Caleb Williams (1903)
William Godwin

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






DRAMATIS PERSONAE


MR. FERDINANDO FALKLAND, a high-spirited and highly cultured gentleman,
a country squire in "a remote county of England."

CALEB WILLIAMS, a youth, his secretary, the discoverer of his secret,
and the supposed narrator of the consequent events.

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

THOMAS, a servant of Falkland's.

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

MR. BARNABAS TYRREL, a brutal and tyrannical squire.

MISS EMILY MELVILLE, his cousin and dependent, whom he cruelly maltreats
and does to death.

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

DR. WILSON; MRS. HAMMOND, friends of Miss Melville. MR. HAWKINS, farmer;
YOUNG HAWKINS, his son, Victims of Tyrrel's brutality, and wrongfully
hanged as his murderers.

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

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

LARKINS, one of his band.

AN OLD HAG, housekeeper to the robbers.

A GAOLER.

MISS PEGGY, the gaoler's daughter.

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

MR. SPURREL, a friend who informs on Caleb.

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




INTRODUCTION


The reputation of WILLIAM GODWIN as a social philosopher, and the merits
of his famous novel, "Caleb Williams," have been for more than a century
the subject of extreme divergencies of judgment among critics. "The
first systematic anarchist," as he is called by Professor Saintsbury,
aroused bitter contention with his writings during his own lifetime, and
his opponents have remained so prejudiced that even the staid
bibliographer Allibone, in his "Dictionary of English Literature," a
place where one would think the most flagitious author safe from
animosity, speaks of Godwin's private life in terms that are little less
than scurrilous. Over against this persistent acrimony may be put the
fine eulogy of Mr. C. Kegan Paul, his biographer, to represent the
favourable judgment of our own time, whilst I will venture to quote one
remarkable passage that voices the opinions of many among Godwin's most
eminent contemporaries.

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

    "Indifferent altogether to the politics of the age, Lamb could
    not help being struck with productions of its newborn energies
    so remarkable as the works and the character of Godwin. He
    seemed to realise in himself what Wordsworth long afterwards
    described, 'the central calm at the heart of all agitation.'
    Through the medium of his mind the stormy convulsions of society
    were seen 'silent as in a picture.' Paradoxes the most daring
    wore the air of deliberate wisdom as he pronounced them. He
    foretold the future happiness of mankind, not with the
    inspiration of the poet, but with the grave and passionless
    voice of the oracle. There was nothing better calculated at once
    to feed and to make steady the enthusiasm of youthful patriots
    than the high speculations in which he taught them to engage, on
    the nature of social evils and the great destiny of his species.
    No one would have suspected the author of those wild theories
    which startled the wise and shocked the prudent in the calm,
    gentlemanly person who rarely said anything above the most
    gentle commonplace, and took interest in little beyond the
    whist-table."

WILLIAM GODWIN (1756-1836) was son and grandson of Dissenting ministers,
and was destined for the same profession. In theology he began as a
Calvinist, and for a while was tinctured with the austere doctrines of
the Sandemanians. But his religious views soon took an unorthodox turn,
and in 1782, falling out with his congregation at Stowmarket, he came up
to London to earn his bread henceforward as a man of letters. In 1793
Godwin became one of the most famous men in England by the publication
of his "Political Justice," a work that his biographer would place side
by side with the "Speech for Unlicensed Printing," the "Essay on
Education," and "Emile," as one of "the unseen levers which have moved
the changes of the times." Although the book came out at what we should
call a "prohibitive price," it had an enormous circulation, and brought
its author in something like 1,000 guineas. In his first novel, "Caleb
Williams," which was published the next year, he illustrated in scenes
from real life many of the principles enunciated in his philosophical
work. "Caleb Williams" went through a number of editions, and was
dramatized by Colman the younger under the title of "The Iron Chest." It
has now been out of print for many years. Godwin wrote several other
novels, but one alone is readable now, "St. Leon," which is
philosophical in idea and purpose, and contains some passages of
singular eloquence and beauty.

Godwin married the authoress of the "Rights of Woman," Mary
Wollstonecraft, in 1797, losing her the same year. Their daughter was
the gifted wife of the poet Shelley. He was a social man, particularly
fond of whist, and was on terms of intimacy and affection with many
celebrated men and women. Tom Paine, Josiah Wedgwood, and Curran were
among his closest male friends, while the story of his friendships with
Mrs. Inchbald, Amelia Opie, with the lady immortalized by Shelley as
Maria Gisborne, and with those literary sisters, Sophia and Harriet Lee,
authors of the "Canterbury Tales," has a certain sentimental interest.
Afterwards he became known to Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Lamb. He
married Mrs. Clairmont in 1801. His later years were clouded by great
embarrassments, and not till 1833 was he put out of reach of the worst
privations by the gift of a small sinecure, that of yeoman usher of the
Exchequer. He died in 1836.

Among the contradictory judgments passed on "Caleb Williams" by Godwin's
contemporaries those of Hazlitt, Sir James Mackintosh, and Sir T. N.
Talfourd were perhaps the most eulogistic, whilst De Quincey and Allan
Cunningham criticized the book with considerable severity. Hazlitt's
opinion is quoted from the "Spirit of the Age":

    "A masterpiece, both as to invention and execution. The romantic
    and chivalrous principle of the love of personal fame is
    embodied in the finest possible manner in the character of
    Falkland; as in Caleb Williams (who is not the first, but the
    second character in the piece), we see the very demon of
    curiosity personified. Perhaps the art with which these two
    characters are contrived to relieve and set off each other has
    never been surpassed by any work of fiction, with the exception
    of the immortal satire of Cervantes."

Sir Leslie Stephen said of it the other day:

    "It has lived--though in comparative obscurity--for over a
    century, and high authorities tell us that vitality prolonged
    for that period raises a presumption that a book deserves the
    title of classic."--_National Review, February_, 1902.

To understand how the work came to be written, and its aim, it is
advisable to read carefully all three of Godwin's prefaces, more
particularly the last and the most candid, written in 1832. This will, I
think, dispose of the objection that the story was expressly constructed
to illustrate a moral, a moral that, as Sir Leslie Stephen says, "eludes
him." He says:

    "I formed a conception of a book of fictitious adventure that
    should in some way be distinguished by a very powerful interest.
    Pursuing this idea, I invented first the third volume of my
    tale, then the second, and, last of all, the first. I bent
    myself to the conception of a series of adventures of flight and
    pursuit; the fugitive in perpetual apprehension of being
    overwhelmed with the worst calamities, and the pursuer, by his
    ingenuity and resources, keeping his victim in a state of the
    most fearful alarm. This was the project of my third volume."

He goes on to describe in more detail the "dramatic and impressive"
situations and the "fearful events" that were to be evolved, making it
pretty clear that the purpose somewhat vaguely and cautiously outlined
in the earliest preface was rather of the nature of an afterthought.
Falkland is not intended to be a personification of the evils caused by
the social system, nor is he put forward as the inevitable product of
that system. The reader's attention is chiefly absorbed by the
extraordinary contest between Caleb Williams and Falkland, and in the
tragic situations that it involves. Compared with these the denunciation
of the social system is a matter of secondary interest; but it was
natural that the author of the "Political Justice," with his mind
preoccupied by the defects of the English social system, should make
those defects the, evil agencies of his plot. As the essential
conditions of the series of events, as the machinery by which everything
is brought about, these defects are of the utmost importance to the
story. It is the accused system that awards to Tyrrel and Falkland their
immense preponderance in society, and enables them to use the power of
the law for the most nefarious ends. Tyrrel does his cousin to death and
ruins his tenant, a man of integrity, by means of the law. This is the
occasion of Falkland's original crime. His more heinous offence, the
abandonment of the innocent Hawkinses to the gallows, is the consequence
of what Godwin expressly denounces, punishment for murder. "I conceived
it to be in the highest degree absurd and iniquitous, to cut off a man
qualified for the most essential and extensive utility, merely out of
retrospect to an act which, whatever were its merits, could not be
retrieved." Then a new element is imported into the train of causation,
Caleb's insatiable curiosity, and the strife begins between these
well-matched antagonists, the man of wealth and station utilizing all
the advantages granted him by the state of society to crush his enemy.
Godwin, then, was justified in declaring that his book comprehended "a
general view of the modes of domestic and unrecorded despotism by which
man becomes the destroyer of man." Such were the words of the original
preface, which was suppressed for a short time owing to the fears caused
by the trial of Horne Tooke, Thomas Holcroft and other revolutionists,
with whom Godwin was in profound sympathy. Had he intended "Caleb
Williams," however, from its first inception, to be an imaginative
version of the "Political Justice," he would have had to invent a
different plan and different characters. The arguments of a sociological
novel lack cogency unless the characters are fairly representative of
average mankind. Godwin's principal actors are both, to say the least,
exceptional. They are lofty idealizations of certain virtues and powers
of mind. Falkland is like Jean Valjean, a superhuman creature; and,
indeed, "Caleb Williams" may well be compared on one side with "Les
Misérables," for Victor Hugo's avowed purpose, likewise, was the
denunciation of social tyranny. But the characteristics that would have
weakened the implied theorem, had such been the main object, are the
very things that make the novel more powerful as drama of a grandiose,
spiritual kind. The high and concentrated imagination that created such
a being as Falkland, and the intensity of passion with which Caleb's
fatal energy of mind is sustained through that long, despairing
struggle, are of greater artistic value than the mechanical symmetry by
which morals are illustrated.

E. A. B.




PREFACE

BY THE AUTHOR.


The following narrative is intended to answer a purpose more general and
important than immediately appears upon the face of it. The question now
afloat in the world respecting THINGS AS THEY ARE is the most
interesting that can be presented to the human mind. While one party
pleads for reformation and change, the other extols in the warmest terms
the existing constitution of society. It seemed as if something would be
gained for the decision of this question if that constitution were
faithfully developed in its practical effects. What is now presented to
the public is no refined and abstract speculation; it is a study and
delineation of things passing in the moral world. It is but of late that
the inestimable importance of political principles has been adequately
apprehended. It is now known to philosophers that the spirit and
character of the Government intrudes itself into every rank of society.
But this is a truth highly worthy to be communicated to persons whom
books of philosophy and science are never likely to reach. Accordingly,
it was proposed, in the invention of the following work, to comprehend,
as far as the progressive nature of a single story would allow, a
general review of the modes of domestic and unrecorded despotism by
which man becomes the destroyer of man. If the author shall have taught
a valuable lesson, without subtracting from the interest and passion by
which a performance of this sort ought to be characterised, he will have
reason to congratulate himself upon the vehicle he has chosen.

_May_ 12, 1794.

This preface was withdrawn in the original edition, in compliance with
the alarms of booksellers. "Caleb Williams" made his first appearance in
the world in the same month in which the sanguinary plot broke out
against the liberties of Englishmen, which was happily terminated by the
acquittal of its first intended victims in the close of that year.
Terror was the order of the day; and it was feared that even the humble
novelist might be shown to be constructively a traitor.

_October_ 29, 1795.




AUTHOR'S LATEST PREFACE.


LONDON,

_November_ 20, 1832.

"CALEB WILLIAMS" has always been regarded by the public with an unusual
degree of favour. The proprietor of "THE STANDARD NOVELS" has therefore
imagined that even an account of the concoction and mode of writing of
the work would be viewed with some interest.

I finished the "Enquiry concerning Political Justice," the first work
which may be considered as written by me in a certain degree in the
maturity of my intellectual powers, and bearing my name, early in
January, 1793; and about the middle of the following month the book was
published. It was my fortune at that time to be obliged to consider my
pen as the sole instrument for supplying my current expenses. By the
liberality of my bookseller, Mr. George Robinson, of Paternoster Row, I
was enabled then, and for nearly ten years before, to meet these
expenses, while writing different things of obscure note, the names of
which, though innocent and in some degree useful, I am rather inclined
to suppress. In May, 1791, I projected this, my favourite work, and from
that time gave up every other occupation that might interfere with it.
My agreement with Robinson was that he was to supply my wants at a
specified rate while the book was in the train of composition. Finally,
I was very little beforehand with the world on the day of its
publication, and was therefore obliged to look round and consider to
what species of industry I should next devote myself.

I had always felt in myself some vocation towards the composition of a
narrative of fictitious adventure; and among the things of obscure note
which I have above referred to were two or three pieces of this nature.
It is not therefore extraordinary that some project of the sort should
have suggested itself on the present occasion.

But I stood now in a very different situation from that in which I had
been placed at a former period. In past years, and even almost from
boyhood, I was perpetually prone to exclaim with Cowley:

  "What shall I do to be for ever known,
  And make the age to come my own?"

But I had endeavoured for ten years, and was as far from approaching my
object as ever. Everything I wrote fell dead-born from the press. Very
often I was disposed to quit the enterprise in despair. But still I felt
ever and anon impelled to repeat my effort.

At length I conceived the plan of Political Justice. I was convinced
that my object of building to myself a name would never be attained by
merely repeating and refining a little upon what other men had said,
even though I should imagine that I delivered things of this sort with a
more than usual point and elegance. The world, I believed, would accept
nothing from me with distinguishing favour that did not bear upon the
face of it the undoubted stamp of originality. Having long ruminated
upon the principles of Political Justice, I persuaded myself that I
could offer to the public, in a treatise on this subject, things at once
new, true, and important. In the progress of the work I became more
sanguine and confident. I talked over my ideas with a few familiar
friends during its progress, and they gave me every generous
encouragement. It happened that the fame of my book, in some
inconsiderable degree, got before its publication, and a certain number
of persons were prepared to receive it with favour. It would be false
modesty in me to say that its acceptance, when published, did not nearly
come up to everything that could soberly have been expected by me. In
consequence of this, the tone of my mind, both during the period in
which I was engaged in the work and afterwards, acquired a certain
elevation, and made me now unwilling to stoop to what was insignificant.

I formed a conception of a book of fictitious adventure that should in
some way be distinguished by a very powerful interest. Pursuing this
idea, I invented first the third volume of my tale, then the second, and
last of all the first. I bent myself to the conception of a series of
adventures of flight and pursuit; the fugitive in perpetual apprehension
of being overwhelmed with the worst calamities, and the pursuer, by his
ingenuity and resources, keeping his victim in a state of the most
fearful alarm. This was the project of my third volume. I was next
called upon to conceive a dramatic and impressive situation adequate to
account for the impulse that the pursuer should feel, incessantly to
alarm and harass his victim, with an inextinguishable resolution never
to allow him the least interval of peace and security. This I
apprehended could best be effected by a secret murder, to the
investigation of which the innocent victim should be impelled by an
unconquerable spirit of curiosity. The murderer would thus have a
sufficient motive to persecute the unhappy discoverer, that he might
deprive him of peace, character, and credit, and have him for ever in
his power. This constituted the outline of my second volume.

The subject of the first volume was still to be invented. To account
for the fearful events of the third, it was necessary that the pursuer
should be invested with every advantage of fortune, with a resolution
that nothing could defeat or baffle, and with extraordinary resources of
intellect. Nor could my purpose of giving an overpowering interest to my
tale be answered without his appearing to have been originally endowed
with a mighty store of amiable dispositions and virtues, so that his
being driven to the first act of murder should be judged worthy of the
deepest regret, and should be seen in some measure to have arisen out of
his virtues themselves. It was necessary to make him, so to speak, the
tenant of an atmosphere of romance, so that every reader should feel
prompted almost to worship him for his high qualities. Here were ample
materials for a first volume.

I felt that I had a great advantage in thus carrying back my invention
from the ultimate conclusion to the first commencement of the train of
adventures upon which I purposed to employ my pen. An entire unity of
plot would be the infallible result; and the unity of spirit and
interest in a tale truly considered gives it a powerful hold on the
reader, which can scarcely be generated with equal success in any other
way.

I devoted about two or three weeks to the imagining and putting down
hints for my story before I engaged seriously and methodically in its
composition. In these hints I began with my third volume, then proceeded
to my second, and last of all grappled with the first. I filled two or
three sheets of demy writing-paper, folded in octavo, with these
memorandums. They were put down with great brevity, yet explicitly
enough to secure a perfect recollection of their meaning, within the
time necessary for drawing out the story at full, in short paragraphs of
two, three, four, five, or six lines each.

I then sat down to write my story from the beginning. I wrote for the
most part but a short portion in any single day. I wrote only when the
afflatus was upon me. I held it for a maxim that any portion that was
written when I was not fully in the vein told for considerably worse
than nothing. Idleness was a thousand times better in this case than
industry against the grain. Idleness was only time lost; and the next
day, it may be, was as promising as ever. It was merely a day perished
from the calendar. But a passage written feebly, flatly, and in a wrong
spirit, constituted an obstacle that it was next to impossible to
correct and set right again. I wrote therefore by starts; sometimes for
a week or ten days not a line. Yet all came to the same thing in the
sequel. On an average, a volume of "Caleb Williams" cost me four months,
neither less nor more.

It must be admitted, however, that during the whole period, bating a few
intervals, my mind was in a high state of excitement. I said to myself a
thousand times, "I will write a tale that shall constitute an epoch in
the mind of the reader, that no one, after he has read it, shall ever be
exactly the same man that he was before."--I put these things down just
as they happened, and with the most entire frankness. I know that it
will sound like the most pitiable degree of self-conceit. But such
perhaps ought to be the state of mind of an author when he does his
best. At any rate, I have said nothing of my vainglorious impulse for
nearly forty years.

When I had written about seven-tenths of the first volume, I was
prevailed upon by the extreme importunity of an old and intimate friend
to allow him the perusal of my manuscript. On the second day he returned
it with a note to this purpose: "I return you your manuscript, because I
promised to do so. If I had obeyed the impulse of my own mind, I should
have thrust it in the fire. If you persist, the book will infallibly
prove the grave of your literary fame."

I doubtless felt no implicit deference for the judgment of my friendly
critic. Yet it cost me at least two days of deep anxiety before I
recovered the shock. Let the reader picture to himself my situation. I
felt no implicit deference for the judgment of my friendly critic. But
it was all I had for it. This was my first experiment of an unbiassed
decision. It stood in the place of all the world to me. I could not, and
I did not feel disposed to, appeal any further. If I had, how could I
tell that the second and third judgment would be more favourable than
the first? Then what would have been the result? No; I had nothing for
it but to wrap myself in my own integrity. By dint of resolution I
became invulnerable. I resolved to go on to the end, trusting as I could
to my own anticipations of the whole, and bidding the world wait its
time before it should be admitted to the consult.

I began my narrative, as is the more usual way, in the third person. But
I speedily became dissatisfied. I then assumed the first person, making
the hero of my tale his own historian; and in this mode I have persisted
in all my subsequent attempts at works of fiction. It was infinitely the
best adapted, at least, to my vein of delineation, where the thing in
which my imagination revelled the most freely was the analysis of the
private and internal operations of the mind, employing my metaphysical
dissecting knife in tracing and laying bare the involutions of motive,
and recording the gradually accumulating impulses which led the
personages I had to describe primarily to adopt the particular way of
proceeding in which they afterwards embarked.

When I had determined on the main purpose of my story, it was ever my
method to get about me any productions of former authors that seemed to
bear on my subject. I never entertained the fear that in this way of
proceeding I should be in danger of servilely copying my predecessors. I
imagined that I had a vein of thinking that was properly my own, which
would always preserve me from plagiarism. I read other authors, that I
might see what they had done, or, more properly, that I might forcibly
hold my mind and occupy my thoughts in a particular train, I and my
predecessors travelling in some sense to the same goal, at the same time
that I struck out a path of my own, without ultimately heeding the
direction they pursued, and disdaining to inquire whether by any chance
it for a few steps coincided or did not coincide with mine.

Thus, in the instance of "Caleb Williams," I read over a little old
book, entitled "The Adventures of Mademoiselle de St. Phale," a French
Protestant in the times of the fiercest persecution of the Huguenots,
who fled through France in the utmost terror, in the midst of eternal
alarms and hair-breadth escapes, having her quarters perpetually beaten
up, and by scarcely any chance finding a moment's interval of security.
I turned over the pages of a tremendous compilation, entitled "God's
Revenge against Murder," where the beam of the eye of Omniscience was
represented as perpetually pursuing the guilty, and laying open his most
hidden retreats to the light of day. I was extremely conversant with the
"Newgate Calendar" and the "Lives of the Pirates." In the meantime no
works of fiction came amiss to me, provided they were written with
energy. The authors were still employed upon the same mine as myself,
however different was the vein they pursued: we were all of us engaged
in exploring the entrails of mind and motive, and in tracing the various
rencontres and clashes that may occur between man and man in the
diversified scene of human life.

I rather amused myself with tracing a certain similitude between the
story of Caleb Williams and the tale of Bluebeard, than derived any
hints from that admirable specimen of the terrific. Falkland was my
Bluebeard, who had perpetrated atrocious crimes, which, if discovered,
he might expect to have all the world roused to revenge against him.
Caleb Williams was the wife who, in spite of warning, persisted in his
attempts to discover the forbidden secret; and, when he had succeeded,
struggled as fruitlessly to escape the consequences, as the wife of
Bluebeard in washing the key of the ensanguined chamber, who, as often
as she cleared the stain of blood from the one side, found it showing
itself with frightful distinctness on the other.

When I had proceeded as far as the early pages of my third volume, I
found myself completely at a stand. I rested on my arms from the 2nd of
January, 1794, to the 1st of April following, without getting forward in
the smallest degree. It has ever been thus with me in works of any
continuance. The bow will not be for ever bent:

  "Opere in longo fas est obrepere somnum."

I endeavoured, however, to take my repose to myself in security, and not
to inflict a set of crude and incoherent dreams upon my readers. In the
meantime, when I revived, I revived in earnest, and in the course of
that month carried on my work with unabated speed to the end.

Thus I have endeavoured to give a true history of the concoction and
mode of writing of this mighty trifle. When I had done, I soon became
sensible that I had done in a manner nothing. How many flat and insipid
parts does the book contain! How terribly unequal does it appear to me!
From time to time the author plainly reels to and fro like a drunken
man. And, when I had done all, what had I done? Written a book to amuse
boys and girls in their vacant hours, a story to be hastily gobbled up
by them, swallowed in a pusillanimous and unanimated mood, without
chewing and digestion. I was in this respect greatly impressed with the
confession of one of the most accomplished readers and excellent critics
that any author could have fallen in with (the unfortunate Joseph
Gerald). He told me that he had received my book late one evening, and
had read through the three volumes before he closed his eyes. Thus, what
had cost me twelve months' labour, ceaseless heartaches and industry,
now sinking in despair, and now roused and sustained in unusual energy,
he went over in a few hours, shut the book, laid himself on his pillow,
slept, and was refreshed, and cried,

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

I had thought to have said something here respecting the concoction of
"St. Leon" and "Fleetwood." But all that occurs to me on the subject
seems to be anticipated in the following




PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.


_February 14, 1805._

Yet another novel from the same pen, which has twice before claimed the
patience of the public in this form. The unequivocal indulgence which
has been extended to my two former attempts, renders me doubly
solicitous not to forfeit the kindness I have experienced.

One caution I have particularly sought to exercise: "not to repeat
myself." Caleb Williams was a story of very surprising and uncommon
events, but which were supposed to be entirely within the laws and
established course of nature, as she operates in the planet we inhabit.
The story of St. Leon is of the miraculous class; and its design, to
"mix human feelings and passions with incredible situations, and thus
render them impressive and interesting."

Some of those fastidious readers--they may be classed among the best
friends an author has, if their admonitions are judiciously
considered--who are willing to discover those faults which do not offer
themselves to every eye, have remarked that both these tales are in a
vicious style of writing; that Horace has long ago decided that the
story we cannot believe we are by all the laws of criticism called upon
to hate; and that even the adventures of the honest secretary, who was
first heard of ten years ago, are so much out of the usual road that not
one reader in a million can ever fear they will happen to himself.

Gentlemen critics, I thank you. In the present volumes I have served you
with a dish agreeable to your own receipt, though I cannot say with any
sanguine hope of obtaining your approbation.

The following story consists of such adventures as for the most part
have occurred to at least one half of the Englishmen now existing who
are of the same rank of life as my hero. Most of them have been at
college, and shared in college excesses; most of them have afterward run
a certain gauntlet of dissipation; most have married, and, I am afraid,
there are few of the married tribe who have not at some time or other
had certain small misunderstandings with their wives.[A] To be sure,
they have not all of them felt and acted under these trite adventures as
my hero does. In this little work the reader will scarcely find anything
to "elevate and surprise;" and, if it has any merit, it must consist in
the liveliness with which it brings things home to the imagination, and
the reality it gives to the scenes it pourtrays.

[Footnote A: I confess, however, the inability I found to weave a
catastrophe, such as I desired, out of these ordinary incidents. What I
have here said, therefore, must not be interpreted as applicable to the
concluding sheets of my work.]

Yes, even in the present narrative, I have aimed at a certain kind of
novelty--a novelty which may be aptly expressed by a parody on a
well-known line of Pope; it relates:

  "Things often done, but never yet described."

In selecting among common and ordinary adventures, I have endeavoured to
avoid such as a thousand novels before mine have undertaken to develop.
Multitudes of readers have themselves passed through the very incidents
I relate; but, for the most part, no work has hitherto recorded them. If
I have hold them truly, I have added somewhat to the stock of books
which should enable a recluse, shut up in his closet, to form an idea of
what is passing in the world. It is inconceivable, meanwhile, how much,
by this choice of a subject, I increased the arduousness of my task. It
is so easy to do, a little better, or a little worse, what twenty
authors have done before! If I had foreseen from the first all the
difficulty of my project, my courage would have failed me to undertake
the execution of it.

Certain persons, who condescend to make my supposed inconsistencies the
favourite object of their research, will perhaps remark with exultation
on the respect expressed in this work for marriage, and exclaim, "It was
not always thus!" referring to the pages in which this subject is
treated in the "Enquiry concerning Political Justice" for the proof of
their assertion. The answer to this remark is exceedingly simple. The
production referred to in it, the first foundation of its author's claim
to public distinction and favour, was a treatise, aiming to ascertain
what new institutions in political society might be found more
conducive to general happiness than those which at present prevail. In
the course of this disquisition it was enquired whether marriage, as it
stands described and supported in the laws of England, might not with
advantage admit of certain modifications. Can anything be more distinct
than such a proposition on the one hand and a recommendation on the
other that each man for himself should supersede and trample upon the
institutions of the country in which he lives? A thousand things might
be found excellent and salutary, if brought into general practice, which
would in some cases appear ridiculous, and in others be attended with
tragical consequences, if prematurely acted upon by a solitary
individual. The author of "Political Justice," as appears again and
again in the pages of that work, is the last man in the world to
recommend a pitiful attempt, by scattered examples, to renovate the face
of society, instead of endeavouring, by discussion and reasoning, to
effect a grand and comprehensive improvement in the sentiments of its
members.

       *       *       *       *       *




VOLUME THE FIRST.




CHAPTER I.


My life has for several years been a theatre of calamity. I have been a
mark for the vigilance of tyranny, and I could not escape. My fairest
prospects have been blasted. My enemy has shown himself inaccessible to
entreaties, and untired in persecution. My fame, as well as my
happiness, has become his victim. Every one, as far as my story has been
known, has refused to assist me in my distress, and has execrated my
name. I have not deserved this treatment. My own conscience witnesses in
behalf of that innocence, my pretensions to which are regarded in the
world as incredible. There is now, however, little hope that I shall
escape from the toils that universally beset me. I am incited to the
penning of these memoirs only by a desire to divert my mind from the
deplorableness of my situation, and a faint idea that posterity may by
their means be induced to render me a justice which my contemporaries
refuse. My story will, at least, appear to have that consistency which
is seldom attendant but upon truth.

I was born of humble parents, in a remote county of England. Their
occupations were such as usually fall to the lot of peasants, and they
had no portion to give me, but an education free from the usual sources
of depravity, and the inheritance, long since lost by their unfortunate
progeny! of an honest fame. I was taught the rudiments of no science,
except reading, writing, and arithmetic. But I had an inquisitive mind,
and neglected no means of information from conversation or books. My
improvement was greater than my condition in life afforded room to
expect.

There are other circumstances deserving to be mentioned as having
influenced the history of my future life. I was somewhat above the
middle stature. Without being particularly athletic in appearance, or
large in my dimensions, I was uncommonly vigorous and active. My joints
were supple, and I was formed to excel in youthful sports. The habits of
my mind, however, were to a certain degree at war with the dictates of
boyish vanity. I had considerable aversion to the boisterous gaiety of
the village gallants, and contrived to satisfy my love of praise with an
unfrequent apparition at their amusements. My excellence in these
respects, however, gave a turn to my meditations. I delighted to read of
feats of activity, and was particularly interested by tales in which
corporeal ingenuity or strength are the means resorted to for supplying
resources and conquering difficulties. I inured myself to mechanical
pursuits, and devoted much of my time to an endeavour after mechanical
invention.

The spring of action which, perhaps more than any other, characterised
the whole train of my life, was curiosity. It was this that gave me my
mechanical turn; I was desirous of tracing the variety of effects which
might be produced from given causes. It was this that made me a sort of
natural philosopher; I could not rest till I had acquainted myself with
the solutions that had been invented for the phenomena of the universe.
In fine, this produced in me an invincible attachment to books of
narrative and romance. I panted for the unravelling of an adventure with
an anxiety, perhaps almost equal to that of the man whose future
happiness or misery depended on its issue. I read, I devoured
compositions of this sort. They took possession of my soul; and the
effects they produced were frequently discernible in my external
appearance and my health. My curiosity, however, was not entirely
ignoble: village anecdotes and scandal had no charms for me: my
imagination must be excited; and when that was not done, my curiosity
was dormant.

The residence of my parents was within the manor of Ferdinando Falkland,
a country squire of considerable opulence. At an early age I attracted
the favourable notice of Mr. Collins, this gentleman's steward, who used
to call in occasionally at my father's. He observed the particulars of
my progress with approbation, and made a favourable report to his master
of my industry and genius.

In the summer of the year ----, Mr. Falkland visited his estate in our
county after an absence of several months. This was a period of
misfortune to me. I was then eighteen years of age. My father lay dead
in our cottage. I had lost my mother some years before. In this forlorn
situation I was surprised with a message from the squire, ordering me to
repair to the mansion-house the morning after my father's funeral.

Though I was not a stranger to books, I had no practical acquaintance
with men. I had never had occasion to address a person of this elevated
rank, and I felt no small uneasiness and awe on the present occasion. I
found Mr. Falkland a man of small stature, with an extreme delicacy of
form and appearance. In place of the hard-favoured and inflexible
visages I had been accustomed to observe, every muscle and petty line of
his countenance seemed to be in an inconceivable degree pregnant with
meaning. His manner was kind, attentive, and humane. His eye was full of
animation; but there was a grave and sad solemnity in his air, which,
for want of experience, I imagined was the inheritance of the great, and
the instrument by which the distance between them and their inferiors
was maintained. His look bespoke the unquietness of his mind, and
frequently wandered with an expression of disconsolateness and anxiety.

My reception was as gracious and encouraging as I could possibly desire.
Mr. Falkland questioned me respecting my learning, and my conceptions of
men and things, and listened to my answers with condescension and
approbation. This kindness soon restored to me a considerable part of my
self-possession, though I still felt restrained by the graceful, but
unaltered dignity of his carriage. When Mr. Falkland had satisfied his
curiosity, he proceeded to inform me that he was in want of a secretary,
that I appeared to him sufficiently qualified for that office, and that,
if, in my present change of situation, occasioned by the death of my
father, I approved of the employment, he would take me into his family.

I felt highly flattered by the proposal, and was warm in the expression
of my acknowledgments. I set eagerly about the disposal of the little
property my father had left, in which I was assisted by Mr. Collins. I
had not now a relation in the world, upon whose kindness and
interposition I had any direct claim. But, far from regarding this
deserted situation with terror, I formed golden visions of the station
I was about to occupy. I little suspected that the gaiety and lightness
of heart I had hitherto enjoyed were upon the point of leaving me for
ever, and that the rest of my days were devoted to misery and alarm.

My employment was easy and agreeable. It consisted partly in the
transcribing and arranging certain papers, and partly in writing from my
master's dictation letters of business, as well as sketches of literary
composition. Many of these latter consisted of an analytical survey of
the plans of different authors and conjectural speculations upon hints
they afforded, tending either to the detection of their errors, or the
carrying forward their discoveries. All of them bore powerful marks of a
profound and elegant mind, well stored with literature, and possessed of
an uncommon share of activity and discrimination.

My station was in that part of the house which was appropriated for the
reception of books, it being my duty to perform the functions of
librarian as well as secretary. Here my hours would have glided in
tranquillity and peace, had not my situation included in it
circumstances totally different from those which attended me in my
father's cottage. In early life my mind had been much engrossed by
reading and reflection: my intercourse with my fellow mortals was
occasional and short. But, in my new residence, I was excited by every
motive of interest and novelty to study my master's character; and I
found in it an ample field for speculation and conjecture.

His mode of living was in the utmost degree recluse and solitary. He had
no inclination to scenes of revelry and mirth. He avoided the busy
haunts of men; nor did he seem desirous to compensate for this privation
by the confidence of friendship. He appeared a total stranger to every
thing which usually bears the appellation of pleasure. His features were
scarcely ever relaxed into a smile, nor did that air which spoke the
unhappiness of his mind at any time forsake them: yet his manners were
by no means such as denoted moroseness and misanthropy. He was
compassionate and considerate for others, though the stateliness of his
carriage and the reserve of his temper were at no time interrupted. His
appearance and general behaviour might have strongly interested all
persons in his favour; but the coldness of his address, and the
impenetrableness of his sentiments, seemed to forbid those
demonstrations of kindness to which one might otherwise have been
prompted.

Such was the general appearance of Mr. Falkland: but his disposition was
extremely unequal. The distemper which afflicted him with incessant
gloom had its paroxysms. Sometimes he was hasty, peevish, and
tyrannical; but this proceeded rather from the torment of his mind than
an unfeeling disposition; and when reflection recurred, he appeared
willing that the weight of his misfortune should fall wholly upon
himself. Sometimes he entirely lost his self-possession, and his
behaviour was changed into frenzy: he would strike his forehead, his
brows became knit, his features distorted, and his teeth ground one
against the other When he felt the approach of these symptoms, he would
suddenly rise, and, leaving the occupation, whatever it was, in which he
was engaged, hasten into a solitude upon which no person dared to
intrude.

It must not be supposed that the whole of what I am describing was
visible to the persons about him; nor, indeed, was I acquainted with it
in the extent here stated but after a considerable time, and in gradual
succession. With respect to the domestics in general, they saw but
little of their master. None of them, except myself, from the nature of
my functions, and Mr. Collins, from the antiquity of his service and the
respectableness of his character, approached Mr. Falkland, but at stated
seasons and for a very short interval. They knew him only by the
benevolence of his actions, and the principles of inflexible integrity
by which he was ordinarily guided; and though they would sometimes
indulge their conjectures respecting his singularities, they regarded
him upon the whole with veneration, as a being of a superior order.

One day, when I had been about three months in the service of my patron,
I went to a closet, or small apartment, which was separated from the
library by a narrow gallery that was lighted by a small window near the
roof. I had conceived that there was no person in the room, and intended
only to put any thing in order that I might find out of its place. As I
opened the door, I heard at the same instant a deep groan, expressive of
intolerable anguish. The sound of the door in opening seemed to alarm
the person within; I heard the lid of a trunk hastily shut, and the
noise as of fastening a lock. I conceived that Mr. Falkland was there,
and was going instantly to retire; but at that moment a voice, that
seemed supernaturally tremendous, exclaimed, Who is there? The voice was
Mr. Falkland's. The sound of it thrilled my very vitals. I endeavoured
to answer, but my speech failed, and being incapable of any other reply,
I instinctively advanced within the door into the room. Mr. Falkland was
just risen from the floor upon which he had been sitting or kneeling.
His face betrayed strong symptoms of confusion. With a violent effort,
however, these symptoms vanished, and instantaneously gave place to a
countenance sparkling with rage.

"Villain!" cried he, "what has brought you here?" I hesitated a
confused and irresolute answer. "Wretch!" interrupted Mr. Falkland, with
uncontrollable impatience, "you want to ruin me. You set yourself as a
spy upon my actions; but bitterly shall you repent your insolence. Do
you think you shall watch my privacies with impunity?" I attempted to
defend myself. "Begone, devil!" rejoined he. "Quit the room, or I will
trample you into atoms." Saying this, he advanced towards me. But I was
already sufficiently terrified, and vanished in a moment. I heard the
door shut after me with violence; and thus ended this extraordinary
scene.

I saw him again in the evening, and he was then tolerably composed. His
behaviour, which was always kind, was now doubly attentive and soothing.
He seemed to have something of which he wished to disburthen his mind,
but to want words in which to convey it. I looked at him with anxiety
and affection. He made two unsuccessful efforts, shook his head, and
then putting five guineas into my hand, pressed it in a manner that I
could feel proceeded from a mind pregnant with various emotions, though
I could not interpret them. Having done this, he seemed immediately to
recollect himself, and to take refuge in the usual distance and
solemnity of his manner.

I easily understood that secrecy was one of the things expected from me;
and, indeed, my mind was too much disposed to meditate upon what I had
heard and seen, to make it a topic of indiscriminate communication. Mr.
Collins, however, and myself happened to sup together that evening,
which was but seldom the case, his avocations obliging him to be much
abroad. He could not help observing an uncommon dejection and anxiety in
my countenance, and affectionately enquired into the reason. I
endeavoured to evade his questions, but my youth and ignorance of the
world gave me little advantage for that purpose. Beside this, I had been
accustomed to view Mr. Collins with considerable attachment, and I
conceived from the nature of his situation that there could be small
impropriety in making him my confident in the present instance. I
repeated to him minutely every thing that had passed, and concluded with
a solemn declaration that, though treated with caprice, I was not
anxious for myself; no inconvenience or danger should ever lead me to a
pusillanimous behaviour; and I felt only for my patron, who, with every
advantage for happiness, and being in the highest degree worthy of it,
seemed destined to undergo unmerited distress.

In answer to my communication, Mr. Collins informed me that some
incidents, of a nature similar to that which I related, had fallen under
his own knowledge, and that from the whole he could not help concluding
that our unfortunate patron, was at times disordered in his intellects.
"Alas!" continued he, "it was not always thus! Ferdinando Falkland was
once the gayest of the gay. Not indeed of that frothy sort, who excite
contempt instead of admiration, and whose levity argues thoughtlessness
rather than felicity. His gaiety was always accompanied with dignity. It
was the gaiety of the hero and the scholar. It was chastened with
reflection and sensibility, and never lost sight either of good taste or
humanity. Such as it was however, it denoted a genuine hilarity of
heart, imparted an inconceivable brilliancy to his company and
conversation, and rendered him the perpetual delight of the diversified
circles he then willingly frequented. You see nothing of him, my dear
Williams, but the ruin of that Falkland who was courted by sages, and
adored by the fair. His youth, distinguished in its outset by the most
unusual promise, is tarnished. His sensibility is shrunk up and withered
by events the most disgustful to his feelings. His mind was fraught with
all the rhapsodies of visionary honour; and, in his sense, nothing but
the grosser part, the mere shell of Falkland, was capable of surviving
the wound that his pride has sustained."

These reflections of my friend Collins strongly tended to inflame my
curiosity, and I requested him to enter into a more copious explanation.
With this request he readily complied; as conceiving that whatever
delicacy it became him to exercise in ordinary cases, it would be out of
place in my situation; and thinking it not improbable that Mr. Falkland,
but for the disturbance and inflammation of his mind, would be disposed
to a similar communication. I shall interweave with Mr. Collins's story
various information which I afterwards received from other quarters,
that I may give all possible perspicuity to the series of events. To
avoid confusion in my narrative, I shall drop the person of Collins, and
assume to be myself the historian of our patron. To the reader it may
appear at first sight as if this detail of the preceding life of Mr.
Falkland were foreign to my history. Alas! I know from bitter experience
that it is otherwise. My heart bleeds at the recollection of his
misfortunes, as if they were my own. How can it fail to do so? To his
story the whole fortune of my life was linked: because he was miserable,
my happiness, my name, and my existence have been irretrievably blasted.




CHAPTER II.


Among the favourite authors of his early years were the heroic poets of
Italy. From them he imbibed the love of chivalry and romance. He had too
much good sense to regret the times of Charlemagne and Arthur. But,
while his imagination was purged by a certain infusion of philosophy, he
conceived that there was in the manners depicted by these celebrated
poets something to imitate, as well as something to avoid. He believed
that nothing was so well calculated to make men delicate, gallant, and
humane, as a temper perpetually alive to the sentiments of birth and
honour. The opinions he entertained upon these topics were illustrated
in his conduct, which was assiduously conformed to the model of heroism
that his fancy suggested.

