CHAPTER VI.

It is now time to give some account of the Bettesworth family. The

history of their indolence, extravagance, quarrels, and ruin, shall be

given as shortly as possible.

The fortune left to them by Captain Bettesworth was nearly twenty

thousand pounds. When they got possession of this sum, they thought it

could never be spent; and each individual of the family had separate

plans of extravagance, for which they required separate supplies. Old

Bettesworth, in his youth, had seen a house of Squire Somebody, which

had struck his imagination, and he resolved he would build just such

another. This was his favourite scheme, and he was delighted with the

thoughts that it would be realized. His wife and his sons opposed

the plan, merely because it was his; and consequently he became more

obstinately bent upon having his own way, as he said, for once in his

life. He was totally ignorant of building; and no less incapable, from

his habitual indolence, of managing workmen: the house might have been

finished for one thousand five hundred pounds; it cost him two thousand

pounds: and when it was done, the roof let in the rain in sundry places,

the new ceilings and cornices were damaged, so that repairs and a new

roof, with leaden gutters, and leaden statues, cost him some additional

hundreds. The furnishing of the house Mrs. Bettesworth took upon

herself; and Sally _took upon herself_ to find fault with every article

that her mother bought. The quarrels were loud, bitter, and at last

irreconcilable. There was a looking-glass which the mother wanted

to have in one room, and the daughter insisted upon putting it into

another: the looking-glass was broken between them in the heat of

battle. The blame was laid on Sally, who, in a rage, declared she would

not and could not live in the house with her mother. Her mother was

rejoiced to get rid of her, and she went to live with a lieutenant’s

lady in the neighbourhood, with whom she had been acquainted three

weeks and two days. Half by scolding, half by cajoling her father, she

prevailed upon him to give her two thousand pounds for her fortune;

promising never to trouble him any more for any thing.

As soon as she was gone, Mrs. Bettesworth gave a house-warming, as she

called it, to all her acquaintance; a dinner, a ball, and a supper, in

her new house. The house was not half dry, and all the company caught

cold. Mrs. Bettesworth’s cold was the most severe. It happened at this

time to be the fashion to go almost without clothes; and as this lady

was extremely vain and fond of dress, she would absolutely appear in the

height of fashion. The Sunday after her ball, whilst she had still the

remains of a bad cold, she positively would go to church, equipped in

one petticoat, and a thin muslin gown, that she might look as young as

her daughter Jessy. Every body laughed, and Jessy laughed more than any

one else; but, in the end, it was no laughing matter; Mrs. Bettesworth

“caught her death of cold.” She was confined to her bed on Monday, and

was buried the next Sunday.

Jessy, who had a great notion that she should marry a lord, if she

could but once get into company with one, went to live with blind Mrs.

Cheviott; where, according to her mother’s instructions, “she laid

herself out for goodness.” She also took two thousand pounds with

her, upon her promise never to trouble her father more. Her brothers

perceived how much was to be gained by tormenting a father, who

gave from weakness, and not from a sense of justice, or a feeling of

kindness; and they soon rendered themselves so troublesome that he was

obliged to buy off their reproaches. Idle Isaac was a sportsman, and

would needs have a pack of hounds: they cost him two hundred a year.

Then he would have race-horses; and by them he soon lost some thousands.

He was arrested for the money, and his father was forced to pay it.

Bob and Will soon afterwards began to think, “it was very hard that so

much was to be done for Isaac, and nothing for them!”

Wild Will kept a mistress; and Bullying Bob was a cock-fighter: their

demands for money were frequent and unconscionable; and their continual

plea was, “Why, Isaac lost a thousand by his race-horses, and why should

not we have our share?”

The mistress and the cockpit had their share; and the poor old father,

at last, had only one thousand left. He told his sons this, with tears

in his eyes: “I shall die in a jail, after all!” said he. They listened

not to what he said, for they were intent upon the bank-notes of this

last thousand, which were spread upon the table before him. Will, half

in jest, half in earnest, snatched up a parcel of the notes; and Bob

insisted on dividing the treasure. Will fled out of the house; Bob

pursued him, and they fought at the end of their own avenue.

This was on the day that Frankland and his family were returning from

poor George’s funeral, and saw the battle betwixt the brothers. They

were shamed into a temporary reconciliation, and soon afterwards united

against their father, whom they represented to all the neighbours as

the most cruel and the most avaricious of men, because he would not part

with the very means of subsistence to supply their profligacy.

Whilst their minds were in this state, Will happened to become

acquainted with a set of smugglers, whose disorderly life struck his

fancy. He persuaded his brothers to leave home with him, and to list in

the service of Admiral Tipsey. Their manners then became more brutal;

and they thought, felt, and lived like men of desperate fortunes. The

consequence we have seen. In a quarrel about a keg of brandy, at an

alehouse, their passions got the better of them, and, on entering their

boat, they committed the offence for which they were now imprisoned.

Mr. Barlow was the attorney to whom they applied, and they endeavoured

to engage him to manage their cause on their trial; but he absolutely

refused. From the moment he heard from James that Will and Bob

Bettesworth were the persons who set fire to Frankland’s hay-stack, he

urged Frank to prosecute them for this crime. “When you only suspected

them, my dear Frank, I strongly dissuaded you from going to law: but now

you cannot fail to succeed, and you will recover ample damages.”

“That is impossible, my dear sir,” replied Frank; “for the Bettesworths,

I understand, are ruined.”

“I am sorry for that, on your account; but I still think you ought to

carry on this prosecution, for the sake of public justice. Such pests of

society should not go unpunished.”

“They will probably be punished sufficiently for this unfortunate

assault, for which they are now to stand their trial. I cannot, in their

distress, revenge either my own or my father’s wrongs. I am sure he

would be sorry if I did; for I have often and often heard him say,

‘Never trample upon the fallen.’”

“You are a good, generous young man,” cried Mr. Barlow, “and no wonder

you love the father who inspired you with such sentiments, and taught

you such principles. But what a shame it is that such a father should

be in an almshouse! You say he will not consent to be dependent upon

any one; and that he will not accept of relief from any but his own

children. This is pride; but it is an honourable species of pride; fit

for an English yeoman. I cannot blame it. But, my dear Frank, tell your

father he must accept of your friend’s credit, as well as of yours.

Your credit with me is such, that you may draw upon me for five hundred

pounds whenever you please. No thanks, my boy. Half the money I owe you

for your services as my clerk; and the other half is well secured to me,

by the certainty of your future diligence and success in business.

You will be able to pay me in a year or two; so I put you under no

obligation, remember. I will take your bond for half the money, if that

will satisfy you and your proud father.”

The manner in which this favour was conferred touched Frank to the

heart. He had a heart which could be strongly moved by kindness. He

was beginning to express his gratitude, when Mr. Barlow interrupted him

with, “Come, come! Why do we waste our time here, talking sentiment,

when we ought to be writing law? Here is work to be done, which requires

some expedition: a marriage settlement to be drawn. Guess for whom.”

Frank guessed all the probable matches amongst his Monmouth

acquaintance; but he was rather surprised when told that the bridegroom

was to be young Mr. Folingsby; as it was scarcely two months since this

gentleman was in love with Fanny Frankland. Frank proceeded to draw the

settlement.

Whilst he and Mr. Barlow were writing, they were interrupted by the

entrance of Mr. Josiah Crumpe. He came to announce Mrs. Crumpe’s death,

and to request Mr. Barlow’s attendance at the opening of her will. This

poor lady had lingered out many months longer than it was thought

she could possibly live; and during all her sufferings, Patty, with

indefatigable goodness and temper, bore with the caprice and peevishness

of disease. Those who thought she acted merely from interested motives

expected to find she had used her power over her mistress’s mind

entirely for her own advantage: they were certain a great part of the

fortune would be left to her. Mrs. Crumpe’s relations were so persuaded

of this, that, when they were assembled to hear her will read by Mr.

Barlow, they began to say to one another in whispers, “We’ll set the

will aside; we’ll bring her into the courts: Mrs. Crumpe was not in her

right senses when she made this will: she had received two paralytic

strokes; we can prove that: we can set aside the will.”

Mr. Josiah Crumpe was not one of these whisperers; he set apart from

them, leaning on his oaken stick in silence.

Mr. Barlow broke the seals of the will, opened it, and read it to the

eager company. They were much astonished when they found that the whole

fortune was left to Mr. Josiah Crumpe. The reason for this bequest was

given in these words:

“Mr. Josiah Crumpe, being the only one of my relations who did not

torment me for my money, even upon my death-bed, I trust that he will

provide suitably for that excellent girl, Patty Frankland. On this head

he knows my wishes. By her own desire, I have not myself left her any

thing; I have only bequeathed fifty pounds for the use of her father.”

Mr. Josiah Crumpe was the only person who heard unmoved the bequest

that was made to him; the rest of the relations were clamorous in their

reproaches, or hypocritical in their congratulations. All thoughts of

setting aside the will were, however, abandoned; every legal form had

been observed, and with a technical nicety that precluded all hopes of

successful litigation.

Mr. Crumpe arose, as soon as the tumult of disappointment had somewhat

subsided, and counted with his oaken stick the numbers that were

present. “Here are ten of you, I think. Well! you, every soul of you,

hate me; but that is nothing to the purpose. I shall keep up to the

notion I have of the character of a true British merchant, for my own

sake--not for yours. I don’t want this woman’s money; I have enough of

my own, and of my own honest making, without legacy hunting. Why did

you torment the dying woman? You would have been better off, if you had

behaved better; but that’s over now. A thousand pounds a-piece you shall

have from me, deducting fifty pounds, which you must each of you give to

that excellent girl, Patty Frankland. I am sure you must be all sensible

of your injustice to her.”

Fully aware that it was their interest to oblige Mr. Crumpe, they now

vied with each other in doing justice to Patty. Some even declared they

had never had any suspicions of her; and others laid the blame on the

false representations and information which they said they had had

from the mischief-making Mrs. Martha. They very willingly accepted of

a thousand pounds a-piece; and the fifty pounds deduction was paid as a

tax by each to Patty’s merit.

Mistress now of five hundred pounds, she exclaimed, “Oh! my dear father!

You shall no longer live in an almshouse! To-morrow will be the

happiest day of my life! I don’t know how to thank you as I ought, sir,”

continued she, turning to her benefactor.

“You have thanked me as you ought, and as I like best,” said this

plain-spoken merchant, “and now let us say no more about it.”

In obedience to Mr. Crumpe’s commands, Patty said no more to him; but

she was impatient to tell her brother Frank, and her lover, Mr. Mason,

of her good fortune: she therefore returned to Monmouth with Mr. Barlow,

in hopes of seeing them immediately; but Frank was not at work at the

marriage settlement. Soon after Mr. Barlow left him, he was summoned to

attend the trial of the Bettesworths.

These unfortunate young men, depending on Frank’s good nature, well

knowing he had refused to prosecute them for setting fire to his

father’s hay-rick, thought they might venture to call upon him to give

them a good character. “Consider, dear Frank,” said Will Bettesworth, “a

good word from one of your character might do a great deal for us. You

were so many years our neighbour. If you would only just say that we

were never counted wild, idle, quarrelsome fellows, to your knowledge.

Will you?”

“How can I do that?” said Frank: “or how could I be believed, if I did,

when it is so well known in the country--forgive me; at such a time as

this I cannot mean to taunt you: but it is well known in the country

that you were called Wild Will, Bullying Bob, and Idle Isaac.”

