of the mine, with a blue taper in his

hand.--“I will take my Bible oath,” added the man, “that about a month

after he was missing, I saw the ghost just as the clock struck twelve,

walking slowly, with the light in one hand, and a chain dragging after

him in t’other; and he was coming straight towards me, and I ran away

into the stables to the horses; and from that time forth I’ve taken

special good care never to go late in the evening to that there gallery,

or near it: for I never was so frightened, above or under ground, in all

my born days.”

The stranger, upon hearing this story, burst into a loud fit of

laughter; and, on recovering himself, he desired the ghost-seer to look

stedfastly in his face, and to tell whether he bore any resemblance to

the ghost that walked with the blue taper in the west gallery. The miner

stared for some minutes, and answered, “No; he that walks in the gallery

is clear another guess sort of a person; in a white jacket, a leather

apron, and ragged cap, like what Jervas used to wear in his lifetime;

and, moreover, he limps in his gait, as Lame Jervas always did, I

remember well.” The gentleman walked on, and the miners observed, what

had before escaped their notice, that he limped a little; and, when

he came again to the light, the guide, after considering him very

attentively, said, “If I was not afraid of affronting the like of a

gentleman such as your honour, I should make bold for to say that you be

very much--only a deal darker complexioned--you be very much of the same

sort of person as our Lame Jervas used for to be.” “Not at all like our

Lame Jervas,” cried the old miner, who professed to have seen the ghost;

“no more like to him than _Black Jack to Blue John._” The by-standers

laughed at this comparison; and the guide, provoked at being laughed at,

sturdily maintained that not a man that wore a head in Cornwall should

laugh him out of his senses. Each party now growing violent in support

of his opinion, from words they were just coming to blows, when the

stranger at once put an end to the dispute, by declaring that he was the

very man. “Jervas!” exclaimed they all at once, “Jervas alive!--our Lame

Jervas turned gentleman!”

The miners could scarcely believe their eyes, or their ears, especially

when, upon following him out of the mine, they saw him get into a

handsome coach, and drive toward the mansion of one of the principal

gentlemen of the neighbourhood, who was a proprietor of the mine.

The next day, all the head miners were invited to dine in tents, pitched

in a field near this gentleman’s house. It was fine weather, and harvest

time; the guests assembled, and in the tents found abundance of good

cheer provided for them.

After dinner, Mr. R----, the master of the house, appeared, accompanied

by Lame Jervas, dressed in his miner’s old jacket and cap. Even the

ghost-seer acknowledged that he now looked wonderful like himself. Mr.

R----, the master of the house, filled a glass, and drank--“Welcome

home to our friend, Mr. Jervas; and may good faith always meet with good

fortune.” The toast went round, each drank, and repeated, “Welcome home

to our friend Mr. Jervas; and may good faith always meet good fortune.”

Indeed, what was meant by the good faith, or the good fortune, none

could guess; and many in whispers, and some aloud, made bold to ask for

an explanation of the toast.

Mr. Jervas, on whom all eyes were fixed, after thanking the company for

their _welcome home_, took his seat at the table; and in compliance with

Mr. R----‘s request, and the wishes of all present, related to them his

story nearly in the following manner:

“Where I was born, or who were my parents, I do not well know myself;

nor can I recollect who was my nurse, or whether I was ever nursed at

all: but, luckily, these circumstances are not of much importance to the

world. The first thing which I can distinctly remember is the being set,

along with a number of children of my own age, to pick and wash loose

ore of tin mixed with the earth, which in those days we used to call

_shoad_, or _squad_--I don’t know what you call it now.”

“We call it _squad_ to this day, master,” interrupted one of the miners.

“I might be at this time, I suppose,” continued the gentleman, “about

five or six years old; and from that time till I was thirteen I worked

in the mine where we were yesterday. From the bottom of my heart I

rejoice that the times are bettered for youngsters since then; for I

know I had a hard life of it.

“My good master, here, never knew any thing of the matter but I was

cruelly used by those under him. First, the old woman--Betty Morgan, I

think, was her name--who set us our tasks of picking and washing the

_squad_, was as cross as the rheumatism could make her. She never picked

an ounce herself, but made us do her heap for her among us; and I being

the youngest, it was shoved down to me. Often and often my day’s wages

were kept back, not having done this woman’s task; and I did not dare

to tell my master the truth, lest she should beat me. But, God rest

her soul! she was an angel of light in comparison with the _trap-door

keeper_, who was my next tyrant.

“It was our business to open and shut certain doors, that were placed

in the mine for letting in air to the different galleries: but my young

tyrant left them every one to me to take care of; and I was made to run

to and fro, till I had scarcely breath in my body, while every miner in

turn was swearing at me for the idlest little fellow upon the surface of

the earth; though the surface of the earth, alas! was a place on which I

had never yet, to my knowledge, set my foot.

“In my own defence, I made all the excuses I could think of; and, from

excuses, I went on to all kinds of deceit: for tyranny and injustice

always produce cunning and falsehood.

“One day, having shut all the doors on my side of the mine, I left three

open on my companion’s side. The men, I thought, would not go to work on

that side of the mine for a day or two: but in this I was mistaken; and

about noon I was alarmed by the report of a man having been killed in

one of the galleries for want of fresh air.

“The door-keepers were summoned before the overseer; or, as you call

him, the viewer. I was the youngest, and the blame was all laid upon

me. The man, who had only swooned, recovered; but I was thrashed and

thrashed for the neglect of another person, till the viewer was tired.

“A weary life I led afterwards with my friend the door-keeper, who was

enraged against me for having told the truth.

“In process of time, as I grew stronger and bigger, I was set to other

work. First, I was employed at the barrow; and then a pick-axe and a

_gad_{Footnote: A gad is a tool used in mines; it resembles a smith’s

punch.} were put into my hands; and I thought myself a great man.--It

was my fate to fall among the idlest set in the mine. I observed that

those men who worked by task, and who had the _luck_ to hit upon easy

beds of the rock, were not obliged to work more than three or four hours

a day: they got high wages with little labour; and they spent their

money jollily above-ground in the ale-houses, as I heard. I did not know

that these jolly fellows often left their wives and families starving

while they were getting drunk.

“I longed for the time when I should be a man, and do as I saw others

do. I longed for the days when I should be able to drink and be idle;

and, in the mean time, I set all my wits to work to baffle and overreach

the viewer.

“I was now about fourteen, and, had I grown up with these notions and

habits, I must have spent my life in wretchedness, and I should probably

have ended my days in a workhouse; but fortunately for me, an accident

happened, which made as great a change in my mind as in my body.

“One of my companions bribed me, with a strong dram, to go down into

a hole in the mine to search for his _gad_; which he, being half

intoxicated, had dropped. My head could not stand the strength of

the dram which he made me swallow to give me courage: and being quite

insensible to the danger, I took a leap down a precipice which I should

have shuddered to look at, if I had not lost my recollection.

“I soon came to my senses, for I broke my leg; and it is wonderful I did

not break my neck by my fall. I was drawn up by cords, and was carried

to a hut in the mine, near the stables, where I lay in great pain.

“My master was in the mine at the time the accident happened; and,

hearing where I was, he had the goodness to come directly to me himself,

to let me know that he had sent for a surgeon.

“The surgeon, who lived in the neighbourhood, was not at home; but there

was then upon a visit at my master’s a Mr. Y----, an old gentleman who

had been a surgeon; and, though he had for many years left off practice,

he no sooner heard of the accident that had happened to me than he had

the goodness to come down into the mine, to set my leg.

“After the operation was over, my master returned to tell me that I

should want for nothing. Never shall I forget the humanity with which

he treated me. I do not remember that I had ever heard him speak to

me before this time; but now his voice and manner were so full of

compassion and kindness, that I looked up to him as to a new sort of

being.

“His goodness wakened and warmed me to a sense of gratitude--the first

virtuous emotion I was conscious of having ever felt.

“I was attended with the greatest care, during my illness, by the

benevolent surgeon, Mr. Y----. The circumstance of my having been

intoxicated, when I took the leap, had been concealed by the man who

gave me the dram; who declared that I had fallen by accident, as I was

looking down the hole for a _gad_ that I had dropped. I did not join

in this falsehood: for, the moment my master spoke to me with so much

goodness about my mishap, my heart opened to him, and I told him just

how the thing happened.

“Mr. Y---- also heard the truth from me, and I had no reason to repent

having told it, for this gave him, as he said, hopes that I might turn

out well, and was the cause of his taking some pains to instruct me. He

observed to me, that it was a pity a lad like me should so early in

my days take to dram-drinking; and he explained the consequences of

intemperance, of which I had never before heard or thought.

“While I was confined to my bed, I had leisure for many reflections. The

drunken and brutal among the miners, with whom I formerly associated,

never came near me in my illness; but the better sort used to come and

see me often, and I began to take a liking to their ways, and to wish to

imitate them.

“As they stood talking over their own affairs in my hut, I learned how

they laid out their time and their money; and I now began to desire to

have, as they had, a little garden, and property of my own, for which I

knew I must work hard. So I rose from my bed with very different views

from those which I had when I was laid down upon it; and from this

time forward I kept company with the sober and industrious as much as

I could. I saw things with different eyes: formerly I used, like my

companions, to be ready enough to take any advantage that lay in my

way of my employer; but my gratitude to him who had befriended me in my

helpless state wrought such a change in me, that I now took part with

my master on all occasions, and could not bear to see him wronged--so

gratitude first made me honest.

“My master would not let the viewer turn me out of the work, as

he wanted to do, because I was lame and weak, and not able to do

much.--‘Let him have the care of my horses in the stable,’ said my

master: ‘he can do something. I don’t want to make money of poor _Lame

Jervas_. So, as long as he is willing to work, he shall not be turned

out to starve.’--These were his very words; and when I heard them I said

in my heart, ‘God bless him!’ And, from that time forth, I could, as I

thought, have fought with the stoutest man in the mine that said a word

to his disparagement.

“Perhaps my feeling of attachment to him was the stronger, because he

was, I may say, the first person then in the world who had ever shown me

any tenderness, and the only one from whom I felt sure of meeting with

justice.

“About this time, as I was busied in the stable, unperceived by them, I

saw through a window a party of the miners, amongst whom were several of

my old associates, at work opposite to me. Suddenly, one of them gave

a shout--then all was hushed--they threw down their tools, huddled

together, and I judged by the keenness of their looks that they knew

they had made some valuable discovery. I further observed, that, instead

of beginning to work the vein, they covered it up immediately with

rubbish, and defaced the _country_ with their pick-axes; so that, to

look at, no one could have suspected there was any _load_ to be found

near. I also saw them secrete a lump of spar, in which they had reason

to guess there were Cornish diamonds, as they call them, and they

carefully hid the bits of _kellus_{Footnote: 2 _Kellus_ is the miner’s

name for a substance like a white soft stone, which lies above the floor

or spar, near to a vein.}, which they had picked out, lest the viewer

should notice them and suspect the truth.

“From all this, the whispering that went on, and the pains they took

to chase or entice the overseer away from this spot, I conjectured they

meant to keep their discovery a secret, that they might turn it to their

own advantage.

“There was a passage out of the mine, known only to themselves, as they

thought, through which they intended to convey all the newly-found ore.

This passage, I should observe, led through an old gallery in the mine,

along the side of the mountain, immediately up to the surface of the

earth; so that you could by this way come in and out of the mine without

the assistance of the _gin_, by which people and ore are usually let

down or drawn up.

“I made myself sure of my facts by searching this passage, in which I

found plenty of their purloined treasure. I then went up to one of

the party, whose name was Clarke, and, drawing him aside, ventured to

expostulate with him. Clarke cursed me for a spy, and then knocked me

down, and returned to tell his associates what I had been saying, and

how he had served me. They one and all swore that they would be revenged

upon me, if I gave the least hint of what I had seen to our master.

“From this time they watched me, whenever he came down amongst us, lest

I should have an opportunity of speaking to him; and they never, on any

account, would suffer me to go out of the mine. Under pretence that the

horses must be looked after, and that no one tended them so well as I

did, they contrived to keep me prisoner night and day; hinting to me

pretty plainly, that if I ever again complained of being thus _shut up_,

I should not long be buried _alive_.

“Whether they would have gone the lengths they threatened I know not:

perhaps they threw out these hints only with a design to intimidate me,

and so to preserve their secret. I confess I was alarmed; but there

was something in the thought of showing my good master how much I was

attached to his interests, that continually prevailed over my fears; and

my spirits rose with the reflection that I, a poor insignificant lad; I,

that was often the scoff and laughing-stock of the miners; I, that went

by the name of _Lame Jervas_; I, who they thought could be bullied

to any thing by their threats, might do a nobler action than any man

amongst them would have the courage to do in my place. Then the kindness

of my master, and the words he said about me to the viewer, came into my

memory; and I was so worked up, that I resolved, let the consequence be

what it might, I would, living or dying, be faithful to my benefactor.

“I now waited anxiously for an opportunity to speak to him; and if I did

but hear the sound of his voice at a distance, my heart beat violently.

‘You little know,’ thought I, ‘that there is one here whom perhaps you

quite forget, who is ready to hazard his life to do you a service.’

“One day, as he was coming near the place where I was at work, rubbing

down a horse, he took notice that I fixed my eyes very earnestly upon

him; and he came closer to me, saying, ‘I am glad to see you better,

Jervas:--do you want any thing?’ ‘I want for nothing, thank you,

sir,--but,’--and as I said _but_, I looked round, to see who was near.

Instantly Clarke, one of the gang, who had his eyes upon us, called me,

and despatched me, on some errand, to a distant part of the mine. As I

was coming back, however, it was my good fortune to meet my master by

himself in one of the galleries. I told him my secret and my fears.

He answered me only with a nod, and these words, ‘Thank you--trust to

me--make haste back to those that sent you.’

“I did so; but I fancy there was something unusual in my manner or

countenance which gave alarm; for, at the close of the day, I saw Clarke

and the gang whispering together; and I observed that they refrained

from going to their secret treasure the whole of the day. I was in great

fear that they suspected me, and that they would take immediate and

perhaps bloody revenge.

“These fears increased when I found myself left alone in my hut at

night; and, as I lay quite still, but broad awake in my bed, I listened

to every sound, and once or twice started up on hearing some noise near

me; but it was only the horses moving in the stable, which was close to

my hut. I lay down again, laughing at my own fears, and endeavoured to

compose myself to sleep, reflecting that I had never, in my life, more

reason to sleep with a safe conscience.

“I then turned round, and fell into a sweet sound sleep; but from this

I was suddenly roused by a noise at the door of my hut. ‘It is only the

horses again,’ thought I; but, opening my eyes, I saw a light under

the door. I rubbed my eyes, hoping I had been in a dream: the light

disappeared, and I thought it was my fancy. As I kept my eyes, however,

turned towards the door, I saw the light again through the key-hole, and

the latch was pulled up; the door was then softly pushed inwards, and I

saw on the wall the large shadow of a man with a pistol in his hand. My

heart sunk within me, and I gave myself up for lost. The man came in: he

was muffled up in a thick coat, his hat was slouched, and a lantern in

his hand. Which of the gang it was I did not know, but I took it for

granted that it was one of them come with intent to murder me. Terror at

this instant left me; and starting upright in my bed, I exclaimed--‘I’m

ready to die! I die in a good cause! Give me five minutes to say my

prayers!’ and I fell upon my knees. The man standing silent beside the

bed, with one hand upon me, as if afraid I should escape from him.

“When I had finished my short prayer, I looked up towards my murderer,

expecting the stroke: but, what was my surprise and joy, when, as he

held the lantern up to his face, I beheld--the countenance of my master,

smiling upon me with the most encouraging benevolence. ‘Awake, Jervas,’

said he, ‘and try if you can find out the difference between a friend

and an enemy. Put on your clothes as fast as you can, and show me the

way to this new vein.’

“No one ever was sooner dressed than I was. I led the way to the spot,

which was covered up with rubbish, so that I was some time clearing out

an opening, my master assisting me all the while: for, as he said, he

was impatient to get me out of the mine safe, as he did not think my

apprehensions wholly without foundation. The light of our lantern was

scarcely sufficient for our purpose; but, when we came to the vein, my

master saw enough to be certain that I was in the right. We covered up

the place as before, and he noted the situation, so that he could be

sure to find it again. Then I showed him the way to the secret passage;

but this passage he knew already, for by it he had descended into the

mine this night.

“As we passed along, I pointed out the heaps of ore which lay ready to

be carried off. ‘It is enough, Jervas,’ said he, clapping his hand upon

my shoulder; ‘you have given me proof sufficient of your fidelity. Since

you were so ready to die in a good cause, and that cause mine, it is

my business to take care you shall live by it: so follow me out of this

place directly; and I will take good care of you, my honest lad.’

“I followed him with quick steps, and a joyful heart: he took me home

with him to his own house, where he said I might sleep for the rest of

the night secure from all fear of murderers: and so, showing me into

a small closet within his own bedchamber, he wished me a good night;

desiring me, if I waked early, not to open the window-shutters of my

room, nor go to the window, lest some of his people should see me.

“I lay down, for the first time in my life, upon a feather-bed; but,

whether it was from the unusual feeling of the soft bed, or from the

hurry of mind in which I had been kept, and the sudden change of my

circumstances, I could not sleep a wink all the remainder of the night.

“Before daybreak, my master came into my room, and bid me rise, put

on the clothes which he brought me, and follow him without making any

noise. I followed him out of the house before any body else was awake;

and he took me across the fields towards the high road. At this place

we waited till we heard the tinkling of the bells of a team of horses.

‘Here comes the waggon,’ said he, ‘in which you are to go. I have taken

every possible precaution to prevent any of the miners or people in the

neighbourhood from tracing you; and you will be in safety at Exeter,

with my friend Mr. Y----; to whom I am going to send you. Take this,’

continued he, putting a letter directed to Mr. Y---- into my hand; ‘and

here are five guineas for you. I shall desire Mr. Y---- to pay you an

annuity of ten guineas out of the profits of the new vein, provided it

turns out well, and you do not turn out ill. So fare you well, Jervas.

I shall hear how you go on; and I only hope you will serve your next

master, whoever he may be, as faithfully as you have served me.’

“‘I shall never find so good a master,’ was all I could say for the soul

of me; for I was quite overcome by his goodness and by sorrow at parting

with him, as I then thought, for ever.”

CHAPTER II.

“The morning clouds began to clear away; I could see my master at some

distance, and I kept looking after him, as the waggon went on slowly,

and as he walked fast away over the fields; but, when I had lost sight

of him, my thoughts were forcibly turned to other things. I seemed to

awake to quite a new scene, and new feelings. Buried underground in

a mine, as I had been from my infancy, the face of nature was totally

unknown to me.

“‘We shall have a brave fine day of it, I hope and trust,’ said the

waggoner, pointing with his long whip to the rising sun.

“He went on whistling, whilst I, to whom the rising sun was a spectacle

wholly surprising, started up in astonishment! I know not what

exclamations I uttered, as I gazed upon it; but I remember the waggoner

burst out into a loud laugh. ‘_Lud a marcy_,’ said he, holding his

sides, ‘to hear _un_, and look at _un_, a body would think the oaf had

never seen the sun rise afore in all his born days!’

“Upon this hint, which was nearer the truth than he imagined,

recollecting that we were still in Cornwall, and not out of the reach of

my enemies, I drew myself back into the waggon, lest any of the miners,

passing the road to their morning’s work, might chance to spy me out.

“It was well for me that I took this precaution; for we had not gone

much farther when we met a party of the miners; and, as I sat wedged up

in a corner behind a heap of parcels, I heard the voice of Clarke, who

asked the waggoner as he passed us, ‘What o’clock it might be?’ I kept

myself quite snug till he was out of sight; nay, long afterwards, I was

content to sit within the waggon, rather than venture out; and I

amused myself with listening to the bells of the team, which jingled

continually.

“On our second day’s journey, however, I ventured out of my

hiding-place; I walked with the waggoner up and down the hills, enjoying

the fresh air, the singing of the birds, and the delightful smell of the

honey-suckles and the dog-roses in the hedges. All these wild flowers,

and even the weeds on the banks by the way-side, were to me matters

of wonder and admiration. At every step, almost, I paused to observe

something that was new to me; and I could not help feeling surprised

at the insensibility of my fellow-traveller, who plodded on, seldom

interrupting his whistling, except to cry, ‘Gee, Blackbird, aw, woa;’

or, ‘How now, Smiler;’ and certain other words or sounds of menace

and encouragement, addressed to his horses in a language which seemed

intelligible to them and to him, though utterly incomprehensible to me.

“Once, as I was in admiration of a plant, whose stem was about two feet

high, and which had a round, shining, pale purple, beautiful flower, the

waggoner, with a look of extreme scorn, exclaimed, ‘Help thee, lad, does

not thee know ‘tis a common thistle? Didst thee not know that a thistle

would prick thee?’ continued he, laughing at the face I made when I

touched the prickly leaves; ‘why my horse Dobbin has more sense by half!

he is not like an ass hunting for thistles.’

“After this, the waggoner seemed to look upon me as very nearly an

idiot. Just as we were going into the town of Plymouth, he eyed me from

head to foot, and muttered, ‘The lad’s beside himself, sure enough.’

In truth, I believe I was a droll figure; for my hat was stuck full of

weeds, and of all sorts of wild flowers; and both my coat and waistcoat

pockets were stuffed out with pebbles and funguses.

“Such an effect, however, had the waggoner’s contemptuous look upon me,

that I pulled the weeds out of my hat, and threw down all my treasure of

pebbles before we entered the town. Nay, so much was I overawed, and in

such dread was I of passing for an idiot, that when we came within view

of the sea, in the fine harbour of Plymouth, I did not utter a single

exclamation; although I was struck prodigiously at this, my first sight

of the ocean, as much almost as I had been at the spectacle of the

rising sun. I just ventured, however, to ask my companion some questions

about the vessels which I beheld sailing on the sea, and the shipping

with which the bay was filled. But he answered coldly, ‘They be nothing

in life but the boats and ships, man: them that see them for the first

time are often struck all on a heap, as I’ve noticed, in passing by

here: but I’ve seen it all a many and a many times.’ So he turned

away, went on chewing a straw, and seemed not a whit more moved with

admiration than he had been at the sight of my thistle.

“I conceived a high opinion of a man who had seen so much that he could

admire nothing; and he preserved and increased my respect for him by the

profound silence which he maintained, during the five succeeding days of

our journey: he seldom or never opened his lips except to inform me of

the names of the towns through which we passed. I have since

reflected that it was fortunate for me that I had such a supercilious

fellow-traveller on my first journey; for he made me at once thoroughly

sensible of my own ignorance, and extremely anxious to supply my

deficiencies, and to find one who would give some other answer to my

questions than a smile of contempt, or, ‘_I do na knaw, I say_.’

“We arrived at Exeter at last; and, with much ado, I found my way to Mr.

Y----‘s house. It was evening when I got there; and the servant to

whom I gave the letter said he supposed Mr. Y---- would not see me that

night, as he liked to have his evenings to himself; but he took the

letter, and in a few minutes returned, desiring me to follow him up

stairs.

“I found the good old gentleman and some of his friends in his study,

with his grand-children about him; one little chap on his knee, another

climbing on the arm of his chair; and two bigger lads were busy looking

at a glass tube which he was showing them when I came in. It does not

become me to repeat the handsome things he said to me, upon reading over

my good master’s letter; but he was very gracious to me, and told me

that he would look out for some place or employment that would suit me;

and in the mean time, that I should be welcome to stay in his house,

where I should meet with the good treatment (which he was pleased to

say) I deserved. Then, observing that I was overcome with bashfulness,

at being looked at by so many strangers, he kindly dismissed me.

“The next day he sent for me again to his study, when he was alone;

and asked me several questions, seeming pleased with the openness and

simplicity of my answers. He saw that I gazed with vast curiosity at

several objects in the room, which were new to me: and pointing to the

glass tube, which he had been showing the boys when I first came in, he

asked me if they had such things as that in our mines; and if I knew

the use of it? I told him I had seen something like it in our overseer’s

hands; but that I had never known its use. It was a thermometer. Mr.

Y---- took great pains to show me how, and on what occasions, this

instrument might be useful.

“I saw I had now to do with a person who was somewhat different from my

friend the waggoner; and I cannot express the surprise and gratitude

I felt, when I found that he did not think me quite a fool. Instead of

looking at me with scorn, as one _very nearly an idiot_, he answered

my questions with condescension; and sometimes was so good as to add,

‘That’s a sensible question, my lad.’

“While we were looking at the thermometer, he found out that I could

not read the words _temperate, freezing point, boiling water heat, &c._

which were written upon the ivory scale, in small characters. He took

that occasion to point out to me the use and advantages of knowing how

to read and write; and he told me that, as I wished to learn, he would

desire the writing-master, who came to attend his young grandson, to

teach me.

“I shall not detain you with a journal of my progress through my

spelling-book and copy-books: it is enough to say that I applied with

diligence, and soon could write my name in rather more intelligible

characters than those in which the name of Jervas is cut on the rock

that we were looking at yesterday.

“My eagerness to read the books which he put into my hands, and the

attention which I paid to his lessons, pleased my writing-master so

much, that he took a pride, as he said, ‘_in bringing me forward as fast

as possible_.’

“And here, I must confess, he was rather imprudent in the warmth of his

commendations; my head could not stand them; as much as I was humbled

and mortified by the waggoner’s calling me _an idiot_, so much was I

elated by my writing-master’s calling me _a genius_. I wrote some very

bad lines in praise of a thistle, which I thought prodigiously fine,

because my writing-master looked surprised, when I showed them to

him; and because he told me that, having given a copy of them to some

gentlemen in Exeter, they agreed that the rhymes were _wonderful for

me_.

“I was at this period very nearly spoiled for life: but fortunately

my friend Mr. Y---- saw my danger, and cured me of my conceit, without

damping my ardour to acquire knowledge. He took me to the books in

his study, and showed me many volumes of fine poems; pointing out some

passages to me that greatly diminished my admiration of my own lines on

the thistle. The vast distance which I perceived between myself and these

writers threw me into despair. Mr. Y---- seeing me thoroughly abashed,

observed that he was glad to find I saw the difference between bad and

good poetry; and pointed out to me, it was not likely, if I turned my

industry to writing verses, that I should ever either earn my bread, or

equal those who had enjoyed greater advantages of leisure and education.

‘But, Jervas,’ continued he, ‘I commend you for your application and

quickness in learning to write and read, in so short a time: you will

find both these qualifications of great advantage to you. Now, I advise

you, turn your thoughts to something that may make you useful to other

people. You have your bread to earn, and this you can only do by making

yourself useful in some way or other. Look about you, and you will see

that I tell you truth. You may perceive that the servants in my house

are all useful to me, and that I pay them for their services. The cook

who can dress my dinner, the baker who bakes bread for me, the smith who

knows how to shoe my horses, the writing-master who undertakes to

teach my children to write, can all earn money for themselves, and make

themselves independent.--And you may remark that, of all those I have

mentioned, the writing-master is the most respected, and the best paid.

There are some kinds of knowledge, and some kinds of labour, that are

more highly paid for than others. But I have said enough to you, Jervas,

for the present: I do not want to lecture you, but to serve you.--You

are a young lad, and have had no experience; I am an old man, and have

had a great deal: so perhaps my advice may be of some use to you.’

“His advice was indeed of the greatest use to me: every word he said

sunk into my mind. I wish those who give advice to young people,

especially to those in a lower station than themselves, would

follow this gentleman’s example; and, instead of haranguing with the

haughtiness of superior knowledge, would speak with such kindness as to

persuade at the same time that they convince.

“The very day that Mr. Y---- spoke to me in this manner, he called me

in, that I might tell his eldest grandson the names which we miners

give to certain fossils that had been sent him from Cornwall; and, after

observing to the boy that this knowledge would be useful to him,

he begged me to tell him exactly how the mine, in which I had been

employed, was worked. This I did, as well as I was able; and imperfect

as my description was, it entertained the boys so much that I determined

to try to make a sort of model of the tin-mine for their amusement.

“But this I found no easy task; my remembrance, even of the place in

which I had lived all my life, was not sufficiently exact to serve

me, as to the length, height, breadth, &c. of the different parts; and

though Mr. Y---- had a good collection of fossils, I was at a loss, for

want of materials, to represent properly the different strata and veins;

or, as we call it, _the country_.

“My temper, naturally enthusiastic, was not on this occasion to be

daunted by any difficulties. I was roused by the notion that I should

be able to complete something that would be _really useful_ to my kind

benefactor’s family; and I anticipated with rapture, the moment when I

should produce my model complete, and justify Mr. Y----‘s opinion of my

diligence and capacity. I thought of nothing else from the moment these

ideas came into my head. The measures, plans, and specimens of earths

and ore which were wanting, I knew could only be obtained from the

mine; and such was my ardour to accomplish my little project, that I

determined at all hazards to return into Cornwall, and to ask my good

master’s permission to revisit the mine in the night time.

“Accordingly, without a moment’s delay, I set out upon this expedition.

Part of the journey I performed on foot; but wherever I could, I got

a set down, because I was impatient to get near the _Land’s End_.

I concluded that the wonder excited by my sudden disappearance had

subsided by this time; that I was too insignificant to make it worth

while to continue a search after me for more than a few days; and that,

in all likelihood, my master had dismissed from his work the gang who

had been concerned in the plot, and who were the only persons whose

revenge I had reason to fear.

“However, as I drew near the mine, I had the prudence not to expose

myself unnecessarily; and I watched my opportunity so well, that I

contrived to meet my master, in his walk homeward, when no one was with

him. I hastily gave him a letter from Mr. Y----, as a certificate of

my good conduct since my leaving him; then explained the reason of my

return, and asked permission to examine the mines that night.

“He expressed a good deal of surprise, but no displeasure, at my

boldness in returning: he willingly granted my request; but, at the same

time, warned me that some of my enemies were still in the neighbourhood;

and that, though he had dismissed them from his works, and though

several had left the country in search of employment elsewhere, yet he

was informed that two or three of the gang, and Clarke among the number,

were seen lurking about the country: that they had sworn vengeance

against me for _betraying_ them, as they called it; and had been

indefatigably active in their search after me.

“My master consequently advised me to stay only the ensuing night, and

to depart before daybreak: he also cautioned me not to wake the man who

now slept in my hut in the mine.

“I did not like to spoil the only good suit of clothes of which I was

possessed; so, before I went down into the mine, I got from my master my

old jacket, apron, and cap, in which being equipped, and furnished with

a lantern, and rod for measuring, I descended into the mine.

“I went to work as quietly as possible, surveyed the place exactly, and

remembered what I had heard Mr. Y---- observe, ‘that people can never

make their knowledge useful, if they have not been at the pains to

make it exact.’ I was determined to give him a proof of my exactness:

accordingly I measured and minuted down every thing with the most

cautious accuracy; and, so intent was my mind upon my work, the thoughts

of Clarke and his associates never came across me for a moment. Nay,

I absolutely forgot the man in the hut, and am astonished he was not

sooner waked.

“What roused him at last was, I believe, the noise I made in loosening

some earth and stones for specimens. A great stone came tumbling down,

and immediately afterwards I heard one of the horses neigh, which showed

me I had waked them at least; and I betook myself to a hiding-place, in

the western gallery, where I kept quiet, for I believe a quarter of an

hour, in order to give the horses and the man, if he were awake, time to

go to sleep again.

“I ventured out of my hiding-place too soon; for, just as I left my

nook, I saw the man at the end of the gallery. Instantly, upon the sight

of me, he put both his hands before his face, gave a loud shriek, turned

his back, and took to his heels with the greatest precipitation. I

guessed that, as he said yesterday, he took me for the ghost of myself;

and that his terror made him mistake my lantern for a blue taper. I had

no chain; but that I had a rod in my hand is most certain: and it is

also true that I took advantage of his fears, to drive him out of my

way; for the moment he began to run, I shook my rod as fast and as loud

as I could against the tin top of my lantern; and I trampled with my

feet as if I was pursuing him.

“As soon as the coast was clear, I hastened back for my specimens; which

I packed up in my basket, and then decamped as fast as I could. This is

the only time I ever walked in the western gallery with a _blue taper_

in my hand, dragging a _chain_ after me, whatever the ghost-seer may

report to the contrary.

“I was heartily glad to get away, and to have thus happily accomplished

the object of my journey. I carried my basket on my back for some miles,

till I got to the place where a waggon put up; and in this I travelled

safely back to Exeter.

“I determined not to show my model to Mr. Y----, or the boys, till

it should be as complete as I could make it. I got a good ingenious

carpenter, who had been in the habit of working for the toy-shops, to

help me; and laid out the best part of my worldly treasure upon this my

grand first project. I had new models made of the sieves for _lueing_,

the _box_ and _trough_, the _buddle, wreck, and tool_ {Footnote: The

names of vessels and machines used in the Cornish tin-mines.}, beside

some dozen of wooden workmen, wheelbarrows, &c,; with which the

carpenter, by my directions, furnished my mine. I paid a smith and

tinman, moreover, for models of our _stamps_, and _blowing-house_, and

an iron grate for my box: besides, I had a _lion rampant_ {Footnote: A

lion rampant is stamped on the block tin which is brought thence.}, and

other small matters, from the pewterer; also a pair of bellows, finished

by the glover; for all which articles, as they were out of the common

way, I was charged high.

“It was some time, even when all this was ready, before we could

contrive to make our puppets do their business properly: but patience

accomplishes every thing. At last we got our wooden miners to obey us,

and to perform their several tasks at the word of command; that is to

say, at the pulling of certain strings and wires, which we fastened to

their legs, arms, heads, and shoulders: which wires, being slender and

black, were at a little distance invisible to the spectators. When the

skeletons were perfect, we fell to work to dress and paint them; and

I never shall forget the delight with which I contemplated our whole

company of puppets: men, women, and children, fresh painted and dizened

out, all in their proper colours. The carpenter could scarcely prevent

me from spoiling them: I was so impatient to set them at work that I

could not wait till their clothes were dry; and I was every half hour

rubbing my fingers upon their cheeks, to try whether the red paint was

yet hard enough.

“With some pride, I announced my intended exhibition to Mr. Y----; and

he appointed that evening for seeing it, saying that none but his own

boys should be present at the first representation. It was for

them alone it was originally designed; but I was so charmed with my

newly-finished work, that I would gladly have had all Exeter present at

the exhibition. However, before night, I was convinced of my friend Mr.

Y----‘s superior prudence: the whole thing, as the carpenter said,

_went off_ pretty well; but several disasters happened which I had not

foreseen. There was one stiff old fellow, whose arms, twitch them which

way I would, I could never get to bend: and an obstinate old woman, who

would never do any thing else but curtsy, when I wanted her to kneel

down and to do her work. My children sorted their heaps of rubbish and

ore very dexterously; excepting one unlucky little chap, who, from the

beginning, had his head, somehow or other, turned the wrong way upon

his shoulders; and I could never manage, all the night, to set it right

again: it was in vain I flattered myself that his wry neck would escape

observation; for, as he was one of the wheelbarrow boys, he was a

conspicuous figure in the piece; and, whenever he appeared, wheeling

or emptying his barrow, I to my mortification heard repeated peals of

laughter from the spectators, in which even my patron, notwithstanding

his good-natured struggles against it for some time, was at last

compelled to join.

“I, all the while, was wiping my forehead behind my show-box; for I

never was in such a bath of heat in my life: not the hardest day’s work

I ever wrought in the mine made me one half so hot as setting these

puppets to work.

“When my exhibition was over, good Mr. Y---- came to me, and consoled

me for all disasters, by the praises he bestowed upon my patience and

ingenuity: he showed me that he knew the difficulties with which I had

to contend: and he mentioned the defects to me in the kindest manner,

and how they might be remedied. ‘I see,’ said he, smiling, ‘that you

have endeavoured to make something useful for the entertainment of my

boys; and I will take pains to make it turn out advantageously to you.’

“The next morning I went to look at my show-box, which Mr. Y---- had

desired me to leave in his study; and I was surprised to see the front

of the box, which I had left open for the spectators, filled up with

boards, and having a circular glass in the middle. The eldest boy, who

stood by enjoying my surprise, bid me look in, and tell him what I saw.

What was my astonishment, when I first looked through this glass--‘As

large as the life!--As large as the life!’ cried I, in admiration--‘I

see the puppets, the _wheelbarrows_, every thing as large as life!’

“Mr. Y---- then told me, that it was by his grandson’s directions that

this glass, which he said was called a magnifying-glass, or convex-lens,

was added to my show-box. ‘He makes you a present of it; and now,’ added

he, smiling, ‘get all your little performers into order, and prepare for

a second representation: I will send for a clock-maker in this town,

who is an _ingenious_ man, and will show you how to manage properly the

motions of your puppets; and then we will get a good painter to paint

them for you.”

“There was at this time, in Exeter, a society of literary gentlemen, who

met once a week at each other’s houses. Mr. Y---- was one of these; and

several of the principal families in Exeter, especially those who had

children, came on the appointed evening to see the model of the Cornwall

tin-mine, which, with the assistance of the clock-maker and painter, was

now become really a show worth looking at. I made but few blunders this

time, and the company were indulgent enough to pardon these, and to

express themselves well pleased with my little exhibition. They gave me,

indeed, solid marks of their satisfaction, which were quite unexpected:

after the exhibition, Mr. Y----‘s youngest grandchild, in the name

of the rest of the company, presented me with a purse, containing the

contributions which had been made for me.

“After repaying all my expenses for my journey and machinery, I found

I had six guineas and a crown to spare. So I thought myself a rich man;

and, having never seen so much money together in my life before, as six

golden guineas and a crown, I should, most probably, like the generality

of people who come into the possession of unexpected wealth, have become

extravagant, had it not been for the timely advice of my kind monitor,

Mr. Y----. When I showed him a pair of Chinese tumblers, which I had

bought from a pedlar for twice as much as they were worth, merely

because they pleased my fancy, he shook his head, and observed that I

might, before my death, want this very money to buy a loaf of bread. ‘If

you spend your money as fast as you get it, Jervas,’ said he, ‘no matter

how ingenious or industrious you are, you will always be poor. Remember

the good proverb that says, _Industry is Fortune’s right hand, and

Frugality her left_;’ a proverb which has been worth ten times more to

me than all my little purse contained: so true it is, that those do not

always give most who give money.”

CHAPTER III.

“I had soon reason to rejoice at having thrown away no more money on

baubles, as I had occasion for my whole stock to fit myself out for a

new way of life. ‘Jervas,’ said Mr. Y---- to me, ‘I have at last found

an occupation, which I hope will suit you.’--Unknown to me, he had been,

ever since he first saw my little model, intent upon turning it to

my lasting advantage. Among the gentlemen of the society which I have

before mentioned, there was one who had formed a design of sending

some well-informed lecturer through England, to exhibit models of

the machines used in manufactories: Mr. Y---- purposely invited this

gentleman the evening that I exhibited my tin-mine, and proposed to him

that I should be permitted to accompany his lecturer. To this he

agreed. Mr. Y---- told me that although the person who was fixed upon as

lecturer was not exactly the sort of man he should have chosen, yet

as he was a relation of the gentleman who set the business on foot, no

objection could well be made to him.

“I was rather daunted by the cold and haughty look with which my new

master, the lecturer, received me when I was presented to him. Mr.

Y----, observing this, whispered to me at parting. ‘Make yourself

useful, and you will soon be agreeable to him. We must not expect to

find friends ready made wherever we go in the world: we often have to

make friends for ourselves with great pains and care.’ It cost me both

pains and care, I know, to make this lecturer my friend. He was what

is called _born a gentleman;_ and he began by treating me as a low-born

upstart, who, being perfectly ignorant, wanted to pass for a self-taught

_genius._ That I was low-born, I did not attempt to conceal; nor did I

perceive that I had any reason to be ashamed of my birth, or of having

raised myself by honest means to a station above that in which I was

born. I was proud of this circumstance, and therefore it was no torment

to me to hear the continual hints which my well-born master threw out

upon this subject. I moreover never pretended to any knowledge which I

had not; so that, by degrees, notwithstanding his prejudices, he began

to feel that I had neither the presumption of an upstart, nor of a

self-taught genius. I kept in mind the counsel given to me by Mr. Y----,

to endeavour to make myself useful to my employer; but it was no

easy matter to do this at first, because he had such a dread of my

awkwardness that he would never let me touch any of his apparatus. I was

always left to stand like a cipher beside him whilst he lectured; and

I had regularly the mortification of hearing him conclude his lecture

with, ‘_Now, gentlemen and ladies, I will not detain you any longer from

what, I am sensible, is much better worth your attention than any thing

I can offer--Mr. Jervas’s puppet-show_.’

“It happened one day that he sent me with a shilling, as he thought,

to pay a hostler for the feeding of his horse; as I rubbed the money

between my finger and thumb, I perceived that the white surface came

off, and the piece looked yellow: I recollected that my master had the

day before been showing some experiments with quicksilver and gold, and

that he had covered a guinea with quicksilver: so I immediately took the

money back, and my master, for the first time in his life, thanked me

very cordially; for this was in reality a guinea, and not a shilling.

He was also surprised at my directly mentioning the experiment he had

shown.

“The next day that he lectured, he omitted the offensive conclusion

about Mr. Jervas’s puppet-show. I observed, farther, to my infinite

satisfaction, that after this affair of the guinea, he was not so

suspicious of my honesty as he used to appear to be: he now yielded more

to his natural indolence, and suffered me to pack up his things for him,

and to do a hundred little services which formerly he used roughly to

refuse at my hands; saying, ‘I had rather do it myself, _sir_,’ or, ‘I

don’t like to have _any_ body meddle with my things, Mr. Jervas.’ But

his tone changed, and it was now, ‘Jervas, I’ll leave you to put up

these things, whilst I go and read;’--or, ‘Jervas, will you see that I

leave none of my goods behind me, there’s a good lad?’--In truth, he

was rather apt to leave his goods behind him: he was the most absent and

forgetful man alive. During the first half year we travelled together,

whilst he attempted to take care of his own things, I counted that he

lost two pair and a half of slippers, one boot, three night-caps, one

shirt, and fifteen pocket-handkerchiefs. Many of these losses, I make no

doubt, were set down in his imagination to my account whilst he had

no opinion of my honesty; but I am satisfied that he was afterwards

thoroughly convinced of the injustice of his suspicions, as, from the

time that I had the charge of his _goods_, as he called them, to the day

we parted, including a space of above four years and a half, he never

lost any thing but one red nightcap, which, to the best of my belief, he

sent in his wig one Sunday morning to the barber’s, but which never came

back again, and an old ragged blue pocket-handkerchief, which he said he

put under his pillow, or into his boot, when he went to bed at night. He

had an odd way of sticking his pocket-handkerchief into his boot, that

he might be sure to find it in the morning.’ I suspect the handkerchief

was carried down in the boot when it was taken to be cleaned. He was,

however, perfectly certain that these two losses were not to be imputed

to any carelessness of mine. He often said he was obliged to me for the

attention I paid to his interests; he treated me now very civilly, and

would sometimes condescend to explain to me in private what I did not

understand in his public lectures.

“I was presently advanced to the dignity of his secretary. He wrote

a miserably bad hand: and his manuscripts were so scratched and

interlined, that it was with the utmost difficulty he could decipher

his own writing, when he was obliged to have recourse to his notes

in lecturing. He was, moreover, extremely near-sighted; and he had a

strange trick of wrinkling up the skin on the bridge of his nose when he

was perplexed: altogether, his look was so comical when he began to pore

over these papers of his, that few of the younger part of our audiences

could resist their inclination to laugh. This disconcerted him beyond

measure; and he was truly glad to accept my offer of copying out his

scrawls fairly in a good bold round hand. I could now write, if I

may say it without vanity, an excellent hand, and could go over

his calculations as far as the first four rules of arithmetic were

concerned; so that I became quite his _factotum_: and I thought myself

rewarded for all my pains, by having opportunities of gaining every

day some fresh piece of knowledge from the perusal of the notes which I

transcribed.

“It was now that I felt most thoroughly the advantage of having learned

to read and write: stores of useful information were opened to me, and

my curiosity and desire to inform myself were insatiable. I often sat

up half the night reading and writing: I had free access now to all my

fellow-traveller’s books, and I thought I could never study them enough.

“At the commencement of my studies, my master often praised my

diligence, and would show me where to look for what I wanted in his

books, or explain difficulties: I looked up to him as a miracle of

science and learning; nay, I was actually growing fond of him, but this

did not last long. In process of time, he grew shy of explaining things

to me; he scolded me for thumbing his books, though, God knows, my

thumbs were always cleaner than his own, and he thwarted me continually

upon some pretence or other. I could not for some time conceive the

cause of this change in my master’s behaviour: indeed it was hard for

me to guess or believe that he was become jealous of the talents and

knowledge of a poor lad, whose ignorance he, but a few years before, had

so much despised and derided. I was the more surprised at this new turn

of his mind, because I was conscious that, instead of becoming more

conceited, I had of late become more humble; but this humility was, by

my suspicious master, attributed to artifice, and tended more than any

thing to confirm him in his notion that I had formed a plan to supplant

him in his office of lecturer, a scheme which had never entered into

my head. I was thunderstruck when he one day said to me, ‘You need not

study so hard, Mr. Jervas; for I promise you that, even with Mr. Y----‘s

assistance, and all your _art_, you will not be able to supplant me,

clever as, with all affected humility, you think yourself.’

“The truth lightened upon me at once. Had he been a judge of the human

countenance, he must have seen my innocence in my looks: but he was so

fixed in his opinion, that I knew any protestations I could make of my

never having thought of the scheme he imputed to me, would serve only

to confirm him in his idea of my dissimulation. I contented myself

with returning to him his books and his manuscripts, and thenceforward

withdrew my attention from his lectures, to which I had always till now

been one of the most eager auditors; by these proceedings I hoped to

quiet his suspicions. I no longer applied myself to any studies in which

he was engaged, to show him that all competition with him was far from

my thoughts; and I have since reflected that this fit of jealousy of

his, which I at the time looked upon as a misfortune, because it stopped

me short in pursuits which were highly agreeable to my taste, was in

fact of essential service to me. My reading had been too general; and I

had endeavoured to master so many things, that I was not likely to make

myself thoroughly skilled in any. As a blacksmith said once to me, when

he was asked why he was not both blacksmith and whitesmith, ‘The smith

that will meddle with all things may go shoe the goslings;’ an old

proverb, which, from its mixture of drollery and good sense, became ever

after a favourite of mine.

“Having returned my master’s books, I had only such to read as I could

purchase or borrow for myself, and I became very careful in my choice:

I also took every opportunity of learning all I could from the

conversation of sensible people, wherever we went; and I found that one

piece of knowledge helped me to another often when I least expected it.

And this I may add, for the encouragement of others, that every thing

which I learned accurately was, at some time or other of my life, of use

to me.

“After having made a progress through England, my fellow-traveller

determined to try his fortune in the metropolis, and to give lectures

there to young people during the winter season. Accordingly, we

proceeded towards London, taking Woolwich in our way, where we exhibited

before the young gentlemen of the military academy. My master, who,

since he had withdrawn his notes from my hands, had no one to copy them

fairly, found himself, during his lecture, in some perplexity; and, as

he exhibited his usual odd contortions upon this occasion, the young

gentlemen could not restrain their laughter: he also prolonged his

lecture more than his audience liked, and several yawned terribly, and

made signs of an impatient desire to see what was in my box, as a

relief from their fatigue. This my master quickly perceived, and,

being extremely provoked, he spoke to me with a degree of harshness

and insolence which, as I bore it with temper, prepossessed the young

company in my favour. He concluded his lecture with the old sentence:

‘Gentlemen, I shall no longer detain you from what I am sure is much

better worthy of your attention than any thing I can offer, viz.

Mr. Jervas’s puppet-show.’ This was an unlucky speech on the present

occasion, for it happened that every body, after having seen what he

called my puppet-show, was precisely of this opinion. My master grew

more and more impatient, and wanted to hurry me away, but one spirited

young man most warmly took me and my tin-mine under his protection: I

stood my ground, insisting upon my right to finish my exhibition, as my

master had been allowed full time to finish his. The young gentleman who

supported me was as well pleased by my present firmness as he had been

by my former patience. At parting he made a handsome collection for me,

which I refused to accept, taking only the regular price. ‘Well,’ said

he, ‘you shall be no loser by this. You are going to town; my father is

in London; here is his direction. I’ll mention you to him the next time

I write home, and you’ll not be the worse for that.’

“As soon as we got to London, I went according to my direction. The

young gentleman had been more punctual in writing home than young

gentlemen sometimes are. I was appointed to come with my models the

next evening, when a number of young people were collected, beside the

children of the family. The young spectators gathered round me at

one end of a large saloon, asking me innumerable questions after the

exhibition was over; whilst the master of the house, who was an East

India director, was walking up and down the room, conversing with

a gentleman in an officer’s uniform. They were, as I afterwards

understood, talking about the casting of some guns at Woolwich for the

East India Company. ‘Charles,’ said the director, coming to the place

where we were standing, and tapping one of his sons on the shoulder,

‘do you recollect what your brother told us about the proportion of tin

which is used in casting brass cannon at Woolwich?’ The young gentleman

answered that he could not recollect, but referred his father to me;

adding, that his brother told him I was the person from whom he had the

information. My memory served me exactly; and I had reason to rejoice

that I had not neglected the opportunity of gaining this knowledge,

during our short stay at Woolwich. The East India director, pleased with

my answering his first question accurately, condescended, in compliance

with his children’s entreaties, to examine my models, and questioned me

upon a variety of subjects: at length he observed to the gentleman with

whom he had been conversing, that I explained myself well, that I knew

all I did know accurately, and that I had the art of captivating the

attention of young people. ‘I do think,’ concluded he, ‘that he would

answer Dr. Bell’s description better than any person I have seen.’ He

then inquired particularly into my history and connexions, all of which

I told him exactly. He took down the direction to Mr. Y----, and my

good master (as I shall always call Mr. R----), and to several other

gentlemen, at whose houses I had been during the last three or four

years, telling me that he would write to them about me; and that if he

found my accounts of myself were as exact as my knowledge upon other

subjects, he thought he could place me in a very eligible situation. The

answers to these letters were all perfectly satisfactory: he gave me the

letter from Mr. R----, saying ‘you had better keep this letter, and take

care of it; for it will be a recommendation to you in any part of the

world where courage and fidelity are held in esteem.’ Upon looking into

this letter, I found that my good master had related, in the handsomest

manner, the whole of my conduct about the discovery of the vein in his

mine.

“The director now informed me that, if I had no objection to go to

India, I should be appointed to go out to Madras as an assistant to Dr.

Bell, one of the directors of the asylum for the instruction of orphans;

an establishment which is immediately under the auspices of the East

India Company, and which does them honour {Footnote: _Vide_ a small

pamphlet, printed for Cadell and Davies, entitled, “An Experiment

in Education, made at the Male Asylum of Madras, by the Rev. Dr. A.

Bell.”}.

“The salary which was offered me was munificent beyond my utmost

expectations; and the account of the institution, which was put into my

hands, charmed me. I speedily settled all my concerns with the lecturer,

who was in great astonishment that this appointment had not fallen upon

him. To console him for the last time, I showed him a passage in Dr.

Bell’s pamphlet, in which it is said that the doctor prefers to all

others, for teaching at his school, youths who have no fixed habits as

tutors, and who will implicitly follow his directions. I was at this

time but nineteen: my master was somewhat appeased by this view of the

affair, and we parted, as I wished, upon civil terms; though I could not

feel much regret at leaving him. I had no pleasure in living with one

who would not let me become attached to him; for, having early met with

two excellent friends and masters, the agreeable feelings of gratitude

and affection were in a manner necessary to my happiness.

“Before I left England, I received new proofs of Mr. R----‘s goodness:

he wrote to me to say that, as I was going to a distant country,

to which a small annuity of ten guineas a year could not easily be

remitted, he had determined to lay out a sum equal to the value of

the annuity he had promised me, in a manner which he hoped would be

advantageous: he further said, that as the vein of the mine with which I

had made him acquainted turned out better than he expected, he had added

the value of fifty guineas more than my annuity; and that if I would go

to Mr. Ramsden’s, mathematical instrument maker, in Piccadilly, I should

receive all he had ordered to be ready for me. At Mr. Ramsden’s I found

ready to be packed up for me two small globes, siphons, prisms, an

air-gun and an air-pump, a speaking trumpet, a small apparatus for

showing the gases, and an apparatus for freezing water. Mr. Ramsden

informed me that these were not all the things Mr. R---- had bespoken;

that he had ordered a small balloon, and a portable telegraph, in form

of an umbrella, which would be sent home, as he expected, in the course

of the next week. Mr. Ramsden also had directions to furnish me with a

set of mathematical instruments of his own making. ‘But,’ added he

with a smile, ‘you will be lucky if you get them soon enough out of my

hands.’ In fact, I believe I called a hundred times in the course of a

fortnight upon Ramsden, and it was only the day before the fleet sailed

that they were finished and delivered to me.

“I cannot here omit to mention an incident that happened in one of my

walks to Ramsden’s: I was rather late, and was pushing my way hastily

through a crowd that was gathered at the turning of a street, when a

hawker by accident flapped a bundle of wet hand-bills in my eyes, and

at the same instant screamed in my ears, ‘_The last dying speech and

confession of Jonathan Clarke, who was executed on Monday, the 11th

instant._’--Jonathan Clarke! The name struck my ears suddenly, and the

words I shocked me so much that I stood fixed to the spot; and it was I

not till the hawker had passed by me some yards, and was beginning with

‘_The last dying speech and confession of Jonathan Clarke, the Cornwall

miner_,’ that I recollected myself enough to speak: I called after the

hawker in vain: he was bawling too loud to hear me, and I was forced to

run the whole length of the street before I could overtake him, and get

one of the hand-bills. On reading it, I could have no doubt that it

was really the last dying speech of my old enemy Clarke. His birth,

parentage, and every circumstance, convinced me of the truth. Amongst

other things in his confession, I came to a plan he had laid to murder a

poor lad in the tin-mine, where he formerly worked; ‘and he thanked God

that this plan was never executed, as the boy providentially disappeared

the very night on which the murder was to have been perpetrated. He

further set forth that, after being turned away by his master, and

obliged to fly from Cornwall, he came up to London, and worked as

a coal-heaver for a little while, but soon became what is called a

_mud-lark_; that is, a plunderer of the ships’ cargoes that unload in

the Thames. He plied this abominable trade for some time, drinking every

day to the value of what he stole, till, in a quarrel at an ale-house

about the division of some articles to be sold to a receiver of stolen

goods, he struck the woman of the house a blow, of which she died; and,

as it was proved that he had long-borne her malice for some old

dispute, Clarke was on his trial brought in guilty of wilful murder, and

sentenced to be hanged.