With these sentiments he set out upon his travels, at the age at which
the grand tour is usually made; and they were rather confirmed than
shaken by the adventures that befel him. By inclination he was led to
make his longest stay in Italy; and here he fell into company with
several young noblemen whose studies and principles were congenial to
his own. By them he was assiduously courted, and treated with the most
distinguished applause. They were delighted to meet with a foreigner,
who had imbibed all the peculiarities of the most liberal and honourable
among themselves. Nor was he less favoured and admired by the softer
sex. Though his stature was small, his person had an air of uncommon
dignity. His dignity was then heightened by certain additions which were
afterwards obliterated,--an expression of frankness, ingenuity, and
unreserve, and a spirit of the most ardent enthusiasm. Perhaps no
Englishman was ever in an equal degree idolised by the inhabitants of
Italy.

It was not possible for him to have drunk so deeply of the fountain of
chivalry without being engaged occasionally in affairs of honour, all of
which were terminated in a manner that would not have disgraced the
chevalier Bayard himself. In Italy, the young men of rank divide
themselves into two classes,--those who adhere to the pure principles of
ancient gallantry, and those who, being actuated by the same acute sense
of injury and insult, accustom themselves to the employment of hired
bravoes as their instruments of vengeance. The whole difference, indeed,
consists in the precarious application of a generally received
distinction. The most generous Italian conceives that there are certain
persons whom it would be contamination for him to call into the open
field. He nevertheless believes that an indignity cannot be expiated but
with blood, and is persuaded that the life of a man is a trifling
consideration, in comparison of the indemnification to be made to his
injured honour. There is, therefore, scarcely any Italian that would
upon some occasions scruple assassination. Men of spirit among them,
notwithstanding the prejudices of their education, cannot fail to have a
secret conviction of its baseness, and will be desirous of extending as
far as possible the cartel of honour. Real or affected arrogance teaches
others to regard almost the whole species as their inferiors, and of
consequence incites them to gratify their vengeance without danger to
their persons. Mr. Falkland met with some of these. But his undaunted
spirit and resolute temper gave him a decisive advantage even in such
perilous rencounters. One instance, among many, of his manner of
conducting himself among this proud and high-spirited people it may be
proper to relate. Mr. Falkland is the principal agent in my history; and
Mr. Falkland in the autumn and decay of his vigour, such as I found him,
cannot be completely understood without a knowledge of his previous
character, as it was in all the gloss of youth, yet unassailed by
adversity, and unbroken in upon by anguish or remorse.

At Rome he was received with particular distinction at the house of
marquis Pisani, who had an only daughter, the heir of his immense
fortune, and the admiration of all the young nobility of that
metropolis. Lady Lucretia Pisani was tall, of a dignified form, and
uncommonly beautiful. She was not deficient in amiable qualities, but
her soul was haughty, and her carriage not unfrequently contemptuous.
Her pride was nourished by the consciousness of her charms, by her
elevated rank, and the universal adoration she was accustomed to
receive.

Among her numerous lovers count Malvesi was the individual most favoured
by her father, nor did his addresses seem indifferent to her. The count
was a man of considerable accomplishments, and of great integrity and
benevolence of disposition. But he was too ardent a lover, to be able
always to preserve the affability of his temper. The admirers whose
addresses were a source of gratification to his mistress, were a
perpetual uneasiness to him. Placing his whole happiness in the
possession of this imperious beauty, the most trifling circumstances
were capable of alarming him for the security of his pretensions. But
most of all he was jealous of the English cavalier. Marquis Pisani, who
had spent many years in France, was by no means partial to the
suspicious precautions of Italian fathers, and indulged his daughter in
considerable freedoms. His house and his daughter, within certain
judicious restraints, were open to the resort of male visitants. But,
above all, Mr. Falkland, as a foreigner, and a person little likely to
form pretensions to the hand of Lucretia, was received upon a footing of
great familiarity. The lady herself, conscious of innocence, entertained
no scruple about trifles, and acted with the confidence and frankness of
one who is superior to suspicion.

Mr. Falkland, after a residence of several weeks at Rome, proceeded to
Naples. Meanwhile certain incidents occurred that delayed the intended
nuptials of the heiress of Pisani. When he returned to Rome Count
Malvesi was absent. Lady Lucretia, who had been considerably amused
before with the conversation of Mr. Falkland, and who had an active and
enquiring mind, had conceived, in the interval between his first and
second residence at Rome, a desire to be acquainted with the English
language, inspired by the lively and ardent encomiums of our best
authors that she had heard from their countryman. She had provided
herself with the usual materials for that purpose, and had made some
progress during his absence. But upon his return she was forward to make
use of the opportunity, which, if missed, might never occur again with
equal advantage, of reading select passages of our poets with an
Englishman of uncommon taste and capacity.

This proposal necessarily led to a more frequent intercourse. When Count
Malvesi returned, he found Mr. Falkland established almost as an inmate
of the Pisani palace. His mind could not fail to be struck with the
criticalness of the situation. He was perhaps secretly conscious that
the qualifications of the Englishman were superior to his own; and he
trembled for the progress that each party might have made in the
affection of the other, even before they were aware of the danger. He
believed that the match was in every respect such as to flatter the
ambition of Mr. Falkland; and he was stung even to madness by the idea
of being deprived of the object dearest to his heart by this tramontane
upstart.

He had, however, sufficient discretion first to demand an explanation of
Lady Lucretia. She, in the gaiety of her heart, trifled with his
anxiety. His patience was already exhausted, and he proceeded in his
expostulation, in language that she was by no means prepared to endure
with apathy. Lady Lucretia had always been accustomed to deference and
submission; and, having got over something like terror, that was at
first inspired by the imperious manner in which she was now catechised,
her next feeling was that of the warmest resentment. She disdained to
satisfy so insolent a questioner, and even indulged herself in certain
oblique hints calculated to strengthen his suspicions. For some time she
described his folly and presumption in terms of the most ludicrous
sarcasm, and then, suddenly changing her style, bid him never let her
see him more except upon the footing of the most distant acquaintance,
as she was determined never again to subject herself to so unworthy a
treatment. She was happy that he had at length disclosed to her his true
character, and would know how to profit of her present experience to
avoid a repetition of the same danger. All this passed in the full
career of passion on both sides, and Lady Lucretia had no time to
reflect upon what might be the consequence of thus exasperating her
lover.

Count Malvesi left her in all the torments of frenzy. He believed that
this was a premeditated scene, to find a pretence for breaking off an
engagement that was already all but concluded; or, rather, his mind was
racked with a thousand conjectures: he alternately thought that the
injustice might be hers or his own; and he quarrelled with Lady
Lucretia, himself, and the whole world. In this temper he hastened to
the hotel of the English cavalier. The season of expostulation was now
over, and he found himself irresistibly impelled to justify his
precipitation with the lady, by taking for granted that the subject of
his suspicion was beyond the reach of doubt.

Mr. Falkland was at home. The first words of the count were an abrupt
accusation of duplicity in the affair of Lady Lucretia, and a challenge.
The Englishman had an unaffected esteem for Malvesi, who was in reality
a man of considerable merit, and who had been one of Mr. Falkland's
earliest Italian acquaintance, they having originally met at Milan. But
more than this, the possible consequence of a duel in the present
instance burst upon his mind. He had the warmest admiration for Lady
Lucretia, though his feelings were not those of a lover; and he knew
that, however her haughtiness might endeavour to disguise it, she was
impressed with a tender regard for Count Malvesi. He could not bear to
think that any misconduct of his should interrupt the prospects of so
deserving a pair. Guided by these sentiments, he endeavoured to
expostulate with the Italian. But his attempts were ineffectual. His
antagonist was drunk with choler, and would not listen to a word that
tended to check the impetuosity of his thoughts. He traversed the room
with perturbed steps, and even foamed with anguish and fury. Mr.
Falkland, finding that all was to no purpose, told the count, that, if
he would return to-morrow at the same hour, he would attend him to any
scene of action he should think proper to select.

From Count Malvesi Mr. Falkland immediately proceeded to the palace of
Pisani. Here he found considerable difficulty in appeasing the
indignation of Lady Lucretia. His ideas of honour would by no means
allow him to win her to his purpose by disclosing the cartel he had
received; otherwise that disclosure would immediately have operated as
the strongest motive that could have been offered to this disdainful
beauty. But, though she dreaded such an event, the vague apprehension
was not strong enough to induce her instantly to surrender all the
stateliness of her resentment. Mr. Falkland, however, drew so
interesting a picture of the disturbance of Count Malvesi's mind, and
accounted in so flattering a manner for the abruptness of his conduct,
that this, together with the arguments he adduced, completed the
conquest of Lady Lucretia's resentment. Having thus far accomplished his
purpose, he proceeded to disclose to her every thing that had passed.

The next day Count Malvesi appeared, punctual to his appointment, at Mr.
Falkland's hotel. Mr. Falkland came to the door to receive him, but
requested him to enter the house for a moment, as he had still an affair
of three minutes to despatch. They proceeded to a parlour. Here Mr.
Falkland left him, and presently returned leading in Lady Lucretia
herself, adorned in all her charms, and those charms heightened upon the
present occasion by a consciousness of the spirited and generous
condescension she was exerting. Mr. Falkland led her up to the
astonished count; and she, gently laying her hand upon the arm of her
lover, exclaimed with the most attractive grace, "Will you allow me to
retract the precipitate haughtiness into which I was betrayed?" The
enraptured count, scarcely able to believe his senses, threw himself
upon his knees before her, and stammered out his reply, signifying that
the precipitation had been all his own, that he only had any forgiveness
to demand, and, though they might pardon, he could never pardon himself
for the sacrilege he had committed against her and this god-like
Englishman. As soon as the first tumults of his joy had subsided, Mr.
Falkland addressed him thus:--

"Count Malvesi, I feel the utmost pleasure in having thus by peaceful
means disarmed your resentment, and effected your happiness. But I must
confess, you put me to a severe trial. My temper is not less impetuous
and fiery than your own, and it is not at all times that I should have
been thus able to subdue it. But I considered that in reality the
original blame was mine. Though your suspicion was groundless, it was
not absurd. We have been trifling too much in the face of danger. I
ought not, under the present weakness of our nature and forms of
society, to have been so assiduous in my attendance upon this enchanting
woman. It would have been little wonder, if, having so many
opportunities, and playing the preceptor with her as I have done, I had
been entangled before I was aware, and harboured a wish which I might
not afterwards have had courage to subdue. I owed you an atonement for
this imprudence.

"But the laws of honour are in the utmost degree rigid; and there was
reason to fear that, however anxious I were to be your friend, I might
be obliged to be your murderer. Fortunately, the reputation of my
courage is sufficiently established, not to expose it to any impeachment
by my declining your present defiance. It was lucky, however, that in
our interview of yesterday you found me alone, and that accident by
that means threw the management of the affair into my disposal. If the
transaction should become known, the conclusion will now become known
along with the provocation, and I am satisfied. But if the challenge had
been public, the proofs I had formerly given of courage would not have
excused my present moderation; and, though desirous to have avoided the
combat, it would not have been in my power. Let us hence each of us
learn to avoid haste and indiscretion, the consequences of which may be
inexpiable but with blood; and may Heaven bless you in a consort of whom
I deem you every way worthy!"

I have already said that this was by no means the only instance, in the
course of his travels, in which Mr. Falkland acquitted himself in the
most brilliant manner as a man of gallantry and virtue. He continued
abroad during several years, every one of which brought some fresh
accession to the estimation in which he was held, as well as to his own
impatience of stain or dishonour. At length he thought proper to return
to England, with the intention of spending the rest of his days at the
residence of his ancestors.




CHAPTER III.


From the moment he entered upon the execution of this purpose, dictated
as it probably was by an unaffected principle of duty, his misfortunes
took their commencement. All I have further to state of his history is
the uninterrupted persecution of a malignant destiny, a series of
adventures that seemed to take their rise in various accidents, but
pointing to one termination. Him they overwhelmed with an anguish he
was of all others least qualified to bear; and these waters of
bitterness, extending beyond him, poured their deadly venom upon others.
I being myself the most unfortunate of their victims.

The person in whom these calamities originated was Mr. Falkland's
nearest neighbour, a man of estate equal to his own, by name Barnabas
Tyrrel. This man one might at first have supposed of all others least
qualified from instruction, or inclined by the habits of his life, to
disturb the enjoyments of a mind so richly endowed as that of Mr.
Falkland. Mr. Tyrrel might have passed for a true model of the English
squire. He was early left under the tuition of his mother, a woman of
narrow capacity, and who had no other child. The only remaining member
of the family it may be necessary to notice was Miss Emily Melville, the
orphan daughter of Mr. Tyrrel's paternal aunt; who now resided in the
family mansion, and was wholly dependent on the benevolence of its
proprietors.

Mrs. Tyrrel appeared to think that there was nothing in the world so
precious as her hopeful Barnabas. Every thing must give way to his
accommodation and advantage; every one must yield the most servile
obedience to his commands. He must not be teased or restricted by any
forms of instruction; and of consequence his proficiency, even in the
arts of writing and reading, was extremely slender. From his birth he
was muscular and sturdy; and, confined to the _ruelle_ of his mother, he
made much such a figure as the whelp-lion that a barbarian might have
given for a lap-dog to his mistress.

But he soon broke loose from these trammels, and formed an acquaintance
with the groom and the game-keeper. Under their instruction he proved as
ready a scholar, as he had been indocile and restive to the pedant who
held the office of his tutor. It was now evident that his small
proficiency in literature was by no means to be ascribed to want of
capacity. He discovered no contemptible sagacity and quick-wittedness in
the science of horse-flesh, and was eminently expert in the arts of
shooting, fishing, and hunting. Nor did he confine himself to these, but
added the theory and practice of boxing, cudgel play, and quarter-staff.
These exercises added ten-fold robustness and vigour to his former
qualifications.

His stature, when grown, was somewhat more than five feet ten inches in
height, and his form might have been selected by a painter as a model
for that hero of antiquity, whose prowess consisted in felling an ox
with his fist, and devouring him at a meal. Conscious of his advantage
in this respect, he was insupportably arrogant, tyrannical to his
inferiors, and insolent to his equals. The activity of his mind being
diverted from the genuine field of utility and distinction, showed
itself in the rude tricks of an overgrown lubber. Here, as in all his
other qualifications, he rose above his competitors; and if it had been
possible to overlook the callous and unrelenting disposition which they
manifested, one could scarcely have denied his applause to the invention
these freaks displayed, and the rough, sarcastic wit with which they
were accompanied.

Mr. Tyrrel was by no means inclined to permit these extraordinary merits
to rust in oblivion. There was a weekly assembly at the nearest
market-town, the resort of all the rural gentry. Here he had hitherto
figured to the greatest advantage as grand master of the _coterie_, no
one having an equal share of opulence, and the majority, though still
pretending to the rank of gentry, greatly his inferior in this essential
article. The young men in this circle looked up to this insolent bashaw
with timid respect, conscious of the comparative eminence that
unquestionably belonged to the powers of his mind; and he well knew how
to maintain his rank with an inflexible hand. Frequently indeed he
relaxed his features, and assumed a temporary appearance of affableness
and familiarity; but they found by experience, that if any one,
encouraged by his condescension, forgot the deference which Mr. Tyrrel
considered as his due, he was soon taught to repent his presumption. It
was a tiger that thought proper to toy with a mouse, the little animal
every moment in danger of being crushed by the fangs of his ferocious
associate. As Mr. Tyrrel had considerable copiousness of speech, and a
rich, but undisciplined imagination, he was always sure of an audience.
His neighbours crowded round, and joined in the ready laugh, partly from
obsequiousness, and partly from unfeigned admiration. It frequently
happened, however; that, in the midst of his good humour, a
characteristic refinement of tyranny would suggest itself to his mind.
When his subjects, encouraged by his familiarity, had discarded their
precaution, the wayward fit would seize him, a sudden cloud overspread
his brow, his voice transform from the pleasant to the terrible, and a
quarrel of a straw immediately ensue with the first man whose face he
did not like. The pleasure that resulted to others from the exuberant
sallies of his imagination was, therefore, not unalloyed with sudden
qualms of apprehension and terror. It may be believed that this
despotism did not gain its final ascendancy without being contested in
the outset. But all opposition was quelled with a high hand by this
rural Antaeus. By the ascendancy of his fortune, and his character among
his neighbours, he always reduced his adversary to the necessity of
encountering him at his own weapons, and did not dismiss him without
making him feel his presumption through every joint in his frame. The
tyranny of Mr. Tyrrel would not have been so patiently endured, had not
his colloquial accomplishments perpetually come in aid of that authority
which his rank and prowess originally obtained.

The situation of our squire with the fair was still more enviable than
that which he maintained among persons of his own sex. Every mother
taught her daughter to consider the hand of Mr. Tyrrel as the highest
object of her ambition. Every daughter regarded his athletic form and
his acknowledged prowess with a favourable eye. A form eminently
athletic is, perhaps, always well proportioned; and one of the
qualifications that women are early taught to look for in the male sex,
is that of a protector. As no man was adventurous enough to contest his
superiority, so scarcely any woman in this provincial circle would have
scrupled to prefer his addresses to those of any other admirer. His
boisterous wit had peculiar charms for them; and there was no spectacle
more flattering to their vanity, than seeing this Hercules exchange his
club for a distaff. It was pleasing to them to consider, that the fangs
of this wild beast, the very idea of which inspired trepidation into the
boldest hearts, might be played with by them with the utmost security.

Such was the rival that Fortune, in her caprice, had reserved for the
accomplished Falkland. This untamed, though not undiscerning brute, was
found capable of destroying the prospects of a man the most eminently
qualified to enjoy and to communicate happiness. The feud that sprung up
between them was nourished by concurring circumstances, till it attained
a magnitude difficult to be paralleled; and, because they regarded each
other with a deadly hatred, I have become an object of misery and
abhorrence.

The arrival of Mr. Falkland gave an alarming shock to the authority of
Mr. Tyrrel in the village assembly and in all scenes of indiscriminate
resort. His disposition by no means inclined him to withhold himself
from scenes of fashionable amusement; and he and his competitor were
like two stars fated never to appear at once above the horizon. The
advantages Mr. Falkland possessed in the comparison are palpable; and
had it been otherwise, the subjects of his rural neighbour were
sufficiently disposed to revolt against his merciless dominion. They had
hitherto submitted from fear, and not from love; and, if they had not
rebelled, it was only for want of a leader. Even the ladies regarded Mr.
Falkland with particular complacence. His polished manners were
peculiarly in harmony with feminine delicacy. The sallies of his wit
were far beyond those of Mr. Tyrrel in variety and vigour; in addition
to which they had the advantage of having their spontaneous exuberance
guided and restrained by the sagacity of a cultivated mind. The graces
of his person were enhanced by the elegance of his deportment; and the
benevolence and liberality of his temper were upon all occasions
conspicuous. It was common indeed to Mr. Tyrrel, together with Mr.
Falkland, to be little accessible to sentiments of awkwardness and
confusion. But for this Mr. Tyrrel was indebted to a self-satisfied
effrontery, and a boisterous and over-bearing elocution, by which he was
accustomed to discomfit his assailants; while Mr. Falkland, with great
ingenuity and candour of mind, was enabled by his extensive knowledge of
the world, and acquaintance with his own resources, to perceive almost
instantaneously the proceeding it most became him to adopt.

Mr. Tyrrel contemplated the progress of his rival with uneasiness and
aversion. He often commented upon it to his particular confidents as a
thing altogether inconceivable. Mr. Falkland he described as an animal
that was beneath contempt. Diminutive and dwarfish in his form, he
wanted to set up a new standard of human nature, adapted to his
miserable condition. He wished to persuade people that the human species
were made to be nailed to a chair, and to pore over books. He would have
them exchange those robust exercises which make us joyous in the
performance, and vigorous in the consequences, for the wise labour of
scratching our heads for a rhyme and counting our fingers for a verse.
Monkeys were as good men as these. A nation of such animals would have
no chance with a single regiment of the old English votaries of beef and
pudding. He never saw any thing come of learning but to make people
foppish and impertinent; and a sensible man would not wish a worse
calamity to the enemies of his nation, than to see them run mad after
such pernicious absurdities. It was impossible that people could
seriously feel any liking for such a ridiculous piece of goods as this
outlandish foreign-made Englishman. But he knew very well how it was: it
was a miserable piece of mummery that was played only in spite of him.
But God for ever blast his soul, if he were not bitterly revenged upon
them all!

If such were the sentiments of Mr. Tyrrel, his patience found ample
exercise in the language which was held by the rest of his neighbours on
the same subject. While he saw nothing in Mr. Falkland but matter of
contempt, they appeared to be never weary of recounting his praises.
Such dignity, such affability, so perpetual an attention to the
happiness of others, such delicacy of sentiment and expression! Learned
without ostentation, refined without foppery, elegant without
effeminacy! Perpetually anxious to prevent his superiority from being
painfully felt, it was so much the more certainly felt to be real, and
excited congratulation instead of envy in the spectator. It is scarcely
necessary to remark, that the revolution of sentiment in this rural
vicinity belongs to one of the most obvious features of the human mind.
The rudest exhibition of art is at first admired, till a nobler is
presented, and we are taught to wonder at the facility with which before
we had been satisfied. Mr. Tyrrel thought there would be no end to the
commendation; and expected when their common acquaintance would fall
down and adore the intruder. The most inadvertent expression of applause
inflicted upon him the torment of demons. He writhed with agony, his
features became distorted, and his looks inspired terror. Such suffering
would probably have soured the kindest temper; what must have been its
effect upon Mr. Tyrrel's, always fierce, unrelenting, and abrupt?

The advantages of Mr. Falkland seemed by no means to diminish with their
novelty. Every new sufferer from Mr. Tyrrel's tyranny immediately went
over to the standard of his adversary. The ladies, though treated by
their rustic swain with more gentleness than the men, were occasionally
exposed to his capriciousness and insolence. They could not help
remarking the contrast between these two leaders in the fields of
chivalry, the one of whom paid no attention to any one's pleasure but
his own, while the other seemed all good-humour and benevolence. It was
in vain that Mr. Tyrrel endeavoured to restrain the ruggedness of his
character. His motive was impatience, his thoughts were gloomy, and his
courtship was like the pawings of an elephant. It appeared as if his
temper had been more human while he indulged in its free bent, than now
that he sullenly endeavoured to put fetters upon its excesses.

Among the ladies of the village-assembly already mentioned, there was
none that seemed to engage more of the kindness of Mr. Tyrrel than Miss
Hardingham. She was also one of the few that had not yet gone over to
the enemy, either because she really preferred the gentleman who was her
oldest acquaintance, or that she conceived from calculation this conduct
best adapted to insure her success in a husband. One day, however, she
thought proper, probably only by way of experiment, to show Mr. Tyrrel
that she could engage in hostilities, if he should at any time give her
sufficient provocation. She so adjusted her manoeuvres as to be engaged
by Mr. Falkland as his partner for the dance of the evening, though
without the smallest intention on the part of that gentleman (who was
unpardonably deficient in the sciences of anecdote and match-making) of
giving offence to his country neighbour. Though the manners of Mr.
Falkland were condescending and attentive, his hours of retirement were
principally occupied in contemplations too dignified for scandal, and
too large for the altercations of a vestry, or the politics of an
election-borough.

A short time before the dances began, Mr. Tyrrel went up to his fair
inamorata, and entered into some trifling conversation with her to fill
up the time, as intending in a few minutes to lead her forward to the
field. He had accustomed himself to neglect the ceremony of soliciting
beforehand a promise in his favour, as not supposing it possible that
any one would dare dispute his behests; and, had it been otherwise, he
would have thought the formality unnecessary in this case, his general
preference to Miss Hardingham being notorious.

While he was thus engaged, Mr. Falkland came up. Mr. Tyrrel always
regarded him with aversion and loathing. Mr. Falkland, however, slided
in a graceful and unaffected manner into the conversation already begun;
and the animated ingenuousness of his manner was such, as might for the
time have disarmed the devil of his malice. Mr. Tyrrel probably
conceived that his accosting Miss Hardingham was an accidental piece of
general ceremony, and expected every moment when he would withdraw to
another part of the room.

The company now began to be in motion for the dance, and Mr. Falkland
signified as much to Miss Hardingham. "Sir," interrupted Mr. Tyrrel
abruptly, "that lady is my partner."--"I believe not, sir: that lady has
been so obliging as to accept my invitation."--"I tell you, sir, no.
Sir, I have an interest in that lady's affections; and I will suffer no
man to intrude upon my claims."--"The lady's affections are not the
subject of the present question."--"Sir, it is to no purpose to parley.
Make room, sir!"--Mr. Falkland gently repelled his antagonist. "Mr.
Tyrrel!" returned he, with some firmness, "let us have no altercation in
this business: the master of the ceremonies is the proper person to
decide in a difference of this sort, if we cannot adjust it: we can
neither of us intend to exhibit our valour before the ladies, and shall
therefore cheerfully submit to his verdict."--"Damn me, sir, if I
understand--" "Softly, Mr. Tyrrel; I intended you no offence. But, sir,
no man shall prevent my asserting that to which I have once acquired a
claim!"

Mr. Falkland uttered these words with the most unruffled temper in the
world. The tone in which he spoke had acquired elevation, but neither
roughness nor impatience. There was a fascination in his manner that
made the ferociousness of his antagonist subside into impotence. Miss
Hardingham had begun to repent of her experiment, but her alarm was
speedily quieted by the dignified composure of her new partner. Mr.
Tyrrel walked away without answering a word. He muttered curses as he
went, which the laws of honour did not oblige Mr. Falkland to overhear,
and which indeed it would have been no easy task to have overheard with
accuracy. Mr. Tyrrel would not, perhaps, have so easily given up his
point, had not his own good sense presently taught him, that, however
eager he might be for revenge, this was not the ground he should desire
to occupy. But, though he could not openly resent this rebellion against
his authority, he brooded over it in the recesses of a malignant mind;
and it was evident enough that he was accumulating materials for a
bitter account, to which he trusted his adversary should one day be
brought.




CHAPTER IV.


This was only one out of innumerable instances, that every day seemed to
multiply, of petty mortifications which Mr. Tyrrel was destined to
endure on the part of Mr. Falkland. In all of them Mr. Falkland
conducted himself with such unaffected propriety, as perpetually to add
to the stock of his reputation. The more Mr. Tyrrel struggled with his
misfortune, the more conspicuous and inveterate it became. A thousand
times he cursed his stars, which took, as he apprehended, a malicious
pleasure in making Mr. Falkland, at every turn, the instrument of his
humiliation. Smarting under a succession of untoward events, he
appeared to feel, in the most exquisite manner, the distinctions paid to
his adversary, even in those points in which he had not the slightest
pretensions. An instance of this now occurred.

Mr. Clare, a poet whose works have done immortal honour to the country
that produced him, had lately retired, after a life spent in the
sublimest efforts of genius, to enjoy the produce of his economy, and
the reputation he had acquired, in this very neighbourhood. Such an
inmate was looked up to by the country gentlemen with a degree of
adoration. They felt a conscious pride in recollecting that the boast of
England was a native of their vicinity; and they were by no means
deficient in gratitude when they saw him, who had left them an
adventurer, return into the midst of them, in the close of his days,
crowned with honours and opulence. The reader is acquainted with his
works: he has, probably, dwelt upon them with transport; and I need not
remind him of their excellence: but he is, perhaps, a stranger to his
personal qualifications; he does not know that his productions were
scarcely more admirable than his conversation. In company he seemed to
be the only person ignorant of the greatness of his fame. To the world
his writings will long remain a kind of specimen of what the human mind
is capable of performing; but no man perceived their defects so acutely
as he, or saw so distinctly how much yet remained to be effected: he
alone appeared to look upon his works with superiority and indifference.
One of the features that most eminently distinguished him was a
perpetual suavity of manners, a comprehensiveness of mind, that regarded
the errors of others without a particle of resentment, and made it
impossible for any one to be his enemy. He pointed out to men their
mistakes with frankness and unreserve, his remonstrances produced
astonishment and conviction, but without uneasiness, in the party to
whom they were addressed: they felt the instrument that was employed to
correct their irregularities, but it never mangled what it was intended
to heal. Such were the moral qualities that distinguished him among his
acquaintance. The intellectual accomplishments he exhibited were,
principally, a tranquil and mild enthusiasm, and a richness of
conception which dictated spontaneously to his tongue, and flowed with
so much ease, that it was only by retrospect you could be made aware of
the amazing variety of ideas that had been presented.

Mr. Clare certainly found few men in this remote situation that were
capable of participating in his ideas and amusements. It has been among
the weaknesses of great men to fly to solitude, and converse with woods
and groves, rather than with a circle of strong and comprehensive minds
like their own. From the moment of Mr. Falkland's arrival in the
neighbourhood, Mr. Clare distinguished him in the most flattering
manner. To so penetrating a genius there was no need of long experience
and patient observation to discover the merits and defects of any
character that presented itself. The materials of his judgment had long
since been accumulated; and, at the close of so illustrious a life, he
might almost be said to see through nature at a glance. What wonder that
he took some interest in a mind in a certain degree congenial with his
own? But to Mr. Tyrrel's diseased imagination, every distinction
bestowed on his neighbour seemed to be expressly intended as an insult
to him. On the other hand, Mr. Clare, though gentle and benevolent in
his remonstrances to a degree that made the taking offence impossible,
was by no means parsimonious of praise, or slow to make use of the
deference that was paid him, for the purpose of procuring justice to
merit.

It happened at one of those public meetings at which Mr. Falkland and
Mr. Tyrrel were present, that the conversation, in one of the most
numerous sets into which the company was broken, turned upon the
poetical talents of the former. A lady, who was present, and was
distinguished for the acuteness of her understanding, said, she had been
favoured with a sight of a poem he had just written, entitled _An Ode to
the Genius of Chivalry_, which appeared to her of exquisite merit. The
curiosity of the company was immediately excited, and the lady added,
she had a copy in her pocket, which was much at their service, provided
its being thus produced would not be disagreeable to the author. The
whole circle immediately entreated Mr. Falkland to comply with their
wishes, and Mr. Clare, who was one of the company, enforced their
petition. Nothing gave this gentleman so much pleasure as to have an
opportunity of witnessing and doing justice to the exhibition of
intellectual excellence. Mr. Falkland had no false modesty or
affectation, and therefore readily yielded his consent.

Mr. Tyrrel accidentally sat at the extremity of this circle. It cannot
be supposed that the turn the conversation had taken was by any means
agreeable to him. He appeared to wish to withdraw himself, but there
seemed to be some unknown power that, as it were by enchantment,
retained him in his place, and made him consent to drink to the dregs
the bitter potion which envy had prepared for him.

The poem was read to the rest of the company by Mr. Clare, whose
elocution was scarcely inferior to his other accomplishments.
Simplicity, discrimination, and energy constantly attended him in the
act of reading, and it is not easy to conceive a more refined delight
than fell to the lot of those who had the good fortune to be his
auditors. The beauties of Mr. Falkland's poem were accordingly exhibited
with every advantage. The successive passions of the author were
communicated to the hearer. What was impetuous, and what was solemn,
were delivered with a responsive feeling, and a flowing and unlaboured
tone. The pictures conjured up by the creative fancy of the poet were
placed full to view, at one time overwhelming the soul with
superstitious awe, and at another transporting it with luxuriant beauty.

The character of the hearers upon this occasion has already been
described. They were, for the most part, plain, unlettered, and of
little refinement. Poetry in general they read, when read at all, from
the mere force of imitation, and with few sensations of pleasure; but
this poem had a peculiar vein of glowing inspiration. This very poem
would probably have been seen by many of them with little effect; but
the accents of Mr. Clare carried it home to the heart. He ended: and, as
the countenances of his auditors had before sympathised with the
passions of the composition, so now they emulated each other in
declaring their approbation. Their sensations were of a sort to which
they were little accustomed. One spoke, and another followed by a sort
of uncontrollable impulse; and the rude and broken manner of their
commendations rendered them the more singular and remarkable. But what
was least to be endured was the behaviour of Mr. Clare. He returned the
manuscript to the lady from whom he had received it, and then,
addressing Mr. Falkland, said with emphasis and animation, "Ha! this is
as it should be. It is of the right stamp. I have seen too many hard
essays strained from the labour of a pedant, and pastoral ditties
distressed in lack of a meaning. They are such as you sir, that we want.
Do not forget, however, that the Muse was not given to add refinements
to idleness, but for the highest and most invaluable purposes. Act up to
the magnitude of your destiny."

A moment after, Mr. Clare quitted his seat, and with Mr. Falkland and
two or three more withdrew. As soon as they were gone, Mr. Tyrrel edged
further into the circle. He had sat silent so long that he seemed ready
to burst with gall and indignation. "Mighty pretty verses!" said he,
half talking to himself, and not addressing any particular person: "why,
ay, the verses are well enough. Damnation! I should like to know what a
ship-load of such stuff is good for."

"Why, surely," said the lady who had introduced Mr. Falkland's Ode on
the present occasion, "you must allow that poetry is an agreeable and
elegant amusement."

"Elegant, quotha!--Why, look at this Falkland! A puny bit of a thing! In
the devil's name, madam, do you think he would write poetry if he could
do any thing better?"

The conversation did not stop here. The lady expostulated. Several other
persons, fresh from the sensation they had felt, contributed their
share. Mr. Tyrrel grew more violent in his invectives, and found ease in
uttering them. The persons who were able in any degree to check his
vehemence were withdrawn. One speaker after another shrunk back into
silence, too timid to oppose, or too indolent to contend with, the
fierceness of his passion. He found the appearance of his old
ascendancy; but he felt its deceitfulness and uncertainty, and was
gloomily dissatisfied.

In his return from this assembly he was accompanied by a young man,
whom similitude of manners had rendered one of his principal confidents,
and whose road home was in part the same as his own. One might have
thought that Mr. Tyrrel had sufficiently vented his spleen in the
dialogue he had just been holding. But he was unable to dismiss from his
recollection the anguish he had endured. "Damn Falkland!" said he. "What
a pitiful scoundrel is here to make all this bustle about! But women and
fools always will be fools; there is no help for that! Those that set
them on have most to answer for; and most of all, Mr. Clare. He is a man
that ought to know something of the world, and past being duped by
gewgaws and tinsel. He seemed, too, to have some notion of things: I
should not have suspected him of hallooing to a cry of mongrels without
honesty or reason. But the world is all alike. Those that seem better
than their neighbours, are only more artful. They mean the same thing,
though they take a different road. He deceived me for a while, but it is
all out now. They are the makers of the mischief. Fools might blunder,
but they would not persist, if people that ought to set them right did
not encourage them to go wrong."

A few days after this adventure Mr. Tyrrel was surprised to receive a
visit from Mr. Falkland. Mr. Falkland proceeded, without ceremony, to
explain the motive of his coming.

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

"Explanation! What is my offence?"

"None in the world, sir; and for that reason I conceive this the fittest
time to come to a right understanding."

"You are in a devil of a hurry, sir. Are you clear that this haste will
not mar, instead of make an understanding?"

"I think I am, sir. I have great faith in the purity of my intentions,
and I will not doubt, when you perceive the view with which I come, that
you will willingly co-operate with it."

"Mayhap, Mr. Falkland, we may not agree about that. One man thinks one
way, and another man thinks another. Mayhap I do not think I have any
great reason to be pleased with you already."

"It may be so. I cannot, however, charge myself with having given you
reason to be displeased."

"Well, sir, you have no right to put me out of humour with myself. If
you come to play upon me, and try what sort of a fellow you shall have
to deal with, damn me if you shall have any reason to hug yourself upon
the experiment."

"Nothing, sir, is more easy for us than to quarrel. If you desire that,
there is no fear that you will find opportunities."

"Damn me, sir, if I do not believe you are come to bully me."

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

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

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

"I am wrong," said he. "I confess it. I came for purposes of peace. With
that view I have taken the liberty to visit you. Whatever therefore
might be my feelings upon another occasion, I am bound to suppress them
now,"

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

"Mr. Tyrrel," proceeded Mr. Falkland, "you will readily imagine that
the cause that brought me was not a slight one. I would not have
troubled you with visit, but for important reasons. My coming is a
pledge how deeply I am myself impressed with what I have to communicate.

"We are in a critical situation. We are upon the brink of a whirlpool
which, if once it get hold of us, will render all further deliberation
impotent. An unfortunate jealousy seems to have insinuated itself
between us, which I would willingly remove; and I come to ask your
assistance. We are both of us nice of temper; we are both apt to kindle,
and warm of resentment. Precaution in this stage can be dishonourable to
neither; the time may come when we shall wish we had employed it, and
find it too late. Why should we be enemies? Our tastes are different;
our pursuits need not interfere. We both of us amply possess the means
of happiness; We may be respected by all, and spend a long life of
tranquillity and enjoyment. Will it be wise in us to exchange this
prospect for the fruits of strife? A strife between persons with our
peculiarities and our weaknesses, includes consequences that I shudder
to think of. I fear, sir, that it is pregnant with death at least to one
of us, and with misfortune and remorse to the survivor."

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

"Because it is necessary to your happiness I Because it becomes me to
tell you of our danger now, rather than wait till my character will
allow this tranquillity no longer!

"By quarrelling we shall but imitate the great mass of mankind, who
could easily quarrel in our place. Let us do better. Let us show that we
have the magnanimity to contemn petty misunderstandings. By thus
judging we shall do ourselves most substantial honour. By a contrary
conduct we shall merely present a comedy for the amusement of our
acquaintance."

"Do you think so? there may be something in that. Damn me, if I consent
to be the jest of any man living."

"You are right, Mr. Tyrrel. Let us each act in the manner best
calculated to excite respect. We neither of us wish to change roads; let
us each suffer the other to pursue his own track unmolested. Be this our
compact; and by mutual forbearance let us preserve mutual peace."

Saying this, Mr. Falkland offered his hand to Mr. Tyrrel in token of
fellowship. But the gesture was too significant. The wayward rustic, who
seemed to have been somewhat impressed by what had preceded, taken as he
now was by surprise, shrunk back. Mr. Falkland was again ready to take
fire upon this new slight, but he checked himself.

"All this is very unaccountable," cried Mr. Tyrrel. "What the devil can
have made you so forward, if you had not some sly purpose to answer, by
which I am to be overreached?"

"My purpose," replied Mr. Falkland, "is a manly and an honest purpose.
Why should you refuse a proposition dictated by reason, and an equal
regard to the interest of each?"

Mr. Tyrrel had had an opportunity for pause, and fell back into his
habitual character.

"Well, sir, in all this I must own there is some frankness. Now I will
return you like for like. It is no matter how I came by it, my temper is
rough, and will not be controlled. Mayhap you may think it is a
weakness, but I do not desire to see it altered. Till you came, I found
myself very well: I liked my neighbours, and my neighbours humoured me.
But now the case is entirely altered; and, as long as I cannot stir
abroad without meeting with some mortification in which you are directly
or remotely concerned, I am determined to hate you. Now, sir, if you
will only go out of the county or the kingdom, to the devil if you
please, so as I may never hear of you any more, I will promise never to
quarrel with you as long as I live. Your rhymes and your rebusses, your
quirks and your conundrums, may then be every thing that is grand for
what I care."

"Mr. Tyrrel, be reasonable! Might not I as well desire you to leave the
county, as you desire me? I come to you, not as to a master, but an
equal. In the society of men we must have something to endure, as well
as to enjoy. No man must think that the world was made for him. Let us
take things as we find them; and accommodate ourselves as we can to
unavoidable circumstances."

"True, sir; all this is fine talking. But I return to my text: we are as
God made us. I am neither a philosopher nor a poet, to set out upon a
wild-goose chase of making myself a different man from what you find me.
As for consequences, what must be must be. As we brew we must bake. And
so, do you see? I shall not trouble myself about what is to be, but
stand up to it with a stout heart when it comes. Only this I can tell
you, that as long as I find you thrust into my dish every day I shall
hate you as bad as senna and valerian. And damn me, if I do not think I
hate you the more for coming to-day in this pragmatical way, when nobody
sent for you, on purpose to show how much wiser you are than all the
world besides."

"Mr. Tyrrel, I have done. I foresaw consequences, and came as a friend.
I had hoped that, by mutual explanation, we should have come to a better
understanding. I am disappointed; but, perhaps, when you coolly reflect
on what has passed, you will give me credit for my intentions, and think
that my proposal was not an unreasonable one."