“There’s the rub!” said the attorney who was employed for the

Bettesworths. “This will come out in open court; and the judge and jury

will think a great deal of it.”

“Oh! Mr. Frank, Mr. Frank,” cried old Bettesworth, “have pity upon us!

Speak in favour of these boys of mine! Think what a disgrace it is to me

in my old age, to have my sons brought this way to a public trial! And

if they should be transported! Oh! Mr. Frank, say what you can for them!

You were always a good young man, and a good-natured young man.”

Frank was moved by the entreaties and tears of the unhappy father; but

his good-nature could not make him consent to say what he knew to be

false. “Do not call me to speak to their characters upon this trial,”

said he; “I cannot say any thing that would serve them: I shall do them

more harm than good.”

Still they had hopes his good-nature would, at the last moment, prevail

over his sense of justice, and they summoned him.

“Well, sir,” said Bettesworths’ counsel, “you appear in favour of the

prisoners. You have known them, I understand, from their childhood; and

your own character is such that whatever you say in their favour will

doubtless make a weighty impression upon the jury.”

The court was silent in expectation of what Frank should say. He was

so much embarrassed betwixt his wish to serve his old neighbours and

playfellows, and his dread of saying what he knew to be false, that

he could not utter a syllable. He burst into tears. {Footnote: This is

drawn from real life.}

“This evidence is most strongly against the prisoners,” whispered a

juryman to his fellows.

The verdict was brought in at last--Guilty!--Sentence--transportation.

As the judge was pronouncing this sentence, old Bettesworth was carried

out of the court: he had dropped senseless. Ill as his sons had behaved

to him, he could not sustain the sight of their utter disgrace and ruin.

When he recovered his senses, he found himself sitting on the

stone bench before the court-house, supported by Frank. Many of the

town’s-people had gathered round; but regardless of every thing but his

own feelings, the wretched father exclaimed, in a voice of despair, “I

have no children left me in my old age! My sons are gone! And where are

my daughters? At such a time as this, why are not they near their poor

old father? Have they no touch of natural affection in them? No! they

have none. And why should they have any for me? I took no care of them

when they were young; no wonder they take none of me now I am old. Ay!

Neighbour Frankland was right: he brought up his children ‘in the way

they should go.’ Now he has the credit and the comfort of them; and see

what mine are come to! They bring their father’s grey hairs with sorrow

to the grave!”

The old man wept bitterly: then looking round him, he again asked for

his daughters. “Surely they are in the town, and it cannot be much

trouble to them to come to me! Even these strangers, who have never

seen me before, pity me. But _my own_ have no feeling; no, not for one

another! Do these girls know the sentence that has been passed upon

their brothers! Where are they? Where are they? Jessy, at least, might

be near me at such a time as this! I was always an indulgent father to

Jessy.”

There were people present who knew what was become of Jessy; but they

would not tell the news to her father at this terrible moment. Two of

Mrs. Cheviott’s servants were in the crowd; and one of them whispered

to Frank, “You had best, sir, prevail on this poor old man to go to his

home, and not to ask for his daughter: he will hear the bad news soon

enough.”

Frank persuaded the father to go home to his lodgings, and did every

thing in his power to comfort him. But, alas! the old man said, too

truly, “There is no happiness left for me in this world! What a curse it

is to have bad children! My children have broken my heart! And it is all

my own fault: I took no care of them when they were young; and they take

no care of me now I am old. But, tell me, have you found out what is

become of my daughter?”

Frank evaded the question, and begged the old man to rest in peace this

night. He seemed quite exhausted by grief, and at last sunk into a sort

of stupefaction: it could hardly be called sleep. Frank was obliged to

return home, to proceed with his business for Mr. Barlow; and he was

glad to escape from the sight of misery, which, however he might pity,

he could not relieve.

It was happy indeed for Frank that he had taken his father’s advice,

and had early broken off all connexion with Jilting Jessy. After duping

others, she at length had become a greater dupe. She had this morning

gone off with a common serjeant, with whom she had fallen suddenly and

desperately in love. He cared for nothing but her two thousand pounds;

and, to complete her misfortune, was a man of bad character, whose

extravagance and profligacy had reduced him to the sad alternative of

either marrying for money, or going to jail.

As for Sally, she was at this instant far from all thoughts either of

her father or her brothers; she was in the heat of a scolding match,

which terminated rather unfortunately for her matrimonial schemes.

Ensign Bloomington had reproached her with having forced him into his

aunt’s room, when she had absolutely refused to see him, and thus being

the cause of his losing a handsome legacy. Irritated by this charge,

the lady replied in no very gentle terms. Words ran high; and so high at

last, that the gentleman finished by swearing that he would sooner marry

the devil than such a vixen!

The match was thus broken off, to the great amusement of all Saucy

Sally’s acquaintance. Her ill-humour had made her hated by all the

neighbours; so that her disappointment at the loss of the ensign was

embittered by their malicious raillery, and by the prophecy which she

heard more than whispered from all sides, that she would never have

another admirer, either for “love or money.”

Ensign Bloomington was deaf to all overtures of peace: he was rejoiced

to escape from this virago; and, as we presume that none of our readers

are much interested in her fate, we shall leave her to wear the willow,

without following her history farther.

Let us return to Mr. Barlow, whom we left looking over Mr. Folingsby’s

marriage settlements. When he had seen that they were rightly drawn, he

sent Frank with them to Folingsby-hall.

Mr. Folingsby was alone when Frank arrived. “Sit down, if you please,

sir,” said he. “Though I have never had the pleasure of seeing you

before, your name is well known to me. You are a brother of Fanny

Frankland’s. She is a charming and excellent young woman! You have

reason to be proud of your sister, and I have reason to be obliged to

her.”

He then adverted to what had formerly passed between them at

Mrs. Hungerford’s; and concluded by saying it would give him real

satisfaction to do any service to him or his family. “Speak, and tell me

what I can do for you.”

Frank looked down, and was silent; for he thought Mr. Folingsby must

recollect the injustice that he, or his agent, had shown in turning old

Frankland out of his farm. He was too proud to ask favours, where he

felt he had a claim to justice.

In fact, Mr. Folingsby had, as he said, “left every thing to his agent;”

and so little did he know either of the affairs of his tenants, their

persons, or even their names, that he had not at this moment the

slightest idea that Frank was the son of one of the oldest and the best

of them. He did not know that old Frankland had been reduced to take

refuge in an almshouse, in consequence of his agent’s injustice.

Surprised by Frank’s cold silence, he questioned him more closely, and

it was with astonishment and shame that he heard the truth.

“Good heavens!” cried he, “has my negligence been the cause of all this

misery to your father--to the father of Fanny Frankland? I remember, now

that you recall it to my mind, something of an old man, with fine grey

hair, coming to speak to me about some business, just as I was setting

off for Ascot races. Was that your father? I recollect I told him I was

in a great hurry; and that Mr. Deal, my agent, would certainly do him

justice. In this I was grossly mistaken; and I have suffered severely

for the confidence I had in that fellow. Thank God, I shall now have my

affairs in my own hands. I am determined to look into them immediately.

My head is no longer full of horses, and gigs, and curricles. There is

a time for every thing: my giddy days are over. I only wish that my

thoughtlessness had never hurt any one but myself.

“All I now can do,” continued Mr. Folingsby, “is to make amends, as fast

as possible, for the past. To begin with your father: most fortunately,

I have the means in my power. His farm is come back into my hands; and

it shall, to-morrow, be restored to him. Old Bettesworth was with

me scarcely an hour ago, to surrender the farm, on which there is a

prodigious arrear of rent; but I understand that he has built a good

house on the farm; and I am extremely glad of it, for your father’s

sake. Tell him it shall be his. Tell him I am ready, I am eager, to put

him in possession of it; and to repair the injustice I have done, or

which, at least, I have permitted to be done, in my name.”

Frank was so overjoyed that he could scarcely utter one word of thanks.

In his way home he called at Mrs. Hungerford’s, to tell the good news to

his sister Fanny. This was the eve of their father’s birthday; and they

agreed to meet at the almshouse in the morning.

The happy morning came. Old Frankland was busy in his little garden,

when he heard the voices of his children, who were coming towards him.

“Fanny! Patty! James! Frank! Welcome, my children! Welcome! I knew you

would be so kind as to come to see your old father on this day; so I was

picking some of my currants for you, to make you as welcome as I can.

But I wonder you are not ashamed to come to see me in an almshouse. Such

gay lads and lasses! I well know I have reason to be proud of you all.

Why, I think, I never saw you, one and all, look so well in my whole

life!”

“Perhaps, father,” said Frank, “because you never saw us, one and all,

so happy! Will you sit down, dear father, here in your arbour; and we

will all sit upon the grass, at your feet, and each tell you stories,

and all the good news.”

“My children,” said he, “do what you will with me! It makes my old heart

swim with joy to see you all again around me looking so happy.”

The father sat down in his arbour, and his children placed themselves

at his feet. First his daughter Patty spoke; and then Fanny; then James;

and at last Frank. When they had all told their little histories, they

offered to their father in one purse their common riches: the rewards of

their own good conduct.

“My beloved children!” said Frankland, overpowered with his tears, “this

is too much joy for me! this is the happiest moment of my life! None but

the father of such children can know what I feel! Your success in the

world delights me ten times the more, because I know it is all owing to

yourselves.”

“Oh! no, dear father!” cried they with one accord; “no, dear, dear

father, our success is all owing to you! Every thing we have is owing to

you; to the care you took of us, from our infancy upward. If you had not

watched for our welfare, and taught us so well, we should not now all be

so happy!--Poor Bettesworth!”

Here they were interrupted by Hannah, the faithful maid-servant, who

had always lived with old Frankland. She came running down the garden so

fast, that, when she reached the arbour, she was so much out of breath

she could not speak. “Dear heart! God bless you all!” cried she, as soon

as she recovered breath. “But it is no time to be sitting here. Come in,

sir, for mercy’s sake,” said she, addressing herself to her old master.

“Come in to be ready; come in all of you to be ready!” “Ready! ready for

what?”

“Oh! ready for fine things! Fine doings! Only come in, and I’ll tell you

as we go along. How I have torn all my hand with this gooseberry-bush!

But no matter for that. So then you have not heard a word of what is

going on? No, how could you? And you did not miss me, when you first

came into the house?”

“Forgive us for that, good Hannah: we were in such a hurry to see my

father, we thought of nothing and nobody else.”

“Very natural. Well, Miss Fanny, I’ve been up at the great house, with

your lady, Mrs. Hungerford. A better lady cannot be! Do you know she

sent for me, on purpose to speak to me; and I know things that you are

not to know yet. But this much I may tell you, there’s a carriage coming

here, to carry my master away to his new house; and there’s horses,

and side-saddles beside, for you, and you, and you, and I. And Mrs.

Hungerford is coming in her own coach; and young Mr. Folingsby is coming

in his carriage; and Mr. Barlow in Mr. Jos. Crumpe’s carriage; and Mr.

Cleghorn, and his pretty daughter, in the gig; and--and--and heaps of

carriages besides! friends of Mrs. Hungerford: and there’s such crowds

gathering in the streets; and I’m going on to get breakfast.”

“Oh! my dear father,” cried Frank, “make haste, and take off this

badge-coat before they come! We have brought proper clothes for you.”