“I shuddered whilst I read all this.--To such an end, after the utmost

his cunning could do, was this villain brought at last! How thankful

I was that I did not continue his associate in my boyish days! My

gratitude to my good master increased upon the reflection that it was

his humanity which had raised me from vice and misery, to virtue and

happiness. We sailed from the Downs the 20th of March, one thousand

seven hundred and.... But why I tell you this I do not know; except it

be in compliance with the custom of all voyagers, who think that it is

important to the world to know on what day they sailed from this or that

port. I shall not, however, imitate them in giving you a journal of

the wind, or a copy of the ship’s log-book. Suffice it to say, that we

arrived safely at Madras, after a voyage of about the usual number of

months and days, during all which I am sorry that I have not for your

entertainment any escape or imminent danger of shipwreck to relate; nor

even any description of a storm or a water-spout.

“You will, I am afraid, be much disappointed to find that, upon my

arrival in India, where doubtless you expected that I should like others

have wonderful adventures, I began to live at Dr. Bell’s asylum in

Madras a quiet regular life; in which for years I may safely say, that

every day in the week was extremely like that which preceded it. This

regularity was nowise irksome to me, notwithstanding that I had for

some years, in England, been so much used to a roving way of life. I had

never any taste for rambling; and under Dr. Bell, who treated me with

strict justice, as far as the business of the asylum was concerned, and

with distinguished kindness in all other circumstances, I enjoyed as

much freedom as I desired. I never had those absurd vague notions of

liberty, which render men uneasy under the necessary restraints of all

civilized society, and which do not make them the more fit to live

with savages. The young people who were under my care gradually became

attached to me, and I to them. I obeyed Dr. Bell’s directions exactly

in all things; and he was pleased to say, after I had been with him for

some time, that he never had any assistant who was so entirely agreeable

to him. When the business of the day was over, I often amused myself,

and the elder boys, with my apparatus for preparing the gases, my

speaking-trumpet, air-gun, &c.

“One day, I think it was in the fourth year of my residence at Madras,

Dr. Bell sent for me into his closet, and asked me if I had ever heard

of a scholar of his, of the name of William Smith, a youth of seventeen

years of age; who, in the year 1794, attended the embassy to Tippoo

Sultan, when the hostage princes were restored; and who went through

a course of experiments in natural philosophy, in the presence of the

sultan. I answered Dr. Bell that, before I left England, I had read, in

his account of the asylum, extracts from this William Smith’s letters,

whilst he was at the sultan’s court; and that I remembered all the

experiments he had exhibited perfectly well; and also that he was

detained, by the sultan’s order, nineteen days after the embassy had

taken leave, for the purpose of instructing two aruzbegs, or lords, in

the use of an extensive and elegant mathematical apparatus, presented

to Tippoo by the government at Madras.

{Footnote: _Extracts from William Smith’s Letters to Dr. Bell, (vide the

Pamphlet before mentioned.)_

‘Devanelli Fort, April 8, 1792.

‘REVEREND SIR,

‘I take the liberty of informing you that we arrived here the 28th ult.

without any particular occurrence in the way. The day after our arrival

we made our first visit to the sultan; and he entertained us at his

court for upwards of three hours.

‘On the 1st instant Captain Dovetoun sent me an order to open the boxes,

and lay out the machines, to show them to the sultan. Accordingly, on

the third, I was sent for, and I exhibited the following experiments;

viz. head and wig; dancing images; electric stool; cotton fired; small

receiver and stand; hemispheres; Archimedes’ screw; siphon; Tantalus’s

cup; water-pump; condensing engine, &c. Captain Dovetoun was present,

and explained, as I went on, to the sultan, who has given us an instance

of his being acquainted with some of these experiments. He has shown

us a condensing engine made by himself, which spouted water higher than

ours. He desired me to teach two men, his aruzbegs.

* * * * *

‘I can assure you that Tippoo Sultan was mightily pleased with the

electric machine. He was prepared for every experiment I exhibited,

except the firing of the inflammable air.

* * * * *

‘It did cost me several minutes before the firing of the inflammable air

proved successful; during which time he was in a very impatient emotion;

and, when that was done, it did indeed surprise him. He desired me to go

over it three times.

‘I take the liberty to write for your information the familiar discourse

Tippoo Sultan was pleased to enter into with me, that took place at the

close of the experiments.

‘There were some silver trumpets, newly made, brought in to him for

his inspection, and which he desired the trumpeters to sound _hauw_ and

_jauw_; i.e. come and go; after which, he asked me if they were like

those I saw at Madras. I answered, Yes; but those at Madras are made of

copper. He asked me again whether the tune was any thing like what I had

ever heard. I answered, No. How then? says he; and presently ordering

the instrument to be put into my hands, desired me to blow. I told him,

very civilly, that I could not blow. No! says he: you could; what are

you afraid of? I told him again that I spoke truth; and that I was

brought up in a school where my master informed me what lying was, and

always punished those boys that spoke untruths.

* * * * *

‘June 11th. After this the sultan arose (five hours being elapsed) to

quit the court, and desired the present (of a hundred rupees) to be

delivered into my hands, with these words: “This is given you as a

present for the trouble you took in performing those experiments, which

verily pleased me;” and a command that I am to stay in the fort ten

days; “after which,” he continued, “I will send you to Kistnagherry,

with two hircarrahs, in order to conduct you safely through my country.”

I returned the compliment with a salam, in the manner I was instructed;

saying that I thankfully accepted his present, and am willing to obey

his commands. The language which the sultan used was the Carnatic

Malabar. Mine very little differed from his. Poornbia was the

interpreter of such terms as the sultan did not understand.’}

“Well,’ said Dr. Bell, ‘since that time Tippoo Sultan has been at war,

and has had no leisure, I suppose, for the study of philosophy, or

mathematics; but now that he has just made peace, and wants something

to amuse him, he has sent to the government at Madras, to request that

I will permit some of my scholars to pay a second visit at his court to

refresh the memory of the aruzbegs, and, I presume, to exhibit some new

wonders for Tippoo’s entertainment.’

“Dr. B. proposed to me to go on this embassy: accordingly, I prepared

all my apparatus, and, having carefully remarked what experiments Tippoo

had already seen, I selected such as would be new to him. I packed up

my speaking-trumpet, my apparatus for freezing water, and that for

exhibiting the gases, my balloon and telegraph, and with these and my

model of the tin-mine, which I took by Dr. Bell’s advice, I set out

with two of his eldest scholars upon our expedition. We were met on the

entrance of Tippoo’s dominions by four hircarrahs or soldiers, whom the

sultan sent as a guard to conduct us safely through his dominions. He

received us at court the day after our arrival. Unaccustomed as I was to

Asiatic magnificence, I confess that my eyes were at first so dazzled by

the display of oriental pomp that, as I prostrated myself at the foot

of the sultan’s throne, I considered him as a personage high as human

veneration could look upon. After having made my salam, or salutation,

according to the custom of his court, as I was instructed to do, the

sultan commanded me, by his interpreter, to display my knowledge of the

arts and sciences, for the instruction and amusement of his court.

“My boxes and machines had all been previously opened, and laid out:

I was prepared to show my apparatus for freezing, but Tippoo’s eye was

fixed upon the painted silk balloon; and with prodigious eagerness he

interrupted me several times with questions about that great empty

bag. I endeavoured to make him understand as well as I could, by my

interpreter and his own, that this great empty bag was to be filled with

a species of air lighter than the common air; and that, when filled,

the bag which I informed him was in our country called a balloon, would

mount far above his palace. No sooner was this repeated to him, by

the interpreter, than the sultan commanded me _instantly_ to fill the

balloon; and when I replied that it could not be done instantly, and

that I was not prepared to exhibit it on this day, Tippoo gave signs of

the most childish impatience. He signified to me, that since I could not

show him what he wanted to see, the sultan would not see what I wanted

to show. I replied, through his interpreter, in the most respectful but

firm manner, that no one would be so presumptuous as to show to Tippoo

Sultan, in his own court, any thing which he did not desire to see:

that it was in compliance with his wishes that I came to his court, from

which, in obedience to his commands, I should at any time be ready

to withdraw. A youth, who stood at the right hand of Tippoo’s throne,

seemed much to approve of this answer, and the sultan, assuming a more

composed and dignified aspect, signified to me that he was satisfied to

await for the sight of the filling of the great bag till the next day;

and that he should, in the mean time, be well pleased to see what I was

now prepared to show.

“The apparatus for freezing, which we then exhibited, seemed to please

him; but I observed that he was, during a great part of the time whilst

I was explaining it, intent upon something else; and no sooner had I

done speaking than he caused to be produced the condensing engines, made

by himself, which he formerly showed to William Smith, and which he said

spouted water higher than any of ours. The sultan, I perceived, was much

more intent upon displaying his small stock of mechanical knowledge than

upon increasing it; and the mixture of vanity and ignorance, which he

displayed upon this and many subsequent occasions, considerably lessened

the awe which his external magnificence at first excited in my mind.

Sometimes he would put himself in competition with me, to show his

courtiers his superiority; but failing in these attempts, he would then

treat me as a species of mechanic juggler, who was fit only to exhibit

for the amusement of his court. When he saw my speaking-trumpet, which

was made of copper, he at first looked at it with great scorn, and

ordered his trumpeters to show me theirs, which were made of silver. As

he had formerly done when my predecessor was at his court, he desired

his trumpeters to sound through these trumpets the words _hauw_ and

_jauw_, i.e. come and go: but, upon trial, mine was found to be far

superior to the sultan’s: and I received intimation, through one of his

courtiers, that it would be prudent to offer it immediately to Tippoo.

This I accordingly did, and he accepted it with the eagerness of a child

who has begged and obtained a new play-thing.”

CHAPTER IV.

“The next day, Tippoo and his whole court assembled to see my balloon.

Tippoo was seated in a splendid pavilion, and his principal courtiers

stood in a semicircle on each side of him: the youth, whom I formerly

observed, was again on his right hand, and his eyes were immovably fixed

upon my balloon, which had been previously filled and fastened down by

cords. I had the curiosity to ask who this youth was: I was informed he

was the sultan’s eldest son, Prince Abdul Calie. I had not time to make

any farther inquiries, for Tippoo now ordered a signal to be given, as

had been previously agreed upon. I instantly cut the cords which held

the balloon, and it ascended with a rapid but graceful motion, to the

unspeakable astonishment and delight of all the spectators. Some clapped

their hands and shouted, others looked up in speechless ecstasy, and

in the general emotion all ranks for an instant were confounded: even

Tippoo Sultan seemed at this interval to be forgotten, and to forget

himself, in the admiration of this new wonder.

“As soon as the balloon was out of sight, the court returned to their

usual places, the noise subsided, and the sultan, as if desirous to

fix the public attention upon himself, and to show his own superior

magnificence, issued orders immediately to his treasurer to present me,

as a token of his royal approbation, with two hundred star pagodas.

When I approached to make my salam and compliment of thanks, as I was

instructed, the sultan, who observed that some of the courtiers already

began to regard me with envy, as if my reward had been too great,

determined to divert himself with their spleen, and to astonish me

with his generosity: he took from his finger a diamond ring, which he

presented to me by one of his officers. The young prince, Abdul Calie,

whispered to his father whilst I was withdrawing, and I soon afterwards

received a message from the sultan, requesting, or, in other words,

ordering me to remain some time at his court, to instruct the young

prince, his son, in the use of my European machines, for which they had

in their language no names.

“This command proved a source of real pleasure to me; for I found

Prince Abdul Calie not only a youth of quick apprehension, but of a most

amiable disposition, unlike the imperious and capricious temper which

I had remarked in his father. Prince Abdul Calie had been, when he

was about twelve years old, one of the hostage princes left with Lord

Cornwallis at Seringapatam. With that politeness which is seldom to

be found in the sons of eastern despots, this prince, after my first

introduction, ordered the magnificent palanquin, given to him by Lord

Cornwallis, to be shown to me; then pointing to the enamelled snakes

which support the panels, and on which the sun at that instant happened

to shine, Prince Abdul Calie was pleased to say, ‘The remembrance of

your noble countryman’s kindness to me is as fresh and lively in my soul

as those colours now appear to my eye.’

“Another thing gave me a good opinion of this young prince; he did not

seem to value presents merely by their costliness; whether he gave or

received, he considered the feelings of others; and I know that he often

excited in my mind more gratitude by the gift of a mere trifle, by a

word or a look, than his ostentatious father could by the most valuable

donations. Tippoo, though he ordered his treasurer to pay me fifty

rupees per day, whilst I was in his service, yet treated me with a

species of insolence; which, having some of the feelings of a free-born

Briton about me, I found it difficult to endure with patience. His

son, on the contrary, showed that he felt obliged to me for the little

instruction I was able to give him; and never appeared to think that, as

a prince, he could pay for all the kindness, as well as the service

of his inferiors, by pagodas or rupees: so true it is that attachment

cannot be bought; and those who wish to have friends, as well as

servants, should keep this truth constantly in mind. My English spirit

of independence induced me to make these and many more such reflections

whilst I was at Tippoo’s court.

“Every day afforded me fresh occasion to form comparisons between the

sultan and his son; and my attachment to my pupil every day increased.

My pupil! It was with astonishment I sometimes reflected that a young

prince was actually my pupil. Thus an obscure individual, in a country

like England, where arts, sciences, and literature are open to all

ranks, may obtain a degree of knowledge which an eastern despot, in all

his pride, would gladly purchase with ingots of his purest gold.

“One evening, after the business of the day was over, Tippoo Sultan came

into his son’s apartment, whilst I was explaining to the young prince

the use of some of the mathematical instruments in my pocket-case. ‘We

are well acquainted with these things,’ said the sultan in a haughty

tone: ‘the government of Madras sent us such things as those, with

others, which are now in the possession of some of my aruzbegs, who

have doubtless explained them sufficiently to the prince my son.’ Prince

Abdul Calie modestly replied, ‘that he had never before been made to

understand them; for that the aruzbeg, who had formerly attempted to

explain them, had not the art of making things so clear to him as I had

done.’

“I felt a glow of pleasure at this compliment, and at the consciousness

that I deserved it. How little did I imagine, when I used to sit up at

nights studying my old master’s books, that one of them would be the

means of procuring me such honour. {Footnote: Jervas here alludes to a

book entitled, “A Description of Pocket and Magazine Cases of Drawing

Instruments: in which is explained the use of each instrument, and

particularly of the sector and plain scale, Gunter’s scale, &c. By J.

Barrow, private teacher of mathematics.”}

“‘What is contained in that box?’ said the sultan, pointing to the box

which held the model of the tin-mine. ‘I do not remember to have seen it

opened in my presence.’

“I replied that it had not been opened, because I feared that it was not

worthy to be shown to him. But he commanded that it should instantly

be exhibited; and, to my great surprise, it seemed to delight him

excessively: he examined every part, moved the wires of the puppets,

and asked innumerable questions concerning our tin-mines. I was the

more astonished at this, because I had imagined he would have considered

every object of commerce as beneath the notice of a sultan. Nor could

I guess why he should be peculiarly interested in this subject: but

he soon explained this to me, by saying that he had, in his dominions,

certain mines of tin, which he had a notion would, if properly managed,

bring a considerable revenue to the royal treasury; but that at present,

through negligence or fraud, these mines were rather burdensome than

profitable.

“He inquired from me how my model came into my possession; and, when his

interpreter told him that I made it myself, he caused the question and

answer to be repeated twice, before he would believe that he understood

me rightly. He next inquired whether I was acquainted with the art of

mining; and how I came by my information: in short, he commanded me to

relate my history. I replied that it was a long story, concerning only

an obscure individual, and unworthy the attention of a great monarch:

but he seemed this evening to have nothing to do but to gratify his

curiosity, which my apology only served to increase. He again commanded

me to relate my adventures, and I then told him the history of my early

life. I was much flattered by the interest which the young prince

took in my escape from the mine, and by the praises he bestowed on my

fidelity to my master.

“The sultan, on the contrary, heard me at first with curiosity, but

afterwards with an air of incredulity. Upon observing this, I produced

the letter from my good master to the East India director, which gave

a full account of the whole affair. I put this letter into the hands

of the interpreter, and with some difficulty he translated it into the

Carnatic Malabar, which was the language the sultan used in speaking to

me.

“The letter, which had the counter-signatures of some of the East India

Company’s servants resident at Madras, whose names were well known to

Tippoo, failed not to make a great impression in favour of my integrity:

of my knowledge he had before a high opinion. He stood musing for some

time, with his eyes fixed upon the model of the tin-mine; and, after

consulting with the young prince, as I guessed by their tones and looks,

he bade his interpreter tell me that, if I would undertake to visit the

tin-mines in his dominions, to instruct his miners how to work them,

and to manage the ore according to the English fashion, I should receive

from the royal treasury a reward more than proportioned to my services,

and suitable to the generosity of a sultan.

“Some days were given me to consider of this proposal. Though tempted by

the idea that I might realize, in a short time, a sum that would make me

independent for the rest of my life, yet my suspicions of the capricious

and tyrannical temper of Tippoo made me dread to have him for a master;

and, above all, I resolved to do nothing without the express permission

of Dr. Bell, to whom I immediately wrote. He seemed, by his answer,

to think that such an opportunity of making my fortune was not to be

neglected: my hopes, therefore, prevailed over my fears, and I accepted

the proposal.

“The presents which he had made me, and the salary allowed me during six

weeks that I had attended the young prince, amounted to a considerable

sum; 500 star pagodas and 500 rupees: all which I left, together with

my ring, in the care of a great Gentoo merchant of the name of Omychund,

who had shown me many civilities. With proper guides, and full powers

from the sultan, I proceeded on my journey, and devoted myself with

the greatest ardour to my undertaking. A very laborious and difficult

undertaking it proved: for in no country are prejudices in favour of

their own customs more inveterate, amongst workmen of every description,

than in India; and although I was empowered to inflict what punishment

I thought proper on those who disobeyed, or even hesitated to fulfil my

orders, yet, thank God! I could never bring myself to have a poor slave

tortured, or put to death, because he roasted ore in a manner which I

did not think so good as my own method; nor even because he was not

so well convinced as I was of the advantages of our Cornwall

smelting-furnace.

“My moderation was of more service to me, in the minds of the people,

than the utmost violence I could have employed to enforce obedience. As

I got by degrees some little knowledge of their language, I grew more

and more acceptable to them; and some few, who tried methods of my

proposing, and found that they succeeded, were, by my directions,

rewarded with the entire possession of the difference of profit between

the old and new modes. This bounty enticed others; and in time that

change was accomplished by gentle means, which I had at first almost

despaired of ever effecting.

“When the works were in proper train, I despatched a messenger to the

sultan’s court, to request that he would be pleased to appoint some

confidential person to visit the mines, in order to be an eye-witness of

what had been done; and I further begged, as I had now accomplished the

object of the sultan’s wishes, that I might be recalled, after deputing

whomsoever he should think proper to superintend and manage the mines in

my stead. I moreover offered, before I withdrew, to instruct the person

who should be appointed. My messenger, after a long delay, returned to

me, with a command from Tippoo Sultan to remain where I was till his

further orders. For these I waited three months, and then, concluding

that I was forgotten, I determined to set out to refresh Tippoo’s

memory.

“I found him at Devanelli Fort, thinking of nothing less than of me or

my tin-mines: he was busily engaged in making preparations for a war

with some Soubha or other, whose name I forget, and all his ideas were

bent on conquests and vengeance. He scarcely deigned to see, much less

to listen to me: his treasurer gave me to understand that too much had

already been lavished upon me, a stranger as I was; and that Tippoo’s

resources, at all events, would be now employed in carrying on schemes

of war, not petty projects of commerce. Thus insulted, and denied all my

promised reward, I could not but reflect upon the hard fate of those who

attempt to serve capricious despots.

“I prepared as fast as possible to depart from Tippoo’s court. The

Hindoo merchant with whom I had lodged the pagodas and rupees promised

to transmit them to me at Madras; and he delivered to me the diamond

ring which Tippoo had given to me during his fit of generosity, or of

ostentation. The sultan, who cared no more what became of me, made no

opposition to my departure: but I was obliged to wait a day or two for

a guard, as the hircarrahs who formerly conducted me were now out upon

some expedition.

“Whilst I waited impatiently for their return, Prince Abdul Calie, who

had not been during all this time at Devanelli Fort, arrived; and when

I went to take leave of him, he inquired into the reason of my sudden

departure. In language as respectful as I could use, and with as much

delicacy as I thought myself bound to observe, in speaking to a son of

his father, I related the truth. The prince’s countenance showed what he

felt. He paused, and seemed to be lost in thought, for a few minutes: he

then said to me, ‘The sultan, my father, is at this time so intent upon

preparations for war, that even I should despair of being listened to on

any other subject. But you have in your possession, as I recollect, what

might be useful to him either in war or peace; and, if you desire it, I

will speak of this machine to the sultan.’

“I did not immediately know to what machine of mine the prince alluded;

but he explained to me that he meant my portable telegraph, which would

be of infinite use to Tippoo in conveying orders of intelligence across

the deserts. I left the matter entirely to the prince, after returning

him my very sincere thanks for being thus interested in my concerns.

“A few hours after this conversation, I was summoned into the sultan’s

presence. His impatience to make trial of the telegraphs was excessive;

and I, who but the day before had been almost trampled upon by the

officers and lords of his court, instantly became a person of the

greatest importance. The trial of the telegraphs succeeded beyond even

my expectations; and the sultan was in a species of ecstasy on the

occasion.

“I cannot omit to notice an instance of the violence of his temper, and

its sudden changes from joy to rage. One of his blacks, a gentle Hindoo

lad, of the name of Saheb, was set to manage a telegraph at one of

the stations, a few yards distant from the sultan. I had previously

instructed Saheb in what he was to do; but, from want of practice, he

made some mistake, which threw Tippoo into such a transport of passion,

that he instantly ordered the slave’s head to be cut off! a sentence

which would infallibly have been executed, if I had not represented that

it would be expedient to suffer his head to remain on his shoulders till

the message was delivered by his telegraph; because there was no one

present who could immediately supply his place. Saheb then read off his

message without making any new blunder; and the moment the exhibition

was over, I threw myself at the feet of the sultan, and implored him

to pardon Saheb. I was not likely at this moment to be refused such a

_trifle_! Saheb was pardoned.

“An order upon the treasurer for five hundred star pagodas, to reward my

services at the royal tin-mines, was given to me; and upon my presenting

to Tippoo Sultan the portable telegraphs, on which his ardent wishes

were fixed, he exclaimed: ‘Ask any favour in the wide-extended power of

Tippoo Sultan to confer, and it shall be granted.”

“I concluded that this was merely an oriental figure of speech; but I

resolved to run the hazard of a refusal. I did not ask for a province,

though this was in the wide-extended power of Tippoo Sultan to confer;

but as I had a great curiosity to see the diamond mines of Golconda, of

which both in Europe and in India I had heard so much, I requested the

sultan’s permission to visit those which belonged to him. He hesitated;

but after saying some words to an officer near him, he bade his

interpreter tell me that he granted my request.

“Accordingly, after lodging my pagodas and rupees along with the rest

in the hands of Omychund, the Gentoo merchant, who was a man of great

wealth and credit, I set out in company with some diamond merchants who

were going to Golconda. My curiosity was amply gratified by the sight

of these celebrated mines; and I determined that, when I returned to

Europe, I would write a description of them. This description, however,

I shall spare you for the present, and proceed with my story.

“The diamond merchants with whom I travelled had a great deal of

business to transact at various places; and this was the cause of much

delay to me, which I could scarcely bear with patience; for now that I

had gratified my curiosity, I was extremely desirous to return to Madras

with my little treasure. The five years’ salary due to me by the East

India Company, which I had never used, I had put out at interest at

Madras, where sometimes the rate was as high as twelve per cent.; and

if you knew (said Mr. Jervas, addressing himself to the miners at Mr.

R----‘s table) any thing of the nature of compound interest, you would

perceive that I was in a fair way to get rich: for, in the course of

fourteen or fifteen years, any sum that is put out at compound interest,

even in England, where the rate of legal interest is five per cent.,

becomes double; that is, one hundred pounds put out at compound

interest, in fourteen years, becomes two hundred. But few people have

the patience, or the prudence, to make this use of their money. I was,

however, determined to employ all my capital in this manner; and I

calculated that, in seven years, I should have accumulated a sum fully

sufficient to support me all the rest of my life in ease and affluence.

“Full of these hopes and calculations, I pursued my journey along with

the merchants. Arrived at Devanelli Fort, I learned that the Soubha,

with whom the sultan had been going to war, had given up the territory

in dispute, and had pacified Tippoo by submissions and presents. Whether

he chose peace or war was indifferent to me: I was intent on my private

affairs, and I went immediately to Omychund, my banker, to settle them.

I had taken my diamond ring with me to the mines, that I might compare

it with others, and learn its value; and I found that it was worth

nearly treble what I had been offered for it. Omychund congratulated me

upon this discovery, and we were just going to settle our accounts,

when an officer came in, and, after asking whether I was not the young

Englishman who had lately visited the mines of Golconda, summoned me

immediately to appear before the sultan. I was terrified, for I imagined

I was perhaps suspected of having purloined some of the diamonds; but I

followed the officer without hesitation, conscious of my innocence.

“Tippoo Sultan, contrary to my expectations, received me with a smiling

countenance; and, pointing to the officer who accompanied me, asked me

whether I recollected to have ever seen his face before? I replied, No:

but the sultan then informed me that this officer, who was one of his

own guards, had attended me in disguise during my whole visit to the

diamond mines; and that he was perfectly satisfied of my honourable

conduct. Then, after making a signal to the officer and all present to

withdraw, he bade me approach nearer to him; paid some compliments to my

abilities, and proceeded to explain to me that he stood in farther need

of my services; and that, if I served him with fidelity, I should have

no reason to complain, on my return to my own country, of his want of

generosity.

“All thoughts of war being now, as he told me, out of his mind, he had

leisure for other projects to enrich himself; and he was determined to

begin by reforming certain abuses, which had long tended to impoverish

the royal treasury. I was at a loss to know whither this preamble

would lead: at length, having exhausted his oriental pomp of words, he

concluded by informing me that he had reason to believe he was terribly

cheated in the management of his mines at Golconda; that they were

rented from him by a Feulinga Brahmin, as he called him, whose agreement

with the adventurers in the mines was, that all the stones they found

under a pago in weight were to be their own; and all above this weight

were to be his, for the sultan’s use. Now it seems that this agreement

was never honestly fulfilled by any of the parties: the slaves cheating

the merchants, the merchants cheating the Feulinga Brahmin, and he,

in his turn, defrauding the sultan; so that, Tippoo assured me, he had

often purchased, from diamond merchants, stones of a larger spread and

finer water than any he could get directly from his own mines; and

that he had been frequently obliged to reward these merchants with

rich vests, or fine horses, in order to encourage others to offer their

diamonds {Footnote: Philosophical Transactions, vol. ii. p.472.} for

sale.

“I could not but observe, whilst Tippoo related all this, the great

agitation of his looks and voice, which showed me the strong hold the

passion for diamonds had upon his soul; on which I should perhaps have

made some wise reflections, but that people have seldom leisure or

inclination to make wise reflections when standing in the presence of a

prince as powerful and as despotic as Tippoo Sultan.

“The service that he required from me was a very dangerous one; no

less than to visit the mines secretly by night, to search those small

cisterns in which the workmen leave the diamonds mixed with the sand,

gravelly stuff, and red earth, to sink and drain off during their

absence. I by no means relished this undertaking: besides that it would

expose me to imminent danger, it was odious to my feelings to become a

spy and an informer. This I stated to the sultan, but he gave no credit

to this motive; and, attributing my reluctance wholly to fear, he

promised that he would take effectual measures to secure my safety; and

that, after I had executed this commission, he would immediately send

a guard with me to Madras. I saw that a dark frown lowered on his brow,

when I persisted in declining this office; but I fortunately bethought

myself at this moment of a method of escaping the effects of his anger,

without giving up my own principles.

“I represented to him that the seizure of the diamonds in the cisterns,

which he proposed, even should it afford him any convincing proofs of

the dishonesty of the slaves and diamond merchants, and even if he

could in future take effectual precautions to secure himself from their

frauds, would not be a source of wealth to him equal to one which I

could propose. His avarice fixed his attention, and he eagerly

commanded me to proceed. I then explained to him that one of his richest

diamond-mines had been for some time abandoned; because the workmen,

having dug till they came to water, were then forced to stop for want of

engines such as are known in Europe. Now, having observed that there was

a rapid current at the foot of the mountain, on which I could erect a

water-mill, I offered to clear this valuable mine.”

CHAPTER V.

“The sultan was pleased with the proposal; but, recollecting how apt

he was to change his humour, and how ill he received me when I returned

from his tin-mines, I had the precaution to represent that, as this

undertaking would be attended with considerable expense, it would

be necessary that a year’s salary should be advanced to me before my

departure for Golconda; and that, if the payments were not in future

regularly made, I should be at liberty to resign my employment, and

return to Madras. Prince Abdul Calie was present when the sultan pledged

his word to this, and gave me full powers to employ certain of his

artificers and workmen.

“I shall not trouble you with a history of all my difficulties, delays,

and disappointments, in the execution of my undertaking; however

interesting they were to me, the relation would be tiresome to those

who have no diamond-mines to drain. It is enough for you to know that at

length my engines were set a-going properly, and did their business so

effectually, that the place was by degrees cleared of water, and the

workmen were able to open fresh and valuable veins. During all this

time, including a period of three years, my salary was regularly paid to

the Gentoo merchant, Omychund, in whose hands I left all my money,

upon his promising to pay me as high interest as what I could obtain

at Madras. I drew upon him only for such small sums as were absolutely

necessary; as I was resolved to live with the utmost economy, that I

might the sooner be enabled to return in affluence to my native country.

“And here I must pause to praise myself, or rather to rejoice from the

bottom of my soul, that I did not, when power was in my hands, make use

of it for the purposes of extortion. The condition of the poor slaves,

who were employed by me, was envied by all the others: and I have reason

to know that, even in the most debased and miserable state of existence,

the human heart can be wakened by kind treatment to feelings of

affection and gratitude. These slaves became so much attached to me

that, although the governor of the mines, and certain diamond merchants,

were lying in wait continually to get rid of me some way or other, they

never could effect their purposes. I was always apprised of my danger in

time by some of these trusty slaves; who, with astonishing sagacity and

fidelity, guarded me while I lived amongst them.

“A life of daily suspicion and danger was, however, terrible; and my

influence extended but a little way in making others happy. I might,

for a short season, lessen the suffering of these slaves; but still

they were slaves, and most of them were treated scarcely as if they were

human beings, by the rapacious adventurers for whom they laboured.

“These poor wretches generally work almost naked; they dare not wear a

coat, lest the governor should say they have thriven much, are rich, and

so increase his demands upon them. The wisest, when they find a great

stone, conceal it till they have an opportunity; and then, with wife and

children, run all away into the Visiapore country, where they are secure

and well used. {Footnote: Philosophical Transactions.}

“My heart sickened at the daily sight of so much misery; and nothing but

my hopes of finally prevailing on the sultan to better their condition,

by showing him how much he would be the gainer by it, could have induced

me to remain so long in this situation. Repeatedly Tippoo promised me

that the first diamond of twenty pagos weight which I should bring to

him, he would grant me all I asked in favour of the slaves under my

care. I imparted to them this promise, which excited them to great

exertions. At last we were fortunate enough to find a diamond above

the weight required. It was a well-spread stone, of a beautiful pale

rose-colour, and of an adamantine hardness. I am sure that the sight of

that famous stone, which is known by the name of the Pitt diamond, never

gave its possessor such heartfelt joy as I experienced when I beheld

this. I looked upon it as the pledge of future happiness, not only to

myself, but to hundreds of my fellow-creatures.

“I set out immediately for Tippoo Sultan’s court. It was too late in

the evening, when I arrived, to see the sultan that night; so I went

to Omychund, the Hindoo merchant, to settle my affairs with him. He

received me with open arms, saying that he had thriven much upon my

pagodas and rupees, and that he was ready to account with me for my

salary; also for the interest which he owed me; for all which he gave

me an order upon an English merchant at Madras, with whom I was well

acquainted.

“This being settled to my satisfaction, I told him the business which

now brought me to Tippoo’s court, and showed him my rose-coloured

diamond. His eyes opened at the sight with a prodigious expression of

avaricious eagerness. ‘Trust me,’ said he, ‘keep this diamond. I know

Tippoo better than you do; he will not grant those privileges to the

slaves that you talk about; and, after all, what concern are they of

yours? They are used to the life they lead. They are not Europeans. What

concern are they of yours? Once in your native country, you will dream

of them no more. You will think only of enjoying the wealth you shall

have brought from India. Trust me, keep the diamond. Fly this night

towards Madras. I have a slave who perfectly knows the road across

the country: you will be in no danger of pursuit, for the sultan will

suppose you to be still at Golconda. No one could inform him of the

truth but myself; and you must see, by the advice I now give you, that I

am your firm friend.’

“As he finished these words, he clapped his hands, to summon one of his

slaves, as he said, to give instant orders for my flight. He looked upon

me with incredulous surprise, when I coolly told him that the flight

which he proposed was far from my thoughts; and that it was my

determination to give the sultan the diamond that belonged to him.

“Seeing that I was in earnest, Omychund suddenly changed his

countenance; and in a tone of raillery, asked me whether I could believe

that his proposal was serious. Indeed I was left in doubt whether he

had been in earnest or not; and, at all events, I gave him to understand

that I was incapable of betraying him to the sultan.

“The next morning, as early as I could, I presented myself before the

sultan, who singled me from the crowd, and took me with him into the

apartment of Prince Abdul Calie.

“I proceeded cautiously: Tippoo was all impatience to hear news of his

diamond mine, and repeatedly interrupted me in my account of what had

been done there, by asking whether we had yet come to any diamonds? I

produced first one of a violet colour, which I had reserved as a present

for Prince Abdul Calie; it was a fine stone, but nothing equal to our

rose-coloured diamond. Tippoo admired this, however, so much, that I was

certain he would be in raptures with that which I had in store for him.

Before I showed it to him, in speaking of the weight of that which I had

designed to present to the prince, I reminded him of his royal promise

with respect to the slaves. ‘True,’ cried the sultan: ‘but is this

diamond twenty pagos weight? when you bring me one of that value,

you may depend upon having all you ask.’ I instantly produced the

rose-coloured diamond, weighed it in his presence, and, as the scale in

which it was put descended, Tippoo burst forth into an exclamation of

joy. I seized the favourable moment; he nodded as I knelt before him,

and bade me rise, saying my request was granted; though why I should ask

favours for a parcel of mean slaves, he observed, was incomprehensible.

“Prince Abdul Calie did not appear to be of this opinion; he at this

instant cast upon me a look full of benevolence; and whilst his father

was absorbed in the contemplation of his rose-coloured diamond, which he

weighed, I believe, a hundred times, the generous young prince presented

to me that violet-coloured diamond which I brought for him. A princely

gift made in a princely manner.

“Tippoo’s secretary made out for me the necessary order to the governor

of the mines, by which a certain share of the profits of his labour was,

by the sultan’s command, to belong to each slave; and all those who had

been employed in my service were, as a reward for their good conduct,

to be emancipated. A number of petty exactions were by this order

abolished; and the property acquired in land, dress, &c. by the slaves,

was secured to them. Most gladly did I see the sultan’s signet affixed

to this paper; and when it was delivered into my hands, my heart bounded

with joy. I resolved to be the bearer of these good tidings myself.

Although my passport was made out for Madras, and two hircarrahs, by the

sultan’s orders, were actually ready to attend me thither, yet I could

not refuse myself the pleasure of beholding the joy of the slaves, at

this change in their condition; and, to the latest hour of my life, I

shall rejoice that I returned to Golconda the messenger of happiness.

Never shall I forget the scene to which I was there a witness; never

will the expressions of joy and gratitude be effaced from my memory,

which lighted up the dark faces of these poor creatures! who, say what

we will, have as much sensibility, perhaps more, than we have ourselves.

“No sooner was I awake, the morning after my arrival, than I heard

them singing songs under my window, in which my own name was frequently

repeated. They received me with a shout of joy when I went out amongst

them; and, crowding round me, they pressed me to accept of some little

tokens of their gratitude and good-will, which I had not the heart to

refuse. The very children, by their caresses, seemed to beg me not to

reject these little offerings. I determined, if ever I reached Europe,

to give all of them to you, sir, my good master, as the best present I

could make to one of your way of thinking.

“The day after my arrival was spent in rejoicings. All the slaves, who

had worked under my inspection, had saved some little matters, with

which they had purchased for their wives and for themselves coloured

cottons, and handkerchiefs for their heads. Now that they were not in

dread of being robbed or persecuted by the governor of the mines, they

ventured to produce them in open day. These cottons of Malabar are dyed

of remarkably bright and gaudy colours; and, when the slaves appeared

decked in them, it was to me one of the gayest spectacles I ever beheld.

They were dancing with a degree of animation of which, till then, I

never had an idea.

“I stood under the shade of a large banyan tree, enjoying the sight;

when suddenly I felt from behind a blow on my head which stunned me. I

fell to the ground; and when I came to my senses, found myself in the

hands of four armed soldiers, and a Hindoo, who was pulling my diamond

ring from my finger. They were carrying me away amid the cries and

lamentations of the slaves, who followed us. ‘Stand off’! it is in vain

you shriek,’ said one of the soldiers to the surrounding crowd; ‘what we

do is by order of the sultan. Thus he punishes traitors.’

“Without further explanation, I was thrown into a dungeon belonging to

the governor of the mines, who stood by with insulting joy to see me

chained to a large stone in my horrid prison. I knew him to be my enemy:

but what was my astonishment when I recollected in the countenance of

the Hindoo, who was fastening my chains and loading me with curses,

that very Saheb, whose life I had formerly saved! To all my questions

no answer was given, but, ‘It is the will of the sultan;’ or, ‘Thus the

sultan avenges himself upon traitors.’

“The door of my dungeon was then locked and barred, and I was left alone

in perfect darkness. Is this, thought I, the reward of all my faithful

services? Bitterly did I regret that I was not in my native country,

where no man, at the will of a sultan, can be thrown into a dungeon,

without knowing his crime or his accusers. I cannot attempt to describe

to you what I felt, during this most miserable day of my existence.

Feeble at last, for want of food, I stretched myself out, as well as my

chains would allow me, and tried to compose myself to sleep. I sunk

into a state of insensibility, in which I must have remained for several

hours, for it was midnight when I was roused by the unbarring of my

prison door. It was Saheb who entered, carrying in one hand a torch, and

in the other some food, which he set before me in silence. I cast upon

him a look of scorn, and was about to reproach him with his ingratitude,

when he threw himself at my feet, and burst into tears. ‘Is it

possible,’ said he to me, ‘that you are not sure of the heart of Saheb?

You saved my life; I am come to save yours. But eat, master,’ continued

he; ‘eat whilst I speak, for we have no time to lose. To-morrow’s sun

must see us far from hence. You cannot support the fatigues you have to

undergo without taking food.’

“I yielded to his entreaties, and, whilst I ate, Saheb informed me that

my imprisonment was owing to the treacherous Hindoo merchant, Omychund;

who, in hopes, I suppose, of possessing himself in quiet of all the

wealth which I had intrusted to his care, went to the sultan, and

accused me of having secreted certain diamonds of great value, which

he pretended I had shown to him in confidence. Tippoo, enraged at this,

despatched immediate orders to four of his soldiers to go in search of

me, seize, imprison, and torture me, till I should confess where these

diamonds were concealed. Saheb was in the sultan’s apartment when this

order was given, and immediately hastened to Prince Abdul Calie, whom he

knew to be my friend, and informed him of what had happened. The prince

sent for Omychund, and, after carefully questioning him, was convinced,

by his contradictory answers, and by his confusion, that the charge

against me was wholly unfounded: he dismissed Omychund, however, without

letting him know his opinion, and then sent Saheb for the four soldiers

who were setting out in search of me. In their presence he gave Saheb

orders aloud to take charge of me the moment I should be found, and

secretly commissioned him to favour my escape. The soldiers thought that

in obeying the prince they obeyed the sultan; and, consequently, when

I was taken and lodged in my dungeon, the keys of it were delivered to

Saheb.

“When he had finished telling me all this, he restored to me my ring,

which he said he snatched from my finger, as soon as I was seized, that

I might not be robbed of it by the governor, or some of the soldiers.

“The grateful Saheb now struck off my chains; and my own anxiety for my

escape was scarcely equal to his. He had swift horses belonging to

the soldiers in readiness; and we pursued our course all night

without interruption. He was well acquainted with the country, having

accompanied the sultan on several expeditions. When we thought ourselves

beyond the reach of all pursuers, Saheb permitted me to rest; but I

never rested at my ease till I was out of Tippoo Sultan’s dominions, and

once more in safety at Madras. Dr. Bell received me with great kindness,

heard my story, and congratulated me on my escape from Tippoo’s power.

“I was now rich beyond my hopes; for I had Omychund’s order upon the

Madras merchant safe in my pocket, and the whole sum was punctually paid

to me. My ring I sold to the governor of Madras for more even than I

expected.

“I had the satisfaction to learn, before I left Madras, that Omychund’s

treachery was made known to the sultan, by means of Prince Abdul Calie,

whose memory will ever be dear to me. Tippoo, as I have been informed,

in speaking of me, was heard to regret that he could not recall to his

service such an honest Englishman.

“I was eager to reward the faithful Saheb, but he absolutely refused the

money which I offered him, saying, ‘that he would not be paid for saving

the life of one who had saved his.’ He expressed a great desire to

accompany me to my native country, from the moment that I told him we

had no slaves there; and that as soon as any slave touched the English

shore, by our laws, he obtained his freedom. He pressed me so earnestly

to take him along with me as my servant, that I could not refuse; so he

sailed with me for Europe. As the wind filled the sails of our vessel,

much did I rejoice that the gales which blew me from the shores of India

were not tainted with the curses of any of my fellow-creatures. Here

I am, thank Heaven! once more in free and happy England, with a good

fortune, clean hands, and a pure conscience, not unworthy to present

myself to my first good master, to him whose humanity and generosity

were the cause of--”

Here Mr. R---- interrupted his own praises, by saying to those of the

miners who had not fallen fast asleep, “My good friends, you now know

the meaning of the toast which you all drank after dinner; let us drink

it again before we part ‘Welcome home to our friend, Mr. Jervas, and may

good faith always meet with good fortune!’”

_October_, 1799.

THE WILL

CHAPTER I.

Mr. Pearson, a wealthy Lincolnshire farmer, who had always been esteemed

a prudent sensible man, though something of a _humourist_, made the

following will:

“I, John Pearson, of _The Wold_ in Lincolnshire, farmer, being of sound

mind and body, do make this my last will and testament, &c.

“I give and bequeath my farm of West Woldland to my eldest nephew,

Grimes Goodenough; my farm of Holland Fen to my dear nephew, John

Wright, and my farm of Clover-hill to my youngest nephew, Pierce Marvel.

“I farther will and desire that the sum of ten thousand pounds, which is

now in the hands of William Constantine, gentleman, my executor, may by

him, immediately after my decease, be put out to interest for ten years:

and I will and desire that, at the end of the said ten years, the said

sum of ten thousand pounds, and the interest so accumulated thereon, be

given to whichsoever of my aforesaid nephews shall at that time be the

richest.

“And I trust that the said William Constantine, gentleman, my executor

and very good friend, being a clear-headed honest man, will understand

and execute this my last will and testament, according to the plain

meaning of my words; though it should happen that this my will should

not be drawn up in due legal form, of which I know little or nothing.”

Mr. Constantine, the executor, being, as described, a clear-headed

honest man, found no difficulty either in understanding or executing

this trust: the ten thousand pounds were, immediately upon Pearson’s

decease, placed out upon interest; and the three nephews were put

into possession of their farms. These were of very different value.

Goodenough’s wanted improvement, but would pay richly for any that

should be judiciously made; Wright’s farm was by far the worst of the

three; and Marvel’s the best.

The Lincolnshire world was much divided in opinion concerning these

young men; and many bets were laid relating to the legacy. People judged

according to their own characters; the enterprising declared for Marvel,

the prudent for Wright, the timid for Goodenough.

The nephews had scarcely been in possession of their farms a week when,

one evening, as they were all supping together at Wright’s house, Marvel

suddenly turned to Goodenough, and exclaimed, “When do you begin your

improvements, cousin Goodenough?”

“Never, cousin Marvel.”

“Then you’ll never touch the ten thousand, my boy. What! will you

do nothing to your marsh? Nothing to your common? Nothing to your

plantations? Do not you mean ever to make any improvements?”

“I mean not to make any improvements.”

“Well, you’ll let me make some for you.”

“Not I.”

“No! Won’t you let me cut down some of those trees for you, that are

spoiling one another in your wood?”

“Not a tree shall be cut down. Not a stick shall be stirred. Not a

change shall be made, I say.”

“Not a change for the better, cousin Goodenough?” said Wright.

“Not a change can be for the better, to my mind; I shall plough, and

sow, and reap, as our forefathers did, and that’s enough for me.”

“What! will you not even try the new plough?” said Marvel.

“Not I; no new ploughs for me. No plough can be so good as the old one.”

“How do you know, as you never tried it, or would see it tried?” said

Wright: “I find it better than the old one.”

“No matter; the old one will do well enough for me, as it did for my

father before me.” After having repeated these words in precisely the

same tone several times, he went on slowly eating his supper, whilst

Marvel, in detestation of his obstinate stupidity, turned his back

upon him, and began to enumerate to Wright sundry of his own ingenious

projects.

“My dear Wright,” said he, “you are worth talking to, and you shall hear

all my schemes.”

“Willingly; but I do not promise to approve of them all.”

“Oh! you will, you will, the moment you hear them; and I will let you

have a share in some of them. In the first place, there’s that fine

rabbit-warren near Clover-hill. The true silver grey rabbits--_silver

sprigs_, they call them--do you know that the skins of those _silver

sprigs_ are worth any money?”

“Any money! what money?”

“Pooh! I don’t know exactly: but I mean to buy that warren.”

“Before you know what it is worth! Let us consider; each dozen of skins

is worth, say, from ten to fifteen shillings.”

“You need not trouble yourself to calculate now,” interrupted Marvel,

“for I have determined to have the warren. With the money that I shall

get for my silver sprigs, I will next year make a decoy, and supply the

London market with wild-fowl. Don’t you remember the day that we met

Simon Stubbs, the carrier, loaded with game and wild-fowl, he said that

a decoy in Lincolnshire must be a fortune to any man. I’ll have the best

decoy not only in Lincolnshire but in all England. By-the-bye, there’s

another thing I must do, Wright; I’ll exchange any part of Clover-hill

you please with you, for as much land in Holland Fen.”

“Take him at his word, cousin Wright,” said Goodenough.

“No, no,” replied Wright; “I know the value of land, and the difference

between Clover-hill and Holland Fen, better than he does: I would not

take him at his word, for that would be taking him in.”

“I would not take anybody in,” said Goodenough; “but if another man is

a fool, that’s no reason I should be one. Now, if a man offers me a

good bargain, why should not I close with him, and say--Done?” “Then say

done,” cried Marvel, “and you shall have the bargain, Goodenough.

You have an undrained marsh of your own: I’ll exchange with you, and

welcome, ten acres of the marsh for five of Clover-hill.”

“Done,” said Goodenough.

“Done. I shall stock it with geese, and you’ll see what the quills and

feathers alone will bring me in. I’ve engaged with one already to sell

them for me. But, Wright, here’s another scheme I have. Wildmore common,

you know, is covered with those huge thistles, which prick the noses of

the sheep so as to hinder them from feeding and fattening: I will take

that common into my own hands.”

“Ay,” said Goodenough; “exchange the rest of Clover-hill for it:--that’s

like you!”

“And I will mow the thistles,” pursued Marvel, without deigning to reply

to Goodenough. “I will mow the thistles; their down I can contrive to

work up into cotton, and the stalks into cordage: and, with the profit

I shall make of these thistles, and of my decoy, and of my goose-quills

and feathers, and of my silver sprig rabbits, I will buy jackets for my

sheep, for my sheep shall all have jackets after shearing. Why should

not Lincolnshire sheep, if they have jackets, become as valuable as

the Leicestershire breed? You’ll see my sheep will be the finest in the

whole county; and, with the profit I shall make of them, I will set up

a fishery in Fen-lake; and with the profits of the fishery--now comes my

grand scheme--I shall be the richest of you all! with the profits of the

fishery, and the decoy, and the sheep, and the silver sprigs, and the

quills and feathers, geese and thistles, I will purchase that fine

heronry, near Spalding.”

At these words, Goodenough laid down his knife and fork; and, sticking

his arms a-kimbo, laughed contemptuously, if not heartily.

“So, then, the end of all this turmoil is to purchase a heronry! Much

good may it do you, cousin Marvel. You understand your own affair best:

you will make great _improvements_, I grant, and no doubt will be the

richest of us all. The ten thousand pounds will be yours for certain:

for, as we all know, cousin Marvel, you are a genius!--But why a genius

should set his fancy upon a heronry, of all things in this mortal world,

is more than I can pretend to tell, being no genius myself.”

“Look here, Wright,” continued Marvel, still without vouchsafing

any direct reply to Goodenough: “here’s a description, in this last

newspaper, of the fine present that the grand seignior has made to his

majesty. The plume of herons’ feathers alone is estimated at a thousand

guineas! Think of what I shall make by my heronry! At the end of ten

years, I shall be so rich that it will hardly be worth my while,” said

Marvel, laughing, “to accept of my uncle’s legacy. I will give it to

you, Wright; for you are a generous fellow, and I am sure you will

deserve it.”

In return for this liberal promise, Wright endeavoured to convince

Marvel, that if he attempted such a variety of schemes at once, they

would probably all fail; and that to ensure success, it would be

necessary to calculate, and to make himself master of the business,

before he should undertake to conduct it. Marvel, however, was of too

sanguine and presumptuous a temper to listen to this sage advice: he was

piqued by the sneers of his cousin Goodenough, and determined to prove

the superiority of his own spirit and intellect. He plunged at once

into the midst of a business which he did not understand. He took a

rabbit-warren of two hundred and fifty acres into his hands; stocked ten

acres of marsh land with geese; and exchanged some of the best part of

Clover-hill for a share in a common covered with thistles. He planted a

considerable tract of land, with a degree of expedition that astonished

all the neighbourhood: but it was remarked that the fences were not

quite sufficient; especially as the young trees were in a dangerous

situation, being surrounded by land stocked with sheep and horned

cattle. Wright warned him of the danger; but he had no time this year,

he said, to complete the fences: the men who tended his sheep might

easily keep them from the plantation for this season, and the next

spring he purposed to dig such a ditch round the whole as should secure

it for ever. He was now extremely busy, making jackets for his sheep,

providing willows for his decoy, and gorse and corn for his geese: the

geese, of which he had a prodigious flock, were not yet turned into

their fen, because a new scheme had occurred to Marvel, relative to some

reeds with which a part of this fen was covered; on these reeds myriads

of starlings were accustomed to roost, who broke them down with their

weight. Now Marvel knew that such reeds would be valuable for thatching,

and with this view he determined to drive away the starlings; but the

measures necessary for this purpose would frighten his friends, the

geese, and therefore he was obliged to protect and feed them in his

farm-yard, at a considerable expense, whilst he was carrying on the war

with the starlings. He fired guns at them morning and evening, he sent

up rockets and kites with fiery tails, and at last he banished them; but

half his geese, in the mean time, died for want of food; and the women

and children, who plucked them, stole one quarter of the feathers, and

one half of the quills, whilst Marvel was absent letting up rockets in

the fen.

The rabbit-warren was, however, to make up for all other losses:

a furrier had engaged to take as many silver sprigs from him as he

pleased, at sixteen shillings a dozen, provided he should send them

properly dressed, and in time to be shipped for China, where these

silver grey rabbit skins sold to the best advantage. As winter came on,

it was necessary to supply the warren with winter food: and Marvel was

much astonished at the multitude of unforeseen expenses into which

his rabbits led him. The banks of the warren wanted repair, and the

warrener’s house was not habitable in bad weather: these appeared but

slight circumstances when Marvel made the purchase; but, alas! he had

reason to change his opinion in the course of a few months. The first

week in November, there was a heavy fall of snow; and the warren walls

should have been immediately cleared of snow, to have kept the rabbits

within their bounds: but Marvel happened this week to be on a visit in

Yorkshire, and he was _obliged_ to leave the care of the warren entirely

to the warrener, who was _obliged_ to quit his house during the snow,

and to take shelter with a neighbour: he neglected to clear the walls;

and Marvel upon his return home, found that his silver sprigs had

strayed into a neighbouring warren. The second week in November is the

time when the rabbits are usually killed, as the skins are then in full

prime: it was in vain that Marvel raised a hue and cry after his silver

sprigs; a fortnight passed away before one-third of them could be

recovered. The season was lost, and the furrier sued him for breach of

contract; and what was worse, Goodenough laughed at his misfortunes. The

next year he expected to retrieve his loss: he repaired the warrener’s

house, new faced the banks, and capped them with furze; but the common

grey rabbit had been introduced into the warren, by the stragglers of

the preceding year; and as these grey rabbits are of a much more hardy

race than the silver sprigs, they soon obtained and kept possession

of the land. Marvel now pronounced rabbits to be the most useless and

vexatious animals upon earth; and, in one quarter of an hour, thoroughly

convinced himself that tillage was far more profitable than rabbits.