Having said this, Mr. Falkland departed. Through the interview he, no
doubt, conducted himself in a way that did him peculiar credit. Yet the
warmth of his temper could not be entirely suppressed: and even when he
was most exemplary, there was an apparent loftiness in his manner that
was calculated to irritate; and the very grandeur with which he
suppressed his passions, operated indirectly as a taunt to his opponent.
The interview was prompted by the noblest sentiments; but it
unquestionably served to widen the breach it was intended to heal.

For Mr. Tyrrel, he had recourse to his old expedient, and unburthened
the tumult of his thoughts to his confidential friend. "This," cried he,
"is a new artifice of the fellow, to prove his imagined superiority. We
knew well enough that he had the gift of the gab. To be sure, if the
world were to be governed by words, he would be in the right box. Oh,
yes, he had it all hollow! But what signifies prating? Business must be
done in another guess way than that. I wonder what possessed me that I
did not kick him I But that is all to come. This is only a new debt
added to the score, which he shall one day richly pay. This Falkland
haunts me like a demon. I cannot wake but I think of him. I cannot sleep
but I see him. He poisons all my pleasures. I should be glad to see him
torn with tenter-hooks, and to grind his heart-strings with my teeth. I
shall know no joy till I see him ruined. There may be some things right
about him; but he is my perpetual torment. The thought of him hangs
like a dead weight upon my heart, and I have a right to shake it off.
Does he think I will feel all that I endure for nothing?"

In spite of the acerbity of Mr. Tyrrel's feelings, it is probable,
however, he did some justice to his rival. He regarded him, indeed, with
added dislike; but he no longer regarded him as a despicable foe. He
avoided his encounter; he forbore to treat him with random hostility; he
seemed to lie in wait for his victim, and to collect his venom for a
mortal assault.




CHAPTER V.


It was not long after that a malignant distemper broke out in the
neighbourhood, which proved fatal to many of the inhabitants, and was of
unexampled rapidity in its effects. One of the first persons that was
seized with it was Mr. Clare. It may be conceived, what grief and alarm
this incident spread through the vicinity. Mr. Clare was considered by
them as something more than mortal. The equanimity of his behaviour, his
unassuming carriage, his exuberant benevolence and goodness of heart,
joined with his talents, his inoffensive wit, and the comprehensiveness
of his intelligence, made him the idol of all that knew him. In the
scene of his rural retreat, at least, he had no enemy. All mourned the
danger that now threatened him. He appeared to have had the prospect of
long life, and of going down to his grave full of years and of honour.
Perhaps these appearances were deceitful. Perhaps the intellectual
efforts he had made, which were occasionally more sudden, violent, and
unintermitted, than a strict regard to health would have dictated, had
laid the seed of future disease. But a sanguine observer would
infallibly have predicted, that his temperate habits, activity of mind,
and unabated cheerfulness, would be able even to keep death at bay for a
time, and baffle the attacks of distemper, provided their approach were
not uncommonly rapid and violent. The general affliction, therefore, was
doubly pungent upon the present occasion.

But no one was so much affected as Mr. Falkland. Perhaps no man so well
understood the value of the life that was now at stake. He immediately
hastened to the spot; but he found some difficulty in gaining admission.
Mr. Clare, aware of the infectious nature of his disease, had given
directions that as few persons as possible should approach him. Mr.
Falkland sent up his name. He was told that he was included in the
general orders. He was not, however, of a temper to be easily repulsed;
he persisted with obstinacy, and at length carried his point, being only
reminded in the first instance to employ those precautions which
experience has proved most effectual for counteracting infection.

He found Mr. Clare in his bed-chamber, but not in bed. He was sitting in
his night-gown at a bureau near the window. His appearance was composed
and cheerful, but death was in his countenance. "I had a great
inclination, Falkland," said he, "not to have suffered you to come in;
and yet there is not a person in the world it could give me more
pleasure to see. But, upon second thoughts, I believe there are few
people that could run into a danger of this kind with a better prospect
of escaping. In your case, at least, the garrison will not, I trust, be
taken through the treachery of the commander. I cannot tell how it is
that I, who can preach wisdom to you, have myself been caught. But do
not be discouraged by my example. I had no notice of my danger, or I
would have acquitted myself better."

Mr. Falkland having once established himself in the apartment of his
friend, would upon no terms consent to retire. Mr. Clare considered that
there was perhaps less danger in this choice, than in the frequent
change from the extremes of a pure to a tainted air, and desisted from
expostulation. "Falkland," said he, "when you came in, I had just
finished making my will. I was not pleased with what I had formerly
drawn up upon that subject, and I did not choose in my present situation
to call in an attorney. In fact, it would be strange if a man of sense,
with pure and direct intentions, should not be able to perform such a
function for himself."

Mr. Clare continued to act in the same easy and disengaged manner as in
perfect health. To judge from the cheerfulness of his tone and the
firmness of his manner, the thought would never once have occurred that
he was dying. He walked, he reasoned, he jested, in a way that argued
the most perfect self-possession. But his appearance changed perceptibly
for the worse every quarter of an hour. Mr. Falkland kept his eye
perpetually fixed upon him, with mingled sentiments of anxiety and
admiration.

"Falkland," said he, after having appeared for a short period absorbed
in thought, "I feel that I am dying. This is a strange distemper of
mine. Yesterday I seemed in perfect health, and to-morrow I shall be an
insensible corpse. How curious is the line that separates life and death
to mortal men! To be at one moment active, gay, penetrating, with stores
of knowledge at one's command, capable of delighting, instructing, and
animating mankind, and the next, lifeless and loathsome, an incumbrance
upon the face of the earth! Such is the history of many men, and such
will be mine.

"I feel as if I had yet much to do in the world; but it will not be. I
must be contented with what is past. It is in vain that I muster all my
spirits to my heart. The enemy is too mighty and too merciless for me;
he will not give me time so much as to breathe. These things are not yet
at least in our power: they are parts of a great series that is
perpetually flowing. The general welfare, the great business of the
universe, will go on, though I bear no further share in promoting it.
That task is reserved for younger strengths, for you, Falkland, and such
as you. We should be contemptible indeed if the prospect of human
improvement did not yield us a pure and perfect delight, independently
of the question of our existing to partake of it. Mankind would have
little to envy to future ages, if they had all enjoyed a serenity as
perfect as mine has been for the latter half of my existence."

Mr. Clare sat up through the whole day, indulging himself in easy and
cheerful exertions, which were perhaps better calculated to refresh and
invigorate the frame, than if he had sought repose in its direct form.
Now and then he was visited with a sudden pang; but it was no sooner
felt, than he seemed to rise above it, and smiled at the impotence of
these attacks. They might destroy him, but they could not disturb. Three
or four times he was bedewed with profuse sweats; and these again were
succeeded by an extreme dryness and burning heat of the skin. He was
next covered with small livid spots: symptoms of shivering followed, but
these he drove away with a determined resolution. He then became
tranquil and composed, and, after some time, decided to go to bed, it
being already night. "Falkland," said he, pressing his hand, "the task
of dying is not so difficult as some imagine. When one looks back from
the brink of it, one wonders that so total a subversion can take place
at so easy a price."

He had now been some time in bed, and, as every thing was still, Mr.
Falkland hoped that he slept; but in that he was mistaken. Presently Mr.
Clare threw back the curtain, and looked in the countenance of his
friend. "I cannot sleep," said he. "No, if I could sleep, it would be
the same thing as to recover; and I am destined to have the worst in
this battle.

"Falkland, I have been thinking about you. I do not know any one whose
future usefulness I contemplate with greater hope. Take care of
yourself. Do not let the world be defrauded of your virtues. I am
acquainted with your weakness as well as your strength. You have an
impetuosity, and an impatience of imagined dishonour, that, if once set
wrong, may make you as eminently mischievous as you will otherwise be
useful. Think seriously of exterminating this error!

"But if I cannot, in the brief expostulation my present situation will
allow, produce this desirable change in you, there is at least one thing
I can do. I can put you upon your guard against a mischief I foresee to
be imminent. Beware of Mr. Tyrrel. Do not commit the mistake of
despising him as an unequal opponent. Petty causes may produce great
mischiefs. Mr. Tyrrel is boisterous, rugged, and unfeeling; and you are
too passionate, too acutely sensible of injury. It would be truly to be
lamented, if a man so inferior, so utterly unworthy to be compared with
you, should be capable of changing your whole history into misery and
guilt. I have a painful presentiment upon my heart, as if something
dreadful would reach you from that quarter. Think of this. I exact no
promise from you. I would not shackle you with the fetters of
superstition; I would have you governed by justice and reason."

Mr. Falkland was deeply affected with this expostulation. His sense of
the generous attention of Mr. Clare at such a moment, was so great as
almost to deprive him of utterance. He spoke in short sentences, and
with visible effort. "I will behave better," replied he. "Never fear me!
Your admonitions shall not be thrown away upon me."

Mr. Clare adverted to another subject. "I have made you my executor; you
will not refuse me this last office of friendship. It is but a short
time that I have had the happiness of knowing you; but in that short
time I have examined you well, and seen you thoroughly. Do not
disappoint the sanguine hope I have entertained!

"I have left some legacies. My former connections, while I lived amidst
the busy haunts of men, as many of them as were intimate, are all of
them dear to me. I have not had time to summon them about me upon the
present occasion, nor did I desire it. The remembrances of me will, I
hope, answer a better purpose than such as are usually thought of on
similar occasions."

Mr. Clare, having thus unburthened his mind, spoke no more for several
hours. Towards morning Mr. Falkland quietly withdrew the curtain, and
looked at the dying man. His eyes were open, and were now gently turned
towards his young friend. His countenance was sunk, and of a death-like
appearance. "I hope you are better," said Falkland in a half whisper, as
if afraid of disturbing him. Mr. Clare drew his hand from the
bed-clothes, and stretched it forward; Mr. Falkland advanced, and took
hold of it. "Much better," said Mr. Clare, in a voice inward and hardly
articulate; "the struggle is now over; I have finished my part;
farewell! remember!" These were his last words. He lived still a few
hours; his lips were sometimes seen to move; he expired without a groan.

Mr. Falkland had witnessed the scene with much anxiety. His hopes of a
favourable crisis, and his fear of disturbing the last moments of his
friend, had held him dumb. For the last half hour he had stood up, with
his eyes intently fixed upon Mr. Clare. He witnessed the last gasp, the
last little convulsive motion of the frame. He continued to look; he
sometimes imagined that he saw life renewed. At length he could deceive
himself no longer, and exclaimed with a distracted accent, "And is this
all?" He would have thrown himself upon the body of his friend; the
attendants withheld, and would have forced him into another apartment.
But he struggled from them, and hung fondly over the bed. "Is this the
end of genius, virtue, and excellence? Is the luminary of the world thus
for ever gone? Oh, yesterday! yesterday! Clare, why could not I have
died in your stead? Dreadful moment! Irreparable loss! Lost in the very
maturity and vigour of his mind! Cut off from a usefulness ten thousand
times greater than any he had already exhibited! Oh, his was a mind to
have instructed sages, and guided the moral world! This is all we have
left of him! The eloquence of those lips is gone! The incessant activity
of that heart is still! The best and wisest of men is gone, and the
world is insensible of its loss!"

Mr. Tyrrel heard the intelligence of Mr. Clare's death with emotion, but
of a different kind. He avowed that he had not forgiven him his partial
attachment to Mr. Falkland, and therefore could not recall his
remembrance with kindness. But if he could have overlooked his past
injustice, sufficient care, it seems, was taken to keep alive his
resentment. "Falkland, forsooth, attended him on his death-bed, as if
nobody else were worthy of his confidential communications." But what
was worst of all was this executorship. "In every thing this pragmatical
rascal throws me behind. Contemptible wretch, that has nothing of the
man about him! Must he perpetually trample upon his betters? Is every
body incapable of saying what kind of stuff a man is made of? caught
with mere outside? choosing the flimsy before the substantial? And upon
his death-bed too? [Mr. Tyrrel with his uncultivated brutality mixed, as
usually happens, certain rude notions of religion.] Sure the sense of
his situation might have shamed him. Poor wretch! his soul has a great
deal to answer for. He has made my pillow uneasy; and, whatever may be
the consequences, it is he we have to thank for them."

The death of Mr. Clare removed the person who could most effectually
have moderated the animosities of the contending parties, and took away
the great operative check upon the excesses of Mr. Tyrrel. This rustic
tyrant had been held in involuntary restraint by the intellectual
ascendancy of his celebrated neighbour: and, notwithstanding the general
ferocity of his temper, he did not appear till lately to have
entertained a hatred against him. In the short time that had elapsed
from the period in which Mr. Clare had fixed his residence in the
neighbourhood, to that of the arrival of Mr. Falkland from the
Continent, the conduct of Mr. Tyrrel had even shown tokens of
improvement. He would indeed have been better satisfied not to have had
even this intruder into a circle where he had been accustomed to reign.
But with Mr. Clare he could have no rivalship; the venerable character
of Mr. Clare disposed him to submission: this great man seemed to have
survived all the acrimony of contention, and all the jealous subtleties
of a mistaken honour.

The effects of Mr. Clare's suavity however, so far as related to Mr.
Tyrrel, had been in a certain degree suspended by considerations of
rivalship between this gentleman and Mr. Falkland. And, now that the
influence of Mr. Clare's presence and virtues was entirely removed, Mr.
Tyrrel's temper broke out into more criminal excesses than ever. The
added gloom which Mr. Falkland's neighbourhood inspired, overflowed upon
all his connections; and the new examples of his sullenness and tyranny
which every day afforded, reflected back upon this accumulated and
portentous feud.




CHAPTER VI.


The consequences of all this speedily manifested themselves. The very
next incident in the story was in some degree decisive of the
catastrophe. Hitherto I have spoken only of preliminary matters,
seemingly unconnected with each other, though leading to that state of
mind in both parties which had such fatal effects. But all that remains
is rapid and tremendous. The death-dealing mischief advances with an
accelerated motion, appearing to defy human wisdom and strength to
obstruct its operation.

The vices of Mr. Tyrrel, in their present state of augmentation, were
peculiarly exercised upon his domestics and dependents. But the
principal sufferer was the young lady mentioned on a former occasion,
the orphan daughter of his father's sister. Miss Melville's mother had
married imprudently, or rather unfortunately, against the consent of her
relations, all of whom had agreed to withdraw their countenance from her
in consequence of that precipitate step. Her husband had turned out to
be no better than an adventurer; had spent her fortune, which in
consequence of the irreconcilableness of her family was less than he
expected, and had broken her heart. Her infant daughter was left without
any resource. In this situation the representations of the people with
whom she happened to be placed, prevailed upon Mrs. Tyrrel, the mother
of the squire, to receive her into her family. In equity, perhaps, she
was entitled to that portion of fortune which her mother had forfeited
by her imprudence, and which had gone to swell the property of the male
representative. But this idea had never entered into the conceptions of
either mother or son. Mrs, Tyrrel conceived that she performed an act of
the most exalted benevolence in admitting Miss Emily into a sort of
equivocal situation, which was neither precisely that of a domestic, nor
yet marked with the treatment that might seem due to one of the family.

She had not, however, at first been sensible of all the mortifications
that might have been expected from her condition. Mrs. Tyrrel, though
proud and imperious, was not ill-natured. The female, who lived in the
family in the capacity of housekeeper, was a person who had seen better
days, and whose disposition was extremely upright and amiable. She early
contracted a friendship for the little Emily, who was indeed for the
most part committed to her care. Emily, on her side, fully repaid the
affection of her instructress, and learned with great docility the few
accomplishments Mrs. Jakeman was able to communicate. But most of all
she imbibed her cheerful and artless temper, that extracted the
agreeable and encouraging from all events, and prompted her to
communicate her sentiments, which were never of the cynical cast,
without modification or disguise. Besides the advantages Emily derived
from Mrs. Jakeman, she was permitted to take lessons from the masters
who were employed at Tyrrel Place for the instruction of her cousin; and
indeed, as the young gentleman was most frequently indisposed to attend
to them, they would commonly have had nothing to do, had it not been for
the fortunate presence of Miss Melville. Mrs. Tyrrel therefore
encouraged the studies of Emily on that score; in addition to which she
imagined that this living exhibition of instruction might operate as an
indirect allurement to her darling Barnabas, the only species of motive
she would suffer to be presented. Force she absolutely forbade; and of
the intrinsic allurements of literature and knowledge she had no
conception.

Emily, as she grew up, displayed an uncommon degree of sensibility,
which under her circumstances would have been a source of perpetual
dissatisfaction, had it not been qualified with an extreme sweetness and
easiness of temper. She was far from being entitled to the appellation
of a beauty. Her person was _petite_ and trivial; her complexion
savoured of the _brunette_; and her face was marked with the small-pox,
sufficiently to destroy its evenness and polish, though not enough to
destroy its expression. But, though her appearance was not beautiful, it
did not fail to be in a high degree engaging. Her complexion was at once
healthful and delicate; her long dark eye-brows adapted themselves with
facility to the various conceptions of her mind; and her looks bore the
united impression of an active discernment and a good-humoured
frankness. The instruction she had received, as it was entirely of a
casual nature, exempted her from the evils of untutored ignorance, but
not from a sort of native wildness, arguing a mind incapable of guile
itself, or of suspecting it in others. She amused, without seeming
conscious of the refined sense which her observations contained; or
rather, having never been debauched with applause, she set light by her
own qualifications, and talked from the pure gaiety of a youthful heart
acting upon the stores of a just understanding, and not with any
expectation of being distinguished and admired.

The death of her aunt made very little change in her situation. This
prudent lady, who would have thought it little less than sacrilege to
have considered Miss Melville as a branch of the stock of the Tyrrels,
took no more notice of her in her will than barely putting her down for
one hundred pounds in a catalogue of legacies to her servants. She had
never been admitted into the intimacy and confidence of Mrs. Tyrrel; and
the young squire, now that she was left under his sole protection,
seemed inclined to treat her with even more liberality than his mother
had done. He had seen her grow up under his eye, and therefore, though
there were but six years difference in their ages, he felt a kind of
paternal interest in her welfare. Habit had rendered her in a manner
necessary to him, and, in every recess from the occupations of the field
and the pleasures of the table, he found himself solitary and forlorn
without the society of Miss Melville. Nearness of kindred, and Emily's
want of personal beauty, prevented him from ever looking on her with the
eyes of desire. Her accomplishments were chiefly of the customary and
superficial kind, dancing and music. Her skill in the first led him
sometimes to indulge her with a vacant corner in his carriage, when he
went to the neighbouring assembly; and, in whatever light he might
himself think proper to regard her, he would have imagined his
chambermaid, introduced by him, entitled to an undoubted place in the
most splendid circle. Her musical talents were frequently employed for
his amusement. She had the honour occasionally of playing him to sleep
after the fatigues of the chase; and, as he had some relish for
harmonious sounds, she was frequently able to soothe him by their means
from the perturbations of which his gloomy disposition was so eminently
a slave. Upon the whole, she might be considered as in some sort his
favourite. She was the mediator to whom his tenants and domestics, when
they had incurred his displeasure, were accustomed to apply; the
privileged companion, that could approach this lion with impunity in the
midst of his roarings. She spoke to him without fear; her solicitations
were always good-natured and disinterested; and when he repulsed her, he
disarmed himself of half his terrors, and was contented to smile at her
presumption.

Such had been for some years the situation of Miss Melville. Its
precariousness had been beguiled by the uncommon forbearance with which
she was treated by her savage protector. But his disposition, always
brutal, had acquired a gradual accession of ferocity since the
settlement of Mr. Falkland in his neighbourhood. He now frequently
forgot the gentleness with which he had been accustomed to treat his
good-natured cousin. Her little playful arts were not always successful
in softening his rage; and he would sometimes turn upon her
blandishments with an impatient sternness that made her tremble. The
careless ease of her disposition, however, soon effaced these
impressions, and she fell without variation into her old habits.

A circumstance occurred about this time which gave peculiar strength to
the acrimony of Mr. Tyrrel, and ultimately brought to its close the
felicity that Miss Melville, in spite of the frowns of fortune, had
hitherto enjoyed. Emily was exactly seventeen when Mr. Falkland returned
from the continent. At this age she was peculiarly susceptible of the
charms of beauty, grace, and moral excellence, when united in a person
of the other sex. She was imprudent, precisely because her own heart was
incapable of guile. She had never yet felt the sting of the poverty to
which she was condemned, and had not reflected on the insuperable
distance that custom has placed between the opulent and the poorer
classes of the community. She beheld Mr. Falkland, whenever he was
thrown in her way at any of the public meetings, with admiration; and,
without having precisely explained to herself the sentiments she
indulged, her eyes followed him through all the changes of the scene,
with eagerness and impatience. She did not see him, as the rest of the
assembly did, born to one of the amplest estates in the county, and
qualified to assert his title to the richest heiress. She thought only
of Falkland, with those advantages which were most intimately his own,
and of which no persecution of adverse fortune had the ability to
deprive him. In a word, she was transported when he was present; he was
the perpetual subject of her reveries and her dreams; but his image
excited no sentiment in her mind beyond that of the immediate pleasure
she took in his idea.

The notice Mr. Falkland bestowed on her in return, appeared sufficiently
encouraging to a mind so full of prepossession as that of Emily. There
was a particular complacency in his looks when directed towards her. He
had said in a company, of which one of the persons present repeated his
remarks to Miss Melville, that she appeared to him amiable and
interesting; that he felt for her unprovided and destitute situation;
and that he should have been glad to be more particular in his attention
to her, had he not been apprehensive of doing her a prejudice in the
suspicious mind of Mr. Tyrrel. All this she considered as the ravishing
condescension of a superior nature; for, if she did not recollect with
sufficient assiduity his gifts of fortune, she was, on the other hand,
filled with reverence for his unrivalled accomplishments. But, while she
thus seemingly disclaimed all comparison between Mr. Falkland and
herself, she probably cherished a confused feeling as if some event,
that was yet in the womb of fate, might reconcile things apparently the
most incompatible. Fraught with these prepossessions, the civilities
that had once or twice occurred in the bustle of a public circle, the
restoring her fan which she had dropped, or the disembarrassing her of
an empty tea-cup, made her heart palpitate, and gave birth to the
wildest chimeras in her deluded imagination.

About this time an event happened, that helped to give a precise
determination to the fluctuations of Miss Melville's mind. One evening,
a short time after the death of Mr. Clare, Mr. Falkland had been at the
house of his deceased friend in his quality of executor, and, by some
accidents of little intrinsic importance, had been detained three or
four hours later than he expected. He did not set out upon his return
till two o'clock in the morning. At this time, in a situation so remote
from the metropolis, every thing is as silent as it would be in a
region wholly uninhabited. The moon shone bright; and the objects around
being marked with strong variations of light and shade, gave a kind of
sacred solemnity to the scene. Mr. Falkland had taken Collins with him,
the business to be settled at Mr. Clare's being in some respects similar
to that to which this faithful domestic had been accustomed in the
routine of his ordinary service. They had entered into some
conversation, for Mr. Falkland was not then in the habit of obliging the
persons about him by formality and reserve to recollect who he was. The
attractive solemnity of the scene made him break off the talk somewhat
abruptly, that he might enjoy it without interruption. They had not
ridden far, before a hollow wind seemed to rise at a distance, and they
could hear the hoarse roarings of the sea. Presently the sky on one side
assumed the appearance of a reddish brown, and a sudden angle in the
road placed this phenomenon directly before them. As they proceeded, it
became more distinct, and it was at length sufficiently visible that it
was occasioned by a fire. Mr. Falkland put spurs to his horse; and, as
they approached, the object presented every instant a more alarming
appearance. The flames ascended with fierceness; they embraced a large
portion of the horizon; and, as they carried up with them numerous
little fragments of the materials that fed them, impregnated with fire,
and of an extremely bright and luminous colour, they presented some
feeble image of the tremendous eruption of a volcano.

The flames proceeded from a village directly in their road. There were
eight or ten houses already on fire, and the whole seemed to be
threatened with immediate destruction. The inhabitants were in the
utmost consternation, having had no previous experience of a similar
calamity. They conveyed with haste their moveables and furniture into
the adjoining fields. When any of them had effected this as far as it
could be attempted with safety, they were unable to conceive any further
remedy, but stood wringing their hands, and contemplating the ravages of
the fire in an agony of powerless despair. The water that could be
procured, in any mode practised in that place, was but as a drop
contending with an element in arms. The wind in the mean time was
rising, and the flames spread with more and more rapidity.

Mr. Falkland contemplated this scene for a few moments, as if ruminating
with himself as to what could be done. He then directed some of the
country people about him to pull down a house, next to one that was
wholly on fire, but which itself was yet untouched. They seemed
astonished at a direction which implied a voluntary destruction of
property, and considered the task as too much in the heart of the danger
to be undertaken. Observing that they were motionless, he dismounted
from his horse, and called upon them in an authoritative voice to follow
him. He ascended the house in an instant, and presently appeared upon
the top of it, as if in the midst of the flames. Having, with the
assistance of two or three of the persons that followed him most
closely, and who by this time had supplied themselves with whatever
tools came next to hand, loosened the support of a stack of chimneys, he
pushed them headlong into the midst of the fire. He passed and repassed
along the roof; and, having set people to work in all parts, descended
in order to see what could be done in any other quarter. At this moment
an elderly woman burst from the midst of a house in flames: the utmost
consternation was painted in her looks; and, as soon as she could
recollect herself enough to have a proper idea of her situation, the
subject of her anxiety seemed, in an instant, to be totally changed.
"Where is my child?" cried she, and cast an anxious and piercing look
among the surrounding crowd. "Oh, she is lost! she is in the midst of
flames! Save her! save her! my child!" She filled the air with
heart-rending shrieks. She turned towards the house. The people that
were near endeavoured to prevent her, but she shook them off in a
moment. She entered the passage; viewed the hideous ruin; and was then
going to plunge into the blazing staircase. Mr. Falkland saw, pursued,
and seized her by the arm; it was Mrs. Jakeman. "Stop!" he cried, with a
voice of grand, yet benevolent authority. "Remain you in the street! I
will seek, and will save her!" Mrs. Jakeman obeyed. He charged the
persons who were near to detain her; he enquired which was the apartment
of Emily. Mrs. Jakeman was upon a visit to a sister who lived in the
village, and had brought Emily along with her. Mr. Falkland ascended a
neighbouring house, and entered that in which Emily was, by a window in
the roof.

He found her already awaked from her sleep; and, becoming sensible of
her danger, she had that instant wrapped a loose gown round her. Such is
the almost irresistible result of feminine habits; but, having done
this, she examined the surrounding objects with the wildness of despair.
Mr. Falkland entered the chamber. She flew into his arms with the
rapidity of lightning. She embraced and clung to him, with an impulse
that did not wait to consult the dictates of her understanding. Her
emotions were indescribable. In a few short moments she had lived an age
in love. In two minutes Mr. Falkland was again in the street with his
lovely, half-naked burthen in his arms. Having restored her to her
affectionate protector, snatched from the immediate grasp of death, from
which, if he had not, none would have delivered her, he returned to his
former task. By his presence of mind, by his indefatigable humanity and
incessant exertions, he saved three fourths of the village from
destruction.

The conflagration being at length abated, he sought again Mrs. Jakeman
and Emily, who by this time had obtained a substitute for the garments
she had lost in the fire. He displayed the tenderest solicitude for the
young lady's safety, and directed Collins to go with as much speed as he
could, and send his chariot to attend her. More than an hour elapsed in
this interval. Miss Melville had never seen so much of Mr. Falkland upon
any former occasion; and the spectacle of such humanity, delicacy,
firmness, and justice in the form of man, as he crowded into this small
space, was altogether new to her, and in the highest degree fascinating.
She had a confused feeling as if there had been something indecorous in
her behaviour or appearance, when Mr. Falkland had appeared to her
relief; and this combined with her other emotions to render the whole
critical and intoxicating.

Emily no sooner arrived at the family mansion, than Mr. Tyrrel ran out
to receive her. He had just heard of the melancholy accident that had
taken place at the village, and was terrified for the safety of his
good-humoured cousin. He displayed those unpremeditated emotions which
are common to almost every individual of the human race. He was greatly
shocked at the suspicion that Emily might possibly have become the
victim of a catastrophe which had thus broken out in the dead of night.
His sensations were of the most pleasing sort when he folded her in his
arms, and fearful apprehension was instantaneously converted into
joyous certainty. Emily no sooner entered under the well known roof than
her spirits were brisk, and her tongue incessant in describing her
danger and her deliverance. Mr. Tyrrel had formerly been tortured with
the innocent eulogiums she pronounced of Mr. Falkland. But these were
lameness itself, compared with the rich and various eloquence that now
flowed from her lips. Love had not the same effect upon her, especially
at the present moment, which it would have had upon a person instructed
to feign a blush, and inured to a consciousness of wrong. She described
his activity and resources, the promptitude with which every thing was
conceived, and the cautious but daring wisdom with which it was
executed. All was fairy-land and enchantment in the tenour of her
artless tale; you saw a beneficent genius surveying and controlling the
whole, but could have no notion of any human means by which his purposes
were effected.

Mr. Tyrrel listened for a while to these innocent effusions with
patience; he could even bear to hear the man applauded, by whom he had
just obtained so considerable a benefit. But the theme by amplification
became nauseous, and he at length with some roughness put an end to the
tale. Probably, upon recollection, it appeared still more insolent and
intolerable than while it was passing; the sensation of gratitude wore
off, but the hyperbolical praise that had been bestowed still haunted
his memory, and sounded in his ear;--Emily had entered into the
confederacy that disturbed his repose. For herself, she was wholly
unconscious of offence, and upon every occasion quoted Mr. Falkland as
the model of elegant manners and true wisdom. She was a total stranger
to dissimulation; and she could not conceive that any one beheld the
subject of her admiration with less partiality than herself. Her
artless love became more fervent than ever. She flattered herself that
nothing less than a reciprocal passion could have prompted Mr. Falkland
to the desperate attempt of saving her from the flames; and she trusted
that this passion would speedily declare itself, as well as induce the
object of her adoration to overlook her comparative unworthiness.

Mr. Tyrrel endeavoured at first with some moderation to check Miss
Melville in her applauses, and to convince her by various tokens that
the subject was disagreeable to him. He was accustomed to treat her with
kindness. Emily, on her part, was disposed to yield an unreluctant
obedience, and therefore it was not difficult to restrain her. But upon
the very next occasion her favourite topic would force its way to her
lips. Her obedience was the acquiescence of a frank and benevolent
heart; but it was the most difficult thing in the world to inspire her
with fear. Conscious herself that she would not hurt a worm, she could
not conceive that any one would harbour cruelty and rancour against her.
Her temper had preserved her from obstinate contention with the persons
under whose protection she was placed; and, as her compliance was
unhesitating, she had no experience of a severe and rigorous treatment.
As Mr. Tyrrel's objection to the very name of Falkland became more
palpable and uniform, Miss Melville increased in her precaution. She
would stop herself in the half-pronounced sentences that were meant to
his praise. This circumstance had necessarily an ungracious effect; it
was a cutting satire upon the imbecility of her kinsman. Upon these
occasions she would sometimes venture upon a good-humoured
expostulation:--"Dear sir! well, I wonder how you can be so ill-natured!
I am sure Mr. Falkland would do you any good office in the
world:"--till she was checked by some gesture of impatience and
fierceness.

At length she wholly conquered her heedlessness and inattention. But it
was too late. Mr. Tyrrel already suspected the existence of that passion
which she had thoughtlessly imbibed. His imagination, ingenious in
torment, suggested to him all the different openings in conversation, in
which she would have introduced the praise of Mr. Falkland, had she not
been placed under this unnatural restraint. Her present reserve upon the
subject was even more insufferable than her former loquacity. All his
kindness for this unhappy orphan gradually subsided. Her partiality for
the man who was the object of his unbounded abhorrence, appeared to him
as the last persecution of a malicious destiny. He figured himself as
about to be deserted by every creature in human form; all men, under the
influence of a fatal enchantment, approving only what was sophisticated
and artificial, and holding the rude and genuine offspring of nature in
mortal antipathy. Impressed with these gloomy presages, he saw Miss
Melville with no sentiments but those of rancorous aversion; and,
accustomed as he was to the uncontrolled indulgence of his propensities,
he determined to wreak upon her a signal revenge.




CHAPTER VII.


Mr. Tyrrel consulted his old confident respecting the plan he should
pursue; who, sympathising as he did in the brutality and insolence of
his friend, had no idea that an insignificant girl, without either
wealth or beauty, ought to be allowed for a moment to stand in the way
of the gratifications of a man of Mr. Tyrrel's importance. The first
idea of her now unrelenting kinsman was to thrust her from his doors,
and leave her to seek her bread as she could. But he was conscious that
this proceeding would involve him in considerable obloquy; and he at
length fixed upon a scheme which, at the same time that he believed it
would sufficiently shelter his reputation, would much more certainly
secure her mortification and punishment.

For this purpose he fixed upon a young man of twenty, the son of one
Grimes, who occupied a small farm, the property of his confident. This
fellow he resolved to impose as a husband on Miss Melville, who, he
shrewdly suspected, guided by the tender sentiments she had
unfortunately conceived for Mr. Falkland, would listen with reluctance
to any matrimonial proposal. Grimes he selected as being in all respects
the diametrical reverse of Mr. Falkland. He was not precisely a lad of
vicious propensities, but in an inconceivable degree boorish and
uncouth. His complexion was scarcely human; his features were coarse,
and strangely discordant and disjointed from each other. His lips were
thick, and the tone of his voice broad and unmodulated. His legs were of
equal size from one end to the other, and his feet misshapen and clumsy.
He had nothing spiteful or malicious in his disposition, but he was a
total stranger to tenderness; he could not feel for those refinements in
others, of which he had no experience in himself. He was an expert
boxer: his inclination led him to such amusements as were most
boisterous; and he delighted in a sort of manual sarcasm, which he could
not conceive to be very injurious, as it left no traces behind it. His
general manners were noisy and obstreperous; inattentive to others; and
obstinate and unyielding, not from any cruelty and ruggedness of
temper, but from an incapacity to conceive those finer feelings, that
make so large a part of the history of persons who are cast in a gentler
mould.

Such was the uncouth and half-civilised animal, which the industrious
malice of Mr. Tyrrel fixed upon as most happily adapted to his purpose.
Emily had hitherto been in an unusual degree exempted from the
oppression of despotism. Her happy insignificance had served her as a
protection. No one thought it worth his while to fetter her with those
numerous petty restrictions with which the daughters of opulence are
commonly tormented. She had the wildness, as well as the delicate frame,
of the bird that warbles unmolested in its native groves.

When therefore she heard from her kinsman the proposal of Mr. Grimes for
a husband, she was for a moment silent with astonishment at so
unexpected a suggestion. But as soon as she recovered her speech, she
replied, "No, sir, I do not want a husband."

"You do! Are not you always hankering after the men? It is high time you
should be settled."

"Mr. Grimes! No, indeed! when I do have a husband, it shall not be such
a man as Mr. Grimes neither."

"Be silent! How dare you give yourself such unaccountable liberties?"

"Lord, I wonder what I should do with him. You might as well give me
your great rough water-dog, and bid me make him a silk cushion to lie in
my dressing-room. Besides, sir, Grimes is a common labouring man, and I
am sure I have always heard my aunt say that ours is a very great
family."

"It is a lie! Our family! have you the impudence to think yourself one
of our family?"

"Why, sir, was not your grandpapa my grandpapa? How then can we be of a
different family?"

"From the strongest reason in the world. You are the daughter of a
rascally Scotchman, who spent every shilling of my aunt Lucy's fortune,
and left you a beggar. You have got an hundred pounds, and Grimes's
father promises to give him as much. How dare you look down upon your
equals?"

"Indeed, sir, I am not proud. But, indeed and indeed, I can never love
Mr. Grimes. I am very happy as I am: why should I be married?"

"Silence your prating! Grimes will be here this afternoon. Look that you
behave well to him. If you do not, he will remember and repay, when you
least like it."

"Nay, I am sure, sir--you are not in earnest?"

"Not in earnest! Damn me, but we will see that. I can tell what you
would be at. You had rather be Mr. Falkland's miss, than the wife of a
plain downright yeoman. But I shall take care of you.--Ay, this comes of
indulgence. You must be taken down, miss. You must be taught the
difference between high-flown notions and realities. Mayhap you may take
it a little in dudgeon or so; but never mind that. Pride always wants a
little smarting. If you should be brought to shame, it is I that shall
bear the blame of it."

The tone in which Mr. Tyrrel spoke was so different from any thing to
which Miss Melville had been accustomed, that she felt herself wholly
unable to determine what construction to put upon it. Sometimes she
thought he had really formed a plan for imposing upon her a condition
that she could not bear so much as to think of. But presently she
rejected this idea as an unworthy imputation upon her kinsman, and
concluded that it was only his way, and that all he meant was to try
her. To be resolved however, she determined to consult her constant
adviser, Mrs. Jakeman, and accordingly repeated to her what had passed.
Mrs. Jakeman saw the whole in a very different light from that in which
Emily had conceived it, and trembled for the future peace of her beloved
ward.

"Lord bless me, my dear mamma!" cried Emily, (this was the appellation
she delighted to bestow upon the good housekeeper,) "you cannot think
so? But I do not care. I will never marry Grimes, happen what will."

"But how will you help yourself? My master will oblige you."

"Nay, now you think you are talking to a child indeed. It is I am to
have the man, not Mr. Tyrrel. Do you think I will let any body else
choose a husband for me? I am not such a fool as that neither."

"Ah, Emily! you little know the disadvantages of your situation. Your
cousin is a violent man, and perhaps will turn you out of doors, if you
oppose him."

"Oh, mamma! it is very wicked of you to say so. I am sure Mr. Tyrrel is
a very good man, though he be a little cross now and then. He knows very
well that I am right to have a will of my own in such a thing as this,
and nobody is punished for doing what is right."

"Nobody ought, my dear child. But there are very wicked and tyrannical
men in the world."

"Well, well, I will never believe my cousin is one of these."

"I hope he is not."

"And if he were, what then? To be sure I should he very sorry to make
him angry."

"What then! Why then my poor Emily would be a beggar. Do you think I
could bear to see that?"

"No, no. Mr. Tyrrel has just told me that I have a hundred pounds. But
if I had no fortune, is not that the case with a thousand other folks?
Why should I grieve, for what they bear and are merry? Do not make
yourself uneasy, mamma. I am determined that I will do any thing rather
than marry Grimes; that is what I will."

Mrs. Jakeman could not bear the uneasy state of suspense in which this
conversation left her mind, and went immediately to the squire to have
her doubts resolved. The manner in which she proposed the question,
sufficiently indicated the judgment she had formed of the match.

"That is true," said Mr. Tyrrel, "I wanted to speak to you about this
affair. The girl has got unaccountable notions in her head, that will be
the ruin of her. You perhaps can tell where she had them. But, be that
as it will, it is high time something should be done. The shortest way
is the best, and to keep things well while they are well. In short, I am
determined she shall marry this lad: you do not know any harm of him, do
you? You have a good deal of influence with her, and I desire, do you
see, that you will employ it to lead her to her good: you had best, I
can tell you. She is a pert vixen! By and by she would be a whore, and
at last no better than a common trull, and rot upon a dunghill, if I
were not at all these pains to save her from destruction. I would make
her an honest farmer's wife, and my pretty miss cannot bear the thoughts
of it!"

In the afternoon Grimes came according to appointment, and was left
alone with the young lady.

"Well, miss," said he, "it seems the squire has a mind to make us man
and wife. For my part, I cannot say I should have thought of it. But,
being as how the squire has broke the ice, if so be as you like of the
match, why I am your man. Speak the word; a nod is as good as a wink to
a blind horse."

Emily was already sufficiently mortified at the unexpected proposal of
Mr. Tyrrel. She was confounded at the novelty of the situation, and
still more at the uncultivated rudeness of her lover, which even
exceeded her expectation. This confusion was interpreted by Grimes into
diffidence.