Frank pulled off the badge-coat, as he called it, and flung it from him,

saying, “My father shall never wear you more.”

Fanny had just tied on her father’s clean neckcloth, and Patty had

smoothed his reverend grey locks, when the sound of the carriages was

heard. All that Hannah had told them was true. Mrs. Hungerford had

engaged all her friends, and all who were acquainted with the good

conduct of the Franklands, to attend her on this joyful occasion.

“Triumphal cavalcades and processions,” said she, “are in general

foolish things--mere gratifications of vanity; but this is not in honour

of vanity, but in honour of virtue. We shall do good in the country, by

showing that we respect and admire it, in whatever station it is to be

found. Here is a whole family who have conducted themselves uncommonly

well; who have exerted themselves to relieve their aged father from a

situation to which he was reduced without any fault or imprudence of his

own. Their exertions have succeeded. Let us give them, what they will

value more than money, SYMPATHY.”

Convinced or persuaded by what Mrs. Hungerford said, all her friends

and acquaintance attended her this morning to the almshouse. Crowds

of people followed; and old Frankland was carried in triumph by his

children to his new habitation.

The happy father lived many years to enjoy the increasing prosperity of

his family. {Footnote: It may be necessary to inform some readers, that

Patty and Fanny were soon united to their lovers; that James, with Mr.

Cleghorn’s consent, married Miss Cleghorn; and that Frank did not become

an old bachelor: he married an amiable girl, who was ten times prettier

than Jilting Jessy, and of whom he was twenty times as fond. Those who

wish to know the history of all the wedding-clothes of the parties

may have their curiosity gratified by directing a line of inquiry,

post-paid, to the editor hereof.}

May every good father have as grateful children!

_May, 1801_.

THE GRATEFUL NEGRO.

In the island of Jamaica there lived two planters, whose methods of

managing their slaves were as different as possible. Mr. Jefferies

considered the negroes as an inferior species, incapable of gratitude,

disposed to treachery, and to be roused from their natural indolence

only by force; he treated his slaves, or rather suffered his overseer to

treat them, with the greatest severity.

Jefferies was not a man of a cruel, but of a thoughtless and extravagant

temper. He was of such a sanguine disposition, that he always calculated

upon having a fine season, and fine crops on his plantation; and

never had the prudence to make allowance for unfortunate accidents: he

required, as he said, from his overseer produce and not excuses.

Durant, the overseer, did not scruple to use the most cruel and

barbarous methods of forcing the slaves to exertions beyond their

strength. {Footnote: THE NEGRO SLAVES--a fine drama, by Kotzebue. It is

to be hoped that such horrible instances of cruelty are not now to be

found in nature. Bryan Edwards, in his History of Jamaica, says that

most of the planters are humane; but he allows that some facts can be

cited in contradiction of this assertion.} Complaints of his brutality,

from time to time, reached his master’s ears; but though Mr. Jefferies

was moved to momentary compassion, he shut his heart against conviction:

he hurried away to the jovial banquet, and drowned all painful

reflections in wine.

He was this year much in debt; and, therefore, being more than usually

anxious about his crop, he pressed his overseer to exert himself to the

utmost.

The wretched slaves upon his plantation thought themselves still more

unfortunate when they compared their condition with that of the negroes

on the estate of Mr. Edwards. This gentleman treated his slaves with all

possible humanity and kindness. He wished that there was no such thing

as slavery in the world, but he was convinced, by the arguments of

those who have the best means of obtaining information, that the sudden

emancipation of the negroes would rather increase than diminish their

miseries. His benevolence, therefore, confined itself within the bounds

of reason. He adopted those plans for the amelioration of the state

of the slaves which appeared to him the most likely to succeed without

producing any violent agitation or revolution. {Footnote: History of

the West Indies, from which these ideas are adopted--not stolen.} For

instance, his negroes had reasonable and fixed daily tasks; and when

these were finished, they were permitted to employ their time for their

own advantage or amusement. If they chose to employ themselves longer

for their master, they were paid regular wages for their extra work.

This reward, for as such it was considered, operated most powerfully

upon the slaves. Those who are animated by hope can perform what would

seem impossibilities to those who are under the depressing influence

of fear. The wages which Mr. Edwards promised, he took care to see

punctually paid.

He had an excellent overseer, of the name of Abraham Bayley, a man of

a mild but steady temper, who was attached not only to his master’s

interests but to his virtues; and who, therefore, was more intent upon

seconding his humane views than upon squeezing from the labour of the

negroes the utmost produce. Each negro had, near his cottage, a portion

of land, called his provision-ground; and one day in the week was

allowed for its cultivation.

It is common in Jamaica for the slaves to have provision-grounds, which

they cultivate for their own advantage; but it too often happens, that,

when a good negro has successfully improved his little spot of ground,

when he has built himself a house, and begins to enjoy the fruits of his

industry, his acquired property is seized upon by the sheriff’s officer

for the payment of his master’s debts; he is forcibly separated from his

wife and children, dragged to public auction, purchased by a stranger,

and perhaps sent to terminate his miserable existence in the mines of

Mexico; excluded for ever from the light of heaven; and all this without

any crime or imprudence on his part, real or pretended. He is punished

because his master is unfortunate!

To this barbarous injustice the negroes on Mr. Edwards’ plantation

were never exposed. He never exceeded his income; he engaged in no wild

speculations; he contracted no debts; and his slaves, therefore, were

in no danger of being seized by a sheriff’s officer: their property was

secured to them by the prudence as well as by the generosity of their

master.

One morning, as Mr. Edwards was walking in that part of his plantation

which joined to Mr. Jefferies’ estate, he thought he heard the voice of

distress at some distance. The lamentations grew louder and louder as

he approached a cottage, which stood upon the borders of Jefferies’

plantation.

This cottage belonged to a slave of the name of Caesar, the best negro

in Mr. Jefferies’ possession. Such had been his industry and exertion,

that, notwithstanding the severe tasks imposed by Durant, the overseer,

Caesar found means to cultivate his provision-ground to a degree of

perfection no where else to be seen on this estate. Mr. Edwards had

often admired this poor fellow’s industry, and now hastened to inquire

what misfortune had befallen him.

When he came to the cottage, he found Caesar standing with his arms

folded, and his eyes fixed upon the ground. A young and beautiful female

negro was weeping bitterly, as she knelt at the feet of Durant, the

overseer, who, regarding her with a sullen aspect, repeated, “He must

go. I tell you, woman, he must go. What signifies all this nonsense?”

At the sight of Mr. Edwards, the overseer’s countenance suddenly

changed, and assumed an air of obsequious civility. The poor woman

retired to the farther corner of the cottage, and continued to weep.

Caesar never moved. “Nothing is the matter, sir,” said Durant, “but that

Caesar is going to be sold. That is what the woman is crying for. They

were to be married; but we’ll find Clara another husband, I tell her;

and she’ll get the better of her grief, you know, sir, as I tell her, in

time.” “Never! never!” said Clara.

“To whom is Caesar going to be sold? and for what sum?”

“For what can be got for him,” replied Durant, laughing; “and to whoever

will buy him. The sheriff’s officer is here, who has seized him for

debt, and must make the most of him at market.”

“Poor fellow!” said Mr. Edwards; “and must he leave this cottage which

he has built, and these bananas which he has planted?”

Caesar now for the first time looked up, and fixing his eyes upon Mr.

Edwards for a moment, advanced with an intrepid rather than an imploring

countenance, and said, “Will you be my master? Will you be her master?

Buy both of us. You shall not repent of it. Caesar will serve you

faithfully.”

On hearing these words Clara sprang forward, and clasping her hands

together, repeated, “Caesar will serve you faithfully.”

Mr. Edwards was moved by their entreaties, but he left them without

declaring his intentions. He went immediately to Mr. Jefferies, whom

he found stretched on a sofa, drinking coffee. As soon as Mr. Edwards

mentioned the occasion of his visit, and expressed his sorrow for

Caesar, Jefferies exclaimed, “Yes, poor devil! I pity him from the

bottom of my soul. But what can I do? I leave all those things to

Durant. He says the sheriff’s officer has seized him; and there’s an end

of the matter. You know, money must be had. Besides, Caesar is not worse

off than any other slave sold for debt. What signifies talking about the

matter, as if it were something that never happened before! Is not it a

case that occurs every day in Jamaica?”

“So much the worse,” replied Mr. Edwards.

“The worse for them, to be sure,” said Jefferies. “But, after all, they

are slaves, and are used to be treated as such; and they tell me the

negroes are a thousand times happier here, with us, than they ever were

in their own country.”

“Did the negroes tell you so themselves?”

“No; but people better informed than negroes have told me so; and,

after all, slaves there must be; for indigo, and rum, and sugar, we must

have.”

“Granting it to be physically impossible that the world should exist

without rum, sugar, and indigo, why could they not be produced by

freemen as well as by slaves? If we hired negroes for labourers, instead

of purchasing them for slaves, do you think they would not work as well

as they do now? Does any negro, under the fear of the overseer, work

harder than a Birmingham journeyman, or a Newcastle collier, who toil

for themselves and their families?”

“Of that I don’t pretend to judge. All I know is, that the West India

planters would be ruined if they had no slaves; and I am a West India

planter.”

“So am I; yet I do not think they are the only people whose interests

ought to be considered in this business.”

“Their interests, luckily, are protected by the laws of the land; and

though they are rich men, and white men, and freemen, they have as

good a claim to their rights as the poorest black slave on any of our

plantations.”

“The law, in our case, seems to make the right; and the very reverse

ought to be done--the right should make the law.”

“Fortunately for us planters, we need not enter into such nice

distinctions. You could not, if you would, abolish the trade. Slaves

would be smuggled into the islands.”

“What! if nobody would buy them? You know that you cannot smuggle slaves

into England. The instant a slave touches English ground he becomes

free. Glorious privilege! Why should it not be extended to all her

dominions? If the future importation of slaves into these islands

were forbidden by law, the trade must cease. No man can either sell or

possess slaves without its being known: they cannot be smuggled like

lace or brandy.”

“Well, well!” retorted Jefferies, a little impatiently, “as yet the law

is on our side. I can do nothing in this business, nor can you.”

“Yes, we can do something; we can endeavour to make our negroes as happy

as possible.”

“I leave the management of these people to Durant.”

“That is the very thing of which they complain; forgive me for speaking

to you with the frankness of an old acquaintance.”

“Oh! you can’t oblige me more: I love frankness of all things! To tell

you the truth, I have heard complaints of Durant’s severity; but I make

it a principle to turn a deaf ear to them, for I know nothing can be

done with these fellows without it. You are partial to negroes; but even

you must allow they are a race of beings naturally inferior to us. You

may in vain think of managing a black as you would a white. Do what you

please for a negro, he will cheat you the first opportunity he finds.

You know what their maxim is: ‘God gives black men what white men

forget.’”

To these common-place desultory observations Mr. Edwards made no reply;

but recurred to poor Caesar, and offered to purchase both him and Clara,

at the highest price the sheriff’s officer could obtain for them at

market. Mr. Jefferies, with the utmost politeness to his neighbour, but

with the most perfect indifference to the happiness of those whom

he considered of a different species from himself, acceded to this

proposal. Nothing could be more reasonable, he said; and he was happy to

have it in his power to oblige a gentleman for whom he had such a high

esteem.

The bargain was quickly concluded with the sheriff’s officer; for Mr.