He ploughed up his warren, and sowed it with corn; but, unluckily,

his attention had been so much taken up by the fishery, the decoy,

the geese, the thistles, and the hopes of the heronry, that he totally

forgot his intention of making the best of all possible ditches round

his plantation. When he went to visit this plantation, he beheld a

miserable spectacle: the rabbits which had strayed beyond their bounds

during the great snow, and those which had been hunted from their

burrows, when the warren was ploughed up, had all taken shelter in this

spot; and these refugees supported themselves, for some months, upon the

bark and roots of the finest young trees.

Marvel’s loss was great, but his mortification still greater; for his

cousin Goodenough laughed at him without mercy. Something must be done,

he saw, to retrieve his credit: ad the heronry was his resource.

“What will signify a few trees, more or less,” thought he, “or the loss

of a few silver sprigs, or the death of a few geese, or the waste of a

few quills and feathers? My sheep will sell well, my thistles will bring

me up again; and as soon as I have sold my sheep at Partney fair, and

manufactured my thistles, I will set out with my money in my pocket

for Spalding, and make my bargain for the heronry. A plume of herons’

feathers is worth a thousand guineas! My fortune will be made when I get

possession of the Spalding heronry.”

So intent was Marvel upon the thoughts of the Spalding heronry, that he

neglected every thing else. About a week before the fair of Partney,

he bethought himself of his sheep, which he had left to the care of a

shepherd boy: he now ordered the boy to drive them home, that he might

see them. Their jackets hung upon them like bags: the poor animals had

fallen away in the most deplorable manner. Marvel could scarcely believe

that these were his sheep; or that these were the sheep which he had

expected to be the pride of Lincolnshire, and which he had hoped would

set the fashion of jackets. Behold, they were dying of the rot!

“What an unfortunate man I am!” exclaimed Marvel, turning to his cousin

Wright, whom he had summoned along with Goodenough, in the pride of his

heart, to view, value, and admire his sheep. “All your sheep, Wright,

are fat and sound: mine were finer than yours when I bought them: how

comes it that I am so unlucky?”

“Jack of all trades, and master of none!” said Goodenough, with a sneer.

“You forgot, I am afraid, what I told you, when first you bought these

sheep,” said Wright, “that you should always keep them in fold, every

morning, till the dew was off: if you had done so, they would now be as

well and thriving as mine. Do not you remember my telling you that?”

“Yes; and I charged this boy always to keep them in fold till the dew

was off,” replied Marvel, turning with an angry countenance to the

shepherd boy.

“I never heard nothing of it till this minute, I am sure, master,” said

the boy.

Marvel now recollected that, at the very moment when he was going to

give this order to the boy, his attention had been drawn away by the

sight of a new decoy in the fields adjoining to his sheep pasture. In

his haste to examine the decoy, he forgot to give that order to his

shepherd, on which the safety of his fine flock of sheep depended.

{Footnote: A General View of the Agriculture of the County of Lincoln,

p. 330. “It well deserves noting that a shepherd, who, when young, was

shepherd’s boy to an old man, who lived at Netlam, near Lincoln, a place

famous for the rot, told Mr. Neve that he was persuaded sheep took the

rot only of a morning, before the dew was well off. At that time they

folded, being open field: his master’s shepherd kept his flock in fold

always till the dew was gone; and, with no other attention, his sheep

were kept sound, when all the neighbours lost their flocks.”} Such are

the negligences and blunders of those who endeavour to do half a dozen

things at once.

The failure of one undertaking never discouraged Marvel from beginning

another; and it is a pity, that, with so much spirit and activity, he

had so little steadiness and prudence. His sheep died, and he set out

for Spalding full of the thoughts of the heronry. Now this heronry

belonged to Sir Plantagenet Mowbray, an elderly gentleman, who was

almost distracted with family pride: he valued himself upon never having

parted with one inch of the landed property that had descended to him,

through a long line of ancestors, from the Plantagenets. He looked down

upon the whole race of farmers and traders as beings of a different

species from himself; and the indignation with which he heard, from a

Lincolnshire farmer, a proposal to purchase his heronry, may perhaps be

imagined, but cannot be described. It was in vain that Marvel rose in

his offers; it was in vain that he declared he was ready to give any

price that Sir Plantagenet would set upon the heronry. Sir Plantagenet

sent word, by his steward, that not a feather of his birds should be

touched; that he was astonished at the insolence of such a proposal; and

that he advised Marvel to keep out of the way of _his people_, lest they

should revenge the insult that had been offered to their master.

This haughty answer, and the disappointment of all his hopes and schemes

respecting the heronry, threw Marvel into a degree of rage scarcely

inferior to what was felt by Sir Plantagenet. As he was galloping down

the avenue from Plantagenet-hall, he overtook a young man, of a shabby

appearance, who was mounted upon a very fine horse. At first Marvel took

it for granted that he was one of Sir Plantagenet’s _people_, and he

was riding past him, when he heard the stranger say, in a friendly tone,

“Your horse gallops well, sir: but have a care; there’s a carrion a

little way farther on that may startle him.”

Marvel pulled in his horse; the stranger rode up beside him, and they

entered into conversation. “That carrion, sir,” said he, pointing to

the dead horse, which had just been shot for the baronet’s son’s hounds,

“that carrion, sir, was in my opinion the best horse Sir Plantagenet,

or his son either, were possessed of. ‘Tis a shame for any man, who

pretends to be a gentleman, and who talks this way and that so high of

his family, should be so stingy in the article of horseflesh.”

Marvel was not unwilling at this instant to hear the haughty baronet

blamed and ridiculed; and his companion exactly fell in with his humour,

by telling a variety of anecdotes to prove Sir Plantagenet to be every

thing that was odious and contemptible. The history of his insolence

about the heronry was now related by Marvel; and the stranger seemed to

sympathize so much in his feelings, that, from a stranger, he began to

consider him as a friend. Insensibly the conversation returned to the

point at which it commenced; and his new friend observed that it was

in vain to expect any thing good from any gentleman, or indeed from any

man, who was stingy in the article of horseflesh.

A new sense of honour and of shame began to rise in our hero’s mind;

and he sat uneasy in his saddle, whilst he reflected that the horse upon

which he was mounted, was perhaps as deservedly an object of contempt as

any of Sir Plantagenet’s stud. His new friend, without seeming to notice

his embarrassment, continued his conversation, and drew a tempting

picture of the pleasures and glories of a horse-race: he said, “he was

just training a horse for the York races, and a finer animal never was

crossed. Sir Plantagenet’s eldest son would have been the proudest and

happiest of men, if his father would but have bought the horse for him:

but he had refused, and the youth himself had not the price, or half the

price, at his command.”

Our hero was no judge of horses, but he was ambitious to prove that his

spirit was superior to that of the haughty baronet; and that something

good might be expected from him, as he was not stingy in horseflesh.

Besides, he was worked up to a high degree of curiosity to see the York

races; and his companion assured him that he could not appear there

without being well mounted. In short, the hour was not at an end before

he had offered a hundred guineas for the finest horse that ever

was crossed. He was charmed with the idea that he should meet Sir

Plantagenet Mowbray’s son and heir at the York races, and should

show him that he was able and willing to pay for the horse, which his

arrogant father could not afford to purchase.

From the anecdote of the heronry, his companion perceived that Marvel

was a man fond of projects; and he proposed to him a scheme, which

caught his fancy so much that it consoled him for his disappointment. It

was the fault of our enterprizing hero’s character always to think the

last scheme for making a fortune the best. As soon as he reached home he

was in haste to abandon some of his old projects, which now appeared to

him flat, stale, and unprofitable. About a score of his flock, though

tainted with the rot, were not yet dead; he was eager to sell them, but

no one would buy sheep of such a wretched appearance. At last Wright

took them off his hands. “I will throw the threescore jackets into

the bargain,” said Marvel; “for you are a generous fellow, to offer so

handsomely for my poor sheep, and you deserve to be treated as you treat

others. If I come in at the end of the ten years for the legacy, I shall

remember you, as I told you before: as to my cousin Goodenough here, he

thinks so much of himself, that there is no occasion for others to

think of him. I asked him to join me in a bond, yesterday, for a hundred

pounds, just to try him, and he refused me. When I come in for the

legacy, I will cut him off with a shilling,--I will give him fair

notice.”

“Cut me off with what you will,” said Goodenough, sullenly, “not a

farthing of my money shall ever be lent to one that has a project for

every day in the year. Get into what difficulties you may, I will never

join you in any bond, I promise you. It is enough for me to take care of

myself.”

“Don’t flatter yourself that I am getting into any difficulties,”

replied Marvel. “I wanted the hundred guineas only to pay for a horse;

and the friend who sold him to me will wait my convenience.”

“The _friend_” said Wright; “do you mean that man who rode home with you

from Spalding?--I advise you not to make a friend of him, for he is a

notorious jockey.” “He will not take _me_ in, though,” said Marvel; “I

am as sharp as he is, and he sees that: so we understand one another

very well. To my certain knowledge, a hundred and twenty guineas could

be had to-morrow for the horse I bought from him; yet he let me have him

for a hundred.”

“And how can a man of your sense, cousin Marvel,” said Wright, “believe

that a person, who never saw you till within these three days, would be

so much your friend as to make you a present of twenty guineas?”

“A present!”

“Yes; if he lets you have a horse for a hundred, which you can sell for

a hundred and twenty, does not he make you a present of twenty guineas?”

“Well, but I can tell you the reason for all that: he wants me to enter

into a scheme with him, for breeding horses on the common here: and

so he would not, at first setting out, stand to higgle with me for the

price of a horse.”

“And would you for twenty guineas, cousin Marvel, run the hazard of

joining in any scheme with a man of his character? Pray inquire in the

country and in York, where you are going, what sort of a character this

man bears. Take my advice, pay him for his horse, and have nothing more

to do with him.”

“But I have not the ready cash to pay him for his horse, that’s one

thing,” said Marvel.

“Let that be no difficulty,” replied Wright; “for I have a hundred

guineas here, just brought home from Partney fair, and they are heartily

at your service.”

Goodenough twitched Wright’s elbow three times as he uttered these

words: but Wright finished his sentence, and put the money into Marvel’s

hands immediately upon his promising to pay for the horse, break off

all connexion with his friend the jockey, if he should find upon inquiry

that he was not a person of good character, and at all events to suspend

any treaty with him till after his return from York.

“Whilst you are gone,” said Wright, “I will make inquiries about the

profit of breeding of horses on the commons. I have an acquaintance, a

sensible old man, who has kept accounts of what he has done in that way

himself; and he will show us his accounts, from which we shall be able

to judge.”

CHAPTER II.

Wright heard nothing more of him for about a fortnight; he then received

the following letter:

“DEAR COUSIN WRIGHT,

“It is a very great pity that you could not be persuaded to come along

with me to York races, where I have seen more of life, and of the world,

in a week, than ever I did in all my life before.--York is a surprising

fine town; and has a handsome cathedral, and assembly-room: but I am not

in the humour, just now, to describe them: so I shall proceed to what is

much better worth thinking of.

“You must know, cousin Wright, that I am in love, and never was I so

happy or so miserable in my days. If I was not a farmer there would be

some hopes for me; but, to be sure, it is not to be expected that such

a lady as she is should think of a mere country booby; in which light,

indeed, she was pleased to say, as I heard from good authority, she did

not consider me; though my manners wanted polish. These were her own

words. I shall spare nothing to please her, if possible, and am not

wholly without hope, though I have a powerful rival; no less a person

than the eldest son and heir of Sir Plantagenet Mowbray, Bart. But

her virtue will never, I am persuaded, suffer her to listen to such

addresses as his. Now mine are honourable, and pure as her soul; the

purity of which no one could doubt, who had seen her last night, as I

did, in the character of the Fair Penitent. She was universally admired:

and another night sung and danced like an angel. But I can give you no

idea of her by pen and ink; so I beseech you to come and see her, and

give your advice to me candidly, for I have the highest opinion of your

judgment and good-nature.

“I find you were quite right about that scoundrel who rode with me from

Spalding! He has arrested me for a hundred guineas; and is, without

exception, the shabbiest dog I ever met with: but I am out of his

clutches, and have better friends. I will tell you the whole story when

we meet, and pay you your hundred with many thanks. Pray set out as

soon as you receive this, for every moment is an age to me: and I won’t

declare myself, more than I have done, if possible, till you come; for

I have a great opinion of your judgment; yet hope you won’t put on your

severe face, nor be prejudiced against her, because of her being on the

stage. Leave such illiberality to cousin Goodenough: it would be quite

beneath you! Pray bring with you that volume of old plays that is at the

top of my bed, under the bag of thistles; or in the basket of reeds that

I was making; or in the out-house, where I keep the goose-quills and

feathers. I don’t find my memory so clear, since my head is so full of

this charming Alicia Barton. Pray make no delay, as you value the peace

of mind of your

“Affectionate cousin and friend,

“PIERCE MARVEL.

“P. S. Mr. Barton, her brother, is the most generous of men, and the

cleverest. He is not averse to the match. Sir Plantagenet Mowbray’s son

and heir, who is as insolent as his father, may find that a Lincolnshire

farmer is not a person to be despised. I have thoughts of selling my

farm of Clover-hill, and of going into another way of life; for which,

as Mr. Barton said, and Alicia hinted, nay, as I am inclined to believe

too, I am much better suited than for farming. Of this more when we

meet. Pray set out as soon as you receive this. Alicia has dark eyes,

and yet a fair complexion. I am sure you will like her.”

Far from feeling sure that he should like Miss Alicia Barton, Wright was

so much alarmed for his cousin, on the perusal of this letter, that he

resolved to set out immediately for York, lest the sale of Clover-hill

should be concluded before his arrival. A new project and a new love

were, indeed, powerful temptations to one of Marvel’s character.

As Goodenough was plodding at his accustomed pace in his morning’s work,

he met Wright on horseback, who asked him if he had any commissions that

he could execute in York, whither he was going.

“None, thank Heaven!” said Goodenough. “So I see it is as I always knew

it would be! Marvel is ‘ticing you into his own ways, and will make you

just such another as _his_ self. Ay, you must go to York races! Well, so

much the better for me. Much pleasure to you at the races.”

“I am not going to the races; I am going to do Marvel a service.”

“Charity begins at home: that’s my maxim,” replied Goodenough.

“It is quite fitting that charity should _begin_ at home,” said Wright;

“but then it should not _end_ at home; for those that help nobody will

find none to help them in time of need.”

“Those that help nobody will not be so apt to come to need,” replied

Goodenough. “But yonder’s my men standing idle. If I but turn my head,

that’s the way of them. Good morrow to you, cousin Wright; I can’t stand

argufying here about charity, which won’t plough my ground, nor bring me

a jot nearer to the ten thousand pounds’ legacy: so good morrow to you.

My service to cousin Marvel.”

Goodenough proceeded to his men, who were in truth standing idle, as it

was their custom to do when their master’s eye was not, as they thought,

upon them; for he kept them so hard at work, when he was present, that

not a labouring man in the country would hire himself to Goodenough,

when he could get employment elsewhere. Goodenough’s partizans, however,

observed that he got his money’s worth out of every man he employed;

and that this was the way to grow rich. The question, said they, is not

which of the three nephews will be the best beloved, but which will

be the richest at the end of ten years; and, on this ground, who can

dispute that Goodenough’s maxim is the best, “Charity begins at home?”

Wright’s friends looked rather alarmed when they heard of this journey

to York; and Marvel’s advocates, though they put a good face upon the

matter, heartily wished him safe home.

Upon Wright’s arrival in York, he found it no easy matter to discover

his cousin Marvel; for he had forgotten to date his letter, and no

direction was given to inn or lodging: at last, after inquiring at all

the public-houses without success, Wright bethought himself of asking

where Miss Alicia Barton, the actress, lodged; for there he would

probably meet her lover. Mr. Harrison, an eminent dyer, to whom he

applied for information, very civilly offered to show him to the house.

Wright had gained this dyer’s good opinion by the punctuality with

which he had, for three years past, supplied him, at the day and

hour appointed, with the quantity of woad for which he had agreed.

Punctuality never fails to gain the good opinion of men of business.

As the dyer walked with Wright to Miss Barton’s lodgings, they entered

into conversation about her; and Wright asked what character she bore.

“I know nothing of her character for my own share,” said Harrison, “not

being in that line of business; but I think I could put you into a way

of seeing her in her true colours, whatever they may be; for she is very

intimate with a milliner, whom my wife (though not with my good-will

entirely) visits. In return for which, I shall be glad that you will do

my business along with your own; and let me know if any thing is going

wrong.”

The dyer introduced Wright to the milliner as a gentleman farmer, who

wanted to take home with him a fashionable cap and bonnet, or two,

for some ladies in Lincolnshire. The milliner ordered down some dusty

bandboxes, which she protested and vowed were just arrived from London

with the newest fashions; and, whilst she was displaying these, Wright

talked of the races, and the players, and Miss Alicia Barton.

“Is she as handsome as they say? I have a huge _cur’osity_ to see her,”

said Wright, feigning more rusticity of manner and more simplicity than

was natural to him. “I have, truly, a woundy _cur’osity_ to see her,

I’ve heard so much of her, even down in Lincolnshire.”

“If you go to see the play, sir, you can’t fail to have your curiosity

gratified, for Miss Barton plays to-night--(Jenny! reach me a

play-bill)--for her own benefit, and appears in her very best character,

the Romp.”

“The Romp!--Odds! Is that her best character? Why, now, to my notion,

bad’s the best, if that be the best of her characters. The Romp!--Odds

so! What would our grandmothers say to that?”

“Oh, sir, times are changed, as well as fashions, since our

grandmothers’ days,” said the milliner. “Put up this bonnet for the

gentleman, Jenny.--I am sure I don’t pretend to say any thing in favour

of the times, whatever I may of the fashions. But, as to fashion, to be

sure no one can be more fashionable, here in York, than Miss Barton. All

our gentlemen are dying for her.”

“Odds my life, I’ll keep out of her way! And yet I’ve a huge cur’osity

to set my eyes upon her. Pray, now, could I any way get to the sight or

speech of her in a room, or so? for seeing a woman on the stage is one

thing, and seeing her off, as I take it, is another.”

“I take it so too, sir. Jenny, put up the cap for the gentleman, and

make out a bill.”

“No, no; the bonnet’s all I want, which I’ll pay for on the nail.”

Wright took out a long purse full of guineas: then put it up again, and

opened a pocket-book full of bank-notes. The milliner’s respect for him

obviously increased. “Jenny! Do run and see who’s within there. Miss

Barton was trying on her dress, I think, half an hour ago: may be she’ll

pass through this way, and the gentleman may have a sight of her, since

it weighs so much upon his mind. Let me put up the cap too, sir: it’s

quite the fashion, you may assure the Lincolnshire ladies.--Oh! here’s

Miss Barton.”

Miss Barton made her appearance, with all her most bewitching smiles

and graces. Without seeming to notice Wright, she seated herself in a

charming attitude; and, leaning pensively on the counter, addressed

her conversation to her friend, the milliner: but, at every convenient

pause, she cast an inquiring glance at Wright, who stood with his long

purse of guineas in his hand, and his open pocket-book of bank-notes

before him, as if he had been so much astonished by the lady’s

appearance, that he could not recover his recollection. Now, Wright was

a remarkably well-shaped handsome man, and Miss Barton was in reality as

much struck by his appearance as he feigned to be by hers. No forbidding

reserve condemned him to silence; and, as if inspired by the hope of

pleasing, he soon grew talkative.

“This is the most rare town, this, your town of York.” said he: “I do

not well know how I shall ever be able to get myself out of it: so many

fine sights, my eyes be quite dazzled!” “And pray, sir, which of all the

fine sights do you like the best?” said the milliner.

“Oh! the ladies be the finest of all the fine sights: and I know who I

think the finest lady I ever beheld--but will never tell--never.”

“Never, sir?” said the milliner, whilst Miss Barton modestly cast down

her eyes. “Never’s a bold word, sir. I’ve a notion you’ll live to break

that rash resolution.”

Miss Barton sighed, and involuntarily looked at the glass.

“Why, where’s the use,” pursued Wright, “of being laughed at? Where’s

the sense of being scoffed at, as a man might be, that would go for to

pay a compliment, not well knowing how, to a lady that is used to have

court made to her by the first gentlemen in all York?”

“Those that think they don’t know how to pay a compliment often pay the

best to my fancy,” said the milliner. “What says Miss Barton?”

Miss Barton sighed and blushed, or looked as if she meant to blush; and

then, raising her well-practised eyes, exclaimed, with theatrical tones

and gestures:

“Ye sacred pow’rs, whose gracious providence

Is watchful for our good, guard me from men,

From their deceitful tongues, their vows and flatteries;

Still let me pass neglected by their eyes:

Let my bloom wither and my form decay,

That none may think it worth their while to ruin me,

And fatal love may never be my bane.”

Scarcely had she concluded her speech, when Pierce Marvel came

breathless into the shop. Wright was standing so as to be completely

hidden by the door: and Marvel, not seeing his friend, addressed

himself, as soon as he had breath, to his mistress.--The lady’s manner

changed, and Wright had an opportunity of seeing and admiring her powers

of acting. To Marvel, she was coy and disdainful.

“I expect my friend and relation in town every hour,” said he to her in

a low voice; “and then I shall be able to settle with your brother about

the sale of Clover-hill. You half promised that you would walk with me

this morning.” “Not without my brother: excuse me, sir,” said the coy

lady, withdrawing with the dignity of a princess. “When your friend

arrives, for whose advice I presume you wait, you will be able to decide

_your_ heart. Mine cannot be influenced by base lucre, or mercenary

considerations--Unhand me, sir.”

“I will run immediately to the inn, to see whether my friend is come,”

cried Marvel. “Believe me, I am as much above mercenary considerations

as yourself; but I have promised not to conclude upon the sale till he

comes, and he would take it ill to be sent for, and then to be made a

fool of.--I’ll run to the Green Man again immediately, to see if he is

come.”

Marvel darted out of the shop. Wright, during this parley, which lasted

but a few seconds, had kept himself snug in his hiding-place, and

appeared to the milliner to be wholly absorbed in casting up his bill,

in which there was a shilling wrong. He came from behind the door

as soon as Marvel departed; and, saying that he would call for his

purchases in an hour’s time, left the milliner’s, took a hackney coach,

and drove to the Green Man, where he was now sure of meeting his cousin.

“Thank Heaven! you are come at last,” cried Marvel, the moment he saw

him. “Thank Heaven! you are come! do not let us lose a moment. If you

are not tired, if you are not hungry, come along with me, and I’ll

introduce you to my charming Alicia Barton.”

“I am both tired and hungry,” replied Wright: “so let us have a hot

beef-steak, and let me sit down and rest myself.”

It was the utmost stretch of Marvel’s patience to wait for the

beef-steak; and he could scarcely conceive how any one could prefer

eating it to seeing his charming Alicia. He did not eat a morsel

himself, but walked up and down the room with quick steps.

“Oh! my dear Wright,” cried he, “it is a sign you’ve never seen her, or

you would eat a little faster.”

“Does every body eat fast, who has seen Miss Barton?” said Wright; “then

to be sure I should; for I have seen her within this half hour.”

“Seen her! Seen Alicia! Seen her within this half hour! That’s

impossible.--How could you see her? Where could you see her?” “I saw her

in your company,” rejoined Wright, coolly.

“In my company! How could that be, without my seeing you?--You are

making a jest of me.”

“Not at all; only take care that you do not make a jest of yourself.

I assure you that I say nothing but truth: I’ve seen you and your Miss

Barton this very morning: nay, I’ll tell you what you said to her; you

told her that you could not sell Clover-hill till I came to town.”

Marvel stared, and stood in silent astonishment.

“Ay,” continued Wright, “you see by this how many things may pass before

a man’s eyes and ears, when he is in love, without his seeing or hearing

them. Why, man, I was in the milliner’s shop just now, standing in the

corner behind the door; but you could see nothing but your charming Miss

Barton.”

“I beg your pardon for being so blind,” said Marvel, laughing; “but you

are too good-natured to take offence; though you don’t know what it is

to be in love.”

“There you are mistaken; for I am as much in love as yourself at this

instant.”

“Then I’m undone,” cried Marvel, turning as pale as death.

“Why so?” said Wright; “will you allow nobody, man, to be in love but

yourself? I don’t see why I have not as good a right to fall in love as

you have.”

“To be sure you have,” said Marvel, trying to recover himself; “and

I can’t say but what you deal fairly by me, to tell me so honestly at

once. More fool I to send for you. I might have foreseen this, blockhead

as I am! but you deal fairly by me, Wright: so I cannot complain, and

will not, happen what may. Let him who can win her, wear her. We start

fair; for though I have had the advantage of a first acquaintance, you

are much the handsomer man of the two; and that goes for a great deal

with some ladies, though not perhaps with Alicia Barton.”

“There, perhaps, you may find yourself mistaken,” replied Wright, with a

significant look.

“You don’t say so? You don’t think so?” cried Marvel, with great

emotion. “I say what I think; and, if I may trust a woman’s looks, I’ve

some reason for my thoughts.”

Marvel took up the tankard which stood on the table, and swallowed down

a hasty draught; and then said, though with an altered voice, “Cousin

Wright, let him who can win her, wear her, as I said before. I sha’n’t

quarrel with you if you deal fairly by me; so tell me honestly, did you

never see her before this morning?”

“Never, as I am an honest man,” said Wright.

“Then, here’s my hand for you,” said Marvel. “All’s fair and handsome

on your part. Happen what may, as I said before, I will not quarrel with

you. If she was decreed to fall in love with you at first sight, why

that’s no fault of yours; and if she tells me so fairly, why no great

fault of hers. She has encouraged me a little; but still women will

change their minds, and I shall not call her a jilt if she speaks

handsomely to me. It will go a little to my heart at first, no doubt;

but I shall bear it like a man, I hope; and I shall not quarrel with

you, cousin Wright, whatever else I do.”

Marvel shook Wright’s hand heartily; but turned away directly

afterwards, to hide his agitation.

“Why now, cousin Marvel, you are a good fellow; that’s the truth of it,”

said Wright. “Trust to me: and, if the girl is what you think her, you

shall have her: that I promise you.”

“That’s more than you _can_ promise, being as you say as much in love as

I am.”

“I say I’m more in love than you are: but what then, I ask you?”

“What then! why, we cannot both have Alicia Barton.”

“Very true. I would not have her if you would give her to me.”

“Would not have her!” cried Marvel, with a look of joyous astonishment:

“but, did not you tell me you were in love with her?”

“Not I. You told it to yourself. I said I was in love; but cannot a man

be in love with any woman in this whole world but Miss Barton?”

Marvel capered about the room with the most lively expressions of

delight, shook hands with his cousin, as if he would have pulled his

arm off, and then suddenly stopping, said, “But what do you think of my

Alicia? Though you are not in love with her, I hope you think well of

her?”

“I must see more of her before I am qualified to speak.”

“Nay, nay, no drawbacks: out with it. I must know what you think of her

at this time being.”

“At this time being, then, I think, she is what they call a--coquette.”

“Oh, there you are out, indeed, cousin Wright! she’s more of what they

call a prude than a coquette.”

“To you, perhaps; but not to me, cousin. Let every one speak of her as

they find,” replied Wright.

Marvel grew warm in defence of Miss Barton’s prudery; and at last ended

by saying, “that he’d stake his life upon it, she was no jilt. If she

had taken a fancy to you, Wright, she would honestly tell me so, I’m

convinced; and, when she finds you are thinking of another woman, her

pride would soon make her think no more of you. ‘Tis but little she

could have thought in the few minutes you were in her company; and it is

my opinion she never thought of you at all--no offence.”

“No offence, I promise you,” said Wright; “but let us put her to the

trial: do you keep your own counsel; go on courting her your own way,

and let me go mine. Don’t you say one word of my being here in York;

but put her off about the sale of Clover-hill, till such time as you are

sure of her heart.”

To this proposal Marvel joyfully agreed; and, as to the time of trial,

Wright asked only one week. His cousin then told him the new scheme,

from which he expected to make so much: it had been suggested by

Alicia’s brother. “I am to sell Clover-hill; and, with the money that I

get for it, Barton and I are to build and fit up a theatre in Lincoln,

and be the managers ourselves. I assure you, he says, and they all say,

I should make a figure on the stage: and Miss Barton whispered, in my

hearing, that I should make a capital Lothario,” added Marvel, throwing

himself into a stage attitude, and reciting, in a voice that made Wright

start,

“‘Earth, Heav’n, and fair Calista, judge the combat.’”

“Very fine, no doubt,” said Wright; “but I am no judge of these matters;

only this I am sure of, that, with respect to selling Clover-hill, you

had best go slowly to work, and see what the sister is, before you trust

to the brother. It is not for my interest, I very well know, to advise

you against this scheme; because, if I wanted to make certain of your

not coming in for my uncle’s legacy, I could not take a better way than

to urge you to follow your fancy. For, say that you lay out all you have

in the world on the building of this playhouse, and say that Barton’s

as honest a man as yourself: observe, your playhouse cannot be built in

less than a couple of years, and the interest of your money must be dead

all that time; and pray how are you to bring yourself up, by the end of

the ten years? Consider, there are but seven years of the time to come.”

Marvel gave his cousin hearty thanks for his disinterested advice, but

observed that actors and managers of playhouses were, of all men, they

who were most likely to grow rich in a trice; that they often cleared

many hundreds in one night for their benefits; that even, if he should

fail to hit the public taste himself, as an actor, he was sure at

least, if he married the charming Alicia, that she would be a source

of inexhaustible wealth. “Not,” added he, “that I think of her in that

light; for my soul is as much superior to mercenary considerations as

her own.”

“More, perhaps,” said Wright; but seeing fire flash in his cousin’s

eyes at this insinuation, he contented himself for the present with the

promise he had obtained, that nothing should be concluded till the

end of one week; that no mention should be made to Miss Barton, or her

brother, of his arrival in town; and that he should have free liberty to

make trial of the lady’s truth and constancy, in any way he should

think proper. Back to his friend the milliner’s he posted directly. Miss

Barton was gone out upon the race-ground in Captain Mowbray’s curricle:

in her absence, Wright was received very graciously by the milliner,

who had lodgings to let, and who readily agreed to let them to him for

a week, as he offered half a guinea more than she could get from anybody

else. She fancied that he was deeply smitten with Miss Barton’s

charms, and encouraged his passion, by pretty broad hints that it was

reciprocal. Miss Barton drank tea this evening with the milliner: Wright

was of the party, and he was made to understand that _others_ had been

excluded: “for Miss Barton,” her friend observed, “was very _nice_ as to

her company.”

Many dexterous efforts were made to induce Wright to lay open his heart;

for the dyer’s lady had been cross-questioned as to his property in

Lincolnshire, and she being a lover of the marvellous, had indulged

herself in a little exaggeration; so that he was considered as a prize,

and Miss Barton’s imagination settled the matter so rapidly, that she

had actually agreed to make the milliner a handsome present on the

wedding-day. Upon this hint, the milliner became anxious to push forward

the affair. Marvel, she observed, hung back about the sale of his

estate; and, as to Sir Plantagenet Mowbray’s son, he was bound hand and

foot by his father, so could do nothing genteel: besides, honourable

matrimony was out of the question there.

All these things considered, the milliner’s decision was, on perfectly

prudential and virtuous motives, in favour of Wright. Miss Barton’s

_heart_, to use her own misapplied term, spoke warmly in his favour; for

he was, without any comparison, the _handsomest_ of her lovers; and

his simplicity and apparent ignorance of the world were rather

recommendations than objections.

Upon her second interview with him, she had, however, some reason to

suspect that his simplicity was not so great as she had imagined. She

was surprised to observe, that, notwithstanding all their artful

hints, Wright came to nothing like a positive proposal, nor even to any

declaration of his passion. The next day she was yet more astonished;

for Wright, though he _knew_ she was a full hour in the milliner’s shop,

never made the slightest attempt to see her; nay, in the evening, he

met her on the public walk, and passed without more notice than a formal

bow, and without turning his head back to look after her, though she

was flirting with a party of gentlemen, expressly for the purpose of

exciting his jealousy.

Another consultation was held with her friend the milliner: “These men

are terrible creatures to deal with,” said her confidant. “Do you know,

my dear creature, this man, simple as he looks, has been very near

taking us in. Would you believe it? he is absolutely courting a

Lincolnshire lady for a wife. He wrote a letter to her, my dear

Alicia, this morning, and begged me to let my boy run with it to the

post-office. I winded and winded, saying he was mighty anxious about

the letter, and so on, till, at the last, out comes the truth. Then

I touched him about you; but he said, ‘an actress was not fit for a

farmer’s wife, and that you had too many admirers already.’ You see, my

dear creature, that he has none of the thoughts we built upon. Depend

upon it he is a shrewd man, and knows what he is about; so, as we cannot

do better than Marvel, my advice--”

“Your advice!” interrupted Miss Barton: “I shall follow no advice but my

own.” She walked up and down the small parlour in great agitation.

“Do as you please, my dear; but remember I cannot afford to _lay_ out of

my money to all eternity. The account between us has run up to a great

sum; the dresses were such as never were made up before in York, and

must be paid for accordingly, as you must be sensible, Miss Barton. And

when you have an opportunity of establishing yourself so handsomely, and

getting all your debts paid; and when your brother, who was here an hour

ago, presses the match with Mr. Marvel so much; it is very strange and

unaccountable of you to say, ‘you will take nobody’s advice but your

own;’ and to fall in love, ma’am, as you are doing, as fast as you can,

with a person who has no serious intentions, and is going to be married

to another woman. For shame, Miss Barton; is this behaving with proper

propriety? Besides, I’ve really great regard for that poor young man

that you have been making a fool of; I’m sure he is desperately in love

with you.”

“Then let him show it, and sell Clover-hill,” said Miss Barton.

Her mind balanced between avarice and what she called love. She had

taken a fancy to Wright, and his present coldness rather increased than

diminished her passion: he played his part so well, that she could

not tell how to decide. In the mean time, the milliner pressed for her

money; and Alicia’s brother bullied loudly in favour of Marvel: he had

engaged the milliner, whom he was courting, to support his opinion.

Marvel, though with much difficulty, stood his ground, and refused to

sell Clover-hill, till he should be perfectly sure that Miss Barton

would marry him, and till his relation should arrive in town, and give

his consent.

CHAPTER III.

Mr. Barton and the milliner now agreed, that if fair means would not

bring the charming Alicia to reason, others must be used; and it was

settled that she should be arrested for her debt to the milliner, which

was upwards of fifty pounds. “She knows,” said this considerate brother,

“that I have neither the power nor the will to pay the money. Sir

Plantagenet’s son is as poor as Job; so she must have recourse to

Marvel; and, if she gives him proper encouragement, he’ll pay the money

in a trice. As to this man, who lodges with you, let her apply to him if

she likes it; she will soon see how he will answer her. By your account

he is a shrewd fellow, and not like our friend Marvel.”

On Friday morning the charming Alicia was arrested, at the suit of her

dear friend and confidant, the milliner. The arrest was made in the

milliner’s shop. Alicia would doubtless have screamed and fainted, with

every becoming spirit and grace, if any spectators had been present:

but there was no one in the shop to admire or pity. She rushed with

dishevelled hair, and all the stage show of distraction, into Wright’s

apartment; but, alas! he was not to be found. She then composed herself,

and wrote the following note to Marvel:

“TO ---- MARVEL, ESQ. &C.

“At the Green Man.

“Much as it hurts the delicacy and wounds the pride of Alicia, she is

compelled, by the perfidy of a bosom friend of her own sex, to apply for

assistance and protection to one who will feel for the indignity that

has been shown her. How will his generous nature shudder, when he hears

that she is on the point of being dragged to a loathsome dungeon, for

want of the paltry sum of fifty pounds! Retrospection may convince the

man of her heart, that her soul is superior to mercenary considerations;

else, she would not now be reduced so low in the power of her enemies:

she scarcely knows what she writes--her heart bleeds--her brain is on

fire!

“‘Celestial sounds! Peace dawns upon my soul,

And every pain grows less. Oh! gentle Altamont,

Think not too hardly of me when I’m gone,

But pity me. Had I but early known

Thy wond’rous worth, thou excellent young man,

We had been happier both. Now ‘tis too late.

And yet my eyes take pleasure to behold thee!

Thou art their last dear object.--Mercy, Heav’n!’

“Your affectionate,

“And (shall I confess it?)

“Too affectionate,

“ALICIA.”

Marvel was settling some accounts with Wright when this note was put

into his hands: scarcely had he glanced his eye over it, when he started

up, seized a parcel of bank notes, which lay on the table, and was

rushing out of the room. Wright caught hold of his arm, and stopped him

by force.

“Where now? What now, Marvel?” said he.

“Do not stop me, Wright! I will not be stopped! She has been barbarously

used. They are dragging her to prison.--They have driven her almost out

of her senses. I must go to her this instant.”

“Well, well, don’t go without your hat, man, for the people in the

street will take you for a lunatic. May a friend see this letter that

has driven _you_ out of your senses?”

Marvel put it into Wright’s hands, who read it with wonderful composure;

and when he came to the end of it, only said--“Hum!”

“Hum,” repeated Marvel, provoked beyond measure; “you have no humanity.

You are most strangely prejudiced. You are worse than Goodenough. Why do

you follow me?” continued he, observing that Wright was coming after him

across the inn-yard into the street.

“I follow you to take care of you,” said Wright, calmly; “and though you

do stride on at such a rate, I’ll be bound to keep up with you.”

He suffered Marvel to walk on at his own pace for the length of two

streets, without saying another word; but just as they were turning the

corner into the square where the milliner lived, he again caught hold of

his cousin’s arm, and said to him: “Hark you, Marvel; will you trust me

with those bank notes that you have in your pocket? and will you let me

step on to the milliner’s, and settle this business for you? I see

it will cost you fifty pounds, but that I cannot help. You may think

yourself well off.”

“Fifty pounds! What are fifty pounds?” cried Marvel, hurrying forwards.

“You see that my Alicia must be superior to mercenary considerations;

for, though she knows I have a good fortune, that could not decide her

in my favour.”

“No, because she fancies that 1 have a better fortune; and, besides (for

there are times when a man must speak plainly), I’ve a notion she would

at this minute sooner be my mistress than your wife, if the thing were

fairly tried. She’ll take your money as fast as you please; and I may

take her as fast as I please.”

Incensed at these words, Marvel could scarcely restrain his passion

within bounds: but Wright, without being, moved, continued to speak.

“Nay, then, cousin, if you don’t believe me, put it to the test!--I’ll

wait here, at this woollen-draper’s, where I am to dine: do you go on to

your milliner’s, and say what you please, only let me have my turn

for half an hour this evening; and, if I am mistaken in the lady, I’ll

freely own it, and make all due apology.”

In the afternoon, Marvel came to Wright with a face full of joy and

triumph. “Go to my Alicia now, cousin Wright,” said he: “I defy you. She

is at her lodging.--She has promised to marry me! I am the happiest man

in the world!”

Wright said not a word, but departed. Now he had in his pocket an

unanswered billet-doux, which had been laid upon his table the preceding

night: the billet-doux had no name to it; but, from all he had remarked

of the lady’s manners towards him, he could not doubt that it was the

charming Alicia’s. He was determined to have positive proof, however, to

satisfy Marvel’s mind completely. The note which he had received was as

follows:

“What can be the cause of your cruel and sudden change towards one of

whom you lately appeared to think so partially? A certain female friend

may deceive you, by false representations: do not trust to her, but

learn the real sentiments of a fond heart from one who knows not how to

feign. Spare the delicacy of your victim, and guess her name.”

To this note, from one “who knew not how to feign,” Wright sent the

following reply:

“If Miss Barton knows any thing of a letter that was left at Mrs.

Stokes’s, the milliner’s, last night, she may receive an answer to her

questions from the bearer; who, being no scholar, hopes she will not

take no offence at the shortness of these lines, but satisfy him in the

honour of drinking tea with her, who waits below stairs for an answer.”

The charming Alicia allowed him the honour of drinking tea with her, and

was delighted with the thought that she had at last caught him in her

snares. The moment she had hopes of him, she resolved to break her

promise to Marvel; and by making a merit of sacrificing to Wright all

his rivals, she had no doubt that she should work so successfully

upon his vanity, as to induce him to break off his treaty with the

Lincolnshire lady.

Wright quickly let her go on with the notion that she had the game in

her own hands; at length he assumed a very serious look, like one upon

the point of forming some grand resolution; and turning half away from

her, said:

“But now, look ye, Miss Barton, I am not a sort of man who would like

to be made a fool of. Here I’m told half the gentlemen of York are dying

for you; and, as your friend Mrs. Stokes informed--”

“Mrs. Stokes is not my friend, but the basest and most barbarous of

enemies,” cried Alicia.

“Why, now, this is strange! She was your friend yesterday; and how do I

know but a woman may change as quick, and as short, about her lovers, as

about her friends?”

“I never can change: fear nothing,” said Alicia, tenderly.

“But let me finish what I was saying about Mrs. Stokes; she told me

something about one Mr. Marvel, I think they call him; now what is all

that?”

“Nothing: he is a foolish young man, who was desperately in love with

me, that’s all, and offered to marry me; but, as I told him, I am

superior to mercenary considerations.”

“And is the affair broke off, then?” said Wright, looking her full in

the face. “That’s in one word what I must be sure of: for I am not a man

that would choose to be jilted. Sit you down and pen me a farewell to

that same foolish young fellow. I am a plain-spoken man, and now you

have my mind.”

Miss Barton was now persuaded that all Wright’s coldness had proceeded

from jealousy: blinded by her passions, and alarmed by the idea that

this was the moment in which she must either secure or for ever abandon

Wright and his fortune, she consented to his proposal, and wrote the

following tender adieu to Marvel:

“TO----MARVEL, ESQ. &C. At the Green Man.

“SIR,

“CIRCUMSTANCES have occurred, since I had last the honour of seeing you,

which make it impossible that I should ever think of you more.

“ALICIA BARTON.”

Wright said he was perfectly satisfied with this note; and all that he

now desired was to be himself the bearer of it to Marvel.

“He is a hot-headed young man,” said Alicia; “he will perhaps quarrel

with you: let me send the letter by a messenger of my own. You don’t

know him; you will not be able to find him out. Besides, why will you

deprive me of your company? Cannot another carry this note as well as

you?”

“None shall carry it but myself,” said Wright, holding fast his prize.

She was apprehensive of losing him for ever, if she opposed what she

thought his jealous humour; so she struggled no longer to hold him, but

bade him make haste to return to his Alicia.

He returned no more; but the next morning she received from him the

following note:

“TO MISS ALICIA BARTON, &C.

“MADAM,

“Circumstances have occurred, since I had last the honour of seeing you,

which make it impossible that I should ever think of you more.

“JOHN WRIGHT.

“P.S. My cousin, Marvel, thanks you for your note. Before you receive

this, he will have left York wiser than he came into it by fifty guineas

and more.”

“Wiser by more than fifty guineas, I hope,” said Marvel, as he rode out

of town, early in the morning.

“I have been on the point of being finely taken in! I’m sure this

will be a lesson to me as long as I live. I shall never forget your

good-nature, and steadiness to me, Wright. Now, if it had not been for

you, I might have been married to this jade; and have given her and her

brother every thing I’m worth in the world. Well, well, this is a lesson

I shall remember. I’ve felt it sharply enough. Now I’ll turn my head to

my business again, if I can. How Goodenough would laugh at me if he knew

this story. But I’ll make up for all the foolish things I have done

yet before I die; and I hope, before I die, I may be able to show you,

cousin Wright, how much I am obliged to you: that would be greater

joy to me even than getting by my own ingenuity my uncle Pearson’s ten

thousand pound legacy. Do, Wright, find out something I can do for you,

to make amends for all the trouble I’ve given you, and all the time I

have made you waste: do, there’s a good fellow.”

“Well, then,” said Wright, “I don’t want to saddle you with an

obligation. You shall pay me in kind directly, since you are so desirous

of it. I told you I was in love: you shall come with me and see my

mistress, to give me your opinion of her. Every man can be prudent for

his neighbour: even you no doubt can,” added Wright, laughing. Wright’s

mistress was a Miss Banks, only daughter to a gentleman who had set up

an apparatus for manufacturing woad. Mr. Banks’s house was in their way

home, and they called there. They knocked several times at the door,

before any one answered: at last a boy came to hold their horses, who

told them that Mr. Banks was dead, and that nobody could be let into the

house. The boy knew nothing of the matter, except that his master died,

he believed, of a sort of a fit; and that his young mistress was in

great grief: “which I’m mortal sorry for,” added he: “for she be’s kind

hearted and civil spoken, and moreover did give me the very shoes I have

on my feet.”

“I wish I could see her,” said Wright; “I might be some comfort to her.”

“Might ye so, master? If that the thing be so,” said the boy, looking

earnestly in Wright’s face, “I’ll do my best endeavours.”

He ran off at full speed through the back yard, but returned to learn

the gentleman’s name, which he had forgotten to ask; and presently

afterwards he brought his answer. It was written with a pencil, and with

a trembling hand:

“My dear Mr. Wright, I cannot see you now: but you shall hear from me as

soon as I am able to give an answer to your last.

“S. BANKS.”

The words, “My dear,” were half rubbed out: but they were visible enough

to his eyes. Wright turned his horse’s head homewards, and Marvel and he

rode away. His heart was so full that he could not speak, and he did

not hear what Marvel said to comfort him. As they were thus riding on

slowly, they heard a great noise of horsemen behind them; and looking

back, they saw a number of farmers, who were riding after them. As they

drew near, Wright’s attention was roused by hearing the name of _Banks_

frequently repeated. “What news, neighbour?” said Marvel.

“The news is, that Mr. Banks is dead; he died of an apoplectic fit, and

has left his daughter a power o’ money, they say. Happy the man who

gets her! Good morrow to you, gentlemen; we’re in haste home.” After

receiving this intelligence, Wright read his mistress’s note over again,

and observed that he was not quite pleased to see the words “My dear”

half rubbed out. Marvel exclaimed, “Have nothing more to do with

her; that’s my advice to you; for I would not marry any woman for her

fortune; especially if she thought she was doing me a favour. If she

loved you, she would not have rubbed out those words at such a time as

this.”

“Stay a bit,” said Wright; “we shall be better able to judge by and by.”

A week passed away, and Wright heard nothing from Miss Banks; nor did he

attempt to see her, but waited as patiently as he could for her promised

letter. At last it came. The first word was “Sir.” That was enough for

Marvel, who threw it down with indignation when his cousin showed it to

him. “Nay, but read it, at least,” said Wright.

“SIR,

“My poor father’s affairs have been left in great disorder; and instead

of the fortune which you might have expected with me, I shall have

little or nothing. The creditors have been very kind to me; and I hope

in time to pay all just debts. I have been much hurried with business,

or should have written sooner. Indeed it is no pleasant task to me to

write at all, on this occasion. I cannot unsay what I have said to you

in former times, for I think the same of you as ever I did: but I know

that I am not now a fit match for you as to fortune, and would not hold

any man to his word, nor could value any man enough to marry him, who

would break it. Therefore it will be no grief for me to break off with

you if such should be your desire. And no blame shall be thrown upon you

by my friends, for I will take the refusal upon myself. I know the terms

of your uncle’s will, and the great reason you have to wish for a good

fortune with your wife; so it is very natural--I mean very likely, you

may not choose to be burdened with a woman who has none. Pray speak your

mind freely to, sir,

“Your humble servant,

“S. BANKS.” Marvel had no sooner read this letter than he advised his

friend Wright to marry Miss Banks directly.

“That is what I have determined to do,” said Wright: “for I don’t think

money the first thing in the world; and I would sooner give up my uncle

Pearson’s legacy this minute than break my word to any woman, much less

to one that I love, as I do Miss Banks, better now than ever. I have

just heard from the steward, who brought this letter, how handsomely

and prudently she has behaved to other people, as well as to myself:

by which I can judge most safely. She has paid all the debts that were

justly due, and has sold even the gig, which I know she wished to keep;

but, seeing that it was not suited to her present circumstances, her

good sense has got the better. Now, to my mind, a prudent wife, even

as to money matters, may turn out a greater treasure to a man than what

they call a great fortune.”

With these sentiments Wright married Miss Banks, who was indeed a very

prudent, amiable girl. Goodenough sneered at this match; and observed

that he had always foretold Wright would be taken in, sooner or later.

Goodenough was now in his thirty-second year, and as he had always

determined to marry precisely at this age, he began to look about for

a wife. He chose a widow, said to be of a very close saving temper: she

was neither young, handsome, nor agreeable; but then she was rich,

and it was Goodenough’s notion that the main chance should be first

considered, in matrimony as in every thing else. Now this notable dame

was precisely of his way of thinking; but she had more shrewdness than

her lover, and she overreached him in the bargain: her fortune did not

turn out to be above one half of what report had represented it; her

temper was worse than even her enemies said it was; and the time that

was daily wasted in trifling disputes between this well-matched pair was

worth more than all the petty savings made by her avaricious habits.

Goodenough cursed himself ten times a day, during the honey-moon; but

as he did not like to let the neighbours know how far he had been

outwitted, he held his tongue with the fortitude of a martyr; and his

partisans all commended him for making so prudent a match. “Ah, ay,”

said they, “there’s Wright, who might have had this very woman, has gone

and married a girl without a shilling, with all his prudence; and, as to

Marvel, he will surely be bit.” There they were mistaken. Marvel was

a person capable of learning from experience, and he never forgot the

lesson that he had received from the charming Alicia. It seemed to have

sobered him completely.

CHAPTER IV.

About this time, Mr. James Harrison, an eminent dyer, uncle to Wright’s

friend of that name at York, came to settle near Clover-hill; and

as Marvel was always inclined to be hospitable, he assisted his new

neighbour with many of those little conveniences, which money cannot

always command at the moment they are wanted. The dyer was grateful;

and, in return for Marvel’s civilities, let him into many of the

mysteries of the dyeing business, which he was anxious to understand.

Scarcely a day passed without his calling on Mr. James Harrison. Now,

Mr. Harrison had a daughter, Lucy, who was young and pretty, and Marvel

thought her more and more agreeable every time he saw her; but, as he

told Wright, he was determined not to fall in love with her, until he

was quite sure that she was good for something. A few weeks after he

had been acquainted with her, he had an opportunity of seeing her tried.

Mrs. Isaac Harrison, the dyer of York’s lady, came to spend some

time; Miss Millicent, or, as she was commonly called, Milly Harrison,

accompanied her mother: she, having a more fashionable air than Lucy,

and having learned to dance from a London dancing-master, thought

herself so much her superior that she ought to direct her in all things.

Miss Milly, the Sunday after her arrival, appeared at church in a bonnet

that charmed half the congregation; and a crowd of farmers’ wives and

daughters, the moment church was over, begged the favour of Miss Milly

to tell them where and how such a bonnet could be got, and how much it

would cost. It was extravagantly dear; and those mothers who had any

prudence were frightened at the price: but the daughters were of opinion

that it was the cheapest, as well as prettiest thing that ever was seen

or heard of; and Miss Milly was commissioned to write immediately to

York to bespeak fifteen bonnets exactly like her own. This transaction

was settled before they had left the churchyard; and Miss Milly was

leaning upon a tombstone to write down the names of those who were most

eager to have their bonnets before the next Sunday, when Wright and

Marvel came up to the place where the crowd was gathered, and they saw

what was going forward.

Miss Barber, Miss Cotton, Miss Lamb, Miss Dishley, Miss Trotter, Miss

Hull, Miss Parker, Miss Bury, Miss Oxley, &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. &c.

&c. &c. &c. &c. &c., all, in their turn, peeped anxiously over Miss

Milly’s shoulder, to make themselves sure that their names were in the

happy list. Lucy Harrison, alone, stood with a composed countenance in

the midst of the agitated group. “Well, cousin Lucy, what say you now?

Shall I bespeak a bonnet for you, hey?--Do you know,” cried Miss Milly,

turning to the admirers of her bonnet, “do you know that I offered to

bespeak one yesterday for Lucy; and she was so stingy she would not

let me, because it was _too dear_?” “_Too dear!_ Could ye conceive it?”

repeated the young ladies, joining in a scornful titter. All eyes were

now fixed upon Lucy, who blushed deeply, but answered, with gentle

steadiness, that she really could not afford to lay out so much money

upon a bonnet, and that she would rather not have her name put down in

the list.

“She’s a good prudent girl,” whispered Wright to Marvel.

“And very pretty, I am sure; I never saw her look so pretty as at this

instant,” replied Marvel in a low voice,

“Please yourself, child,” said Miss Milly, throwing back her head with

much disdain; “but I’m sure you’ll please nobody else with such a dowdy

thing as that you have on. Lord! I should like to see her walk the

streets of York on a Sunday that figure. Lord! how Mrs. Stokes would

laugh!”

Here she paused, and several of her fair audience were struck with the

terrible idea of being laughed at by a person whom they had never seen,

and whom they were never likely to see; and transporting themselves

in imagination into the streets of York, felt all the horror of being

stared at, in an unfashionable bonnet, by Mrs. Stokes. “Gracious me!

Miss Milly, do pray be sure to have mine sent from York afore next

Sunday,” cried one of the country belles: “and, gracious me! don’t

forget mine, Miss Mill,” was reiterated by every voice but Lucy’s, as

the crowd followed Miss Harrison out of the churchyard. Great was the

contempt felt for her by the company; but she was proof against their

ridicule, and calmly ended, as she began, with saying, “I cannot afford

it.”

“She is a very prudent girl,” repeated Wright, in a low voice, to

Marvel.