"Come, come, never be cast down. Put a good face upon it. What though?
My first sweetheart was Bet Butterfield, but what of that? What must be
must be; grief will never fill the belly. She was a fine strapping
wench, that is the truth of it! five foot ten inches, and as stout as a
trooper. Oh, she would do a power of work! Up early and down late;
milked ten cows with her own hands; on with her cardinal, rode to market
between her panniers, fair weather and foul, hail, blow, or snow. It
would have done your heart good to have seen her frost-bitten cheeks, as
red as a beefen from her own orchard! Ah! she was a maid of mettle;
would romp with the harvestmen, slap one upon the back, wrestle with
another, and had a rogue's trick and a joke for all round. Poor girl!
she broke her neck down stairs at a christening. To be sure I shall
never meet with her fellow! But never you mind that; I do not doubt that
I shall find more in you upon further acquaintance. As coy and bashful
as you seem, I dare say you are rogue enough at bottom. When I have
touzled and rumpled you a little, we shall see. I am no chicken, miss,
whatever you may think. I know what is what, and can see as far into a
millstone as another. Ay, ay; you will come to. The fish will snap at
the bait, never doubt it. Yes, yes, we shall rub on main well together."

Emily by this time had in some degree mustered up her spirits, and
began, though with hesitation, to thank Mr. Grimes for his good opinion,
but to confess that she could never be brought to favour his addresses.
She therefore entreated him to desist from all further application. This
remonstrance on her part would have become more intelligible, had it not
been for his boisterous manners and extravagant cheerfulness, which
indisposed him to silence, and made him suppose that at half a word he
had sufficient intimation of another's meaning. Mr. Tyrrel, in the mean
time, was too impatient not to interrupt the scene before they could
have time to proceed far in explanation; and he was studious in the
sequel to prevent the young folks from being too intimately acquainted
with each other's inclinations. Grimes, of consequence, attributed the
reluctance of Miss Melville to maiden coyness, and the skittish shyness
of an unbroken filly. Indeed, had it been otherwise, it is not probable
that it would have made any effectual impression upon him; as he was
always accustomed to consider women as made for the recreation of the
men, and to exclaim against the weakness of people who taught them to
imagine they were to judge for themselves.

As the suit proceeded, and Miss Melville saw more of her new admirer,
her antipathy increased. But, though her character was unspoiled by
those false wants, which frequently make people of family miserable
while they have every thing that nature requires within their reach, yet
she had been little used to opposition, and was terrified at the growing
sternness of her kinsman. Sometimes she thought of flying from a house
which was now become her dungeon; but the habits of her youth, and her
ignorance of the world, made her shrink from this project, when she
contemplated it more nearly, Mrs. Jakeman, indeed, could not think with
patience of young Grimes as a husband for her darling Emily; but her
prudence determined her to resist with all her might the idea on the
part of the young lady of proceeding to extremities. She could not
believe that Mr. Tyrrel would persist in such an unaccountable
persecution, and she exhorted Miss Melville to forget for a moment the
unaffected independence of her character, and pathetically to deprecate
her cousin's obstinacy. She had great confidence in the ingenuous
eloquence of her ward. Mrs. Jakeman did not know what was passing in the
breast of the tyrant.

Miss Melville complied with the suggestion of her mamma. One morning
immediately after breakfast, she went to her harpsichord, and played one
after another several of those airs that were most the favourites of Mr.
Tyrrel. Mrs. Jakeman had retired; the servants were gone to their
respective employments. Mr. Tyrrel would have gone also; his mind was
untuned, and he did not take the pleasure he had been accustomed to take
in the musical performances of Emily. But her finger was now more
tasteful than common. Her mind was probably wrought up to a firmer and
bolder tone, by the recollection of the cause she was going to plead; at
the same time that it was exempt from those incapacitating tremors which
would have been felt by one that dared not look poverty in the face. Mr.
Tyrrel was unable to leave the apartment. Sometimes he traversed it with
impatient steps; then he hung over the poor innocent whose powers were
exerted to please him; at length he threw himself in a chair opposite,
with his eyes turned towards Emily. It was easy to trace the progress of
his emotions. The furrows into which his countenance was contracted were
gradually relaxed; his features were brightened into a smile; the
kindness with which he had upon former occasions contemplated Emily
seemed to revive in his heart.

Emily watched her opportunity. As soon as she had finished one of the
pieces, she rose and went to Mr. Tyrrel.

"Now, have not I done it nicely? and after this will not you give me a
reward?"

"A reward! Ay, come here, and I will give you a kiss."

"No, that is not it. And yet you have not kissed me this many a day.
Formerly you said you loved me, and called me your Emily. I am sure you
did not love me better than I loved you. You have not forgot all the
kindness you once had for me?" added she anxiously.

"Forgot? No, no. How can you ask such a question? You shall be my dear
Emily still!"

"Ah, those were happy times!" she replied, a little mournfully. "Do you
know, cousin, I wish I could wake, and find that the last month--only
about a month--was a dream?"

"What do you mean by that?" said Mr. Tyrrel with an altered voice. "Have
a care! Do not put me out of humour. Do not come with your romantic
notions now."

"No, no: I have no romantic notions in my head. I speak of something
upon which the happiness of my life depends."

"I see what you would be at. Be silent. You know it is to no purpose to
plague me with your stubbornness. You will not let me be in good humour
with you for a moment. What my mind is determined upon about Grimes, all
the world shall not move me to give up."

"Dear, dear cousin! why, but consider now. Grimes is a rough rustic
lout, like Orson in the story-book. He wants a wife like himself. He
would be as uneasy and as much at a loss with me, as I with him. Why
should we both of us be forced to do what neither of us is inclined to?
I cannot think what could ever have put it into your head. But now, for
goodness' sake, give it up! Marriage is a serious thing. You should not
think of joining two people for a whim, who are neither of them fit for
one another in any respect in the world. We should feel mortified and
disappointed all our lives. Month would go after month, and year after
year, and I could never hope to be my own, but by the death of a person
I ought to love. I am sure, sir, you cannot mean me all this harm. What
have I done, that I should deserve to have you for an enemy?"

"I am not your enemy. I tell you that it is necessary to put you out of
harm's way. But, if I were your enemy, I could not be a worse torment to
you than you are to me. Are not you continually singing the praises of
Falkland? Are not you in love with Falkland? That man is a legion of
devils to me! I might as well have been a beggar! I might as well have
been a dwarf or a monster! Time was when I was thought entitled to
respect. But now, debauched by this Frenchified rascal, they call me
rude, surly, a tyrant! It is true that I cannot talk in finical phrases,
flatter people with hypocritical praise, or suppress the real feelings
of my mind. The scoundrel knows his pitiful advantages, and insults me
upon them without ceasing. He is my rival and my persecutor; and, at
last, as if all this were not enough, he has found means to spread the
pestilence in my own family. You, whom we took up out of charity, the
chance-born brat of a stolen marriage! you must turn upon your
benefactor, and wound me in the point that of all others I could least
bear. If I were your enemy, should not I have reason? Could I ever
inflict upon you such injuries as you have made me suffer? And who are
you? The lives of fifty such cannot atone for an hour of my uneasiness.
If you were to linger for twenty years upon the rack, you would never
feel what I have felt. But I am your friend. I see which way you are
going; and I am determined to save you from this thief, this
hypocritical destroyer of us all. Every moment that the mischief is left
to itself, it does but make bad worse; and I am determined to save you
out of hand."

The angry expostulations of Mr. Tyrrel suggested new ideas to the tender
mind of Miss Melville. He had never confessed the emotions of his soul
so explicitly before; but the tempest of his thoughts suffered him to be
no longer master of himself. She saw with astonishment that he was the
irreconcilable foe of Mr. Falkland, whom she had fondly imagined it was
the same thing to know and admire; and that he harboured a deep and
rooted resentment against herself. She recoiled, without well knowing
why, before the ferocious passions of her kinsman, and was convinced
that she had nothing to hope from his implacable temper. But her alarm
was the prelude of firmness, and not of cowardice.

"No, sir," replied she, "indeed I will not be driven any way that you
happen to like. I have been used to obey you, and, in all that is
reasonable, I will obey you still. But you urge me too far. What do you
tell me of Mr. Falkland? Have I ever done any thing to deserve your
unkind suspicions? I am innocent, and will continue innocent. Mr. Grimes
is well enough, and will no doubt find women that like him; but he is
not fit for me, and torture shall not force me to be his wife."

Mr. Tyrrel was not a little astonished at the spirit which Emily
displayed upon this occasion. He had calculated too securely upon the
general mildness and suavity of her disposition. He now endeavoured to
qualify the harshness of his former sentiments.

"God damn my soul! And so you can scold, can you? You expect every body
to turn out of his way, and fetch and carry, just as you please? I could
find in my heart--But you know my mind. I insist upon it that you let
Grimes court you, and that you lay aside your sulks, and give him a fair
hearing. Will you do that? If then you persist in your wilfulness, why
there, I suppose, is an end of the matter. Do not think that any body is
going to marry you, whether you will or no. You are no such mighty
prize, I assure you. If you knew your own interest, you would be glad to
take the young fellow while he is willing."

Miss Melville rejoiced in the prospect, which the last words of her
kinsman afforded her, of a termination at no great distance to her
present persecutions. Mrs. Jakeman, to whom she communicated them,
congratulated Emily on the returning moderation and good sense of the
squire, and herself on her prudence in having urged the young lady to
this happy expostulation. But their mutual felicitations lasted not
long. Mr. Tyrrel informed Mrs. Jakeman of the necessity in which he
found himself of sending her to a distance, upon a business which would
not fail to detain her several weeks; and, though the errand by no means
wore an artificial or ambiguous face, the two friends drew a melancholy
presage from this ill-timed separation. Mrs. Jakeman, in the mean time,
exhorted her ward to persevere, reminded her of the compunction which
had already been manifested by her kinsman, and encouraged her to hope
every thing from her courage and good temper. Emily, on her part, though
grieved at the absence of her protector and counsellor at so interesting
a crisis, was unable to suspect Mr Tyrrel of such a degree either of
malice or duplicity as could afford ground for serious alarm. She
congratulated herself upon her delivery from so alarming a persecution,
and drew a prognostic of future success from this happy termination of
the first serious affair of her life. She exchanged a state of fortitude
and alarm for her former pleasing dreams respecting Mr. Falkland. These
she bore without impatience. She was even taught by the uncertainty of
the event to desire to prolong, rather than abridge, a situation which
might be delusive, but which was not without its pleasures.




CHAPTER VIII.


Nothing could be further from Mr. Tyrrel's intention than to suffer his
project to be thus terminated. No sooner was he freed from the fear of
his housekeeper's interference, than he changed the whole system of his
conduct. He ordered Miss Melville to be closely confined to her
apartment, and deprived of all means of communicating her situation to
any one out of his own house. He placed over her a female servant, in
whose discretion he could confide, and who, having formerly been
honoured with the amorous notices of the squire, considered the
distinctions that were paid to Emily at Tyrrel Place as an usurpation
upon her more reasonable claims. The squire himself did every thing in
his power to blast the young lady's reputation, and represented to his
attendants these precautions as necessary, to prevent her from eloping
to his neighbour, and plunging herself in total ruin.

As soon as Miss Melville had been twenty-four hours in durance, and
there was some reason to suppose that her spirit might be subdued to the
emergency of her situation, Mr. Tyrrel thought proper to go to her, to
explain the grounds of her present treatment, and acquaint her with the
only means by which she could hope for a change. Emily no sooner saw
him, than she turned towards him with an air of greater firmness than
perhaps she had ever assumed in her life, and accosted him thus:--

"Well, sir, is it you? I wanted to see you. It seems I am shut up here
by your orders. What does this mean? What right have you to make a
prisoner of me? What do I owe you? Your mother left me a hundred pounds:
have you ever offered to make any addition to my fortune? But, if you
had, I do not want it. I do not pretend to be better than the children
of other poor parents; I can maintain myself as they do. I prefer
liberty to wealth. I see you are surprised at the resolution I exert.
But ought I not to turn again, when I am trampled upon? I should have
left you before now, if Mrs. Jakeman had not over-persuaded me, and if I
had not thought better of you than by your present behaviour I find you
deserve. But now, sir, I intend to leave your house this moment, and
insist upon it, that you do not endeavour to prevent me."

Thus saying, she rose, and went towards the door, while Mr. Tyrrel stood
thunderstruck at her magnanimity. Seeing, however, that she was upon the
point of being out of the reach of his power, he recovered himself and
pulled her back.

"What is in the wind now? Do you think, strumpet; that you shall get
the better of me by sheer impudence? Sit down! rest you satisfied!--So
you want to know by what right you are here, do you? By the right of
possession. This house is mine, and you are in my power. There is no
Mrs. Jakeman now to spirit you away; no, nor no Falkland to bully for
you. I have countermined you, damn me! and blown up your schemes. Do you
think I will be contradicted and opposed for nothing? When did you ever
know any body resist my will without being made to repent? And shall I
now be browbeaten by a chitty-faced girl?--I have not given you a
fortune! Damn you! who brought you up? I will make you a bill for
clothing and lodging. Do not you know that every creditor has a right to
stop his runaway debtor. You may think as you please; but here you are
till you marry Grimes. Heaven and earth shall not prevent but I will get
the better of your obstinacy!"

"Ungenerous, unmerciful man! and so it is enough for you that I have
nobody to defend me! But I am not so helpless as you may imagine. You
may imprison my body, but you cannot conquer my mind. Marry Mr. Grimes!
And is this the way to bring me to your purpose? Every hardship I suffer
puts still further distant the end for which I am thus unjustly treated.
You are not used to have your will contradicted! When did I ever
contradict it? And, in a concern that is so completely my own, shall my
will go for nothing? Would you lay down this rule for yourself, and
suffer no other creature to take the benefit of it? I want nothing of
you: how dare you refuse me the privilege of a reasonable being, to live
unmolested in poverty and innocence? What sort of a man do you show
yourself, you that lay claim to the respect and applause of every one
that knows you?"

The spirited reproaches of Emily had at first the effect to fill Mr.
Tyrrel with astonishment, and make him feel abashed and overawed in the
presence of this unprotected innocent. But his confusion was the result
of surprise. When the first emotion wore off, he cursed himself for
being moved by her expostulations; and was ten times more exasperated
against her, for daring to defy his resentment at a time when she had
every thing to fear. His despotic and unforgiving propensities
stimulated him to a degree little short of madness. At the same time his
habits, which were pensive and gloomy, led him to meditate a variety of
schemes to punish her obstinacy. He began to suspect that there was
little hope of succeeding by open force, and therefore determined to
have recourse to treachery.

He found in Grimes an instrument sufficiently adapted to his purpose.
This fellow, without an atom of intentional malice, was fitted, by the
mere coarseness of his perceptions, for the perpetration of the greatest
injuries. He regarded both injury and advantage merely as they related
to the gratifications of appetite; and considered it an essential in
true wisdom, to treat with insult the effeminacy of those who suffer
themselves to be tormented with ideal misfortunes. He believed that no
happier destiny could befal a young woman than to be his wife; and he
conceived that that termination would amply compensate for any
calamities she might suppose herself to undergo in the interval. He was
therefore easily prevailed upon, by certain temptations which Mr. Tyrrel
knew how to employ, to take part in the plot into which Miss Melville
was meant to be betrayed.

Matters being thus prepared, Mr. Tyrrel proceeded, through the means of
the gaoler (for the experience he already had of personal discussion did
not incline him to repeat his visits), to play upon the fears of his
prisoner. This woman, sometimes under the pretence of friendship, and
sometimes with open malice, informed Emily, from time to time, of the
preparations that were making for her marriage. One day, "the squire had
rode over to look at a neat little farm which was destined for the
habitation of the new-married couple;" and at another, "a quantity of
live stock and household furniture was procured, that every thing might
be ready for their reception." She then told her "of a licence that was
bought, a parson in readiness, and a day fixed for the nuptials." When
Emily endeavoured, though with increased misgivings, to ridicule these
proceedings as absolutely nugatory without her consent, her artful
gouvernante related several stories of forced marriages, and assured her
that neither protestations, nor silence, nor fainting, would be of any
avail, either to suspend the ceremony, or to set it aside when
performed.

The situation of Miss Melville was in an eminent degree pitiable. She
had no intercourse but with her persecutors. She had not a human being
with whom to consult, who might afford her the smallest degree of
consolation and encouragement. She had fortitude; but it was neither
confirmed nor directed by the dictates of experience. It could not
therefore be expected to be so inflexible, as with better information it
would, no doubt, have been found. She had a clear and noble spirit; but
she had some of her sex's errors. Her mind sunk under the uniform
terrors with which she was assailed, and her health became visibly
impaired.

Her firmness being thus far undermined, Grimes, in pursuance of his
instructions, took care, in his next interview, to throw out an
insinuation that, for his own part, he had never cared for the match,
and since she was so averse to it, would be better pleased that it
should never take place. Between one and the other however, he was got
into a scrape, and now he supposed he must marry, will he, nill he. The
two squires would infallibly ruin him upon the least appearance of
backwardness on his part, as they were accustomed to do every inferior
that resisted their will. Emily was rejoiced to find her admirer in so
favourable a disposition; and earnestly pressed him to give effect to
this humane declaration. Her representations were full of eloquence and
energy. Grimes appeared to be moved at the fervency of her manner; but
objected the resentment of Mr. Tyrrel and his landlord. At length,
however, he suggested a project, in consequence of which he might assist
her in her escape, without its ever coming to their knowledge, as,
indeed, there was no likelihood that their suspicions would fix upon
him. "To be sure," said he, "you have refused me in a disdainful sort of
a way, as a man may say. Mayhap you thought I was no better 'an a brute:
but I bear you no malice, and I will show you that I am more
kind-hearted 'an you have been willing to think. It is a strange sort of
a vagary you have taken, to stand in your own light, and disoblige all
your friends. But if you are resolute, do you see? I scorn to be the
husband of a lass that is not every bit as willing as I; and so I will
even help to put you in a condition to follow your own inclinations."

Emily listened to these suggestions at first with eagerness and
approbation. But her fervency somewhat abated, when they came to discuss
the minute parts of the undertaking. It was necessary, as Grimes
informed her, that her escape should be effected in the dead of the
night. He would conceal himself for that purpose in the garden, and be
provided with false keys, by which to deliver her from her prison. These
circumstances were by no means adapted to calm her perturbed
imagination. To throw herself into the arms of the man whose intercourse
she was employing every method to avoid, and whom, under the idea of a
partner for life, she could least of all men endure, was, no doubt, an
extraordinary proceeding. The attendant circumstances of darkness and
solitude aggravated the picture. The situation of Tyrrel Place was
uncommonly lonely; it was three miles from the nearest village, and not
less than seven from that in which Mrs. Jakeman's sister resided, under
whose protection Miss Melville was desirous of placing herself. The
ingenuous character of Emily did not allow her once to suspect Grimes of
intending to make an ungenerous and brutal advantage of these
circumstances; but her mind involuntarily revolted against the idea of
committing herself, alone, to the disposal of a man, whom she had lately
been accustomed to consider as the instrument of her treacherous
relation.

After having for some time revolved these considerations, she thought of
the expedient of desiring Grimes to engage Mrs. Jakeman's sister to wait
for her at the outside of the garden. But this Grimes peremptorily
refused. He even flew into a passion at the proposal. It showed very
little gratitude, to desire him to disclose to other people his concern
in this dangerous affair. For his part, he was determined, in
consideration of his own safety, never to appear in it to any living
soul. If Miss did not believe him, when he made this proposal out of
pure good-nature, and would not trust him a single inch, she might even
see to the consequences herself. He was resolved to condescend no
further to the whims of a person who, in her treatment of him, had
shown herself as proud as Lucifer himself.

Emily exerted herself to appease his resentment; but all the eloquence
of her new confederate could not prevail upon her instantly to give up
her objection. She desired till the next day to consider of it. The day
after was fixed by Mr. Tyrrel for the marriage ceremony. In the mean
time she was pestered with intimations, in a thousand forms, of the fate
that so nearly awaited her. The preparations were so continued,
methodical, and regular, as to produce in her the most painful and
aching anxiety. If her heart attained a moment's intermission upon the
subject, her female attendant was sure, by some sly hint or sarcastical
remark, to put a speedy termination to her tranquillity. She felt
herself, as she afterwards remarked, alone, uninstructed, just broken
loose, as it were, from the trammels of infancy, without one single
creature to concern himself in her fate. She, who till then never knew
an enemy, had now, for three weeks, not seen the glimpse of a human
countenance, that she had not good reason to consider as wholly
estranged to her at least, if not unrelentingly bent on her destruction.
She now, for the first time, experienced the anguish of never having
known her parents, and being cast upon the charity of people with whom
she had too little equality, to hope to receive from them the offices of
friendship.

The succeeding night was filled with the most anxious thoughts. When a
momentary oblivion stole upon her senses, her distempered imagination
conjured up a thousand images of violence and falsehood; she saw herself
in the hands of her determined enemies, who did not hesitate by the most
daring treachery to complete her ruin. Her waking thoughts were not more
consoling. The struggle was too great for her constitution. As morning
approached, she resolved, at all hazards, to put herself into the hands
of Grimes. This determination was no sooner made, than she felt her
heart sensibly lightened. She could not conceive any evil which could
result from this proceeding, that deserved to be put in the balance
against those which, under the roof of her kinsman, appeared
unavoidable.

When she communicated her determination to Grimes, it was not possible
to say whether he received pleasure or pain from the intimation. He
smiled indeed; but his smile was accompanied by a certain abrupt
ruggedness of countenance, so that it might equally well be the smile of
sarcasm or of congratulation. He, however, renewed his assurances of
fidelity to his engagements and punctuality of execution. Meanwhile the
day was interspersed with nuptial presents and preparations, all
indicating the firmness as well as security of the directors of the
scene. Emily had hoped that, as the crisis approached, they might have
remitted something of their usual diligence. She was resolved, in that
case, if a fair opportunity had offered, to give the slip both to her
jailors, and to her new and reluctantly chosen confederate. But, though
extremely vigilant for that purpose, she found the execution of the idea
impracticable.

At length the night, so critical to her happiness, approached. The mind
of Emily could not fail, on this occasion, to be extremely agitated. She
had first exerted all her perspicacity to elude the vigilance of her
attendant. This insolent and unfeeling tyrant, instead of any
relentings, had only sought to make sport of her anxiety. Accordingly,
in one instance she hid herself, and, suffering Emily to suppose that
the coast was clear, met her at the end of the gallery, near the top of
the staircase. "How do you do, my dear?" said she, with an insulting
tone. "And so the little dear thought itself cunning enough to outwit
me, did it? Oh, it was a sly little gipsy! Go, go back, love; troop!"
Emily felt deeply the trick that was played upon her. She sighed, but
disdained to return any answer to this low vulgarity. Being once more in
her chamber, she sat down in a chair, and remained buried in reverie for
more than two hours. After this she went to her drawers, and turned
over, in a hurrying confused way, her linen and clothes, having in her
mind the provision it would be necessary to make for her elopement. Her
jailor officiously followed her from place to place, and observed what
she did for the present in silence. It was now the hour of rest. "Good
night, child," said this saucy girl, in the act of retiring. "It is time
to lock up. For the few next hours, the time is your own. Make the best
use of it! Do'ee think ee can creep out at the key-hole, lovey? At eight
o'clock you see me again. And then, and then," added she, clapping her
hands, "it is all over. The sun is not surer to rise, than you and your
honest man to be made one."

There was something in the tone with which this slut uttered her
farewell, that suggested the question to Emily, "What does she mean? Is
it possible that she should know what has been planned for the few next
hours?"--This was the first moment that suspicion had offered itself,
and its continuance was short. With an aching heart she folded up the
few necessaries she intended to take with her. She instinctively
listened, with an anxiety that would almost have enabled her to hear the
stirring of a leaf. From time to time she thought her ear was struck
with the sound of feet; but the treading, if treading it were, was so
soft, that she could never ascertain whether it were a real sound, or
the mere creature of the fancy. Then all was still, as if the universal
motion had been at rest. By and by she conceived she overheard a noise
as of buzzing and low-muttered speech. Her heart palpitated; for a
second time she began to doubt the honesty of Grimes. The suggestion was
now more anxious than before; but it was too late. Presently she heard
the sound of a key in her chamber-door, and the rustic made his
appearance. She started, and cried, "Are we discovered? did not I hear
you speak?" Grimes advanced on tiptoe with his finger to his lip. "No,
no," replied he, "all is safe!" He took her by the hand, led her in
silence out of the house, and then across the garden. Emily examined
with her eye the doors and passages as they proceeded, and looked on all
sides with fearful suspicion; but every thing was as vacant and still as
she herself could have wished. Grimes opened a back-door of the garden
already unlocked, that led into an unfrequented lane. There stood two
horses ready equipped for the journey, and fastened by their bridles to
a post not six yards distant from the garden. Grimes pushed the door
after them.

"By Gemini," said he, "my heart was in my mouth. As I comed along to
you, I saw Mun, coachey, pop along from the back-door to the stables. He
was within a hop, step, and jump of me. But he had a lanthorn in his
hand, and he did not see me, being as I was darkling." Saying this, he
assisted Miss Melville to mount. He troubled her little during the
route; on the contrary, he was remarkably silent and contemplative, a
circumstance by no means disagreeable to Emily, to whom his conversation
had never been acceptable.

After having proceeded about two miles, they turned into a wood, through
which the road led to the place of their destination. The night was
extremely dark, at the same time that the air was soft and mild, it
being now the middle of summer. Under pretence of exploring the way,
Grimes contrived, when they had already penetrated into the midst of
this gloomy solitude, to get his horse abreast with that of Miss
Melville, and then, suddenly reaching out his hand, seized hold of her
bridle. "I think we may as well stop here a bit," said he.

"Stop!" exclaimed Emily with surprise; "why should we stop? Mr. Grimes,
what do you mean?"

"Come, come," said he, "never trouble yourself to wonder. Did you think
I were such a goose, to take all this trouble merely to gratify your
whim? I' faith, nobody shall find me a pack-horse, to go of other folks'
errands, without knowing a reason why. I cannot say that I much minded
to have you at first; but your ways are enough to stir the blood of my
grand-dad. Far-fetched and dear-bought is always relishing. Your consent
was so hard to gain, that squire thought it was surest asking in the
dark. A' said however, a' would have no such doings in his house, and
so, do ye see, we are comed here."

"For God's sake, Mr. Grimes, think what you are about! You cannot be
base enough to ruin a poor creature who has put herself under your
protection!

"Ruin! No, no, I will make an honest woman of you, when all is done.
Nay, none of your airs; no tricks upon travellers! I have you here as
safe AS a horse in a pound; there is not a house nor a shed within a
mile of us; and, if I miss the opportunity, call me spade. Faith, you
are a delicate morsel, and there is no time to be lost!"

Miss Melville had but an instant in which to collect her thoughts. She
felt that there was little hope of softening the obstinate and
insensible brute in whose power she was placed. But the presence of mind
and intrepidity annexed to her character did not now desert her. Grimes
had scarcely finished his harangue, when, with a strong and unexpected
jerk, she disengaged the bridle from his grasp, and at the same time put
her horse upon full speed. She had scarcely advanced twice the length of
her horse, when Grimes recovered from his surprise, and pursued her,
inexpressibly mortified at being so easily overreached. The sound of his
horse behind served but to rouse more completely the mettle of that of
Emily; whether by accident or sagacity, the animal pursued without a
fault the narrow and winding way; and the chase continued the whole
length of the wood.

At the extremity of this wood there was a gate. The recollection of this
softened a little the cutting disappointment of Grimes, as he thought
himself secure of putting an end, by its assistance, to the career of
Emily; nor was it very probable that any body would appear to interrupt
his designs, in such a place, and in the dead and silence of the night.
By the most extraordinary accident, however, they found a man on
horseback in wait at this gate. "Help, help!" exclaimed the affrighted
Emily; "thieves! murder! help!" The man was Mr. Falkland. Grimes knew
his voice; and therefore, though he attempted a sort of sullen
resistance, it was feebly made. Two other men, whom, by reason of the
darkness, he had not at first seen, and who were Mr. Falkland's
servants, hearing the bustle of the rencounter, and alarmed for the
safety of their master, rode up; and then Grimes, disappointed at the
loss of his gratification, and admonished by conscious guilt, shrunk
from farther parley, and rode off in silence.

It may seem strange that Mr. Falkland should thus a second time have
been the saviour of Miss Melville, and that under circumstances the most
unexpected and singular. But in this instance it is easily to be
accounted for. He had heard of a man who lurked about this wood for
robbery or some other bad design, and that it was conjectured this man
was Hawkins, another of the victims of Mr. Tyrrel's rural tyranny, whom
I shall immediately have occasion to introduce. Mr. Falkland's
compassion had already been strongly excited in favour of Hawkins; he
had in vain endeavoured to find him, and do him good; and he easily
conceived that, if the conjecture which had been made in this instance
proved true, he might have it in his power not only to do what he had
always intended, but further, to save from a perilous offence against
the laws and society a man who appeared to have strongly imbibed the
principles of justice and virtue. He took with him two servants,
because, going with the express design of encountering robbers, if
robbers should be found, he believed he should be inexcusable if he did
not go provided against possible accidents. But he had directed them, at
the same time that they kept within call, to be out of the reach of
being seen; and it was only the eagerness of their zeal that had brought
them up thus early in the present encounter.

This new adventure promised something extraordinary. Mr. Falkland did
not immediately recognise Miss Melville; and the person of Grimes was
that of a total stranger, whom he did not recollect to have ever seen.
But it was easy to understand the merits of the case, and the propriety
of interfering. The resolute manner of Mr. Falkland, conjoined with the
dread which Grimes, oppressed with a sense of wrong, entertained of the
opposition of so elevated a personage, speedily put the ravisher to
flight. Emily was left alone with her deliverer. He found her much more
collected and calm, than could reasonably have been expected from a
person who had been, a moment before, in the most alarming situation.
She told him of the place to which she desired to be conveyed, and he
immediately undertook to escort her. As they went along, she recovered
that state of mind which inclined her to make a person to whom she had
such repeated obligations, and who was so eminently the object of her
admiration, acquainted with the events that had recently befallen her.
Mr. Falkland listened with eagerness and surprise. Though he had already
known various instances of Mr. Tyrrel's mean jealousy and unfeeling
tyranny, this surpassed them all; and he could scarcely credit his ears
while he heard the tale. His brutal neighbour seemed to realise all that
has been told of the passions of fiends. Miss Melville was obliged to
repeat, in the course of her tale, her kinsman's rude accusation against
her, of entertaining a passion for Mr. Falkland; and this she did with
the most bewitching simplicity and charming confusion. Though this part
of the tale was a source of real pain to her deliverer, yet it is not to
be supposed but that the flattering partiality of this unhappy girl
increased the interest he felt in her welfare, and the indignation he
conceived against her infernal kinsman.

They arrived without accident at the house of the good lady under whose
protection Emily desired to place herself. Here Mr. Falkland willingly
left her as in a place of security. Such conspiracies as that of which
she was intended to have been the victim, depend for their success upon
the person against whom they are formed being out of the reach of help;
and the moment they are detected, they are annihilated. Such reasoning
will, no doubt, be generally found sufficiently solid; and it appeared
to Mr. Falkland perfectly applicable to the present case. But he was
mistaken.




CHAPTER IX.


Mr. Falkland had experienced the nullity of all expostulation with Mr.
Tyrrel, and was therefore content in the present case with confining his
attention to the intended victim. The indignation with which he thought
of his neighbour's character was now grown to such a height, as to fill
him with reluctance to the idea of a voluntary interview. There was
indeed another affair which had been contemporary with this, that had
once more brought these mortal enemies into a state of contest, and had
contributed to raise into a temper little short of madness, the already
inflamed and corrosive bitterness of Mr. Tyrrel.

There was a tenant of Mr. Tyrrel, one Hawkins;--I cannot mention his
name without recollecting the painful tragedies that are annexed to it!
This Hawkins had originally been taken up by Mr. Tyrrel, with a view of
protecting him from the arbitrary proceedings of a neighbouring squire,
though he had now in his turn become an object of persecution to Mr.
Tyrrel himself. The first ground of their connection was this:--Hawkins,
beside a farm which he rented under the above-mentioned squire, had a
small freehold estate that he inherited from his father. This of course
entitled him to a vote in the county elections; and, a warmly contested
election having occurred, he was required by his landlord to vote for
the candidate in whose favour he had himself engaged. Hawkins refused
to obey the mandate, and soon after received notice to quit the farm he
at that time rented.

It happened that Mr. Tyrrel had interested himself strongly in behalf of
the opposite candidate; and, as Mr. Tyrrel's estate bordered upon the
seat of Hawkins's present residence, the ejected countryman could think
of no better expedient than that of riding over to this gentleman's
mansion, and relating the case to him. Mr. Tyrrel heard him through with
attention. "Well, friend," said he, "it is very true that I wished Mr.
Jackman to carry his election; but you know it is usual in these cases
for tenants to vote just as their landlords please. I do not think
proper to encourage rebellion."--"All that is very right, and please
you," replied Hawkins, "and I would have voted at my landlord's bidding
for any other man in the kingdom but Squire Marlow. You must know one
day his huntsman rode over my fence, and so through my best field of
standing corn. It was not above a dozen yards about if he had kept the
cart-road. The fellow had served me the same sauce, an it please your
honour, three or four times before. So I only asked him what he did that
for, and whether he had not more conscience than to spoil people's crops
o' that fashion? Presently the squire came up. He is but a poor,
weazen-face chicken of a gentleman, saving your honour's reverence. And
so he flew into a woundy passion, and threatened to horsewhip me. I will
do as much in reason to pleasure my landlord as arr a tenant he has; but
I will not give my vote to a man that threatens to horsewhip me. And so,
your honour, I and my wife and three children are to be turned out of
house and home, and what I am to do to maintain them God knows. I have
been a hard-working man, and have always lived well, and I do think the
case is main hard. Squire Underwood turns me out of my farm; and if your
honour do not take me in, I know none of the neighbouring gentry will,
for fear, as they say, of encouraging their own tenants to run rusty
too."

This representation was not without its effect upon Mr. Tyrrel. "Well,
well, man," replied he, "we will see what can be done. Order and
subordination are very good things; but people should know how much to
require. As you tell the story, I cannot see that you are greatly to
blame. Marlow is a coxcombical prig, that is the truth on't; and if a
man will expose himself, why, he must even take what follows. I do hate
a Frenchified fop with all my soul: and I cannot say that I am much
pleased with my neighbour Underwood for taking the part of such a
rascal. Hawkins, I think, is your name? You may call on Barnes, my
steward, to-morrow, and he shall speak to you."

While Mr. Tyrrel was speaking, he recollected that he had a farm vacant,
of nearly the same value as that which Hawkins at present rented under
Mr. Underwood. He immediately consulted his steward, and, finding the
thing suitable in every respect, Hawkins was installed out of hand in
the catalogue of Mr. Tyrrel's tenants. Mr. Underwood extremely resented
this proceeding, which indeed, as being contrary to the understood
conventions of the country gentlemen, few people but Mr. Tyrrel would
have ventured upon. There was an end, said Mr. Underwood, to all
regulation, if tenants were to be encouraged in such disobedience. It
was not a question of this or that candidate, seeing that any gentleman,
who was a true friend to his country, would rather lose his election
than do a thing which, if once established into a practice, would
deprive them for ever of the power of managing any election. The
labouring people were sturdy and resolute enough of their own accord; it
became every day more difficult to keep them under any subordination;
and, if the gentlemen were so ill advised as to neglect the public good,
and encourage them in their insolence, there was no foreseeing where it
would end.

Mr. Tyrrel was not of a stamp to be influenced by these remonstrances.
Their general spirit was sufficiently conformable to the sentiments he
himself entertained; but he was of too vehement a temper to maintain the
character of a consistent politician; and, however wrong his conduct
might be, he would by no means admit of its being set right by the
suggestions of others. The more his patronage of Hawkins was criticised,
the more inflexibly he adhered to it; and he was at no loss in clubs and
other assemblies to overbear and silence, if not to confute, his
censurers. Beside which, Hawkins had certain accomplishments which
qualified him to be a favourite with Mr. Tyrrel. The bluntness of his
manner and the ruggedness of his temper gave him some resemblance to his
landord; and, as these qualities were likely to be more frequently
exercised on such persons as had incurred Mr. Tyrrel's displeasure, than
upon Mr. Tyrrel himself, they were not observed without some degree of
complacency. In a word, he every day received new marks of distinction
from his patron, and after some time was appointed coadjutor to Mr.
Barnes under the denomination of bailiff. It was about the same period
that he obtained a lease of the farm of which he was tenant.

Mr. Tyrrel determined, as occasion offered, to promote every part of the
family of this favoured dependent. Hawkins had a son, a lad of
seventeen, of an agreeable person, a ruddy complexion, and of quick and
lively parts. This lad was in an uncommon degree the favourite of his
father, who seemed to have nothing so much at heart as the future
welfare of his son. Mr. Tyrrel had noticed him two or three times with
approbation; and the boy, being fond of the sports of the field, had
occasionally followed the hounds, and displayed various instances, both
of agility and sagacity, in presence of the squire. One day in
particular he exhibited himself with uncommon advantage; and Mr. Tyrrel
without further delay proposed to his father, to take him into his
family, and make him whipper-in to his hounds, till he could provide him
with some more lucrative appointment in his service.

This proposal was received by Hawkins with various marks of
mortification. He excused himself with hesitation for not accepting the
offered favour; said the lad was in many ways useful to him; and hoped
his honour would not insist upon depriving him of his assistance. This
apology might perhaps have been sufficient with any other man than Mr.
Tyrrel; but it was frequently observed of this gentleman that, when he
had once formed a determination, however slight, in favour of any
measure, he was never afterwards known to give it up, and that the only
effect of opposition was to make him eager and inflexible, in pursuit of
that to which he had before been nearly indifferent. At first he seemed
to receive the apology of Hawkins with good humour, and to see nothing
in it but what was reasonable; but afterwards, every time he saw the
boy, his desire of retaining him in his service was increased, and he
more than once repeated to his father the good disposition in which he
felt himself towards him. At length he observed that the lad was no more
to be seen mingling in his favourite sports, and he began to suspect
that this originated in a determination to thwart him in his projects.

Roused by this suspicion, which, to a man of Mr. Tyrrel's character,
was not of a nature to brook delay, he sent for Hawkins to confer with
him. "Hawkins," said he, in a tone of displeasure, "I am not satisfied
with you. I have spoken to you two or three times about this lad of
yours, whom I am desirous of taking into favour. What is the reason,
sir, that you seem unthankful and averse to my kindness? You ought to
know that I am not to be trifled with. I shall not be contented, when I
offer my favours, to have them rejected by such fellows as you. I made
you what you are; and, if I please, can make you more helpless and
miserable than you were when I found you. Have a care!"

"An it please your honour," said Hawkins, "you have been a very good
master to me, and I will tell you the whole truth. I hope you will na be
angry. This lad is my favourite, my comfort, and the stay of my age."

"Well, and what then? Is that a reason you should hinder his
preferment?"

"Nay, pray your honour, hear me. I may be very weak for aught I know in
this case, but I cannot help it. My father was a clergyman. We have all
of us lived in a creditable way; and I cannot bear to think that this
poor lad of mine should go to service. For my part, I do not see any
good that comes by servants. I do not know, your honour, but, I think, I
should not like my Leonard to be such as they. God forgive me, if I
wrong them! But this is a very dear case, and I cannot bear to risk my
poor boy's welfare, when I can so easily, if you please, keep him out or
harm's way. At present he is sober and industrious, and, without being
pert or surly, knows what is due to him. I know, your honour, that it is
main foolish of me to talk to you thus; but your honour has been a good
master to me, and I cannot bear to tell you a lie."

Mr. Tyrrel had heard the whole of this harangue in silence, because he
was too much astonished to open his mouth. If a thunderbolt had fallen
at his feet, he could not have testified greater surprise. He had
thought that Hawkins was so foolishly fond of his son, that he could not
bear to trust him out of his presence; but had never in the slightest
degree suspected what he now found to be the truth.

"Oh, ho, you are a gentleman, are you? A pretty gentleman truly! your
father was a clergyman! Your family is too good to enter into my
service! Why you impudent rascal! was it for this that I took you up,
when Mr. Underwood dismissed you for your insolence to him? Have I been
nursing a viper in my bosom? Pretty master's manners will be
contaminated truly? He will not know what is due to him, but will be
accustomed to obey orders! You insufferable villain! Get out of my
sight! Depend upon it, I will have no gentlemen on my estate! I will off
with them, root and branch, bag and baggage! So do you hear, sir? come
to me to-morrow morning, bring your son, and ask my pardon; or, take my
word for it, I will make you so miserable, you shall wish you had never
been born."

This treatment was too much for Hawkins's patience. "There is no need,
your honour, that I should come to you again about this affair. I have
taken up my determination, and no time can make any change in it. I am
main sorry to displease your worship, and I know that you can do me a
great deal of mischief. But I hope you will not be so hardhearted as to
ruin a father only for being fond of his child, even if so be that his
fondness should make him do a foolish thing. But I cannot help it, your
honour: you must do as you please. The poorest neger, as a man may say,
has some point that he will not part with. I will lose all that I have,
and go to day-labour, and my son too, if needs must; but I will not make
a gentleman's servant of him."