Edwards willingly paid several dollars more than the market price for

the two slaves. When Caesar and Clara heard that they were not to be

separated, their joy and gratitude were expressed with all the ardour

and tenderness peculiar to their different characters. Clara was an

Eboe, Caesar a Koromantyn negro: the Eboes are soft, languishing, and

timid; the Koromantyns are frank, fearless, martial, and heroic.

Mr. Edwards took his new slaves home with him, desired Bayley, his

overseer, to mark out a provision-ground for Caesar, and to give him a

cottage, which happened at this time to be vacant.

“Now, my good friend,” said he to Caesar, “you may work for yourself,

without fear that what you earn may be taken from you; or that you

should ever be sold, to pay your master’s debts. If he does not

understand what I am saying,” continued Mr. Edwards, turning to his

overseer, “you will explain it to him.”

Caesar perfectly understood all that Mr. Edwards said; but his feelings

were at this instant so strong that he could not find expression for

his gratitude: he stood like one stupefied! Kindness was new to him; it

overpowered his manly heart; and at hearing the words “my good friend,”

the tears gushed from his eyes: tears which no torture could have

extorted! Gratitude swelled in his bosom; and he longed to be alone,

that he might freely yield to his emotions.

He was glad when the conch-shell sounded to call the negroes to their

daily labour, that he might relieve the sensations of his soul by bodily

exertion, He performed his task in silence; and an inattentive observer

might have thought him sullen.

In fact, he was impatient for the day to be over, that he might get rid

of a heavy load which weighed upon his mind.

The cruelties practised by Durant, the overseer of Jefferies’

plantation, had exasperated the slaves under his dominion.

They were all leagued together in a conspiracy, which was kept

profoundly secret. Their object was to extirpate every white man, woman,

and child, in the island. Their plans were laid with consummate art; and

the negroes were urged to execute them by all the courage of despair.

The confederacy extended to all the negroes in the island of Jamaica,

excepting those on the plantation of Mr. Edwards. To them no hint of

the dreadful secret had yet been given; their countrymen, knowing the

attachment they felt to their master, dared not trust them with these

projects of vengeance. Hector, the negro who was at the head of the

conspirators, was the particular friend of Caesar, and had imparted

to him all his designs. These friends were bound to each other by the

strongest ties. Their slavery and their sufferings began in the same

hour; they were both brought from their own country in the same ship.

This circumstance alone forms, amongst the negroes, a bond of connexion

not easily to be dissolved. But the friendship of Caesar and Hector

commenced even before they were united by the sympathy of misfortune;

they were both of the same nation, both Koromantyns. In Africa they had

both been accustomed to command; for they had signalized themselves by

superior fortitude and courage. They respected each other for excelling

in all which they had been taught to consider as virtuous; and with them

revenge was a virtue!

Revenge was the ruling passion of Hector: in Caesar’s mind it was rather

a principle instilled by education. The one considered it as a duty, the

other felt it as a pleasure. Hector’s sense of injury was acute in the

extreme; he knew not how to forgive. Caesar’s sensibility was yet more

alive to kindness than to insult. Hector would sacrifice his life to

extirpate an enemy. Caesar would devote himself for the defence of a

friend; and Caesar now considered a white man as his friend.

He was now placed in a painful situation. All his former friendships,

all the solemn promises by which he was bound to his companions in

misfortune, forbade him to indulge that delightful feeling of gratitude

and affection, which, for the first time, he experienced for one of

that race of beings whom he had hitherto considered as detestable

tyrants--objects of implacable and just revenge!

Caesar was most impatient to have an interview with Hector, that he

might communicate his new sentiments, and dissuade him from those

schemes of destruction which he meditated. At midnight, when all the

slaves except himself were asleep, he left his cottage, and went to

Jefferies’ plantation, to the hut in which Hector slept. Even in his

dreams Hector breathed vengeance. “Spare none! Sons of Africa, spare

none!” were the words he uttered in his sleep, as Caesar approached the

mat on which he lay. The moon shone full upon him. Caesar contemplated

the countenance of his friend, fierce even in sleep. “Spare none! Oh,

yes! There is one that must be spared. There is one for whose sake all

must be spared.”

He wakened Hector by this exclamation. “Of what were you dreaming?” said

Caesar.

“Of that which, sleeping or waking, fills my soul--revenge! Why did you

waken me from my dream? It was delightful. The whites were weltering in

their blood! But silence! we may be overheard.”

“No; every one sleeps but ourselves,” replied Caesar. “I could not sleep

without speaking to you on--a subject that weighs upon my mind. You have

seen Mr. Edwards?” “Yes. He that is now your master.”

“He that is now my benefactor--my friend!”

“Friend! Can you call a white man friend?” cried Hector, starting up

with a look of astonishment and indignation.

“Yes,” replied Caesar, with firmness. “And you would speak, ay, and

would feel, as I do, Hector, if you knew this white man. Oh, how unlike

he is to all of his race, that we have ever seen! Do not turn from me

with so much disdain. Hear me with patience, my friend.”

“I cannot,” replied Hector, “listen with patience to one who between

the rising and the setting sun can forget all his resolutions, all his

promises; who by a few soft words can be so wrought upon as to forget

all the insults, all the injuries he has received from this accursed

race; and can even call a white man friend!”

Caesar, unmoved by Hector’s anger, continued to speak of Mr. Edwards

with the warmest expressions of gratitude; and finished by declaring

he would sooner forfeit his life than rebel against such a master. He

conjured Hector to desist from executing his designs; but all was in

vain. Hector sat with his elbows fixed upon his knees, leaning his head

upon his hands, in gloomy silence.

Caesar’s mind was divided between love for his friend and gratitude

to his master: the conflict was violent and painful. Gratitude at last

prevailed: he repeated his declaration, that he would rather die than

continue in a conspiracy against his benefactor!

Hector refused to except him from the general doom. “Betray us if

you will!” cried he. “Betray our secrets to him whom you call your

benefactor! to him whom a few hours have made your friend! To him

sacrifice the friend of your youth, the companion of your better days,

of your better self! Yes, Caesar, deliver me over to the tormentors: I

can endure more than they can inflict. I shall expire without a sigh,

without a groan. Why do you linger here, Caesar? Why do you hesitate?

Hasten this moment to your master; claim your reward for delivering into

his power hundreds of your countrymen! Why do you hesitate? Away! The

coward’s friendship can be of use to none. Who can value his gratitude?

Who can fear his revenge?” Hector raised his voice so high, as he

pronounced these words, that he wakened Durant, the overseer, who slept

in the next house. They heard him call out suddenly, to inquire who was

there: and Caesar had but just time to make his escape, before Durant

appeared. He searched Hector’s cottage; but finding no one, again

retired to rest. This man’s tyranny made him constantly suspicious; he

dreaded that the slaves should combine against him; and he endeavoured

to prevent them, by every threat and every stratagem he could devise,

from conversing with each other.

They had, however, taken their measures, hitherto, so secretly, that he

had not the slightest idea of the conspiracy which was forming in the

island. Their schemes were not yet ripe for execution; but the appointed

time approached. Hector, when he coolly reflected on what had passed

between him and Caesar, could not help admiring the frankness and

courage with which he had avowed his change of sentiments. By this

avowal, Caesar had in fact exposed his own life to the most imminent

danger, from the vengeance of the conspirators, who might be tempted to

assassinate him who had their lives in his power. Notwithstanding the

contempt with which, in the first moment of passion, he had treated

his friend, he was extremely anxious that he should not break off all

connexion with the conspirators. He knew that Caesar possessed both

intrepidity and eloquence, and that his opposition to their schemes

would perhaps entirely frustrate their whole design. He therefore

determined to use every possible means to bend him to their purposes.

The enlightened inhabitants of Europe may, perhaps, smile at the

superstitious credulity of the negroes, who regard those ignorant beings

called _Obeah_ people with the most profound respect and dread; who

believe that they hold in their hands the power of good and evil

fortune, of health and sickness, of life and death. The instances which

are related of their power over the minds of their countrymen are so

wonderful, that none but the most unquestionable authority could make us

think them credible. The following passage, from Edwards’ History of the

West Indies, is inserted, to give an idea of this strange infatuation:

“In the year 1760, when a very formidable insurrection of the Koromantyn

or Gold Coast negroes broke out, in the parish of St. Mary, and spread

through almost every other district of the island, an old Koromantyn

negro, the chief instigator and oracle of the insurgents in that parish,

who had administered the fetish, or solemn oath, to the conspirators,

and furnished them with a magical preparation, which was to render them

invulnerable, was fortunately apprehended, convicted, and hung up with

all his feathers and trumperies about him; and his execution struck

the insurgents with a general panic, from which they never afterwards

recovered. The examinations, which were taken at that period, first

opened the eyes of the public to the very dangerous tendency of the

_Obeah_ practices; and gave birth to the law, which was then enacted,

for their suppression and punishment; but neither the terror of this

law, the strict investigation which has since been made after the

professors of _Obi_, nor the many examples of those who, from time

to time, have been hanged or transported, have hitherto produced the

desired effect. A gentleman, on his returning to Jamaica, in the

year 1775, found that a great many of his negroes had died during his

absence; and that, of such as remained alive, at least one half were

debilitated, bloated, and in a very deplorable condition. The mortality

continued after his arrival; and two or three were frequently buried

in one day; others were taken ill, and began to decline under the same

symptoms. Every means were tried, by medicine and the most careful

nursing, to preserve the lives of the feeblest; but in spite of all his

endeavours, this depopulation went on for a twelvemonth longer, with

more or less intermission, and without his being able to ascertain the

real cause, though the _Obeah_ practice was strongly suspected, as

well by himself as by the doctor, and other white persons upon the

plantation; as it was known to have been very common in that part of

the island, and particularly among the negroes of the _Popaw_ or _Popo_

country. Still he was unable to verify his suspicions; because the

patients constantly denied their having any thing to do with persons of

that order, or any knowledge of them. At length, a negress, who had

been ill for some time, came and informed him, that, feeling it was

impossible for her to live much longer, she thought herself bound in

duty, before she died, to impart a very great secret, and acquaint him

with the true cause of her disorder, in hopes that the disclosure might

prove the means of stopping that mischief which had already swept

away such a number of her fellow slaves. She proceeded to say that her

step-mother, a woman of the _Popo_ country, above eighty years old, but

still hale and active, had _put Obi upon her_, as she had upon those who

had lately died; and that the old woman had practised _Obi_ for as many

years past as she could remember. The other negroes of the plantation

no sooner heard of this impeachment than they ran in a body to their

master, and confirmed the truth, of it.--Upon this he repaired directly,

with six white servants, to the old woman’s house; and, forcing open the

door, observed the whole inside of the roof, which was of thatch, and

every crevice of the wall, stuck with the implements of her trade,

consisting of rags, feathers, bones of cats, and a thousand other

articles.--The house was instantly pulled down; and, with the whole of

its contents, committed to the flames, amidst the general acclamations

of all his other negroes.--From the moment of her departure, his negroes

seemed all to be animated with new spirits; and the malady spread no

farther among them. The total of his losses, in the course of about

fifteen years preceding the discovery, and imputable solely to the

_Obeah practice_, he estimates at least, at one hundred negroes.”

Esther, an old Koromantyn negress, had obtained by her skill in

poisonous herbs, and her knowledge of venomous reptiles, a high

reputation amongst her countrymen. She soon taught them to believe

her to be possessed of supernatural powers; and she then worked their

imagination to what pitch and purpose she pleased.