“But I hope this is not stinginess,” whispered Marvel. “I would not

marry such a stingy animal as Goodenough has taken to wife for all the

world. Do you know she has half starved the servant boy that lived with

them? There he is, yonder, getting over the stile: did you ever see such

a miserable-looking creature?--He can tell you fifty stories of dame

Goodenough’s stinginess. I would not marry a stingy woman for the whole

world. I hope Lucy Harrison is not stingy.”

“Pray, Mrs. Wright,” said Marvel’s friend, turning to his wife, who had

been standing beside him, and who had not yet said one word, “what may

your opinion be?”

“My opinion is, that she is as generous a girl as any upon earth,” said

Mrs. Wright, “and I have good reason to say so.”

“How? What?” said Marvel, eagerly.

“Her father lent my poor father five hundred pounds; and at the meeting

of the creditors after his death, Mr. Harrison was very earnest to have

the money paid, because it was his daughter’s fortune. When he found

that it could not be had immediately, he grew extremely angry; but Lucy

pacified him, and told him that she was sure I should pay the money

honestly, as soon as I could; and that she would willingly wait to

have it paid at a hundred pounds a year, for my convenience. I am more

obliged to her for the handsome way in which she trusted to me, than if

she had given me half the money. I shall never forget it.”

“I hope you forgive her for not buying the bonnet,” said Wright to

Marvel.

“Forgive her! ay; now I love her for it,” said Marvel; “now I know that

she is not stingy.”

From this day forward, Marvel’s attachment to Lucy rapidly increased.

One evening he was walking in the fields with Lucy and Miss Milly, who

played off her finest York airs to attract his admiration, when the

following dialogue passed between them: “La! cousin Lucy,” said Miss

Millicent, “when shall we get you to York? I long to show you a little

of the world, and to introduce you to my friend, Mrs. Stokes, the

milliner.”

“My father says that he does not wish that I should be acquainted with

Mrs. Stokes,” said Lucy.

“Your father! Nonsense, child. Your father has lived all his life in the

country, the Lord knows where; he has not lived in York, as I have; so

how can he know any thing upon earth of the world?--what we call the

world, I mean.”

“I do not know, cousin Milly, what you call the world; but I think

that he knows more of Mrs. Stokes than I do; and I shall trust to his

opinion, for I never knew him speak ill of any body without having good

reason for it. Besides, it is my duty to obey my father.”

“Duty! La! Gracious me! She talks as if she was a baby in

leading-strings,” cried Miss Milly, laughing; but she was mortified at

observing that Marvel did not join, as she had expected, in the laugh:

so she added, in a scornful tone, “Perhaps I’m in the wrong box;

and that Mr. Marvel is one of them that admires pretty babes in

leading-strings.”

“I am one of those that admire a good daughter, I confess,” said Marvel;

“and,” said he, lowering his voice, “that love her too.”

Miss Milly coloured with anger, and Lucy with an emotion that she had

never felt before. As they returned home, they met Mr. Harrison, and the

moment Marvel espied him he quitted the ladies.

“I’ve something to say to you, Mr. Harrison. I should be glad to speak a

few words to you in private, if you please,” cried he, seizing his arm,

and leading him down a by-lane.

Mr. Harrison was all attention; but Marvel began to gather primroses,

instead of speaking.

“Well,” said Mr. Harrison, “did you bring me here to see you gather

primroses?”

After smelling the flowers twenty times, and placing them in twenty

different forms, Marvel at last threw them on the bank, and, with a

sudden effort, exclaimed, “You have a daughter, Mr. James Harrison.”

“I know I have; and I thank God for it.”

“So you have reason to do; for a more lovely girl and a better, in my

opinion, never existed.”

“One must not praise one’s own, or I should agree with you,” said the

proud father.

Again there was silence. And again Marvel picked up his primroses.

“In short,” said he, “Mr. Harrison, would you like me for a son-in-law?”

“Would Lucy like you for a husband? I must know that first,” said the

good father.

“That is what I do not know,” replied Marvel; “but, if I was to ask

her, she would ask you, I am sure, whether you would like me for a

son-in-law.”

“At this rate, we shall never get forwards,” said Harrison. “Go you back

to Miss Milly, and send my Lucy here to me.”

We shall not tell how Lucy picked up the flowers, which had been her

lover’s grand resource; nor how often she blushed upon the occasion: she

acknowledged that she thought Mr. Marvel _very agreeable_, but that she

was afraid to marry a person who had so little steadiness. That she had

heard of a great number of schemes, undertaken by him, which had failed;

or which he had given up as hastily as he had begun them. “Besides,”

said she, “may be he might change his mind about me as well as about

other things; for I’ve heard from my cousin Milly--I’ve heard--that--he

was in love, not very long since, with an actress in York. Do you think

this is all true?”

“Yes, I know it is all true,” said Mr. Harrison, “for he told me so

himself. He is an honest, open-hearted young man; but I think as you do,

child, that we cannot be sure of his steadiness.”

When Marvel heard from Mr. Harrison the result of this conversation,

he was inspired with the strongest desire to convince Lucy that he was

capable of perseverance. To the astonishment of all who knew him, or who

thought that they knew him, he settled steadily to business; and, for a

whole twelvemonth, no one heard him speak of any new scheme. At the end

of this time he renewed his proposal to Lucy; saying that he hoped she

would now have some dependence upon his constancy to her, since she had

seen the power she had over his mind. Lucy was artless and affectionate,

as well as prudent: now that her only real objection to the match was

lessened, she did not torment him, to try her power; but acknowledged

her attachment to him, and they were married.

Sir Plantagenet Mowbray’s agent was much astonished that Lucy did not

prefer him, because he was a much richer man than Pierce Marvel; and

Miss Milly Harrison was also astonished that Mr. Marvel did not prefer

her to such a country girl as Lucy, especially when she had a

thousand pounds more _to_ her fortune. But, notwithstanding all this

astonishment, Marvel and his wife were perfectly happy.

It was now the fifth year after old Mr. Pearson’s death. Wright was at

this time the richest of the three nephews; for the money that he had

laid out in draining Holland fen began to bring him in twenty per cent.

As to Marvel, he had exchanged some of his finest acres for the warren

of silver sprigs, the common full of thistles, and the marsh full of

reeds: he had lost many guineas by his sheep and their jackets, and many

more by his ill-fenced plantations: so that counting all the losses from

the failure of his schemes and the waste of his time, he was a thousand

pounds poorer than when he first came into possession of Clover-hill.

Goodenough was not, according to the most accurate calculations, one

shilling richer or poorer than when he first began the world. “Slow and

sure,” said his friends: “fair and softly goes far in a day. What he has

he’ll hold fast; that’s more than Marvel ever did, and may be more than

Wright will do in the end. He dabbles a little in _experiments_, as he

calls them: this he has learned from his friend Marvel; and this will

come to no good.”

About this time there was some appearance of a scarcity in England; and

many farmers set an unusual quantity of potatoes, in hopes that they

would bear a high price the ensuing season. Goodenough, who feared and

hated every thing that was called a speculation, declared that, for his

part, he would not set a drill more than he used to do. What had always

done for him and his should do for him still. With this resolution, he

began to set his potatoes: Marvel said to him, whilst he was at work,

“Cousin Goodenough, I would advise you not to set the shoots that are at

the bottom of these potatoes; for, if you do, they won’t be good for

any thing. This is a secret I learned last harvest home, from one of

my Irish haymakers. I made the experiment last year, and found the poor

fellow was quite right. I have given him a guinea for his information;

and it will be worth a great deal more to me and my neighbours.”

“May be so,” said Goodenough; “but I shall set my own potatoes my own

way, I thank you, cousin Marvel; for I take it the old way’s best, and

I’ll never follow any other.”

Marvel saw that it was in vain to attempt to convince Goodenough:

therefore he left him to his old ways. The consequence was, that

Goodenongh and his family ate the worst potatoes in the whole country

this year; and Marvel cleared _above two hundred pounds_ by twenty acres

of potatoes, set according to his friend the Irishman’s directions.

This was the first speculation of Marvel’s which succeeded; because

it was the first which had been begun with prudence, and pursued with

steadiness. His information, in the first instance, was good: it came

from a person who had actually tried the experiment, and who had seen

it made by others; and when he was convinced of the fact, he applied

his knowledge at the proper time, boldly extended his experiment, and

succeeded. This success raised him in the opinion even of his enemies.

His friend, Wright, heartily rejoiced at it; but Goodenough sneered,

and said to Wright, “What Marvel has gained this year he’ll lose by some

scheme the next. I dare to say, now, he has some new scheme or another

brewing in his brains at this very moment. Ay--look, here he comes, with

two bits of rags in his hand.--Now for it!”

Marvel came up to them with great eagerness in his looks; and showing

two freshly-dyed patterns of cloth, said, “Which of these two blues is

the brightest?”

“That in your left hand,” said Wright; “it is a beautiful blue.”

“Marvel rubbed his hands with an air of triumph; but restraining his

joy, he addressed himself to Wright in a composed voice.

“My dear Wright, I have many obligations to you; and, if I have any good

fortune, you shall be the first to share it with me. As for you, cousin

Goodenough, I don’t bear malice against you for laughing at me and my

herons’ feathers, and my silver sprigs, and my sheep’s jackets, and my

thistles: shake hands, man; you shall have a share in our scheme, if you

please.”

“I don’t please to have no share at all in none of your schemes, cousin

Marvel: I thank you kindly,” said Goodenough.

“Had not you better hear what it is, before you decide against it?” said

Wright.

Marvel explained himself further: “Some time ago,” said he, “I was with

my father-in-law, who was dyeing some cloth with woad. I observed that

one corner of the cloth was of much brighter blue than any of the rest;

and upon examining what could be the cause of this, I found that the

corner of the cloth had fallen upon the ground, as it was taken out of

the dyeing vat, and had trailed through a mixture of colours, which I

had accidentally spilled on the floor. I carefully recollected of

what this mixture was composed: I found that woad was the principal

ingredient; the other----is a secret. I have repeated my experiments

several times, and I find that they have always succeeded: I was

determined not to speak of my discovery till I was sure of the facts.

Now I’m sure of them, my father-in-law tells me that he and his brother

at York could ensure to me an advantageous sale for as much blue cloth

as I can prepare; and he advised me to take out a patent for the dye.”

Goodenough had not patience to listen any longer, but exclaimed:

“Join in a patent! that’s more than I would do, I’m sure, cousin Marvel;

so don’t think to take me in: I’ll end as I began, without having any

thing to do with any of your new-fangled schemes--Good morning to you.”

“I hope, Wright,” said Marvel, proudly, “that you do not suspect me of

any design to take you in; and that you will have some confidence in

this scheme, when you find that my experiments have been accurately

tried.”

Wright assured Marvel that he had the utmost confidence in his

integrity; and that he would carefully go over with him any experiments

he chose to show him. “I do not want to worm your secret from you,” said

he; “but we must make ourselves sure of success before we go to take out

a patent, which will be an expensive business.”

“You are exactly the sort of man I should wish to have for my partner,”

cried Marvel, “for you have all the coolness and prudence that I want.”

“And you have all the quickness and ingenuity that I want,” replied

Wright; “so, between us, we should indeed, as you say, make good

partners.”

A partnership was soon established between Wright and Marvel. The woad

apparatus, which belonged to Wright’s father-in-law, was given up to the

creditors to pay the debts; but none of these creditors understood the

management of it, or were willing to engage in it, lest they should ruin

themselves. Marvel prevailed upon Wright to keep it in his own hands:

and the creditors, who had been well satisfied by his wife’s conduct

towards them, and who had great confidence in his character for

prudence, relinquished their claims upon the property, and trusted to

Wright’s promise, that they should be gradually paid by instalments.

“See what it is to have chosen a good wife,” said Wright. “Good

character is often better than good fortune.”

The wife returned the husband’s compliment; but we must pass over such

unfashionable conversation, and proceed with our story.

The reader may recollect our mentioning a little boy, who carried a

message from Wright to Miss Banks the day that he called upon her, on

his return from York. She had been very good to this boy, and he was of

a grateful temper. After he left her father’s service, he was hired by

a gentleman, who lived near Spalding, and for some time she had heard

nothing of him: but, about a year after she was married, his master paid

a visit in Lincolnshire, and the lad early one morning came to see his

“_old young mistress_.” He came so very early that none of the family

were stirring, except Marvel, who had risen by daybreak to finish some

repairs that he was making in the woad apparatus. He recognized the boy

the moment he saw him, and welcomed him with his usual good-nature.

“Ah, sir!” said the lad, “I be’s glad to see things going on here again.

I be’s main glad to hear how young mistress is happy! But I must be back

afore my own present master be’s up; so will you be pleased to give my

sarvice and duty, and here’s a little sort of a tea-chest for her, that

I made with the help of a fellow-sarvant of mine. If so be she’ll think

well of taking it, I should be very proud: it has a lock and key and

all.”

Marvel was astonished at the workmanship of this tea-chest; and when he

expressed his admiration, the boy said, “Oh, sir! all the difficult_est_

parts were done by my fellow-sarvant, who is more handy like than I

am, ten to one, though he is a Frenchman. He was one of them French

prisoners, and is a curious man. He would have liked of all things to

have come here along with me this morning, to get a sight of what’s

going on here; because that they have woad mills and the like in his own

country, he says; but then he would not come spying without leave, being

a civil honest man.”

Marvel told the boy that his fellow-servant should be heartily welcome

to satisfy his curiosity; and the next morning the Frenchman came. He

was a native of Languedoc, where woad is cultivated: he had been engaged

in the manufacture of it, and Marvel soon found, by his conversation,

that he was a well-informed, intelligent man. He told Marvel that there

were many natives of Languedoc, at this time, prisoners in England,

who understood the business as well as he did, and would be glad to be

employed, or to sell their knowledge at a reasonable price. Marvel was

not too proud to learn, even from a Frenchman. With Wright’s consent, he

employed several of these workmen; and he carried, by their means, the

manufacture of woad to a high pitch of perfection. How success changes

the opinion of men! The Lincolnshire farmers, who had formerly sneered

at Marvel as a genius and a projector, began to look up to him as to a

very wise and knowing man, when they saw this manufactory continue to

thrive; and those who had blamed Wright, for entering into partnership

with him, now changed their minds. Neither of them could have done

separately what they both effected by their union.

At the end of the ten years, Goodenough was precisely where he was when

he began; neither richer nor poorer; neither wiser nor happier; all that

he had added to his stock was a cross wife and two cross children. He,

to the very last moment, persisted in the belief that he should be the

richest of the three, and that Wright and Marvel would finish by being

bankrupts. He was in unutterable astonishment, when, upon the appointed

day, they produced their account-books to Mr. Constantine, the executor,

and it was found that they were many thousand pounds better in the world

than himself.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Constantine, “to which of you am I to give

your uncle’s legacy? I must know which of the partners has the greatest

share in the manufactory.”

“Wright has the greatest share,” cried Marvel; “for without his prudence

I should have been ruined.”

“Marvel has the greatest share,” cried Wright: “for without his

ingenuity I should never have succeeded in the business, nor indeed

should I have undertaken it.”

“Then, gentlemen, you must divide the legacy between you,” said Mr.

Constantine, “and I give you joy of your happy partnership. What can be

more advantageous than a partnership between prudence and justice on the

one side, and generosity and abilities on the other?”

_June, 1800_.

THE LIMERICK GLOVES.

CHAPTER I.

It was Sunday morning, and a fine day in autumn; the bells of Hereford

cathedral rang, and all the world smartly dressed were flocking to

church.

“Mrs. Hill! Mrs. Hill!--Phoebe! Phoebe! There’s the cathedral bell, I say,

and neither of you ready for church, and I a verger;” cried Mr. Hill,

the tanner, as he stood at the bottom of his own staircase. “I’m ready,

papa,” replied Phoebe; and down she came, looking so clean, so fresh, and

so gay, that her stern father’s brows unbent, and he could only say to

her, as she was drawing on a new pair of gloves, “Child, you ought to

have had those gloves on before this time of day.”

“Before this time of day!” cried Mrs. Hill, who was now coming down

stairs completely equipped, “before this time of day! she should know

better, I say, than to put on those gloves at all: more especially when

going to the cathedral.”

“The gloves are very good gloves, as far as I see,” replied Mr. Hill.

“But no matter now. It is more fitting that we should be in proper time

in our pew, to set an example, as becomes us, than to stand here talking

of gloves and nonsense.”

He offered his wife and daughter each an arm, and set out for the

cathedral; but Phoebe was too busy in drawing on her new gloves, and

her mother was too angry at the sight of them, to accept of Mr. Hill’s

courtesy: “What I say is always nonsense, I know, Mr. Hill,” resumed the

matron: “but I can see as far into a millstone as other folks. Was it

not I that first gave you a hint of what became of the great dog, that

we lost out of our tan-yard last winter? And was it not I who first

took notice to you, Mr. Hill, verger as you are, of the hole under the

foundation of the cathedral? Was it not, I ask you, Mr. Hill?” “But, my

dear Mrs. Hill, what has all this to do with Phoebe’s gloves?”

“Are you blind, Mr. Hill? Don’t you see that they are Limerick gloves?”

“What of that?” said Mr. Hill; still preserving his composure, as it was

his custom to do as long as he could, when he saw his wife was ruffled.

“What of that, Mr. Hill! why don’t you know that Limerick is in Ireland,

Mr. Hill?”

“With all my heart, my dear.”

“Yes, and with all your heart, I suppose, Mr. Hill, you would see

our cathedral blown up, some fair day or other, and your own daughter

married to the person that did it; and you a verger, Mr. Hill.”

“God forbid!” cried Mr. Hill; and he stopped short and settled his wig.

Presently recovering himself, he added, “But, Mrs. Hill, the cathedral

is not yet blown up; and our Phoebe is not yet married.”

“No: but what of that, Mr. Hill? Forewarned is forearmed, as I told you

before your dog was gone; but you would not believe me, and you see how

it turned out in that case; and so it will in this case, you’ll see, Mr.

Hill.”

“But you puzzle and frighten me out of my wits, Mrs. Hill,” said the

verger, again settling his wig. “_In that case and in this case!_ I

can’t understand a syllable of what you’ve been saying to me this half

hour. In plain English, what is there the matter about Phoebe’s gloves?”

“In plain English, then, Mr. Hill, since you can understand nothing

else, please to ask your daughter Phoebe who gave her those gloves.

Phoebe, who gave you those gloves?”

“I wish they were burnt,” said the husband, whose patience could endure

no longer. “Who gave you those cursed gloves, Phoebe?”

“Papa,” answered Phoebe, in a low voice, “they were a present from Mr.

Brian O’Neill.”

“The Irish glover,” cried Mr. Hill, with a look of terror.

“Yes,” resumed the mother; “very true, Mr. Hill, I assure you. Now, you

see, I had my reasons.”

“Take off the gloves directly: I order you, Phoebe,” said her father,

in his most peremptory tone. “I took a mortal dislike to that Mr. Brian

O’Neill the first time I ever saw him. He’s an Irishman, and that’s

enough, and too much for me. Off with the gloves, Phoebe! When I order a

thing, it must be done.”

Phoebe seemed to find some difficulty in getting off the gloves, and

gently urged that she could not well go into the cathedral without them.

This objection was immediately removed, by her mother’s pulling from

her pocket a pair of mittens, which had once been brown, and once been

whole, but which were now rent in sundry places; and which, having been

long stretched by one who was twice the size of Phoebe, now hung in huge

wrinkles upon her well-turned arms.

“But, papa,” said Phoebe, “why should we take a dislike to him because he

is an Irishman? Cannot an Irishman be a good man?”

The verger made no answer to this question, but a few seconds after it

was put to him, observed that the cathedral bell had just done ringing;

and, as they were now got to the church door, Mrs. Hill, with a

significant look at Phoebe, remarked that it was no proper time to talk

or think of good men, or bad men, or Irishmen, or any men, especially

for a verger’s daughter.

We pass over in silence the many conjectures that were made by several

of the congregation, concerning the reason why Miss Phoebe Hill should

appear in such a shameful shabby pair of gloves on a Sunday. After

service was ended, the verger went, with great mystery, to examine the

hole under the foundation of the cathedral; and Mrs. Hill repaired, with

the grocer’s and the stationer’s ladies, to take a walk in the Close;

where she boasted to all her female acquaintance, whom she called her

friends, of her maternal discretion in prevailing upon Mr. Hill to

forbid her daughter Phoebe to wear the Limerick gloves.

In the mean time, Phoebe walked pensively homewards; endeavouring to

discover why her father should take a mortal dislike to a man, at first

sight, merely because he was an Irishman; and why her mother had talked

so much of the great dog, which had been lost last year out of the

tan-yard; and of the hole under the foundation of the cathedral! What

has all this to do with my Limerick gloves? thought she. The more she

thought, the less connexion she could perceive between these things:

for as she had not taken a dislike to Mr. Brian O’Neill at first sight,

because he was an Irishman, she could not think it quite reasonable to

suspect him of making away with her father’s dog; nor yet of a design to

blow up Hereford cathedral. As she was pondering upon these matters,

she came within sight of the ruins of a poor woman’s house, which a few

months before this time had been burnt down. She recollected that her

first acquaintance with her lover began at the time of this fire; and

she thought that the courage and humanity he showed, in exerting himself

to save this unfortunate woman and her children, justified her notion of

the possibility that an Irishman might be a good man.

The name of the poor woman, whose house had been burnt down, was Smith:

she was a widow, and she now lived at the extremity of a narrow lane in

a wretched habitation. Why Phoebe thought of her with more concern than

usual at this instant we need not examine, but she did; and, reproaching

herself for having neglected it for some weeks past, she resolved to go

directly to see the widow Smith, and to give her a crown which she had

long had in her pocket, with which she had intended to have bought play

tickets.

It happened that the first person she saw in the poor widow’s kitchen

was the identical Mr. O’Neill. “I did not expect to see any body here

but you, Mrs. Smith,” said Phoebe, blushing.

“So much the greater the pleasure of the meeting; to me, I mean, Miss

Hill,” said O’Neill, rising, and putting down a little boy, with whom

he had been playing. Phoebe went on talking to the poor woman; and, after

slipping the crown into her hand, said she would call again. O’Neill,

surprised at the change in her manner, followed her when she left the

house, and said, “It would be a great misfortune to me to have done any

thing to offend Miss Hill; especially if I could not conceive how or

what it was, which is my case at this present speaking.” And, as the

spruce glover spoke, he fixed his eyes upon Phoebe’s ragged gloves. She

drew them up in vain; and then said, with her natural simplicity and

gentleness, “You have not done any thing to offend me, Mr. O’Neill; but

you are some way or other displeasing to my father and mother, and they

have forbid me to wear the Limerick gloves.”

“And sure Miss Hill would not be after changing her opinion of her

humble servant for no reason in life, but because her father and mother,

who have taken a prejudice against him, are a little contrary.”

“No,” replied Phoebe; “I should not change my opinion without any reason;

but I have not yet had time to fix my opinion of you, Mr. O’Neill.”

“To let you know a piece of my mind, then, my dear Miss Hill,” resumed

he, “the more contrary they are, the more pride and joy it would give me

to win and wear you, in spite of ‘em all; and if without a farthing in

your pocket, so much the more I should rejoice in the opportunity of

proving to your dear self, and all else whom it may consarn, that Brian

O’Neill is no fortune-hunter, and scorns them that are so narrow-minded

as to think that no other kind of cattle but them there fortune-hunters

can come out of all Ireland. So, my dear Phoebe, now we understand one

another, I hope you will not be paining my eyes any longer with the

sight of these odious brown bags, which are not fit to be worn by any

Christian arms, to say nothing of Miss Hill’s, which are the handsomest,

without any compliment, that ever I saw; and, to my mind, would become

a pair of Limerick gloves beyond any thing: and I expect she’ll show her

generosity and proper spirit by putting them on immediately.”

“You expect, sir!” repeated Miss Hill, with a look of more indignation

than her gentle countenance had ever before been seen to assume.

“Expect!” If he had said hope, thought she, it would have been another

thing: but expect! what right has he to expect?

Now Miss Hill, unfortunately, was not sufficiently acquainted with the

Irish idiom, to know, that to expect, in Ireland, is the same thing as

to hope in England; and, when her Irish admirer said I expect, he meant

only in plain English, I hope. But thus it is that a poor Irishman,

often, for want of understanding the niceties of the English language,

says the rudest when he means to say the civillest things imaginable.

Miss Hill’s feelings were so much hurt by this unlucky “I expect,”

that the whole of his speech, which had before made some favourable

impression upon her, now lost its effect; and she replied with proper

spirit, as she thought, “You expect a great deal too much, Mr. O’Neill;

and more than ever I gave you reason to do. It would be neither pleasure

nor pride to me to be won and worn, as you were pleased to say, in spite

of them all; and to be thrown, without a farthing in my pocket, upon the

protection of one who expects so much at first setting out.--So I assure

you, sir, whatever you may expect, I shall not put on the Limerick

gloves.”

Mr. O’Neill was not without his share of pride and proper spirit;

nay, he had, it must be confessed, in common with some others of his

countrymen, an improper share of pride and spirit. Fired by the lady’s

coldness, he poured forth a volley of reproaches; and ended by wishing,

as he said, a good morning, for ever and ever, to one who could change

her opinion, point blank, like the weathercock. “I am, miss, your most

obedient; and I expect you’ll never think no more of poor Brian O’Neill,

and the Limerick gloves.”

If he had not been in too great a passion to observe any thing, poor

Brian O’Neill would have found out that Phoebe was not a weathercock: but

he left her abruptly, and hurried away, imagining all the while that it

was Phoebe, and not himself, who was in a rage. Thus, to the horseman,

who is galloping at full speed, the hedges, trees, and houses, seem

rapidly to recede; whilst, in reality, they never move from their

places. It is he that flies from them, and not they from him.

On Monday morning Miss Jenny Brown, the perfumer’s daughter, came to pay

Phoebe a morning visit, with face of busy joy.

“So, my dear!” said she: “fine doings in Hereford! but what makes you

look so downcast? To be sure you are invited, as well as the rest of

us.”

“Invited where?” cried Mrs. Hill, who was present, and who could never

endure to hear of an invitation in which she was not included. “Invited

where, pray, Miss Jenny?”

“La! have not you heard? Why, we all took it for granted that you and

Miss Phoebe would have been the first and foremost to have been asked to

Mr. O’Neill’s ball.”

“Ball!” cried Mrs. Hill; and luckily saved Phoebe, who was in some

agitation, the trouble of speaking. “Why, this is a mighty sudden thing:

I never heard a tittle of it before.”

“Well, this is really extraordinary! And, Phoebe, have you not received a

pair of Limerick gloves?”

“Yes, I have,” said Phoebe, “but what then? What have my Limerick gloves

to do with the ball?”

“A great deal,” replied Jenny. “Don’t you know, that a pair of Limerick

gloves is, as one may say, a ticket to this ball? for every lady that

has been asked has had a pair sent to her along with the card; and

I believe as many as twenty, besides myself, have been asked this

morning.”

Jenny then produced her new pair of Limerick gloves; and as she tried

them on, and showed how well they fitted, she counted up the names of

the ladies who, to her knowledge, were to be at this ball. When she had

finished the catalogue, she expatiated upon the grand preparations which

it was said the widow O’Neill, Mr. O’Neill’s mother, was making for the

supper; and concluded by condoling with Mrs. Hill for her misfortune

in not having been invited. Jenny took her leave, to get her dress in

readiness: “for,” added she, “Mr. O’Neill has engaged me to open the

ball, in case Phoebe does not go: but I suppose she will cheer up and go,

as she has a pair of Limerick gloves as well as the rest of us.”

There was a silence for some minutes after Jenny’s departure, which was

broken by Phoebe, who told her mother that, early in the morning, a note

had been brought to her, which she had returned unopened; because she

knew, from the hand-writing of the direction, that it came from Mr.

O’Neill.

We must observe that Phoebe had already told her mother of her meeting

with this gentleman at the poor widow’s, and of all that had passed

between them afterwards. This openness, on her part, had softened the

heart of Mrs. Hill; who was really inclined to be good-natured, provided

people would allow that she had more penetration than any one else in

Hereford. She was moreover a good deal piqued and alarmed by the idea

that the perfumer’s daughter might rival and outshine her own. Whilst

she had thought herself sure of Mr. O’Neill’s attachment to Phoebe, she

had looked higher; especially as she was persuaded, by the perfumer’s

lady, to think that an Irishman could not be a bad match: but now she

began to suspect that the perfumer’s lady had changed her opinion of

Irishmen, since she did not object to her own Jenny’s leading up the

ball at Mr. O’Neill’s.

All these thoughts passed rapidly in the mother’s mind; and, with her

fear of losing an admirer for her Phoebe, the value of that admirer

suddenly rose in her estimation. Thus, at an auction, if a lot is going

to be knocked down to a lady, who is the only person that has bid for

it, even she feels discontented, and despises that which nobody covets;

but if, as the hammer is falling, many voices answer to the question,

Who bids more? then her anxiety to secure the prize suddenly rises; and,

rather than be outbid, she will give far beyond its value.

“Why, child,” said Mrs. Hill, “since you have a pair of Limerick gloves;

and since certainly that note was an invitation to us to this ball; and

since it is much more fitting that you should open the ball than Jenny

Brown; and since, after all, it was very handsome and genteel of the

young man to say he would take you without a farthing in your pocket,

which shows that those were misinformed who talked of him as an Irish

adventurer; and since we are not certain ‘twas he made away with the

dog, although he said its barking was a great nuisance; there is no

great reason to suppose he was the person who made the hole under the

foundation of the cathedral, or that he could have such a wicked thought

as to blow it up; and since he must be in a very good way of business

to be able to afford giving away four or five guineas’ worth of Limerick

gloves, and balls and suppers; and since, after all, it is no fault of

his to be an Irishman; I give it as my vote and opinion, my dear, that

you put on your Limerick gloves and go to this ball; and I’ll go and

speak to your father, and bring him round to our opinion; and then

I’ll pay the morning visit I owe to the widow O’Neill, and make up your

quarrel with Brian. Love quarrels are easy to make up, you know; and

then we shall have things all upon velvet again; and Jenny Brown need

not come with her hypocritical condoling face to us anymore.”

After running this speech glibly off, Mrs. Hill, without waiting to hear

a syllable from poor Phoebe, trotted off in search of her consort. It

was not, however, quite so easy a task as his wife expected to bring

Mr. Hill round to her opinion. He was slow in declaring himself of any

opinion; but, when once he had said a thing, there was but little chance

of altering his notions. On this occasion, Mr. Hill was doubly bound to

his prejudice against our unlucky Irishman; for he had mentioned with

great solemnity at the club which he frequented, the grand affair of

the hole under the foundation of the cathedral; and his suspicions that

there was a design to blow it up. Several of the club had laughed at

this idea; others, who supposed that Mr. O’Neill was a Roman Catholic,

and who had a confused notion that a Roman Catholic _must_ be a very

wicked, dangerous being, thought that there might be a great deal in the

verger’s suggestions; and observed that a very watchful eye ought to be

kept upon this Irish glover, who had come to settle at Hereford nobody

knew why, and who seemed to have money at command nobody knew how.

The news of this ball sounded to Mr. Hill’s prejudiced imagination like

the news of a conspiracy. Ay! ay! thought he; the Irishman is cunning

enough! But we shall be too many for him: he wants to throw all the good

sober folks of Hereford off their guard, by feasting, and dancing, and

carousing, I take it; and so to perpetrate his evil designs when it is

least suspected; but we shall be prepared for him, fools as he takes us

plain Englishmen to be, I warrant.

In consequence of these most shrewd cogitations, our verger silenced his

wife with a peremptory nod, when she came to persuade him to let Phoebe

put on the Limerick gloves, and go to the ball. “To this ball she shall

not go; and I charge her not to put on those Limerick gloves, as she

values my blessing,” said Mr. Hill. “Please to tell her so, Mrs. Hill,

and trust to my judgment and discretion in all things, Mrs. Hill.

Strange work may be in Hereford yet: but I’ll say no more; I must go and

consult with knowing men, who are of my opinion.”

He sallied forth, and Mrs. Hill was left in a state which only those

who are troubled with the disease of excessive curiosity can rightly

comprehend or compassionate. She hied her back to Phoebe, to whom she

announced her father’s answer; and then went gossipping to all her

female acquaintance in Hereford, to tell them all that she knew, and all

that she did not know; and to endeavour to find out a secret where there

was none to be found.

There are trials of temper in all conditions: and no lady, in high or

low life, could endure them with a better grace than Phoebe. Whilst Mr.

and Mrs. Hill were busied abroad, there came to see Phoebe one of the

widow Smith’s children. With artless expressions of gratitude to Phoebe,

this little girl mixed the praises of O’Neill, who, she said, had been

the constant friend of her mother, and had given her money every

week since the fire happened. “Mammy loves him dearly, for being so

good-natured,” continued the child: “and he has been good to other

people as well as to us.”

“To whom?” said Phoebe.

“To a poor man who has lodged for these few days past next door to

us,” replied the child; “I don’t know his name rightly, but he is an

Irishman; and he goes out a-haymaking in the day-time, along with a

number of others. He knew Mr. O’Neill in his own country, and he told

mammy a great deal about his goodness.”

As the child finished these words, Phoebe took out of a drawer some

clothes, which she had made for the poor woman’s children, and gave them

to the little girl. It happened that the Limerick gloves had been thrown

into this drawer; and Phoebe’s favourable sentiments of the giver

of those gloves were revived by what she had just heard, and by the

confession Mrs. Hill had made, that she had no reasons, and but vague

suspicions, for thinking ill of him. She laid the gloves perfectly

smooth, and strewed over them, whilst the little girl went on talking of

Mr. O’Neill, the leaves of a rose which she had worn on Sunday.

Mr. Hill was all this time in deep conference with those prudent men of

Hereford, who were of his own opinion, about the perilous hole under the

cathedral. The ominous circumstance of this ball was also considered,

the great expense at which the Irish glover lived, and his giving away

gloves; which was a sure sign he was not under any necessity to sell

them; and consequently a proof that, though he pretended to be a glover,

he was something wrong in disguise. Upon putting all these things

together, it was resolved, by these over-wise politicians, that the best

thing that could be done for Hereford, and the only possible means of

preventing the immediate destruction of its cathedral, would be to take

Mr. O’Neill into custody. Upon recollection, however, it was perceived

that there was no legal ground on which he could be attacked. At

length, after consulting an attorney, they devised what they thought an

admirable mode of proceeding.

Our Irish hero had not that punctuality which English tradesmen usually

observe in the payment of bills: he had, the preceding year, run up a

long bill with a grocer in Hereford; and, as he had not at Christmas

cash in hand to pay it, he had given a note, payable six months after

date. The grocer, at Mr. Hill’s request, made over the note to him; and

it was determined that the money should be demanded, as it was now due,

and that, if it was not paid directly, O’Neill should be that night

arrested. How Mr. Hill made the discovery of this debt to the grocer

agree with his former notion that the Irish glover had always money at

command, we cannot well conceive; but anger and prejudice will swallow

down the grossest contradictions without difficulty.

When Mr. Hill’s clerk went to demand payment of the note, O’Neill’s

head was full of the ball which he was to give that evening. He was much

surprised at the unexpected appearance of the note: he had not ready

money by him to pay it; and, after swearing a good deal at the clerk,

and complaining of this ungenerous and ungentleman-like behaviour in

the grocer and the tanner, he told the clerk to be gone, and not to be

bothering him at such an unseasonable time; that he could not have the

money then, and did not deserve to have it at all.

This language and conduct were rather new to the English clerk’s

mercantile ears: we cannot wonder that it should seem to him, as he said

to his master, more the language of a madman than a man of business.

This want of punctuality in money transactions, and this mode of

treating contracts as matters of favour and affection, might not have

damned the fame of our hero in his own country, where such conduct is,

alas! too common; but he was now in a kingdom where the manners and

customs are so directly opposite, that he could meet with no allowance

for his national faults. It would be well for his countrymen if they

were made, even by a few mortifications, somewhat sensible of this

important difference in the habits of Irish and English traders, before

they come to settle in England.

But, to proceed with our story. On the night of Mr. O’Neill’s grand

ball, as he was seeing his fair partner, the perfumer’s daughter, safe

home, he felt himself tapped on the shoulder by no friendly hand. When

he was told that he was the king’s prisoner, he vociferated with sundry

strange oaths, which we forbear to repeat, “No, I am not the king’s

prisoner! I am the prisoner of that shabby rascally tanner, Jonathan

Hill. None but he would arrest a gentleman, in this way, for a trifle

not worth mentioning.”

Miss Jenny Brown screamed when she found herself under the protection

of a man who was arrested; and, what between her screams and his oaths,

there was such a disturbance that a mob gathered.

Among this mob there was a party of Irish haymakers, who, after

returning late from a hard day’s work, had been drinking in a

neighbouring ale-house. With one accord they took part with their

countryman, and would have rescued him from the civil officers with

all the pleasure in life, if he had not fortunately possessed just

sufficient sense and command of himself, to restrain their party

spirit, and to forbid them, as they valued his life and reputation, to

interfere, by word or deed, in his defence.

He then despatched one of the haymakers home to his mother, to inform

her of what had happened; and to request that she would get somebody to

be bail for him as soon as possible, as the officers said they could not

let him out of their sight till he was bailed by substantial people, or

till the debt was discharged.

The widow O’Neill was just putting out the candles in the ball-room when

this news of her son’s arrest was brought to her. We pass over Hibernian

exclamations: she consoled her pride by reflecting that it would

certainly be the most easy thing imaginable to procure bail for Mr.

O’Neill in Hereford, where he had so many friends who had just been

dancing at his house, but to dance at his house she found was one thing,

and to be bail for him quite another. Each guest sent excuses; and the

widow O’Neill was astonished at what never fails to astonish every body

when it happens to themselves. “Rather than let my son be detained in

this manner for a paltry debt,” cried she, “I’d sell all I have within

half an hour to a pawnbroker.” It was well no pawnbroker heard this

declaration: she was too warm to consider economy. She sent for a

pawnbroker, who lived in the same street, and, after pledging goods to

treble the amount of the debt, she obtained ready money for her son’s

release.

O’Neill, after being in custody for about an hour and a half, was set at

liberty upon the payment of his debt. As he passed by the cathedral in

his way home, he heard the clock strike; and he called to a man, who was

walking backwards and forwards in the churchyard, to ask whether it was

two or three that the clock struck. “Three,” answered the man; “and, as

yet, all is safe.”

O’Neill, whose head was full of other things, did not stop to inquire

the meaning of these last words. He little suspected that this man was a

watchman, whom the over-vigilant verger had stationed there to guard the

Hereford cathedral from his attacks. O’Neill little guessed that he

had been arrested merely to keep him from blowing up the cathedral this

night. The arrest had an excellent effect upon his mind, for he was a

young man of good sense: it made him resolve to retrench his expenses in

time, to live more like a glover and less like a gentleman; and to aim

more at establishing credit, and less at gaining popularity. He found,

from experience, that good friends will not pay bad debts.

CHAPTER II.

On Thursday morning, our verger rose in unusually good spirits,

congratulating himself upon the eminent service he had done to the city

of Hereford, by his sagacity in discovering the foreign plot to blow up

the cathedral, and by his dexterity in having the enemy held in custody,

at the very hour when the dreadful deed was to have been perpetrated.

Mr. Hill’s knowing friends farther agreed it would be necessary to have

a guard that should sit up every night in the churchyard; and that as

soon as they could, by constantly watching the enemy’s motions, procure

any information which the attorney should deem sufficient grounds for a

legal proceeding, they should lay the whole business before the mayor.

After arranging all this most judiciously and mysteriously with friends

who were exactly of his own opinion, Mr. Hill laid aside his dignity of

verger; and assuming his other character of a tanner proceeded to his

tan-yard. What was his surprise and consternation, when he beheld his

great rick of oak bark levelled to the ground; the pieces of bark were

scattered far and wide, some over the close, some over the fields, and

some were seen swimming upon the water! No tongue, no pen, no muse can

describe the feelings of our tanner at this spectacle! feelings which

became the more violent from the absolute silence which he imposed on

himself upon this occasion. He instantly decided in his own mind, that

this injury was perpetrated by O’Neill, in revenge for his arrest; and

went privately to the attorney to inquire what was to be done, on his

part, to secure legal vengeance.

The attorney unluckily, or at least as Mr. Hill thought, unluckily, had

been sent for, half an hour before, by a gentleman at some distance from

Hereford, to draw up a will; so that our tanner was obliged to postpone

his legal operations.

We forbear to recount his return, and how many times he walked up and

down the close to view his scattered bark, and to estimate the damage

that had been done to him. At length that hour came which usually

suspends all passions by the more imperious power of appetite--the hour

of dinner; an hour of which it was never needful to remind Mr. Hill by

watch, clock, or dial; for he was blessed with a punctual appetite, and

powerful as punctual: so powerful, indeed, that it often excited the

spleen of his more genteel, or less hungry wife.--“Bless my stars, Mr.

Hill,” she would oftentimes say, “I am really downright ashamed to see

you eat so much; and when company is to dine with us, I do wish you

would take a snack by way of a damper before dinner, that you may not

look so prodigious famishing and ungenteel.”

Upon this hint, Mr. Hill commenced a practice, to which he ever

afterwards religiously adhered, of going, whether there was to be

company or no company, into the kitchen regularly every day, half an

hour before dinner, to take a slice from the roast or the boiled before

it went up to table. As he was this day, according to his custom, in the

kitchen, taking his snack by way of a damper, he heard the housemaid and

the cook talking about some wonderful fortune-teller, whom the housemaid

had been consulting. This fortune-teller was no less a personage than

the successor to Bampfylde Moore Carew, king of the gipsies, whose life

and adventures are probably in many, too many, of our readers’ hands.

Bampfylde, the second king of the gipsies, assumed this title, in hopes

of becoming as famous, or as infamous, as his predecessor: he was now

holding his court in a wood near the town of Hereford, and numbers of

servant-maids and ‘prentices went to consult him--nay, it was whispered

that he was resorted to, secretly, by some whose education might have

taught them better sense.

Numberless were the instances which our verger heard in his kitchen of

the supernatural skill of this cunning man; and whilst Mr. Hill ate his

snack with his wonted gravity, he revolved great designs in his secret

soul. Mrs. Hill was surprised, several times during dinner, to see her

consort put down his knife and fork, and meditate. “Gracious me, Mr.

Hill, what can have happened to you this day? What can you be thinking

of, Mr. Hill, that can make you forget what you have upon your plate?”

“Mrs. Hill,” replied the thoughtful verger, “our grand-mother Eve had

too much curiosity; and we all know it did not lead to good. What I am

thinking of will be known to you in due time, but not now, Mrs. Hill;

therefore, pray, no questions, or teasing, or pumping. What I think, I

think; what I say, I say; what I know, I know; and that is enough for

you to know at present: only this, Phoebe, you did very well not to put

on the Limerick gloves, child. What I know, I know. Things will turn out

just as I said from the first. What I say, I say; and what I think, I

think; and this is enough for you to know at present.”

Having finished dinner with this solemn speech, Mr. Hill settled himself

in his arm-chair, to take his after-dinner’s nap; and he dreamed of

blowing up cathedrals, and of oak bark floating upon the waters; and

the cathedral was, he thought, blown up by a man dressed in a pair of

woman’s Limerick gloves, and the oak bark turned into mutton steaks,

after which his great dog Jowler was swimming; when, all on a sudden, as

he was going to beat Jowler for eating the bark transformed into mutton

steaks, Jowler became Bampfylde the second, king of the gipsies; and

putting a horsewhip with a silver handle into Hill’s hand, commanded

him three times, in a voice as loud as the town crier’s, to have O’Neill

whipped through the market-place of Hereford: but, just as he was going

to the window to see this whipping, his wig fell off, and he awoke.

It was difficult, even for Mr. Hill’s sagacity, to make sense of this

dream: but he had the wise art of always finding in his dreams something

that confirmed his waking determinations. Before he went to sleep, he

had half resolved to consult the king of the gipsies, in the absence

of the attorney; and his dream made him now wholly determined upon this

prudent step. From Bampfylde the second, thought he, I shall learn for

certain who made the hole under the cathedral, who pulled down my rick

of bark, and who made away with my dog Jowler; and then I shall swear

examinations against O’Neill without waiting for attorneys. I will

follow my own way in this business: I have always found my own way best.

So, when the dusk of the evening increased, our wise man set out towards

the wood to consult the cunning man. Bampfylde the second, king of the

gipsies, resided in a sort of hut made of the branches of trees:

the verger stooped, but did not stoop low enough, as he entered this

temporary palace; and, whilst his body was almost bent double, his

peruke was caught upon a twig. From this awkward situation he was

relieved by the consort of the king; and he now beheld, by the light

of some embers, the person of his gipsy majesty, to whose sublime

appearance this dim light was so favourable that it struck a secret awe

into our wise man’s soul; and, forgetting Hereford cathedral, and oak

bark, and Limerick gloves, he stood for some seconds speechless. During

this time, the queen very dexterously disencumbered his pocket of all

superfluous articles. When he recovered his recollection, he put with

great solemnity the following queries to the king of the gipsies, and

received the following answers:

“Do you know a dangerous Irishman, of the name of O’Neill, who has come,

for purposes best known to himself, to settle at Hereford?”

“Yes, we know him well.”

“Indeed! And what do you know of him?”

“That he is a dangerous Irishman.”

“Right! And it was he, was it not, that pulled down, or caused to be

pulled down, my rick of oak bark?”

“It was.”

“And who was it that made away with my dog Jowler, that used to guard

the tan-yard?”

“It was the person that you suspect.”

“And was it the person whom I suspect that made the hole under the

foundation of our cathedral?”

“The same, and no other.”

“And for what purpose did he make that hole?”

“For a purpose that must not be named,” replied the king of the gipsies;

nodding his head in a mysterious manner.

“But it may be named to me,” cried the verger, “for I have found it out,

and I am one of the vergers; and is it not fit that a plot to blow up

the Hereford cathedral should be known _to_ me, and _through_ me?”

“Now, take my word,

Wise men of Hereford,

None in safety may be,

Till the _bad man_ doth flee.”

These oracular verses, pronounced by Bampfylde with all the enthusiasm

of one who was inspired, had the desired effect upon our wise man; and

he left the presence of the king of the gipsies with a prodigiously

high opinion of his majesty’s judgment and of his own, fully resolved

to impart, the next morning, to the mayor of Hereford, his important

discoveries.

Now it happened that, during the time Mr. Hill was putting the foregoing

queries to Bampfylde the second, there came to the door or entrance

of the audience chamber, an Irish haymaker, who wanted to consult the

cunning man about a little leathern purse which he had lost, whilst he

was making hay, in a field near Hereford. This haymaker was the same

person who, as we have related, spoke so advantageously of our

hero, O’Neill, to the widow Smith. As this man, whose name was Paddy

M’Cormack, stood at the entrance of the gipsies’ hut, his attention

was caught by the name of O’Neill; and he lost not a word of all that

passed. He had reason to be somewhat surprised at hearing Bampfylde

assert it was O’Neill who had pulled down the rick of bark. “By the holy

poker,” said he to himself, “the old fellow now is out there. I know

more o’ that matter than he does--no offence to his majesty: he knows

no more of my purse, I’ll engage now, than he does of this man’s rick of

bark and his dog: so I’ll keep my tester in my pocket, and not be giving

it to this king o’ the gipsies, as they call him; who, as near as I can

guess, is no better than a cheat. But there is one secret which I can be

telling this conjuror himself; he shall not find it such an easy matter

to do all what he thinks; he shall not be after ruining an innocent

countryman of my own, whilst Paddy M’Cormack has a tongue and brains.”

Now Paddy M’Cormack had the best reason possible for knowing that Mr.

O’Neill did not pull down Mr. Hill’s rick of bark; it was M’Cormack

himself, who, in the heat of his resentment for the insulting arrest

of his countryman in the streets of Hereford, had instigated his fellow

haymakers to this mischief; he headed them, and thought he was doing a

clever, spirited action.

There is a strange mixture of virtue and vice in the minds of the lower

class of Irish; or rather a strange confusion in their ideas of right

and wrong, from want of proper education. As soon as poor Paddy found

out that his spirited action of pulling down the rick of bark was likely

to be the ruin of his countryman, he resolved to make all the amends

in his power for his folly: he went to collect his fellow haymakers

and persuaded them to assist him this night in rebuilding what they had

pulled down.

They went to this work when every body except themselves, as they

thought, was asleep in Hereford. They had just completed the stack,

and were all going away except Paddy, who was seated at the very top,

finishing the pile, when they heard a loud voice cry out, “Here they

are, Watch! Watch!”

Immediately, all the haymakers, who could, ran off as fast as possible.

It was the watch who had been sitting up at the cathedral who gave

the alarm. Paddy was taken from the top of the rick, and lodged in the

watchhouse till morning. “Since I’m to be rewarded this way for doing a

good action, sorrow take me,” said he, “if they catch me doing another

the longest day ever I live.”

Happy they who have in their neighbourhood such a magistrate as Mr.

Marshal! He was a man who, to an exact knowledge of the duties of

his office, joined the power of discovering truth from the midst of

contradictory evidence; and the happy art of soothing, or laughing,

the angry passions into good-humour. It was a common saying in

Hereford--that no one ever came out of Justice Marshal’s house as angry

as he went into it.

Mr. Marshal had scarcely breakfasted when he was informed that Mr. Hill,

the verger, wanted to speak to him on business of the utmost importance.

Mr. Hill, the verger, was ushered in; and, with gloomy solemnity, took a

seat opposite to Mr. Marshal.

“Sad doings in Hereford, Mr. Marshal! Sad doings, sir.”

“Sad doings? Why, I was told we had merry doings in Hereford. A ball the

night before last, as I heard.”

“So much the worse, Mr. Marshal; so much the worse; as those think with

reason that see as far into things as I do.”

“So much the better, Mr. Hill,” said Mr. Marshal, laughing; “so much the

better; as those think with reason that see no farther into things than

I do.”

“But, sir,” said the verger, still more solemnly, “this is no laughing

matter, nor time for laughing; begging your pardon. Why, sir, the night

of that there diabolical ball, our Hereford cathedral, sir, would have

been blown up--blown up from the foundation, if it had not been for me,

sir!”

“Indeed, Mr. Verger! And pray how, and by whom, was the cathedral to be

blown up? and what was there diabolical in this ball?”

Here Mr. Hill let Mr. Marshal into the whole history of his early

dislike to O’Neill, and his shrewd suspicions of him the first moment

he saw him in Hereford; related in the most prolix manner all that

the reader knows already, and concluded by saying that, as he was now

certain of his facts, he was come to swear examinations against this

villanous Irishman, who, he hoped, would be speedily brought to justice,

as he deserved.

“To justice he shall be brought, as he deserves,” said Mr. Marshal;

“but, before I write, and before you swear, will you have the goodness

to inform me how you have made yourself as certain, as you evidently

are, of what you call your facts?”

“Sir, that is a secret,” replied our wise man, “which I shall trust to

you alone;” and he whispered into Mr. Marshal’s ear that his information

came from Bampfylde the second, king of the gipsies.

Mr. Marshal instantly burst into laughter; then composing himself said,

“My good sir, I am really glad that you have proceeded no farther in

this business; and that no one in Hereford, beside myself, knows that

you were on the point of swearing examinations against a man on the

evidence of Bampfylde the second, king of the gipsies{1}. My dear sir,

it would be a standing joke against you to the end of your days. A

grave man, like Mr. Hill; and a verger too! Why, you would be the

laughing-stock of Hereford!”

Now Mr. Marshal well knew the character of the man to whom he was

talking, who, above all things on earth, dreaded to be laughed at. Mr.

Hill coloured all over his face, and, pushing back his wig by way of

settling it, showed that he blushed not only all over his face but all

over his head.

{Footnote 1: The following passage is an extract from Colquhoun, On

the Police of the Metropolis, page 69:--“An instance of mischievous

credulity, occasioned by consulting this impostor” (_a man calling

himself an astrologer, who practised long in the Curtain-road,

Shoreditch, London; and who is said, in conjunction with his associates,

to have made near 300£. a year by practising on the credulity of the

lower order of the people_), “fell lately under the review of a police

magistrate. A person, having property stolen from him, went to consult

the conjuror respecting the thief; who having described something like

the person of a man whom he suspected, his credulity and folly so far

got the better of his reason and reflection, as to induce him, upon

the authority of this impostor, actually to charge his neighbour with a

felony, and to cause him to be apprehended. The magistrate settled the

matter by discharging the prisoner, reprimanding the accuser severely,

and ordering the conjuror to be taken into custody, according to law, as

a rogue and a vagabond.”}

“Why, Mr. Marshal, sir,” said he, “as to my being laughed at, it is what

I did not look for, being as there are some men in Hereford to whom

I have mentioned that hole in the cathedral, who have thought it

no laughing matter, and who have been precisely of my own opinion

thereupon.”

“But did you tell these gentlemen that you had been consulting the king

of the gipsies?”

“No, sir, no: I can’t say that I did.”

“Then I advise you, keep your own counsel, as I will.”

Mr. Hill, whose imagination wavered between the hole in the cathedral

and his rick of bark on one side, and between his rick of bark and his

dog Jowler on the other, now began to talk of the dog, and now of the

rick of bark; and when he had exhausted all he had to say upon these

subjects, Mr. Marshal gently pulled him towards the window, and putting

a spy-glass into his hand, bid him look towards his own tan-yard, and

tell him what he saw. To his great surprise, Mr. Hill saw his rick of

bark rebuilt.

“Why, it was not there last night,” exclaimed he, rubbing his eyes.

“Why, some conjuror must have done this.”

“No,” replied Mr. Marshal, “no conjuror did it: but your friend

Bampfylde the second, king of the gipsies, was the cause of its being

rebuilt; and here is the man who actually pulled it down, and who

actually rebuilt it.”

As he said these words, Mr. Marshal opened the door of an adjoining

room, and beckoned to the Irish haymaker, who had been taken into

custody about an hour before this time. The watch who took Paddy had

called at Mr. Hill’s house to tell him what had happened, but Mr. Hill

was not then at home.