"Very well, friend; very well!" replied Mr. Tyrrel, foaming with rage.
"Depend upon it, I will remember you! Your pride shall have a downfal!
God damn it! is it come to this? Shall a rascal that farms his forty
acres, pretend to beard the lord of the manor? I will tread you into
paste! Let me advise you, scoundrel, to shut up your house and fly, as
if the devil was behind you! You may think yourself happy, if I be not
too quick for you yet, if you escape in a whole skin! I would not suffer
such a villain to remain upon my land a day longer, if I could gain the
Indies by it!"

"Not so fast, your honour," answered Hawkins, sturdily. "I hope you will
think better of it, and see that I have not been to blame. But if you
should not, there is some harm that you can do me, and some harm that
you cannot. Though I am a plain, working man, your honour, do you see?
yet I am a man still. No; I have got a lease of my farm, and I shall not
quit it o' thaten. I hope there is some law for poor folk, as well as for
rich."

Mr. Tyrrel, unused to contradiction, was provoked beyond bearing at the
courage and independent spirit of his retainer. There was not a tenant
upon his estate, or at least not one of Hawkins's mediocrity of fortune,
whom the general policy of landowners, and still more the arbitrary and
uncontrollable temper of Mr. Tyrrel, did not effectually restrain from
acts of open defiance.

"Excellent, upon my soul! God damn my blood! but you are a rare fellow.
You have a lease, have you? You will not quit, not you! a pretty pass
things are come to, if a lease can protect such fellows as you against
the lord of a manor! But you are for a trial of skill? Oh, very well,
friend, very well! With all my soul! Since it is come to that, we will
show you some pretty sport before we have done! But get out of my sight,
you rascal! I have not another word to say to you! Never darken my doors
again."

Hawkins (to borrow the language of the world) was guilty in this affair
of a double imprudence. He talked to his landlord in a more peremptory
manner than the constitution and practices of this country allow a
dependent to assume. But above all, having been thus hurried away by his
resentment, he ought to have foreseen the consequences. It was mere
madness in him to think of contesting with a man of Mr. Tyrrel's
eminence and fortune. It was a fawn contending with a lion. Nothing
could have been more easy to predict, than that it was of no avail for
him to have right on his side, when his adversary had influence and
wealth, and therefore could so victoriously justify any extravagancies
that he might think proper to commit. This maxim was completely
illustrated in the sequel. Wealth and despotism easily know how to
engage those laws as the coadjutors of their oppression, which were
perhaps at first intended [witless and miserable precaution!] for the
safeguards of the poor.

From this moment Mr Tyrrel was bent upon Hawkins's destruction; and he
left no means unemployed that could either harass or injure the object
of his persecution. He deprived him of his appointment of bailiff, and
directed Barnes and his other dependents to do him ill offices upon all
occasions. Mr. Tyrrel, by the tenure of his manor, was impropriator of
the great tithes, and this circumstance afforded him frequent
opportunities of petty altercation. The land of one part of Hawkins's
farm, though covered with corn, was lower than the rest; and
consequently exposed to occasional inundations from a river by which it
was bounded. Mr. Tyrrel had a dam belonging to this river privately cut,
about a fortnight before the season of harvest, and laid the whole under
water. He ordered his servants to pull away the fences of the higher
ground during the night, and to turn in his cattle, to the utter
destruction of the crop. These expedients, however, applied to only one
part of the property of this unfortunate man. But Mr. Tyrrel did not
stop here. A sudden mortality took place among Hawkins's live stock,
attended with very suspicious circumstances. Hawkins's vigilance was
strongly excited by this event, and he at length succeeded in tracing
the matter so accurately, that he conceived he could bring it home to
Mr. Tyrrel himself.

Hawkins had hitherto carefully avoided, notwithstanding the injuries he
had suffered, the attempting to right himself by legal process; being of
opinion that law was better adapted for a weapon of tyranny in the hands
of the rich, than for a shield to protect the humbler part of the
community against their usurpations. In this last instance however he
conceived that the offence was so atrocious, as to make it impossible
that any rank could protect the culprit against the severity of justice.
In the sequel, he saw reason to applaud himself for his former
inactivity in this respect, and to repent that any motive had been
strong enough to persuade him into a contrary system.

This was the very point to which Mr. Tyrrel wanted to bring him, and he
could scarcely credit his good fortune, when he was told that Hawkins
had entered an action. His congratulation upon this occasion was
immoderate, as he now conceived that the ruin of his late favourite was
irretrievable. He consulted his attorney, and urged him by every motive
he could devise, to employ the whole series of his subterfuges in the
present affair. The direct repelling of the charge exhibited against him
was the least part of his care; the business was, by affidavits,
motions, pleas, demurrers, flaws, and appeals, to protract the question
from term to term, and from court to court. It would, as Mr. Tyrrel
argued, be the disgrace of a civilized country, if a gentleman, when
insolently attacked in law by the scum of the earth, could not convert
the cause into a question of the longest purse, and stick in the skirts
of his adversary till he had reduced him to beggary.

Mr. Tyrrel, however, was by no means so far engrossed by his law-suit,
as to neglect other methods of proceeding offensively against his
tenant. Among the various expedients that suggested themselves, there
was one, which, though it tended rather to torment than irreparably
injure the sufferer, was not rejected. This was derived from the
particular situation of Hawkins's house, barns, stacks, and outhouses.
They were placed at the extremity of a slip of land connecting them with
the rest of the farm, and were surrounded on three sides by fields, in
the occupation of one of Mr. Tyrrel's tenants most devoted to the
pleasures of his landlord. The road to the market-town ran at the bottom
of the largest of these fields, and was directly in view of the front of
the house. No inconvenience had yet arisen from that circumstance, as
there had always been a broad path, that intersected this field, and led
directly from Hawkins's house to the road. This path, or private road,
was now, by concert of Mr. Tyrrel and his obliging tenant, shut up, so
as to make Hawkins a sort of prisoner in his own domains, and oblige him
to go near a mile about for the purposes of his traffic.

Young Hawkins, the lad who had been the original subject of dispute
between his father and the squire, had much of his father's spirit, and
felt an uncontrollable indignation against the successive acts of
despotism of which he was a witness. His resentment was the greater,
because the sufferings to which his parent was exposed, all of them
flowed from affection to him, at the same time that he could not propose
removing the ground of dispute, as by so doing he would seem to fly in
the face of his father's paternal kindness. Upon the present occasion,
without asking any counsel but of his own impatient resentment, he went
in the middle of the night, and removed all the obstructions that had
been placed in the way of the old path, broke the padlocks that had been
fixed, and threw open the gates.

In these operations he did not proceed unobserved, and the next day a
warrant was issued for apprehending him. He was accordingly carried
before a meeting of justices, and by them committed to the county gaol,
to take his trial for the felony at the next assizes. Mr. Tyrrel was
determined to prosecute the offence with the greatest severity; and his
attorney, having made the proper enquiries for that purpose, undertook
to bring it under that clause of the act 9 Geo. I. commonly called the
Black Act, which declares that "any person, armed with a sword, or other
offensive weapon, and having his face blackened, or being otherwise
disguised, appearing in any warren or place where hares or conies have
been or shall be usually kept, and being thereof duly convicted, shall
be adjudged guilty of felony, and shall suffer death, as in cases of
felony, without benefit of clergy." Young Hawkins, it seemed, had
buttoned the cape of his great coat over his face, as soon as he
perceived himself to be observed, and he was furnished with a
wrenching-iron for the purpose of breaking the padlocks. The attorney
further undertook to prove, by sufficient witnesses, that the field in
question was a warren in which hares were regularly fed. Mr. Tyrrel
seized upon these pretences with inexpressible satisfaction. He
prevailed upon the justices, by the picture he drew of the obstinacy and
insolence of the Hawkinses, fully to commit the lad upon this miserable
charge; and it was by no means so certain as paternal affection would
have desired, that the same overpowering influence would not cause in
the sequel the penal clause to be executed in all its strictness.

This was the finishing stroke to Hawkins's miseries: as he was not
deficient in courage, he had stood up against his other persecutions
without flinching. He was not unaware of the advantages which our laws
and customs give to the rich over the poor, in contentions of this kind.
But, being once involved, there was a stubbornness in his nature that
would not allow him to retract, and he suffered himself to hope, rather
than expect, a favourable issue. But in this last event he was wounded
in the point that was nearest his heart. He had feared to have his son
contaminated and debased by a servile station, and he now saw him
transferred to the seminary of a gaol. He was even uncertain as to the
issue of his imprisonment, and trembled to think what the tyranny of
wealth might effect to blast his hopes for ever.

From this moment his heart died within him. He had trusted to
persevering industry and skill, to save the wreck of his little property
from the vulgar spite of his landlord. But he had now no longer any
spirit to exert those efforts which his situation more than ever
required. Mr. Tyrrel proceeded without remission in his machinations;
Hawkins's affairs every day grew more desperate, and the squire,
watching the occasion, took the earliest opportunity of seizing upon
his remaining property in the mode of a distress for rent.

It was precisely in this stage of the affair, that Mr. Falkland and Mr.
Tyrrel accidentally met, in a private road near the habitation of the
latter. They were on horseback, and Mr. Falkland was going to the house
of the unfortunate tenant, who seemed upon the point of perishing under
his landlord's malice. He had been just made acquainted with the tale of
this persecution. It had indeed been an additional aggravation of
Hawkins's calamity, that Mr. Falkland, whose interference might
otherwise have saved him, had been absent from the neighbourhood for a
considerable time. He had been three months in London, and from thence
had gone to visit his estates in another part of the island. The proud
and self-confident spirit of this poor fellow always disposed him to
depend, as long as possible, upon his own exertions. He had avoided
applying to Mr. Falkland, or indeed indulging himself in any manner in
communicating and bewailing his hard hap, in the beginning of the
contention, and, when the extremity grew more urgent, and he would have
been willing to recede in some degree from the stubbornness of his
measures, he found it no longer in his power. After an absence of
considerable duration, Mr. Falkland at length returned somewhat
unexpectedly; and having learned, among the first articles of country
intelligence, the distresses of this unfortunate yeoman, he resolved to
ride over to his house the next morning, and surprise him with all the
relief it was in his power to bestow.

At sight of Mr. Tyrrel in this unexpected rencounter, his face reddened
with indignation. His first feeling, as he afterwards said, was to avoid
him; but finding that he must pass him, he conceived that it would be
want of spirit not to acquaint him with his feelings on the present
occasion.

"Mr. Tyrrel," said he, somewhat abruptly, "I am sorry for a piece of
news which I have just heard."

"And pray, sir, what is your sorrow to me?"

"A great deal, sir: it is caused by the distresses of a poor tenant of
yours, Hawkins. If your steward have proceeded without your authority, I
think it right to inform you what he has done; and, if he have had your
authority, I would gladly persuade you to think better of it."

"Mr. Falkland, it would be quite as well if you would mind your own
business, and leave me to mind mine. I want no monitor, and I will have
none."

"You mistake, Mr. Tyrrel; I am minding my own business. If I see you
fall into a pit, it is my business to draw you out and save your life.
If I see you pursuing a wrong mode of conduct, it is my business to set
you right and save your honour."

"Zounds, sir, do not think to put your conundrums upon me! Is not the
man my tenant? Is not my estate my own? What signifies calling it mine,
if I am not to have the direction of it? Sir, I pay for what I have: I
owe no man a penny; and I will not put my estate to nurse to you, nor
the best he that wears a head."

"It is very true," said Mr. Falkland, avoiding any direct notice of the
last words of Mr. Tyrrel, "that there is a distinction of ranks. I
believe that distinction is a good thing, and necessary to the peace of
mankind. But, however necessary it may be, we must acknowledge that it
puts some hardship upon the lower orders of society. It makes one's
heart ache to think, that one man is born to the inheritance of every
superfluity, while the whole share of another, without any demerit of
his, is drudgery and starving; and that all this is indispensable. We
that are rich, Mr. Tyrrel, must do every thing in our power to lighten
the yoke of these unfortunate people. We must not use the advantage that
accident has given us with an unmerciful hand. Poor wretches! they are
pressed almost beyond bearing as it is; and, if we unfeelingly give
another turn to the machine, they will be crushed into atoms."

This picture was not without its effect, even upon the obdurate mind of
Mr. Tyrrel.--"Well, sir, I am no tyrant. I know very well that tyranny
is a bad thing. But you do not infer from thence that these people are
to do as they please, and never meet with their deserts?"

"Mr. Tyrrel, I see that you are shaken in your animosity. Suffer me to
hail the new-born benevolence of your nature. Go with me to Hawkins. Do
not let us talk of his deserts! Poor fellow! he has suffered almost all
that human nature can endure. Let your forgiveness upon this occasion be
the earnest of good neighbourhood and friendship between you and me."

"No, sir, I will not go. I own there is something in what you say. I
always knew you had the wit to make good your own story, and tell a
plausible tale. But I will not be come over thus. It has been my
character, when I had once conceived a scheme of vengeance, never to
forego it; and I will not change that character. I took up Hawkins when
every body forsook him, and made a man of him; and the ungrateful rascal
has only insulted me for my pains. Curse me, if I ever forgive him! It
would be a good jest indeed, if I were to forgive the insolence of my
own creature at the desire of a man like you that has been my perpetual
plague."

"For God's sake, Mr. Tyrrel, have some reason in your resentment! Let us
suppose that Hawkins has behaved unjustifiably, and insulted you: is
that an offence that never can be expiated? Must the father be ruined,
and the son hanged, to glut your resentment?"

"Damn me, sir, but you may talk your heart out; you shall get nothing of
me. I shall never forgive myself for having listened to you for a
moment. I will suffer nobody to stop the stream of my resentment; if I
ever were to forgive him, it should be at nobody's, entreaty but my own.
But, sir, I never will. If he and all his family were at my feet, I
would order them all to be hanged the next minute, if my power were as
good as my will."

"And this is your decision, is it? Mr. Tyrrel, I am ashamed of you!
Almighty God! to hear you talk gives one a loathing for the institutions
and regulations of society, and would induce one to fly the very face of
man! But, no! society casts you out; man abominates you. No wealth, no
rank, can buy out your stain. You will live deserted in the midst of
your species; you will go into crowded societies, and no one will deign
so much as to salute you. They will fly from your glance as they would
from the gaze of a basilisk. Where do you expect to find the hearts of
flint that shall sympathise with yours? You have the stamp of misery,
incessant, undivided, unpitied misery!"

Thus saying, Mr. Falkland gave spurs to his horse, rudely pushed beside
Mr. Tyrrel, and was presently out of sight. Flaming indignation
annihilated even his favourite sense of honour, and he regarded his
neighbour as a wretch, with whom it was impossible even to enter into
contention. For the latter, he remained for the present motionless and
petrified. The glowing enthusiasm of Mr. Falkland was such as might well
have unnerved the stoutest foe. Mr. Tyrrel, in spite of himself, was
blasted with the compunctions of guilt, and unable to string himself
for the contest. The picture Mr. Falkland had drawn was prophetic. It
described what Mr. Tyrrel chiefly feared; and what in its commencements
he thought he already felt. It was responsive to the whispering of his
own meditations; it simply gave body and voice to the spectre that
haunted him, and to the terrors of which he was an hourly prey.

By and by, however, he recovered. The more he had been temporarily
confounded, the fiercer was his resentment when he came to himself. Such
hatred never existed in a human bosom without marking its progress with
violence and death. Mr. Tyrrel, however, felt no inclination to have
recourse to personal defiance. He was the furthest in the world from a
coward; but his genius sunk before the genius of Falkland. He left his
vengeance to the disposal of circumstances. He was secure that his
animosity would never be forgotten nor diminished by the interposition
of any time or events. Vengeance was his nightly dream, and the
uppermost of his waking thoughts.

Mr. Falkland had departed from this conference with a confirmed
disapprobation of the conduct of his neighbour, and an unalterable
resolution to do every thing in his power to relieve the distresses of
Hawkins. But he was too late. When he arrived, he found the house
already evacuated by its master. The family was removed nobody knew
whither; Hawkins had absconded, and, what was still more extraordinary,
the boy Hawkins had escaped on the very same day from the county gaol.
The enquiries Mr. Falkland set on foot after them were fruitless; no
traces could be found of the catastrophe of these unhappy people. That
catastrophe I shall shortly have occasion to relate, and it will be
found pregnant with horror, beyond what the blackest misanthropy could
readily have suggested.

I go on with my tale. I go on to relate those incidents in which my own
fate was so mysteriously involved. I lift the curtain, and bring forward
the last act of the tragedy.




CHAPTER X.


It may easily be supposed, that the ill temper cherished by Mr. Tyrrel
in his contention with Hawkins, and the increasing animosity between him
and Mr. Falkland, added to the impatience with which he thought of the
escape of Emily.

Mr. Tyrrel heard with astonishment of the miscarriage of an expedient,
of the success of which he had not previously entertained the slightest
suspicion. He became frantic with vexation. Grimes had not dared to
signify the event of his expedition in person, and the footman whom he
desired to announce to his master that Miss Melville was lost, the
moment after fled from his presence with the most dreadful
apprehensions. Presently he bellowed for Grimes, and the young man at
last appeared before him, more dead than alive. Grimes he compelled to
repeat the particulars of the tale; which he had no sooner done, than he
once again slunk away, shocked at the execrations with which Mr. Tyrrel
overwhelmed him. Grimes was no coward; but he reverenced the inborn
divinity that attends upon rank, as Indians worship the devil. Nor was
this all. The rage of Mr. Tyrrel was so ungovernable and fierce, that
few hearts could have been found so stout, as not to have trembled
before it with a sort of unconquerable inferiority.

He no sooner obtained a moment's pause than he began to recall to his
tempestuous mind the various circumstances of the case. His complaints
were bitter; and, in a tranquil observer, might have produced the united
feeling of pity for his sufferings, and horror at his depravity. He
recollected all the precautions he had used; he could scarcely find a
flaw in the process; and he cursed that blind and malicious power which
delighted to cross his most deep-laid schemes. "Of this malice he was
beyond all other human beings the object. He was mocked with the shadow
of power; and when he lifted his hand to smite, it was struck with
sudden palsy. [In the bitterness of his anguish, he forgot his recent
triumph over Hawkins, or perhaps he regarded it less as a triumph, than
an overthrow, because it had failed of coming up to the extent of his
malice.] To what purpose had Heaven given him a feeling of injury, and
an instinct to resent, while he could in no case make his resentment
felt! It was only necessary for him to be the enemy of any person, to
insure that person's being safe against the reach of misfortune. What
insults, the most shocking and repeated, had he received from this
paltry girl! And by whom was she now torn from his indignation? By that
devil that haunted him at every moment, that crossed him at every step,
that fixed at pleasure his arrows in his heart, and made mows and
mockery at his insufferable tortures."

There was one other reflection that increased his anguish, and made him
careless and desperate as to his future conduct. It was in vain to
conceal from himself that his reputation would be cruelly wounded by
this event. He had imagined that, while Emily was forced into this
odious marriage, she would be obliged by decorum, as soon as the event
was decided, to draw a veil over the compulsion she had suffered. But
this security was now lost, and Mr. Falkland would take a pride in
publishing his dishonour. Though the provocations he had received from
Miss Melville would, in his own opinion, have justified him in any
treatment he should have thought proper to inflict, he was sensible the
world would see the matter in a different light. This reflection
augmented the violence of his resolutions, and determined him to refuse
no means by which he could transfer the anguish that now preyed upon his
own mind to that of another.

Meanwhile, the composure and magnanimity of Emily had considerably
subsided, the moment she believed herself in a place of safety. While
danger and injustice assailed her with their menaces, she found in
herself a courage that disdained to yield. The succeeding appearance of
calm was more fatal to her. There was nothing now, powerfully to foster
her courage or excite her energy. She looked back at the trials she had
passed, and her soul sickened at the recollection of that, which, while
it was in act, she had had the fortitude to endure. Till the period at
which Mr. Tyrrel had been inspired with this cruel antipathy, she had
been in all instances a stranger to anxiety and fear. Uninured to
misfortune, she had suddenly and without preparation been made the
subject of the most infernal malignity. When a man of robust and
vigorous constitution has a fit of sickness, it produces a more powerful
effect, than the same indisposition upon a delicate valetudinarian. Such
was the case with Miss Melville. She passed the succeeding night
sleepless and uneasy, and was found in the morning with a high fever.
Her distemper resisted for the present all attempts to assuage it,
though there was reason to hope that the goodness of her constitution,
assisted by tranquillity and the kindness of those about her, would
ultimately surmount it. On the second day she was delirious. On the
night of that day she was arrested at the suit of Mr. Tyrrel, for a debt
contracted for board and necessaries for the last fourteen years.

The idea of this arrest, as the reader will perhaps recollect, first
occurred, in the conversation between Mr. Tyrrel and Miss Melville, soon
after he had thought proper to confine her to her chamber. But at that
time he had probably no serious conception of ever being induced to
carry it into execution. It had merely been mentioned by way of threat,
and as the suggestion of a mind, whose habits had long been accustomed
to contemplate every possible instrument of tyranny and revenge. But
now, that the unlooked-for rescue and escape of his poor kinswoman had
wrought up his thoughts to a degree of insanity, and that he revolved in
the gloomy recesses of his mind, how he might best shake off the load of
disappointment which oppressed him, the idea recurred with double force.
He was not long in forming his resolution; and, calling for Barnes his
steward, immediately gave him directions in what manner to proceed.

Barnes had been for several years the instrument of Mr. Tyrrel's
injustice. His mind was hardened by use, and he could, without remorse,
officiate as the spectator, or even as the author and director, of a
scene of vulgar distress. But even he was somewhat startled upon the
present occasion. The character and conduct of Emily in Mr. Tyrrel's
family had been without a blot. She had not a single enemy; and it was
impossible to contemplate her youth, her vivacity, and her guileless
innocence, without emotions of sympathy and compasssion.

"Your worship?--I do not understand you!--Arrest Miss--Miss Emily!"

"Yes,--I tell you!--What is the matter with you?--Go instantly to
Swineard, the lawyer, and bid him finish the business out of hand!"

"Lord love your honour! Arrest her! Why she does not owe you a brass
farthing: she always lived upon your charity!"

"Ass! Scoundrel! I tell you she does owe me,--owes me eleven hundred
pounds.--The law justifies it.--What do you think laws were made for? I
do nothing but right, and right I will have."

"Your honour, I never questioned your orders in my life; but I must now.
I cannot see you ruin Miss Emily, poor girl! nay, and yourself too, for
the matter of that, and not say which way you are going. I hope you will
bear with me. Why, if she owed you ever so much, she cannot be arrested.
She is not of age."

"Will you have done?--Do not tell me of--It cannot, and It can. It has
been done before,--and it shall be done again. Let him dispute it that
dares! I will do it now and stand to it afterwards. Tell Swineard,--if
he make the least boggling, it is as much as his life is worth;--he
shall starve by inches."

"Pray, your honour, think better of it. Upon my life, the whole country
will cry shame of it."

"Barnes!--What do you mean? I am not used to be talked to, and I cannot
hear it! You have been a good fellow to me upon many occasions--But, if
I find you out for making one with them that dispute my authority, damn
my soul, if I do not make you sick of your life!"

"I have done, your honour. I will not say another word except this,--I
have heard as how that Miss Emily is sick a-bed. You are determined, you
say, to put her in jail. You do not mean to kill her, I take it,"

"Let her die! I will not spare her for an hour--I will not always be
insulted. She had no consideration for me, and I have no mercy for
her.--I am in for it! They have provoked me past bearing,--and they
shall feel me! Tell Swineard, in bed or up, day or night, I will not
hear of an instant's delay."

Such were the directions of Mr. Tyrrel, and in strict conformity to his
directions were the proceedings of that respectable limb of the law he
employed upon the present occasion. Miss Melville had been delirious,
through a considerable part of the day on the evening of which the
bailiff and his follower arrived. By the direction of the physician whom
Mr. Falkland had ordered to attend her, a composing draught was
administered; and, exhausted as she was by the wild and distracted
images that for several hours had haunted her fancy, she was now sunk
into a refreshing slumber. Mrs. Hammond, the sister of Mrs. Jakeman, was
sitting by her bed-side, full of compassion for the lovely sufferer, and
rejoicing in the calm tranquillity that had just taken possession of
her, when a little girl, the only child of Mrs. Hammond, opened the
street-door to the rap of the bailiff He said he wanted to speak with
Miss Melville, and the child answered that she would go tell her mother.
So saying, she advanced to the door of the back-room upon the
ground-floor, in which Emily lay; but the moment it was opened, instead
of waiting for the appearance of the mother, the bailiff entered along
with the girl.

Mrs. Hammond looked up. "Who are you?" said she. "Why do you come in
here? Hush! be quiet!'

"I must speak with Miss Melville."

"Indeed, but you must not. Tell me your business. The poor child has
been light-headed all day. She has just fallen asleep, and must not be
disturbed."

"That is no business of mine. I must obey orders."

"Orders? Whose orders? What is it you mean?"

At this moment Emily opened her eyes. "What noise is that? Pray let me
be quiet."

"Miss, I want to speak with you. I have got a writ against you for
eleven hundred pounds at the suit of squire Tyrrel."

At these words both Mrs. Hammond and Emily were dumb. The latter was
scarcely able to annex any meaning to the intelligence; and, though Mrs.
Hammond was somewhat better acquainted with the sort of language that
was employed, yet in this strange and unexpected connection it was
almost as mysterious to her as to poor Emily herself.

"A writ? How can she be in Mr. Tyrrel's debt? A writ against a child!"

"It is no signification putting your questions to us. We only do as we
are directed. There is our authority. Look at it."

"Lord Almighty!" exclaimed Mrs. Hammond, "what does this mean? It is
impossible Mr. Tyrrel should have sent you."

"Good woman, none of your jabber to us! Cannot you read?"

"This is all a trick! The paper is forged! It is a vile contrivance to
get the poor orphan out of the hands of those with whom only she can be
safe. Proceed upon it at your peril!"

"Rest you content; that is exactly what we mean to do. Take my word, we
know very well what we are about."

"Why, you would not tear her from her bed? I tell you, she is in a high
fever; she is light-headed; it would be death to remove her! You are
bailiffs, are not you? You are not murderers?"

"The law says nothing about that. We have orders to take her sick or
well. We will do her no harm except so far as we must perform our
office, be it how it will."

"Where would you take her? What is it you mean to do?"

"To the county jail. Bullock, go, order a post-chaise from the Griffin!"

"Stay, I say! Give no such orders! Wait only three hours; I will send
off a messenger express to squire Falkland, and I am sure he will
satisfy you as to any harm that can come to you, without its being
necessary to take the poor child to jail."

"We have particular directions against that. We are not at liberty to
lose a minute. Why are not you gone? Order the horses to be put to
immediately!"

Emily had listened to the course of this conversation, which had
sufficiently explained to her whatever was enigmatical in the first
appearance of the bailiffs. The painful and incredible reality that was
thus presented effectually dissipated the illusions of frenzy to which
she had just been a prey. "My dear Madam," said she to Mrs. Hammond, "do
not harass yourself with useless efforts. I am very sorry for all the
trouble I have given you. But my misfortune is inevitable. Sir, if you
will step into the next room, I will dress myself, and attend you
immediately."

Mrs. Hammond began to be equally aware that her struggles were to no
purpose; but she could not be equally patient. At one moment she raved
upon the brutality of Mr. Tyrrel, whom she affirmed to be a devil
incarnate, and not a man. At another she expostulated, with bitter
invective, against the hardheartedness of the bailiff, and exhorted him
to mix some humanity and moderation with the discharge of his function;
but he was impenetrable to all she could urge. In the mean while Emily
yielded with the sweetest resignation to an inevitable evil. Mrs.
Hammond insisted that, at least, they should permit her to attend her
young lady in the chaise; and the bailiff, though the orders he had
received were so peremptory that he dared not exercise his discretion as
to the execution of the writ, began to have some apprehensions of
danger, and was willing to admit of any precaution that was not in
direct hostility to his functions. For the rest he understood, that it
was in all cases dangerous to allow sickness, or apparent unfitness for
removal, as a sufficient cause to interrupt a direct process; and that,
accordingly, in all doubtful questions and presumptive murders, the
practice of the law inclined, with a laudable partiality, to the
vindication of its own officers. In addition to these general rules, he
was influenced by the positive injunctions and assurances of Swineard,
and the terror which, through a circle of many miles, was annexed to the
name of Tyrrel. Before they departed, Mrs. Hammond despatched a
messenger with a letter of three lines to Mr. Falkland, informing him of
this extraordinary event. Mr. Falkland was from home when the messenger
arrived, and not expected to return till the second day; accident seemed
in this instance to favour the vengeance of Mr. Tyrrel, for he had
himself been too much under the dominion of an uncontrollable fury, to
take a circumstance of this sort into his estimate.

The forlorn state of these poor women, who were conducted, the one by
compulsion, the other a volunteer, to a scene so little adapted to their
accommodation as that of a common jail, may easily be imagined Mrs.
Hammond, however, was endowed with a masculine courage and impetuosity
of spirit, eminently necessary in the difficulties they had to
encounter. She was in some degree fitted by a sanguine temper, and an
impassioned sense of injustice, for the discharge of those very offices
which sobriety and calm reflection might have prescribed. The health of
Miss Melville was materially affected by the surprise and removal she
had undergone at the very time that repose was most necessary for her
preservation. Her fever became more violent; her delirium was stronger;
and the tortures of her imagination were proportioned to the
unfavourableness of the state in which the removal had been effected. It
was highly improbable that she could recover.

In the moments of suspended reason she was perpetually calling on the
name of Falkland. Mr. Falkland, she said, was her first and only love,
and he should be her husband. A moment after she exclaimed upon him in a
disconsolate, yet reproachful tone, for his unworthy deference to the
prejudices of the world. It was very cruel of him to show himself so
proud, and tell her that he would never consent to marry a beggar. But,
if he were proud, she was determined to be proud too. He should see that
she would not conduct herself like a slighted maiden, and that, though
he could reject her, it was not in his power to break her heart. At
another time she imagined she saw Mr. Tyrrel and his engine Grimes,
their hands and garments dropping with blood: and the pathetic
reproaches she vented against them might have affected a heart of stone.
Then the figure of Falkland presented itself to her distracted fancy,
deformed with wounds, and of a deadly paleness, and she shrieked with
agony, while she exclaimed that such was the general hardheartedness,
that no one would make the smallest exertion for his rescue. In such
vicissitudes of pain, perpetually imagining to her self unkindness,
insult, conspiracy, and murder, she passed a considerable part of two
days.

On the evening of the second Mr. Falkland arrived, accompanied by Doctor
Wilson, the physician by whom she had previously been attended. The
scene he was called upon to witness was such as to be most exquisitely
agonising to a man of his acute sensibility. The news of the arrest had
given him an inexpressible shock; he was transported out of himself at
the unexampled malignity of its author. But, when he saw the figure of
Miss Melville, haggard, and a warrant of death written in her
countenance, a victim to the diabolical passions of her kinsman, it
seemed too much to be endured. When he entered, she was in the midst of
one of her fits of delirium, and immediately mistook her visitors for
two assassins. She asked, where they had hid her Falkland, her lord, her
life, her husband! and demanded that they should restore to her his
mangled corpse, that she might embrace him with her dying arms, breathe
her last upon his lips, and be buried in the same grave. She reproached
them with the sordidness of their conduct in becoming the tools of her
vile cousin, who had deprived her of her reason, and would never be
contented till he had murdered her. Mr. Falkland tore himself away from
this painful scene, and, leaving Doctor Wilson with his patient, desired
him, when he had given the necessary directions, to follow him to his
inn.

The perpetual hurry of spirits in which Miss Melville had been kept for
several days, by the nature of her indisposition, was extremely
exhausting to her; and, in about an hour from the visit of Mr. Falkland,
her delirium subsided, and left her in so low a state as to render it
difficult to perceive any signs of life. Doctor Wilson, who had
withdrawn, to soothe, if possible, the disturbed and impatient thoughts
of Mr. Falkland, was summoned afresh upon this change of symptoms, and
sat by the bed-side during the remainder of the night. The situation of
his patient was such, as to keep him in momentary apprehension of her
decease. While Miss Melville lay in this feeble and exhausted condition,
Mrs. Hammond betrayed every token of the tenderest anxiety. Her
sensibility was habitually of the acutest sort, and the qualities of
Emily were such as powerfully to fix her affection. She loved her like a
mother. Upon the present occasion, every sound, every motion, made her
tremble. Doctor Wilson had introduced another nurse, in consideration of
the incessant fatigue Mrs. Hammond had undergone; and he endeavoured, by
representations, and even by authority, to compel her to quit the
apartment of the patient. But she was uncontrollable; and he at length
found that he should probably do her more injury, by the violence that
would be necessary to separate her from the suffering innocent, than by
allowing her to follow her inclination. Her eye was a thousand times
turned, with the most eager curiosity, upon the countenance of Doctor
Wilson, without her daring to breathe a question respecting his opinion,
lest he should answer her by a communication of the most fatal tidings.
In the mean time she listened with the deepest attention to every thing
that dropped either from the physician or the nurse, hoping to collect
as it were from some oblique hint, the intelligence which she had not
courage expressly to require.

Towards morning the state of the patient seemed to take a favourable
turn. She dozed for near two hours, and, when she awoke, appeared
perfectly calm and sensible. Understanding that Mr. Falkland had
brought the physician to attend her, and was himself in her
neighbourhood, she requested to see him. Mr. Falkland had gone in the
mean time, with one of his tenants, to bail the debt, and now entered
the prison to enquire whether the young lady might be safely removed,
from her present miserable residence, to a more airy and commodious
apartment. When he appeared, the sight of him revived in the mind of
Miss Melville an imperfect recollection of the wanderings of her
delirium. She covered her face with her fingers, and betrayed the most
expressive confusion, while she thanked him, with her usual unaffected
simplicity, for the trouble he had taken. She hoped she should not give
him much more; she thought she should get better. It was a shame, she
said, if a young and lively girl, as she was, could not contrive to
outlive the trifling misfortunes to which she had been subjected. But,
while she said this, she was still extremely weak. She tried to assume a
cheerful countenance; but it was a faint effort, which the feeble state
of her frame did not seem sufficient to support. Mr. Falkland and the
doctor joined to request her to keep herself quiet, and avoid for the
present all occasions of exertion.

Encouraged by these appearances, Mrs. Hammond ventured to follow the two
gentlemen out of the room, in order to learn from the physician what
hopes he entertained. Doctor Wilson acknowledged, that he found his
patient at first in a very unfavourable situation, that the symptoms
were changed for the better, and that he was not without some
expectation of her recovery. He added, however, that he could answer for
nothing, that the next twelve hours would be exceedingly critical, but
that if she did not grow worse before morning, he would then undertake
for her life. Mrs. Hammond, who had hitherto seen nothing but despair,
now became frantic with joy. She burst into tears of transport, blessed
the physician in the most emphatic and impassioned terms, and uttered a
thousand extravagancies. Doctor Wilson seized this opportunity to press
her to give herself a little repose, to which she consented, a bed being
first procured for her in the room next to Miss Melville's, she having
charged the nurse to give her notice of any alteration in the state of
the patient.

Mrs. Hammond enjoyed an uninterrupted sleep of several hours. It was
already night, when she was awaked by an unusual bustle in the next
room. She listened for a few moments, and then determined to go and
discover the occasion of it. As she opened her door for that purpose,
she met the nurse coming to her. The countenance of the messenger told
her what it was she had to communicate, without the use of words. She
hurried to the bed-side, and found Miss Melville expiring. The
appearances that had at first been so encouraging were of short
duration. The calm of the morning proved to be only a sort of lightening
before death. In a few hours the patient grew worse. The bloom of her
countenance faded; she drew her breath with difficulty; and her eyes
became fixed. Doctor Wilson came in at this period, and immediately
perceived that all was over. She was for some time in convulsions; but,
these subsiding, she addressed the physician with a composed, though
feeble voice. She thanked him for his attention; and expressed the most
lively sense of her obligations to Mr. Falkland. She sincerely forgave
her cousin, and hoped he might never be visited by too acute a
recollection of his barbarity to her. She would have been contented to
live. Few persons had a sincerer relish of the pleasures of life; but
she was well pleased to die, rather than have become the wife of Grimes.
As Mrs. Hammond entered, she turned her countenance towards her, and
with an affectionate expression repeated her name. This was her last
word; in less than two hours from that time she breathed her last in the
arms of this faithful friend.




CHAPTER XI.


Such was the fate of Miss Emily Melville. Perhaps tyranny never
exhibited a more painful memorial of the detestation in which it
deserves to be held. The idea irresistibly excited in every spectator of
the scene, was that of regarding Mr. Tyrrel as the most diabolical
wretch that had ever dishonoured the human form. The very attendants
upon this house of oppression, for the scene was acted upon too public a
stage not to be generally understood, expressed their astonishment and
disgust at his unparalleled cruelty.

If such were the feelings of men bred to the commission of injustice, it
is difficult to say what must have been those of Mr. Falkland. He raved,
he swore, he beat his head, he rent up his hair. He was unable to
continue in one posture, and to remain in one place. He burst away from
the spot with vehemence, as if he sought to leave behind him his
recollection and his existence. He seemed to tear up the ground with
fierceness and rage. He returned soon again. He approached the sad
remains of what had been Emily, and gazed on them with such intentness,
that his eyes appeared, ready to burst from their sockets. Acute and
exquisite as were his notions of virtue and honour, he could not prevent
himself from reproaching the system of nature, for having given birth to
such a monster as Tyrrel. He was ashamed of himself for wearing the same
form. He could not think of the human species with patience. He foamed
with indignation against the laws of the universe, that did not permit
him to crush such reptiles at a blow, as we would crush so many noxious
insects. It was necessary to guard him like a madman.

The whole office of judging what was proper to be done under the present
circumstances devolved upon Doctor Wilson. The doctor was a man of cool
and methodical habits of acting. One of the first ideas that suggested
itself to him was, that Miss Melvile was a branch of the family of
Tyrrel. He did not doubt of the willingness of Mr. Falkland to discharge
every expense that might be further incident to the melancholy remains
of this unfortunate victim; but he conceived that the laws of fashion
and decorum required some notification of the event to be made to the
head of the family. Perhaps, too, he had an eye to his interest in his
profession, and was reluctant to expose himself to the resentment of a
person of Mr. Tyrrel's consideration in the neighbourhood. But, with
this weakness, he had nevertheless some feelings in common with the rest
of the world, and must have suffered considerable violence, before he
could have persuaded himself to be the messenger; beside which, he did
not think it right in the present situation to leave Mr. Falkland.

Doctor Wilson no sooner mentioned these ideas, than they seemed to make
a sudden impression on Mrs. Hammond, and she earnestly requested that
she might be permitted to carry the intelligence. The proposal was
unexpected; but the doctor did not very obstinately refuse his assent.
She was determined, she said, to see what sort of impression the
catastrophe would make upon the author of it; and she promised to
comport herself with moderation and civility. The journey was soon
performed.

"I am come, sir," said she to Mr. Tyrrel, "to inform you that your
cousin, Miss Melville, died this afternoon."

"Died?"

"Yes, sir. I saw her die. She died in these arms."

"Died? Who killed her? What do you mean?"

"Who? Is it for you to ask that question? Your cruelty and malice killed
her!"

"Me?--my?--Poh! she is not dead--it cannot be--it is not a week since
she left this house."

"Do not you believe me? I say she is dead!"

"Have a care, woman! this is no matter for jesting. No: though she used
me ill, I would not believe her dead for all the world!"

Mrs. Hammond shook her head in a manner expressive at once of grief and
indignation.

"No, no, no, no! I will never believe that!--No, never!"

"Will you come with me, and convince your eyes? It is a sight worthy of
you; and will be a feast to such a heart as yours!"--Saying this, Mrs.
Hammond offered her hand, as if to conduct him to the spot.

Mr. Tyrrel shrunk back.

"If she be dead, what is that to me? Am I to answer for every thing that
goes wrong in the world?--What do you come here for? Why bring your
messages to me?"

"To whom should I bring them but to her kinsman,--and her murderer."

"Murderer?--Did I employ knives or pistols? Did I give her poison? I did
nothing but what the law allows. If she be dead, nobody can say that I
am to blame!"