She was the chief instigator of this intended rebellion. It was she who

had stimulated the revengeful temper of Hector almost to frenzy. She now

promised him that her arts should be exerted over his friend; and it

was not long before he felt their influence. Caesar soon perceived an

extraordinary change in the countenance and manner of his beloved Clara.

A melancholy hung over her, and she refused to impart to him the cause

of her dejection. Caesar was indefatigable in his exertions to cultivate

and embellish the ground near his cottage, in hopes of making it an

agreeable habitation for her; but she seemed to take no interest in any

thing. She would stand beside him immoveable, in a deep reverie; but

when he inquired whether she was ill, she would answer no, and endeavour

to assume an air of gaiety: but this cheerfulness was transient; she

soon relapsed into despondency. At length, she endeavoured to avoid her

lover, as if she feared his farther inquiries.

Unable to endure this state of suspense, he one evening resolved to

bring her to an explanation. “Clara,” said he, “you once loved me: I

have done nothing, have I, to forfeit your confidence?”

“I once loved you!” said she, raising her languid eyes, and looking at

him with reproachful tenderness; “and can you doubt my constancy? Oh,

Caesar, you little know what is passing in my heart! You are the cause

of my melancholy!”

She paused and hesitated, as if afraid that she had said too much; but

Caesar urged her with so much vehemence, and so much tenderness, to

open to him her whole soul, that, at last, she could not resist his

eloquence. She reluctantly revealed to him that secret of which she

could not think without horror. She informed him, that unless he

complied with what was required of him by the sorceress Esther, he was

devoted to die. What it was that Esther required of him, Clara knew not:

she knew nothing of the conspiracy. The timidity of her character was

ill suited to such a project; and every thing relating to it had been

concealed from her with the utmost care.

When she explained to Caesar the cause of her dejection, his natural

courage resisted these superstitious fears; and he endeavoured to raise

Clara’s spirits. He endeavoured in vain: she fell at his feet; and with

tears, and the most tender supplications, conjured him to avert the

wrath of the sorceress, by obeying her commands, whatever they might be!

“Clara,” replied he, “you know not what you ask!”

“I ask you to save your life!” said she. “I ask you, for my sake, to

save your life, while yet it is in your power!”

“But would you, to save my life, Clara, make me the worst of criminals?

Would you make me the murderer of my benefactor?”

Clara started with horror.

“Do you recollect the day, the moment, when we were on the point of

being separated for ever, Clara? Do you remember the white man’s coming

to my cottage? Do you remember his look of benevolence--his voice of

compassion? Do you remember his generosity? Oh! Clara, would you make me

the murderer of this man?”

“Heaven forbid!” said Clara. “This cannot be the will of the sorceress!”

“It is,” said Caesar. “But she shall not succeed, even though she speaks

with the voice of Clara. Urge me no further; my resolution is fixed.

I should be unworthy of your love if I were capable of treachery and

ingratitude.”

“But is there no means of averting the wrath of Esther?” said Clara.

“Your life--”

“Think, first, of my honour,” interrupted Caesar. “Your fears deprive

you of reason. Return to this sorceress, and tell her that I dread

not her wrath. My hands shall never be imbrued in the blood of my

benefactor. Clara! can you forget his look when he told us that we

should never more be separated?”

“It went to my heart,” said Clara, bursting into tears “Cruel, cruel

Esther! Why do you command us to destroy such a generous master?”

The conch sounded to summon the negroes to their morning’s work. It

happened this day, that Mr. Edwards, who was continually intent upon

increasing the comforts and happiness of his slaves, sent his carpenter,

while Caesar was absent, to fit up the inside of his cottage; and when

Caesar returned from work, he found his master pruning the branches of

a tamarind tree that over-hung the thatch. “How comes it, Caesar,” said

he, “that you have not pruned these branches?”

Caesar had no knife. “Here is mine for you,” said Mr. Edwards. “It is

very sharp,” added he, smiling; “but I am not one of those masters who

are afraid to trust their negroes with sharp knives.”

These words were spoken with perfect simplicity: Mr. Edwards had no

suspicion, at this time, of what was passing in the negro’s mind. Caesar

received the knife without uttering a syllable; but no sooner was

Mr. Edwards out of sight than he knelt down, and, in a transport of

gratitude, swore that, with this knife, he would stab himself to the

heart sooner than betray his master!

The principle of gratitude conquered every other sensation. The mind of

Caesar was not insensible to the charms of freedom: he knew the negro

conspirators had so taken their measures that there was the greatest

probability of their success. His heart beat high at the idea of

recovering his liberty: but he was not to be seduced from his duty,

not even by this delightful hope; nor was he to be intimidated by the

dreadful certainty that his former friends and countrymen, considering

him as a deserter from their cause, would become his bitterest enemies.

The loss of Hector’s esteem and affection was deeply felt by Caesar.

Since the night that the decisive conversation relative to Mr. Edwards

passed, Hector and he had never exchanged a syllable.

This visit proved the cause of much suffering to Hector, and to several

of the slaves on Jefferies’ plantation. We mentioned that Durant had

been awakened by the raised voice of Hector. Though he could not find

any one in the cottage, yet his suspicions were not dissipated; and

an accident nearly brought the whole conspiracy to light. Durant had

ordered one of the negroes to watch a boiler of sugar: the slave was

overcome by the heat, and fainted. He had scarcely recovered his senses

when the overseer came up, and found that the sugar had fermented, by

having remained a few minutes too long in the boiler. He flew into a

violent passion, and ordered that the negro should receive fifty lashes.

His victim bore them without uttering a groan; but, when his punishment

was over, and when he thought the overseer was gone, he exclaimed, “It

will soon be our turn!”

Durant was not out of hearing. He turned suddenly, and observed that

the negro looked at Hector when he pronounced these words, and this

confirmed the suspicion that Hector was carrying on some conspiracy. He

immediately had recourse to that brutality which he considered as the

only means of governing black men: Hector and three other negroes were

lashed unmercifully; but no confessions could be extorted.

Mr. Jefferies might perhaps have forbidden such violence to be used,

if he had not been at the time carousing with a party of jovial West

Indians, who thought of nothing but indulging their appetites in all the

luxuries that art and nature could supply. The sufferings which had been

endured by many of the wretched negroes to furnish out this magnificent

entertainment were never once thought of by these selfish epicures.

Yet so false are the general estimates of character, that all these

gentlemen passed for men of great feeling and generosity! The human

mind, in certain situations, becomes so accustomed to ideas of tyranny

and cruelty, that they no longer appear extraordinary or detestable:

they rather seem part of the necessary and immutable order of things.

Mr. Jefferies was stopped, as he passed from his dining-room into his

drawing-room, by a little negro child, of about five years old, who was

crying bitterly. He was the son of one of the slaves who were at

this moment under the torturer’s hand. “Poor little devil!” said Mr.

Jefferies, who was more than half intoxicated. “Take him away; and tell

Durant, some of ye, to pardon his father--if he can.”

The child ran, eagerly, to announce his father’s pardon; but he soon

returned, crying more violently than before. Durant would not hear the

boy; and it was now no longer possible to appeal to Mr. Jefferies,

for he was in the midst of an assembly of fair ladies, and no servant

belonging to the house dared to interrupt the festivities of the

evening. The three men, who were so severely flogged to extort from

them confessions, were perfectly innocent: they knew nothing of the

confederacy; but the rebels seized the moment when their minds were

exasperated by this cruelty and injustice, and they easily persuaded

them to join the league. The hope of revenging themselves upon the

overseer was a motive sufficient to make them brave death in any shape.

Another incident, which happened a few days before the time destined

for the revolt of the slaves, determined numbers who had been undecided.

Mrs. Jefferies was a languid beauty, or rather a languid fine lady who

had been a beauty, and who spent all that part of the day which was not

devoted to the pleasures of the table, or to reclining on a couch, in

dress. She was one day extended on a sofa, fanned by four slaves, two at

her head and two at her feet, when news was brought that a large chest,

directed to her, was just arrived from London.

This chest contained various articles of dress of the newest fashions.

The Jamaica ladies carry their ideas of magnificence to a high pitch:

they willingly give a hundred guineas for a gown, which they perhaps

wear but once or twice. In the elegance and variety of her ornaments,

Mrs. Jefferies was not exceeded by any lady in the island, except by

one who had lately received a cargo from England. She now expected to

outshine her competitor, and desired that the chest should be unpacked

in her presence.

In taking out one of the gowns, it caught on a nail in the lid, and was

torn. The lady, roused from her natural indolence by this disappointment

to her vanity, instantly ordered that the unfortunate female slave

should be severely chastised. The woman was the wife of Hector; and this

fresh injury worked up his temper, naturally vindictive, to the highest

point. He ardently longed for the moment when he might satiate his

vengeance.

The plan the negroes had laid was to set fire to the canes, at one and

the same time, on every plantation; and when the white inhabitants of

the island should run to put out the fire, the blacks were to seize

this moment of confusion and consternation to fall upon them, and make

a general massacre. The time when this scheme was to be carried into

execution was not known to Caesar; for the conspirators had changed

their day, as soon as Hector told them that his friend was no longer

one of the confederacy. They dreaded he should betray them; and it was

determined that he and Clara should both be destroyed, unless they could

be prevailed upon to join the conspiracy.

Hector wished to save his friend, but the desire of vengeance overcame

every other feeling. He resolved, however, to make an attempt, for the

last time, to change Caesar’s resolution.

For this purpose, Esther was the person he employed: she was to work

upon his mind by means of Clara. On returning to her cottage one night,

she found suspended from the thatch one of those strange fantastic

charms with which the Indian sorceresses terrify those whom they have

proscribed. Clara, unable to conquer her terror, repaired again to

Esther, who received her first in mysterious silence; but, after she had

implored her forgiveness for the past, and with all possible humility

conjured her to grant her future protection, the sorceress deigned to

speak. Her commands were that Clara should prevail upon her lover to

meet her, on this awful spot, the ensuing night.

Little suspecting what was going forward on the plantation of Jefferies,

Mr. Edwards that evening gave his slaves a holiday. He and his family

came out at sunset, when the fresh breeze had sprung up, and seated

themselves under a spreading palm-tree, to enjoy the pleasing spectacle

of this negro festival. His negroes were all well clad, and in the

gayest colours, and their merry countenances suited the gaiety of their

dress. While some were dancing, and some playing on the tambourine,

others appeared amongst the distant trees, bringing baskets of

avocado pears, grapes, and pine-apples, the produce of their own

provision-grounds; and others were employed in spreading their clean

trenchers, or the calabashes, which served for plates and dishes. The

negroes continued to dance and divert themselves till late in, the

evening. When they separated and retired to rest, Caesar, recollecting

his promise to Clara, repaired secretly to the habitation of this

sorceress. It was situated in the recess of a thick wood. When he

arrived there, he found the door fastened; and he was obliged to wait

some time before it was opened by Esther.

The first object he beheld was his beloved Clara, stretched on the

ground, apparently a corpse! The sorceress had thrown her into a trance

by a preparation of deadly nightshade. The hag burst into an infernal

laugh, when she beheld the despair that was painted in Caesar’s

countenance. “Wretch!” cried she, “you have defied my power: behold its

victim!”