It was with much surprise that the verger heard the simple truth from

this poor fellow; but no sooner was he convinced that O’Neill was

innocent as to this affair, than he recurred to his other ground of

suspicion, the loss of his dog.

The Irish haymaker now stepped forward, and, with a peculiar twist of

the hips and shoulders, which those only who have seen it can picture to

themselves, said, “Plase your honour’s honour, I have a little word to

say too about the dog.” “Say it then,” said Mr. Marshal.

“Plase your honour, if I might expect to be forgiven, and let off for

pulling down the jontleman’s stack, I might be able to tell him what I

know about the dog.”

“If you can tell me any thing about my dog,” said the tanner, “I will

freely forgive you for pulling down the rick: especially as you have

built it up again. Speak the truth now: did not O’Neill make away with

the dog?”

“Not at all at all, plase your honour,” replied the haymaker: “and the

truth of the matter is, I know nothing of the dog, good or bad; but I

know something of his collar, if your name, plase your honour, is Hill,

as I take it to be?”

“My name is Hill: proceed,” said the tanner, with great eagerness. “You

know something about the collar of my dog Jowler?”

“Plase your honour, this much I know any way, that it is now or was the

night before last, at the pawnbroker’s there, below in town; for, plase

your honour, I was sent late at night (that night that Mr. O’Neill,

long life to him! was arrested) to the pawnbroker’s for a Jew, by Mrs.

O’Neill, poor creature! she was in great trouble that same time.”

“Very likely,” interrupted Mr. Hill: “but go on to the collar; what of

the collar?”

“She sent me,--I’ll tell you the story, plase your honour, _out of the

face_--she sent me to the pawnbroker’s for the Jew; and, it being so

late at night, the shop was shut, and it was with all the trouble in

life that I got into the house any way: and, when I got in, there was

none but a slip of a boy up; and he set down the light that he had in

his hand, and ran up the stairs to waken his master: and, whilst he was

gone, I just made bold to look round at what sort of a place I was in,

and at the old clothes and rags and scraps; there was a sort of a frieze

trusty.”

“A trusty!” said Mr. Hill; “what is that pray?”

“A big coat, sure, plase your honour: there was a frieze big coat lying

in a corner, which I had my eye upon, to trate myself to; I having, as

I then thought, money in my little purse enough for it. Well, I won’t

trouble your honour’s honour with telling of you now how I lost my purse

in the field, as I found after; but about the big coat, as I was saying,

I just lifted it off the ground, to see would it fit me; and, as I swung

it round, something, plase your honour, hit me a great knock on the

shins: it was in the pocket of the coat, whatever it was, I knew; so I

looks into the pocket, to see what was it, plase your honour, and out

I pulls a hammer and a dog-collar; it was a wonder, both together, they

did not break my shins entirely: but it’s no matter for my shins now:

so, before the boy came down, I just out of idleness spelt out to myself

the name that was upon the collar: there were two names, plase your

honour; and out of the first there were so many letters hammered out I

could make nothing of it, at all at all; but the other name was plain

enough to read any way, and it was Hill, plase your honour’s honour, as

sure as life: Hill, now.”

This story was related in tones and gestures which were so new and

strange to English ears and eyes, that even the solemnity of our verger

gave way to laughter.--Mr. Marshal sent a summons for the pawnbroker,

that he might learn from him how he came by the dog-collar. The

pawnbroker, when he found from Mr. Marshal that he could by no other

means save himself from being committed to prison, confessed that

the collar had been sold to him by Bampfylde the second, king of the

gipsies.

A warrant was immediately despatched for his majesty: and Mr. Hill was

a good deal alarmed, by the fear of its being known in Hereford that he

was on the point of swearing examinations against an innocent man, upon

the evidence of a dog-stealer and a gipsy.

Bampfylde the second made no sublime appearance, when he was brought

before Mr. Marshal; nor could all his astrology avail upon this

occasion: the evidence of the pawnbroker was so positive, as to the fact

of his having sold to him the dog-collar, that there was no resource

left for Bampfylde but an appeal to Mr. Hill’s mercy. He fell on his

knees, and confessed that it was he who stole the dog; which used to

bark at him at night so furiously that he could not commit certain petty

depredations, by which, as much as by telling fortunes, he made his

livelihood.

“And so,” said Mr. Marshal, with a sternness of manner which till now he

had never shown, “to screen yourself, you accused an innocent man; and

by your vile arts would have driven him from Hereford, and have set two

families for ever at variance, to conceal that you had stolen a dog.”

The king of the gipsies was, without farther ceremony, committed to the

house of correction. We should not omit to mention, that, on searching

his hut, the Irish haymaker’s purse was found, which some of his

majesty’s train had emptied. The whole set of gipsies decamped, upon the

news of the apprehension of their monarch.

Mr. Hill stood in profound silence, leaning upon his walking-stick,

whilst the committal was making out for Bampfylde the second. The fear

of ridicule was struggling with the natural positiveness of his temper:

he was dreadfully afraid that the story of his being taken in by the

king of the gipsies would get abroad; and, at the same time, he was

unwilling to give up his prejudice against the Irish glover.

“But, Mr. Marshal,” cried he, after a long silence, “the hole under the

foundation of the cathedral has never been accounted for: that is, was,

and ever will be, an ugly mystery to me; and I never can have a good

opinion of this Irishman, till it is cleared up; nor can I think the

cathedral in safety.”

“What,” said Mr. Marshal, with an arch smile, “I suppose the verses

of the oracle still work upon your imagination, Mr. Hill. They are

excellent in their kind. I must have them by heart that, when I am asked

the reason why Mr. Hill has taken an aversion to an Irish glover, I may

be able to repeat them:

‘Now, take my word,

Wise men of Hereford,

None in safety may be,

Till the bad man doth flee.’”

“You’ll oblige me, sir,” said the verger, “if you would never repeat

those verses, sir; nor mention, in any company, the affair of the king

of the gipsies.”

“I will oblige you,” replied Mr. Marshal, “if you will oblige me. Will

you tell me honestly whether now that you find this Mr. O’Neill is

neither a dog-killer nor a puller down of bark ricks, you feel that you

could forgive him for being an Irishman, if the mystery, as you call

it, of the hole under the cathedral was cleared up?” “But that is not

cleared up, I say, sir,” cried Mr. Hill, striking his walking-stick

forcibly upon the ground, with both his hands. “As to the matter of

his being an Irishman, I have nothing to say to it: I am not saying any

thing about that, for I know we all are born where it pleases God; and

an Irishman may be as good as another. I know that much, Mr. Marshal;

and I am not one of those illiberal-minded ignorant people that

cannot abide a man that was not born in England. Ireland is now in his

majesty’s dominions, I know very well, Mr. Marshal; and I have no

manner of doubt, as I said before, that an Irishman born may be as good,

almost, as an Englishman born.”

“I am glad,” said Mr. Marshal, “to hear you speak, almost, as reasonably

as an Englishman born and every man ought to speak; and I am convinced

that you have too much English hospitality to persecute an inoffensive

stranger, who comes amongst us trusting to our justice and good nature.”

“I would not persecute a stranger, God forbid!” replied the verger, “if

he was, as you say, inoffensive.”

“And if he was not only inoffensive, but ready to do every service in

his power to those who are in want of his assistance, we should not

return evil for good, should we?”

“That would be uncharitable, to be sure; and moreover a scandal,” said

the verger.

“Then,” said Mr. Marshal, “will you walk with me as far as the widow

Smith’s, the poor woman whose house was burnt last winter! This

haymaker, who lodged near her, can show us the way to her present

abode.”

During his examination of Paddy M’Cormack, who would tell his whole

history, as he called it, _out of the face_, Mr. Marshal heard several

instances of the humanity and goodness of O’Neill, which Paddy related

to excuse himself for that warmth of attachment to his cause, that had

been manifested so injudiciously by pulling down the rick of bark

in revenge for the arrest. Amongst other things, Paddy mentioned his

countryman’s goodness to the widow Smith: Mr. Marshal was determined,

therefore, to see whether he had, in this instance, spoken the truth;

and he took Mr. Hill with him, in hopes of being able to show him the

favourable side of O’Neill’s character. Things turned out just as Mr.

Marshal expected. The poor widow and her family, in the most simple

and affecting manner, described the distress from which they had been

relieved by the good gentleman and lady, the lady was Phoebe Hill;

and the praises that were bestowed upon Phoebe were delightful to her

father’s ear, whose angry passions had now all subsided.

The benevolent Mr. Marshal seized the moment when he saw Mr. Hill’s

heart was touched, and exclaimed, “I must be acquainted with this Mr.

O’Neill. I am sure we people of Hereford ought to show some hospitality

to a stranger, who has so much humanity. Mr. Hill, will you dine with

him to-morrow at my house?”

Mr. Hill was just going to accept of this invitation, when the

recollection of all he had said to his club about the hole under the

cathedral came across him; and, drawing Mr. Marshal aside, he whispered,

“But sir, sir, that affair of the hole under the cathedral has not been

cleared up yet.”

At this instant, the widow Smith exclaimed, “Oh! here comes my little

Mary” (one of her children, who came running in): “this is the little

girl, sir, to whom the lady has been so good. Make your curtsy, child.

Where have you been all this while?”

“Mammy,” said the child, “I’ve been showing the lady my rat.”

“Lord bless her! Gentlemen, the child has been wanting me this many

a day to go to see this tame rat of hers; but I could never get time,

never: and I wondered too at the child’s liking such a creature. Tell

the gentlemen, dear, about your rat. All I know is, that, let her have

but never such a tiny bit of bread, for breakfast or supper, she saves

a little of that little for this rat of hers: she and her brothers have

found it out somewhere by the cathedral.”

“It comes out of a hole under the wall of the cathedral,” said one

of the elder boys; “and we have diverted ourselves watching it, and

sometimes we have put victuals for it, so it has grown, in a manner,

tame like.”

Mr. Hill and Mr. Marshal looked at one another during this speech; and

the dread of ridicule again seized on Mr. Hill, when he apprehended

that, after all he had said, the mountain might, at last, bring forth--a

rat. Mr. Marshal, who instantly saw what passed in the verger’s mind,

relieved him from this fear, by refraining even from a smile on this

occasion. He only said to the child, in a grave manner, “I am afraid,

my dear, we shall be obliged to spoil your diversion. Mr. Verger, here,

cannot suffer rat-holes in the cathedral: but, to make you amends for

the loss of your favourite, I will give you a very pretty little dog, if

you have a mind.”

The child was well pleased with this promise; and, at Mr. Marshal’s

desire, she then went along with him and Mr. Hill to the cathedral, and

they placed themselves at a little distance from that hole which had

created so much disturbance. The child soon brought the dreadful enemy

to light; and Mr. Hill, with a faint laugh, said, “I’m glad it’s no

worse: but there were many in our club who were of my opinion; and, if

they had not suspected O’Neill too, I am sure I should never have given

you so much trouble, sir, as I have done this morning. But, I hope, as

the club know nothing about that vagabond, that king of the gipsies, you

will not let any one know any thing about the prophecy, and all that?

I am sure, I am very sorry to have given you so much trouble, Mr.

Marshal.”

Mr. Marshal assured him that he did not regret the time which he had

spent in endeavouring to clear up all these mysteries and suspicions;

and Mr. Hill gladly accepted his invitation to meet O’Neill at his house

the next day. No sooner had Mr. Marshal brought one of the parties

to reason and good-humour, than he went to prepare the other for a

reconciliation. O’Neill and his mother were both people of warm but

forgiving tempers: the arrest was fresh in their minds; but when

Mr. Marshal represented to them the whole affair, and the verger’s

prejudices, in a humorous light, they joined in the good-natured laugh,

and O’Neill declared that, for his part, he was ready to forgive and

to forget every thing, if he could but see Miss Phoebe in the Limerick

gloves.

Phosbe appeared the next day, at Mr. Marshal’s, in the Limerick gloves;

and no perfume ever was so delightful to her lover as the smell of the

rose leaves, in which they had been kept. Mr. Marshal had the benevolent

pleasure of reconciling the two families. The tanner and the glover of

Hereford became, from bitter enemies, useful friends to each other; and

they were convinced, by experience, that nothing could be more for their

mutual advantage than to live in union.

_Nov_. 1799.

OUT OF THE DEBT OUT OF DANGER

CHAPTER I.

Leonard Ludgate was the only son and heir of a London haberdasher, who

had made some money by constant attendance to his shop. “Out of debt

out of danger,” was the father’s old-fashioned saying. The son’s more

liberal maxim was, “Spend to-day, and spare to-morrow.” Whilst he

was under his father’s eye, it was not in his power to live up to his

principles; and he longed for the time when he should be relieved from

his post behind the counter: a situation which he deemed highly unworthy

a youth of his parts and spirit. To imprison his elegant person behind a

counter in Cranbourne-alley was, to be sure, in a cruel father’s

power; but his tyranny could not extend to his mind; and, whilst he was

weighing minikin pins, or measuring out penny ribbon, his soul, leaving

all these meaner things, was expatiating in Bond-street or Hyde-park.

Whilst his fingers mechanically adjusted the scales, or carelessly

slipped the yard, his imagination was galloping a fine bay with Tom

Lewis, or driving Miss Belle Perkins in a gig.

Now Tom Lewis was a dashing young citizen, whom old Ludgate could not

endure; and Miss Belle Perkins a would-be fine lady, whom he advised

his son never to think of for a wife. But the happy moment at length

arrived, when our hero could safely show how much he despised both the

advice and the character of his father; when he could quit his nook

behind the counter, throw aside the yard, assume the whip, and affect

the fine gentleman. In short, the happy moment came when his father

died.

Leonard now shone forth in all the glory which the united powers of

tailor, hatter, and hosier, could spread around lug person. Miss Belle

Perkins, who had hitherto looked down upon our hero as a reptile of

Cranbourne-alley, beheld his metamorphosis with surprise and admiration.

And she, who had formerly been heard to say, “she would not touch him

with a pair of tongs,” now unreluctantly gave him her envied hand at

a ball at Bagnigge Wells. Report farther adds that, at tea, Miss Belle

whispered loud enough to be heard, that since his queer father’s death,

Leonard Ludgate had turned out quite a genteeler sort of person than

could have been expected.

“Upon this hint he spake.” His fair one, after assuming all proper and

becoming airs upon the occasion, suffered herself to be prevailed

upon to call, with her mother and a friend, at Mr. Ludgate’s house in

Cranbourne-alley, to see whether it could be possibly inhabited by a

lady of her taste and consequence.

As Leonard handed her out of her hackney-coach, she exclaimed, “Bless

us, and be we to go up this paved lane, and through the shop, before we

can get to the more creditabler apartments?”

“I’m going to cut a passage off the shop, which I’ve long had in

contemplation,” replied our hero; “only I can’t get light into it

cleverly.”

“Oh! a lamp in the style of a _chandaleer_ will do vastly well by night,

which is the time one wants one’s house to put the best foot foremost,

for company; and by day we can make a shift, somehow or other, I dare

say. Any thing’s better than _trapesing_ through a shop; which is a

thing I’ve never been used to, and cannot reconcile myself to by any

means.”

Leonard immediately acceded to this scheme of the dark passage by day,

and the _chandaleer_ by night; and he hurried his fair one through the

odious shop to the _more creditabler_ apartments. She was handed above,

about, and underneath. She found every particle of the house wanted

modernizing immensely, and was altogether smaller than she could ever

have conceived beforehand. Our hero, ambitious at once to show his

gallantry, spirit, and taste, incessantly protested he would adopt every

improvement Miss Belle Perkins could suggest; and he declared that the

identical same ideas had occurred to him a hundred and a hundred times,

during his poor father’s lifetime: but he could never make the old

gentleman enter into any thing of the sort, his notions of life being

utterly limited, to say no worse. “He had one old saw, for ever grating

in my ears, as an answer to everything that bore the stamp of gentility,

or carried with it an air of spirit: hey, Allen!” continued our hero,

looking over his shoulder at a young man who was casting up accounts;

“hey, Allen--you remember the old saw?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the young man, “if you mean, ‘Out of debt out of

danger:’ I hope I shall never forget it.”

“I hope so too; as you have your fortune to make, it is very proper for

you: but for one that has a fortune ready made to spend, I am free to

confess I think my principle worth a million of it: and my maxim is,

‘Spend to-day, and spare to-morrow:’ hey, ladies?” concluded Leonard,

appealing with an air secure of approbation to his fair mistress and her

young companion.

“Why that suits my notions, I must own candidly,” said Belle; “but

here’s one beside me, or behind me--Where are you, Lucy?” pursued the

young lady, addressing herself to her humble companion: “here’s one, who

is more of your shop-man’s way of thinking than yours, I fancy. ‘Out of

debt out of danger’ is just a sober saying to your mind, an’t it, Lucy?”

Lucy did not deny the charge. “Well, child,” said Miss Perkins, “it’s

very proper, for you have no fortune of your own to spend.”

“It is, indeed,” said Lucy, with modest firmness; “for as I have none

of my own, if it were my maxim to spend to-day and spare to-morrow, I

should be obliged to spend other people’s money, which I never will do

as long as I can maintain myself independently.”

“How proud we are!” cried Miss Perkins, sarcastically. Leonard assented

to the sarcasm by his looks; but Allen declared he liked proper pride,

and seemed to think that Lucy’s was of this species.

An argument might have ensued, if a collation, as Mr. Ludgate called it,

had not appeared at this critical moment. Of what it consisted, and how

genteelly and gallantly our hero did the honours of his collation, we

forbear to relate; but one material circumstance we must not omit, as

on this, perhaps more than even on his gentility and gallantry, depended

the fortune of the day. In rummaging over a desk to find a corkscrew,

young Ludgate took occasion to open and shake a pocket-book, from which

fell a shower of bank notes. What effect they produced upon his fair

one, and on her mother, can be best judged of by the event. Miss Belle

Perkins, after this domiciliary visit, consented to go with our hero on

Sunday to Kensington Gardens, Monday to Sadler’s Wells, Tuesday on the

water, Wednesday to the play, Thursday the Lord knows to what ball,

Friday to Vauxhall, and on Saturday to--the altar!

Some people thought the young lady and gentleman rather precipitate; but

these were persons who, as the bride justly observed, did not understand

any thing in nature of a love match. Those who have more liberal

notions, and a more extensive knowledge of the human heart, can readily

comprehend how a lady may think a man so odious at one minute, that she

could not touch him with a pair of tongs, and so charming the next,

that she would die a thousand deaths for him, and him alone. Immediately

after the ceremony was performed, Mr. and Mrs. Ludgate went down in

the hoy to Margate, to spend their honeymoon in style. Their honeymoon,

alas! could not be prolonged beyond the usual bounds. Even the joys of

Margate could not be eternal, and the day came too soon when our happy

pair were obliged to think of returning home. Home! With what different

sensations different people pronounce and hear that word pronounced!

Mrs. Leonard Ludgate’s home in Cranbourne-alley appeared to her, as she

scrupled not to declare, an intolerable low place, after Margate. The

stipulated alterations, her husband observed, had been made in the

house, but none of them had been executed to her satisfaction. The

expedient of the dark passage was not found to succeed: a thorough wind,

from the front and back doors, ran along it when either or both were

left open to admit light; and this wicked wind, not content with running

along the passage, forced its way up and down stairs, made the kitchen

chimney smoke, and rendered even the _more creditabler_ apartments

scarcely habitable. Chimney doctors were in vain consulted: the

favourite dark passage was at length abandoned, and the lady, to her

utter discomfiture, was obliged to pass through the shop.

To make herself amends for this mortification, she insisted upon

throwing down the partition between the dining-room and her own

bedchamber, that she might have one decent apartment at least fit for

a rout. It was to no purpose that her friend Lucy, who was called in to

assist in making up furniture, represented that this scheme of throwing

bedchamber and dining-room into one would be attended with some

inconveniences; for instance, that Mr. and Mrs. Ludgate would be

obliged, in consequence of this improvement, to sleep in half of the

maid’s garret, or to sit up all night. This objection was overruled

by Mrs. Ludgate, whose genius, fertile in expedients, made every thing

easy, by the introduction of a bed in the dining-room, in the shape of a

sofa. The newly-enlarged apartment, she observed, would thus answer the

double purposes of show and utility; and, as soon as the supper and card

tables should be removed, the sofa-bed might be let down. She asserted

that the first people in London manage in this way. Leonard could not

contradict his lady, because she had a ready method of silencing him,

by asking how he could possibly know any thing of life who had lived all

his days, except Sundays, in Cranbourne-alley? Then, if any one of his

father’s old notions of economy by chance twinged his conscience, Belle

very judiciously asked how he ever came to think of her for a wife?

“Since you have got a genteel wife,” said she, “it becomes you to live

up to her notions, and to treat her as she and her friends have a right

to expect. Before I married you, sir, none of the Perkins’s were in

trade themselves, either directly or indirectly; and many’s the

slights and reproaches I’ve met with from my own relations and former

acquaintances, since my marriage, on account of the Ludgates being all

tradesfolks; to which I always answer, that my Leonard is going to

wash his hands of trade himself, and to make over all concern in the

haberdashery line and shop to the young man below stairs, who is much

better suited to such things.”

By such speeches as these, alternately piquing and soothing the vanity

of her Leonard, our accomplished wife worked him to her purposes. She

had a rout once a week; and her room was so crowded, that there was

scarcely a possibility of breathing. Yet, notwithstanding all this, she

one morning declared, with a burst of tears, she was the most miserable

woman in the world. And why? Because her friend, Mrs. Pimlico, Miss

Coxeater that was, had a house in Weymouth-street; whilst she was forced

to keep on being buried in Cranbourne-alley. Mr. Ludgate was moved

by his wife’s tears, and by his own ambition, and took a house in

Weymouth-street. But before they had been there six weeks, the fair

one was again found bathed in tears. And why? “Because,” said Belle,

“because, Mr. Ludgate, the furniture of this house is as old as

Methusalem’s; and my friend, Mrs. Pimlico, said yesterday that it was a

shame to be seen: and so to be sure it is, compared with her own, which

is spick and span new. Yet why should she pretend to look down upon

me in point of furniture, or any thing? Who was she, before she was

married? Little Kitty Coxeater, as we always called her at the dancing

school; and nobody ever thought of comparing her, in point of gentility,

with Belle Perkins! Why, she is as ugly as sin! though she is my friend,

I must acknowledge _that_; and, if she had all the clothes in the world,

she would never know how to put any of them on; that’s one comfort. And,

as every body says, to be sure she never would have got a husband but

for her money. And, after all, what sort of a husband has she got? A

perfumer, indeed! a man with a face like one of his own wash-balls, all

manner of colours. I declare, I would rather have gone without to the

end of my days than have married Mr. Pimlico.”

“I cannot blame you there, my dear,” said Mr. Ludgate; “for to be sure

Mr. Pimlico, much as he thinks of himself and his country house, has as

little the air of--the air of fashion as can be well conceived.”

Leonard Ludgate made an emphatic pause in this speech; and surveyed

himself in a looking-glass with much complacency, whilst he pronounced

the word fashion. He, indeed, approved so much of his wife’s taste and

discernment, in preferring him to Mr. Pimlico, that he could not at this

moment help inclining to follow her judgment respecting the furniture.

He acceded to her position, that the Ludgates ought to appear at least

no shabbier than the Pimlicos. The conclusion was inevitable: Leonard,

according to his favourite maxim of “Spend to-day, and spare to-morrow,”

agreed that they might new furnish the house this year, and pay for it

the next. This was immediately done; and the same principle was extended

through all their household affairs, as far as the tradesmen concerned

would admit of its being carried into practice.

By this means, Mr. and Mrs. Ludgate were not for some time sensible of

the difficulties they were preparing for themselves. They went on vying

with the Pimlicos, and with all their new acquaintance, who were many of

them much richer than themselves; and of this vain competition there

was no end. Those who estimate happiness not by the real comforts or

luxuries which they enjoy, but by comparison between themselves and

their neighbours, must be subject to continual mortification and

discontent. Far from being happier than they were formerly, Mr. and Mrs.

Ludgate were much more miserable after their removal to Weymouth-street.

Was it not better to be the first person in Cranbourne-alley than the

last in Weymouth-street? New wants and wishes continually arose in their

new situation. They must live like other people. Everybody, that is,

everybody in Weymouth-street, did so and so; and, therefore, they must

do the same. They must go to such a place, or they must have such a

thing, not because it was in itself necessary or desirable, but because

everybody, that is, everybody of their acquaintance, did or had the

same. Even to be upon a footing with their new neighbours was a matter

of some difficulty; and then merely to be upon an equality, merely to

be admitted and suffered at parties, is awkward and humiliating. Noble

ambition prompted them continually to aim at distinction. The desire

to attain _il poco piu--the little more_, stimulates to excellence, or

betrays to ruin, according to the objects of our ambition. No artist

ever took more pains to surpass Raphael or Correggio than was taken by

Mr. and Mrs. Ludgate to outshine Mr. and Mrs. Pimlico. And still what

they had done seemed nothing: what they were to do occupied all their

thoughts. No timid economical fears could stop or even startle them

in the road to ruin. Faithful to his maxim, our hero denied himself

nothing. If, for a moment, the idea that any thing was too expensive

suggested itself, his wife banished care by observing, “We need not pay

for it now. What signifies it, since we need not think of paying for

it till next year?” She had abundance of arguments of similar solidity,

adapted to all occasions. Sometimes the thing in question was such a

trifle it could not ruin anybody. “‘Tis but a guinea! ‘_Tis but_ a

few shillings!” Sometimes it was a sort of thing that could not ruin

anybody, because “‘Tis but for once and away!” ‘_Tis but_ is a most

dangerous thing! How many guineas may be spent upon ‘_tis but_, in the

course of one year, in such a city as London!

Bargains! excellent bargains! were also with our heroine admirable pleas

for expense. “We positively must buy this, my dear; for it would be a

sin to let such a bargain slip through one’s fingers. Mrs. Pimlico paid

twice as much for what is not half as good. ‘Twould be quite a shame to

one’s good sense to miss such a bargain!” Mrs. Ludgate was one of those

ladies who think it is more reasonable to buy a thing because it is a

bargain than because they want it: she farther argued, “If we don’t want

it, we may want it:” and this was a satisfactory plea.

Under the head bargains we must not forget _cheap days_. Messrs. Run

and Raffle advertised a sale of old shop goods, with the catching

words--_cheap days_! Everybody crowded to throw away their money on

cheap days; and, amongst the rest, Mrs. Ludgate.

One circumstance was rather disagreeable in these cheap days: ready

money was required; and this did not suit those who lived by

the favourite maxim of the family. Yet there was a reason that

counterbalanced their objection in Mrs. Ludgate’s mind: “Mrs. Pimlico

was going to Messrs. Run and Raffle’s and what would she think, if I

wasn’t to be there? She’d think, to be sure, that we were as poor as

Job.” So, to demonstrate that she had ready money to throw away, Mrs.

Ludgate must go on the cheap days.

“Belle,” said her husband, “ready money’s a serious thing.”

“Yes, Leonard, but, when nothing else will be taken, you know, one can’t

do without it.”

“But, if one has not it, I tell you, one must do without it,” said

Leonard peevishly.

“Lord, Mr. Ludgate, if you have not it about you, can’t you send to

Cranbourne-alley, to Mr. Allen, for some for me? ‘Tis but a few guineas

I want; and ‘twould be a shame to miss such bargains as are to be had

for nothing, at Run and Raffle’s. And these cheap days are extraordinary

things. It can’t ruin any body to spend a guinea or two, once and away,

like other people.”

At the conclusion of her eloquent speech, Mrs. Ludgate rang the bell;

and, without waiting for any assent from her husband but silence, bade

the footman run to _the shop_, and desire Allen to send her ten guineas

immediately.

Mr. Ludgate looked sullen, whistled, and then posted himself at the

parlour window to watch for the ambassador’s return. “I wonder,”

continued Mrs. Ludgate, “I wonder, Leonard, that you let Allen leave you

so bare of cash of late! It is very disagreeable to be always sending

out of the house, this way, for odd guineas. Allen, I think, uses you

very ill; but I am sure I would not let him cheat me, if I was you.

Pray, when you gave up the business of the shop to him, was not you to

have half the profits for your good-will, and name, and all that!”

“Yes.”

“And little enough! But why don’t you look after Allen, then, and make

him pay us what he owes us?”

“I’ll see about it to-morrow, child.”

“About how much do you think is owing to us?” pursued Mrs. Ludgate.

“I can’t tell, ma’am.”

“I wish then you’d settle accounts to-morrow, that I might have some

ready money.”

The lady seemed to take it for granted that her having ready money would

be the necessary and immediate consequence of settling accounts with

Allen; her husband could have set her right in this particular, and

could have informed her that not a farthing was due to him; that, on

the contrary, he had taken up money in advance, on the next half year’s

expected profits; but Mr. Ludgate was ashamed to let his wife know the

real state of his affairs: indeed, he was afraid to look them in the

face himself. “Here’s the boy coming back!” cried he, after watching for

some time in silence at the window.

Leonard went to the street-door to meet him; and Belle followed close,

crying, “Well! I hope Allen has sent me the money?”

“I don’t know,” said the breathless boy. “I have a letter for my master,

here, that was written ready, by good luck, afore I got there.”

Leonard snatched the letter; and his wife waited to see whether the

money was enclosed.

“The rascal has sent me no money, I see, but a letter, and an account as

long as my arm.”

“No money!” cried Belle; “that’s using us very oddly and ill, indeed;

and I wonder you submit to such conduct! I declare I won’t bear it! Go

back, I say, Jack; go, run this minute, and tell Allen he must come up

himself; for _I, Mrs. Ludgate, wants_ to speak with him.”

“No, my dear, no; nonsense! don’t go, Jack. What signifies your sending

to speak with Allen? What can you do? How can you settle accounts with

him? What should women know of business? I wish women would never meddle

with things they don’t understand.”

“Women can understand well enough when they want money,” cried the sharp

lady; “and the short and the long of it is, Mr. Ludgate, that I will see

and settle accounts with Allen myself; and bring him to reason, if you

won’t; and this minute, too.”

“Bless me! upon my faith, Allen’s better than we thought: here’s

bank-notes within the account,” said Mr. Ludgate.

“Ay, I thought he could not be so very impertinent as to refuse when

_I_ sent to him myself. But this is only one five pound note: I sent for

ten. Where is the other?”

“I want the other myself,” said her husband.

The tone was so peremptory, that she dared not tempt him further; and

away she went to Messrs. Run and Raffle’s, where she had the pleasure of

buying a bargain of things that were of no manner of use to her, and for

which she paid twice as much as they were worth. These cheap days proved

dear days to many.

Whilst Mrs. Ludgate spent the morning at Messrs. Run and Raffle’s, her

husband was with Tom Lewis, lounging up and down Bond-street. Tom Lewis

being just one step above him in gentility, was invited to parties where

Ludgate could not gain admittance, was bowed to by people who never

bowed to Leonard Ludgate, could tell to whom this livery or that

carriage belonged, knew who everybody was, and could point out my lord

this, and my lady that, in the park or at the play. All these things

made him a personage of prodigious consequence in the eyes of our hero,

who looked upon him as the mirror of fashion. Tom knew how to take

advantage of this admiration, and borrowed many a guinea from him in

their morning walks: in return, he introduced Mr. Ludgate to some of his

friends, and to his club.

New occasions, or rather new necessities, for expense occurred every

day, in consequence of his connexion with Lewis. Whilst he aimed at

being thought a young man of spirit, he could not avoid doing as other

people did. He could not think of economy! That would be shabby! On his

fortune rested his claims to respect from his present associates; and,

therefore, it was his constant aim to raise their opinion of his riches.

For some time, extravagance was not immediately checked by the want of

money, because he put off the evil day of payment. At last, when bills

poured in upon him, and the frequent calls of tradesmen began to be

troublesome, he got rid of the present difficulty by referring them to

Allen. “Go to Allen; he must settle with you: he does all my business.”

Allen sent him account after account, stating the sums he paid by his

order. Ludgate thrust the unread accounts into his escritoire, and

thought no more of the matter. Allen called upon him, to beg he would

come to some settlement, as he was getting more and more, every day,

into his debt. Leonard desired to have an account, stated in full, and

promised to look over it on Monday: but Monday came, and then it was put

off till Tuesday; and so on, day after day.

The more reason he had to know that his affairs were deranged, the

more carefully he concealed all knowledge of them from his wife. Her

ignorance of the truth not only led her daily into fresh extravagance,

but was, at last, the cause of bringing things to a premature

explanation. After spending the morning at Messrs. Run and Raffle’s, she

returned home with a hackney-coach full of bargains. As she came into

the parlour, loaded with things that she did not want, she was surprised

by the sight of an old friend, whom she had lately treated entirely as

a stranger. It was Lucy, who had in former days been her favourite

companion. But Lucy had chosen to work, to support herself

independently, rather than to be a burden to her friends; and Mrs.

Ludgate could not take notice of a person who had degraded herself so

far as to become a workwoman at an upholsterer’s. She had consequently

never seen Lucy since this event took place, except when she went to

Mr. Beech the upholsterer’s, to order her new furniture. She then was

in company with Mrs. Pimlico: and, when she saw Lucy at work in a back

parlour with two or three other young women, she pretended not to know

her. Lucy could scarcely believe that this was done on purpose; and,

at all events, she was not mortified by the insult. She was now come to

speak to Mrs. Ludgate about the upholsterer’s bill.

“Ha! Lucy, is it you?” said Mrs. Ludgate, as soon as she entered. “I’ve

never seen you in Weymouth-street before! How comes it you never called,

if it was only to see our new house? I’m sure I should always be very

happy to have you here--when we’ve nobody with us; and I’m quite sorry

_as_ I can’t ask you to stay and take a bit of mutton with us to-day,

because I’m engaged to dine in Bond-street, with Mrs. Pimlico’s cousin,

pretty Mrs. Paget, the bride whom you’ve heard talk of, no doubt. So

you’ll excuse me if I run away from you, to make myself a little decent;

for it’s horrid late!”

After running off this speech, with an air and a volubility worthy of

her betters, she set before Lucy some of her bargains, and was then

retreating to make herself decent; but Lucy stopped her, by saying,

“My dear Mrs. Ludgate, I am sorry to detain you, but Mr. Beech, the

upholsterer, knowing I have been acquainted with you, has sent me to

speak to you about his bill. He is in immediate want of money, because

he is fitting out one of his sons for the East Indies.”

“Well! but his son’s nothing to me! I sha’n’t think of paying the bill

yet, I can assure him; and you may take it back, and tell him so.”

“But,” said Lucy, “if I take back such an answer, I am afraid Mr. Beech

will send the bill to Mr. Ludgate; and that was what you particularly

desired should not be done.”

“Why, no; that’s what I can’t say I should particularly wish, just at

present,” said Mrs. Ludgate, lowering her tone “because, to tell you a

bit of a secret, Lucy, I’ve run up rather an _unconsciable_ bill, this

year, with my milliner and mantua-maker; and I would not have all

_them_ bills come upon him all in a lump, and on a sudden, as it were;

especially as I laid out more on the furniture than he counts. So, my

dear Lucy, I’ll tell you what you must do: you must use your influence

with Beech to make him wait a little longer. I’m sure he may wait well

enough; and he shall be paid next month.”

Lucy declared that her influence, on the present occasion, would be of

no avail; but she had the good-nature to add, “If you are sure the bill

can be paid next month, I will leave my two years’ salary in Mr. Beech’s

hands till then; and this will perhaps satisfy him, if he can get bills

from other people paid, to make up the money for his son. He said thirty

guineas from you on account would do, for the present; and that sum is

due to me.”

“Then, my dearest Lucy, for Heaven’s sake, do leave it in his hands!

You were a good creature to think of it; but you always were a good

creature.”

“Your mother used to be kind to me, when I was a child; and I am sure

I ought not to forget it,” said Lucy, the tears starting into her eyes:

“and you were once kind to me; I do not forget that,” continued Lucy,

wiping the tears from her cheeks.--“But do not let me detain you; you

are in a hurry to dress to go to Mrs. Pimlico’s.”

“No--pray--I am not in a hurry now,” said Mrs. Ludgate, who had the

grace to blush at this instant. “But, if you must go, do take this

hat along with you. I assure you it’s quite _the rage_: I got it this

morning at Run and Raffle’s, and Mrs. Pimlico and Mrs. Paget have got

the same.”

Lucy declined accepting the hat, notwithstanding this strong and, as

Mrs. Ludgate would have thought it, irresistible recommendation. “Now

you must have it: it will become you a thousand times better than that

you have on,” cried Mrs. Ludgate, insisting the more the more Lucy

withdrew; “and, besides, you must wear it for my sake. You won’t? Then

I take it very ill of you that you are so positive; for I assure you,

whatever you may think, I wish to be as kind to you now as ever. Only,

you know, one can’t always, when one lives in another style, be at home

as often as one wishes.”

Lucy relieved her _ci-devant_ friend from the necessity of making any

more awkward apologies, by moving quickly towards the door. “Then you

won’t forget,” continued Mrs. Ludgate, following her into the passage,

“you won’t forget the job you are to do for me with Beech?”

“Certainly I shall not. I will do what I have promised: but I hope you

will be punctual about the payment next month,” said Lucy, “because I

believe I shall be in want of my money at that time. It is best to tell

you exactly the truth.”

“Certainly! certainly! you shall have your money before you want it,

long and long; and my only reason for borrowing it from you at all is,

that I don’t like to trouble Mr. Ludgate, till he has settled accounts

with Allen, who keeps all our money from us in a strange way; and, in my

opinion, uses Leonard exceedingly ill and unfairly.”

“Allen!” cried Lucy, stopping short. “Oh, Belle! how can you say so?

How can you think so? But you know nothing of him, else you could not

suspect him of using any one ill, or unfairly; much less your husband,

the son of his old friend.”

“Bless me! how she runs on! and how she colours! I am sure I didn’t

know I was upon such tender ground! I did not know Allen was such a

prodigious favourite!”

“I only do him justice in saying that I am certain he could not do an

unfair or unhandsome action.”

“I know nothing of the matter, I protest; only this--that short

accounts, they say, make long friends; and I hope I sha’n’t affront any

body by saying, it would be very convenient if he could be got to settle

with Mr. Ludgate, who, I am sure, is too much the gentleman to ask any

thing from him but his own; which, indeed, if it was not for me, he’d be

too genteel to mention. But, as I said before, short accounts make long

friends; and, as you are so much Allen’s friend, you can hint that to

him.”

“I shall not hint, but say it to him as plainly as possible,” replied

Lucy; “and you may be certain that he will come to settle accounts with

Mr. Ludgate before night.” “I am sure I shall be mighty glad of it; and

so will Mr. Ludgate,” said Belle; and thus they parted.

Mrs. Ludgate with triumph announced to her husband, upon his return

home, that she had brought affairs to a crisis with Allen; and that

he would come to settle his accounts this evening. The surprise and

consternation which appeared in Mr. Ludgate’s countenance, convinced the

lady that her interference was highly disagreeable.

CHAPTER II.

Allen came punctually in the evening to settle his accounts. When he

and Leonard were by themselves, he could not help expressing some

astonishment, mixed with indignation, at the hints which had been thrown

out by Mrs. Ludgate.

“Why, she knows nothing of the matter,” said Ludgate. “I’ve no notion of

talking of such things to one’s wife; it would only make her uneasy;

and we shall be able to go on some way or other. So let us have another

bottle of wine, and talk no more of business for this night.”

Allen would by no means consent to put off the settlement of accounts,

after what had passed. “Short accounts,” said he, “as Mrs. Ludgate

observed, make long friends.”

It appeared, when the statement of affairs was completed, that Allen had

advanced above three hundred pounds for Leonard; and bills to a large

amount still remained unpaid.

Now it happened that Jack, the footboy, contrived to go in and out of

the room several times, whilst Mr. Ludgate and Allen were talking; and

he, finding it more for his interest to serve his master’s tradesmen

than his master, sent immediate notice to all whom it might concern,

that Mr. Ludgate’s affairs were in a bad way, and that now or never must

be the word with his creditors. The next morning bills came showering

in upon Leonard whilst he was at breakfast, and amongst them came sundry

bills of Mrs. Ludgate’s. They could not possibly have come at a

more inauspicious moment. People bespeak goods with one species of

enthusiasm, and look over their bills with another. We should rather

have said people spend with one enthusiasm, and pay with another; but

this observation would not apply to our present purpose, for Mr. and

Mrs. Ludgate had never yet experienced the pleasure or the pain of

paying their debts; they had hitherto been faithful to their maxim of

“Spend to-day, and pay to-morrow.”

They agreed well in the beginning of their career of extravagance; but

the very similarity of their tastes and habits proved ultimately

the cause of the most violent quarrels. As they both were expensive,

selfish, and self-willed, neither would, from regard to the other,

forbear. Comparisons between their different degrees of extravagance

commenced; and, once begun, they never ended. It was impossible to

settle, to the satisfaction of either party, which of them was most to

blame. Recrimination and reproaches were hourly and daily repeated;

and the lady usually ended by bursting into tears, and the gentleman by

taking his hat and walking out of the house.

In the meantime, the bills must be paid. Mr. Ludgate was obliged to sell

the whole of his interest in the shop in Cranbourne-alley; and the ready

money he received from Allen was to clear him from all difficulties.

Allen came to pay him this sum. “Do not think me impertinent, Mr.

Ludgate,” said he, “but I cannot for the soul of me help fearing for

you. What _will_ you do, when this money is gone? and go it must, at the

rate you live, in a very short time.”

“You are very good, sir,” replied Leonard, coldly, “to interest yourself

so much in my concerns; but I shall live at what rate I please. Every

man is the best judge of his own affairs.”

After this repulse Allen could interfere no further. But when two months

had elapsed from the date of Mrs. Ludgate’s promised payment of the

upholsterer’s bill, Lucy resolved to call again upon Mrs. Ludgate. Lucy

had now a particular occasion for the money: she was going to be married

to Allen, and she wished to put into her husband’s hands the little

fortune which she had so hardly earned by her own industry. From the

time that Allen heard her conversation, when Belle came to view the

house in Cranbourne-alley, he had been of opinion that she would make

an excellent wife: and the circumstances which sunk Lucy below Mrs.

Ludgate’s notice raised her in the esteem and affection of this prudent

and sensible young man. He did not despise--he admired her for going

into a creditable business, to make herself independent, instead of

living as an humble companion with Mrs. Ludgate, of whose conduct and

character she could not approve.

When Lucy called again upon Mrs. Ludgate to remind her of her promise,

she was received with evident confusion. She was employed in directing

Mr. Green, a builder, to throw out a bow in her dining-room, and to add

a balcony to the windows; for Mrs. Pimlico had a bow and a balcony, and

how could Mrs. Ludgate live without them?

“Surely, my dear Mrs. Ludgate,” said Lucy, drawing her aside, so that

the man who was measuring the windows could not hear what she said,

“surely you will think of paying Mr. Beech’s bill, as you promised,

before you go into any new expense?”

“Hush! hush! don’t speak so loud. Leonard is in the next room; and I

would not have him hear any thing of Beech’s bill, just when the man’s

here about the balcony, for any thing in the world!”

Lucy, though she was good-natured, was not so weak as to yield to airs

and capricious extravagance; and Mrs. Ludgate at last, though with a bad

grace, paid her the money which she had intended to lay out in a

very different manner. But no sooner had she paid this debt than she

considered how she could prevail upon Mr. Green to throw out the bow,

and finish the balcony, without paying him for certain alterations he

had made in the house in Cranbourne-alley, for which he had never yet

received one farthing. It was rather a difficult business, for Mr.

Green was a sturdy man, and used to regular payments. He resisted all

persuasion, and Mrs. Ludgate was forced again to have recourse to Lucy.

“Do, my dear girl,” said she, “lend me only twenty guineas for this

positive man; else, you see, I cannot have my balcony.” This did not

appear to Lucy the greatest of all misfortunes. “But is it not much more

disagreeable to be always in debt and danger, than to live in a room

without a balcony?” said Lucy.

“Why it is disagreeable, certainly, to be in debt, because of being

dunned continually; but the reason I’m so anxious about the balcony, is

that Mrs. Pimlico has one, and that’s the only thing in which her house

is better than mine. Look just over the way: do you see Mrs. Pimlico’s

beautiful balcony?”

Mrs. Ludgate who had thrust her head far out of the window, pulling Lucy

along with her, now suddenly drew back, exclaiming, “Lord, if here is

not that odious woman; I hope Jack won’t let her in.”--She shut the

window hastily, ran to the top of the stairs, and called out, “Jack! I

say, Jack; don’t let nurse in for your life.”

“Not if she has the child with her, ma’am?” said Jack.

“No, no, I say!”

“Then that’s a sin and a shame,” muttered Jack, “to shut the door upon

your own child.”

Mrs. Ludgate did not hear this reflection, because she had gone back to

the man who was waiting for directions about the balcony; but Lucy heard

it distinctly. “Ma’am, nurse would come in, for she says she saw you at

the window; and here she is, coming up the stairs,” cried the footboy.

The nurse came in, with Mrs. Ludgate’s child in her arms.

“Indeed, madam,” said she, “the truth of the matter is, I can’t and

won’t be denied my own any longer: and it is not for my own sake I speak

up so bold, but for the dear babe that I have here in my arms, that

can’t speak for itself, but only smile in your face, and stretch out its

arms to you. I, that am only its nurse, can’t bear it; but I have little

ones of my own, and can’t see them want. I can’t do for them all: if I’m

not paid my lawful due, how can I? And is it not fit I should think of

my own flesh and blood first? So I must give up this one. I must!--I

must!”--cried the nurse, kissing the child repeatedly, “I must leave her

to her mother.”

The poor woman laid the child down on the sofa, then turned her back

upon it, and, hiding her face in her apron, sobbed as if her heart would

break. Lucy was touched with compassion; the mother stood abashed; shame

struggled for a few instants with pride; pride got the victory. “The

woman’s out of her wits, I believe,” cried Mrs. Ludgate. “Mr. Green,

if you’ll please to call again to-morrow, we’ll talk about the balcony.

Lucy, give me the child, and don’t you fall a crying without knowing why

or wherefore. Nurse, I’m surprised at you! Did not I tell you I’d send

you your money next week?”

“Oh! yes, madam; but you have said so this many a week; and things are

come to such a pass now, that husband says I shall not bring back the

child without the money.”

“What can I do?” said Mrs. Ludgate.

Lucy immediately took her purse out of her pocket, and whispered, “I

will lend you whatever you want to pay the nurse, upon condition that

you will give up the scheme of the balcony.”

Mrs. Ludgate submitted to this condition; but she was not half so much

obliged to Lucy for doing her this real service as she would have been

if her friend had assisted in gratifying her vanity and extravagance.

Lucy saw what passed in Mrs. Ludgate’s mind, and nothing but the sense

of the obligations she lay under to Belle’s mother could have prevented

her from breaking off all connexion with her.

But Mrs. Ludgate was now much inclined to court Lucy’s acquaintance, as

her approaching marriage with Mr. Allen, who was in good circumstances,

made her appear quite a different person. Mrs. Allen would be able, and

she hoped willing, to assist her from time to time with money. With this

view, Belle showed Lucy a degree of attention and civility which she

had disdained to bestow upon her friend whilst she was in an inferior

situation. It was in vain, however, that this would-be fine lady

endeavoured to draw the prudent Lucy out of her own sphere of life:

though Lucy was extremely pretty, she had no desire to be admired; she

was perfectly satisfied and happy at home, and she and her husband lived

according to old Ludgate’s excellent maxim, “Out of debt out of danger.”

We shall not weary our readers with the history of all the petty

difficulties into which Mr. and Mrs. Ludgate’s foolish extravagance

led them. The life of the _shabby genteel_ is most miserable. Servants’

wages unpaid, duns continually besieging the door, perpetual excuses,

falsehoods to be invented, melancholy at home, and forced gaiety abroad!

Who would live such a life? Yet all this Mr. and Mrs. Ludgate endured,

for the sake of outshining Mr. and Mrs. Pimlico.

It happened that one night, at a party, Mrs. Ludgate caught a violent

cold, and her face became inflamed and disfigured by red spots. Being

to go to a ball in a few days, she was very impatient to get rid of the

eruption; and in this exigency she applied to Mr. Pimlico, the perfumer,

who had often supplied her with cosmetics, and who now recommended a

beautifying lotion. This quickly cleared her complexion; but she soon

felt the effects of her imprudence: she was taken dangerously ill, and

the physician who was consulted attributed her disease entirely to

the preparation she had applied to her face. Whilst she was ill, an

execution was brought against Mr. Ludgate’s goods. Threatened with a

jail, and incapable of taking any vigorous measures to avoid distress,

he went to consult his friend, Tom Lewis. How this Mr. Lewis lived was

matter of astonishment to all his acquaintance: he had neither estate,

business, or any obvious means of supporting the expense in which he

indulged.

“What a happy dog you are, Lewis!” said our hero: “how is it that you

live better than I do?”

“You might live as well as I, if you were inclined,” said Lewis.

Our hero was all curiosity; and Lewis exacted from him an oath of

secrecy. A long pause ensued.

“Have you the courage,” said Lewis, “to extricate yourself from all your

difficulties at once?”

“To be sure I have; since I must either go to jail this night, or raise

two hundred guineas for these cursed fellows!”

“You shall have it in half an hour,” said Lewis, “if you will follow my

advice.”

“Tell me at once what I am to do, and I will do it,” cried Leonard. “I

will do any thing to save myself from disgrace, and from a jail.”

Lewis, who now perceived his friend was worked up to the pitch he

wanted, revealed the whole mystery. He was connected with a set of

gentlemen, ingenious in the arts of forgery, from whom he purchased

counterfeit bank-notes at a very cheap rate. The difficulty and risk

of passing them was extreme; therefore the confederates were anxious to

throw this part of the business off their hands. Struck with horror at

the idea of becoming an accomplice in such a scheme of villany, Leonard

stood pale and silent, incapable of even thinking distinctly. Lewis

was sorry that he had opened his mind so fully. “Remember your oath of

secrecy!” said he.

“I do,” replied Ludgate.

“And remember that you must become one of us before night, or go to

jail.”

Ludgate said he would take an hour to consider of the business, and here

they parted; Lewis promising to call at his house before evening, to

learn his final decision.

“And am I come to this?” thought the wretched man. “Would to Heaven I

had followed my poor father’s maxim! but it is now too late.”

Mr. Ludgate, when he arrived at home, shut himself up in his own room,

and continued walking backwards and forwards, for nearly an hour, in a

state of mind more dreadful than can be described. Whilst he was in this

situation, some one knocked at the door. He thought it was Lewis, and

trembled from head to foot. It was only a servant with a parcel of

bills, which several tradesmen, hearing that an execution was in the

house, had hastened to present for payment. Among them were those of Mr.

Beech, the upholsterer, and Mrs. Ludgate’s milliner and mantua-maker,

which having been let to run on for above two years and a half, now

amounted to a sum that astonished and shocked Mr. Ludgate. He could not

remonstrate with his wife, or even vent his anger in reproaches, for she

was lying senseless in her bed.

Before he had recovered from this shock, and whilst the tradesmen who

brought the bills were still waiting for their money, Lewis and one of

his companions arrived. He came to the point immediately. He produced

bank-notes sufficient to discharge all his debts, and proposed to lend

him this money on condition that he would enter into the confederacy as

he had proposed. “All that we ask of you is to pass a certain number of

notes for us every week. You will find this to your advantage; for we

will allow you a considerable percentage, besides freeing you from your

present embarrassments.”

The sight of the bank-notes, the pressure of immediate distress, and the

hopes of being able to support the style of life in which he had of late

appeared, all conspired to tempt Ludgate. When he had, early in life,

vaunted to his young companions that he despised his father’s old maxim,

while he repeated his own, they applauded his spirit. They were not

present, at this instant, to pity the wretched state into which that

spirit had betrayed him. But our hero has yet much greater misery to

endure. It is true his debts were now paid, and he was able to support

an external appearance of affluence; but not one day, not one night,

could he pass without suffering the horrors of a guilty conscience, and

all the terrors which haunt the man who sees himself in hourly danger of

detection. He determined to keep his secret cautiously from his wife: he

was glad that she was confined to her bed at this time, lest her

prying curiosity should discover what was going forward. The species of

affection which he had once felt for her had not survived the first

six months of their marriage; and their late disputes had rendered this

husband and wife absolutely odious to each other. Each believed, and

indeed pretty plainly asserted, that they could live more handsomely

asunder: but, alas! they were united for better and for worse.

Mrs. Ludgate’s illness terminated in another eruption on her face. She

was extremely mortified by the loss of her beauty, especially as Mrs.

Pimlico frequently contrasted her face with that of Mrs. Paget, who

was now acknowledged to be the handsomest woman of Mrs. Pimlico’s

acquaintance. She endeavoured to make herself of consequence by fresh

expense. Mr. Ludgate, to account for the sudden payment of his debts,

and the affluence in which he now appeared to live, spread a report of

his having had a considerable legacy left to him by a relation, who

had died in a distant part of England. The truth of the report was not

questioned; and for some time Mr. and Mrs. Ludgate were the envy of

their acquaintance. How little the world, as it is called, can judge, by

external appearances, of the happiness of those who excite admiration or

envy!

“What lucky people the Ludgates are!” cried Mrs. Pimlico. The

exclamation was echoed by a crowded card party, assembled at her house.

“But then,” continued Mrs. Pimlico, “it is a pity poor Belle is so

disfigured by that scurvy, or whatever it is, in her face. I remember

the time when she was as pretty a woman as you could see: nay, would you

believe it, she had once as fine a complexion as young Mrs. Paget!”