"To blame?--All the world will abhor and curse you. Were you such a
fool as to think, because men pay respect to wealth and rank, this would
extend to such a deed? They will laugh at so barefaced a cheat. The
meanest beggar will spurn and spit at you. Ay, you may well stand
confounded at what you have done. I will proclaim you to the whole
world, and you will be obliged to fly the very face of a human
creature!"

"Good woman," said Mr. Tyrrel, extremely humbled, "talk no more in this
strain!--Emmy is not dead! I am sure--I hope--she is not dead!--Tell me
that you have only been deceiving me, and I will forgive you every
thing--I will forgive her--I will take her into favour--I will do any
thing you please!--I never meant her any harm!"

"I tell you she is dead! You have murdered the sweetest innocent that
lived! Can you bring her back to life, as you have driven her out of it?
If you could, I would kneel to you twenty times a day! What is it you
have done?--Miserable wretch! did you think you could do and undo, and
change things this way and that, as you pleased?"

The reproaches of Mrs. Hammond were the first instance in which Mr.
Tyrrel was made to drink the full cup of retribution. This was, however,
only a specimen of a long series of contempt, abhorrence, and insult,
that was reserved for him. The words of Mrs. Hammond were prophetic. It
evidently appeared, that though wealth and hereditary elevation operate
as an apology for many delinquencies, there are some which so
irresistibly address themselves to the indignation of mankind, that,
like death, they level all distinctions, and reduce their perpetrator to
an equality with the most indigent and squalid of his species. Against
Mr. Tyrrel, as the tyrannical and unmanly murderer of Emily, those who
dared not venture the unreserved avowal of their sentiments muttered
curses, deep, not loud; while the rest joined in an universal cry of
abhorrence and execration. He stood astonished at the novelty of his
situation. Accustomed as he had been to the obedience and trembling
homage of mankind, he had imagined they would be perpetual, and that no
excess on his part would ever be potent enough to break the enchantment.
Now he looked round, and saw sullen detestation in every face, which
with difficulty restrained itself, and upon the slightest provocation
broke forth with an impetuous tide, and swept away the mounds of
subordination and fear. His large estate could not purchase civility
from the gentry, the peasantry, scarcely from his own servants. In the
indignation of all around him he found a ghost that haunted him with
every change of place, and a remorse that stung his conscience, and
exterminated his peace. The neighbourhood appeared more and more every
day to be growing too hot for him to endure, and it became evident that
he would ultimately be obliged to quit the country. Urged by the
flagitiousness of this last example, people learned to recollect every
other instance of his excesses, and it was, no doubt, a fearful
catalogue that rose up in judgment against him. It seemed as if the
sense of public resentment had long been gathering strength unperceived,
and now burst forth into insuppressible violence.

There was scarcely a human being upon whom this sort of retribution
could have sat more painfully than upon Mr. Tyrrel. Though he had not a
consciousness of innocence prompting him continually to recoil from the
detestation of mankind as a thing totally unallied to his character, yet
the imperiousness of his temper and the constant experience he had had
of the pliability of other men, prepared him to feel the general and
undisguised condemnation into which he was sunk with uncommon emotions
of anger and impatience. That he, at the beam of whose eye every
countenance fell, and to whom in the fierceness of his wrath no one was
daring enough to reply, should now be regarded with avowed dislike, and
treated with unceremonious censure, was a thing he could not endure to
recollect or believe. Symptoms of the universal disgust smote him at
every instant, and at every blow he writhed with intolerable anguish.
His rage was unbounded and raving. He repelled every attack with the
fiercest indignation; while the more he struggled, the more desperate
his situation appeared to become. At length he determined to collect his
strength for a decisive effort, and to meet the whole tide of public
opinion in a single scene.

In pursuance of these thoughts he resolved to repair, without delay, to
the rural assembly which I have already mentioned in the course of my
story. Miss Melville had now been dead one month. Mr. Falkland had been
absent the last week in a distant part of the country, and was not
expected to return for a week longer. Mr. Tyrrel willingly embraced the
opportunity, trusting, if he could now effect his re-establishment, that
he should easily preserve the ground he had gained, even in the face of
his formidable rival. Mr. Tyrrel was not deficient in courage; but he
conceived the present to be too important an epoch in his life to allow
him to make any unnecessary risk in his chance for future ease and
importance.

There was a sort of bustle that took place at his entrance into the
assembly, it having been agreed by the gentlemen of the assembly, that
Mr. Tyrrel was to be refused admittance, as a person with whom they did
not choose to associate. This vote had already been notified to him by
letter by the master of the ceremonies, but the intelligence was rather
calculated, with a man of Mr. Tyrrel's disposition, to excite defiance
than to overawe. At the door of the assembly he was personally met by
the master of the ceremonies, who had perceived the arrival of an
equipage, and who now endeavoured to repeat his prohibition: but he was
thrust aside by Mr. Tyrrel with an air of native authority and ineffable
contempt. As he entered; every eye was turned upon him. Presently all
the gentlemen in the room assembled round him. Some endeavoured to
hustle him, and others began to expostulate. But he found the secret
effectually to silence the one set, and to shake off the other. His
muscular form, the well-known eminence of his intellectual powers, the
long habits to which every man was formed of acknowledging his
ascendancy, were all in his favour. He considered himself as playing a
desperate stake, and had roused all the energies he possessed, to enable
him to do justice to so interesting a transaction. Disengaged from the
insects that at first pestered him, he paced up and down the room with a
magisterial stride, and flashed an angry glance on every side. He then
broke silence. "If any one had any thing to say to him, he should know
where and how to answer him. He would advise any such person, however,
to consider well what he was about. If any man imagined he had any thing
personally to complain of, it was very well. But he did expect that
nobody there would be ignorant and raw enough to meddle with what was no
business of theirs, and intrude into the concerns of any man's private
family."

This being a sort of defiance, one and another gentleman advanced to
answer it. He that was first began to speak; but Mr. Tyrrel, by the
expression of his countenance and a peremptory tone, by well-timed
interruptions and pertinent insinuations, caused him first to hesitate,
and then to be silent. He seemed to be fast advancing to the triumph he
had promised himself. The whole company were astonished. They felt the
same abhorrence and condemnation of his character; but they could not
help admiring the courage and resources he displayed upon the present
occasion. They could without difficulty have concentred afresh their
indignant feelings, but they seemed to want a leader.

At this critical moment Mr. Falkland entered the room. Mere accident had
enabled him to return sooner than he expected.

Both he and Mr. Tyrrel reddened at sight of each other. He advanced
towards Mr. Tyrrel without a moment's pause, and in a peremptory voice
asked him what he did there?

"Here? What do you mean by that? This place is as free to me as you, and
you are the last person to whom I shall deign to give an account of
myself."

"Sir, the place is not free to you. Do not you know, you have been voted
out? Whatever were your rights, your infamous conduct has forfeited
them."

"Mr. what do you call yourself, if you have anything to say to me,
choose a proper time and place. Do not think to put on your bullying
airs under shelter of this company! I will not endure it."

"You are mistaken, sir. This public scene is the only place where I can
have any thing to say to you. If you would not hear the universal
indignation of mankind, you must not come into the society of men.--Miss
Melville!--Shame upon you, inhuman, unrelenting tyrant! Can you hear her
name, and not sink into the earth? Can you retire into solitude, and not
see her pale and patient ghost rising to reproach you? Can you recollect
her virtues, her innocence, her spotless manners, her unresentful
temper, and not run distracted with remorse? Have you not killed her in
the first bloom of her youth? Can you bear to think that she now lies
mouldering in the grave through your cursed contrivance, that deserved a
crown, ten thousand times more than you deserve to live? And do you
expect that mankind will ever forget, or forgive such a deed? Go,
miserable wretch; think yourself too happy that you are permitted to fly
the face of man! Why, what a pitiful figure do you make at this moment!
Do you think that any thing could bring so hardened a wretch as you are
to shrink from reproach, if your conscience were not in confederacy with
them that reproached you? And were you fool enough to believe that any
obstinacy, however determined, could enable you to despise the keen
rebuke of justice? Go, shrink into your miserable self! Begone, and let
me never be blasted with your sight again!"

And here, incredible as it may appear, Mr. Tyrrel began to obey his
imperious censurer. His looks were full of wildness and horror; his
limbs trembled; and his tongue refused its office. He felt no power of
resisting the impetuous torrent of reproach that was poured upon him. He
hesitated; he was ashamed of his own defeat; he seemed to wish to deny
it. But his struggles were ineffectual; every attempt perished in the
moment it was made. The general voice was eager to abash him. As his
confusion became more visible, the outcry increased. It swelled
gradually to hootings, tumult, and a deafening noise of indignation. At
length he willingly retired from the public scene, unable any longer to
endure the sensations it inflicted.

In about an hour and a half he returned. No precaution had been taken
against this incident, for nothing could be more unexpected. In the
interval he had intoxicated himself with large draughts of brandy. In a
moment he was in a part of the room where Mr. Falkland was standing, and
with one blow of his muscular arm levelled him with the earth. The blow
however was not stunning, and Mr. Falkland rose again immediately. It is
obvious to perceive how unequal he must have been in this species of
contest. He was scarcely risen before Mr. Tyrrel repeated his blow. Mr.
Falkland was now upon his guard, and did not fall. But the blows of his
adversary were redoubled with a rapidity difficult to conceive, and Mr.
Falkland was once again brought to the earth. In this situation Mr.
Tyrrel kicked his prostrate enemy, and stooped apparently with the
intention of dragging him along the floor. All this passed in a moment,
and the gentlemen present had not time to recover their surprise. They
now interfered, and Mr. Tyrrel once more quitted the apartment.

It is difficult to conceive any event more terrible to the individual
upon whom it fell, than the treatment which Mr. Falkland in this
instance experienced. Every passion of his life was calculated to make
him feel it more acutely. He had repeatedly exerted an uncommon energy
and prudence, to prevent the misunderstanding between Mr. Tyrrel and
himself from proceeding to extremities; but in vain! It was closed with
a catastrophe, exceeding all that he had feared, or that the most
penetrating foresight could have suggested. To Mr. Falkland disgrace was
worse than death. The slightest breath of dishonour would have stung him
to the very soul. What must it have been with this complication of
ignominy, base, humiliating, and public? Could Mr. Tyrrel have
understood the evil he inflicted, even he, under all his circumstances
of provocation, could scarcely have perpetrated it. Mr. Falkland's mind
was full of uproar like the war of contending elements, and of such
suffering as casts contempt on the refinements of inventive cruelty. He
wished for annihilation, to lie down in eternal oblivion, in an
insensibility, which, compared with what he experienced, was scarcely
less enviable than beatitude itself. Horror, detestation, revenge,
inexpressible longings to shake off the evil, and a persuasion that in
this case all effort was powerless, filled his soul even to bursting.

One other event closed the transactions of this memorable evening. Mr.
Falkland was baffled of the vengeance that yet remained to him. Mr.
Tyrrel was found by some of the company dead in the street, having been
murdered at the distance of a few yards from the assembly house.




CHAPTER XII.


I shall endeavour to state the remainder of this narrative in the words
of Mr. Collins. The reader has already had occasion to perceive that Mr.
Collins was a man of no vulgar order; and his reflections on the subject
were uncommonly judicious.

"This day was the crisis of Mr. Falkland's history. From hence took its
beginning that gloomy and unsociable melancholy, of which he has since
been the victim. No two characters can be in certain respects more
strongly contrasted, than the Mr. Falkland of a date prior and
subsequent to these events. Hitherto he had been attended by a fortune
perpetually prosperous. His mind was sanguine; full of that undoubting
confidence in its own powers which prosperity is qualified to produce.
Though the habits of his life were those of a serious and sublime
visionary they were nevertheless full of cheerfulness and tranquillity.
But from this moment, his pride, and the lofty adventurousness of his
spirit, were effectually subdued. From an object of envy he was changed
into an object of compassion. Life, which hitherto no one had more
exquisitely enjoyed, became a burden to him. No more self-complacency,
no more rapture, no more self-approving and heart-transporting
benevolence! He who had lived beyond any man upon the grand and
animating reveries of the imagination, seemed now to have no visions but
of anguish and despair. His case was peculiarly worthy of sympathy,
since, no doubt, if rectitude and purity of disposition could give a
title to happiness, few men could exhibit a more consistent and powerful
claim than Mr. Falkland.

"He was too deeply pervaded with the idle and groundless romances of
chivalry, ever to forget the situation, humiliating and dishonourable
according to his ideas, in which he had been placed upon this occasion.
There is a mysterious sort of divinity annexed to the person of a true
knight, that makes any species of brute violence committed upon it
indelible and immortal. To be knocked down, cuffed, kicked, dragged
along the floor! Sacred heaven, the memory of such a treatment was not
to be endured! No future lustration could ever remove the stain: and,
what was perhaps still worse in the present case, the offender having
ceased to exist, the lustration which the laws of knight-errantry
prescribe was rendered impossible.

"In some future period of human improvement, it is probable, that that
calamity will be in a manner unintelligible, which in the present
instance contributed to tarnish and wither the excellence of one of the
most elevated and amiable of human minds. If Mr. Falkland had reflected
with perfect accuracy upon the case, he would probably have been able
to look down with indifference upon a wound, which, as it was, pierced
to his very vitals. How much more dignity, than in the modern duellist,
do we find in Themistocles, the most gallant of the Greeks; who, when
Eurybiades, his commander in chief, in answer to some of his
remonstrances, lifted his cane over him with a menacing air, accosted
him in that noble apostrophe, 'Strike, but hear!'

"How would a man of true discernment in such a case reply to his brutal
assailant? 'I make it my boast that I can endure calamity and pain:
shall I not be able to endure the trifling inconvenience that your folly
can inflict upon me? Perhaps a human being would be more accomplished,
if he understood the science of personal defence; but how few would be
the occasions upon which he would be called to exert it? How few persons
would he encounter so unjust and injurious as you, if his own conduct
were directed by the principles of reason and benevolence? Beside, how
narrow would be the use of this science when acquired? It will scarcely
put the man of delicate make and petty stature upon a level with the
athletic pugilist; and, if it did in some measure secure me against the
malice of a single adversary, still my person and my life, so far as
mere force is concerned, would always be at the mercy of two. Further
than immediate defence against actual violence, it could never be of use
to me. The man who can deliberately meet his adversary for the purpose
of exposing the person of one or both of them to injury, tramples upon
every principle of reason and equity. Duelling is the vilest of all
egotism, treating the public, who has a claim to all my powers and
exertions, as if it were nothing, and myself, or rather an
unintelligible chimera I annex to myself, as if it were entitled to my
exclusive attention. I am unable to cope with you: what then? Can that
circumstance dishonour me? No; I can only be dishonoured by perpetrating
an unjust action. My honour is in my own keeping, beyond the reach of
all mankind. Strike! I am passive. No injury that you can inflict, shall
provoke me to expose you or myself to unnecessary evil. I refuse that;
but I am not therefore pusillanimous: when I refuse any danger or
suffering by which the general good may be promoted, then brand me for a
coward!

"These reasonings, however simple and irresistible they must be found by
a dispassionate enquirer, are little reflected on by the world at large,
and were most of all uncongenial to the prejudices of Mr. Falkland.

"But the public disgrace and chastisement that had been imposed upon
him, intolerable as they were to be recollected, were not the whole of
the mischief that redounded to our unfortunate patron from the
transactions of that day. It was presently whispered that he was no
other than the murderer of his antagonist. This rumour was of too much
importance to the very continuance of his life, to justify its being
concealed from him. He heard it with inexpressible astonishment and
horror; it formed a dreadful addition to the load of intellectual
anguish that already oppressed him. No man had ever held his reputation
more dear than Mr. Falkland; and now, in one day, he was fallen under
the most exquisite calamities, a complicated personal insult, and the
imputation of the foulest of crimes. He might have fled; for no one was
forward to proceed against a man so adored as Mr. Falkland, or in
revenge of one so universally execrated as Mr. Tyrrel. But flight he
disdained. In the mean time the affair was of the most serious
magnitude, and the rumour unchecked seemed daily to increase in
strength. Mr. Falkland appeared sometimes inclined to adopt such steps
as might have been best calculated to bring the imputation to a speedy
trial. But he probably feared, by too direct an appeal to judicature, to
render more precise an imputation, the memory of which he deprecated; at
the same time that he was sufficiently willing to meet the severest
scrutiny, and, if he could not hope to have it forgotten that he had
ever been accused, to prove in the most satisfactory manner that the
accusation was unjust.

"The neighbouring magistrates at length conceived it necessary to take
some steps upon the subject. Without causing Mr. Falkland to be
apprehended, they sent to desire he would appear before them at one of
their meetings. The proceeding being thus opened, Mr. Falkland expressed
his hope that, if the business were likely to stop there, their
investigation might at least be rendered as solemn as possible. The
meeting was numerous; every person of a respectable class in society was
admitted to be an auditor; the whole town, one of the most considerable
in the county, was apprised of the nature of the business. Few trials,
invested with all the forms of judgment, have excited so general an
interest. A trial, under the present circumstances, was scarcely
attainable; and it seemed to be the wish both of principal and umpires,
to give to this transaction all the momentary notoriety and decisiveness
of a trial.

"The magistrates investigated the particulars of the story. Mr.
Falkland, it appeared, had left the rooms immediately after his
assailant; and though he had been attended by one or two of the
gentlemen to his inn, it was proved that he had left them upon some
slight occasion, as soon as he arrived at it, and that, when they
enquired for him of the waiters, he had already mounted his horse and
ridden home.

"By the nature of the case, no particular facts could be stated in
balance against these. As soon as they had been sufficiently detailed,
Mr. Falkland therefore proceeded to his defence. Several copies of his
defence were-made, and Mr. Falkland seemed, for a short time, to have
had the idea of sending it to the press, though, for some reason or
other, he afterwards suppressed it. I have one of the copies in my
possession, and I will read it to you."

Saying this, Mr. Collins rose, and took it from a private drawer in his
escritoire. During this action he appeared to recollect himself. He did
not, in the strict sense of the word, hesitate; but he was prompted to
make some apology for what he was doing.

"You seem never to have heard of this memorable transaction; and,
indeed, that is little to be wondered at, since the good nature of the
world is interested in suppressing it, and it is deemed a disgrace to a
man to have defended himself from a criminal imputation, though with
circumstances the most satisfactory and honourable. It may be supposed
that this suppression is particularly acceptable to Mr. Falkland; and I
should not have acted in contradiction to his modes of thinking in
communicating the story to you, had there not been circumstances of
peculiar urgency, that seemed to render the communication desirable."
Saying this, he proceeded to read from the paper in his hand.

"Gentlemen,

"I stand here accused of a crime, the most black that any human creature
is capable of perpetrating. I am innocent. I have no fear that I shall
fail to make every person in this company acknowledge my innocence. In
the mean time, what must be my feelings? Conscious as I am of deserving
approbation and not censure, of having passed my life in acts of
justice and philanthropy, can any thing be more deplorable than for me
to answer to a charge of murder? So wretched is my situation, that I
cannot accept your gratuitous acquittal, if you should be disposed to
bestow it. I must answer to an imputation, the very thought of which is
ten thousand times worse to me than death. I must exert the whole energy
of my mind, to prevent my being ranked with the vilest of men.

"Gentlemen, this is a situation in which a man may be allowed to boast.
Accursed situation! No man need envy me the vile and polluted triumph I
am now to gain! I have called no witnesses to my character. Great God!
what sort of character is that which must be supported by witnesses?
But, if I must speak, look round the company, ask of every one present,
enquire of your own hearts! Not one word of reproach was ever whispered
against me. I do not hesitate to call upon those who have known me most,
to afford me the most honourable testimony.

"My life has been spent in the keenest and most unintermitted
sensibility to reputation. I am almost indifferent as to what shall be
the event of this day. I would not open my mouth upon the occasion, if
my life were the only thing that was at stake. It is not in the power of
your decision to restore to me my unblemished reputation, to obliterate
the disgrace I have suffered, or to prevent it from being remembered
that I have been brought to examination upon a charge of murder. Your
decision can never have the efficacy to prevent the miserable remains of
my existence from being the most intolerable of all burthens.

"I am accused of having committed murder upon the body of Barnabas
Tyrrel. I would most joyfully have given every farthing I possess, and
devoted myself to perpetual beggary, to have preserved his life. His
life was precious to me, beyond that of all mankind. In my opinion, the
greatest injustice committed by his unknown assassin was that of
defrauding me of my just revenge. I confess that I would have called him
out to the field, and that our encounter should not have been terminated
but by the death of one or both of us. This would have been a pitiful
and inadequate compensation for his unparalleled insult, but it was all
that remained.

"I ask for no pity, but I must openly declare that never was any
misfortune so horrible as mine. I would willingly have taken refuge from
the recollection of that night in a voluntary death. Life was now
stripped of all those recommendations, for the sake of which it was dear
to me. But even this consolation is denied me. I am compelled to drag
for ever the intolerable load of existence, upon penalty, if at any
period, however remote, I shake it off, of having that impatience
regarded as confirming a charge of murder. Gentlemen, if by your
decision you could take away my life, without that act being connected
with my disgrace, I would bless the cord that stopped the breath of my
existence for ever.

"You all know how easily I might have fled from this purgation. If I had
been guilty, should I not have embraced the opportunity? But, as it was,
I could not. Reputation has been the idol, the jewel of my life. I could
never have borne to think that a human creature, in the remotest part of
the globe, should believe that I was a criminal. Alas! what a deity it
is that I have chosen for my worship! I have entailed upon myself
everlasting agony and despair!

"I have but one word to add. Gentlemen, I charge you to do me the
imperfect justice that is in your power! My life is a worthless thing.
But my honour, the empty remains of honour I have now to boast, is in
your judgment, and you will each of you, from this day, have imposed
upon yourselves the task of its vindicators. It is little that you can
do for me; but it is not less your duty to do that little. May that God
who is the fountain of honour and good prosper and protect you! The man
who now stands before you is devoted to perpetual barrenness and blast!
He has nothing to hope for beyond the feeble consolation of this day!"

"You will easily imagine that Mr. Falkland was discharged with every
circumstance of credit. Nothing is more to be deplored in human
institutions, than that the ideas of mankind should have annexed a
sentiment of disgrace to a purgation thus satisfactory and decisive. No
one entertained the shadow of a doubt upon the subject, and yet a mere
concurrence of circumstances made it necessary that the best of men
should be publicly put on his defence, as if really under suspicion of
an atrocious crime. It may be granted indeed that Mr. Falkland had his
faults, but those very faults placed him at a still further distance
from the criminality in question. He was the fool of honour and fame: a
man whom, in the pursuit of reputation, nothing could divert; who would
have purchased the character of a true, gallant, and undaunted hero, at
the expense of worlds, and who thought every calamity nominal but a
stain upon his honour. How atrociously absurd to suppose any motive
capable of inducing such a man to play the part of a lurking assassin?
How unfeeling to oblige him to defend himself from such an imputation?
Did any man, and, least of all, a man of the purest honour, ever pass in
a moment, from a life unstained by a single act of injury, to the
consummation of human depravity?

"When the decision of the magistrates was declared, a general murmur of
applause and involuntary transport burst forth from every one present.
It was at first low, and gradually became louder. As it was the
expression of rapturous delight, and an emotion disinterested and
divine, so there was an indescribable something in the very sound, that
carried it home to the heart, and convinced every spectator that there
was no merely personal pleasure which ever existed, that would not be
foolish and feeble in the comparison. Every one strove who should most
express his esteem of the amiable accused. Mr. Falkland was no sooner
withdrawn than the gentlemen present determined to give a still further
sanction to the business, by their congratulations. They immediately
named a deputation to wait upon him for that purpose. Every one
concurred to assist the general sentiment. It was a sort of sympathetic
feeling that took hold upon all ranks and degrees. The multitude
received him with huzzas, they took his horses from his carriage,
dragged him along in triumph, and attended him many miles on his return
to his own habitation. It seemed as if a public examination upon a
criminal charge, which had hitherto been considered in every event as a
brand of disgrace, was converted, in the present instance, into an
occasion of enthusiastic adoration and unexampled honour.

"Nothing could reach the heart of Mr. Falkland. He was not insensible to
the general kindness and exertions; but it was too evident that the
melancholy that had taken hold of his mind was invincible.

"It was only a few weeks after this memorable scene that the real
murderer was discovered. Every part of this story was extraordinary. The
real murderer was Hawkins. He was found with his son, under a feigned
name, at a village about thirty miles distant, in want of all the
necessaries of life. He had lived there, from the period of his flight,
in so private a manner, that all the enquiries that had been set on
foot, by the benevolence of Mr. Falkland, or the insatiable malice of
Mr. Tyrrel, had been insufficient to discover him. The first thing that
had led to the detection was a parcel of clothes covered with blood,
that were found in a ditch, and that, when drawn out, were known by the
people of the village to belong to this man. The murder of Mr. Tyrrel
was not a circumstance that could be unknown, and suspicion was
immediately roused. A diligent search being made, the rusty handle, with
part of the blade of a knife, was found thrown in a corner of his
lodging, which, being applied to a piece of the point of a knife that
had been broken in the wound, appeared exactly to correspond. Upon
further enquiry two rustics, who had been accidentally on the spot,
remembered to have seen Hawkins and his son in the town that very
evening and to have called after them, and received no answer, though
they were sure of their persons. Upon this accumulated evidence both
Hawkins and his son were tried, condemned, and afterwards executed. In
the interval between the sentence and execution Hawkins confessed his
guilt with many marks of compunction; though there are persons by whom
this is denied; but I have taken some pains to enquire into the fact,
and am persuaded that their disbelief is precipitate and groundless.

"The cruel injustice that this man had suffered from his village-tyrant
was not forgotten upon the present occasion. It was by a strange
fatality that the barbarous proceedings of Mr. Tyrrel seemed never to
fall short of their completion; and even his death served eventually to
consummate the ruin of a man he hated; a circumstance which, if it could
have come to his knowledge, would perhaps have in some measure consoled
him for his untimely end. This poor Hawkins was surely entitled to some
pity, since his being finally urged to desperation, and brought,
together with his son, to an ignominious fate, was originally owing to
the sturdiness of his virtue and independence. But the compassion of the
public was in a great measure shut against him, as they thought it a
piece of barbarous and unpardonable selfishness, that he had not rather
come boldly forward to meet the consequences of his own conduct, than
suffer a man of so much public worth as Mr. Falkland, and who had been
so desirous of doing him good, to be exposed to the risk of being tried
for a murder that he had committed.

"From this time to the present Mr. Falkland has been nearly such as you
at present see him. Though it be several years since these transactions,
the impression they made is for ever fresh in the mind of our
unfortunate patron. From thenceforward his habits became totally
different. He had before been fond of public scenes, and acting a part
in the midst of the people among whom he immediately resided. He now
made himself a rigid recluse. He had no associates, no friends.
Inconsolable himself, he yet wished to treat others with kindness. There
was a solemn sadness in his manner, attended with the most perfect
gentleness and humanity. Every body respects him, for his benevolence is
unalterable; but there is a stately coldness and reserve in his
behaviour, which makes it difficult for those about him to regard him
with the familiarity of affection. These symptoms are uninterrupted,
except at certain times when his sufferings become intolerable, and he
displays the marks of a furious insanity. At those times his language is
fearful and mysterious, and he seems to figure to himself by turns every
sort of persecution and alarm, which may be supposed to attend upon an
accusation of murder. But, sensible of his own weakness, he is anxious
at such times to withdraw into solitude: and his domestics in general
know nothing of him, but the uncommunicative and haughty, but mild,
dejection that accompanies every thing he does."


END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

       *       *       *       *       *




VOLUME THE SECOND.




CHAPTER I.


I have stated the narrative of Mr. Collins, interspersed with such other
information as I was able to collect, with all the exactness that my
memory, assisted by certain memorandums I made at the time, will afford.
I do not pretend to warrant the authenticity of any part of these
memoirs, except so much as fell under my own knowledge, and that part
shall be given with the same simplicity and accuracy, that I would
observe towards a court which was to decide in the last resort upon
every thing dear to me. The same scrupulous fidelity restrains me from
altering the manner of Mr. Collins's narrative to adapt it to the
precepts of my own taste; and it will soon be perceived how essential
that narrative is to the elucidation of my history.

The intention of my friend in this communication was to give me ease;
but he in reality added to my embarrassment. Hitherto I had had no
intercourse with the world and its passions; and, though I was not
totally unacquainted with them as they appear in books, this proved of
little service to me when I came to witness them myself. The case seemed
entirely altered, when the subject of those passions was continually
before my eyes, and the events had happened but the other day as it
were, in the very neighbourhood where I lived. There was a connection
and progress in this narrative, which made it altogether unlike the
little village incidents I had hitherto known. My feelings were
successively interested for the different persons that were brought upon
the scene. My veneration was excited for Mr. Clare, and my applause for
the intrepidity of Mrs. Hammond. I was astonished that any human
creature should be so shockingly perverted as Mr. Tyrrel. I paid the
tribute of my tears to the memory of the artless Miss Melville. I found
a thousand fresh reasons to admire and love Mr. Falkland.

At present I was satisfied with thus considering every incident in its
obvious sense. But the story I had heard was for ever in my thoughts,
and I was peculiarly interested to comprehend its full import. I turned
it a thousand ways, and examined it in every point of view. In the
original communication it appeared sufficiently distinct and
satisfactory; but as I brooded over it, it gradually became mysterious.
There was something strange in the character of Hawkins. So firm, so
sturdily honest and just, as he appeared at first; all at once to become
a murderer! His first behaviour under the prosecution, how accurately
was it calculated to prepossess one in his favour! To be sure, if he
were guilty, it was unpardonable in him to permit a man of so much
dignity and worth as Mr. Falkland to suffer under the imputation of his
crime! And yet I could not help bitterly compassionating the honest
fellow, brought to the gallows, as he was, strictly speaking, by the
machinations of that devil incarnate, Mr. Tyrrel. His son, too, that son
for whom he voluntarily sacrificed his all, to die with him at the same
tree; surely never was a story more affecting!

Was it possible, after all, that Mr. Falkland should be the murderer?
The reader will scarcely believe, that the idea suggested itself to my
mind that I would ask him. It was but a passing thought; but it serves
to mark the simplicity of my character. Then I recollected the virtues
of my master, almost too sublime for human nature; I thought of his
sufferings so unexampled, so unmerited; and chid myself for the
suspicion. The dying confession of Hawkins recurred to my mind; and I
felt that there was no longer a possibility of doubting. And yet what
was the meaning of all Mr. Falkland's agonies and terrors? In fine, the
idea having once occurred to my mind, it was fixed there for ever. My
thoughts fluctuated from conjecture to conjecture, but this was the
centre about which they revolved. I determined to place myself as a
watch upon my patron.

The instant I had chosen this employment for myself, I found a strange
sort of pleasure in it. To do what is forbidden always has its charms,
because we have an indistinct apprehension of something arbitrary and
tyrannical in the prohibition. To be a spy upon Mr. Falkland! That there
was danger in the employment, served to give an alluring pungency to the
choice. I remembered the stern reprimand I had received, and his
terrible looks; and the recollection gave a kind of tingling sensation,
not altogether unallied to enjoyment. The further I advanced, the more
the sensation was irresistible. I seemed to myself perpetually upon the
brink of being countermined, and perpetually roused to guard my designs.
The more impenetrable Mr. Falkland was determined to be, the more
uncontrollable was my curiosity. Through the whole, my alarm and
apprehension of personal danger had a large mixture of frankness and
simplicity, conscious of meaning no ill, that made me continually ready
to say every thing that was upon my mind, and would not suffer me to
believe that, when things were brought to the test, any one could be
seriously angry with me.

These reflections led gradually to a new state of my mind. When I had
first removed into Mr. Falkland's family, the novelty of the scene
rendered me cautious and reserved. The distant and solemn manners of my
master seemed to have annihilated my constitutional gaiety. But the
novelty by degrees wore off, and my constraint in the same degree
diminished. The story I had now heard, and the curiosity it excited,
restored to me activity, eagerness, and courage. I had always had a
propensity to communicate my thoughts; my age was, of course, inclined
to talkativeness; and I ventured occasionally in a sort of hesitating
way, as if questioning whether such a conduct might be allowed, to
express my sentiments as they arose, in the presence of Mr. Falkland.

The first time I did so, he looked at me with an air of surprise, made
me no answer, and presently took occasion to leave me. The experiment
was soon after repeated. My master seemed half inclined to encourage me,
and yet doubtful whether he might venture.

He had long been a stranger to pleasure of every sort, and my artless
and untaught remarks appeared to promise him some amusement. Could an
amusement of this sort be dangerous?

In this uncertainty he could not probably find it in his heart to treat
with severity my innocent effusions. I needed but little encouragement;
for the perturbation of my mind stood in want of this relief. My
simplicity, arising from my being a total stranger to the intercourse of
the world, was accompanied with a mind in some degree cultivated with
reading, and perhaps not altogether destitute of observation and talent.
My remarks were therefore perpetually unexpected, at one time implying
extreme ignorance, and at another some portion of acuteness, but at all
times having an air of innocence, frankness, and courage. There was
still an apparent want of design in the manner, even after I was excited
accurately to compare my observations, and study the inferences to which
they led; for the effect of old habit was more visible than that of a
recently conceived purpose which was yet scarcely mature.

Mr. Falkland's situation was like that of a fish that plays with the
bait employed to entrap him. By my manner he was in a certain degree
encouraged to lay aside his usual reserve, and relax his stateliness;
till some abrupt observation or interrogatory stung him into
recollection, and brought back his alarm. Still it was evident that he
bore about him a secret wound. Whenever the cause of his sorrows was
touched, though in a manner the most indirect and remote, his
countenance altered, his distemper returned, and it was with difficulty
that he could suppress his emotions, sometimes conquering himself with
painful effort, and sometimes bursting into a sort of paroxysm of
insanity, and hastening to bury himself in solitude.

These appearances I too frequently interpreted into grounds of
suspicion, though I might with equal probability and more liberality
have ascribed them to the cruel mortifications he had encountered in the
objects of his darling ambition. Mr. Collins had strongly urged me to
secrecy; and Mr. Falkland, whenever my gesture or his consciousness
impressed him with the idea of my knowing more than I expressed, looked
at me with wistful earnestness, as questioning what was the degree of
information I possessed, and how it was obtained. But again at our next
interview the simple vivacity of my manner restored his tranquillity,
obliterated the emotion of which I had been the cause, and placed
things afresh in their former situation.

The longer this humble familiarity on my part had continued, the more
effort it would require to suppress it; and Mr. Falkland was neither
willing to mortify me by a severe prohibition of speech, nor even
perhaps to make me of so much consequence, as that prohibition might
seem to imply. Though I was curious, it must not be supposed that I had
the object of my enquiry for ever in my mind, or that my questions and
innuendoes were perpetually regulated with the cunning of a grey-headed
inquisitor. The secret wound of Mr. Falkland's mind was much more
uniformly present to his recollection than to mine; and a thousand times
he applied the remarks that occurred in conversation; when I had not the
remotest idea of such an application, till some singularity in his
manner brought it back to my thoughts. The consciousness of this morbid
sensibility, and the imagination that its influence might perhaps
constitute the whole of the case, served probably to spur Mr. Falkland
again to the charge, and connect a sentiment of shame, with every
project that suggested itself for interrupting the freedom of our
intercourse.

I will give a specimen of the conversations to which I allude; and, as
it shall be selected from those which began upon topics the most general
and remote, the reader will easily imagine the disturbance that was
almost daily endured by a mind so tremblingly alive as that of my
patron.

"Pray, sir," said I, one day as I was assisting Mr. Falkland in
arranging some papers, previously to their being transcribed into his
collection, "how came Alexander of Macedon to be surnamed the Great?"

"How came it? Did you never read his history?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Williams, and could you find no reasons there?"

"Why, I do not know, sir. I could find reasons why he should be so
famous; but every man that is talked of is not admired. Judges differ
about the merits of Alexander. Doctor Prideaux says in his Connection,
that he deserves only to be called the Great Cut-throat; and the author
of Tom Jones has written a volume, to prove that he and all other
conquerors ought to be classed with Jonathan Wild."

Mr. Falkland reddened at these citations.

"Accursed blasphemy! Did these authors think that, by the coarseness of
their ribaldry, they could destroy his well-earned fame? Are learning,
sensibility, and taste, no securities to exempt their possessor from
this vulgar abuse? Did you ever read, Williams, of a man more gallant,
generous, and free? Was ever mortal so completely the reverse of every
thing engrossing and selfish? He formed to himself a sublime image of
excellence, and his only ambition was to realise it in his own story.
Remember his giving away every thing when he set out upon his grand
expedition, professedly reserving for himself nothing but hope.
Recollect his heroic confidence in Philip the physician, and his entire
and unalterable friendship for Ephestion. He treated the captive family
of Darius with the most cordial urbanity, and the venerable Sysigambis
with all the tenderness and attention of a son to his mother. Never take
the judgment, Williams, upon such a subject, of a clerical pedant or a
Westminster justice. Examine for yourself, and you will find in
Alexander a model of honour, generosity, and disinterestedness,--a man
who, for the cultivated liberality of his mind, and the unparalleled
grandeur of his projects, must stand alone the spectacle and admiration
of all ages of the world."

"Ah, sir! it is a fine thing for us to sit here and compose his
panegyric. But shall I forget what a vast expense was bestowed in
erecting the monument of his fame? Was not he the common disturber of
mankind? Did not he over-run nations that would never have heard of him
but for his devastations? How many hundred thousands of lives did he
sacrifice in his career? What must I think of his cruelties; a whole
tribe massacred for a crime committed by their ancestors one hundred and
fifty years before; fifty thousand sold into slavery; two thousand
crucified for their gallant defence of their country? Man is surely a
strange sort of creature, who never praises any one more heartily than
him who has spread destruction and ruin over the face of nations!"

"The way of thinking you express, Williams, is natural enough, and I
cannot blame you for it. But let me hope that you will become more
liberal. The death of a hundred thousand men is at first sight very
shocking; but what in reality are a hundred thousand such men, more than
a hundred thousand sheep? It is mind, Williams, the generation of
knowledge and virtue, that we ought to love. This was the project of
Alexander; he set out in a great undertaking to civilise mankind; he
delivered the vast continent of Asia from the stupidity and degradation
of the Persian monarchy: and, though he was cut off in the midst of his
career, we may easily perceive the vast effects of his project. Grecian
literature and cultivation, the Seleucidae, the Antiochuses, and the
Ptolemies followed, in nations which before had been sunk to the
condition of brutes. Alexander was the builder, as notoriously as the
destroyer, of cities."

"And yet, sir, I am afraid that the pike and the battle-axe are not the
right instruments for making men wise. Suppose it were admitted that
the lives of men were to be sacrificed without remorse if a paramount
good were to result, it seems to me as if murder and massacre were but a
very left-handed way of producing civilisation and love. But pray, do
not you think this great hero was a sort of a madman? What now will you
say to his firing the palace of Persepolis, his weeping for other worlds
to conquer, and his marching his whole army over the burning sands of
Libya, merely to visit a temple, and persuade mankind that he was the
son of Jupiter Ammon?"

"Alexander, my boy, has been much misunderstood. Mankind have revenged
themselves upon him by misrepresentation, for having so far eclipsed the
rest of his species. It was necessary to the realising his project, that
he should pass for a god. It was the only way by which he could get a
firm hold upon the veneration of the stupid and bigoted Persians. It was
this, and not a mad vanity, that was the source of his proceeding. And
how much had he to struggle with in this respect, in the unapprehending
obstinacy of some of his Macedonians?"

"Why then, sir, at last Alexander did but employ means that all
politicians profess to use, as well as he. He dragooned men into wisdom,
and cheated them into the pursuit of their own happiness. But what is
worse, sir, this Alexander, in the paroxysm of his headlong rage, spared
neither friend nor foe. You will not pretend to justify the excesses of
his ungovernable passion. It is impossible, sure, that a word can be
said for a man whom a momentary provocation can hurry into the
commission of murders--"

The instant I had uttered these words, I felt what it was that I had
done. There was a magnetical sympathy between me and my patron, so that
their effect was not sooner produced upon him, than my own mind
reproached me with the inhumanity of the allusion. Our confusion was
mutual. The blood forsook at once the transparent complexion of Mr.
Falkland, and then rushed back again with rapidity and fierceness. I
dared not utter a word, lest I should commit a new error, worse than
that into which I had just fallen. After a short, but severe, struggle
to continue the conversation, Mr. Falkland began with trepidation, but
afterwards became calmer:--

"You are not candid--Alexander--You must learn more clemency--Alexander,
I say, does not deserve this rigour. Do you remember his tears, his
remorse, his determined abstinence from food, which he could scarcely be
persuaded to relinquish? Did not that prove acute feeling and a rooted
principle of equity?--Well, well, Alexander was a true and judicious
lover of mankind, and his real merits have been little comprehended."