Caesar, in a transport of rage, seized her by the throat: but his fury

was soon checked.

“Destroy me,” said the fiend, “and you destroy your Clara. She is not

dead: but she lies in the sleep of death, into which she has been thrown

by magic art, and from which no power but mine can restore her to the

light of life. Yes! look at her, pale and motionless! Never will she

rise from the earth, unless, within one hour, you obey my commands. I

have administered to Hector and his companions the solemn fetish oath,

at the sound of which every negro in Africa trembles! You know my

object.”

“Fiend, I do!” replied Caesar, eyeing her sternly; “but, while I have

life, it shall never be accomplished.”

“Look yonder!” cried she, pointing to the moon; “in a few minutes that

moon will set: at that hour Hector and his friends will appear. They

come armed--armed with weapons which I shall steep in poison for their

enemies. Themselves I will render invulnerable. Look again!” continued

she; “if my dim eyes mistake not, yonder they come. Rash man, you die if

they cross my threshold.”

“I wish for death,” said Caesar. “Clara is dead!”

“But you can restore her to life by a single word.” Caesar, at this

moment, seemed to hesitate. “Consider! Your heroism is vain,” continued

Esther. “You will have the knives of fifty of the conspirators in your

bosom, if you do not join them; and, after you have fallen, the death

of your master is inevitable. Here is the bowl of poison, in which the

negro knives are to be steeped. Your friends, your former friends, your

countrymen, will be in arms in a few minutes; and they will bear down

every thing before them--Victory, Wealth, Freedom, and Revenge, will be

theirs.”

Caesar appeared to be more and more agitated. His eyes were fixed upon

Clara. The conflict in his mind was violent: but his sense of gratitude

and duty could not be shaken by hope, fear, or ambition; nor could it

be vanquished by love. He determined, however, to appear to yield. As

if struck with panic, at the approach of the confederate negroes,

he suddenly turned to the sorceress, and said, in a tone of feigned

submission, “It is in vain to struggle with fate. Let my knife, too, be

dipped in your magic poison.”

The sorceress clapped her hands with infernal joy in her countenance.

She bade him instantly give her his knife, that she might plunge it

to the hilt in the bowl of poison, to which she turned with savage

impatience. His knife was left in his cottage, and, under pretence of

going in search of it, he escaped. Esther promised to prepare Hector and

all his companions to receive him with their ancient cordiality on his

return. Caesar ran with the utmost speed along a bye-path out of the

wood, met none of the rebels, reached his master’s house, scaled

the wall of his bedchamber, got in at the window, and wakened him,

exclaiming, “Arm--arm yourself, my dear master! Arm all your slaves!

They will fight for you, and die for you; as I will the first. The

Koromantyn yell of war will be heard in Jefferies plantation this night!

Arm--arm yourself, my dear master, and let us surround the rebel leaders

while it is yet time. I will lead you to the place where they are all

assembled, on condition that their chief, who is my friend, shall be

pardoned.”

Mr. Edwards armed himself and the negroes on his plantation, as well as

the whites; they were all equally attached to him. He followed Caesar

into the recesses of the wood.

They proceeded with all possible rapidity, but in perfect silence, till

they reached Esther’s habitation: which they surrounded completely,

before they were perceived by the conspirators.

Mr. Edwards looked through a hole in the wall; and, by the blue flame

of a cauldron, over which the sorceress was stretching her shrivelled

hands, he saw Hector and five stout negroes standing, intent upon her

incantations. These negroes held their knives in their hands, ready to

dip them into the bowl of poison. It was proposed, by one of the whites,

to set fire immediately to the hut, and thus to force the rebels to

surrender. The advice was followed; but Mr. Edwards charged his people

to spare their prisoners. The moment the rebels saw that the thatch

of the hut was in flames, they set up the Koromantyn yell of war, and

rushed out with frantic desperation.

“Yield! You are pardoned, Hector,” cried Mr. Edwards, in a loud voice.

“You are pardoned, my friend!” repeated Cæsar.

Hector, incapable at this instant of listening to anything but revenge,

sprang forwards, and plunged his knife into the bosom of Cæsar. The

faithful servant staggered back a few paces: his master caught him in

his arms. “I die content,” said he. “Bury me with Clara.”

He swooned from loss of blood as they were carrying him home; but when

his wound was examined, it was found not to be mortal. As he recovered

from his swoon, he stared wildly round him, trying to recollect where

he was, and what had happened. He thought that he was still in a dream,

when he saw his beloved Clara standing beside him. The opiate, which the

pretended sorceress had administered to her, had ceased to operate; she

wakened from her trance just at the time the Koromantyn yell commenced.

Cæsar’s joy!--we must leave that to the imagination.

In the mean time, what became of the rebel negroes, and Mr. Edwards?

The taking the chief conspirators prisoners did not prevent the negroes

upon Jefferies’ plantation from insurrection. The moment they heard the

war-whoop, the signal agreed upon, they rose in a body; and, before

they could be prevented, either by the whites on the estate, or by Mr.

Edwards’ adherents, they had set fire to the overseer’s house, and to

the canes. The overseer was the principal object of their vengeance--he

died in tortures, inflicted by the hands of those who had suffered most

by his cruelties. Mr. Edwards, however, quelled the insurgents before

rebellion spread to any other estates in the island. The influence of

his character, and the effect of his eloquence upon the minds of the

people, were astonishing: nothing but his interference could have

prevented the total destruction of Mr. Jefferies and his family, who,

as it was computed, lost this night upwards of fifty thousand pounds.

He was never afterwards able to recover his losses, or to shake off his

constant fear of a fresh insurrection among his slaves. At length, he

and his lady returned to England, where they were obliged to live in

obscurity and indigence. They had no consolation in their misfortunes

but that of railing at the treachery of the whole race of slaves. Our

readers, we hope, will think that at least one exception may be made, in

favour of THE GRATEFUL NEGRO. {Empty page}

TO-MORROW

“Oh this detestable _To-morrow!_--a thing always expected, yet never

found.”--JOHNSON.

CHAPTER I.

It has long been my intention to write my own history, and I am

determined to begin it to-day; for half the good intentions of my life

have been frustrated by my unfortunate habit of putting things off till

to-morrow.

When I was a young man, I used to be told that this was my only fault; I

believed it, and my vanity or laziness persuaded me that this fault was

but small, and that I should easily cure myself of it in time.

That time, however, has not yet arrived, and at my advanced age I

must give up all thoughts of amendment, hoping, however, that sincere

repentance may stand instead of reformation.

My father was an eminent London bookseller: he happened to be looking

over a new biographical dictionary on the day when I was brought into

the world; and at the moment when my birth was announced to him, he had

his finger upon the name _Basil_; he read aloud--“_Basil_, canonized

bishop of Caesarea, a theological, controversial, and moral writer.”

“My boy,” continued my father, “shall be named after this great man,

and I hope and believe that I shall live to see him either a celebrated

theological, controversial, and moral author, or a bishop. I am not so

sanguine as to expect that he should be both these good things.”

I was christened Basil according to my father’s wishes, and his hopes of

my future celebrity and fortune were confirmed, during my childhood, by

instances of wit and memory, which were not perhaps greater than what

could have been found in my little contemporaries, but which appeared to

the vanity of parental fondness extraordinary, if not supernatural.

My father declared that it would be a sin not to give me a learned

education, and he went even beyond his means to procure for me all the

advantages of the best modes of instruction. I was stimulated, even when

a boy, by the idea that I should become a great man, and my masters

had for some time reason to be satisfied; but what they called the

_quickness of my parts_ continually retarded my progress. The facility

with which I learned my lessons encouraged me to put off learning them

till the last moment; and this habit of procrastinating, which was begun

in presumption, ended in disgrace.

When I was sent to a public school, I found among my companions so many

temptations to idleness, that notwithstanding the quickness of my parts,

I was generally flogged twice a week. As I grew older, my reason might

perhaps have taught me to correct myself, but my vanity was excited to

persist in idleness by certain imprudent sayings or whisperings of my

father.

When I came home from school at the holidays, and when complaints were

preferred against me in letters from my school-master, my father, even

while he affected to scold me for my negligence, flattered me in

the most dangerous manner by adding--_aside_ to some friend of the

family--“My Basil is a strange fellow!--can do any thing he pleases--all

his masters say so--but he is a sad idle dog--all your men of genius are

so--puts off business always to the last moment--all your men of genius

do so. For instance, there is ----, whose third edition of odes I have

just published--what an idle dog he is! Yet who makes such a noise in

the world as he does?--put every thing off till _to-morrow_, like my

Basil--but can do more at the last moment than any man in England--that

is, if the fit seizes him--for he does nothing but by fits--has no

application--none--says it would ‘petrify him to a dunce.’ I never knew

a man of genius who was not an idle dog.”

Not a syllable of such speeches was lost upon me: the idea of a man

of genius and of an idle dog were soon so firmly joined together in my

imagination, that it was impossible to separate them, either by my own

reason or by that of my preceptors. I gloried in the very habits which

my tutors laboured to correct; and I never was seriously mortified by

the consequences of my own folly till, at a public examination at Eton,

I lost a premium by putting off till it was too late the finishing a

copy of verses. The lines which I had written were said by all my young

and old friends to be beautiful. The prize was gained by one Johnson, a

heavy lad, of no sort of genius, but of great perseverance. His verses

were finished, however, at the stated time.

“For dulness ever must be regular!”

My fragment, charming as it was, was useless, except to hand about

afterward among my friends, to prove what I might have done if I had

thought it worth while.

My father was extremely vexed by my missing an opportunity of

distinguishing myself at this public exhibition, especially as the king

had honoured the assembly with his presence; and as those who had gained

premiums were presented to his majesty, it was supposed that their being

thus early _marked_ as lads of talents would be highly advantageous to

their advancement in life. All this my father felt, and, blaming himself

for having encouraged me in _the indolence of genius_, he determined to

counteract his former imprudence, and was resolved, he said, to cure me

at once of my habit of procrastination. For this purpose he took down

from his shelves Young’s Night Thoughts; from which he remembered a

line, which has become a _stock_ line among writing-masters’ copies:

“_Procrastination_ is the thief of time.”

He hunted the book for the words _Procrastination, Time, To-day,_ and

_To-morrow_, and made an extract of seven long pages on the dangers of

delay.

“Now, my dear Basil,” said he, “this is what will cure you for life,

and this you must get perfectly by heart, before I give you one shilling

more pocket-money.”

The motive was all powerful, and with pains, iteration, and curses, I

fixed the heterogeneous quotations so well in my memory that some of

them have remained there to this day. For instance--

“_Time_ destroyed

Is _suicide_, where more than blood is spilt.

_Time_ flies, death urges, knells call, Heav’n invites,

Hell threatens.

We push _Time_ from us, and we wish him back.

Man flies from _Time_, and Time from man too soon;

In sad divorce this double flight must end;

And then where are we?

Be wise _to-day_, ‘tis madness to defer, &c.

Next day the fatal precedent will plead, &c.

Lorenzo--O for _yesterdays_ to come!

_To-day_ is _yesterday_ return’d; return’d,

Full powered to cancel, expiate, raise, adorn,

And reinstate us on the rock of peace.

Let it not share its predecessor’s fate,

Nor, like its elder sisters, die a fool.

Where shall I find him? Angels! tell me where:

_You_ know him; he is near you; point him out;

Shall I see glories beaming from his brow?