These observations circulated quickly, and did not escape Mrs. Ludgate’s

ear. Her vanity was deeply wounded; and her health appeared to her but a

secondary consideration, in comparison with the chance of recovering her

lost complexion. Mr. Pimlico, who was an eloquent perfumer, persuaded

her that her former illness had nothing to do with the beautifying

lotion she had purchased at his shop; and to support his assertions,

he quoted examples of innumerable ladies, of high rank and fashion, who

were in the constant habit of using this admirable preparation. The vain

and foolish woman, notwithstanding the warnings which she had received

from the physician who attended her during her illness, listened to the

oratory of the perfumer, and bought half a dozen bottles of another kind

of beautifying lotion. The eruption vanished from her face, after

she had used the cosmetic; and, as she did not feel any immediate bad

effects upon her health, she persisted in the practice for some

months. The consequence was at last dreadful. She was found one

morning speechless in her bed, with one side of her face distorted

and motionless. During the night, she had been seized with a paralytic

stroke: in a few days she recovered her speech; but her face continued

totally disfigured.

This was the severest punishment that could have been inflicted on a

woman of her character. She was now ashamed to show herself abroad, and

incapable of being contented at home. She had not the friendship of a

husband, or the affection of children, to afford her consolation

and support. Her eldest child was a boy of about five years old, her

youngest four. They were as fretful and troublesome as children usually

are, whose education has been totally neglected; and the quarrels

between them and Jack the footboy were endless, for Jack was alternately

their tutor and their playfellow.

Beside the disorder created in this family by mischievous children,

the servants were daily plagues. Nothing was ever done by them well or

regularly; and though the master and mistress scolded without mercy, and

perpetually threatened to turn Jack or Sukey away, yet no reformation

in their manners was produced; for Jack and Sukey’s wages were not paid,

and they felt that they had the power in their own hands; so that they

were rather the tyrants than the servants of the house.

CHAPTER III.

Mrs. Ludgate’s temper, which never was sweet, was soured to such a

degree, by these accumulated evils, that she was insufferable. Her

husband kept out of the way as much as possible: he dined and supped at

his club, or at the tavern: and, during the evenings and mornings, he

was visible at home but for a few minutes. Yet, though his time was

passed entirely away from his wife, his children, and his home, he was

not happy. His life was a life of perpetual fraud and fear. He was bound

by his engagements with Lewis to pass for the confederates a certain

number of forged notes every day. This was a perilous task! His utmost

exertions and ingenuity were continually necessary to escape detection;

and, after all, he was barely able to wrest from the hard hands of his

_friends_ a sufficient profit upon his labour to maintain himself. How

often did he look back, with regret, to the days when he stood behind

the counter, in his father’s shop! Then he had in Allen a real friend;

but now he had in Lewis only a profligate and unfeeling associate.

Lewis cared for no one but himself; and he was as avaricious as he was

extravagant; “greedy of what belonged to others, prodigal of his own.”

One night, Leonard went to the house where the confederates met, to

settle with them for the last parcel of notes that he had passed. Lewis

insisted upon being paid for his services before Ludgate should touch a

farthing. Words ran high between them: Lewis, having the most influence

with his associates, carried his point; and Leonard, who was in want of

ready money, could supply himself only by engaging to pass double the

usual quantity of forged notes during the ensuing month. Upon this

condition, he obtained the supply for which he solicited. Upon his

return home, he locked up the forged notes as usual in his escritoir. It

happened the very next morning that Mrs. la Mode, the milliner, called

upon Mrs. Ludgate. The ruling passion still prevailed, notwithstanding

the miserable state to which this lady was reduced. Even palsy could not

deaden her personal vanity: her love of dress survived the total loss

of her beauty; she became accustomed to the sight of her distorted

features, and was still anxious to wear what was most genteel and

becoming. Mrs. la Mode had not a more constant visitor.

“How are you, Mrs. Ludgate, this morning?” said she. “But I need not

ask, for you look _surprising_ well. I just called to tell you a bit of

a secret, that I have told to nobody else; but you being such a friend

and a favourite, have a right to know it. You must know, I am going

next week to bring out a new spring hat; and I have made one of my girls

bring it up, to consult with you before any body else, having a great

opinion of your taste and judgment: though it is a thing that must not

be mentioned, because it would ruin me with Mrs. Pimlico, who made me

swear she should have the first sight.”

Flattered by having the first sight of the spring hat, Mrs. Ludgate was

prepossessed in its favour; and, when she tried it on, she thought it

made her look ten years younger. In short, it was impossible not to take

one of the hats, though it cost three guineas, and was not worth ten

shillings.

“Positively, ma’am, you must _patronize_ my spring hat,” said the

milliner.

Mrs. Ludgate was decided by the word patronize: she took the hat, and

desired that it should be set down in her bill: but Mrs. la Mode was

extremely concerned that she had made a rule, nay a vow, not to take any

thing but ready money for the spring hats; and she could not break her

vow, even for her favourite Mrs. Ludgate. This was at least a prudent

resolution in the milliner, who had lately received notice, from Mr.

Ludgate, not to give his wife any goods upon credit, for that he was

determined to refuse payment of her bills. The wife, who was now in a

weak state of health, was not able as formerly to fight her battles with

her husband upon equal terms. To cunning, the refuge of weakness,

she had recourse; and she considered that, though she could no longer

outscold, she could still outwit her adversary. She could not have the

pleasure and honour of patronizing the spring hat, without ready money

to pay for it; her husband, she knew, had always bank-notes in his

escritoir; and she argued with herself that it was better to act without

his consent than against it. She went and tried, with certain keys of

her own, to open Leonard’s desk; and open it came. She seized from a

parcel of bank-notes as many as she wanted, and paid Mrs. la Mode with

three of them for the spring hat. When her husband came home the next

day, he did not observe that he had lost any of the notes; and, as he

went out of the house again without once coming into the parlour where

his wife was sitting, she excused herself to her conscience, for not

telling him of the freedom she had taken, by thinking--It will do as

well to tell him of it to-morrow: a few notes, out of such a parcel

as he has in his desk locked up from me, can’t signify; and he’ll only

bluster and bully when I do tell him of it; so let him find it out when

he pleases.

The scheme of acting without her husband’s consent in all cases, where

she was morally certain that if she asked she could not obtain it, Mrs.

Ludgate had often pursued with much success. A few days after she had

bought the spring hat, she invited Mrs. Pimlico, Mrs. Paget, and all her

genteel friends, to tea and cards. Her husband, she knew, would be out

of the way, at his club, or at the tavern. Mrs. Pimlico, and Mrs. Paget,

and all their genteel friends, did Mrs. Ludgate the honour to wait upon

her on the appointed evening, and she had the satisfaction to appear

upon this occasion in the new spring hat; while her friend, Mrs.

Pimlico, whispered to young Mrs. Paget, “She patronize the new spring

hat! What a fool Mrs. la Mode makes of her! A death’s head in a wreath

of roses! How frightfully ridiculous!”

Unconscious that she was an object of ridicule to the whole company,

Mrs. Ludgate sat down to cards in unusually good spirits, firmly

believing Mrs. la Mode’s comfortable assertion, “that the spring hat

made her look ten years younger.” She was in the midst of a panegyric

upon Mrs. la Mode’s taste, when Jack, the footboy, came behind her

chair, and whispered that three men were below, who desired to speak to

her immediately.

“Men! gentlemen, do you mean?” said Mrs. Ludgate.

“No, ma’am, not gentlemen.” “Then send them away about their business,

dunce,” said the lady. “Some tradesfolk, I suppose; tell them I’m

engaged with company.”

“But, ma’am, they will not leave the house without seeing you, or Mr.

Ludgate.”

“Let them wait, then, till Mr. Ludgate comes in. I have nothing to say

to them. What’s their business, pray?”

“It is something about a note, ma’am, that you gave to Mrs. la Mode, the

other day.”

“What about it?” said Mrs. Ludgate, putting down her cards.

“They say it is a bad note.”

“Well, I’ll change it; bid them send it up.”

“They won’t part with it, ma’am: they would not let it out of their

hands, even to let me look at it for an instant.”

“What a riot about a pound note,” said Mrs. Ludgate, rising from the

card-table: “I’ll speak to the fellows myself.”

She had recourse again to her husband’s desk; and, armed with a whole

handful of fresh bank-notes, she went to the strangers. They told her

that they did not want, and would not receive, any note in exchange

for that which they produced; but that, as it was a forgery, they must

insist upon knowing from whom she had it. There was an air of mystery

and authority about the strangers which alarmed Mrs. Ludgate; and,

without attempting any evasion, she said that she took the note from her

husband’s desk, and that she could not tell from whom he received it.

The strangers declared that they must wait till Mr. Ludgate should

return home. She offered to give them a guinea to drink, if they would

go away quietly; but this they refused. Jack, the footboy, whispered

that they had pistols, and that he believed they were Bow-street

officers.

They went into the back parlour to wait for Mr. Ludgate; and the lady,

in extreme perturbation, returned to her company and her cards. In vain

she attempted to resume her conversation about the spring hat, and

to conceal the agitation of her spirits. It was observed by all her

_friends_, and especially by Mrs. Pimlico, whose curiosity was strongly

excited, to know the cause of her alarm. Mrs. Ludgate looked frequently

at her watch, and even yawned without ceremony, more than once, to

manifest her desire that the company should depart; but no hints

availed. The card players resolutely kept their seats, and even the

smell of extinguishing candles had no effect upon their callous senses.

The time appeared insupportably long to the wretched mistress of

the house; and the contrast between her fantastic headdress and her

agonizing countenance every minute became more striking.

Twelve o’clock struck. “It is growing very late,” said Mrs. Ludgate.

“But we must have another rubber,” said Mrs. Pimlico.

She began to deal; a knock was heard at the door. “There’s Mr. Ludgate,

I do suppose,” said Mrs. Pimlico, continuing her deal. Mrs. Ludgate left

her cards, and went out of the room without speaking. She stopped at the

head of the staircase, for she heard a scuffle and loud voices below.

Presently all was silent, and she ventured down when she heard the

parlour door shut. The footman met her in the passage.

“What is the matter?” said she.

“I don’t know; but I must be paid my wages,” said he, “or must pay

myself.”

He passed on rudely. She half opened the parlour door, and looked in:

her husband was lying back on the sofa, seemingly stupefied by despair:

one of the Bow-street officers was chafing his temples, another was

rummaging his desk, and the third was closely examining certain notes,

which he had just taken from the prisoner’s pockets.

“What is the matter?” cried Mrs. Ludgate, advancing. Her husband lifted

up his eyes, saw her, started up, and, stamping furiously, exclaimed,

“Cursed, cursed woman! you have brought me to the gallows, and all for

this trumpery!” cried he, snatching her gaudy hat from her head, and

trampling it under his feet. “For this--for this! you vain, you ugly

creature, you have brought your husband to the gallows!”

One of the Bow-street officers caught hold of his uplifted arm, which

trembled with rage. His wife sank to the ground; a second paralytic

stroke deprived her of the power of speech. As they were carrying her

up stairs, Mrs. Pimlico and the rest of the company came out of the

dining-room, some of them with cards in their hands, all eagerly asking

what was the matter? When they learnt that the Bow-street officers were

in the house, and that Mr. Ludgate was taken into custody for uttering

forged bank-notes, there was a general uproar. Some declared it was

shocking! others protested it was no more than might have been expected!

The Ludgates lived so much above their circumstances! Then he was such a

coxcomb; and she such a poor vain creature! Better for people to do like

their neighbours--to make no show, and live honestly!

In the midst of these effusions of long suppressed envy, some few of

the company attempted a slight word or two of apology for their host and

hostess; and the most humane went up to the wretched woman’s bedchamber,

to offer assistance and advice. But the greater number were occupied

in tucking up their white gowns, finding their clogs, or calling for

hackney coaches. In less than a quarter of an hour the house was clear

of all Mrs. Ludgate’s _friends_. And it is to please such friends that

whole families ruin themselves by unsuitable expense.

Lucy and Allen were not, however, of this class of friends. A confused

report of what had passed the preceding night was spread the next

morning in Cranbourne-alley, by a young lady, who had been at Mrs.

Ludgate’s rout. The moment the news reached Allen’s shop, he and Lucy

set out immediately to offer their assistance to the unfortunate family.

When they got to Weymouth-street, they gave only a single knock at the

door, that they might not create any alarm. They were kept waiting

a considerable time, and at last the door was opened by a slip-shod

cook-maid, who seemed to be just up, though it was near eleven o’clock.

She showed them into the parlour, which was quite dark; and, whilst

she was opening the shutters, told them that the house had been up all

night, what with the Bow-street officers and her mistress’s fits. Her

master, she added, was carried off to prison, she believed. Lucy asked

who was with Mrs. Ludgate, and whether she could go up to her room?

“There’s nobody with her, ma’am, but nurse, that called by chance, early

this morning, to see the children, and had the good-nature to stay to

help, and has been sitting in mistress’s room, whilst I went to my bed.

I’ll step up and see if you can go in, ma’am.”

They waited for some time in the parlour, where every thing looked

desolate and in disorder. The ashes covered the hearth; the poker lay

upon the table, near Mr. Ludgate’s desk, the lock of which had been

broken open; a brass flat candlestick, covered with tallow, was upon the

window-seat, and beside it a broken cruet of vinegar; a cravat, and red

silk handkerchief, which had been taken from Mr. Ludgate’s neck when he

swooned, lay under the table. Lucy and her husband looked at one another

for some moments without speaking. At last Allen said, “We had better

lock up this press, where there are silver spoons and china, for there

is nobody now left to take care of any thing, and the creditors will be

here soon to seize all they can.” Lucy said that she would go up

into the dining-room, and take an inventory of the furniture. In the

dining-room she found Jack the footboy collecting shillings from beneath

the candlesticks on the card-tables: the two little children were

sitting on the floor, the girl playing with a pack of cards, the boy

drinking the dregs of a decanter of white wine.--“Poor children! Poor

creatures!” said Lucy; “is there nobody to take care of you?”

“No; nobody but Jack,” said the boy, “and he’s going away. Papa’s gone I

don’t know where; and mama’s not up yet, so we have had no breakfast.”

The cook-maid came in to say that Mrs. Ludgate was awake, and sensible

now, and would be glad to see Mrs. Allen, if she’d be so good as to walk

up. Lucy told the children, who clung to her, that she would take

them home with her, and give them some breakfast, and then hastened up

stairs. She found her wretched friend humbled indeed to the lowest

state of imbecile despair. Her speech had returned; but she spoke with

difficulty, and scarcely so as to be intelligible. The good-natured

nurse supported her in the bed, saying repeatedly, “Keep a good heart,

madam; keep a good heart! Don’t let your spirits sink so as this, and

all may be well yet.”

“O Lucy! Lucy! What will become of me now? What a change is here! And

nobody to help or advise me! Nobody upon earth! I am forsaken by all the

world!”

“Not forsaken by me,” said Lucy, in a soothing voice.

“What noise is that below?” cried Mrs. Ludgate.

Lucy went downstairs to inquire, and found that, as Allen had foretold,

the creditors were come to seize all they could find. Allen undertook to

remain with them, and to bring them to some settlement, whilst Lucy had

her unfortunate friend and the two children removed immediately to her

own house.

As to Mr. Ludgate, there was no hope for him; the proofs of his guilt

were manifest and incontrovertible. The forged note, which his wife had

taken from his desk and given to the milliner, was one which had not

gone through certain mysterious preparations. It was a bungling forgery.

The plate would doubtless have been retouched, had not this bill

been prematurely circulated by Mrs. Ludgate: thus her vanity led to

a discovery of her husband’s guilt. All the associates in Lewis’s

iniquitous confederacy suffered the just punishment of their crimes.

Many applications were made to obtain a pardon for Leonard Ludgate:

but the executive power preserved that firmness which has not, upon any

similar occasion, ever been relaxed.

Lucy and Allen, those real friends, who would not encourage Mrs. Ludgate

in extravagance, now, in the hour of adversity and repentance, treated

her with the utmost tenderness and generosity. They were economical, and

therefore could afford to be generous. All the wants of this destitute

widow were supplied from the profits of their industry: they nursed her

with daily humanity, bore with the peevishness of disease, and did all

in their power to soothe the anguish of unavailing remorse.

Nothing could be saved from the wreck of Mr. Ludgate’s fortune for the

widow; but Allen, in looking over old Ludgate’s books, had found and

recovered some old debts, which Leonard, after his father’s death,

thought not worth looking after. The sum amounted to about three hundred

and twenty pounds. As the whole concern had been made over to him,

he could lawfully have appropriated this money to his own use, but he

reserved it for his friend’s children. He put it out to interest; and in

the mean time he and Lucy not only clothed and fed, but educated these

orphans, with their own children, in habits of economy and industry.

The orphans repaid, by their affection and gratitude, the care that was

bestowed upon them; and, when they grew up, they retrieved the credit

of their family, by living according to their grandfather’s useful

maxim--“Out of debt out of danger.”

_Nov. 1801._

THE LOTTERY

CHAPTER I.

Near Derby, on the way towards Darley-grove, there is a cottage which

formerly belonged to one Maurice Robinson. The jessamine which now

covers the porch was planted by Ellen, his wife: she was an industrious,

prudent, young woman; liked by all her neighbours, because she was ready

to assist and serve them, and the delight of her husband’s heart; for

she was sweet-tempered, affectionate, constantly clean and neat, and

made his house so cheerful that he was always in haste to come home to

her, after his day’s work. He was one of the manufacturers employed in

the cotton works at Derby; and he was remarkable for his good conduct

and regular attendance at his work.

Things went on very well in every respect, till a relation of his, Mrs.

Dolly Robinson, came to live with him. Mrs. Dolly had been laundry-maid

in a great family, where she learned to love gossiping, and

tea-drinkings, and where she acquired some taste for shawls and

cherry-brandy. She thought that she did her young relations a great

favour by coming to take up her abode with them, because, as she

observed, they were young and inexperienced; and she, knowing a great

deal of the world, was able and willing to advise them; and besides, she

had had a legacy of some hundred pounds left to her, and she had saved

some little matters while in service, which might make it worth her

relations’ while to take her advice with proper respect, and to make her

comfortable for the rest of her days.

Ellen treated her with all due deference, and endeavoured to make her as

comfortable as possible; but Mrs. Dolly could not be comfortable unless,

besides drinking a large spoonful of brandy in every dish of tea, she

could make each person in the house do just what she pleased. She began

by being dissatisfied because she could not persuade Ellen that brandy

was wholesome, in tea, for the nerves; next she was affronted because

Ellen did not admire her shawl; and, above all, she was grievously

offended because Ellen endeavoured to prevent her from spoiling little

George.

George was, at this time, between five and six years old; and his mother

took a great deal of pains to bring him up well: she endeavoured to

teach him to be honest, to speak the truth, to do whatever she and his

father bid him, and to dislike being idle.

Mrs. Dolly, on the contrary, coaxed and flattered him, without caring

whether he was obedient or disobedient, honest or dishonest. She was

continually telling him that he was the finest little fellow in the

world; and that she would do great things for him, some time or another.

What these great things were to be the boy seemed neither to know nor

care; and, except at the moments when she was stuffing gingerbread into

his mouth, he seemed never to desire to be near her: he preferred being

with William Deane, his father’s friend, who was a very ingenious man,

and whom he liked to see at work.

William gave him a slate, and a slate pencil; and taught him how to make

figures, and to cast up sums; and made a little wheel-barrow for him,

of which George was very fond, so that George called him in play “_King

Deane_.” All these things tended to make Mrs. Dolly dislike William

Deane, whom she considered as her rival in power.

One day, it was George’s birthday, Mrs. Dolly invited a party, as she

called it, to drink tea with her; and, at tea-time, she was entertaining

the neighbours with stories of what she had seen in the great world.

Amongst others, she had a favourite story of a butler, in the family

where she had lived, who bought a ticket in the lottery when he was

drunk, which ticket came up a ten thousand pound prize when he was

sober; and the butler turned gentleman, and kept his coach directly.

One evening, Maurice Robinson and William came home, after their

day’s work, just in time to hear the end of this story; and Mrs. Dolly

concluded it by turning to Maurice, and assuring him that he must put

into the lottery and try his luck: for why should not he be as lucky as

another? “Here,” said she, “a man is working and drudging all the days

of his life to get a decent coat to put on, and a bit of bread to put

into his child’s mouth; and, after all, may be he can’t do it; though

all the while, for five guineas, or a guinea, or half-a-guinea even, if

he has but the spirit to lay out his money properly, he has the chance

of making a fortune without any trouble. Surely a man should try his

luck, if not for his own, at least for his children’s sake,” continued

Mrs. Dolly, drawing little George towards her, and hugging him in her

arms. “Who knows what might turn up! Make your papa buy a ticket in the

lottery, love; there’s my darling; and I’ll be bound he’ll have good

luck. Tell him, I’ll be bound we shall have a ten thousand pound prize

at least; and all for a few guineas. I’m sure I think none but a miser

would grudge the money, if he had it to give.”

As Mrs. Dolly finished her speech, she looked at William Deane, whose

countenance did not seem to please her. Maurice was whistling, and Ellen

knitting as fast as possible. Little George was counting William Deane’s

buttons. “Pray, Mr. Deane,” cried Mrs. Dolly, turning full upon him,

“what may your advice and opinion be? since nothing’s to be done here

without your leave and word of command, forsooth. Now, as you know so

much and have seen so much of the world, would you be pleased to tell

this good company, and myself into the bargain, what harm it can do

anybody, but a miser, to lay out a small sum to get a good chance of a

round thousand, or five thousand, or ten thousand, or twenty thousand

pounds, without more ado?”

As she pronounced the words five thousand, ten thousand, twenty thousand

pounds, in a triumphant voice, all the company, except Ellen and

William, seemed to feel the force of her oratory.

William coolly answered that he was no miser, but that he thought money

might be better laid out than in the lottery; for that there was more

chance of a man’s getting nothing for his money than of his getting a

prize; that when a man worked for fair wages every day, he was sure of

getting something for his pains, and with honest industry, and saving,

might get rich enough in time, and have to thank himself for it, which

would be a pleasant thing: but that if a man, as he had known many,

set his heart upon the turning of the lottery wheel, he would leave off

putting his hand to any thing the whole year round, and so grow idle,

and may be, drunken; “and then,” said William, “at the year’s end, if

he have a blank, what is he to do for his rent, or for his wife and

children, that have nothing to depend upon but him and his industry?”

Here Maurice sighed, and so did Ellen, whilst William went on and told

many a true story of honest servants, and tradesmen, whom he had known,

who had ruined themselves by gaming and lotteries.

“But,” said Maurice, who now broke silence, “putting into the lottery,

William, is not gaming, like dice or cards, or such things. Putting into

the lottery is not gaming, as I take it.”

“As I take it, though,” replied William, “it is gaming. For what is

gaming but trusting one’s money, or somewhat, to luck and hap-hazard?

And is there not as much hap-hazard in the turning of the wheel as in

the coming up of the dice, or the dealing of the cards?”

“True enough; but somebody must get a prize,” argued Maurice.

“And somebody must win at dice or cards,” said William, “but a many more

must lose; and a many more, I take it, must lose by the lottery than by

any other game; else how would they that keep the lottery gain by it, as

they do? Put a case. If you and I, Maurice, were this minute to play

at dice, we stake our money down on the table here, and one or t’other

takes all up. But, in the lottery, it is another affair; for the whole

of what is put in does never come out.”

This statement of the case made some impression upon Maurice, who was no

fool; but Mrs. Dolly’s desire that he should buy a lottery ticket, was

not to be conquered by reason: it grew stronger and stronger the more

she was opposed. She was silent and cross during the remainder of the

evening; and the next morning, at breakfast, she was so low that even

her accustomed dose of brandy, in her tea, had no effect.

Now Maurice, besides his confused hopes that Mrs. Dolly would leave

something handsome to him or his family, thought himself obliged to her

for having given a helping hand to his father, when he was in distress;

and therefore he wished to bear with her humours, and to make her happy

in his house. He knew that the lottery ticket was uppermost in her mind,

and the moment he touched upon that subject she brightened up. She told

him she had had a dream; and she had great faith in dreams: and she had

dreamed, three times over, that he had bought number 339 in the lottery,

and that it had come up a ten thousand pound prize!

“Well, Ellen,” said Maurice, “I’ve half a mind to try my luck; and it

can do us no harm, for I’ll only put off buying the cow this year.”

“Nay,” said Mrs. Dolly, “why so? may be you don’t know what I know, that

Ellen’s as rich as a Jew? She has a cunning little cupboard, in the wall

yonder, that I see her putting money into every day of her life, and

none goes out.”

Ellen immediately went and drew back a small sliding oak door in the

wainscot, and took out a glove, in which some money was wrapped; she put

it altogether in her husband’s hand, saying, with a good-humoured smile,

“There is my year’s spinning, Maurice: I only thought to have made more

of it before I gave it you. Do what you please with it.”

Maurice was so much moved by his wife’s kindness, that he at the moment

determined to give up his lottery scheme, of which, he knew, she did

not approve. But, though a good-natured, well-meaning man, he was of an

irresolute character; and even when he saw what was best to be done,

had not courage to persist. As he was coming home from work, a few days

after Ellen had given him the money, he saw, in one of the streets

of Derby, a house with large windows finely illuminated, and read the

words:

“Lottery-office of Fortunatus, Gould, and Co.” At this office was sold

the fortunate ticket, which came up on Monday last a twenty thousand

pound prize. Ready money paid for prizes immediately on demand. The

15,000_l_.

10,000_l_.

5,000_l_.

still in the wheel. None but the brave deserve a prize.”

Whilst Maurice was gazing at this and other similar advertisements,

which were exhibited in various bright colours in this tempting window,

his desire to try his fortune in the lottery returned; and he was just

going into the office to purchase a ticket, when luckily he found that

he had not his leathern purse in his pocket. He walked on, and presently

brushed by some one; it was William Deane, who was looking very eagerly

over some old books, at a bookseller’s stall. “I wish I had but money to

treat myself with some of these,” said William: “but I cannot; they cost

such a deal of money, having all these prints in them.”

“We can lend you,--no, we can’t neither,” cried Maurice, stopping

himself short; for he recollected that he could not both lend his friend

money to buy the books and buy a lottery ticket. He was in great doubt

which he should do; and walked on with William, in silence. “So, then,”

cried he at last, “you would not advise me to put into the lottery?”

“Nay,” said William laughing, “it is not for me to advise you about it,

now; for I know you are considering whether you had best put it into the

lottery or lend me the money to buy these books. Now, I hope you don’t

think I was looking to my own interest in what I said the other day; for

I can assure you, I had no thoughts of meeting with these books at that

time, and did not know that you had any money to spare.”

“Say no more about it,” replied Maurice. “Don’t I know you are an honest

fellow, and would lend me the money if I wanted it? You shall have it

as soon as ever we get home. Only mind and stand by me stoutly, if Mrs.

Dolly begins any more about the lottery.”

Mrs. Dolly did not fail to renew her attacks; and she was both provoked

and astonished when she found that the contents of the leathern purse

were put into the hands of William Deane.

“Books, indeed! To buy books forsooth! What business had such a one as

he with books?” She had seen a deal of life, she said, and never saw

no good come of bookish bodies; and she was sorry to see that her own

darling, George, was taking to the bookish line, and that his mother

encouraged him in it. She would lay her best shawl, she said, to a gauze

handkerchief, that William Deane would, sooner or later, beggar himself,

and all that belonged to him, by his books and his gimcracks; “and if

George were my son,” continued she, raising her voice, “I’d soon cure

him of prying and poring into that man’s picture-books, and following

him up and down with wheels and mechanic machines, which will never

come to no good, nor never make a gentleman of him, as a ticket in the

lottery might and would.”

All mouths were open at once to defend William. Maurice declared he was

the most industrious man in the parish; that his books never kept him

from his work, but always kept him from the alehouse and bad company;

and that, as to his gimcracks and machines, he never laid out a farthing

upon them but what he got by working on holidays, and odd times, when

other folks were idling or tippling. His master, who understood the like

of those things, said, before all the workmen at the mills, that William

Deane’s machines were main clever, and might come to bring in a deal of

money for him and his.

“Why,” continued Maurice, “there was Mr. Arkwright, the man that first

set a going all our cotton frames here, was no better than William

Deane, and yet came at last to make a power of money. It stands to

reason, any how, that William Deane is hurting nobody, nor himself

neither; and, moreover, he may divert himself his own way, without being

taken to task by man, woman, or child. As to children, he’s very good to

my child; there’s one loves him,” pointing to George, “and I’m glad of

it: for I should be ashamed, so I should, that my flesh and blood should

be in any ways disregardful or ungracious to those that be kind and good

to them.”

Mrs. Dolly, swelling with anger, repeated in a scornful voice,

“Disregardful, ungracious! I wonder folks can talk so to me! But this is

all the gratitude one meets with, in this world, for all one does. Well,

well! I’m an old woman, and shall soon be out of people’s way; and then

they will be sorry they did not use me better; and then they’ll bethink

them that it is not so easy to gain a friend as to lose a friend; and

then--”

Here Mrs. Dolly’s voice was stopped by her sobs; and Maurice, who was

a very good-natured man, and much disposed to gratitude, said he begged

her pardon a thousand times, if he had done any thing to offend her; and

declared his only wish was to please and satisfy her, if she would but

tell him how. She continued sobbing, without making any answer, for some

time: but at last she cried, “My ad--my ad--my ad-vice is never taken in

any thing!”

Maurice declared he was ready to take her advice, if that was the only

way to make her easy in her mind. “I know what you mean, now,” added he:

“you are still harping upon the lottery ticket. Well, I’ll buy a ticket

this day week, after I’ve sold the cow I bought at the fair. Will you

have done sobbing, now, cousin Dolly?”

“Indeed, cousin Maurice, it is only for your own sake I speak,” said

she, wiping her eyes. “You know you was always a favourite of mine from

your childhood up; I nursed you, and had you on my knee, and foretold

often and often you would make a fortune, so I did. And will you buy the

ticket I dreamed about, hey?”

Maurice assured her that, if it was to be had, he would. The cow was

accordingly sold the following week, and the ticket in the lottery

was bought. It was not, however, the number about which Mrs. Dolly had

dreamed, for that was already purchased by some other person. The ticket

Maurice bought was number 80; and, after he had got it, his cousin

Dolly continually deplored that it was not the very number of which she

dreamed. It would have been better not to have taken her advice at all

than to have taken it when it was too late.

Maurice was an easy-tempered man, and loved quiet; and when he found

that he was reproached for something or other whenever he came into his

own house, he began to dislike the thought of going home after his day’s

work, and loitered at public-houses sometimes, but more frequently at

the lottery-office. As the lottery was now drawing, his whole

thoughts were fixed upon his ticket; and he neglected his work at the

manufactory. “What signify a few shillings wages, more or less?” said he

to himself. “If my ticket should come up a prize, it makes a rich man of

me at once.”

His ticket at last was drawn a prize of five thousand pounds! He was

almost out of his senses with joy! He ran home to tell the news. “A

prize! a prize, Dolly!” cried he, as soon as he had breath to speak.

“That comes of taking my advice!” said Dolly.

“A five thousand pound prize! my dear Ellen,” cried he, and down he

kicked her spinning-wheel.

“I wish we may be as happy with it as we have been without it, Maurice,”

said Ellen; and calmly lifted her spinning-wheel up again.

“No more spinning-wheels!” cried Maurice; “no more spinning! no more

work! We have nothing to do now but to be as happy as the day is long.

Wife, I say, put by that wheel.”

“You’re a lady now; and ought to look and behave like a lady,” added

Mrs. Dolly, stretching up her head, “and not stand moping over an old

spinning-wheel.”

“I don’t know how to look and behave like a lady,” said Ellen, and

sighed: “but I hopes Maurice won’t love me the less for that.”

Mrs. Dolly was for some time wholly taken up with the pleasure of laying

out money, and “preparing,” as she said, “to look like somebody.” She

had many acquaintances at Paddington, she said, and she knew of a very

snug house there, where they could all live very genteel.

She was impatient to go thither, for two reasons; that she might make

a figure in the eyes of these acquaintances, and that she might get

Maurice and little George away from William Deane, who was now become

more than ever the object of her aversion and contempt; for he actually

advised his friend not to think of living in idleness, though he had

five thousand pounds. William moreover recommended it to him to put his

money out to interest, or to dispose of a good part of it in stocking a

farm, or in fitting out a shop. Ellen, being a farmer’s daughter, knew

well the management of a dairy; and, when a girl, had also assisted in a

haberdasher’s shop, that was kept in Derby by her uncle; so she was able

and willing, she said, to assist her husband in whichever of these ways

of life he should take to.

Maurice, irresolute and desirous of pleasing all parties, at last said,

it would be as well, seeing they were now rich enough not to mind such a

journey, just to go to Paddington and look about ‘em; and if so be they

could not settle there in comfort, why still they might see a bit of

London town, and take their pleasure for a month or so; and he hoped

William Deane would come along with them, and it should not be a

farthing out of his pocket.

Little George said every thing he could think of to persuade his _King

Deane_ to go with them, and almost pulled him to the coach door, when

they were setting off; but William could not leave his master and his

business. The child clung with his legs and arms so fast to him that

they were forced to drag him into the carriage.

“You’ll find plenty of friends at Paddington, who’ll give you many

pretty things. Dry your eyes, and see! you’re in a coach!” said Mrs.

Dolly.

George dried his eyes directly, for he was ashamed of crying; but he

answered, “I don’t care for your pretty things. I shall not find my

good dear King Deane any where;” and, leaning upon his mother’s lap, he

twirled round the wheel of a little cart, which William Deane had given

him, and which he carried under his arm as his greatest treasure.

Ellen was delighted to see signs of such a grateful and affectionate

disposition in her son, and all her thoughts were bent upon him; whilst

Mrs. Dolly chattered on about her acquaintance at Paddington, and her

satisfaction at finding herself in a coach once again. Her satisfaction

was not, however, of long continuance; for she grew so sick that she was

obliged, or thought herself obliged, every quarter of an hour, to have

recourse to her cordial bottle. Her spirits were at last raised so much,

that she became extremely communicative, and she laid open to Maurice

and Ellen all her plans of future pleasure and expense.

“In the first place,” said she, “I am heartily glad now I have got you

away from that cottage that was not fit to live in; and from certain

folks that shall be nameless, that would have one live all one’s

life like scrubs, like themselves. You must know that when we get

to Paddington, the first thing I shall do shall be to buy a handsome

coach.” “A coach!” exclaimed Maurice and Ellen, with extreme

astonishment.

“A coach, to be sure,” said Mrs. Dolly. “I say a coach.”

“I say we shall be ruined, then,” said Maurice; “and laughed at into the

bargain.”

“La! you don’t know what money is,” said Mrs. Dolly. “Why haven’t you

five thousand pounds, man? You don’t know what can be done with five

thousand pounds, cousin Maurice.”

“No, nor you neither, cousin Dolly; or you’d never talk of setting up

your coach.”

“Why not, pray? I know what a coach costs as well as another. I know

we can have a second-hand coach, and we need not tell nobody that it’s

second-hand, for about a hundred pounds. And what’s a hundred pounds out

of five thousand?”

“But if we’ve a coach, we must have horses, must not we?” said Ellen,

“and they’ll cost a hundred more.”

“Oh, we can have job horses, that will cost us little or nothing,” said

Mrs. Dolly.

“Say £150. a-year,” replied Maurice; “for I heard my master’s coachman

telling that the livery-keeper in London declared as how he made nothing

by letting him have job horses for £150. a-year.”

“We are to have our own coach,” said Dolly, “and that will be cheaper,

you know.”

“But the coach won’t last for ever,” said Ellen; “it must be mended, and

that will cost something.”

“It is time enough to think of that when the coach wants mending,” said

Mrs. Dolly; who, without giving herself the trouble of calculating,

seemed to be convinced that every thing might be done for five thousand

pounds. “I must let you know a little secret,” continued she. “I have

written, that is, got a friend to write, to have the house at Paddington

taken for a year; for I know it’s quite the thing for us, and we are

only to give fifty pounds a-year for it: and you know that one thousand

pounds would pay that rent for twenty years to come.”

“But then,” said Ellen, “you will want to do a great many other things

with that thousand pounds. There’s the coach you mentioned; and you said

we must keep a footboy, and must see a deal of company, and must not

grudge to buy clothes, and that we could not follow any trade, nor have

a farm, nor do any thing to make money; so we must live on upon what we

have. Now let us count, and see how we shall do it. You know, Maurice,

that William Deane inquired about what we could get for our five

thousand pounds, if we put it out to interest?”

“Ay; two hundred a-year, he said.”

“Well, we pay fifty pounds a-year for the rent of the house, and a

hundred a-year we three and the boy must have to live upon, and there is

but fifty pounds a-year left.”

Mrs. Dolly, with some reluctance, gave up the notion of the coach; and

Ellen proposed that five hundred pounds should be laid out in furnishing

a haberdasher’s shop, and that the rest of their money should be put

out to interest, till it was wanted. “Maurice and I can take care of the

shop very well; and we can live well enough upon what we make by it,”

said Ellen.

Mrs. Dolly opposed the idea of keeping a shop; and observed that they

should not, in that case, be gentlefolks. Besides, she said, she was

sure the people of the house she had taken would never let it be turned

into a shop.

What Mrs. Dolly had said was indeed true. When they got to Paddington,

they found that the house was by no means fit for a shop; and as the

bargain was made for a year, and they could not get it off their hands

without considerable loss, Ellen was forced to put off her prudent

scheme. In the mean time she determined to learn how to keep accounts

properly.

There was a small garden belonging to the house, in which George set

to work; and though he could do little more than pull up the weeds,

yet this kept him out of mischief and idleness; and she sent him to a

day-school, where he would learn to read, write, and cast accounts. When

he came home in the evenings, he used to show her his copy-book, and

read his lesson, and say his spelling to her, while she was at work. His

master said it was a pleasure to teach him, he was so eager to learn;

and Ellen was glad that she had money enough to pay for having her

boy well taught. Mrs. Dolly, all this time, was sitting and gossiping

amongst her acquaintance in Paddington. These acquaintance were people

whom she had seen when they visited the housekeeper in the great family

where she was laundry-maid; and she was very proud to show them that she

was now a finer person than even the housekeeper, who was formerly the

object of her envy. She had tea-drinking parties, and sometimes dinner

parties, two or three in a week; and hired a footboy, and laughed at

Ellen for her low notions, and dissuaded Maurice from all industrious

schemes; still saying to him, “Oh, you’ll have time enough to think of

going to work when you have spent all your money.”

Maurice, who had been accustomed to be at work for several hours in the

day, at first thought it would be a fine thing to walk about, as Mrs.

Dolly said, like a gentleman, without having any thing to do; but when

he came to try it, he found himself more tired by this way of life than

he had ever felt himself in the cotton-mills at Derby. He gaped and

gaped, and lounged about every morning, and looked a hundred times at

his new watch, and put it to his ear to listen whether it was going, the

time seemed to him to pass so slowly. Sometimes he sauntered through

the town, came back again, and stood at his own door looking at dogs

fighting for a bone; at others, he went into the kitchen, to learn what

there was to be for dinner, and to watch the maid cooking, or the boy

cleaning knives. It was a great relief for him to go into the room where

his wife was at work: but he never would have been able to get through a

year in this way without the assistance of a pretty little black horse,

for which he paid thirty guineas. During a month he was very happy in

riding backwards and forwards on the Edgeware-road: but presently

the horse fell lame; it was discovered that he was spavined and

broken-winded; and the jockey from whom Maurice bought him was no where

to be found. Maurice sold the horse for five guineas, and bought a fine

bay for forty, which he was certain would turn out well, seeing he paid

such a good price for him; but the bay scarcely proved better than the

black. How he managed it we do not know, but it seems he was not so

skilful in horses as in cotton-weaving; for at the end of the year he

had no horse, and had lost fifty guineas by his bargains.

Another hundred guineas were gone, nobody in the family but himself knew

how: but he resolved to waste no more money and began the new year well,

by opening a haberdasher’s shop in Paddington. The fitting up this shop

cost them five hundred pounds; it was tolerably stocked, and Ellen was

so active, and so attentive to all customers, that she brought numbers

to Maurice Robinson’s new shop. They made full twelve per cent, upon all

they sold; and, in six months, had turned three hundred pounds twice,

and had gained the profit of seventy-two pounds. Maurice, however, had

got such a habit of lounging, during his year of idleness, that he could

not relish steady attendance in the shop: he was often out, frequently

came home late at night, and Ellen observed that he sometimes looked

extremely melancholy; but when she asked him whether he was ill, or what

ailed him, he always turned away, answering, “Nothing--nothing ails me.

Why do ye fancy any thing ails me?”

Alas! it was no fancy. Ellen saw too plainly, that something was going

wrong: but as her husband persisted in silence, she could not tell how

to assist or comfort him.

Mrs. Dolly in the mean time was going on spending her money in

junketing. She was, besides, no longer satisfied with taking

her spoonful of brandy in every dish of tea; she found herself

uncomfortable, she said, unless she took every morning fasting a

full glass of the good cordial recommended to her by her friend,

Mrs. Joddrell, the apothecary’s wife. Now this good cordial, in plain

English, was a strong dram. Ellen, in the gentlest manner she could,

represented to Mrs. Dolly that she was hurting her health, and was

exposing herself, by this increasing habit of drinking; but she replied

with anger, that what she _took_ was for the good of her health; that

everybody knew best what agreed with them; that she should trust to her

own feelings; and that nobody need talk, when all she took came out of

the apothecary’s shop, and was paid for honestly with her own money.

Besides what came out of the apothecary’s shop, Mrs. Dolly found it

agreed with her constantly to drink a pot of porter at dinner, and

another at supper; and always when she had a cold, and she had often a

cold, she drank large basins full of white wine whey, “to throw off her

cold,” as she said.

Then by degrees, she lost her appetite, and found she could eat nothing,

unless she had a glass of brandy at dinner. Small beer, she discovered,

did not agree with her; so at luncheon time she always had a tumbler

full of brandy and water. This she carefully mixed herself, and put less

and less water in every day, because brandy, she was convinced, was more

wholesome for some constitutions than water; and brandy and peppermint,

taken together, was an infallible remedy for all complaints, low spirits

included.

CHAPTER II.

Mrs. Dolly never found herself comfortable, moreover, unless she

dined abroad two or three days in the week, at a public-house, near

Paddington, where she said she was more at home than she was any where

else. There was a bowling-green at this public-house, and it was a place

to which tea-drinking parties resorted. Now Mrs. Dolly often wanted to

take little George out with her to these parties, and said, “It is a

pity and shame to keep the poor thing always mewed up at home, without

ever letting him have any pleasure! Would not you like to go with me,

George dear, in the one-horse chaise? and would not you be glad to have

cakes, and tea, and all the good things that are to be had?”

“I should like to go in the one-horse chaise, to be sure, and to have

cakes and tea; but I should not like to go with you, because mother does

not choose it,” answered George, in his usual plain way of speaking.

Ellen, who had often seen Mrs. Dolly offer him wine and punch to

drink, by way of a treat, was afraid he might gradually learn to love

spirituous liquors; and that if he acquired a habit of drinking such

when he was a boy, he would become a drunkard when he should grow to be

a man. George was now almost nine years old; and he could understand

the reason why his mother desired that he would not drink spirituous

liquors. She once pointed out to him a drunken man, who was reeling

along the street, and bawling ridiculous nonsense: he had quite lost his

senses, and as he did not attend to the noise of a carriage coming

fast behind him, he could not get out of the way time enough, and the

coachman could not stop his horses; so the drunken man was thrown down,

and the wheel of the carriage went over his leg, and broke it in a

shocking manner. George saw him carried towards his home, writhing and

groaning with pain.

“See what comes of drunkenness!” said Ellen.

She stopped the people, who were carrying the hurt man past her door,

and had him brought in and laid upon a bed, whilst a surgeon was sent

for. George stood beside the bed in silence; and the words “See what

comes of drunkenness!” sounded in his ears.

Another time, his mother pointed out to him a man with terribly swollen

legs, and a red face blotched all over, lifted out of a fine coach by

two footmen in fine liveries. The man leaned upon a gold-headed cane,

after he was lifted from his carriage, and tried with his other hand to

take off his hat to a lady, who asked him how he did; but his hand shook

so much that, when he had got his hat off, he could not put it rightly

upon his head, and his footman put it on for him. The boys in the street

laughed at him. “Poor man!” said Ellen; “that is Squire L----, who, as

you heard the apothecary say, has drunk harder in his day than any

man that ever he knew; and this is what he has brought himself to by

drinking! All the physic in the apothecary’s shop cannot make him well

again! No; nor can his fine coach and fine footmen any more make him

easy or happy, poor man!”

George exclaimed, “I wonder how people can be such fools as to be

drunkards! I will never be a drunkard, mother; and now I know the reason

why you desired me not to drink the wine, when Mrs. Dolly used to say to

me, ‘Down with it, George dear, it will do ye no harm.’”

These circumstances made such an impression upon George that there was

no further occasion to watch him; he always pushed away the glass when

Mrs. Dolly filled it for him.

One day his mother said to him, “Now I can trust you to take care

of yourself, George, I shall not watch you. Mrs. Dolly is going to a

bowling-green tea-party this evening, and has asked you to go with her;

and I have told her you shall.”

George accordingly went with Mrs. Dolly to the bowling-green. The

company drank tea out of doors, in summer-houses. After tea, Mrs. Dolly

bid George go and look at the bowling-green; and George was very well

entertained with seeing the people playing at bowls; but when it grew

late in the evening, and when the company began to go away, George

looked about for Mrs. Dolly. She was not in the summer-house, where

they had drunk tea, nor was she any where upon the terrace round the

bowling-green; so he went to the public-house in search of her, and at

last found her standing at the bar with the landlady. Her face was very

red, and she had a large glass of brandy in her hand, into which the

landlady was pouring some drops, which she said were excellent for the

stomach.

Mrs. Dolly started so when she saw George, that she threw down half

her glass of brandy. “Bless us, child! I thought you were safe at the

bowling-green,” said she.

“I saw every body going away,” answered George; “so I thought it was

time to look for you, and to go home.”

“But before you go, my dear little gentleman,” said the landlady, “you

must eat one of these tarts, for my sake.” As she spoke, she gave George

a little tart: “and here,” added she, “you must drink my health too in

something good. Don’t be afraid, love; it’s nothing that will hurt you:

it’s very sweet and nice.”

“It is wine, or spirits of some sort or other, I know by the smell,”

said George; “and I will not drink it, thank you, ma’am.”

“The boy’s a fool!” said Mrs. Dolly; “but it’s his mother’s fault. She

won’t let him taste any thing stronger than water. But now your mother’s

not by, you know,” said Mrs. Dolly, winking at the landlady; “now your

mother’s not by--”

“Yes, and nobody will tell of you,” added the landlady; “so do what you

like: drink it down, love.”

“No!” cried George, pushing away the glass which Mrs. Dolly held to his

lips. “No! no! no! I say. I will not do any thing now my mother’s not

by, that I would not do if she was here in this room.”

“Well; hush, hush; and don’t bawl so loud though,” said Mrs. Dolly, who

saw, what George did not see, a gentleman that was standing at the door

of the parlour opposite to them, and who could hear every thing that was

saying at the bar.

“I say,” continued George, in a loud voice, “mother told me she could

trust me to take care of myself; and so I will take care of myself; and

I am not a fool, no more is mother, I know; for she told me the reasons

why it is not good to drink spirituous--.” Mrs. Dolly pushed him away,

without giving him time to finish his sentence, bidding him go and see

whether the gig was ready; for it was time to be going home.

As George was standing in the yard, looking at the mechanism of the

one-horse chaise and observing how the horse was put to, somebody tapped

him upon the shoulder, and looking up, he saw a gentleman with a very

good-natured countenance, who smiled upon him, and asked him whether he

was the little boy who had just been talking so loud in the bar?

“Yes, sir,” says George. “You seem to be a good little boy,” added he;

“and I liked what I heard you say very much. So you will not do any

thing when your mother is not by, that you would not do if she was

here--was not that what you said?”

“Yes, sir; as well as I remember.”

“And who is your mother?” continued the gentleman. “Where does she

live?”

George told him his mother’s name, and where she lived; and the

gentleman said, “I will call at your mother’s house as I go home, and

tell her what I heard you say; and I will ask her to let you come to my

house, where you will see a little boy of your own age, whom I should be

very glad to have seen behave as well as you did just now.”

Mr. Belton, for that was the name of the gentleman who took notice of

George, was a rich carpet manufacturer. He had a country-house near

Paddington; and the acquaintance which was thus begun became a source

of great happiness to George. Mr. Belton lent him several entertaining

books, and took him to see many curious things in London. Ellen was

rejoiced to hear from him the praises of her son. All the pleasure of

Ellen’s life had, for some months past, depended upon this boy; for

her husband was seldom at home, and the gloom that was spread over his

countenance alarmed her, whenever she saw him. As for Mrs. Dolly, she

was no companion for Ellen: her love of drinking had increased to such

a degree that she could love nothing else; and when she was not half

intoxicated, she was in such low spirits that she sat (either on the

side of her bed, or in her arm-chair, wrapped in a shawl) sighing and

crying, and see-sawing herself; and sometimes she complained to Maurice

that Ellen did not care whether she was dead or alive; and at others

that George had always something or other to do, and never liked to

sit in her room and keep her company. Besides all this, she got into

a hundred petty quarrels with the neighbours, who had a knack of

remembering what she said when she was drunk, and appealing to her for

satisfaction when she was sober. Mrs. Dolly regularly expected that

Ellen should, as she called it, stand her friend in these altercations;

to which Ellen could not always in justice consent. Ah! said Ellen to

herself one night, as she was sitting up late waiting for her husband’s

return home, it is not the having five thousand pounds that makes people

happy! When Maurice loved to come home after his day’s work to our

little cottage, and when our George was his delight, as he is mine, then

I was light of heart; but now it is quite otherwise. However, there

is no use in complaining, nor in sitting down to think upon melancholy

things; and Ellen started up and went to work, to mend one of her

husband’s waistcoats.

Whilst she was at this employment, she listened continually for the

return of Maurice. The clock struck twelve, and one, and no husband

came! She heard no noise in the street when she opened her window, for

every body but herself was in bed and asleep. At last she heard the

sound of footsteps; but it was so dark that she could not see who

the person was, who continued walking backwards and forwards, just

underneath the window.

“Is it you, Maurice? Are you there, Maurice?” said Ellen. The noise of

the footsteps ceased, and Ellen again said, “Is it you, Maurice? Are you

there?”

“Yes,” answered Maurice; “it is I. Why are you not abed and asleep, at

this time of night?”

“I am waiting for you,” replied Ellen. “You need not wait for me; I have

the key of the house door in my pocket, and can let myself in whenever I

choose it.”

“And don’t you choose it now?” said Ellen.

“No. Shut down the window.”

Ellen shut the window, and went and sat down upon the side of her boy’s

bed. He was sleeping. Ellen, who could not sleep, took up her work

again, and resolved to wait till her husband should come in. At last,

the key turned in the house door, and presently she heard her husband’s

steps coming softly towards the room where she was sitting. He opened

the door gently, as if he expected to find her asleep, and was afraid

of awakening her. He started when he saw her; and slouching his hat over

his face, threw himself into a chair without speaking a single word.

Something terrible has happened to him, surely! thought Ellen; and her

hand trembled so that she could scarcely hold her needle, when she tried

to go on working.

“What are you doing there, Ellen?” said he, suddenly pushing back his

hat.

“I’m only mending your waistcoat, love,” said Ellen, in a faltering

voice.

“I am a wretch! a fool! a miserable wretch!” exclaimed Maurice, starting

up and striking his forehead with violence as he walked up and down the

room.

“What can be the matter?” said Ellen. “It is worse to me to see you in

this way, than to hear whatever misfortune has befallen you. Don’t turn

away from me, husband! Who in the world loves you so well as I do?”

“Oh, Ellen,” said he, letting her take his hand, but still turning away,

“you will hate me when you know what I have done.”

“I cannot hate you, I believe,” said Ellen.

“We have not sixpence left in the world!” continued Maurice, vehemently.

“We must leave this house to-morrow; we must sell all we have; I must go

to jail, Ellen! You must work all the rest of your days harder than ever

you did; and so must that poor boy, who lies sleeping yonder. He little

thinks that his father has made a beggar of him; and that, whilst his

mother was the best of mothers to him, his father was ruining him, her,

and himself, with a pack of rascals at the gaming-table. Ellen, I have

lost every shilling of our money!”

“Is that all?” said Ellen. “That’s bad; but I am glad that you have done

nothing wicked. We can work hard, and be happy again. Only promise me

now, dear husband, that you will never game any more.”

Maurice threw himself upon his knees, and swore that he never, to the

last hour of his life, would go to any gaming-table again, or play at

any game of chance. Ellen then said all she could to soothe and console

him; she persuaded him to take some rest, of which he was much in need,

for his looks were haggard, and he seemed quite exhausted. He declared

that he had not had a night’s good sleep for many months, since he

had got into these difficulties by gaming. His mind had been kept in

a continual flurry, and he seemed as if he had been living in a fever.

“The worst of it was, Ellen,” said he, “I could not bear to see you or

the boy when I had been losing; so I went on, gaming deeper and deeper,

in hopes of winning back what I had lost; and I now and then won, and

they coaxed me and told me I was getting a run of luck, and it would be

a sin to turn my back on good fortune. This way I was ‘ticed to go on

playing, till, when I betted higher and higher, my luck left me; or, as

I shrewdly suspect, the rascals did not play fair, and they won stake

after stake, till they made me half mad, and I risked all I had left

upon one throw, and lost it! And when I found I had lost all, and

thought of coming home to you and our boy, I was ready to hang myself.

Oh, Ellen, if you knew all I have felt! I would not live over again the

last two years for this room full of gold!”

Such are the miserable feelings, and such the life, of a gamester!

Maurice slept for a few hours, or rather dozed, starting now and then,

and talking of cards and dice, and sometimes grinding his teeth and

clenching his hand, till he wakened himself by the violence with which

he struck the side of the bed.