I know not how to make the state of my mind at that moment accurately
understood. When one idea has got possession of the soul, it is scarcely
possible to keep it from finding its way to the lips. Error, once
committed, has a fascinating power, like that ascribed to the eyes of
the rattlesnake, to draw us into a second error. It deprives us of that
proud confidence in our own strength, to which we are indebted for so
much of our virtue. Curiosity is a restless propensity, and often does
but hurry us forward the more irresistibly, the greater is the danger
that attends its indulgence.

"Clitus," said I, "was a man of very coarse and provoking manners, was
he not?"

Mr. Falkland felt the full force of this appeal. He gave me a
penetrating look, as if he would see my very soul. His eyes were then in
an instant withdrawn. I could perceive him seized with a convulsive
shuddering which, though strongly counteracted, and therefore scarcely
visible, had I know not what of terrible in it. He left his employment,
strode about the room in anger, his visage gradually assumed an
expression as of supernatural barbarity, he quitted the apartment
abruptly, and flung the door with a violence that seemed to shake the
house.

"Is this," said I, "the fruit of conscious guilt, or of the disgust that
a man of honour conceives at guilt undeservedly imputed?"




CHAPTER II.


The reader will feel how rapidly I was advancing to the brink of the
precipice. I had a confused apprehension of what I was doing, but I
could not stop myself. "Is it possible," said I, "that Mr. Falkland, who
is thus overwhelmed with a sense of the unmerited dishonour that has
been fastened upon him in the face of the world, will long endure the
presence of a raw and unfriended youth, who is perpetually bringing back
that dishonour to his recollection, and who seems himself the most
forward to entertain the accusation?"

I felt indeed that Mr. Falkland would not hastily incline to dismiss me,
for the same reason that restrained him from many other actions, which
might seem to savour of a too tender and ambiguous sensibility. But this
reflection was little adapted to comfort me. That he should cherish in
his heart a growing hatred against me, and that he should think himself
obliged to retain me a continual thorn in his side, was an idea by no
means of favourable augury to my future peace.

It was some time after this that, in clearing out a case of drawers, I
found a paper that, by some accident, had slipped behind one of the
drawers, and been overlooked. At another time perhaps my curiosity might
have given way to the laws of decorum, and I should have restored it
unopened to my master, its owner. But my eagerness for information had
been too much stimulated by the preceding incidents, to allow me at
present to neglect any occasion of obtaining it. The paper proved to be
a letter written by the elder Hawkins, and from its contents seemed to
have been penned when he had first been upon the point of absconding
from the persecutions of Mr. Tyrrel. It was as follows:--

"Honourable Sir,

"I have waited some time in daily hope of your honour's return into
these parts. Old Warnes and his dame, who are left to take care of your
house, tell me they cannot say when that will be, nor justly in what
part of England you are at present. For my share, misfortune comes so
thick upon me, that I must determine upon something (that is for
certain), and out of hand. Our squire, who I must own at first used me
kindly enough, though I am afraid that was partly out of spite to squire
Underwood, has since determined to be the ruin of me. Sir, I have been
no craven; I fought it up stoutly; for after all, you know, God bless
your honour! it is but a man to a man; but he has been too much for me.

"Perhaps if I were to ride over to the market-town and enquire of
Munsle, your lawyer, he could tell me how to direct to you. But having
hoped and waited o' this fashion, and all in vain, has put me upon other
thoughts. I was in no hurry, sir, to apply to you; for I do not love to
be a trouble to any body. I kept that for my last stake. Well, sir, and
now that has failed me like, I am ashamed, as it were, to have thought
of it. Have not I, thinks I, arms and legs as well as other people? I am
driven out of house and home. Well, and what then? Sure I arn't a
cabbage, that if you pull it out of the ground it must die. I am
pennyless. True; and how many hundreds are there that live from hand to
mouth all the days of their life? (Begging your honour's pardon) thinks
I, if we little folks had but the wit to do for ourselves, the great
folks would not be such maggotty changelings as they are. They would
begin to look about them.

"But there is another thing that has swayed with me more than all the
rest. I do not know how to tell you, sir,--My poor boy, my Leonard, the
pride of my life, has been three weeks in the county jail. It is true
indeed, sir. Squire Tyrrel put him there. Now, sir, every time that I
lay my head upon my pillow under my own little roof, my heart smites me
with the situation of my Leonard. I do not mean so much for the
hardship; I do not so much matter that. I do not expect him to go
through the world upon velvet! I am not such a fool. But who can tell
what may hap in a jail! I have been three times to see him; and there is
one man in the same quarter of the prison that looks so wicked! I do not
much fancy the looks of the rest. To be sure, Leonard is as good a lad
as ever lived. I think he will not give his mind to such. But come what
will, I am determined he shall not stay among them twelve hours longer.
I am an obstinate old fool perhaps; but I have taken it into my head,
and I will do it. Do not ask me what. But, if I were to write to your
honour, and wait for your answer, it might take a week or ten days more.
I must not think of it!

"Squire Tyrrel is very headstrong, and you, your honour, might be a
little hottish, or so. No, I would not have any body quarrel for me.
There has been mischief enough done already; and I will get myself out
of the way. So I write this, your honour, merely to unload my mind. I
feel myself equally as much bound to respect and love you, as if you had
done every thing for me, that I believe you would have done if things
had chanced differently. It is most likely you will never hear of me any
more. If it should be so, set your worthy heart at rest. I know myself
too well, ever to be tempted to do any thing that is really bad. I have
now my fortune to seek in the world. I have been used ill enough, God
knows. But I bear no malice; my heart is at peace with all mankind; and
I forgive every body. It is like enough that poor Leonard and I may have
hardship enough to undergo, among strangers, and being obliged to hide
ourselves like housebreakers or highwaymen. But I defy all the malice of
fortune to make us do an ill thing. That consolation we will always keep
against all the crosses of a heart-breaking world.

          "God bless you!
               So prays,
  Your honour's humble servant to command,
                    BENJAMIN HAWKINS."

I read this letter with considerable attention, and it occasioned me
many reflections. To my way of thinking it contained a very interesting
picture of a blunt, downright, honest mind. "It is a melancholy
consideration," said I to myself; "but such is man! To have judged from
appearances one would have said, this is a fellow to have taken
fortune's buffets and rewards with an incorruptible mind. And yet see
where it all ends! This man was capable of afterwards becoming a
murderer, and finished his life at the gallows. O poverty! thou art
indeed omnipotent! Thou grindest us into desperation; thou confoundest
all our boasted and most deep-rooted principles; thou fillest us to the
very brim with malice and revenge, and renderest us capable of acts of
unknown horror! May I never be visited by thee in the fulness of thy
power!"

Having satisfied my curiosity with respect to this paper, I took care to
dispose of it in such a manner as that it should be found by Mr.
Falkland; at the same time that, in obedience to the principle which at
present governed me with absolute dominion, I was willing that the way
in which it offered itself to his attention should suggest to him the
idea that it had possibly passed through my hands. The next morning I
saw him, and I exerted myself to lead the conversation, which by this
time I well knew how to introduce, by insensible degrees to the point I
desired. After several previous questions, remarks, and rejoinders, I
continued:--

"Well, sir, after all, I cannot help feeling very uncomfortably as to my
ideas of human nature, when I find that there is no dependence to be
placed upon its perseverance, and that, at least among the illiterate,
the most promising appearances may end in the foulest disgrace."

"You think, then, that literature and a cultivated mind are the only
assurance for the constancy of our principles!"

"Humph!--why do you suppose, sir, that learning and ingenuity do not
often serve people rather to hide their crimes than to restrain them
from committing them? History tells us strange things in that respect."

"Williams," said Mr. Falkland, a little disturbed, "you are extremely
given to censure and severity."

"I hope not. I am sure I am most fond of looking on the other side of
the picture, and considering how many men have been aspersed, and even
at some time or other almost torn to pieces by their fellow-creatures,
whom, when properly understood, we find worthy of our reverence and
love."

"Indeed," replied Mr. Falkland, with a sigh, "when I consider these
things I do not wonder at the dying exclamation of Brutus, 'O Virtue, I
sought thee as a substance, but I find thee an empty name!' I am too
much inclined to be of his opinion."

"Why, to be sure, sir, innocence and guilt are too much confounded in
human life. I remember an affecting story of a poor man in the reign of
Queen Elizabeth, who would have infallibly been hanged for murder upon
the strength of circumstantial evidence, if the person really concerned
had not been himself upon the jury and prevented it."

In saying this I touched the spring that wakened madness in his mind. He
came up to me with a ferocious countenance, as if determined to force me
into a confession of my thoughts. A sudden pang however seemed to change
his design! he drew back with trepidation, and exclaimed, "Detested be
the universe, and the laws that govern it! Honour, justice, virtue, are
all the juggle of knaves! If it were in my power I would instantly crush
the whole system into nothing!"

I replied; "Oh, sir! things are not so bad as you imagine. The world was
made for men of sense to do what they will with. Its affairs cannot be
better than in the direction of the genuine heroes; and as in the end
they will be found the truest friends of the whole, so the multitude
have nothing to do but to look on, be fashioned, and admire."

Mr. Falkland made a powerful effort to recover his tranquillity.
"Williams," said he, "you instruct me well. You have a right notion of
things, and I have great hopes of you. I will be more of a man; I will
forget the past, and do better for the time to come. The future, the
future is always our own."

"I am sorry, sir, that I have given you pain. I am afraid to say all
that I think. But it is my opinion that mistakes will ultimately be
cleared up, justice done, and the true state of things come to light, in
spite of the false colours that may for a time obscure it."

The idea I suggested did not give Mr. Falkland the proper degree of
delight. He suffered a temporary relapse. "Justice!"--he muttered. "I do
not know what is justice. My case is not within the reach of common
remedies; perhaps of none. I only know that I am miserable. I began life
with the best intentions and the most fervid philanthropy; and here I
am--miserable--miserable beyond expression or endurance."

Having said this, he seemed suddenly to recollect himself, and
re-assumed his accustomed dignity and command. "How came this
conversation?" cried he. "Who gave you a right to be my confidant? Base,
artful wretch that you are! learn to be more respectful! Are my passions
to be wound and unwound by an insolent domestic? Do you think I will be
an instrument to be played on at your pleasure, till you have extorted
all the treasures of my soul? Begone, and fear lest you be made to pay
for the temerity you have already committed!"

There was an energy and determination in the gestures with which these
words were accompanied, that did not admit of their being disputed. My
mouth was closed; I felt as if deprived of all share of activity, and
was only able silently and passively to quit the apartment.




CHAPTER III.


Two days subsequent to this conversation, Mr. Falkland ordered me to be
called to him. [I shall continue to speak in my narrative of the silent,
as well as the articulate part of the intercourse between us. His
countenance was habitually animated and expressive, much beyond that of
any other man I have seen. The curiosity which, as I have said,
constituted my ruling passion, stimulated me to make it my perpetual
study. It will also most probably happen, while I am thus employed in
collecting the scattered incidents of my history, that I shall upon some
occasions annex to appearances an explanation which I was far from
possessing at the time, and was only suggested to me through the medium
of subsequent events.]

When I entered the apartment, I remarked in Mr. Falkland's countenance
an unwonted composure. This composure however did not seem to result
from internal ease, but from an effort which, while he prepared himself
for an interesting scene, was exerted to prevent his presence of mind,
and power of voluntary action, from suffering any diminution.

"Williams," said he, "I am determined, whatever it may cost me, to have
an explanation with you. You are a rash and inconsiderate boy, and have
given me much disturbance. You ought to have known that, though I allow
you to talk with me upon indifferent subjects, it is very improper in
you to lead the conversation to any thing that relates to my personal
concerns. You have said many things lately in a very mysterious way, and
appear to know something more than I am aware of. I am equally at a loss
to guess how you came by your knowledge, as of what it consists. But I
think I perceive too much inclination on your part to trifle with my
peace of mind. That ought not to be, nor have I deserved any such
treatment from you. But, be that as it will, the guesses in which you
oblige me to employ myself are too painful. It is a sort of sporting
with my feelings, which, as a man of resolution, I am determined to
bring to an end. I expect you therefore to lay aside all mystery and
equivocation, and inform me explicitly what it is upon which your
allusions are built. What is it you know? What is it you want? I have
been too much exposed already to unparalleled mortification and
hardship, and my wounds will not bear this perpetual tampering."

"I feel, sir," answered I, "how wrong I have been, and am ashamed that
such a one as I should have given you all this trouble and displeasure.
I felt it at the time; but I have been hurried along, I do not know how.
I have always tried to stop myself, but the demon that possessed me was
too strong for me. I know nothing, sir, but what Mr. Collins told me. He
told me the story of Mr. Tyrrel and Miss Melville and Hawkins. I am
sure, sir, he said nothing but what was to your honour, and proved you
to be more an angel than a man."

"Well, sir: I found a letter written by that Hawkins the other day; did
not that letter fall into your hands? Did not you read it?"

"For God's sake, sir, turn me out of your house. Punish me in some way
or other, that I may forgive myself. I am a foolish, wicked, despicable
wretch. I confess, sir, I did read the letter."

"And how dared you read it? It was indeed very wrong of you. But we will
talk of that by and by. Well, and what did you say to the letter? You
know it seems, that Hawkins was hanged."

"I say, sir? why it went to my heart to read it. I say, as I said the
day before yesterday, that when I see a man of so much principle
afterwards deliberately proceeding to the very worst of crimes, I can
scarcely bear to think of it."

"That is what you say? It seems too you know--accursed
remembrance!--that I was accused of this crime?"

I was silent.

"Well, sir. You know too, perhaps, that from the hour the crime was
committed--yes, sir, that was the date [and as he said this, there was
somewhat frightful, I had almost said diabolical, in his countenance]--I
have not had an hour's peace; I became changed from the happiest to the
most miserable thing that lives; sleep has fled from my eyes; joy has
been a stranger to my thoughts; and annihilation I should prefer a
thousand times to the being that I am. As soon as I was capable of a
choice, I chose honour and the esteem of mankind as a good I preferred
to all others. You know, it seems, in how many ways my ambition has been
disappointed,--I do not thank Collins for having been the historian of
my disgrace,--would to God that night could be blotted from the memory
of man!--But the scene of that night, instead of perishing, has been a
source of ever new calamity to me, which must flow for ever! Am I then,
thus miserable and ruined, a proper subject upon which for you to
exercise your ingenuity, and improve your power of tormenting? Was it
not enough that I was publicly dishonoured? that I was deprived, by the
pestilential influence of some demon, of the opportunity of avenging my
dishonour? No: in addition to this, I have been charged with having in
this critical moment intercepted my own vengeance by the foulest of
crimes. That trial is past. Misery itself has nothing worse in store for
me, except what you have inflicted: the seeming to doubt of my
innocence, which, after the fullest and most solemn examination, has
been completely established. You have forced me to this explanation. You
have extorted from me a confidence which I had no inclination to make.
But it is a part of the misery of my situation, that I am at the mercy
of every creature, however little, who feels himself inclined to sport
with my distress. Be content. You have brought me low enough."

"Oh, sir, I am not content; I cannot be content! I cannot bear to think
what I have done. I shall never again be able to look in the face of the
best of masters and the best of men. I beg of you, sir, to turn me out
of your service. Let me go and hide myself where I may never see you
more."

Mr. Falkland's countenance had indicated great severity through the
whole of this conversation; but now it became more harsh and tempestuous
than ever. "How now, rascal!" cried he. "You want to leave me, do you?
Who told you that I wished to part with you? But you cannot bear to live
with such a miserable wretch as I am! You are not disposed to put up
with the caprices of a man so dissatisfied and unjust!"

"Oh, sir! do not talk to me thus! Do with me any thing you will. Kill me
if you please."

"Kill you!" [Volumes could not describe the emotions with which this
echo of my words was given and received.]

"Sir, I could die to serve you! I love you more than I can express. I
worship you as a being of a superior nature. I am foolish, raw,
inexperienced,--worse than any of these;--but never did a thought of
disloyalty to your service enter into my heart."

Here our conversation ended; and the impression it made upon my youthful
mind it is impossible to describe. I thought with astonishment, even
with rapture, of the attention and kindness towards me I discovered in
Mr. Falkland, through all the roughness of his manner. I could never
enough wonder at finding myself, humble as I was by my birth, obscure as
I had hitherto been, thus suddenly become of so much importance to the
happiness of one of the most enlightened and accomplished men in
England. But this consciousness attached me to my patron more eagerly
than ever, and made me swear a thousand times, as I meditated upon my
situation, that I would never prove unworthy of so generous a protector.




CHAPTER IV.


Is it not unaccountable that, in the midst of all my increased
veneration for my patron, the first tumult of my emotion was scarcely
subsided, before the old question that had excited my conjectures
recurred to my mind, Was he the murderer? It was a kind of fatal
impulse, that seemed destined to hurry me to my destruction. I did not
wonder at the disturbance that was given to Mr. Falkland by any
allusion, however distant, to this fatal affair. That was as completely
accounted for from the consideration of his excessive sensibility in
matters of honour, as it would have been upon the supposition of the
most atrocious guilt. Knowing, as he did, that such a charge had once
been connected with his name, he would of course be perpetually uneasy,
and suspect some latent insinuation at every possible opportunity. He
would doubt and fear, lest every man with whom he conversed harboured
the foulest suspicion against him. In my case he found that I was in
possession of some information, more than he was aware of, without its
being possible for him to decide to what it amounted, whether I had
heard a just or unjust, a candid or calumniatory tale. He had also
reason to suppose that I gave entertainment to thoughts derogatory to
his honour, and that I did not form that favourable judgment, which the
exquisite refinement of his ruling passion made indispensable to his
peace. All these considerations would of course maintain in him a state
of perpetual uneasiness. But, though I could find nothing that I could
consider as justifying me in persisting in the shadow of a doubt, yet,
as I have said, the uncertainty and restlessness of my contemplations
would by no means depart from me.

The fluctuating state of my mind produced a contention of opposite
principles, that by turns usurped dominion over my conduct. Sometimes I
was influenced by the most complete veneration for my master; I placed
an unreserved confidence in his integrity and his virtue, and implicitly
surrendered my understanding for him to set it to what point he pleased.
At other times the confidence, which had before flowed with the most
plenteous tide, began to ebb; I was, as I had already been, watchful,
inquisitive, suspicious, full of a thousand conjectures as to the
meaning of the most indifferent actions. Mr. Falkland, who was most
painfully alive to every thing that related to his honour, saw these
variations, and betrayed his consciousness of them now in one manner,
and now in another, frequently before I was myself aware, sometimes
almost before they existed. The situation of both was distressing; we
were each of us a plague to the other; and I often wondered, that the
forbearance and benignity of my master was not at length exhausted, and
that he did not determine to thrust from him for ever so incessant an
observer. There was indeed one eminent difference between his share in
the transaction and mine. I had some consolation in the midst of my
restlessness. Curiosity is a principle that carries its pleasures, as
well as its pains, along with it. The mind is urged by a perpetual
stimulus; it seems as if it were continually approaching to the end of
its race; and as the insatiable desire of satisfaction is its principle
of conduct, so it promises itself in that satisfaction an unknown
gratification, which seems as if it were capable of fully compensating
any injuries that may be suffered in the career. But to Mr. Falkland
there was no consolation. What he endured in the intercourse between us
appeared to be gratuitous evil. He had only to wish that there was no
such person as myself in the world, and to curse the hour when his
humanity led him to rescue me from my obscurity, and place me in his
service.

A consequence produced upon me by the extraordinary nature of my
situation it is necessary to mention. The constant state of vigilance
and suspicion in which my mind was retained, worked a very rapid change
in my character. It seemed to have all the effect that might have been
expected from years of observation and experience. The strictness with
which I endeavoured to remark what passed in the mind of one man, and
the variety of conjectures into which I was led, appeared, as it were,
to render me a competent adept in the different modes in which the
human intellect displays its secret workings. I no longer said to
myself, as I had done in the beginning, "I will ask Mr. Falkland whether
he were the murderer." On the contrary, after having carefully examined
the different kinds of evidence of which the subject was susceptible,
and recollecting all that had already passed upon the subject, it was
not without considerable pain, that I felt myself unable to discover any
way in which I could be perfectly and unalterably satisfied of my
patron's innocence. As to his guilt, I could scarcely bring myself to
doubt that in some way or other, sooner or later, I should arrive at the
knowledge of that, if it really existed. But I could not endure to
think, almost for a moment, of that side of the alternative as true; and
with all my ungovernable suspicion arising from the mysteriousness of
the circumstances, and all the delight which a young and unfledged mind
receives from ideas that give scope to all that imagination can picture
of terrible or sublime, I could not yet bring myself to consider Mr.
Falkland's guilt as a supposition attended with the remotest
probability.

I hope the reader will forgive me for dwelling thus long on preliminary
circumstances. I shall come soon enough to the story of my own misery. I
have already said, that one of the motives which induced me to the
penning of this narrative, was to console myself in my insupportable
distress. I derive a melancholy pleasure from dwelling upon the
circumstances which imperceptibly paved the way to my ruin. While I
recollect or describe past scenes, which occurred in a more favourable
period of my life, my attention is called off for a short interval, from
the hopeless misfortune in which I am at present involved. The man must
indeed possess an uncommon portion of hardness of heart, who can envy
me so slight a relief.--To proceed.

For some time after the explanation which had thus taken place between
me and Mr. Falkland, his melancholy, instead of being in the slightest
degree diminished by the lenient hand of time, went on perpetually to
increase. His fits of insanity--for such I must denominate them for want
of a distinct appellation, though it is possible they might not fall
under the definition that either the faculty or the court of chancery
appropriate to the term--became stronger and more durable than ever. It
was no longer practicable wholly to conceal them from the family, and
even from the neighbourhood. He would sometimes, without any previous
notice, absent himself from his house for two or three days,
unaccompanied by servant or attendant. This was the more extraordinary,
as it was well known that he paid no visits, nor kept up any sort of
intercourse with the gentlemen of the vicinity. But it was impossible
that a man of Mr. Falkland's distinction and fortune should long
continue in such a practice, without its being discovered what was
become of him; though a considerable part of our county was among the
wildest and most desolate districts that are to be found in South
Britain. Mr. Falkland was sometimes seen climbing among the rocks,
reclining motionless for hours together upon the edge of a precipice, or
lulled into a kind of nameless lethargy of despair by the dashing of the
torrents. He would remain for whole nights together under the naked cope
of heaven, inattentive to the consideration either of place or time;
insensible to the variations of the weather, or rather seeming to be
delighted with that uproar of the elements, which partially called off
his attention from the discord and dejection that occupied his own mind.

At first, when we received intelligence at any time of the place to
which Mr. Falkland had withdrawn himself, some person of his household,
Mr. Collins or myself, but most generally myself, as I was always at
home, and always, in the received sense of the word, at leisure, went to
him to persuade him to return. But, after a few experiments, we thought
it advisable to desist, and leave him to prolong his absence, or to
terminate it, as might happen to suit his own inclination. Mr. Collins,
whose grey hairs and long services seemed to give him a sort of right to
be importunate, sometimes succeeded; though even in that case there was
nothing that could sit more uneasily upon Mr. Falkland than this
insinuation as if he wanted a guardian to take care of him, or as if he
were in, or in danger of falling into, a state in which he would be
incapable of deliberately controlling his own words and actions. At one
time he would suddenly yield to his humble, venerable friend, murmuring
grievously at the constraint that was put upon him, but without spirit
enough even to complain of it with energy. At another time, even though
complying, he would suddenly burst out in a paroxysm of resentment. Upon
these occasions there was something inconceivably, savagely terrible in
his anger, that gave to the person against whom it was directed the most
humiliating and insupportable sensations. Me he always treated, at these
times, with fierceness, and drove me from him with a vehemence lofty,
emphatical, and sustained, beyond any thing of which I should have
thought human nature to be capable. These sallies seemed always to
constitute a sort of crisis in his indisposition; and, whenever he was
induced to such a premature return, he would fall immediately after into
a state of the most melancholy inactivity, in which he usually continued
for two or three days. It was by an obstinate fatality that, whenever I
saw Mr. Falkland in these deplorable situations, and particularly when I
lighted upon him after having sought him among the rocks and precipices,
pale, emaciated, solitary, and haggard, the suggestion would continually
recur to me, in spite of inclination, in spite of persuasion, and in
spite of evidence, Surely this man is a murderer!




CHAPTER V.


It was in one of the lucid intervals, as I may term them, that occurred
during this period, that a peasant was brought before him, in his
character of a justice of peace, upon an accusation of having murdered
his fellow. As Mr. Falkland had by this time acquired the repute of a
melancholy valetudinarian, it is probable he would not have been called
upon to act in his official character upon the present occasion, had it
not been that two or three of the neighbouring justices were all of them
from home at once, so that he was the only one to be found in a circuit
of many miles. The reader however must not imagine, though I have
employed the word insanity in describing Mr. Falkland's symptoms, that
he was by any means reckoned for a madman by the generality of those who
had occasion to observe him. It is true that his behaviour, at certain
times, was singular and unaccountable; but then, at other times, there
was in it so much dignity, regularity, and economy; he knew so well how
to command and make himself respected; his actions and carriage were so
condescending, considerate, and benevolent, that, far from having
forfeited the esteem of the unfortunate or the many, they were loud and
earnest in his praises.

I was present at the examination of this peasant. The moment I heard of
the errand which had brought this rabble of visitors, a sudden thought
struck me. I conceived the possibility of rendering the incident
subordinate to the great enquiry which drank up all the currents of my
soul. I said, this man is arraigned of murder, and murder is the
master-key that wakes distemper in the mind of Mr. Falkland. I will
watch him without remission. I will trace all the mazes of his thought.
Surely at such a time his secret anguish must betray itself. Surely, if
it be not my own fault, I shall now be able to discover the state of his
plea before the tribunal of unerring justice.

I took my station in a manner most favourable to the object upon which
my mind was intent. I could perceive in Mr. Falkland's features, as he
entered, a strong reluctance to the business in which he was engaged;
but there was no possibility of retreating. His countenance was
embarrassed and anxious; he scarcely saw any body. The examination had
not proceeded far, before he chanced to turn his eye to the part of the
room where I was. It happened in this as in some preceding instances--we
exchanged a silent look, by which we told volumes to each other. Mr.
Falkland's complexion turned from red to pale, and from pale to red. I
perfectly understood his feelings, and would willingly have withdrawn
myself. But it was impossible; my passions were too deeply engaged; I
was rooted to the spot; though my own life, that of my master, or almost
of a whole nation had been at stake, I had no power to change my
position.

The first surprise however having subsided, Mr. Falkland assumed a look
of determined constancy, and even seemed to increase in self-possession
much beyond what could have been expected from his first entrance. This
he could probably have maintained, had it not been that the scene,
instead of being permanent, was in some sort perpetually changing. The
man who was brought before him was vehemently accused by the brother of
the deceased as having acted from the most rooted malice. He swore that
there had been an old grudge between the parties, and related several
instances of it. He affirmed that the murderer had sought the earliest
opportunity of wreaking his revenge; had struck the first blow; and,
though the contest was in appearance only a common boxing match, had
watched the occasion of giving a fatal stroke, which was followed by the
instant death of his antagonist.

While the accuser was giving in his evidence, the accused discovered
every token of the most poignant sensibility. At one time his features
were convulsed with anguish; tears unbidden trickled down his manly
cheeks; and at another he started with apparent astonishment at the
unfavourable turn that was given to the narrative, though without
betraying any impatience to interrupt. I never saw a man less ferocious
in his appearance. He was tall, well made, and comely. His countenance
was ingenuous and benevolent, without folly. By his side stood a young
woman, his sweetheart, extremely agreeable in her person, and her looks
testifying how deeply she interested herself in the fate of her lover.
The accidental spectators were divided, between indignation against the
enormity of the supposed criminal, and compassion for the poor girl that
accompanied him. They seemed to take little notice of the favourable
appearances visible in the person of the accused, till, in the sequel,
those appearances were more forcibly suggested to their attention. For
Mr. Falkland, he was at one moment engrossed by curiosity and
earnestness to investigate the tale, while at another he betrayed a sort
of revulsion of sentiment, which made the investigation too painful for
him to support.

When the accused was called upon for his defence, he readily owned the
misunderstanding that had existed, and that the deceased was the worst
enemy he had in the world. Indeed he was his only enemy, and he could
not tell the reason that had made him so. He had employed every effort
to overcome his animosity, but in vain. The deceased had upon all
occasions sought to mortify him, and do him an ill turn; but he had
resolved never to be engaged in a broil with him, and till this day he
had succeeded. If he had met with a misfortune with any other man,
people at least might have thought it accident; but now it would always
be believed that he had acted from secret malice and a bad heart.

The fact was, that he and his sweetheart had gone to a neighbouring
fair, where this man had met them. The man had often tried to affront
him; and his passiveness, interpreted into cowardice, had perhaps
encouraged the other to additional rudeness. Finding that he had endured
trivial insults to himself with an even temper, the deceased now thought
proper to turn his brutality upon the young woman that accompanied him.
He pursued them; he endeavoured in various manners to harass and vex
them; they had sought in vain to shake him off. The young woman was
considerably terrified. The accused expostulated with their persecutor,
and asked him how he could be so barbarous as to persist in frightening
a woman? He replied with an insulting tone, "Then the woman should find
some one able to protect her; people that encouraged and trusted to such
a thief as that, deserved no better!" The accused tried every expedient
he could invent; at length he could endure it no longer; he became
exasperated, and challenged the assailant. The challenge was accepted; a
ring was formed; he confided the care of his sweetheart to a bystander;
and unfortunately the first blow he struck proved fatal.

The accused added, that he did not care what became of him. He had been
anxious to go through the world in an inoffensive manner, and now he had
the guilt of blood upon him. He did not know but it would be kindness in
them to hang him out of the way; for his conscience would reproach him
as long as he lived, and the figure of the deceased, as he had lain
senseless and without motion at his feet, would perpetually haunt him.
The thought of this man, at one moment full of life and vigour, and the
next lifted a helpless corpse from the ground, and all owing to him, was
a thought too dreadful to be endured. He had loved the poor maiden, who
had been the innocent occasion of this, with all his heart; but from
this time he should never support the sight of her. The sight would
bring a tribe of fiends in its rear. One unlucky minute had poisoned all
his hopes, and made life a burden to him. Saying this, his countenance
fell, the muscles of his face trembled with agony, and he looked the
statue of despair.

This was the story of which Mr. Falkland was called upon to be the
auditor. Though the incidents were, for the most part, wide of those
which belonged to the adventures of the preceding volume, and there had
been much less policy and skill displayed on either part in this rustic
encounter, yet there were many points which, to a man who bore the
former strongly in his recollection, suggested a sufficient resemblance.
In each case it was a human brute persisting in a course of hostility to
a man of benevolent character, and suddenly and terribly cut off in the
midst of his career. These points perpetually smote upon the heart of
Mr. Falkland. He at one time started with astonishment, and at another
shifted his posture, like a man who is unable longer to endure the
sensations that press upon him. Then he new strung his nerves to
stubborn patience. I could see, while his muscles preserved an
inflexible steadiness, tears of anguish roll down his cheeks. He dared
not trust his eyes to glance towards the side of the room where I stood;
and this gave an air of embarrassment to his whole figure. But when the
accused came to speak of his feelings, to describe the depth of his
compunction for an involuntary fault, he could endure it no longer. He
suddenly rose, and with every mark of horror and despair rushed out of
the room.

This circumstance made no material difference in the affair of the
accused. The parties were detained about half an hour. Mr. Falkland had
already heard the material parts of the evidence in person. At the
expiration of that interval, he sent for Mr. Collins out of the room.
The story of the culprit was confirmed by many witnesses who had seen
the transaction. Word was brought that my master was indisposed; and, at
the same time, the accused was ordered to be discharged. The vengeance
of the brother however, as I afterwards found, did not rest here, and he
met with a magistrate, more scrupulous or more despotic, by whom the
culprit was committed for trial.

This affair was no sooner concluded, than I hastened into the garden,
and plunged into the deepest of its thickets. My mind was full, almost
to bursting. I no sooner conceived myself sufficiently removed from all
observation, than my thoughts forced their way spontaneously to my
tongue, and I exclaimed, in a fit of uncontrollable enthusiasm, "This is
the murderer; the Hawkinses were innocent! I am sure of it! I will
pledge my life for it! It is out! It is discovered! Guilty, upon my
soul!"

While I thus proceeded with hasty steps along the most secret paths of
the garden, and from time to time gave vent to the tumult of my thoughts
in involuntary exclamations, I felt as if my animal system had undergone
a total revolution. My blood boiled within me. I was conscious to a kind
of rapture for which I could not account. I was solemn, yet full of
rapid emotion, burning with indignation and energy. In the very tempest
and hurricane of the passions, I seemed to enjoy the most soul-ravishing
calm. I cannot better express the then state of my mind than by saying,
I was never so perfectly alive as at that moment.

This state of mental elevation continued for several hours, but at
length subsided, and gave place to more deliberate reflection. One of
the first questions that then occurred was, what shall I do with the
knowledge I have been so eager to acquire? I had no inclination to turn
informer. I felt what I had had no previous conception of, that it was
possible to love a murderer, and, as I then understood it, the worst of
murderers. I conceived it to be in the highest degree absurd and
iniquitous, to cut off a man qualified for the most essential and
extensive utility, merely out of retrospect to an act which, whatever
were its merits, could not be retrieved.

This thought led me to another, which had at first passed unnoticed. If
I had been disposed to turn informer, what had occurred amounted to no
evidence that was admissible in a court of justice. Well then, added I,
if it be such as would not be admitted at a criminal tribunal, am I sure
it is such as I ought to admit? There were twenty persons besides myself
present at the scene from which I pretend to derive such entire
conviction. Not one of them saw it in the light that I did. It either
appeared to them a casual and unimportant circumstance, or they thought
it sufficiently accounted for by Mr. Falkland's infirmity and
misfortunes. Did it really contain such an extent of arguments and
application, that nobody but I was discerning enough to see?

But all this reasoning produced no alteration in my way of thinking. For
this time I could not get it out of my mind for a moment: "Mr. Falkland
is the murderer! He is guilty! I see it! I feel it! I am sure of it!"
Thus was I hurried along by an uncontrollable destiny. The state of my
passions in their progressive career, the inquisitiveness and impatience
of my thoughts, appeared to make this determination unavoidable.

An incident occurred while I was in the garden, that seemed to make no
impression upon me at the time, but which I recollected when my thoughts
were got into somewhat of a slower motion. In the midst of one of my
paroxysms of exclamation, and when I thought myself most alone, the
shadow of a man as avoiding me passed transiently by me at a small
distance. Though I had scarcely caught a faint glimpse of his person,
there was something in the occurrence that persuaded me it was Mr.
Falkland. I shuddered at the possibility of his having overheard the
words of my soliloquy. But this idea, alarming as it was, had not power
immediately to suspend the career of my reflections. Subsequent
circumstances however brought back the apprehension to my mind. I had
scarcely a doubt of its reality, when dinner-time came, and Mr. Falkland
was not to be found. Supper and bed-time passed in the same manner. The
only conclusion made by his servants upon this circumstance was, that he
was gone upon one of his accustomed melancholy rambles.




CHAPTER VI.


The period at which my story is now arrived seemed as if it were the
very crisis of the fortune of Mr. Falkland. Incident followed upon
incident, in a kind of breathless succession. About nine o'clock the
next morning an alarm was given, that one of the chimneys of the house
was on fire. No accident could be apparently more trivial; but presently
it blazed with such fury, as to make it clear that some beam of the
house, which in the first building had been improperly placed, had been
reached by the flames. Some danger was apprehended for the whole
edifice. The confusion was the greater, in consequence of the absence of
the master, as well as of Mr. Collins, the steward. While some of the
domestics were employed in endeavouring to extinguish the flames, it was
thought proper that others should busy themselves in removing the most
valuable moveables to a lawn in the garden. I took some command in the
affair, to which indeed my station in the family seemed to entitle me,
and for which I was judged qualified by my understanding and mental
resources.

Having given some general directions, I conceived, that it was not
enough to stand by and superintend, but that I should contribute my
personal labour in the public concern. I set out for that purpose; and
my steps, by some mysterious fatality, were directed to the private
apartment at the end of the library. Here, as I looked round, my eye was
suddenly caught by the trunk mentioned in the first pages of my
narrative.

My mind was already raised to its utmost pitch. In a window-seat of the
room lay a number of chisels and other carpenter's tools. I know not
what infatuation instantaneously seized me. The idea was too powerful to
be resisted. I forgot the business upon which I came, the employment of
the servants, and the urgency of general danger. I should have done the
same if the flames that seemed to extend as they proceeded, and already
surmounted the house, had reached this very apartment. I snatched a tool
suitable for the purpose, threw myself upon the ground, and applied with
eagerness to a magazine which inclosed all for which my heart panted.
After two or three efforts, in which the energy of uncontrollable
passion was added to my bodily strength, the fastenings gave way, the
trunk opened, and all that I sought was at once within my reach.

I was in the act of lifting up the lid, when Mr. Falkland entered, wild,
breathless, distracted in his looks! He had been brought home from a
considerable distance by the sight of the flames. At the moment of his
appearance the lid dropped down from my hand. He no sooner saw me than
his eyes emitted sparks of rage. He ran with eagerness to a brace of
loaded pistols which hung in the room, and, seizing one, presented it to
my head. I saw his design, and sprang to avoid it; but, with the same
rapidity with which he had formed his resolution, he changed it, and
instantly went to the window, and flung the pistol into the court below.
He bade me begone with his usual irresistible energy; and, overcome as
I was already by the horror of the detection, I eagerly complied.

A moment after, a considerable part of the chimney tumbled with noise
into the court below, and a voice exclaimed that the fire was more
violent than ever. These circumstances seemed to produce a mechanical
effect upon my patron, who, having first locked the closet, appeared on
the outside of the house, ascended the roof, and was in a moment in
every place where his presence was required. The flames were at length
extinguished.

The reader can with difficulty form a conception of the state to which I
was now reduced. My act was in some sort an act of insanity; but how
undescribable are the feelings with which I looked back upon it! It was
an instantaneous impulse, a short-lived and passing alienation of mind;
but what must Mr. Falkland think of that alienation? To any man a person
who had once shown himself capable of so wild a flight of the mind, must
appear dangerous: how must he appear to a man under Mr. Falkland's
circumstances? I had just had a pistol held to my head, by a man
resolved to put a period to my existence. That indeed was past; but what
was it that fate had yet in reserve for me! The insatiable vengeance of
a Falkland, of a man whose hands were, to my apprehension, red with
blood, and his thoughts familiar with cruelty and murder. How great were
the resources of his mind, resources henceforth to be confederated for
my destruction! This was the termination of an ungoverned curiosity, an
impulse that I had represented to myself as so innocent or so venial.

In the high tide of boiling passion I had overlooked all consequences.
It now appeared to me like a dream. Is it in man to leap from the
high-raised precipice, or rush unconcerned into the midst of flames? Was
it possible I could have forgotten for a moment the awe-creating manners
of Falkland, and the inexorable fury I should awake in his soul? No
thought of future security had reached my mind. I had acted upon no
plan. I had conceived no means of concealing my deed, after it had once
been effected. But it was over now. One short minute had effected a
reverse in my situation, the suddenness of which the history of man,
perhaps is unable to surpass.

I have always been at a loss to account for my having plunged thus
headlong into an act so monstrous. There is something in it of
unexplained and involuntary sympathy. One sentiment flows, by necessity
of nature, into another sentiment of the same general character. This
was the first instance in which I had witnessed a danger by fire. All
was confusion around me, and all changed into hurricane within. The
general situation, to my unpractised apprehension, appeared desperate,
and I by contagion became alike desperate. At first I had been in some
degree calm and collected, but that too was a desperate effort; and when
it gave way, a kind of instant insanity became its successor.

I had now every thing to fear. And yet what was my fault? It proceeded
from none of those errors which are justly held up to the aversion of
mankind; my object had been neither wealth, nor the means of indulgence,
nor the usurpation of power. No spark of malignity had harboured in my
soul. I had always reverenced the sublime mind of Mr. Falkland; I
reverenced it still. My offence had merely been a mistaken thirst of
knowledge. Such however it was, as to admit neither of forgiveness nor
remission. This epoch was the crisis of my fate, dividing what may be
called the offensive part from the defensive, which has been the sole
business of my remaining years. Alas! my offence was short, not
aggravated by any sinister intention: but the reprisals I was to suffer
are long, and can terminate only with my life!