Or trace his footsteps by the rising flow’rs?

Your golden wings _now_ hov’ring o’er him shed

Protection: now are wav’ring in applause

To that blest son of foresight! Lord of fate!

That awful independent on _to-morrow!_

Whose _work is done_; who triumphs in the past;

Whose _yesterdays_ look backward with a smile.”

I spare you the rest of my task, and I earnestly hope, my dear reader,

that these citations may have a better effect upon you than they

had upon me. With shame I confess, that even with the addition of

Shakspeare’s eloquent

“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,” &c.

which I learnt by heart gratis, not a bit the better was I for all this

poetical morality. What I wanted was, not conviction of my folly, but

resolution to amend.

When I say that I was not a bit the better for these documentings, I

must not omit to observe to you that I was very near four hundred pounds

a year the better for them.

Being obliged to learn so much of Young’s Night Thoughts by rote, I was

rather disgusted, and my attention was roused to criticise the lines

which had been forced upon my admiration. Afterward, when I went

to college, I delighted to maintain, in opposition to some of my

companions, who were enthusiastic admirers of Young, that he was no

poet. The more I was ridiculed, the more I persisted. I talked my self

into notice; I became acquainted with several of the literary men at

Cambridge; I wrote in defence of my opinion, or, as some called it, my

heresy. I maintained that what all the world had mistaken for sublimity

was bombast; that the Night Thoughts were fuller of witty conceits than

of poetical images: I drew a parallel between Young and Cowley; and

I finished by pronouncing Young to be the Cowley of the eighteenth

century. To do myself justice, there was much ingenuity and some truth

in my essay, but it was the declamation of a partisan, who can think

only on one side of a question, and who, in the heat of controversy,

says more than he thinks, and more than he originally intended.

It is often the fortune of literary partisans to obtain a share of

temporary celebrity far beyond their deserts, especially if they attack

any writer of established reputation. The success of my essay exceeded

my most sanguine expectations, and I began to think that my father was

right; that I was born to be a great genius, and a great man. The

notice taken of me by a learned prelate, who piqued himself upon being

considered as the patron of young men of talents, confirmed me at once

in my self-conceit and my hopes of preferment.

I mentioned to you that my father, in honour of my namesake Basil,

bishop of Caesarea, and to verify his own _presentiments_, had educated

me for the Church. My present patron, who seemed to like me the better

the oftener I dined with him, gave me reason to hope that he would

provide for me handsomely. I was not yet ordained, when a living of four

hundred per annum fell into his gift: he held it over for some months,

as it was thought, on purpose for me.

In the mean time he employed me to write a charity sermon for him, which

he was to preach, as it was expected, to a crowded congregation. None

but those who are themselves slaves to the habit of procrastination will

believe that I could be so foolish as to put off writing this sermon

till the Saturday evening before it was wanted. Some of my young

companions came unexpectedly to sup with me; we sat late: in the vanity

of a young author, who glories in the rapidity of composition, I said

to myself that I could finish my sermon in an hour’s notice. But, alas!

when my companions at length departed, they left me in no condition to

complete a sermon. I fell fast asleep, and was wakened in the morning

by the bishop’s servant. The dismay I felt is indescribable; I started

up--it was nine o’clock: I began to write; but my hand and my mind

trembled, and my ideas were in such confusion, that I could not, great

genius as I was, produce a beginning sentence in a quarter of an hour.

I kept the bishop’s servant forty minutes by his watch; wrote and

re-wrote two pages, and walked up and down the room; tore my two pages;

and at last, when the footman said he could wait no longer, was obliged

to let him go with an awkward note, pleading sudden sickness for my

apology. It was true that I was sufficiently sick at the time when I

penned this note: my head ached terribly; and I kept my room, reflecting

upon my own folly, the whole of the day. I foresaw the consequences: the

living was given away by my patron the next morning, and all hopes of

future favour were absolutely at an end.

My father overwhelmed me with reproaches; and I might perhaps have

been reformed by this disappointment, but an unexpected piece of good

fortune, or what I then thought good fortune, was my ruin.

Among the multitude of my college-friends was a young gentleman, whose

father was just appointed to go out upon the _famous_ embassy to China;

he came to our shop to buy Du Halde; and upon hearing me express an

enthusiastic desire to visit China, he undertook to apply to his father

to take me in the ambassador’s suite. His representation of me as a

young man of talents and literature, and the view of some botanical

drawings, which I executed upon the spur of the occasion with tolerable

neatness, procured me the favour which I so ardently desired.

My father objected to my making this voyage. He was vexed to see me quit

the profession for which I had been educated; and he could not, without

a severe struggle, relinquish his hopes of seeing me a bishop. But I

argued that, as I had not yet been ordained, there could be no disgrace

or impropriety in my avoiding a mode of life which was not suited to

my _genius_. This word genius had now, as upon all other occasions, a

mighty effect upon my father; and, observing this, I declared farther,

in a high tone of voice, that from the experience I had already had,

I was perfectly certain that the drudgery of sermon-writing would

_paralyze my genius_; and that, to expand and invigorate my intellectual

powers, it was absolutely necessary I should, to use a great author’s

expression, “view in foreign countries varied modes of existence.”

My father’s hopes that one half of his prophecy would at least be

accomplished, and that I should become a great author, revived; and he

consented to my going to China, upon condition that I should promise to

write a history of my voyage and journey, in two volumes octavo, or one

quarto, with a folio of plates. The promise was readily made; for in

the plenitude of confidence in my own powers, octavos and quartos shrunk

before me, and a folio appeared too small for the various information,

and the useful reflections, which a voyage to China must supply.

Full of expectations and projects, I talked from morning till night

of my journey: but notwithstanding my father’s hourly remonstrances,

I deferred my preparations till the last week. Then all was hurry and

confusion; tailors and sempstresses, portmanteaus and trunks, portfolios

and drawing-boxes, water-colours, crayons, and note-books, wet from the

stationer’s, crowded my room. I had a dozen small note-books, and a

huge commonplace-book, which was to be divided and kept in the manner

recommended by the judicious and immortal Locke.

In the midst of the last day’s bustle, I sat down at the corner of a

table with compass, ruler, and red ink, to divide and rule my best of

all possible commonplace-books; but the red ink was too thin, and the

paper was not well sized, and it blotted continually, because I was

obliged to turn over the pages rapidly; and ink will not dry, nor

blotting-paper suck it up, more quickly for _a genius_ than for any

other man. Besides, my attention was much distracted by the fear that

the sempstress would not send home my dozen of new shirts, and that a

vile _procrastinating_ boot-maker would never come with my boots. Every

rap at the door I started up to inquire whether _that_ was the shirts,

or the boots: thrice I overturned the red, and twice the black ink

bottles by these starts; and the execrations which I bestowed upon those

tradespeople, who will put off every thing to the last moment, were

innumerable. I had orders to set off in the mail-coach for Portsmouth,

to join the rest of the ambassador’s suite.

The provoking watchman cried “past eleven o’clock” before I had

half-finished ruling my commonplace-book; my shirts and my boots were

not come: the mail-coach, as you may guess, set off without me. My

poor father was in a terrible tremor, and walked from room to room,

reproaching me and himself; but I persisted in repeating that Lord

M. would not set out the day he had intended: that nobody, since the

creation of the world, ever set out upon a long journey the day he first

appointed: besides, there were at least a hundred chances in my favour

that his lordship would break down on his way to Portsmouth; that the

wind would not be fair when he arrived there; that half the people in

his suite would not be more punctual than myself, &c.

By these arguments, or by mere dint of assertion, I quieted my father’s

apprehensions and my own, and we agreed that, as it was now impossible

to go to-day, it was best to stay till to-morrow.

Upon my arrival at Portsmouth, the first thing I heard was that the Lion

and Hindostan had sailed some hours before, with the embassy for China.

Despair deprived me of utterance. A charitable waiter at the inn,

however, seeing my consternation and absolute inability to think or

act for myself, ran to make farther inquiries, and brought me back

the joyful tidings that the Jackal brig, which was to carry out the

remainder of the ambassador’s suite, was not yet under weigh; that a

gentleman, who was to go in the Jackal, had dined at an hotel in the

next street, and that he had gone to the water-side but ten minutes ago.

I hurried after him: the boat was gone. I paid another exorbitantly to

take me and my goods to the brig, and reached the Jackal just as she was

weighing anchor. Bad education for me! The moment I felt myself safe on

board, having recovered breath to speak, I exclaimed, “Here am I, safe

and sound! just as well as if I had been here yesterday; better indeed.

Oh, after this, I shall always trust to my own good fortune! I knew I

should not be too late.” When I came to reflect coolly, however, I was

rather sorry that I had missed my passage in the Lion, with my friend

and protector, and with most of the learned and ingenious men of the

ambassador’s suite, to whom I had been introduced, and who had seemed

favourably disposed towards me. All the advantage I might have derived

from their conversation, during this long voyage, was lost by my own

negligence. The Jackal lost company of the Lion and Hindostan in the

Channel. As my friends afterwards told me, they waited for us five days

in Praya Bay; but as no Jackal appeared, they sailed again without her.

At length, to our great joy, we descried on the beach of Sumatra a board

nailed to a post, which our friends had set up there, with a written

notice to inform us that the Lion and Hindostan had touched on this

shore on such a day, and to point out to us the course that we should

keep in order to join them.

At the sight of this writing my spirits revived: the wind favoured us;

but, alas! in passing the Straits of Banka, we were damaged so that we

were obliged to return to port to refit, and to take in fresh provision.

Not a soul on board but wished it had been their fate to have had a

berth in the other ships; and I more loudly than any one else expressed

this wish twenty times a-day. When my companions heard that I was to

have sailed in the ambassador’s ship, if I had been time enough at

Spithead, some pitied and some rallied me: but most said I deserved

to be punished for my negligence. At length we joined the Lion and

Hindostan at North Island. Our friends had quite given up all hopes of

ever seeing us again, and had actually bought at Batavia a French brig,

to supply the place of the Jackal. To my great satisfaction, I was now

received on board the Lion, and had an opportunity of conversing with

the men of literature and science, from whom I had been so unluckily

separated during the former part of the voyage. Their conversation soon

revived and increased my regret, when they told me of all that I had

missed seeing at the various places where they had touched: they talked

to me with provoking fluency of the culture of manioc; of the root of

cassada, of which tapioca is made; of the shrub called the cactus,

on which the cochineal insect swarms and feeds; and of the

ipecacuanha-plant; all which they had seen at Rio Janeiro, besides eight

paintings representing the manner in which the diamond and gold mines

in the Brazils are worked. Indeed, upon cross-examination, I found that

these pictures were miserably executed, and scarcely worth seeing.

I regretted more the fine pine-apples, which my companions assured me

were in such abundance that they cleaned their swords in them, as being

the cheapest acid that could be there procured. But, far beyond these

vulgar objects of curiosity, I regretted not having learned any thing

concerning the celebrated upas-tree. I was persuaded that, if I had been

at Batavia, I should have extracted some information more precise than

these gentlemen obtained from the keepers of the medical garden.

I confess that my mortification at this disappointment did not arise

solely from the pure love of natural history: the upas-tree would

have made a conspicuous figure in my quarto volume. I consoled myself,

however, by the determination to omit nothing that the vast empire

of China could afford to render my work entertaining, instructive,

interesting, and sublime. I anticipated the pride with which I should

receive the compliments of my friends and the public upon my _valuable

and incomparable work_; I anticipated the pleasure with which my father

would exult in the celebrity of his son, and in the accomplishment of

his own prophecies; and, with these thoughts full in my mind, we landed

at Mettow, in China.