“I have had a terrible dream, wife,” said he, when he opened his

eyes, and saw Ellen sitting beside him on the bed. At first he did not

recollect what had really happened; but as Ellen looked at him with

sorrow and compassion in her countenance, he gradually remembered all

the truth; and, hiding his head under the bed-clothes, he said he wished

he could sleep again, if it could be without dreaming such dreadful

things.

It was in vain that he tried to sleep; so he got up, resolving to try

whether he could borrow twenty guineas from any of his friends, to pay

the most pressing of his gaming companions. The first person he asked

was Mrs. Dolly: she fell into an hysteric fit when she heard of his

losses; and it was not till after she had swallowed a double dram of

brandy that she was able to speak, and to tell him that she was the

worst person in the world he could have applied to; for that she was in

the greatest distress herself, and all her dependance in this world was

upon him.

Maurice stood in silent astonishment. “Why, cousin,” said he, “I

thought, and always believed, that you had a power of money! You know,

when you came to live with us, you told me so.”

“No matter what I told you,” said Mrs. Dolly. “Folks can’t live upon

air. Yesterday the landlady of the public-house at the bowling-green,

whom I’m sure I looked upon as my friend,--but there’s no knowing one’s

friends,--sent me in a bill as long as my arm; and the apothecary here

has another against me worse again; and the man at the livery-stables,

for one-horse chays, and jobs that I’m sure I forgot ever having, comes

and charges me the Lord knows what! and then the grocer for tea and

sugar, which I have been giving to folks from whom I have got no thanks.

And then I have an account with the linen-draper of I don’t know how

much! hut he has over-charged me, I know, scandalously, for my last

three shawls. And then I have never paid for my set of tea china; and

half of the cups are broke, and the silver spoons, and I can’t tell what

besides.”

In short, Mrs. Dolly, who had never kept any account of what she spent,

had no idea how far she was getting into a tradesman’s debt till his

bill was brought home: and was in great astonishment to find, when all

her bills were sent in, that she had spent four hundred and fifty pounds

in her private expenses, drinking included, in the course of three years

and eight months. She had now nothing left to live upon but one hundred

pounds, so that she was more likely to be a burden to Maurice than

any assistance. He, however, was determined to go to a friend, who had

frequently offered to lend him any sum of money he might want, and who

had often been his partner at the gaming-table.

In his absence, Ellen and George began to take a list of all the

furniture in the house, that it might be ready for a sale, and Mrs.

Dolly sat in her arm-chair, weeping and wailing.

“Oh! laud! laud! that I should live to see all this!” cried she. “Ah,

lack-a-daisy! lack-a-daisy! lack-a-day! what will become of me? Oh, la!

la! la! la!” Her lamentations were interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Hark! a knock, a double knock at the door,” cried Mrs. Dolly. “Who is

it? Ah, lack-a-day, when people come to know what has happened, it will

be long enough before we have any more visitors; long enough before we

hear any more double knocks at the door. Oh, laud! laud! See who it is,

George.”

It was Mr. Belton, who was come to ask George to go with him and his

little nephew to see some wild beasts at Exeter-’change: he was much

surprised at the sorrowful faces of George and Ellen, whom he had always

been used to see so cheerful, and inquired what misfortune had befallen

them? Mrs. Dolly thought she could tell the story best, so she detailed

the whole, with many piteous ejaculations; but the silent resignation of

Ellen’s countenance had much more effect upon Mr. Belton. “George,” said

he, “must stay to finish the inventory he is writing for his mother.”

Mr. Belton was inquiring more particularly into the amount of Maurice’s

debts, and the names of the persons to whom he had lost his money at

the gaming-table, when the unfortunate man himself came home. “No hope,

Ellen!” cried he. “No hope from any of those rascals that I thought my

friends. No hope!”

He stopped short, seeing a stranger in the room, for Mr. Belton was a

stranger to him. “My husband can tell you the names of all the people,”

said Ellen, “who have been the ruin of us.” Mr. Belton then wrote them

down from Maurice’s information; and learned from him that he had lost

to these sharpers upwards of three thousand eight hundred pounds in the

course of three years; that the last night he played, he had staked the

goods in his shop, valued at 350_l_, and lost them; that afterwards he

staked the furniture of his house, valued at 160_l_.; this also he lost;

and so left the gaming-table without a farthing in the world.

“It is not my intention,” said Mr. Belton, “to add to your present

suffering, Mr. Robinson, by pointing out that it has arisen entirely

from your own imprudence. Nor yet can I say that I feel much compassion

for you; for I have always considered a gamester as a most selfish

being, who should be suffered to feel the terrible consequences of his

own avaricious folly, as a warning to others.”

“Oh, sir! Oh, Mr. Belton!” cried Ellen, bursting now, for the first

time, into tears, “do not speak so harshly to Maurice.”

“To you I shall not speak harshly,” said Mr. Belton, his voice and looks

changing; “for I have the greatest compassion for such an excellent wife

and mother. And I shall take care that neither you nor your son, whom

you have taken such successful pains to educate, shall suffer by the

folly and imprudence in which you had no share. As to the ready money

which your husband has lost and paid to these sharpers, it is, I fear,

irrecoverable; but the goods in your shop, and the furniture in your

house, I will take care shall not be touched. I will go immediately to

my attorney, and direct him to inquire into the truth of all I have been

told, and to prosecute these villains for keeping a gaming-table, and

playing at unlawful games. Finish that inventory which you are making

out, George, and give it to me; I will have the furniture in your house,

Ellen, valued by an appraiser, and will advance you money to the amount,

on which you may continue to live in comfort and credit, trusting to

your industry and integrity to repay me in small sums, as you find it

convenient, out of the profits of your shop.”

“Oh, sir!” cried Maurice, clasping his hands with a strong expression

of joy, “thank you! thank you from the bottom of my soul! Save her from

misery, save the boy, and let me suffer as I ought for my folly.”

Mr. Belton, in spite of his contempt for gamesters, was touched by

Maurice’s repentance; but, keeping a steady countenance, replied in a

firm tone, “Suffering for folly does nobody any good, unless it makes

them wiser in future.”

CHAPTER III.

Mrs. Dolly, who had been unaccountably awed to silence by Mr. Belton’s

manner of speaking and looking, broke forth the moment he had left the

house. “Very genteel, indeed; though he might have taken more notice

of me. See what, it is, George, to have the luck of meeting with good

friends.”

“See what it is to deserve good friends, George,” said Ellen.

“You’ll all remember, I hope,” said Mrs. Dolly, raising her voice, “that

it was I who was the first and foremost cause of all this, by taking

George along with me to the tea-drinking at the bowling-green, where he

first got acquainted with Mr. Belton.”

“Mr. Belton would never have troubled his head about such a little boy

as George,” said Ellen, “if it had not been for--you know what I mean,

Mrs. Dolly. All I wish to say is, that George’s own good behaviour was

the cause of our getting acquainted with this good friend.”

“And I am sure you were the cause, mother,” said George, “of what you

call my good behaviour.”

Mrs. Dolly, somewhat vexed at this turn, changed the conversation

saying, “Well, ‘tis no matter how we made such a good acquaintance;

let us make the most of him, and drink his health, as becomes us,

after dinner. And now, I suppose, all will go on as usual: none of our

acquaintance in Paddington need know any thing of what has happened.”

Ellen, who was very little solicitous about what Mrs. Dolly’s

acquaintance in Paddington might think, observed that, so far from going

on as usual, now they were living on borrowed money, it was fit they

should retrench all their expenses, and give up the drawing-room and

parlour of the house to lodgers.

“So, then, we are to live like shabby wretches for the rest of our

days!” cried Mrs. Dolly. “Better live like what we are, poor but

industrious people,” replied Ellen, “and then we shall never be forced

to do any thing shabby.”

“Ay, Ellen, you are, as you always are, in the right; and all I desire

now, in this world, is to make up for the past, and to fall to work

in some way or other; for idleness was what first led me to the

gaming-table.”

Mrs. Dolly opposed these good resolutions, and urged Maurice to send

George to Mr. Belton, to beg him to lend them some more money. “Since he

is in the humour to be generous, and since he has taken a fancy to

us,” said she, “why not take him at his word, and make punch whilst the

water’s hot?”

But all that Mrs. Dolly said was lost upon Ellen, who declared that she

would never be so mean as to encroach upon such a generous friend; and

Maurice protested that nothing that man, woman, or devil, could say,

should persuade him to live in idleness another year. He sent George

the next morning to Mr. Belton with a letter, requesting that he would

procure employment for him, and stating what he thought himself fit for.

Amongst other things, he mentioned that he could keep accounts. That

he could write a good hand was evident, from his letter. Mr. Belton,

at this time, wanted a clerk in his manufactory; and, upon Maurice’s

repeating his promise never more to frequent the gaming-table, Mr.

Belton, after a trial, engaged him as his clerk, at a salary of 50_1_.

per annum.

Every thing now went on well for some months. Maurice, on whom his

wife’s kindness had made a deep impression, became thoroughly intent

upon his business, and anxious to make her some amends for his past

follies. His heart was now at ease: he came home, after his day’s work

at the counting-house, with an open, cheerful countenance; and Ellen was

perfectly happy. They sold all the furniture that was too fine for their

present way of life to the new lodgers, who took the drawing-room and

front parlour of their house; and lived on the profits of their shop,

which, being well attended, was never in want of customers.

One night, at about ten o’clock, as little George was sitting, reading

the history of Sandford and Merton, in which he was much interested, he

was roused by a loud knocking at the house door. He ran to open it: but

how much was he shocked at the sight he beheld! It was Mrs. Dolly! her

leg broken, and her skull fractured!

Ellen had her brought in, and laid upon a bed, and a surgeon was

immediately sent for. When Maurice inquired how this terrible accident

befel Mrs. Dolly, the account he received was, that she was riding home

from the bowling-green public-house, much intoxicated; that she insisted

upon stopping to get a glass of peppermint and brandy for her stomach;

that, seeing she had drunk too much already, every thing possible was

done to prevent her from taking any more; but she would not be advised:

she said she knew best what agreed with her constitution; so she

alighted and took the brandy and peppermint; and when she was to get

upon her horse again, not being in her right senses, she insisted upon

climbing up by a gate that was on the road-side, instead of going, as

she was advised, to a bank that was a little further on. The gate was

not steady, the horse being pushed moved, she fell, broke her leg, and

fractured her skull.

She was a most shocking spectacle when she was brought home. At first

she was in great agony; but she afterwards fell into a sort of stupor,

and lay speechless.

The surgeon arrived: he set her leg; and during this operation, she came

to her senses, but it was only the sensibility of pain. She was then

trepanned; but all was to no purpose--she died that night; and of

all the friends, as she called them, who used to partake in her

tea-drinkings and merry-makings, not one said more when they heard

of her death than “Ah, poor Mrs. Dolly! she was always fond of a

comfortable glass: ‘twas a pity it was the death of her at last.”

Several tradesmen, to whom she died in debt, were very loud in their

complaints; and the landlady at the bowling-green did not spare her

memory. She went so far as to say, that _it was a shame such a drunken

quean should have a Christian burial._ What little clothes Mrs. Dolly

left at her death were given up to her creditors. She had owed Maurice

ten guineas ever since the first month of their coming to Paddington;

and when she was on her death-bed, during one of the intervals that she

was in her senses, she beckoned to Maurice, and told him, in a voice

scarcely intelligible, he would find in her left-hand pocket what she

hoped would pay him the ten guineas he had lent to her. However, upon

searching this pocket, no money was to be found, except sixpence in

halfpence; nor was there any thing of value about her. They turned the

pocket inside out, and shook it; they opened every paper that came out

of it, but these were all old bills. Ellen at last examined a new shawl

which had been thrust into this pocket, and which was all crumpled up:

she observed that one of the corners was doubled down, and pinned; and

upon taking out the yellow crooked pin, she discovered, under the corner

of the shawl, a bit of paper, much soiled with snuff, and stained with

liquor. “How it smells of brandy!” said Ellen, as she opened it. “What

is it, Maurice?”

“It is not a bank note. It is a lottery ticket, I do believe!” cried

Maurice. “Ay, that it is! She put into the lottery without letting us

know any thing of the matter. Well, as she said, perhaps this may pay me

my ten guineas, and overpay me, who knows? We were lucky with our last

ticket; and why should not we be as lucky with this, or luckier, hey,

Ellen? We might have ten thousand pounds or twenty thousand pounds this

time, instead of five, why not, hey, Ellen?” But Maurice observing that

Ellen looked grave, and was not much charmed with the lottery ticket,

suddenly changed his tone, and said, “Now don’t you, Ellen, go to think

that my head will run on nothing but this here lottery ticket. It will

make no difference on earth in me: I shall mind my business just as well

as if there was no such thing, I promise you. If it come up a prize,

well and good: and if it come up a blank, why well and good too. So do

you keep the ticket, and I shall never think more about it, Ellen. Only,

before you put it by, just let me look at the number. What makes you

smile?”

“I smiled only because I think I know you better than you, know

yourself. But, perhaps, that should not make me smile,” said Ellen: and

she gave a deep sigh.

“Now, wife, why will you sigh? I can’t bear to hear you sigh,” said

Maurice, angrily. “I tell you I know myself, and have a right to know

myself, I say, a great deal better than you do; and so none of your

sighs, wife.”

Ellen rejoiced to see that his pride worked upon him in this manner; and

mildly told him she was very glad to find he thought so much about her

sighs. “Why,” said Maurice, “you are not one of those wives that are

always taunting and scolding their husbands; and that’s the reason, I

take it, why a look or a word from you goes so far with me.” He paused

for a few moments, keeping his eyes fixed upon the lottery ticket; then,

snatching it up, he continued: “This lottery ticket may tempt me to game

again: for, as William Deane said, putting into the lottery is gaming,

and the worst sort of gaming. So, Ellen, I’ll show you that though I

was a fool once, I’ll never be a fool again. All your goodness was not

thrown away upon me. I’ll go and sell this lottery ticket immediately at

the office, for whatever it is worth: and you’ll give me a kiss when I

come home again, I know, Ellen.”

Maurice, pleased with his own resolution, went directly to the lottery

office to sell his ticket. He was obliged to wait some time, for the

place was crowded with persons who came to inquire after tickets which

they had insured.

Many of these ignorant imprudent poor people had hazarded guinea after

guinea, till they found themselves overwhelmed with debt; and their

liberty, character, and existence, depending on the turning of the

wheel. What anxious faces did Maurice behold! How many he heard, as

they went out of the office, curse their folly for having put into the

lottery!

He pressed forward to sell his ticket. How rejoiced he was when he

had parted with this dangerous temptation, and when he had received

seventeen guineas in hand, instead of anxious hopes! How different were

his feelings at this instant from those of many that were near him! He

stood to contemplate the scene. Here he saw a poor maid-servant, with

scarcely clothes to cover her, who was stretching her thin neck across

the counter, and asking the clerk, in a voice of agony, whether _her_

ticket, number 45, was come up yet.

“Number 45?” answered the clerk, with the most careless air imaginable.

“Yes” (turning over the leaves of his book): “Number 45, you say--Yes:

it was drawn yesterday--a blank.” The wretched woman clasped her hands,

and burst into tears, exclaiming, “Then I’m undone!”

Nobody seemed to have time to attend to her. A man servant, in livery,

pushed her away, saying, “You have your answer, and have no more

business here, stopping the way. Pray, sir, is number 336, the ticket

I’ve insured {Footnote: This was written before the act of parliament

against insuring in lotteries.} so high, come up to-day?”

“Yes, sir--blank.” At the word blank, the disappointed footman poured

forth a volley of oaths, declaring that he should be in jail before

night; to all which the lottery-office keeper only answered, “I can’t

help it, sir; I can’t help it. It is not my fault. Nobody is forced to

put into the lottery, sir. Nobody’s obliged to insure, sir. ‘Twas your

own choice, sir. Don’t blame me.”

Meanwhile, a person behind the footman, repeating the words he had

addressed to the poor woman, cried, “You have your answer, sir; don’t

stop the way.”

Maurice was particularly struck with the agitated countenance of one

man, who seemed as if the suspense of his mind had entirely bereaved him

of all recollection. When he was pressed forward by the crowd, and

found himself opposite to the clerk, he was asked twice, “What’s your

business, sir?” before he could speak; and then could only utter the

words--number 7? “Still in the wheel,” was the answer. “Our messenger is

not yet returned from Guildhall, with news of what has been drawn this

last hour. If you will call again at three, we can answer you.” The man

seemed to feel this as a reprieve; but as he was retiring, there came

one with a slip of paper in his hand. This was the messenger from

Guildhall, who handed the paper to the clerk. He read aloud, “Number 7.

Were you not inquiring for 7, sir?”

“Yes,” said the pale trembling man.

“Number 7 is just come up, sir,--a blank.”

At the fatal word blank, the man fell flat upon his face in a swoon.

Those near him lifted him out into the street, for air.

“Here, sir; you are going without your change, after waiting for it so

long,” cried the clerk to Maurice; who, touched with compassion for the

man who had just fallen, was following those who were carrying him out.

When he got into the street, Maurice saw the poor creature sitting on

a stone, supported by a hackney-coachman, who held some vinegar to his

nose, at the same time asking him if he did not want a coach?

“A coach! Oh, no,” said the man, as he opened his eyes. “I have not a

farthing of money in the world.” The hackney-coachman swore that was

a sad case, and ran across the street to offer his services where they

could be paid for: “A coach, if you want one, sir. Heavy rain coming

on,” said he, looking at the silver which he saw through the half-closed

fingers of Maurice’s hand.

“Yes, I want a coach,” said Maurice: and bade the coachman draw up to

the stone, where the poor man who had swooned was sitting. Maurice was

really a good-natured fellow; and he had peculiar pity for the anguish

this man seemed to feel, because he recollected what he had suffered

himself, when he had been ruined at the gaming-table.

“You are not able to walk: here is a coach; I will go your way and set

you down, sir,” said Maurice.

The unfortunate man accepted this offer. As they went along he sighed

bitterly, and once said, with great vehemence, “Curse these lotteries!

Curse these lotteries!” Maurice now rejoiced, more than ever, at having

conquered his propensity to gaming, and at having sold his ticket.

When they came opposite to a hosier’s shop, in Oxford-street, the

stranger thanked him, and desired to be set down. “This is my home,”

said he; “or this was my home, I ought to say,” pointing to his shop

as he let down the coach-glass. “A sad warning example I am! But I am

troubling you, sir, with what no way concerns you. I thank you, sir, for

your civility,” added he, turning away from Maurice, to hide the tears

which stood in his eyes: “good day to you.”

He then prepared to get out of the coach; but whilst the coachman was

letting down the step, a gentleman came out of the hosier’s shop to the

door, and cried, “Mr. Fulham, I am glad you are come at last. I have

been waiting for you this half-hour, and was just going away.” Maurice

pulled aside the flap of the hosier’s coat, as he was getting out, that

he might peep at the gentleman who spoke; the voice was so like William

Deane’s, that he was quite astonished.--“It is--it is William Deane,”

cried Maurice, jumping out of the coach and shaking hands with his

friend.

William Deane, though now higher in the world than Robinson, was

heartily glad to see him again, and to renew their old intimacy. “Mr.

Fulham,” said he, turning to the hosier, “excuse me to-day; I’ll come

and settle accounts with you to-morrow.”

On their way to Paddington, Maurice related to his friend all that had

passed since they parted; how his good luck in the lottery tempted him

to try his fortune at the gaming-table; how he was cheated by sharpers,

and reduced to the brink of utter ruin; how kind Ellen was towards him

in this distress; how he was relieved by Mr. Belton, who was induced to

assist him from regard to Ellen and little George; how Mrs. Dolly drank

herself into ill health, which would soon have killed her if she had

not, in a drunken fit, shortened the business by fracturing her skull;

and, lastly, how she left him a lottery ticket, which he had just

sold, lest it should be the cause of fresh imprudence. “You see,” added

Maurice, “I do not forget all you said to me about lotteries.--Better

take good advice late than never. But now, tell me your history.”

“No,” replied William Deane; “that I shall keep till we are all at

dinner; Ellen and you, I and my friend George, who, I hope, has not

forgotten me.” He was soon convinced that George had not forgotten him,

by the joy he showed at seeing him again.

At dinner, William Deane informed them that he was become a rich man, by

having made an improvement in the machinery of the cotton-mills,

which, after a great deal of perseverance, he had brought to succeed

in practice. “When I say that I am a rich man,” continued he, “I mean

richer than ever I expected to be. I have a share in the cotton-mill,

and am worth about two thousand pounds.”

“Ay,” said Maurice, “you have trusted to your own sense and industry,

and not to gaming and lotteries.”

“I am heartily rejoiced you have nothing more to do with them,” said

William Deane: “but all this time you forget that I am your debtor. You

lent me five guineas at a season when I had nothing. The books I bought

with your money helped me to knowledge, without which I should never

have got forward. Now I have a scheme for my little friend George, that

will, I hope, turn out to your liking. You say he is an intelligent,

honest, industrious lad; and that he understands book-keeping, and

writes a good hand: I am sure he is much obliged to you for giving him a

good education.”

“To his mother, there, he’s obliged for it all,” said Maurice.

“Without it,” continued William Deane, “I might wish him very well; but

I could do little or nothing for him. But, as I was going to tell

you, that unfortunate man whom you brought to his own door in the

hackney-coach to-day, Maurice, is a hosier, who had as good a business

as most in the city; but he has ruined himself entirely by gaming. He

is considerably in our debt for cotton, and I am to settle accounts with

him to-morrow, when he is to give up all his concerns into my hands, in

behalf of his brother, who has commissioned me to manage the business,

and dissolve the partnership; as he cannot hazard himself, even out

of friendship for a brother, with one that has taken to gaming. Now my

friend, the elder Fulham, is a steady man, and is in want of a good lad

for an apprentice. With your leave, I will speak to him, and get him

to take George; and as to the fee, I will take care and settle that

for you. I am glad I have found you all out at last. No thanks, pray.

Recollect, I am only paying my old debts.”

As William Deane desired to have no thanks, we shall omit the recital of

those which he received, both in words and looks. We have only to inform

our readers, further, that George was bound apprentice to the hosier;

that he behaved as well as might be expected from his excellent

education; that Maurice continued, in Mr. Belton’s service, to conduct

himself so as to secure the confidence and esteem of his master; and

that he grew fonder and fonder of home, and of Ellen, who enjoyed the

delightful reflection that she had effected the happiness of her husband

and her son.

May equal happiness attend every such good wife and mother! And may

every man, who, like Maurice, is tempted to be a gamester, reflect that

a good character, and domestic happiness, which cannot be won in any

lottery, are worth more than the five thousand, or even the ten thousand

pounds prize, let any Mrs. Dolly in Christendom say what she will to the

contrary.

_Sept. 1799._

ROSANNA.

CHAPTER I.

There are two sorts of content: one is connected with exertion, the

other with habits of indolence; the first is a virtue, the second a

vice. Examples of both may be found in abundance in Ireland. There you

may sometimes see a man in sound health submitting day after day to

evils which a few hours’ labour would remedy; and you are provoked to

hear him say, “It will do well enough for me. Didn’t it do for my father

before me? I can make a shift with things for my time: any how, I’m

content.”

This kind of content is indeed the bane of industry. But instances of a

different sort may be found, in various of the Irish peasantry. Amongst

them we may behold men struggling with adversity with all the strongest

powers of mind and body; and supporting irremediable evils with a degree

of cheerful fortitude which must excite at once our pity and admiration.

In a pleasant village in the province of Leinster there lives a family

of the name of Gray. Whether or not they are any way related to Old

Robin Gray, history does not determine; but it is very possible that

they are, because they came, it is said, originally from the north of

Ireland, and one of the sons is actually called Robin. Leaving this

point, however, in the obscurity which involves the early history of the

most ancient and illustrious families, we proceed to less disputable

and perhaps more useful facts. It is well known, that is, by all

his neighbours, that farmer Gray began life with no very encouraging

prospects: he was the youngest of a large family, and the portion of

his father’s property that fell to his share was but just sufficient to

maintain his wife and three children. At his father’s death, he had but

100_l_. in ready money, and he was obliged to go into a poor mud-walled

cabin, facing the door of which there was a green pool of stagnant

water; and before the window, of one pane, a dunghill that, reaching to

the thatch of the roof, shut out the light, and filled the house with

the most noisome smell. The ground sloped towards the house door;

so that in rainy weather, when the pond was full, the kitchen was

overflowed; and at all times the floor was so damp and soft, that the

print of the nails of brogues was left in it wherever the wearer set

down his foot. To be sure these nail-marks could scarcely be seen,

except just near the door or where the light of the fire immediately

shone; because, elsewhere, the smoke was so thick, that the pig might

have been within a foot of you without your seeing him. The former

inhabitants of this mansion had, it seems, been content without a

chimney: and, indeed, almost without a roof; the couples and purlins

of the roof having once given way, had never been repaired, and swagged

down by the weight of the thatch, so that the ends threatened the wigs

of the unwary.

The prospect without doors was scarcely more encouraging to our hero

than the scene within: the farm consisted of about forty acres; and the

fences of the grazing-land were so bad, that the neighbours’ cattle

took possession of it frequently by day, and always by night. The

tillage-ground had been so ill managed by his predecessor, that the land

was what is called quite out of heart.

If farmer Gray had also been out of heart, he and his family might at

this hour have been beggars. His situation was thought desperate by many

of his neighbours; and a few days after his father’s decease, many came

to condole with him. Amongst the rest was “easy Simon;” or, as some

called him, “soft Simon,” on account of his unresisting disposition, and

contented, or, as we should rather name it, reckless temper. He was a

sort of a half or a half quarter gentleman, had a small patrimony of

a hundred or a hundred and fifty pounds a year, a place in the excise

worth fifty more, and a mill, which might have been worth another

hundred annually, had it not been suffered to stand still for many a

year.

“Wheugh! Wheugh! What a bustle we are in! and what a world of trouble is

here!” cried Simon, when he came to Gray’s house, and found him on the

ladder taking off the decayed thatch; whilst one of his sons, a lad of

about fourteen, was hard at work filling a cart from the dunghill, which

blockaded the window. His youngest son, a boy of twelve, with a face and

neck red with heat, was making a drain to carry off the water from

the green pond; and Rose, the sister, a girl of ten years old, was

collecting the ducks, which her mother was going to carry to her

landlord’s to sell.

“Wheugh! Wheugh! Wheugh! Why what a world of bustle and trouble is here!

Troth, Jemmy Gray, you’re in a bad way, sure enough! Poor cratur! Poor

cratur!”

“No man,” replied Gray, “deserves to be called poor, that has his

health, and the use of his limbs. Besides,” continued he, “have not I

a good wife and good children: and, with those blessings, has not a man

sufficient reason to be content?”

“Ay, to be sure: that’s the only way to get through this world,” said

Simon; “whatever comes, just to take it easy, and be content. Content

and a warm chimney corner is all in all, according to my notion.”

“Yes, Simon,” said Gray, laughing; “but your kind of content would

never do for me. Content, that sits down in the chimney corner, and does

nothing but smoke his pipe, will soon have the house about his ears; and

then what will become of Content?”

“Time enough to think of that when it comes,” said Simon: “fretting

never propped a house yet; and if it did, I would rather see it fall

than fret.”

“But could not you prop the house,” said Gray, “without fretting?”

“Is it by putting my shoulders to it?” said Simon. “My shoulders have

never been used to hard work, and don’t like it any way. As long as I

can eat, drink, and sleep, and have a coat to my back, what matter for

the rest? Let the world go as it will, I’m content. Shoo! Shoo! The

button is off the neck of this great coat of mine, and how _will_ I keep

it on? A pin sure will do as well as a button, and better. Mrs. Gray, or

Miss Rose, I’ll thank you kindly for a pin.”

He stuck the pin in the place of the button, to fasten the great coat

round his throat, and walked off: it pricked his chin about a dozen

times before the day was over; but he forgot the next day, and the next,

and the next, to have the button sewed on. He was content to make shift,

as he called it, with the pin. This is precisely the species of content

which leads to beggary.

Not such the temper of our friend Gray. Not an inconvenience that he

could remedy, by industry or ingenuity, was he content to endure; but

necessary evils he bore with unshaken patience and fortitude. His house

was soon new roofed and new thatched; the dunghill was removed,

and spread over that part of his land which most wanted manure; the

putrescent water of the standing pool was drained off, and fertilized

a meadow; and the kitchen was never again overflowed in rainy weather,

because the labour of half a day made a narrow trench which carried off

the water. The prints of the shoe-nails were no longer visible in the

floor; for the two boys trod dry mill seeds into the clay, and beat the

floor well, till they rendered it quite hard and even. The rooms also

were cleared of smoke, for Gray built a chimney; and the kitchen window,

which had formerly been stuffed up, when the wind blew too hard, with an

old or new hat, was glazed. There was now light in the house. Light! the

great friend of cleanliness and order. The pig could now no longer walk

in and out, unseen and unreproved; he ceased to be an inmate of the

kitchen.

The kitchen was indeed so altered from what it had been during the reign

of the last master, that he did not know it again. It was not in the

least like a pig-sty. The walls were whitewashed; and shelves were put

up, on which clean wooden and pewter utensils were ranged. There were

no heaps of forlorn rubbish in the corners of the room; nor even an old

basket, or a blanket, or a cloak, or a great coat thrown down, just

for a minute, out of the girl’s way. No: Rose was a girl who always

put every thing in its place; and she found it almost as easy to hang

a coat, or a cloak, upon a peg, as to throw it down on the floor. She

thought it as convenient to put the basket and turf-kish out of her way,

when her brothers had brought in the potatoes and fuel, as to let them

lie in the middle of the kitchen, to be stumbled over by herself and

her mother, or to be gnawed and clawed by a cat and dog. These may seem

trifles unworthy the notice of the historian; but trifles such as these

contribute much to the comfort of a poor family, and therefore deserve a

place in their simple annals.

It was a matter of surprise and censure to some of farmer Gray’s

neighbours, that he began by laying out it could not be less than ten

pounds (a great sum for him!) on his house and garden at the first

setting out; when, to be sure, the land would have paid him better if

the money had been laid out there. And why could not he make a shift

to live on in the old cabin, for a while, as others had done before his

time well enough? A poor man should be _contented_ with a poor house.

Where was the use, said they, of laying out the good ready penny in a

way that would bring nothing in?

Farmer Gray calculated that he could not have laid out his money to

better advantage; for by these ten pounds he had probably saved his

wife, his children, and himself, from a putrid fever, or from the

rheumatism. The former inhabitants of this house, who had been content

to live with the dunghill close to the window, and the green pool

overflowing the kitchen, and the sharp wind blowing in through the

broken panes, had in the course of a few years lost their health. The

father of the family had been crippled by the rheumatism, two children

died of the fever, and the mother had such an inflammation in her eyes

that she could not see to work, spin, or do anything. Now the whole that

was lost by the family sickness, the doctor’s bill, and the burying

of the two children, all together, came in three years to nearly three

times ten pounds. Therefore Mr. Gray was, if we only consider money, a

very prudent man. What could he or any body do without health? Money is

not the first thing to be thought of in this world; for there are many

things that money cannot buy, and health is one of them. “Health can

make money, but money cannot make health,” said our wise farmer. “And

then, for the value of a few shillings, say pounds, we have light to see

what we are doing, and shelves, and a press to hold our clothes in. Why

now, this will be all so much saved to us, by and by; for the clothes

will last the longer, and the things about us will not go to wreck; and

when I and the boys can come home after our day’s work to a house like

this, we may be content.”

Having thus ensured, as far as it was in his power, health, cleanliness,

and comfort in his house, our hero and his sons turned their attention

to the farm. They set about to repair all the fences; for the boys,

though they were young, were able to help their father in the farm: they

were willing to work, and happy to work with him. John, the eldest lad,

could set potatoes, and Robin was able to hold the plough: so that Gray

did not hire any servant-boy to help him; nor did Mrs. Gray hire a maid.

“Rose and I,” said she, “can manage very well to look after the two

cows, and milk them, and make the butter, and get something too by our

spinning. We must do without servants, and may be happy and content to

serve ourselves.”

“Times will grow better; that is, we shall make them better every year:

we must have the roughest first,” said Gray.

The first year, to be sure, it was rough enough; and, do what they

could, they could not do more than make the rent of the farm, which rent

amounted to forty pounds. The landlord was a Mr. Hopkins, agent to a

gentleman who resided in England. Mr. Hopkins insisted upon having

the rent paid up to the day, and so it was. Gray contented himself by

thinking that this was perhaps for the best. “When the rent is once

paid,” said he, “it cannot be called for again, and I am in no man’s

power; that’s a great comfort. To be sure, if the half year’s rent was

left in my hands for a few months, it might have been of service: but

it is better not to be under an obligation to such a man as Mr. Hopkins,

who would make us pay for it in some shape or other, when we least

expected it.”

Mr. Hopkins was what is called in Ireland a middle-man; one that takes

land from great proprietors, to set it again at an advanced, and often

an exorbitant, price, to the poor. Gray had his land at a fair rent,

because it was not from Mr. Hopkins his father had taken the lease, but

from the gentleman to whom this man was agent. Mr. Hopkins designed

to buy the land which Gray farmed, and he therefore wished to make

it appear as unprofitable as possible to his landlord, who, living in

England, knew but little of his own estate. “If these Grays don’t pay

the rent,” said he to his _driver_, “pound their cattle, and sell at

the end of eight days. If they break and run away, I shall have the land

clear, and may make a compliment of it to tenants and friends of my own,

after it comes into my hands.” He was rather disappointed, when the rent

was paid to the day. “But,” said he, “it won’t be so next year; the man

is laying out his money on the ground, on draining and fencing, and that

won’t pay suddenly. We’ll leave the rent in his hands for a year or so,

and bring down an ejectment upon him, if he once gets into our power, as

he surely will. Then, all that he has done to the house will be so much

in my way. What a fool he was to lay out his money so!”

It happened, however, that the money which Gray had laid out in making

his house comfortable and neat was of the greatest advantage to him, and

at a time and in a way which he least expected. His cottage was within

sight of the high road, that led to a town from which it was about a

mile distant. A regiment of English arrived, to be quartered in the

town; and the wives of some of the soldiers came a few hours after their

husbands. One of these women, a sergeant’s wife, was taken suddenly in

labour, before they reached the town; and the soldier who conducted the

baggage-cart in which she was, drew up to the first amongst a row of

miserable cabins that were by the road-side, to ask the people if they

would give her lodging: but the sick woman was shocked at the sight of

the smoke and dirt of this cabin, and begged to be carried on to the

neat whitewashed cottage that she saw at a little distance. This was

Gray’s house.

His wife received the stranger with the greatest kindness and

hospitality; she was able to offer her a neat bed, and a room that was

perfectly dry and clean. The sergeant’s wife was brought to bed soon

after her arrival, and remained with Mrs. Gray till she recovered her

strength. She was grateful for the kindness that was shown to her by

Mrs. Gray; and so was her husband, the sergeant. He came one evening to

the cottage, and in his blunt English fashion said, “Mr. Gray, you know

I, or my wife, which is the same thing, have cause to be obliged to

you, or your wife, which comes also to the same thing: now one good turn

deserves another. Our colonel has ordered me, I being quarter-master, to

sell off by auction some of the cast horses belonging to the regiment:

now I have bought in the best for a trifle, and have brought him here,

with me, to beg you’ll accept of him, by way some sort of a return for

the civilities you and your wife, that being, as I said, the same thing,

showed me and mine.”

Gray replied he was obliged to him for this offer of the horse, but that

he could not think of accepting it; that he was very glad his wife had

been able to show any kindness or hospitality to a stranger; but that,

as they did not keep a public-house, they could not take any thing in

the way of payment.

The sergeant was more and more pleased by farmer Gray’s generosity.

“Well,” said he, “I heard, before I came to Ireland, that the Irish were

the most hospitable people on the face of the earth; and so I find it

come true, and I shall always say so, wherever I’m quartered hereafter.

And now do pray answer me, is there any the least thing I can ever do to

oblige you? for, if the truth must be told of me, I don’t like to lie.

under an obligation, any more than another, where I can help it.”

“To show you that I do not want to lay you under one,” said Gray, “I’ll

tell you how you can do as much for me, and ten times as much, as I have

done for you; and this without hurting yourself or any of your employers

a penny.”

“Say how, and it shall be done.”

“By letting me have the dung of the barracks, which will make my land

and me rich, without making you poorer; for I’ll give you the fair

price, whatever it is. I don’t ask you to wrong your employers of a

farthing.”

The sergeant promised this should be done, and rejoiced that he had

found some means of serving his friend. Gray covered ten acres with the

manure brought from the barracks; and the next year these acres were in

excellent heart. This was sufficient for the grazing of ten cows: he had

three, and he bought seven more; and with what remained of his hundred

pounds, after paying for the cows, he built a shed and a cow-house.

His wife, and daughter Rose, who was now about fourteen, were excellent

managers of the dairy. They made, by butter and butter-milk, about four

pounds each cow within the year. The butter they salted and took to

market, at the neighbouring town; the butter-milk they sold to the

country people, who, according to the custom of the neighbourhood, came

to the house for it. Besides this, they reared five calves, which, at a

year old, they sold for fifteen guineas and a half. The dairy did not,

however, employ all the time of this industrious mother and daughter;

they had time for spinning, and by this cleared six guineas. They also

made some little matter by poultry; but that was only during the first

year: afterwards Mr. Hopkins sent notice that they must pay all the

_duty-fowl_, and _duty-geese_, and _turkeys_, {Footnote: See a very

curious anecdote in the Statistical Survey of the Queen’s County.}

charged in the lease, or compound with him by paying two guineas a year.

This gentleman had many methods of squeezing money out of poor tenants;

and he was not inclined to spare the Grays, whose farm he now more

than ever wished to possess, because its value had been considerably

increased, by the judicious industry of the farmer and his sons.

Young as they were, both farmer Gray’s sons had a share in these

improvements. The eldest had drained a small field, which used to be

called the rushy field, from its having been quite covered with rushes.

Now there was not a rush to be found upon it, and his father gave him

the profits of the field, and said that it should be called by his name.

Robin, the youngest son, had, by his father’s advice, tried a little

experiment, which many of his neighbours ridiculed at first, and admired

at last. The spring, which used to supply the duck-pond, that often

flooded the house, was at the head of a meadow, that sloped with a fall

sufficient to let the water run off. Robin flooded the meadow at the

proper season of the year, and it produced afterwards a crop such as

never had been seen there before. His father called this meadow Robin’s

meadow, and gave him the value of the hay that was made upon it.

“Now, my dear boys,” said this good father, “you have made a few guineas

for yourselves; and here are a few more for you, all that I can spare:

let us see what you can do with this money. I shall take a pride in

seeing you get forward by your own industry and cleverness; I don’t want

you to slave for me all your best days; but shall always be ready, as a

father should be, to give you a helping hand.”

The sons had scarcely a word in answer to this, for their hearts were

full; but that night, when they were by themselves, one said to the

other, “Brother, did you see Jack Reel’s letter to his father? They say

he has sent home ten guineas to him. Is there any truth in it, think

you?”

“Yes; I saw the letter, and a kinder never was written from son to

father. {Footnote: This is fact.} The ten guineas I saw paid into the

old man’s hand; and, at that same minute, I wished it was I that was

doing the same by my own father.”

“That was just what I was thinking of, when I asked you if you saw the

letter. Why, Jack Reel had nothing, when he went abroad with the army to

Egypt, last year. Well, I never had a liking myself to follow the drum:

but it’s almost enough to tempt one to it. If I thought I could send

home ten guineas to my father, I would ‘list to-morrow.”

“That would not be well done of you, Robin,” said John; “for my father

would rather have _you_, a great deal, than the ten guineas, I am sure:

to say nothing of my poor mother, and Rose, and myself, who would be

sorry enough to hear of your being knocked on the head, as is the fate,

sooner or later, of them that follow the army. I would rather be any of

the trades that hurt nobody, and do good to a many along with myself, as

father said t’other day. Then, what a man makes so, he makes with a safe

conscience, and he can enjoy it.”

“You are right, John, and I was wrong to talk of _‘listing_,” said

Robin; “but it was only Jack Reel’s letter, and the ten guineas sent to

his father, that put it into my head. I may make as much for my father

by staying at home, and minding my business. So now, good night to you;

I’ll go to sleep, and we can talk more about it all to-morrow.”

The next morning, as these two youths were setting potatoes for the

family, and considering to what they should turn their hands when the

potatoes were all set, they were interrupted by a little _gossoon_,

who came running up as hard as he could, crying, “Murder! murder! Simon

O’Dougherty wants you. For the love of God, cross the bog in all haste,

to help pull out his horse, that has tumbled into the old tan-pit,

there beyond, in the night!”

The two brothers immediately followed the boy, carrying with them a rope

and a halter, as they guessed that _soft Simon_ would not have either.

They found him wringing his hands beside the tan-pit, in which his horse

lay smothering. A little ragged boy was tugging at the horse’s head,

with a short bit of hay-rope. “Oh, murder! murder! What _will_ I do for

a halter? Sure the horse will be lost, for want of a halter; and where

in the wide world _will_ I look for one?” cried Simon, without stirring

one inch from the spot. “Oh, the blessing of Heaven be with you, lads,”

continued he, turning at the sight of the Grays; “you’ve brought us a

halter. But see! it’s just over with the poor beast. All the world put

together will not get him alive out of that. I must put up with the

loss, and be content. He cost me fifteen good guineas, and he could

leap better than any horse in the county. Oh, what a pity on him! what

a pity! But, take it easy; that’s all we have for it! _Poor cratur! Poor

cratur!_”

Without listening to Simon’s lamentations, the active lads, by the help

of Simon and the two boys, pulled the horse out of the pit. The poor

animal was nearly exhausted by struggling: but, after some time, he

stretched himself, and, by degrees, recovered sufficiently to stand. One

of his legs, however, was so much hurt that he could scarcely walk; and

Simon said he would surely go lame for life.

“Who now would ever have thought of his straying into such an ugly place

of all others?” continued he. “I know, for my share, the spot is so

overgrown with grass and rubbish, of one kind or other, and it’s so

long since any of the tanning business was going on here, in my uncle

O’Haggarty’s time, that I quite forgot there were such things as

tan-pits, or any manner of pits, in my possession; and I wish these had

been far enough off before my own little famous Sir Hyacinth O’Brien had

strayed into them, laming himself for life, like a blockhead. For the

case was this: I came home late last night, not as sober as a judge,

and, finding no one up but the girl, I gave her the horse to put into

the stable, and she forgot the door after her, which wants a lock; and

there being but a scanty feed of oats, owing to the boy’s negligence,

and no halter to secure the beast, my poor Sir Hyacinth strayed out

here, as ill luck would have it, into the tan-pit. Bad luck to my uncle

O’Haggarty, that had the tan-yard here at all! He might have lived as

became him, without dirtying his hands with the tanning of dirty hides.”

“I was just going,” said John Gray, “to comfort you, Simon, for the

laming of your horse, by observing that, if you had your tan-yard in

order again, you could soon make up the price of another horse.”

“Ohoo! I would not be bothered with anything of the kind. There’s

the mill of Rosanna there, beyond, was the plague of my life, till it

stopped; and I was glad to have fairly done with it. Them that come

after me may set it a-going again, and welcome. I have enough just to

serve my time, and am content any way.”

“But, if you could get a fair rent for the tan-yard, would you let it?”

said John.

“To that I should make no objection in life; provided I had no trouble

with it,” replied Simon.

“And if you could get somebody to keep the mill of Rosanna going,

without giving you any trouble, you would not object to that, would

you?” said Robin.

“Not I, to be sure,” replied Simon, laughing. “Whatever God sends, be

it more or less, I am content. But I would not have you think me a fool,

for all I talk so easy about the matter; I know very well what I might

have got for the mill some years ago, when first it stopped, if I

would have let it to the man that proposed for it; but though he was as

substantial a tenant as you could see, yet he affronted me once, at the

last election, by calling a freeholder of mine over the coals; and so I

was proud of an opportunity to show him I did not forget. So I refused

to let him the mill on any terms; and I made him a speech for his pride

to digest at the same time. ‘Mr. Hopkins,’ said I, ‘the lands of Rosanna

have been in my family these two hundred years and upwards; and though,

now-a-days, many men think that every thing is to be done for money, and

though you, Mr. Hopkins, have made as much money as most men could in

the same time,--all which I don’t envy you,--yet I must make bold to

tell you, that the lands of Rosanna, or any part or parcel thereof,

is what you’ll never have whilst I’m alive, Mr. Hopkins, for love or

money.’ The spirit of the O’Doughertys was up within me; and though all

the world calls me easy Simon, I have my own share of proper spirit.

These mushroom money-makers, that start up from the very dirt under

one’s feet, I can’t for my part swallow them. Now I should be happy to

give you a lease of the mill of Rosanna, after refusing Hopkins; for you

and your father before you, lads, have been always very civil to me.

My tan-pits and all I am ready to talk to you about, and thank you for

pulling my horse out for me this morning. Will you walk up and look at

the mill? I would attend you myself, but must go to the farrier about

Sir Hyacinth’s leg, instead of standing talking here any longer. Good

morning to you kindly. The girl will give you the key of the mill, and

show you everything, the same as myself.”

Simon gathered his great coat about him, and walked away to the farrier,

whilst the two brothers rejoiced that they should see the mill without

hearing him talk the whole time. Simon, having nothing to do all day

long but to talk, was an indefatigable gossip. When the lands of Rosanna

were in question, or when his pride was touched, he was terribly fluent.

* * * * *

CHAPTER II.

Upon examining the mill, which was a common oat-mill, John Gray found

that the upper mill-stone was lodged upon the lower; and that this was

all which prevented the mill from going. No other part of it was damaged

or out of repair. As to the tan-yard, it was in great disorder; but it

was very conveniently situated; was abundantly supplied with water on

one side, and had an oak copse at the back, so that tan could readily

be procured. It is true that the bark of these oak trees, which had been

planted by his careful uncle O’Haggarty, had been much damaged since

Simon came into possession; for he had, with his customary negligence,

suffered cattle to get amongst them. He had also, to supply himself

with ready money, occasionally cut down a great deal of the best timber

before it arrived at its full growth; and at this time the Grays found

every tree of tolerable size marked for destruction with the initials of

Simon O’Dougherty’s name.

Before they said anything more about the mill or the tan-yard to Simon,

these prudent brothers consulted their father: he advised them to begin

cautiously, by offering to manage the mill and the tan-yard, during the

ensuing season, for Simon, for a certain share in the profits; and then,

if they should find the business likely to succeed, they might take a

lease of the whole. Simon willingly made this agreement; and there was

no danger in dealing with him, because, though careless and indolent, he

was honest, and would keep his engagements. It was settled that John and

Robin should have the power, at the end of the year, either to hold or

give up all concern in the mill and tan-yard; and, in the mean time,

they were to manage the business for Simon, and to have such a share in

the profits as would pay them reasonably for their time and labour.

They succeeded beyond their expectations in the management of the mill

and tan-yard during their year of probation; and Simon, at the end of

that time, was extremely glad to give them a long lease of the premises,

upon their paying him down, by way of fine, the sum of 150l. This sum

their father, who had good credit, and who could give excellent security

upon his farm, which was now in a flourishing condition, raised for

them; and they determined to repay him the money by regular yearly

portions out of their profits.

Success did not render these young men presumptuous or negligent: they

went on steadily with business, were contented to live frugally and

work hard for some years. Many of the sons of neighbouring tradesmen

and farmers, who were able perhaps to buy a horse or two, or three good

coats in a year, and who set up for gentlemen, and spent their days

in hunting, shooting, or cock-fighting, thought that the Grays were

poor-spirited fellows for sticking so close to business. They prophesied

that, even when these brothers should have made a fortune, they would

not have the liberality to spend or enjoy it; but this prediction was

not verified. The Grays had not been brought up to place their happiness

merely in the scraping together pounds, shillings, and pence; they

valued money for money’s worth, not for money’s sake; and, amongst the

pleasures it could purchase, they thought that of contributing to the

happiness of their parents and friends the greatest. When they had paid

their father the hundred and fifty pounds he had advanced, their next

object was to build a neat cottage for him, near the wood and mill of

Rosanna, on a beautiful spot, upon which they had once heard him say

that he should like to have a house.

We mentioned that Mr. Hopkins, the agent, had a view to this farm; and

that he was desirous of getting rid of the Grays: but this he found no

easy matter to accomplish, because the rent was always punctually paid.

There was no pretence for _driving_, even for the duty-fowls; Mrs.

Gray always had them ready at the proper time. Mr. Hopkins was farther

provoked by seeing the rich improvements which our farmer made every

year on his land: his envy, which could be moved by the meanest objects

of gain, was continually excited by his neighbour’s successful industry.

To-day he envied him his green meadows, and to-morrow the crocks of

butter, packed on the car for Dublin. Farmer Gray’s ten cows, which

regularly passed by Mr. Hopkins’s window morning and evening, were

a sight that often spoiled his breakfast and supper: but that which

grieved this envious man the most was the barrack manure; he would stand

at his window, and, with a heavy heart, count the car loads that went by

to Gray’s farm.

Once he made an attempt to ruin Gray’s friend, the sergeant, by accusing

him secretly of being bribed to sell the barrack manure to Gray for less

than he had been offered for it by others: but the officer to whom

Mr. Hopkins made this complaint was fortunately a man who did not like

secret informations: he publicly inquired into the truth of the matter,

and the sergeant’s honesty and Mr. Hopkins’s meanness were clearly

proved and contrasted. The consequence of this malicious interference

was beneficial to Gray; for the officer told the story to the colonel of

the regiment which was next quartered in the town, and he to the officer

who succeeded him; so that year after year Mr. Hopkins applied in vain

for the barrack manure. Farmer Gray had always the preference, and the

hatred of Mr. Hopkins knew no bounds; that is, no bounds but the

letter of the law, of which he was ever mindful, because lawsuits are

expensive.

At length, however, he devised a legal mode of _annoying_ his enemy.

Some land belonging to Mr. Hopkins lay between Gray’s farm and the only

bog in the neighbourhood: now he would not permit Mr. Gray, or any body

belonging to him, to draw turf upon his bog-road; and he absolutely

forbade his own wretched tenants to sell turf to the object of his envy.

By these means, he flattered himself he should literally starve the

enemy out of house and home.

Things were in this situation when John and Robin Gray determined to

build a house for their father at Rosanna. They made no secret to him of

their intentions; for they did not want to surprise but to please him,

and to do every thing in the manner that would be most convenient to him

and their mother. Their sister, Rose, was in all their counsels; and it

had been for the last three years one of her chief delights to go, after

her day’s work was done, to the mill at Rosanna, to see how her brothers

were going on. How happy are those families where there is no envy

or jealousy; but in which each individual takes an interest in the

prosperity of the whole! Farmer Gray was heartily pleased with the

gratitude and generosity of his boys, as he still continued to call

them; though, by-the-bye, John was now three-and-twenty, and his brother

only two years younger.

“My dear boys,” said he, “nothing could be more agreeable to me and your

mother than to have a snug cottage near you both, on the very spot which

you say I pitched upon two years ago. This cabin that we now live in,

after all I have tried to do to prop it up, and notwithstanding all

Rose does to keep it neat and clean withinside, is but a crazy sort of a

place. We are able now to have a better house, and I shall be glad to

be out of the reach of Mr. Hopkins’s persecution. Therefore, let us set

about and build the new house. You shall contribute your share, my boys;

but only a share: mind, I say only a share. And I hope next year to

contribute my share towards building a house for each of you: it is time

you should think of marrying, and settling: it is no bad thing to have a

house ready for a bride. We shall have quite a little colony of our own

at Rosanna. Who knows but I may live to see my grand-children, ay, and

my great-grand-children, settled there all round me, industrious and

contented?”

Good-will is almost as expeditious and effectual as Aladdin’s lamp:--the

new cottage for farmer Gray was built at Rosanna, and he took possession

of it the ensuing spring. They next made a garden, and furnished it with

all sorts of useful vegetables and some pretty flowers. Rose had great

pleasure in taking care of this garden. Her brothers also laid out

a small green lawn before the door; and planted the boundaries with

white-thorn, crab-trees, lilacs, and laburnums. The lawn sloped down

to the water-side; and the mill and copse behind it were seen from the

parlour windows. A prettier cottage, indeed so pretty a one, was never

before seen in this county.

But what was better far than the pretty cottage, or the neat garden, or

the green lawn, or the white-thorn, the crab-trees, the lilacs, and the

laburnums, was the content that smiled amongst them.

Many who have hundreds and thousands are miserable, because they still

desire more; or rather because they know not what they would have. For

instance, Mr. Hopkins, the rich Mr. Hopkins, who had scraped together

in about fifteen years above twenty thousand, some said thirty thousand

pounds, had never been happy for a single day, either whilst he was

making this fortune or when he had made it; for he was of an avaricious,

discontented temper. The more he had, the more he desired. He could

not bear the prosperity of his neighbours; and if his envy made him

industrious, yet it at the same time rendered him miserable. Though he

was what the world calls a remarkably fortunate man, yet the feelings of

his own mind prevented him from enjoying his success. He had no wife,

no children, to share his wealth. He would not marry, because a wife

is expensive; and children are worse than taxes. His whole soul was

absorbed in the love of gain. He denied himself not only the comforts

but the common necessaries of life. He was alone in the world. He was

conscious that no human being loved him. He read his history in the eyes

of all his neighbours.

It was known that he had risen upon the ruin of others; and the higher

he had risen, the more conspicuous became the faults of his character.

Whenever any man grew negligent of his affairs, or by misfortune was

reduced to distress, Hopkins was at hand to take advantage of his

necessities. His first approaches were always made under the semblance

of friendship; but his victims soon repented their imprudent confidence

when they felt themselves in his power. Unrestrained by a sense of

honour or the feelings of humanity, he felt no scruple in pursuing his

interest to the very verge of what the law would call fraud. Even his

own relations complained that he duped them without scruple; and none

but strangers to his character, or persons compelled by necessity, would

have any dealings with this man. Of what advantage to him, or to any one

else, were the thousands he had accumulated?