I sat up late at night writing a sketch of my preface and notes for the

heads of chapters. I was tired, fell into a profound sleep, dreamed I

was teaching the emperor of China to pronounce ‘chrononhotonthologos,’

and in the morning was wakened by the sound of the gong; the signal that

the accommodation junks were ready to sail with the embassy to Pekin.

I hurried on my clothes, and was in the junk before the gong had done

beating. I gloried in my celerity; but before we had gone two leagues up

the country, I found reason to repent of my precipitation: I wanted to

note down my first impressions on entering the Chinese territories; but,

alas! I felt in vain in my pocket for my pencil and note-book: I had

left them both behind me on my bed. Not only one note-book, but my

whole dozen; which, on leaving London, I had stuffed into a bag with

my night-gown. Bag, night-gown, note-books, all were forgotten! However

trifling it may appear, this loss of the little note-books was of

material consequence. To be sure, it was easy to procure paper and make

others; but, because it was so easy, it was delayed from hour to hour,

and from day to day; and I went on writing my most important remarks

on scraps of paper, which were always to be copied to-morrow into a

note-book that was then to be made.

We arrived at Pekin, and were magnificently lodged in a palace in that

city; but here we were so strictly guarded, that we could not stir

beyond the courts of the palace. You will say that in this confinement

I had leisure sufficient to make a note-book, and to copy my notes: so

I had, and it was my firm intention so to have done; but I put it off

because I thought it would take up but a few hours’ time, and it could

be done any day. Besides, the weather was so excessively hot, that for

the first week, I could do nothing but unbutton my waistcoat and drink

sherbet. Visits of ceremony from mandarins took up much of our time:

they spoke and moved like machines; and it was with much difficulty

that our interpreter made us understand the meaning of their formal

sentences, which were seldom worth the trouble of deciphering. We saw

them fan themselves, drink tea, eat sweetmeats and rice, and chew betel;

but it was scarcely worth while to come all the way from Europe to see

this, especially as any common Chinese paper or screen would give an

adequate idea of these figures in their accustomed attitudes.

I spent another week in railing at these abominably stupid or

unnecessarily cautious creatures of ceremony, and made memorandums for

an eloquent chapter in my work.

One morning we were agreeably surprised by a visit from a mandarin of a

very different description. We were astonished to hear a person in the

habit of a Chinese, and bearing the title of a mandarin, address us in

French: he informed us that he was originally a French Jesuit, and came

over to China with several missionaries from Paris; but as they were

prohibited from promulgating their doctrines in this country, most

of them had returned to France; a few remained, assumed the dress and

manners of the country, and had been elevated to the rank of mandarins

as a reward for their learning. The conversation of our Chinese Jesuit

was extremely entertaining and instructive; he was delighted to hear

news from Europe, and we were eager to obtain from him information

respecting China. I paid particular attention to him, and I was so

fortunate as to win his confidence, as far as the confidence of a Jesuit

can be won. He came frequently to visit me, and did me the honour to

spend some hours in my apartment.

As he made it understood that these were literary visits, and as his

character for propriety was well established with the government, he

excited no suspicion, and we spent our time most delightfully between

books and conversation. He gave me, by his anecdotes and descriptions,

an insight into the characters and domestic lives of the inhabitants

of Pekin, which I could not otherwise have obtained: his talent for

description was admirable, and his characters were so new to me that

I was in continual ecstasy. I called him the Chinese La Bruyere; and,

anticipating the figure which his portraits would make in my future

work, thought that I could never sufficiently applaud his eloquence. He

was glad to lay aside the solemn gravity of a Chinese mandarin, and

to indulge the vivacity of a Frenchman; his vanity was gratified by my

praises, and he exerted himself to the utmost to enhance my opinion of

his talents.

At length we had notice that it was the emperor’s pleasure to receive

the embassy at his imperial residence in Tartary, at Jehol; _the seat of

grateful coolness, the garden of innumerable trees._ From the very

name of this place I augured that it would prove favourable to the

inspirations of genius, and determined to date at least one of the

chapters or letters of my future work from this delightful retreat,

the _Sans Souci_ of China. Full of this intention, I set out upon our

expedition into Tartary.

My good friend, the Jesuit, who had a petition to present to the

emperor relative to some Chinese manuscripts, determined, to my infinite

satisfaction, to accompany us to Jehol; and our conducting mandarin,

Van-Tadge, arranged things so upon our journey that I enjoyed as much of

my friend’s conversation as possible. Never European travelling in these

countries had such advantages as mine; I had a companion who was able

and willing to instruct me in every minute particular of the manners,

and every general principle of the government and policy, of the

people. I was in no danger of falling into the ridiculous mistakes of

travellers, who, having but a partial view of things and persons, argue

absurdly, and grossly misrepresent, while they intend to be accurate.

Many people, as my French mandarin observed, reason like Voltaire’s

famous traveller, who happening to have a drunken landlord and a

red-haired landlady at the first inn where he stopped in Alsace, wrote

down among his memorandums--“All the men of Alsace drunkards: all the

women red-haired.”

When we arrived at Jehol, the hurry of preparing for our presentation

to the emperor, the want of a convenient writing-table, and perhaps my

habit of procrastination, prevented my writing the chapter for my future

work, or noting down any of the remarks which the Jesuit had made upon

our journey. One morning when I collected my papers and the scraps of

memorandums with which the pockets of all my clothes were stuffed, I was

quite terrified at the heap of confusion, and thrust all these materials

for my quarto into a canvas bag, purposing to lay them smooth in a

portfolio the next day. But the next day I could do nothing of this

sort, for we had the British presents to unpack, which had arrived from

Pekin; the day after was taken up with our presentation to the emperor,

and the day after that I had a new scheme in my head. The emperor, with

much solemnity, presented with his own hand to our ambassador a casket,

which he said was the most valuable present he could make to the king of

England: it contained the miniature pictures of the emperor’s ancestors,

with a few lines of poetry annexed to each, describing the character,

and recording the principal events, of each monarch’s reign. It occurred

to me that a set of similar portraits and poetical histories of the

kings of England would be a proper and agreeable offering to the emperor

of China: I consulted my friend the French mandarin, and he encouraged

me by assurances that, as far as he could pretend to judge, it would

be at present peculiarly suited to the emperor’s taste; and that in all

probability I should be distinguished by some mark of his approbation,

or some munificent reward. My friend promised to have the miniatures

varnished for me in the Chinese taste; and he undertook to present the

work to the emperor when it should be finished. As it was supposed that

the embassy would spend the whole winter in Pekin, I thought that

I should have time enough to complete the whole series of British

sovereigns. It was not necessary to be very scrupulous as to the

resemblance of my portraits, as the emperor of China could not easily

detect any errors of this nature: fortunately, I had brought from

London with me striking likenesses of all the kings of England, with

the principal events of their reign, in one large sheet of paper, which

belonged to a joining-map of one of my little cousins. In the confusion

of my packing up, I had put it into my trunk instead of a sheet

almanack, which lay on the same table. In the course of my life, many

lucky accidents have happened to me, even in consequence of my own

carelessness; yet that carelessness has afterward prevented my reaping

any permanent advantage from my good fortune.

Upon this occasion I was, however, determined that no laziness of mine

should deprive me of an opportunity of making my fortune: I set to work

immediately, and astonished my friend by the facility with which I made

verses. It was my custom to retire from the noisy apartments of our

palace to a sort of alcove, at the end of a long gallery, in one of the

outer courts, where our corps of artillery used to parade. After their

parade was over, the place was perfectly quiet and solitary for the

remainder of the day and night. I used to sit up late, writing; and one

fine moonlight night, I went out of my alcove to walk in the gallery,

while I composed some lines on our great queen Elizabeth. I could not

finish the last couplet to my fancy: I sat down upon an artificial rock,

which was in the middle of the court, leaned my head upon my hand,

and as I was searching for an appropriate rhyme to _glory_, fell fast

asleep. A noise like that of a most violent clap of thunder awakened me;

I was thrown with my face flat upon the ground.

When I recovered my senses, the court was filled with persons, some

European, some Chinese, seemingly just risen from their beds, with

lanterns and torches in their hands; all of them with faces of

consternation, asking one another what had happened. The ground was

covered with scattered fragments of wooden pillars, mats, and bamboo

cane-work; I looked and saw that one end of the gallery in which I had

been walking, and the alcove, were in ruins. There was a strong smell of

gunpowder. I now recollected that I had borrowed a powder-horn from

one of the soldiers in the morning; and that I had intended to load my

pistols, but I delayed doing so. The horn, full of gunpowder, lay upon

the table in the alcove all day, and the pistols, out of which I had

shaken the old priming. When I went out to walk in the gallery, I left

the candle burning; and I suppose during my sleep a spark fell upon the

loose gunpowder, set fire to that in the horn, and blew up the alcove.

It was built of light wood and cane, and communicated only with a

cane-work gallery; otherwise the mischief would have been more serious.

As it was, the explosion had alarmed not only all the ambassador’s

suite, who lodged in the palace, but many of the Chinese in the

neighbourhood, who could not be made to comprehend how the accident had

happened.

Reproaches from all our own people were poured upon me without mercy;

and, in the midst of my contrition, I had not for some time leisure to

lament the loss of all my kings of England: no vestige of them remained;

and all the labour that I had bestowed upon their portraits and their

poetical histories was lost to the emperor of China and to myself. What

was still worse, I could not even utter a syllable of complaint, for

nobody would sympathize with me, all my companions were so much provoked

by my negligence, and so apprehensive of the bad consequences which

might ensue from this accident. The Chinese, who had been alarmed, and

who departed evidently dissatisfied, would certainly mention what had

happened to the mandarins of the city, and they would report it to the

emperor.

I resolved to apply for advice to my friend, the Jesuit; but he

increased instead of diminished our apprehensions; he said that the

affair was much talked of and misrepresented at Jehol; and that the

Chinese, naturally timid, and suspicious of strangers, could not

believe that no injury was intended to them, and that the explosion was

accidental. A child had been wounded by the fall of some of the ruins

of the alcove, which were thrown with great violence into a neighbouring

house: the butt end of one of my pistols was found in the street, and

had been carried to the magistrate by the enraged populace, as evidence

of our evil designs. My Jesuit observed to me that there was no

possibility of reasoning with the prejudices of any nation; and he

confessed he expected that this unlucky accident would have the most

serious consequences. He had told me in confidence a circumstance that

tended much to confirm this opinion: a few days before, when the emperor

went to examine the British presents of artillery, and when the brass

mortars were tried, though he admired the ingenuity of these instruments

of destruction, yet he said that he deprecated the spirit of the people

who employed them, and could not reconcile their improvements in the

arts of war with the mild precepts of the religion which they professed.

My friend, the mandarin, promised he would do all in his power to

make the exact truth known to the emperor; and to prevent the evil

impressions, which the prejudices of the populace, and perhaps the

designing misrepresentations of the city mandarins, might tend

to create. I must suppose that the good offices of my Jesuit were

ineffectual, and that he either received a positive order to interfere

no more in our affairs, or that he was afraid of being implicated in

our disgrace if he continued his intimacy with me, for this was the last

visit I ever received from him.