It may be said that such beings are necessary in society; that their

industry is productive; and that, therefore, they ought to be preferred

to the idle, unproductive members of the community: but wealth and

happiness are not the same things. Perhaps, at some future period,

enlightened politicians may think the happiness of nations more

important than their wealth. In this point of view, they would consider

all the members of society, who are productive of happiness, as neither

useless nor despicable; and, on the contrary, they would contemn and

discourage those who merely accumulate money, without enjoying or

dispensing happiness. But some centuries must probably elapse before

such a philosophic race of politicians can arise. In the mean time, let

us go on with our story.

CHAPTER III.

Mr. Hopkins was enraged when he found that his expected victim escaped

his snares. He saw the pretty cottage rise, and the mill of Rosanna

work, in despite of his malevolence. He long brooded over his malice

in silence. As he stood one day on the top of a high mount on his own

estate, from which he had a view of the surrounding country, his eyes

fixed upon the little paradise in the possession of his enemies. He

always called those his enemies of whom he was the enemy: this is no

uncommon mistake, in the language of the passions.

“The Rosanna mill shall be stopped before this day twelvemonth, or

my name is not Hopkins,” said he to himself. “I have sworn vengeance

against those Grays; but I will humble them to the dust, before I have

done with them. I shall never sleep in peace till I have driven those

people from the country.”

It was, however, no easy matter to drive from the country such

inoffensive inhabitants. The first thing Mr. Hopkins resolved upon was

to purchase from Simon O’Dougherty the field adjoining to that in which

the mill stood. The brook flowed through this field, and Mr. Hopkins

saw, with malicious satisfaction, that he could at a small expense turn

the course of the stream, and cut off the water from the mill.

Poor Simon by this time had reduced himself to a situation in which his

pride was compelled to yield to pecuniary considerations. Within the

last three years, his circumstances had been materially changed. Whilst

he was a bachelor, his income had been sufficient to maintain him in

idleness. Soft Simon, however, at last, took it into his head to marry;

or rather a cunning damsel, who had been his mistress for some years,

took it into her head to make him marry. She was skilled in the arts

both of wheedling and scolding: to resist these united powers was too

much to be expected from a man of Simon’s easy temper.

He argued thus with himself:--“She has cost me more as she is than if

she had been my wife twice over; for she has no interest in looking

after any thing belonging to me, but only just living on from day to

day, and making the most for herself and her children. And the children,

too, all in the same way, snatching what they could make sure of for

themselves. Now, if I make her my lawful wife, as she desires, the

property will be hers, as well as mine; and it will be her interest to

look after all. She is a stirring, notable woman, and will save me a

world of trouble, and make the best of every thing for her children’s

sake; and they, being then all acknowledged by me, will make my interest

their own, as she says; and, besides, this is the only way left me to

have peace.”

To avoid the cares and plagues of matrimony, and that worst of plagues

a wife’s tongue, Simon first was induced to keep a mistress, and now to

silence his mistress, he made her his wife. She assured him, that, till

she was his lawful lady, she never should have peace or quietness; nor

could she, in conscience, suffer him to have a moment’s rest.

Simon married her, to use his own phrase, out of hand: but the marriage

was only the beginning of new troubles. The bride had hordes and

clans of relations, who came pouring in from all quarters to pay their

respects to Mrs. O’Dougherty. Her good easy man could not shut his doors

against any one: the O’Doughertys were above a hundred years, ay, two

hundred years ago, famous for hospitality; and it was incumbent upon

Simon O’Dougherty to keep up the honour of the family. His four children

were now to be maintained in idleness; for they, like their father,

had an insurmountable aversion to business. The public opinion of Simon

suddenly changed. Those who were any way related to the O’Doughertys,

and who dreaded that he and his children should apply to them for

pecuniary assistance, began the cry against him of, “What a shame it is

{Footnote: Essay on Charity Schools.} that the man does not do something

for himself and his family! How can those expect to be helped who won’t

help themselves? He is contented, indeed! Yes, and he must soon be

contented to sell the lands that have been in the family so long; and

then, by and by, he must be content, if he does not bestir himself, to

be carried to jail. It is a sin for any one to be content to eat the

bread of idleness!”

These and similar reproaches were uttered often, in our idle hero’s

presence. They would perhaps have excited him to some sort of exertion,

if his friend, Sir Hyacinth O’Brien, had not, in consequence of certain

electioneering services, and in consideration of his being one of the

best sportsmen in the county, and of Simon’s having named a horse

after him, procured for him a place of about fifty pounds a year in the

revenue. Upon the profits of this place Simon contrived to live, in a

shambling sort of way.

How long he might have shuffled on is a problem which must now for ever

remain unsolved; for his indolence was not permitted to take its natural

course; his ruin was accelerated by the secret operation of an active

and malignant power. Mr. Hopkins, who had determined to get that field

which joined to Gray’s mill, and who well knew that the pride of the

O’Doughertys would resist the idea of selling to him any part or parcel

of the lands of Rosanna, devised a scheme to reduce Simon to immediate

and inextricable distress. Simon was, as it might have been foreseen,

negligent in discharging the duties of his office, which was that of a

supervisor.

He either did not know, or connived at the practices, of sundry illegal

distillers in his neighbourhood. Malicious tongues did not scruple to

say that he took money, upon some occasions, from the delinquents; but

this he positively denied. Possibly his wife and sons knew more of

this matter than he did. They sold certain scraps of paper, called

protections, to several petty distillers, whose safest protection would

have been Simon’s indolence. One of the scraps of paper, to which there

was O’Dougherty’s signature, fell into the hands of Mr. Hopkins.

That nothing might be omitted to ensure his disgrace, Hopkins sent a

person, on whom he could depend, to give Simon notice that there was an

illegal still at such a house, naming the house for which the protection

was granted. Soft Simon received the information with his customary

carelessness, said it was too late to think of going to seize the still

that evening, and declared he would have it seized the next day: but the

next day he put it off, and the day afterwards he forgot it, and the day

after that, he received a letter from the collector of excise, summoning

him to answer to an information which had been laid against him for

misconduct. In this emergency, he resolved to have recourse to his

friend Sir Hyacinth O’Brien, who, he thought, could make interest

to screen him from justice. Sir Hyacinth gave him a letter to the

collector, who happened to be in the country. Away he went with the

letter: he was met on the road by a friend, who advised him to ride as

hard after the collector as he could, to overtake him before he should

reach Counsellor Quin’s, where he was engaged to dine. Counsellor Quin

was candidate for the county in opposition to Sir Hyacinth O’Brien; and

it was well understood that whomsoever the one favoured the other hated.

It behoved Simon, therefore, to overtake the collector before he should

be within the enemy’s gates. Simon whipped and spurred, and puffed and

fretted, but all in vain, for he was mounted upon the horse which, as

the reader may remember, fell into the tan-pit. The collector reached

Counsellor Quin’s long before Simon arrived; and, when he presented Sir

Hyacinth’s letter, it was received in a manner that showed it came too

late. Simon lost his place and his fifty pounds a year: but what he

found most trying to his temper were the reproaches of his wife, which

were loud, bitter, and unceasing. He knew, from experience, that nothing

could silence her but letting her “have all the plea;” so he suffered

her to rail till she was quite out of breath, and he very nearly asleep,

and then said, “What you have been observing is all very just, no doubt;

but since a thing past can’t be recalled, and those that are upon the

ground, as our proverb says, can go no lower, that’s a great comfort; so

we may be content.”

“Content, in truth! Is it content to live upon potatoes and salt? I,

that am your lawful wife! And you, that are an O’Dougherty too, to let

your lady be demeaned and looked down upon, as she will be now, even by

them that are sprung up from nothing since yesterday. There’s Mrs. Gray,

over yonder at Rosanna, living on your own land: look at her and look at

me! and see what a difference there is!”

“Some difference there surely is,” said Simon.

“Some difference there surely is,” repeated Mrs. O’Dougherty, raising

her voice to the shrillest note of objurgation; for she was provoked

by a sigh that escaped Simon, as he pronounced his reply, or rather his

acceding sentence. Nothing, in some cases, provokes a female so much as

agreeing with her.

“And if there is some difference betwixt me and Mrs. Gray, should be

glad to know whose fault that is?”

“So should I, Mrs. O’Dougherty.”

“Then I’ll tell you, instantly, whose fault it is, Mr. O’Dougherty:

the fault is your own, Mr. O’Dougherty. No, the fault is mine, Mr.

O’Dougherty, for marrying you, or consorting with you at all. If I had

been matched to an active, industrious man, like Mr. Gray, I might have

been as well in the world and better than Mrs. Gray; for I should become

a fortune better than she, or any of her seed, breed, or generation; and

it’s a scandal in the face of the world, and all the world says so, it’s

a scandal to see them Grays flourishing and settling a colony, there at

Rosanna, at our expense!”

“Not at our expense, my dear, for you know we made nothing of either

tan-yard or mill; and now they pay us 30_l_. a year, and that punctually

too. What should we do without it, now we have lost the place in the

revenue? I am sure, I think we were very lucky to get such tenants as

the Grays.”

“In truth, I think no such thing; for if you had been blessed with the

sense of a midge, you might have done all they have done yourself: and

then what a different way your lawful wife and family would have been

in! I am sure I wish it had pleased the saints above to have married me,

when they were about it, to such a man as farmer Gray or his sons.”

“As for the sons,” said Simon, “they are a little out of the way in

point of age, but to farmer Gray I see no objection in life: and if he

sees none, and will change wives, I’m sure, Ally, I shall be content.”

The sort of composure and dry humour with which Simon made this last

speech overcame the small remains of Mrs. O’Dougherty’s patience: she

burst into a passion of tears; and from this hour, it being now past

eleven o’clock at night, from this hour till six in the morning she

never ceased weeping, wailing, and upbraiding.

Simon rose from his sleepless bed, saying, “The saints above, as you

call them, must take care of you now, Ally, any how; for I’m fairly

tired out: so I must go a-hunting or a-shooting with my friend, Sir

Hyacinth O’Brien, to recruit my spirits.”

The unfortunate Simon found, to his mortification, that his horse was

so lame he could scarcely walk. Whilst he was considering where he could

borrow a horse, just for the day’s hunt, Mr. Hopkins rode into his

yard, mounted upon a fine hunter. Though naturally supercilious, this

gentleman could stoop to conquer: he was well aware of Simon’s dislike

to him, but he also knew that Simon was in distress for money. Even

the strongest passions of those who involve themselves in pecuniary

difficulties must yield to the exigencies of the moment. Easy Simon’s

indolence had now reduced him to a situation in which his pride was

obliged to bend to his interest. Mr. Hopkins had once been repulsed with

haughtiness by the representative of the O’Dougherty family, when he

offered to purchase some of the family estate; but his proposal was now

better timed, and was made with all the address of which he was master.

He began by begging Simon to give him his opinion of the horse on which

he was mounted, as he knew Mr. O’Dougherty was a particularly good judge

of a hunter; and he would not buy it, from Counsellor Quin’s groom,

without having a skilful friend’s advice. Then he asked whether it was

true that Simon and the collector had quarrelled, exclaimed against

the malice and officiousness of the informer, whoever he might be, and

finished by observing that, if the loss of his place put Simon to any

inconvenience, there was a ready way of supplying himself with money, by

the sale of any of the lands of Rosanna. The immediate want of a horse,

and the comparison he made, at this moment, between the lame animal on

which he was leaning and the fine hunter upon which Hopkins was mounted,

had more effect upon Simon than all the rest. Before they parted, Mr.

Hopkins concluded a bargain for the field on which he had set his heart:

he obtained it for less than its value by three years’ purchase. The

hunter was part of the valuable consideration he gave to Simon.

The moment that Hopkins was in possession of this field adjoining to

Gray’s mill, he began to execute a malignant project which he had long

been contriving.

We shall leave him to his operations; matters of higher import claim our

attention. One morning, as Rose was on the little lawn before the house

door, gathering the first snowdrops of the year, a servant in a handsome

livery rode up, and asked if Mr. Gray or any of the family were at home.

Her father and brothers were out in the fields, at some distance; but

she said she would run and call them. “There is no occasion, Miss,”

said the servant; “for the business is only to leave these cards for the

ladies of the family.”

He put two cards into Rose’s hand, and galloped off with the air of a

man who had a vast deal of business of importance to transact. The cards

contained an invitation to an election ball, which Sir Hyacinth O’Brien

was going to give to the secondary class of gentry in the county. Rose

took the cards to her mother; and whilst they were reading them over for

the second time, in came farmer Gray to breakfast. “What have we here,

child?” said he, taking up one of the cards. He looked at his wife and

daughter with some anxiety for a moment; and then, as if he did not

wish to restrain them, turned the conversation to another subject, and

nothing was said of the ball till breakfast was over.

Mrs. Gray then bade Rose go and put her flowers into water; and as soon

as she was out of the room, said, “My dear, I see you don’t like that we

should go to this ball; so I am glad I did not say what I thought of it

to Rose before you came in: for you must know, I had a mother’s foolish

vanity about me; and the minute I saw the card, I pictured to myself our

Rose dressed like any of the best of the ladies, and looking handsomer

than most of them, and every body admiring her! But perhaps the girl is

better as she is, having not been bred to be a lady. And yet, now we

are as well in the world as many that set up for and are reckoned

gentlefolks, why should not our girl take this opportunity of rising a

step in life?”

Mrs. Gray spoke with some confusion and hesitation. “My dear,” replied

farmer Gray, in a gentle yet firm tone, “it is very natural that you,

being the mother of such a girl as our Rose, should be proud of her, and

eager to show her to the best advantage; but the main point is to

make her happy, not to do just what will please our own vanity for the

minute. Now I am not at all sure that raising her a step in life,

even if we could do it by sending her to this ball, would be for her

happiness. Are not we happy as we are--Come in, Rose, love; come in;

I should be glad for you to hear what we are saying, and judge for

yourself; you are old enough, and wise enough, I am sure. I was going to

ask, are not we all happy in the way we live together now?”

“Yes! Oh yes! That we are, indeed,” said both the wife and daughter.

“Then should not we be content, and not wish to alter our condition?”

“But to go to only one ball, father, would not alter our condition,

would it?” said Rose, timidly.

“If we begin once to set up for gentry, we shall not like to go back

again to be what we are now: so, before we begin, we had best consider

what we have to gain by a change. We have meat, drink, clothes, and

fire: what more could we have, if we were gentry? We have enough to do,

and not too much; we are all well pleased with ourselves, and with one

another; we have health and good consciences: what more could we have,

if we were to set up to be gentry? Or rather, to put the question

closer, could we in that case have all these comforts? No, I think not:

for, in the first place, we should be straitened for want of money;

because a world of baubles, that we don’t feel the want of now, would

become as necessary to us as our daily bread. We should be ashamed not

to have all the things that gentlefolks have; though these don’t signify

a straw, nor half a straw, in point of any real pleasure they give,

still they must be had. Then we should be ashamed of the work by which

we must make money to pay for all these nicknacks. John and Robin would

blush up to the eyes, then, if they were to be caught by the genteel

folks in their mill, heaving up sacks of flour, and covered all over

with meal; or if they were to be found, with their arms bare beyond the

elbows, in the tan-yard. And you, Rose, would hurry your spinning-wheel

out of sight, and be afraid to be caught cooking my dinner. Yet there

is no shame in any of these things, and now we are all proud of doing

them.”

“And long may we be so!” cried Mrs. Gray. “You are right, and I spoke

like a foolish woman. Rose, my child, throw these cards into the fire.

We are happy, and contented: and if we change, we shall be discontented

and unhappy, as so many of what they call our betters are. There! the

cards are burnt; now let us think no more about them.”

“Rose, I hope, is not disappointed about this ball; are you, my little

Rose?” said her father, drawing her towards him, and seating her on his

knee.

“There was one reason, father,” said Rose, blushing, “there was one

reason, and only one, why I wished to have gone to this ball.”

“Well, let us hear it. You shall do as you please, I promise you

beforehand. But tell us the reason. I believe you have found it

somewhere at the bottom of that snow-drop, which you have been examining

this last quarter of an hour. Come, let me have a peep,” added he,

laughing.

“The only reason, papa, _is--was_, I mean,” said Rose.--“But look! Oh, I

can’t tell you now. See who is coming.”

It was Sir Hyacinth O’Brien, in his gig; and with him his English

servant, Stafford, whose staid and sober demeanour was a perfect

contrast to the dash and bustle of his master’s appearance. This was an

electioneering visit. Sir Hyacinth was canvassing the county--a business

in which he took great delight, and in which he was said to excel. He

possessed all the requisite qualifications, and was certainly excited

by a sufficiently strong motive; for he knew that, if he should lose his

election, he should at the same time lose his liberty, as the privilege

of a member of parliament was necessary to protect him from being

arrested. He had a large estate, yet he was one of the poorest men in

the county; for no matter what a person’s fortune may be, if he spend

more than his income, he must be poor. Sir Hyacinth O’Brien not only

spent more than his income, but desired that his rent-roll should be

thought to be at least double what it really was: of course he was

obliged to live up to the fortune which he affected to possess; and this

idle vanity early in life entangled him in difficulties from which

he had never sufficient strength of mind to extricate himself. He was

ambitious to be the leading man in his county, studied all the arts of

popularity, and found them extremely expensive, and stood a contested

election. He succeeded; but his success cost him several thousands. All

was to be set to rights by his talents as a public speaker, and these

were considerable. He had eloquence, wit, humour, and sufficient

assurance to place them all in the fullest light. His speeches in

parliament were much admired, and the passion of ambition was now

kindled in his mind: he determined to be a leading man in the senate;

and whilst he pursued this object with enthusiasm, his private affairs

were entirely neglected. Ambition and economy never can agree. Sir

Hyacinth, however, found it necessary to the happiness, that is, to the

splendour, of his existence, to supply, by some means or other, the

want of what he called the paltry, selfish, counterfeit virtue--economy.

Nothing less would do than the sacrifice of that which had been

once in his estimation the most noble and generous of human

virtues,--patriotism. The sacrifice was painful, but he could not avoid

making it; because, after living upon five thousand a-year, he could

not live upon five hundred. So, from a flaming patriot, he sunk into a

pensioned placeman.

He then employed all his powers of wit and sophistry to ridicule the

principles which he had abandoned. In short, he affected to glory in

a species of political profligacy; and laughed or sneered at public

virtue, as if it could only be the madness of enthusiasm, or the

meanness of hypocrisy. By the brilliancy of his conversation, and the

gaiety of his manners, Sir Hyacinth sometimes succeeded in persuading

others that he was in the right; but, alas! there was one person whom

he could never deceive, and that was himself. He despised himself, and

nothing could make him amends for the self-complacency that he had lost.

Without self-approbation, all the luxuries of life are tasteless.

Sir Hyacinth O’Brien, however, was for some years thought, by those who

could see only the outward man, to be happy; and it was not till the

derangement of his affairs became public that the world began at once

to pity and blame him. He had a lucrative place, but he was, or thought

himself, obliged to live in a style suited to it; and he was not

one shilling the richer for his place. He endeavoured to repair his

shattered fortunes by marrying a rich heiress, but the heiress was, or

thought herself, obliged to live up to her fortune; and, of course,

her husband was not one shilling the richer for his marriage. When Sir

Hyacinth was occasionally distressed for money, his agent, who managed

all affairs in his absence, borrowed money with as much expedition as

possible; and expedition, in matters of business, must, as every body

knows, be paid for exorbitantly. There are men who, upon such terms,

will be as expeditious in lending money as extravagance and ambition

united can desire. Mr. Hopkins was one of these: and he was the

money-lender who supplied the baronet’s real and imaginary wants. Sir

Hyacinth did not know the extreme disorder of his own affairs, till a

sudden dissolution of parliament obliged him to prepare for the expense

of a new election. When he went into the country, he was at once beset

with duns and constituents who claimed from him favours and promises.

Miserable is the man who courts popularity, if he be not rich enough to

purchase what he covets.

Our baronet endeavoured to laugh off with a good grace his apostasy from

the popular party; and whilst he could laugh at the head of a plentiful

table, he could not fail to find many who would laugh with him; but

there was a strong party formed against him in the county. Two other

candidates were his competitors; one of them was Counsellor Quin, a man

of vulgar manners and mean abilities, but yet one who could drink and

cajole electors full as well as Sir Hyacinth, with all his wit and

elegance. The other candidate, Mr. Molyneux, was still more formidable;

not as an electioneerer, but as a man of talents and unimpeached

integrity, which had been successfully exerted in the service of his

country. He was no demagogue, but the friend of justice and of the

poor, whom he would not suffer to be oppressed by the hand of power,

or persecuted by the malice of party spirit. A large number of grateful

independent constituents united to support this gentleman. Sir Hyacinth

O’Brien had reason to tremble for his fate; it was to him a desperate

game. He canvassed the county with the most keen activity; and took

care to engage in his interest all those _underlings_ who delight in

galloping round the country to electioneer, and who think themselves

paid by the momentary consequence they enjoy, and the bustle they

create.

Amongst these busy-bodies was Simon O’Dougherty: indolent in all his own

concerns, he was remarkably active in managing the affairs of others.

His home being now insufferable to him, he was glad to stroll about the

country; and to him Sir Hyacinth O’Brien left all the dirty work of

the canvass. Soft Simon had reduced himself to the lowest class of

_stalkoes_ or _walking gentlemen_, as they are termed; men who have

nothing to do, and no fortune to support them, but who style themselves

esquire; and who, to use their own mode of expression, are jealous

of that title, and of their claims to family antiquity. Sir Hyacinth

O’Brien knew at once how to flatter Simon’s pride, and to lure him on

by promises. Soft Simon believed that the baronet, if he gained his

election, would procure him some place equivalent to that of which he

had been lately deprived. Upon the faith of this promise, Simon worked

harder for his patron than he ever was known to do upon any previous

occasion; and he was not deficient in that essential characteristic of

an electioneerer, boasting. He carried this habit sometimes rather too

far, for he not only boasted so as to bully the opposite party, but

so as to deceive his friends: over his bottle, he often persuaded his

patron that he could command voters, with whom he had no manner of

influence. For instance: he told Sir Hyacinth O’Brien that he was

certain all the Grays would vote for him; and it was in consequence of

this assurance that the cards of invitation to the ball had been sent to

Rose and her mother, and that the baronet was now come in person to pay

his respects at Rosanna.

We have kept him waiting an unconscionable time at the cottage door; we

must now show him in.

CHAPTER IV.

The beauty of Rose was the first thing that struck him upon his

entrance. The impression was so sudden, and so lively, that, for a few

minutes, the election, and all that belonged to it, vanished from his

memory. The politeness of a county candidate made him appear, in other

houses, charmed with father, mother, son, and daughter; but in this

cottage there was no occasion for dissimulation; he was really pleased

with each individual of the family. The natural feelings of the heart

were touched. The ambitious man forgot all his schemes, and all his

cares, in the contemplation of this humble picture of happiness and

content; and the baronet conversed a full quarter of an hour with farmer

Gray, before he relapsed into himself.

“How much happier,” thought he, “are these people than I am, or than I

ever have been! They are contented in obscurity; I was discontented even

in the full blaze of celebrity. But my fate is fixed. I embarked on

the sea of politics as thoughtlessly as if it were only on a party of

pleasure: now I am chained to the oar, and a galley-slave cannot be more

wretched.”

Perhaps the beauty of Rose had some share in exciting Sir Hyacinth’s

sudden taste for rural felicity. It is certain he at first expressed

more disappointment at hearing she would not go to the ball, than at

being told her father and brothers could not vote for him. Farmer

Gray, who was as independent in his principles as in his circumstances,

honestly answered the baronet, that he thought Mr. Molyneux the fittest

man to represent the county; and that it was for him he should therefore

vote. Sir Hyacinth tried all his powers of persuasion in vain, and he

left the cottage mortified and melancholy.

He met Simon O’Dougherty when he had driven a few miles from the door;

and, in a tone of much pique and displeasure, reproached him for having

deceived him into a belief that the Grays were his friends. Simon

was rather embarrassed; but the genius of gossiping had luckily just

supplied him with a hint, by which he could extricate himself from this

difficulty.

“The fault is all your own, if I may make so free as to tell you so.

Sir Hyacinth O’Brien,” said he, “as capital an electioneerer as you

are, I’ll engage I’ll find one that shall outdo you here. Send me and

Stafford back again this minute to Rosanna, and we’ll bring you the

three votes as dead as crows in an hour’s time, or my name is not

O’Dougherty now.”

“I protest, Mr. O’Dougherty, I do not understand you.”

“Then let me whisper half a word in your ear, Sir Hyacinth, and I’ll

make you sensible I’m right.” Simon winked most significantly, and

looked wondrous wise; then stretching himself half off his horse into

the gig to gain Sir Hyacinth’s ear, he whispered that he knew, from the

best authority, Stafford was in love with Gray’s pretty daughter, Rose,

and that Rose had no dislike to him; that she was all in all to her

father and brothers, and of course could and would secure their votes,

if properly spoken to.

This intelligence did not immediately produce the pleasing change of

countenance which might have been expected. Sir Hyacinth coldly replied,

he could not spare Stafford at present, and drove on. The genius of

gossiping, according to her usual custom, had exaggerated considerably

in her report. Stafford was attached to Rose, but had never yet told

her so; and as to Rose, we might perhaps have known all her mind, if Sir

Hyacinth’s gig had not appeared just as she was seated on her father’s

knee, and going to tell him her reasons for wishing to go to the ball.

Stafford acted in the capacity of house-steward to the baronet; and had

the management of all his master’s unmanageable servants. He had brought

with him, from England, ideas of order and punctuality, which

were somewhat new, and extremely troublesome to the domestics at

Hyacinth-hall: consequently he was much disliked by them; and not only

by them but by most of the country people in the neighbourhood, who

imagined he had a strong predilection in favour of every thing that

was English, and an undisguised contempt for all that was Irish. They,

however, perceived that this prejudice against the Irish admitted of

exceptions: the family of the Grays, Stafford acknowledged, were almost

as orderly, punctual, industrious, and agreeable, as if they had been

born in England. This was matter of so much surprise to him, that he

could not forbear going at every leisure hour to the mill or the cottage

of Rosanna, to convince himself that such things could actually be in

Ireland. He bought all the flour for the hall at Rosanna-mill; and Rose

supplied the housekeeper constantly with poultry; so that his master’s

business continually obliged Stafford to repeat his visits; and every

time he went to Gray’s cottage, he thought it more and more like an

English farm-house, and imagined Rose every day looked more like an

Englishwoman than any thing else. What a pity she was not born the other

side of the water; for then his mother and friends, in Warwickshire,

could never have made any objection to her. But, she being an

Irishwoman, they would for certain never fancy her. He had oftentimes

heard them as good as say, that it would break their hearts if he was to

marry and settle amongst the bogs and the wild Irish.

This recollection of his friends’ prejudices at first deterred Stafford

from thinking of marrying Rose; but it sometimes happens that reflection

upon the prejudices of others shows us the folly of our own, and so it

was in the present instance. Stafford wrote frequently to his friends

in Warwickshire, to assure them that they had quite wrong notions

of Ireland; that all Ireland was not a bog; that there were several

well-grown trees in the parts he had visited; that there were some

as pretty villages as you could wish to see any where, only that they

called them towns; that the men, though some of them still wear brogues,

were more hospitable to strangers than the English; and that the

women, when not smoke-dried, were some of the handsomest he had seen,

especially one Rose or Rosamond Gray, who was also the best and most

agreeable girl he had ever known; though it was almost a sin to say so

much of one who was not an Englishwoman born.

Much more in the same strain Stafford wrote to his mother; who, in reply

to these letters, “besought him to consider well what he was about,

before he suffered himself to begin falling desperately in love with

this Rose or Rosamond Gray, or any Irishwoman whatsoever; who, having

been bred in a mud-walled cabin, could never be expected to turn out at

the long run equal to a true-born Englishwoman, bred in a slated house.”

Stafford’s notions had been so much enlarged by his travel, that he

could not avoid smiling at some passages in his mother’s epistle; yet

he so far agreed with her in opinion as to think it prudent not to begin

falling desperately in love with any woman, whether Irish or English,

till he was thoroughly acquainted with her temper and disposition.

He therefore prudently forbore, that is to say, as much as he could

forbear, to show any signs of his attachment to Rose, till he had full

opportunity of forming a decisive judgment of her character.

This he had now in his power. He saw that his master was struck with the

fair Rosamond’s charms; and he knew that Sir Hyacinth would pursue his

purpose with no common perseverance. His heart beat with joy, when the

card which brought her refusal arrived. He read it over and over again;

and at last put it into his bosom, close to his heart. “Rose is a good

daughter,” said he to himself; “and that is a sign that she will make a

good wife. She is too innocent to see or suspect that master has taken a

fancy to her, but she is right to do as her prudent, affectionate father

advises. I never loved that farmer Gray so well, in all my whole life,

as at this instant.”

Stafford was interrupted in his reverie by his master; who, in an

angry voice, called for him to inquire why he had not, according to his

orders, served out some oats for his horses the preceding day. The truth

was, that anxiety about Rose and the ball had made him totally forget

the oats. Stafford coloured a good deal, confessed that he had done

very wrong to forget the oats, but that he would go to the granary

immediately, and serve them out to the groom. Perhaps Stafford’s usual

exactness might have rendered his omission pardonable to any less

irritable and peremptory master than Sir H. O’Brien.

When Sterne once heard a master severely reprimanding a servant for some

trifling fault, he said to the gentleman, “My dear sir, we should not

expect to have every virtue under the sun for 20_l_. a-year.”

Sir Hyacinth O’Brien expected to have them for merely the promise of

20_l_. a-year. Though he never punctually paid his servants’ wages,

he abused them most insolently whenever he was in a passion. Upon the

present occasion, his ill-humour was heightened by jealousy.

“I wish, sir,” cried he to Stafford, after pouring forth a volley of

oaths, “you would mind your business, and not run after objects that

are not fit for you. You are become good for nothing of late; careless,

insolent, and not fit to be trusted.”

Stafford bore all that his master said till he came to the words not

fit to be trusted; but the moment those were uttered, he could no longer

command himself; he threw down the great key of the granary, which he

held in his hand, and exclaimed, “Not fit to be trusted! Is this

the reward of all my services? Not fit to be trusted! Then I have no

business here.”

“The sooner you go the better, sir,” cried the angry baronet, who, at

this instant, desired nothing more than to get him out of his way. “You

had best set off for England directly: I have no farther occasion for

your services.”

Stafford said not a word more, but retired from his master’s presence to

conceal his emotion; and, when he was alone, burst into tears, repeating

to himself, “So this is the reward of all my services!”

When Sir Hyacinth’s passion cooled, he reflected that seven years’

wages were due to Stafford; and as it was not convenient to him at

this election time to part with so much ready money, he resolved to

compromise. It was not from any sense of justice; therefore it must be

said he had the meanness to apologize to his steward, and to hint that

he was welcome to remain, if he pleased, in his service.

Satisfied by this explanation, and by the condescension with which it

was given, Stafford’s affection for his master returned with all its

wonted force: and he resumed his former occupations about the house with

redoubled activity. He waited only till he could be spared for a day to

go to Rosanna, and make his proposal for Rose. Her behaviour concerning

the ball convinced him that his mother’s prejudices against Irishwomen

were ill-founded. Whilst his mind was in this state, his master one

morning sent for him, and told him that it was absolutely necessary

he should go to a neighbouring county, to some persons who were

freeholders, and whose votes might turn the election. The business

would only occupy a few days, Sir Hyacinth said; and Stafford willingly

undertook it.

The gentlemen to whom Stafford had letters were not at home, and he was

detained above a fortnight. When he returned, he took a road which led

by Rosanna, that he might at least have the pleasure of seeing Rose for

a few minutes; but when he called at the cottage, to his utter surprise,

he was refused admittance. Being naturally of a warm temper, and not

deficient in pride, his first impulse was to turn his horse’s head, and

gallop off: but, checking his emotion, he determined not to leave the

place till he should discover the cause of this change of conduct.

He considered that none of this family had formerly treated him with

caprice or duplicity; it was therefore improbable they should suddenly

alter their conduct towards him, unless they had reason to believe that

they had some sufficient cause. He rode immediately to a field where he

saw some labourers at work. Farmer Gray was with them. Stafford leaped

from his horse, and, with an air of friendly honesty, held out his hand,

saying, “I can’t believe you mean to affront me: tell me what is the

reason I am not to be let into your house, my good friend?”

Gray leaned upon his stick, and, after looking at him for a moment,

replied, “We have been too hasty, I see: we have had no cause of

quarrel with you, Stafford: you could never look at me with that honest

countenance, if you had any hand in this business.”

“What business?” cried Stafford.

“Walk home with me, out of the hearing of these people, and you shall

know.”

As they walked towards his cottage, Gray took out his great leather

pocket-book, and searched for a letter. “Pray, Stafford,” said he, “did

you, about ten days ago, send my girl a melon?”

“Yes; one of my own raising. I left it with the gardener, to be sent to

her with my best respects and services; and a message intimating to say

that I was sorry my master’s business required I should take a journey,

and could not see her for a few days, or something that way.”

“No such message came; only your services, the melon, and this note. I

declare,” continued Gray, looking at Stafford whilst he read the letter,

“he turns as pale as my wife herself did when I showed it to her!”

Stafford, indeed, grew pale with anger. It was a billet-doux from his

master to Rose, which Sir Hyacinth entreated might be kept secret,

promising to make her fortune and marry her well, if she would only have

compassion upon a man who adored and was dying for her, &c.

“I will never see my master again,” exclaimed Stafford. “I could not

see him without the danger of doing something that I might not forgive

myself. He a gentleman! He a gentleman! I’ll gallop off and leave his

letters, and his horse, with some of his people. I’ll never see him

again. If he does not pay me a farthing of my seven years’ wages,

I don’t care; I will not sleep in his house another night. He a

gentleman!”

Farmer Gray was delighted by Stafford’s generous indignation; which

appeared the more striking, as his manner was usually sober, and

remarkably civil.

All this happened at two o’clock in the afternoon; and the evening of

the same day he returned to Rosanna. Rose was sitting at work, in the

seat of the cottage window. When she saw him at the little white gate,

her colour gave notice to her brothers who was coming, and they ran out

to meet him.

“You ought to shut your doors against me now, instead of running out

to meet me,” said he; “for I am not clear that I have a farthing in the

world, except what is in this portmanteau. I have been fool enough to

leave all I have earned in the hands of _a gentleman_, who can give me

only his bond for my wages. But I am glad I am out of his house, at any

rate.”

“And I am glad you are in mine,” said farmer Gray, receiving him with a

warmth of hospitality which brought tears of gratitude into Stafford’s

eyes. Rose smiled upon her father, and said nothing; but set him his

arm-chair, and was very busy arranging the tea-table. Mrs. Gray beckoned

to her guest, and made him sit down beside her; telling him he should

have as good tea at Rosanna as ever he had in Warwickshire; “and out of

Staffordshire ware, too,” said she, taking her best Wedgwood teacups and

saucers out of a cupboard.

Robin, who was naturally gay and fond of rallying his friends, could not

forbear affecting to express his surprise at Stafford’s preferring an

Irishwoman, of all women in the world. “Are you quite sure, Stafford,”

said he, “that you are not mistaken? Are you sure my sister has not

wings on her shoulders?”

“Have you done now, Robin?” said his mother; who saw that Stafford was

a good deal abashed, and had no answer ready. “If Mr. Stafford had a

prejudice against us Irish, so much the more honourable for my Rose to

have conquered it; and, as to wings, they would have been no shame to

us natives, supposing we had them; and of course it was no affront to

attribute them to us. Have not the angels themselves wings?”

A timely joke is sometimes a real blessing; and so Stafford felt it at

this instant: his bashfulness vanished by degrees, and Robin rallied him

no more. “I had no idea,” said he, “how easy it is to put an Englishman

out of countenance in the company of his mistress.”

This was a most happy evening at Rosanna. After Rose retired, which she

soon did, to see after the household affairs, her father spoke in the

kindest manner to Stafford. “Mr. Stafford,” said he, “if you tell me

that you are able to maintain my girl in the way of life she is in now,

you shall have her: this, in my opinion and in hers, is the happiest

life for those who have been bred to it. I would rather see Rose matched

to an honest, industrious, good-humoured man, like yourself, whom

she can love, than see her the wife of a man as grand as Sir Hyacinth

O’Brien. For, to the best of my opinion, it is not the being born to a

great estate that can make a man content or even rich: I think myself a

richer man this minute than Sir Hyacinth; for I owe no man any thing, am

my own master, and can give a little matter both to child and stranger.

But your head is very naturally running upon Rose, and not upon my

moralizing. All I have to say is, win her and wear her; and, as to the

rest, even if Sir Hyacinth never pays you your own, that shall not stop

your wedding. My sons are good lads, and you and Rose shall never want,

whilst the mill of Rosanna is going.”

This generosity quite overpowered Stafford. Generosity is one of the

characteristics of the Irish. It not only touched but surprised the

Englishman; who, amongst the same rank of his own countrymen, had been

accustomed to strict honesty in their dealings, but seldom to this

warmth of friendship and forgetfulness of all selfish considerations.

It was some minutes before he could articulate a syllable; but, after

shaking his intended father-in-law’s hand with that violence which

expresses so much to English feelings, he said, “I thank you heartily;

and, if I live to the age of Methusalem, shall never forget this. A

friend in need is a friend indeed. But I will not live upon yours or

your good sons’ earnings; that would not be fair dealing, or like what

I’ve been bred up to think handsome. It is a sad thing for me that this

master of mine can give me nothing, for my seven years’ service,

but this scrap of paper (taking out of his pocket-book a bond of Sir

Hyacinth’s). But my mother, though she has her prejudices, and is

very stiff about them, being an elderly woman, and never going out of

England, or even beyond the parish in which she was born, yet she is

kind-hearted; and I cannot think will refuse to help me, or that she

will cross me in marriage, when she knows the thing is determined; so I

shall write to her before I sleep, and wish I could but enclose in the

cover of my letter the picture of Rose, which would be better than all

I could say. But no picture would do her justice. I don’t mean a

compliment, like those Sir Hyacinth paid to her face, but only the plain

truth. I mean that a picture could never make my mother understand how

good, and sweet-tempered, and modest, Rose is. Mother has a world of

prejudices; but she is a good woman, and will prove herself so to me, I

make no doubt.”

Stafford wrote to his mother a long letter, and received, in a fortnight

afterwards, this short answer:

“Son George, I warned you not to fall in love with an Irishwoman, to

which I told you I could never give my consent.

“As you bake, so you must brew. Your sister Dolly is marrying too, and

setting up a shop in Warwick, by my advice and consent: all the money I

can spare I must give, as in reason, to her who is a dutiful child;

and mean, with her and grand-children, if God please, to pass my latter

days, as fitting, in this parish of Little Sonchy, in Old England, where

I was born and bred. Wishing you may not repent, or starve, or so forth,

which please to let me know,

“I am your affectionate mother,

“DOROTHY STAFFORD.”

All Stafford’s hopes were confounded by this letter: he put it into

farmer Gray’s hands, without saying a word; then drew his chair away

from Rose, hid his face in his hands, and never spoke or heard one word

that was saying round about him for full half an hour; till, at last,

he was roused by his friend Robin, who, clapping him on his back, said,

“Come, Stafford, English pride won’t do with us; this is all to punish

you for refusing to share and share alike with us in the mill of

Rosanna, which is what you must and shall do now, for Rose’s sake, if

not for ours or your own. Come, say done.”

Stafford could not help being moved. All the family, except Rose, joined

in these generous entreaties; and her silence said even more than their

words. Dinner was on the table before this amicable contest was settled,

and Robin insisted upon his drinking a toast with him, in Irish ale;

which was, “Rose Gray, and Rosanna-mill.”

The glass was just filled and the toast pronounced, when in came one of

Gray’s workmen, in an indescribable perspiration and rage.

“Master Robin, master John! Master,” cried he, “we are all ruined! The

mill and all--”

“The mill!” exclaimed every body starting up.

“Ay, the mill: it’s all over with it, and with us: not a turn more will

Rosanna-mill ever take for me or you; not a turn,” continued he, wiping

his forehead with his arm, and hiding by the same motion his eyes, which

ran over with tears.

“It’s all that thief Hopkins’s doing. May every guinea he touches, and

every shilling, and tester, and penny itself, blister his fingers, from

this day forward and for evermore!”

“But what has he done to the mill?”

“May every guinea, shilling, tester, and penny he looks upon, from this

day forth for evermore, be a blight to his eyes, and a canker to his

heart! But I can’t wish him a worse canker than what he has there

already. Yes, he has a canker at heart! Is not he eaten up with envy? as

all who look at him may read in that evil eye. Bad luck to the hour when

it fixed on the mill of Rosanna!”

“But what has he done to the mill? Take it patiently, and tell us

quietly,” said farmer Gray, “and do not curse the man any more.”

“Not curse the man! Take it quietly, master! Is it the time to take it

quietly, when he is at the present minute carrying off every drop of

water from our mill-course? so he is the villain!”

At these words, Stafford seized his oak stick, and sprang towards the

door. Robin and John eagerly followed: but, as they passed their father,

he laid a hand on each, and called to Stafford to stop. At his respected

voice they all paused. “My children,” said he, “what are you going to

do? No violence. No violence. You shall have justice, boys, depend upon

it; we will not let ourselves be oppressed. If Mr. Hopkins were ten

times as great, and twenty times as tyrannical as he is, we shall have

justice; the law will reach him: but we must take care and do nothing

in anger. Therefore, I charge you, let me speak to him, and do you

keep your tempers whatever passes. May be, all this is only a mistake:

perhaps Mr. Hopkins is only making drains for his own meadow; or, may

be, is going to flood it, and does not know, till we tell him, that he

is emptying our water-course.”

“He can’t but know it! He can’t but know it! He’s’ cute enough, and too

‘cute,” muttered Paddy, as he led the way to the mill. Stafford and

the two brothers followed their father respectfully; admiring his

moderation, and resolving to imitate it if they possibly could.

Mr. Hopkins was stationed cautiously on the boundary of his own land.

“There he is, mounted on the back of the ditch, enjoying the mischief

all he can!” cried Paddy. “And hark! He is whistling, whilst our stream

is running away from us. May I never cross myself again, if I would not,

rather than the best shirt ever I had to my back, push him into the mud,

as he deserves, this very minute! And, if it wasn’t for my master here,

it’s what I’d do, before I drew breath again.”

Farmer Gray restrained Paddy’s indignation with some difficulty; and

advancing calmly towards Mr. Hopkins, he remonstrated with him in a mild

tone. “Surely, Mr. Hopkins,” said he, “you cannot mean to do us such an

injury as to stop our mill?”

“I have not laid a finger on your mill,” replied Hopkins, with a

malicious smile. “If your man there,” pointing to Paddy, “could prove

my having laid a finger upon it, you might have your action of trespass;

but I am no trespasser; I stand on my own land, and have a right to

water my own meadow; and moreover have witnesses to prove that, for ten

years last past, while the mill of Rosanna was in Simon O’Dougherty’s

hands, the water-course was never full, and the mill was in disuse. The

stream runs against you now, and so does the law, gentlemen. I have the

best counsel’s opinion in Ireland to back me. Take your remedy, when and

where you can find it. Good morning to you.”

Without listening to one word more, Mr. Hopkins hastily withdrew: for he

had no small apprehensions that Paddy, whose threats he had overheard,

and whose eyes sparkled with rage, might execute upon him that species

of prompt justice which no quibbling can evade.

“Do not be disheartened, my dear boys,” said farmer Gray to his sons,

who were watching with mournful earnestness the slackened motion of

their water-wheel. “Saddle my horse for me, John; and get yourselves

ready, both of you, to come with me to Counsellor Molyneux.”

“Oh! father,” said John, “there is no use in going to him; for he is one

of the candidates, you know, and Mr. Hopkins has a great many votes.”

“No matter for that,” said Gray: “Mr. Molyneux will do justice; that is

my opinion of him. If he was another sort of man, I would not trouble

myself to go near him, nor stoop to ask his advice: but my opinion of

him is, that he is above doing a dirty action, for votes or any thing

else; and I am convinced his own interest will not weigh a grain of dust

in the balance against justice. Saddle the horses, boy.”

His sons saddled the horses; and all the way the farmer was riding he

continued trying to keep up the spirits of his sons, by assurances that

if Counsellor Molyneux would take their affair in hand, there would be

an end of all difficulty.

“He is not one of those justices of the peace,” continued he, “who will

huddle half a dozen poor fellows into jail without law or equity. He is

not a man who goes into parliament, saying one thing, and who comes out

saying another. He is not, like, our friend Sir Hyacinth O’Brien, forced

to sell tongue, and brains, and conscience, to keep his head above

water. In short, he is a man who dares to be the same, and can moreover

afford to be the same, at election time as at any other time; for which

reason, I dare to go to him now in this our distress, although, I have

to complain of a man who has forty-six votes, which is the number, they

say, Mr. Hopkins can command.”

Whilst farmer Gray was thus pronouncing a panegyric on Counsellor

Molyneux, for the comfort of John and Robin, Stafford was trying to

console Rose and her mother, who were struck with sorrow and dismay,

at the news of the mill’s being stopped. Stafford had himself almost as

much need of consolation as they; for he foresaw it was impossible he

should at present be united to his dear Rose. All that her generous

brothers had to offer was a share in the mill. The father had his farm,

but this must serve for the support of the whole family; and how could

Stafford become a burden to them, now that they would be poor, when he

could not bring himself to be dependent upon them, even when they were,

comparatively speaking, rich?

CHAPTER V.

With anxious hearts the little party at the cottage expected the return

of the father and his sons. Rose sat at the window watching for them:

her mother laid down her knitting, and sighed: and Stafford was silent,

for he had exhausted all his consolatory eloquence, and saw and felt it

had no effect.

“Here they come! But they ride so slow, that I am sure they bring us no

good news.”

No: there was not any good news. Counsellor Molyneux had indeed behaved

as well as man could do: he had declared that he would undertake to

manage and plead their cause in any court of justice on earth; and had

expressed the strongest indignation against the villany of Hopkins; but,

at the same time, he had fairly told the Grays that this litigious man,

if they commenced a suit, might ruin them, by law, before they could

recover their rights.

“So we may go to bed this night melancholy enough,” said Robin; “with

the certainty that our mill is stopped, and that we have a long lawsuit

to go through, before we can see it going again--if ever we do.”

Rose and Stafford looked at one another, and sighed.

“We had better not go to law, to lose the little we have left, at any

rate,” said Mrs. Gray.

“Wife, I am determined my boys shall have justice,” said the father,

firmly. “_I_ am not fond of law, God knows! I never had a lawsuit in my

life; nobody dreads such things more than I do; but I dread nothing in

defence of my sons and justice. Whilst I have a penny left in the world,

I’ll spend it to obtain them justice. The labour of their lives shall

not be in vain; they shall not be robbed of all they have: they shall

not be trampled upon by any one living, let him be ever so rich, or

ever so litigious. I fear neither his money nor his quirks of law. Plain

sense is the same for him and for me; and justice my boys shall have.

Mr. Molyneux will plead our cause himself--desire no more. If we fail

and are ruined, our ruin be upon the head of him who works it! I

shall die content, when I have done all I can to obtain justice for my

children.”

As soon as these facts were known, every body in the neighbourhood felt

extreme indignation against Hopkins; and all joined in pitying the two

brothers, and applauding the spirit of their father. There was not an

individual who did not wish that Hopkins might be punished; but he

had been engaged in so many lawsuits, and had been so successful in

screening himself from justice, and in ruining his opponents, that every

body feared the Grays, though they were so much in the right, would

never be able to make this appear, according to the forms of law: many,

therefore, advised that it might not be brought to trial. But farmer

Gray persisted, and Counsellor Molyneux steadily abided by his word, and

declared he would plead the cause himself.

Mr. Hopkins sent the counsellor a private hint, that if he directly

or indirectly protected the Grays, he must give up all hopes of the

forty-six votes which, as the county was now nearly balanced, must turn

the election. Mr. Molyneux paid no attention to this hint; but, the very

day on which he received it, visited farmer Gray in his cottage, walked

with him to Rosanna-mill, and settled how the suit should be carried on.

Hopkins swore he would spare no expense to humble the pride both of

the Grays and their protector: an unexpected circumstance, however,

occurred. It had often been prophesied by Mr. Molyneux, who knew the

species of bargains which Hopkins drove with all manner of people by

whose distresses he could make money, that he would sooner or later

overshoot his mark, as cunning persons often do. Mr. Molyneux predicted

that, amongst the medley of his fraudulent purchases, he would at length

be the dupe of some unsound title; and that, amongst the multitudes whom

he ruined, he would at last meet with some one who would ruin him. The

person who was the means of accomplishing this prophecy was indeed the

last that would have been guessed--soft Simon O’Dougherty! In dealing

with him, Mr. Hopkins, who thoroughly despised indolent honesty, was

quite off his guard; and, in truth, poor Simon had no design to cheat

him: but it happened that the lease, which he made over to Hopkins, as

his title to the field that he sold, was a lease renewable for ever;

with a strict clause, binding the lessee to renew, within a certain time

after the failure of each life, under penalty of forfeiting the lease.

From the natural laziness of easy Simon, he had neglected to renew, and

had even forgotten that the life was dropped: he assigned his lease over

a bottle to Mr. Hopkins, who seized it with avidity, lest he should lose

the lucky moment to conclude a bargain in which, he thought, he had

at once over-reached Simon, and had secured to himself the means of

wreaking his vengeance upon the Grays. This lease was of the field

adjoining to Rosanna-mill; and by the testimony of some old people

in the neighbourhood, he fancied he could prove that this meadow was

anciently flooded, and that the mill-course had gone into disuse. In all

his subsequent operations, he had carefully kept himself, as he thought,

upon his own lands; but, now that a suit against him was instituted, it

was necessary to look to his own title, into which he knew Mr. Molyneux

would examine.

Upon reading over the lease assigned to him by Simon, he noticed the

strict clause, binding the tenant to renew within a certain time. A

qualm came over him! He was astonished at himself for not having more

carefully perused the lease before he concluded the bargain. Had it been

with any one but soft Simon, this could not have happened. He hastened

in search of Simon with the utmost anxiety, to inquire whether all the

lives were in being. Simon at first said he had such a mist over his

memory that he could not exactly recollect who the lives were; but at

last he made out that one of them had been dead beyond the time for

renewal. The gentleman, his landlord, he said, was in Dublin; and he had

neglected, sure enough, to write to him from post to post.

The rage of Mr. Hopkins was excessive: he grew white with anger! Easy

Simon yawned, and begged him not to take the thing so to heart: “for,

after all,” said he, “you know the loss must be mine. I can’t make good

the sale of this field to you, as I have lost it by my own carelessness:

but that’s nothing to you; for you know, as well as I do, that to make

good the deficiency, you will, somehow or other, get a better piece of

ground out of the small remains of patrimony I have left, God help me!”

“God help _you_, indeed!” cried Hopkins, with a look and accent of

mingled rage and contempt. “I tell you, man, the loss is mine; and no

other land you have, to sell or give, can make me any amends. I shall

lose my lawsuit.”

“Wheugh! wheugh! Why, so much the better. Where’s the use of having

lawsuits? The loss of such bad things can never be great.”

“No trifling, pray,” said Hopkins, with impatience, as he walked up and

down the room, and repeatedly struck his forehead.

“Ho! ho! ho! I begin to comprehend. I know whereabouts you are now,”

cried Simon. “Is not it the Grays you are thinking of? Ah, that’s the

suit you are talking about. But now, Mr. Hopkins, you ought to rejoice,

as I do, instead of grieving, that it is out of your power to ruin that

family; for, in truth, they are good people, and have the voice of the

country with them against you; and if you were to win your suit twenty

times over, that would still be the same. You would never be able to

show your face; and, for my own part, my conscience would never forgive

me for being instrumental, unknown to myself, in giving you the power

to do this mischief. And, after all, what put it into your head to stop

Rosanna-mill, when its going gave you no trouble in life?”

Hopkins, who had not listened to one syllable Simon was saying, at this

instant suddenly stopped walking; and, in a soft insinuating voice,

addressed him in these words:

“Mr. O’Dougherty, you know I have a great regard for you.”

“May be so,” said Simon; “though that is more than I ever knew you to

have for any body.”

“Pray be serious. I tell you I have, and will prove it.”

“That is more and more surprising, Mr. Hopkins.”

“And which is more surprising still, I will make your fortune, if you

will do a trifling kindness for me.”

“Any thing in nature, that won’t give me an unreasonable deal of

trouble.”

“Oh, this will give you no sort of trouble,” said Hopkins. “I will get

you, before this day se’nnight, that place in the revenue that you have

been wishing for so long, and that Sir Hyacinth O’Brien will never get

for you. I say I will insure it to you under my hand, this minute, if

you will do what I want of you.”

“To be sure I will, if it’s no trouble. What is it?”

“Only just,” said Hopkins, hesitating; “only just--You must

remember--you cannot but recollect that you wrote to your landlord, to

offer to renew?”

“I remember to recollect no such thing,” said Simon, surprised.

“Yes, yes,” said Hopkins; “but he gave you no answer, you know.”

“But, I tell you, I never wrote to him at all.”

“Pshaw! You have a bad memory, Simon; and your letter might have

miscarried. There’s nothing simpler than that; nothing more easily

said.”

“If it were but true,” said Simon.

“True or not, it may be said, you know.”

“Not by Simon O’Dougherty, Mr. Hopkins.”,

“Look you, Mr. O’Dougherty, I have a great regard for you,” continued

Hopkins, holding him fast, and producing a pocket-book full of bank

notes. I must, thought he, come up to this scoundrel’s price, for he

has me now. He is more knave than fool, I see. “Let us understand one

another, my good friend Simon. Name your sum, and make me but a short

affidavit, purporting that you did apply for this renewal, and you have

your place in the revenue snug besides.”