In the state in which I found myself, when the recollection of what I
had done flowed back upon my mind, I was incapable of any resolution.
All was chaos and uncertainty within me. My thoughts were too full of
horror to be susceptible of activity. I felt deserted of my intellectual
powers, palsied in mind, and compelled to sit in speechless expectation
of the misery to which I was destined. To my own conception I was like a
man, who, though blasted with lightning, and deprived for ever of the
power of motion, should yet retain the consciousness of his situation.
Death-dealing despair was the only idea of which I was sensible.

I was still in this situation of mind when Mr. Falkland sent for me. His
message roused me from my trance. In recovering, I felt those sickening
and loathsome sensations, which a man may be supposed at first to endure
who should return from the sleep of death. Gradually I recovered the
power of arranging my ideas and directing my steps. I understood, that
the minute the affair of the fire was over Mr. Falkland had retired to
his own room. It was evening before he ordered me to be called.

I found in him every token of extreme distress, except that there was an
air of solemn and sad composure that crowned the whole. For the present,
all appearance of gloom, stateliness, and austerity was gone. As I
entered he looked up, and, seeing who it was, ordered me to bolt the
door. I obeyed. He went round the room, and examined its other avenues.
He then returned to where I stood. I trembled in every joint of my
frame. I exclaimed within myself, "What scene of death has Roscius now
to act?"

"Williams!" said he, in a tone which had more in it of sorrow than
resentment, "I have attempted your life! I am a wretch devoted to the
scorn and execration of mankind!" There he stopped.

"If there be one being on the whole earth that feels the scorn and
execration due to such a wretch more strongly than another, it is
myself. I have been kept in a state of perpetual torture and madness.
But I can put an end to it and its consequences; and, so far at least as
relates to you, I am determined to do it. I know the price, and--I will
make the purchase.

"You must swear," said he. "You must attest every sacrament, divine and
human, never to disclose what I am now to tell you."--He dictated the
oath, and I repeated it with an aching heart. I had no power to offer a
word of remark.

"This confidence," said he, "is of your seeking, not of mine. It is
odious to me, and is dangerous to you."

Having thus prefaced the disclosure he had to make, he paused. He seemed
to collect himself as for an effort of magnitude. He wiped his face with
his handkerchief. The moisture that incommoded him appeared not to be
tears, but sweat.

"Look at me. Observe me. Is it not strange that such a one as I should
retain lineaments of a human creature? I am the blackest of villains. I
am the murderer of Tyrrel. I am the assassin of the Hawkinses."

I started with terror, and was silent.

"What a story is mine! Insulted, disgraced, polluted in the face of
hundreds, I was capable of any act of desperation. I watched my
opportunity, followed Mr. Tyrrel from the rooms, seized a sharp-pointed
knife that fell in my way, came behind him, and stabbed him to the
heart. My gigantic oppressor rolled at my feet.

"All are but links of one chain. A blow! A murder! My next business was
to defend myself, to tell so well-digested a lie as that all mankind
should believe it true. Never was a task so harrowing and intolerable!

"Well, thus far fortune favoured me; she favoured me beyond my desire.
The guilt was removed from me, and cast upon another; but this I was to
endure. Whence came the circumstantial evidence against him, the broken
knife and the blood, I am unable to tell. I suppose, by some miraculous
accident, Hawkins was passing by, and endeavoured to assist his
oppressor in the agonies of death. You have heard his story; you have
read one of his letters. But you do not know the thousandth part of the
proofs of his simple and unalterable rectitude that I have known. His
son suffered with him; that son, for the sake of whose happiness and
virtue he ruined himself, and would have died a hundred times.--I have
had feelings, but I cannot describe them.

"This it is to be a gentleman! a man of honour! I was the fool of fame.
My virtue, my honesty, my everlasting peace of mind, were cheap
sacrifices to be made at the shrine of this divinity. But, what is
worse, there is nothing that has happened that has in any degree
contributed to my cure. I am as much the fool of fame as ever. I cling
to it to my last breath. Though I be the blackest of villains, I will
leave behind me a spotless and illustrious name. There is no crime so
malignant, no scene of blood so horrible, in which that object cannot
engage me. It is no matter that I regard these things at a distance with
aversion;--I am sure of it; bring me to the test, and I shall yield. I
despise myself, but thus I am; things are gone too far to be recalled.

"Why is it that I am compelled to this confidence? From the love of
fame. I should tremble at the sight of every pistol or instrument of
death that offered itself to my hands; and perhaps my next murder may
not be so fortunate as those I have already committed. I had no
alternative but to make you my confidant or my victim. It was better to
trust you with the whole truth under every seal of secrecy, than to live
in perpetual fear of your penetration or your rashness.

"Do you know what it is you have done? To gratify a foolishly
inquisitive humour, you have sold yourself. You shall continue in my
service, but can never share my affection. I will benefit you in respect
of fortune, but I shall always hate you. If ever an unguarded word
escape from your lips, if ever you excite my jealousy or suspicion,
expect to pay for it by your death or worse. It is a dear bargain you
have made. But it is too late to look back. I charge and adjure you by
every thing that is sacred, and that is tremendous, preserve your faith!

"My tongue has now for the first time for several years spoken the
language of my heart; and the intercourse from this hour shall be shut
for ever. I want no pity. I desire no consolation. Surrounded as I am
with horrors, I will at least preserve my fortitude to the last. If I
had been reserved to a different destiny, I have qualities in that
respect worthy of a better cause. I can be mad, miserable, and frantic;
but even in frenzy I can preserve my presence of mind and discretion."

Such was the story I had been so desirous to know. Though my mind had
brooded upon the subject for months, there was not a syllable of it that
did not come to my ear with the most perfect sense of novelty. "Mr.
Falkland is a murderer!" said I, as I retired from the conference. This
dreadful appellative, "a murderer," made my very blood run cold within
me. "He killed Mr. Tyrrel, for he could not control his resentment and
anger: he sacrificed Hawkins the elder and Hawkins the younger, because
he could upon no terms endure the public loss of honour: how can I
expect that a man thus passionate and unrelenting will not sooner or
later make me his victim?"

But, notwithstanding this terrible application of the story, an
application to which perhaps in some form or other, mankind are indebted
for nine tenths of their abhorrence against vice, I could not help
occasionally recurring to reflections of an opposite nature. "Mr.
Falkland is a murderer!" resumed I. "He might yet be a most excellent
man, if he did but think so." It is the thinking ourselves vicious then,
that principally contributes to make us vicious.

Amidst the shock I received from finding, what I had never suffered
myself constantly to believe, that my suspicions were true, I still
discovered new cause of admiration for my master. His menaces indeed
were terrible. But, when I recollected the offence I had given, so
contrary to every received principle of civilised society, so insolent
and rude, so intolerable to a man of Mr. Falkland's elevation, and in
Mr. Falkland's peculiarity of circumstances, I was astonished at his
forbearance. There were indeed sufficiently obvious reasons why he might
not choose to proceed to extremities with me. But how different from the
fearful expectations I had conceived were the calmness of his
behaviour, and the regulated mildness of his language! In this respect,
I for a short time imagined that I was emancipated from the mischiefs
which had appalled me; and that, in having to do with a man of Mr.
Falkland's liberality, I had nothing rigorous to apprehend.

"It is a miserable prospect," said I, "that he holds up to me. He
imagines that I am restrained by no principles, and deaf to the claims
of personal excellence. But he shall find himself mistaken. I will never
become an informer. I will never injure my patron; and therefore he will
not be my enemy. With all his misfortunes and all his errors, I feel
that my soul yearns for his welfare. If he have been criminal, that is
owing to circumstances; the same qualities under other circumstances
would have been, or rather were, sublimely beneficent."

My reasonings were, no doubt, infinitely more favourable to Mr.
Falkland, than those which human beings are accustomed to make in the
case of such as they style great criminals. This will not be wondered
at, when it is considered that I had myself just been trampling on the
established boundaries of obligation, and therefore might well have a
fellow-feeling for other offenders. Add to which, I had known Mr.
Falkland from the first as a beneficent divinity. I had observed at
leisure, and with a minuteness which could not deceive me, the excellent
qualities of his heart; and I found him possessed of a mind beyond
comparison the most fertile and accomplished I had ever known.

But though the terrors which had impressed me were considerably
alleviated, my situation was notwithstanding sufficiently miserable. The
ease and light-heartedness of my youth were for ever gone. The voice of
an irresistible necessity had commanded me to "sleep no more." I was
tormented with a secret, of which I must never disburthen myself; and
this consciousness was, at my age, a source of perpetual melancholy. I
had made myself a prisoner, in the most intolerable sense of that term,
for years--perhaps for the rest of my life. Though my prudence and
discretion should be invariable, I must remember that I should have an
overseer, vigilant from conscious guilt, full of resentment at the
unjustifiable means by which I had extorted from him a confession, and
whose lightest caprice might at any time decide upon every thing that
was dear to me. The vigilance even of a public and systematical
despotism is poor, compared with a vigilance which is thus goaded by the
most anxious passions of the soul. Against this species of persecution I
knew not how to invent a refuge. I dared neither fly from the
observation of Mr. Falkland, nor continue exposed to its operation. I
was at first indeed lulled in a certain degree to security upon the
verge of the precipice. But it was not long before I found a thousand
circumstances perpetually reminding me of my true situation. Those I am
now to relate are among the most memorable.




CHAPTER VII.


In no long time after the disclosure Mr. Falkland had made, Mr.
Forester, his elder brother by the mother's side, came to reside for a
short period in our family. This was a circumstance peculiarly adverse
to my patron's habits and inclinations. He had broken off, as I have
already said, all intercourse of visiting with his neighbours. He
debarred himself every kind of amusement and relaxation. He shrunk from
the society of his fellows, and thought he could never be sufficiently
buried in obscurity and solitude. This principle was, in most cases, of
no difficult execution to a man of firmness. But Mr. Falkland knew not
how to avoid the visit of Mr. Forester. This gentleman was just returned
from a residence of several years upon the continent; and his demand of
an apartment in the house of his half-brother, till his own house at the
distance of thirty miles should be prepared for his reception, was made
with an air of confidence that scarcely admitted of a refusal. Mr.
Falkland could only allege, that the state of his health and spirits was
such, that lie feared a residence at his house would be little agreeable
to his kinsman; and Mr. Forester conceived that this was a
disqualification which would always augment in proportion as it was
tolerated, and hoped that his society, by inducing Mr. Falkland to
suspend his habits of seclusion, would be the means of essential
benefit. Mr. Falkland opposed him no further. He would have been sorry
to be thought unkind to a kinsman for whom he had a particular esteem;
and the consciousness of not daring to assign the true reason, made him
cautious of adhering to his objection.

The character of Mr. Forester was, in many respects, the reverse of that
of my master. His very appearance indicated the singularity of his
disposition. His figure was short and angular. His eyes were sunk far
into his head, and were overhung with eye-brows, black, thick, and
bushy. His complexion was swarthy, and his lineaments hard. He had seen
much of the world; but, to judge of him from his appearance and manners,
one would have thought that he had never moved from his fire-side.

His temper was acid, petulant, and harsh. He was easily offended by
trifles, respecting which, previously to the offence, the persons with
whom he had intercourse could have no suspicion of such a result. When
offended, his customary behaviour was exceedingly rugged. He thought
only of setting the delinquent right, and humbling him for his error;
and, in his eagerness to do this, overlooked the sensibility of the
sufferer, and the pains he inflicted. Remonstrance in such a case he
regarded as the offspring of cowardice, which was to be extirpated with
a steady and unshrinking hand, and not soothed with misjudging kindness
and indulgence. As is usual in human character, he had formed a system
of thinking to suit the current of his feelings. He held that the
kindness we entertain for a man should be veiled and concealed, exerted
in substantial benefits, but not disclosed, lest an undue advantage
should be taken of it by its object.

With this rugged outside, Mr. Forester had a warm and generous heart. At
first sight all men were deterred by his manner, and excited to give him
an ill character. But the longer any one knew him, the more they
approved him. His harshness was then only considered as habit; and
strong sense and active benevolence were uppermost in the recollection
of his familiar acquaintance. His conversation, when he condescended to
lay aside his snappish, rude, and abrupt half-sentences, became flowing
in diction, and uncommonly amusing with regard to its substance. He
combined, with weightiness of expression, a dryness of characteristic
humour, that demonstrated at once the vividness of his observation, and
the force of his understanding. The peculiarities of this gentleman's
character were not undisplayed in the scene to which he was now
introduced. Having much kindness in his disposition, he soon became
deeply interested in the unhappiness of his relation. He did every thing
in his power to remove it; but his attempts were rude and unskilful.
With a mind so accomplished and a spirit so susceptible as that of Mr.
Falkland, Mr. Forester did not venture to let loose his usual violence
of manner; but, if he carefully abstained from harshness, he was however
wholly incapable of that sweet and liquid eloquence of the soul, which
would perhaps have stood the fairest chance of seducing Mr. Falkland for
a moment to forget his anguish. He exhorted his host to rouse up his
spirit, and defy the foul fiend; but the tone of his exhortations found
no sympathetic chord in the mind of my patron. He had not the skill to
carry conviction to an understanding so well fortified in error. In a
word, after a thousand efforts of kindness to his entertainer, he drew
off his forces, growling and dissatisfied with his own impotence, rather
than angry at the obstinacy of Mr. Falkland. He felt no diminution of
his affection for him, and was sincerely grieved to find that he was so
little capable of serving him. Both parties in this case did justice to
the merits of the other; at the same time that the disparity of their
humours was such, as to prevent the stranger from being in any degree a
dangerous companion to the master of the house. They had scarcely one
point of contact in their characters. Mr. Forester was incapable of
giving Mr. Falkland that degree either of pain or pleasure, which can
raise the soul into a tumult, and deprive it for a while of tranquillity
and self-command.

Our visitor was a man, notwithstanding appearances, of a peculiarly
sociable disposition, and, where he was neither interrupted nor
contradicted, considerably loquacious. He began to feel himself
painfully out of his element upon the present occasion. Mr. Falkland
was devoted to contemplation and solitude. He put upon himself some
degree of restraint upon the arrival of his kinsman, though even then
his darling habits would break out. But when they had seen each other a
certain number of times, and it was sufficiently evident that the
society of either would be a burthen rather than a pleasure to the
other, they consented, by a sort of silent compact, that each should be
at liberty to follow his own inclination. Mr. Falkland was, in a sense,
the greatest gainer by this. He returned to the habits of his choice,
and acted, as nearly as possible, just as he would have done if Mr.
Forester had not been in existence. But the latter was wholly at a loss.
He had all the disadvantages of retirement, without being able, as he
might have done at his house, to bring his own associates or his own
amusements about him.

In this situation lie cast his eyes upon me. It was his principle to do
every thing that his thoughts suggested, without caring for the forms of
the world. He saw no reason why a peasant, with certain advantages of
education and opportunity, might not be as eligible a companion as a
lord; at the same time that he was deeply impressed with the
venerableness of old institutions. Reduced as he was to a kind of last
resort, he found me better qualified for his purpose than any other of
Mr. Falkland's household.

The manner in which he began this sort of correspondence was
sufficiently characteristical. It was abrupt; but it was strongly
stamped with essential benevolence. It was blunt and humorous; but there
was attractiveness, especially in a case of unequal intercourse, in that
very rusticity by which he levelled himself with the mass of his
species. He had to reconcile himself as well as to invite me; not to
reconcile himself to the postponing an aristocratical vanity, for of
that he had a very slender portion, but to the trouble of invitation,
for he loved his ease. All this produced some irregularity and
indecision in his own mind, and gave a whimsical impression to his
behaviour.

On my part, I was by no means ungrateful for the distinction that was
paid me. My mind had been relaxed into temporary dejection, but my
reserve had no alloy of moroseness or insensibility. It did not long
hold out against the condescending attentions of Mr. Forester. I became
gradually heedful, encouraged, confiding. I had a most eager thirst for
the knowledge of mankind; and though no person perhaps ever purchased so
dearly the instructions he received in that school, the inclination was
in no degree diminished. Mr. Forester was the second man I had seen
uncommonly worthy of my analysis, and who seemed to my thoughts, arrived
as I was at the end of my first essay, almost as much deserving to be
studied as Mr. Falkland himself. I was glad to escape from the
uneasiness of my reflections; and, while engaged with this new friend, I
forgot the criticalness of the evils with which I was hourly menaced.

Stimulated by these feelings, I was what Mr. Forester wanted, a diligent
and zealous hearer, I was strongly susceptible of impression; and the
alternate impressions my mind received, visibly displayed themselves in
my countenance and gestures. The observations Mr. Forester had made in
his travels, the set of opinions he had formed, all amused and
interested me. His manner of telling a story, or explaining his
thoughts, was forcible, perspicuous, and original: his style in
conversation had an uncommon zest. Every thing he had to relate
delighted me; while, in return, my sympathy, my eager curiosity, and my
unsophisticated passions, rendered me to Mr. Forester a most desirable
hearer. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that every day rendered
our intercourse more intimate and cordial.

Mr. Falkland was destined to be for ever unhappy; and it seemed as if no
new incident could occur, from which he was not able to extract food for
this imperious propensity. He was wearied with a perpetual repetition of
similar impressions; and entertained an invincible disgust against all
that was new. The visit of Mr. Forester he regarded with antipathy. He
was scarcely able to look at him without shuddering; an emotion which
his guest perceived, and pitied as the result of habit and disease,
rather than of judgment. None of his actions passed unremarked; the most
indifferent excited uneasiness and apprehension. The first overtures of
intimacy between me and Mr. Forester probably gave birth to sentiments
of jealousy in the mind of my master. The irregular, variable character
of his visitor tended to heighten them, by producing an appearance of
inexplicableness and mystery. At this time he intimated to me that it
was not agreeable to him, that there should be much intercourse between
me and this gentleman.

What could I do? Young as I was, could it be expected that I should play
the philosopher, and put a perpetual curb upon my inclinations?
Imprudent though I had been, could I voluntarily subject myself to an
eternal penance, and estrangement from human society? Could I discourage
a frankness so perfectly in consonance with my wishes, and receive in an
ungracious way a kindness that stole away my heart?

Besides this, I was but ill prepared for the servile submission Mr.
Falkland demanded. In early life I had been accustomed to be much my own
master. When I first entered into Mr. Falkland's service, my personal
habits were checked by the novelty of my situation, and my affections
were gained by the high accomplishments of my patron. To novelty and its
influence, curiosity had succeeded: curiosity, so long as it lasted, was
a principle stronger in my bosom than even the love of independence. To
that I would have sacrificed my liberty or my life; to gratify it, I
would have submitted to the condition of a West Indian negro, or to the
tortures inflicted by North American savages. But the turbulence of
curiosity had now subsided.

As long as the threats of Mr. Falkland had been confined to generals, I
endured it. I was conscious of the unbecoming action I had committed,
and this rendered me humble. But, when he went further, and undertook to
prescribe to every article of my conduct, my patience was at an end. My
mind, before sufficiently sensible to the unfortunate situation to which
my imprudence had reduced me, now took a nearer and a more alarming view
of the circumstances of the case. Mr. Falkland was not an old man; he
had in him the principles of vigour, however they might seem to be
shaken; he might live as long as I should. I was his prisoner; and what
a prisoner! All my actions observed; all my gestures marked. I could
move neither to the right nor the left, but the eye of my keeper was
upon me. He watched me; and his vigilance was a sickness to my heart.
For me there was no more freedom, no more of hilarity, of
thoughtlessness, or of youth. Was this the life upon which I had entered
with such warm and sanguine expectation? Were my days to be wasted in
this cheerless gloom; a galley-slave in the hands of the system of
nature, whom death only, the death of myself or my inexorable superior,
could free?

I had been adventurous in the gratification of an infantine and
unreasonable curiosity; and I resolved not to be less adventurous, if
need were, in the defence of every thing that can make life a blessing.
I was prepared for an amicable adjustment of interests: I would
undertake that Mr. Falkland should never sustain injury through my
means; but I expected in return that I should suffer no encroachment,
but be left to the direction of my own understanding.

I went on, then, to seek Mr. Forester's society with eagerness; and it
is the nature of an intimacy that does not decline, progressively to
increase. Mr. Falkland observed these symptoms with visible
perturbation. Whenever I was conscious of their being perceived by him,
I betrayed tokens of confusion: this did not tend to allay his
uneasiness. One day he spoke to me alone; and, with a look of mysterious
but terrible import, expressed himself thus:--

"Young man, take warning! Perhaps this is the last time you shall have
an opportunity to take it! I will not always be the butt of your
simplicity and inexperience, nor suffer your weakness to triumph over my
strength! Why do you trifle with me? You little suspect the extent of my
power. At this moment you are enclosed with the snares of my vengeance
unseen by you, and, at the instant that you flatter yourself you are
already beyond their reach, they will close upon you. You might as well
think of escaping from the power of the omnipresent God, as from mine!
If you could touch so much as my finger, you should expiate it in hours
and months and years of a torment, of which as yet you have not the
remotest idea. Remember! I am not talking at random! I do not utter a
word, that, if you provoke me, shall not be executed to the severest
letter!"

It may be supposed that these menaces were not without their effect. I
withdrew in silence. My whole soul revolted against the treatment I
endured, and yet I could not utter a word. Why could not I speak the
expostulations of my heart, or propose the compromise I meditated? It
was inexperience, and not want of strength, that awed me. Every act of
Mr. Falkland contained something new, and I was unprepared to meet it.
Perhaps it will be found that the greatest hero owes the propriety of
his conduct to the habit of encountering difficulties, and calling out
with promptness the energies of his mind.

I contemplated the proceedings of my patron with the deepest
astonishment. Humanity and general kindness were fundamental parts of
his character; but in relation to me they were sterile and inactive. His
own interest required that he should purchase my kindness; but he
preferred to govern me by terror, and watch me with unceasing anxiety. I
ruminated with the most mournful sensations upon the nature of my
calamity. I believed that no human being was ever placed in a situation
so pitiable as mine. Every atom of my frame seemed to have a several
existence, and to crawl within me. I had but too much reason to believe
that Mr. Falkland's threats were not empty words. I knew his ability; I
felt his ascendancy. If I encountered him, what chance had I of victory?
If I were defeated, what was the penalty I had to suffer? Well then, the
rest of my life must be devoted to slavish subjection. Miserable
sentence! And, if it were, what security had I against the injustice of
a man, vigilant, capricious, and criminal? I envied the condemned wretch
upon the scaffold; I envied the victim of the inquisition in the midst
of his torture. They know what they have to suffer. I had only to
imagine every thing terrible, and then say, "The fate reserved for me
is worse than this!"

It was well for me that these sensations were transient: human nature
could not long support itself under what I then felt. By degrees my mind
shook off its burthen. Indignation succeeded to emotions of terror. The
hostility of Mr. Falkland excited hostility in me. I determined I would
never calumniate him in matters of the most trivial import, much less
betray the grand secret upon which every thing dear to him depended.
But, totally abjuring the offensive, I resolved to stand firmly upon the
defensive. The liberty of acting as I pleased I would preserve, whatever
might be the risk. If I were worsted in the contest, I would at least
have the consolation of reflecting that I had exerted myself with
energy. In proportion as I thus determined, I drew off my forces from
petty incursions, and felt the propriety of acting with premeditation
and system. I ruminated incessantly upon plans of deliverance, but I was
anxious that my choice should not be precipitately made.

It was during this period of my deliberation and uncertainty that Mr.
Forester terminated his visit. He observed a strange distance in my
behaviour, and, in his good-natured, rough way, reproached me for it. I
could only answer with a gloomy look of mysterious import, and a
mournful and expressive silence. He sought me for an explanation, but I
was now as ingenious in avoiding as I had before been ardent to seek
him; and he quitted our house, as he afterwards told me, with an
impression, that there was some ill destiny that hung over it, which
seemed fated to make all its inhabitants miserable, without its being
possible for a bystander to penetrate the reason.




CHAPTER VIII.


Mr. Forester had left us about three weeks, when Mr. Falkland sent me
upon some business to an estate he possessed in a neighbouring county,
about fifty miles from his principal residence. The road led in a
direction wholly wide of the habitation of our late visitor. I was upon
my return from the place to which I had been sent, when I began in fancy
to take a survey of the various circumstances of my condition, and by
degrees lost, in the profoundness of my contemplation, all attention to
the surrounding objects. The first determination of my mind was to
escape from the lynx-eyed jealousy and despotism of Mr. Falkland; the
second to provide, by every effort of prudence and deliberation I could
devise, against the danger with which I well knew my attempt must be
accompanied.

Occupied with these meditations, I rode many miles before I perceived
that I had totally deviated from the right path. At length I roused
myself, and surveyed the horizon round me; but I could observe nothing
with which my organ was previously acquainted. On three sides, the heath
stretched as far as the eye could reach; on the fourth, I discovered at
some distance a wood of no ordinary dimensions. Before me, scarcely a
single track could be found, to mark that any human being had ever
visited the spot. As the best expedient I could devise, I bent my course
towards the wood I have mentioned, and then pursued, as well as I was
able, the windings of the inclosure. This led me, after some time, to
the end of the heath; but I was still as much at a loss as ever
respecting the road I should pursue. The sun was hid from me by a grey
and cloudy atmosphere; I was induced to continue along the skirts of
the wood, and surmounted with some difficulty the hedges and other
obstacles that from time to time presented themselves. My thoughts were
gloomy and disconsolate; the dreariness of the day, and the solitude
which surrounded me, seemed to communicate a sadness to my soul. I had
proceeded a considerable way, and was overcome with hunger and fatigue,
when I discovered a road and a little inn at no great distance. I made
up to them, and upon enquiry found that, instead of pursuing the proper
direction, I had taken one that led to Mr. Forester's rather than to my
own habitation. I alighted, and was entering the house, when the
appearance of that gentleman struck my eyes.

Mr. Forester accosted me with kindness, invited me into the room where
he had been sitting, and enquired what accident had brought me to that
place.

While he was speaking, I could not help recollecting the extraordinary
manner in which we were thus once more brought together, and a train of
ideas was by this means suggested to my mind. Some refreshment was, by
Mr. Forester's order, prepared for me; I sat down, and partook of it.
Still this thought dwelt upon my recollection:--"Mr. Falkland will never
be made acquainted with our meeting; I have an opportunity thrown in my
way, which if I do not improve, I shall deserve all the consequences
that may result. I can now converse with a friend, and a powerful
friend, without fear of being watched and overlooked." What wonder that
I was tempted to disclose, not Mr. Falkland's secret, but my own
situation, and receive the advice of a man of worth and experience,
which might perhaps be adequately done without entering into any detail
injurious to my patron?

Mr. Forester, on his part, expressed a desire to learn why it was I
thought myself unhappy, and why I had avoided him during the latter part
of his residence under the same roof, as evidently as I had before taken
pleasure in his communications. I replied, that I could give him but an
imperfect satisfaction upon these points; but what I could, I would
willingly explain. The fact, I proceeded, was, that there were reasons
which rendered it impossible for me to have a tranquil moment under the
roof of Mr. Falkland. I had revolved the matter again and again in my
mind, and was finally convinced that I owed it to myself to withdraw
from his service. I added, that I was sensible, by this half-confidence,
I might rather seem to merit the disapprobation of Mr. Forester than his
countenance; but I declared my persuasion that, if he could be
acquainted with the whole affair, however strange my behaviour might at
present appear, he would applaud my reserve.

He appeared to muse for a moment upon what I had said, and then asked
what reason I could have to complain of Mr. Falkland? I replied, that I
entertained the deepest reverence for my patron; I admired his
abilities, and considered him as formed for the benefit of his species.
I should in my own opinion be the vilest of miscreants, if I uttered a
whisper to his disadvantage. But this did not avail: I was not fit for
him; perhaps I was not good enough for him; at all events, I must be
perpetually miserable so long as I continued to live with him.

I observed Mr. Forester gaze upon me eagerly with curiosity and
surprise; but this circumstance I did not think proper to notice. Having
recovered himself, he enquired, why then, that being the case, I did not
quit his service? I answered, what he now touched upon was that which
most of all contributed to my misfortune. Mr. Falkland was not ignorant
of my dislike to my present situation; perhaps he thought it
unreasonable, unjust; but I knew that he would never be brought to
consent to my giving way to it.

Here Mr. Forester interrupted me, and, smiling, said, I magnified
obstacles, and over-rated my own importance; adding, that he would
undertake to remove that difficulty, as well as to provide me with a
more agreeable appointment. This suggestion produced in me a serious
alarm. I replied, that I must entreat him upon no account to think of
applying to Mr. Falkland upon the subject. I added, that perhaps I was
only betraying my imbecility; but in reality, unacquainted as I was with
experience and the world, I was afraid, though disgusted with my present
residence, to expose myself upon a mere project of my own, to the
resentment of so considerable a man as Mr. Falkland. If he would favour
me with his advice upon the subject, or if he would only give me leave
to hope for his protection in case of any unforeseen accident, this was
all I presumed to request; and, thus encouraged. I would venture to obey
the dictates of my inclination, and fly in pursuit of my lost
tranquillity.

Having thus opened myself to this generous friend, as far as I could do
it with propriety and safety, he sat for some time silent, with an air
of deep reflection. At length, with a countenance of unusual severity,
and a characteristic fierceness of manner and voice, he thus addressed
me: "Young man, perhaps you are ignorant of the nature of the conduct
you at present hold. May be, you do not know that where there is
mystery, there is always something at bottom that will not bear the
telling. Is this the way to obtain the favour of a man of consequence
and respectability? To pretend to make a confidence, and then tell him a
disjointed story that has not common sense in it!"

I answered, that, whatever were the amount of that prejudice, I must
submit. I placed my hope of a candid construction, in the present
instance, in the rectitude of his nature.

He went on: "You do so; do you? I tell you, sir, the rectitude of my
nature is an enemy to disguise. Come, boy, you must know that I
understand these things better than you. Tell all, or expect nothing
from me but censure and contempt."

"Sir," replied I, "I have spoken from deliberation; I have told you my
choice, and, whatever be the result, I must abide by it. If in this
misfortune you refuse me your assistance, here I must end, having gained
by the communication only your ill opinion and displeasure."

He looked hard at me, as if he would see me through. At length he
relaxed his features, and softened his manner. "You are a foolish,
headstrong boy," said he, "and I shall have an eye upon you. I shall
never place in you the confidence I have done. But--I will not desert
you. At present, the balance between approbation and dislike is in your
favour. How long it will last, I cannot tell; I engage for nothing. But
it is my rule to act as I feel. I will for this time do as you
require;--and, pray God, it may answer. I will receive you, either now
or hereafter, under my roof, trusting that I shall have no reason to
repent, and that appearances will terminate as favourably as I wish,
though I scarcely know how to hope it."

We were engaged in the earnest discussion of subjects thus interesting
to my peace, when we were interrupted by an event the most earnestly to
have been deprecated. Without the smallest notice, and as if he had
dropped upon us from the clouds, Mr. Falkland burst into the room. I
found afterwards that Mr. Forester had come thus far upon an
appointment to meet Mr. Falkland, and that the place of their intended
rendezvous was at the next stage. Mr. Forester was detained at the inn
where we now were by our accidental rencounter, and in reality had for
the moment forgotten his appointment; while Mr. Falkland, not finding
him where he expected, proceeded thus far towards the house of his
kinsman. To me the meeting was most unaccountable in the world.

I instantly foresaw the dreadful complication of misfortune that was
included in this event. To Mr. Falkland, the meeting between me and his
relation must appear not accidental, but, on my part at least, the
result of design. I was totally out of the road I had been travelling by
his direction; I was in a road that led directly to the house of Mr.
Forester. What must he think of this? How must he suppose I came to that
place? The truth, if told, that I came there without design, and purely
in consequence of having lost my way, must appear to be the most
palpable lie that ever was devised.

Here then I stood detected in the fact of that intercourse which had
been so severely forbidden. But in this instance it was infinitely worse
than in those which had already given so much disturbance to Mr.
Falkland. It was then frank and unconcealed; and therefore the
presumption was, that it was for purposes that required no concealment.
But the present interview, if concerted, was in the most emphatical
degree clandestine. Nor was it less perilous than it was clandestine: it
had been forbidden with the most dreadful menaces; and Mr. Falkland was
not ignorant how deep an impression those menaces had made upon my
imagination. Such a meeting therefore could not have been concerted
under such circumstances, for a trivial purpose, or for any purpose
that his heart did not ache to think of. Such was the amount of my
crime, such was the agony my appearance was calculated to inspire; and
it was reasonable to suppose that the penalty I had to expect would be
proportionable. The threats of Mr. Falkland still sounded in my ears,
and I was in a transport of terror.

The conduct of the same man in different circumstances, is often so
various as to render it very difficult to be accounted for. Mr.
Falkland, in this to him, terrible crisis, did not seem to be in any
degree hurried away by passion. For a moment he was dumb; his eyes
glared with astonishment; and the next moment, as it were, he had the
most perfect calmness and self-command. Had it been otherwise, I have no
doubt that I should instantly have entered into an explanation of the
manner in which I came there, the ingenuousness and consistency of which
could not but have been in some degree attended with a favourable event.
But, as it was, I suffered myself to be overcome; I yielded, as in a
former instance, to the discomfiting influence of surprise. I dared
scarcely breathe; I observed the appearances with equal anxiety and
surprise. Mr. Falkland quietly ordered me to return home, and take along
with me the groom he had brought with him. I obeyed in silence.

I afterwards understood, that he enquired minutely of Mr. Forester the
circumstances of our meeting; and that that gentleman, perceiving that
the meeting itself was discovered, and guided by habits of frankness,
which, when once rooted in a character, it is difficult to counteract,
told Mr. Falkland every thing that had passed, together with the remarks
it had suggested to his own mind. Mr. Falkland received the
communication with an ambiguous and studied silence, which by no means
operated to my advantage in the already poisoned mind of Mr. Forester.
His silence was partly the direct consequence of a mind watchful,
inquisitive, and doubting; and partly perhaps was adopted for the sake
of the effect it was calculated to produce, Mr. Falkland not being
unwilling to encourage prejudices against a character which might one
day come in competition with his own.

As to me, I went home indeed, for this was not a moment to resist. Mr.
Falkland, with a premeditation to which he had given the appearance of
accident, had taken care to send with me a guard to attend upon his
prisoner. I seemed as if conducting to one of those fortresses, famed in
the history of despotism, from which the wretched victim is never known
to come forth alive; and when I entered my chamber, I felt as if I were
entering a dungeon. I reflected that I was at the mercy of a man,
exasperated at my disobedience, and who was already formed to cruelty by
successive murders. My prospects were now closed; I was cut off for ever
from pursuits that I had meditated with ineffable delight; my death
might be the event of a few hours. I was a victim at the shrine of
conscious guilt, that knew neither rest nor satiety; I should be blotted
from the catalogue of the living, and my fate remain eternally a secret;
the man who added my murder to his former crimes, would show himself the
next morning, and be hailed with the admiration and applause of his
species.

In the midst of these terrible imaginations, one idea presented itself
that alleviated my feelings. This was the recollection of the strange
and unaccountable tranquillity which Mr. Falkland had manifested, when
he discovered me in company with Mr. Forester. I was not deceived by
this. I knew that the calm was temporary, and would be succeeded by a
tumult and whirlwind of the most dreadful sort. But a man under the
power of such terrors as now occupied me catches at every reed. I said
to myself, "This tranquillity is a period it is incumbent upon me to
improve; the shorter its duration may be found, the more speedy am I
obliged to be in the use of it." In a word, I took the resolution,
because I already stood in fear of the vengeance of Mr. Falkland, to
risk the possibility of provoking it in a degree still more inexpiable,
and terminate at once my present state of uncertainty. I had now opened
my case to Mr. Forester, and he had given me positive assurances of his
protection. I determined immediately to address the following letter to
Mr. Falkland. The consideration that, if he meditated any thing
tragical, such a letter would only tend to confirm him, did not enter
into the present feelings of my mind.

"Sir,

"I have conceived the intention of quitting your service. This is a
measure we ought both of us to desire. I shall then be, what it is my
duty to be, master of my own actions. You will be delivered from the
presence of a person, whom you cannot prevail upon yourself to behold
without unpleasing emotions.

"Why should you subject me to an eternal penance? Why should you consign
my youthful hopes to suffering and despair? Consult the principles of
humanity that have marked the general course of your proceedings, and do
not let me, I entreat you, be made the subject of a useless severity. My
heart is impressed with gratitude for your favours. I sincerely ask your
forgiveness for the many errors of my conduct. I consider the treatment
I have received under your roof, as one almost uninterrupted scene of
kindness and generosity. I shall never forget my obligations to you,
and will never betray them.

"I remain, Sir,

"Your most grateful, respectful,

"and dutiful servant,

"CALEB WILLIAMS."

Such was my employment of the evening of a day which will be ever
memorable in the history of my life. Mr. Falkland not being yet
returned, though expected every hour, I was induced to make use of the
pretence of fatigue to avoid an interview. I went to bed. It may be
imagined that my slumbers were neither deep nor refreshing.

The next morning I was informed that my patron did not come home till
late; that he had enquired for me, and, being told that I was in bed,
had said nothing further upon the subject. Satisfied in this respect, I
went to the breakfasting parlour, and, though full of anxiety and
trepidation, endeavoured to busy myself in arranging the books, and a
few other little occupations, till Mr. Falkland should come down. After
a short time I heard his step, which I perfectly well knew how to
distinguish, in the passage. Presently he stopped, and, speaking to some
one in a sort of deliberate, but smothered voice, I overheard him repeat
my name as enquiring for me. In conformity to the plan I had persuaded
myself to adopt, I now laid the letter I had written upon the table at
which he usually sat, and made my exit at one door as Mr. Falkland
entered at the other. This done, I withdrew, with flutterings and
palpitation, to a private apartment, a sort of light closet at the end
of the library, where I was accustomed not unfrequently to sit.

I had not been here three minutes, when I heard the voice of Mr.
Falkland calling me. I went to him in the library. His manner was that
of a man labouring with some dreadful thought, and endeavouring to give
an air of carelessness and insensibility to his behaviour. Perhaps no
carriage of any other sort could have produced a sensation of such
inexplicable horror, or have excited, in the person who was its object,
such anxious uncertainty about the event.--"That is your letter," said
he, throwing it.

"My lad," continued he, "I believe now you have played all your tricks,
and the farce is nearly at an end! With your apishness and absurdity
however you have taught me one thing; and, whereas before I have winced
at them with torture, I am now as tough as an elephant. I shall crush
you in the end with the same indifference, that I would any other little
insect that disturbed my serenity.

"I am unable to tell what brought about your meeting with Mr. Forester
yesterday. It might be design; it might be accident. But, I shall not
forget it. You write me here, that you are desirous to quit my service.
To that I have a short answer: You never shall quit it with life. If you
attempt it, you shall never cease to rue your folly as long as you
exist. That is my will; and I will not have it resisted. The very next
time you disobey me in that or any other article, there is an end of
your vagaries for ever. Perhaps your situation may be a pitiable one; it
is for you to look to that. I only know that it is in your power to
prevent its growing worse; no time nor chance shall ever make it better.

"Do not imagine I am afraid of you! I wear an armour, against which all
your weapons are impotent. I have dug a pit for you; and, whichever way
you move, backward or forward, to the right or the left, it is ready to
swallow you. Be still! If once you fall, call as loud as you will, no
man on earth shall hear your cries; prepare a tale however plausible, or
however true, the whole world shall execrate you for an impostor. Your
innocence shall be of no service to you; I laugh at so feeble a defence.
It is I that say it; you may believe what I tell you--Do you not know,
miserable wretch!" added he, suddenly altering his tone, and stamping
upon the ground with fury, "that I have sworn to preserve my reputation,
whatever be the expense; that I love it more than the whole world and
its inhabitants taken together? And do you think that you shall wound
it? Begone, miscreant! reptile! and cease to contend with insurmountable
power!"

The part of my history which I am now relating is that which I reflect
upon with the least complacency. Why was it, that I was once more
totally overcome by the imperious carriage of Mr. Falkland, and unable
to utter a word? The reader will be presented with many occasions in the
sequel, in which I wanted neither facility in the invention of
expedients, nor fortitude in entering upon my justification. Persecution
at length gave firmness to my character, and taught me the better part
of manhood. But in the present instance I was irresolute, overawed, and
abashed.

The speech I had heard was the dictate of frenzy, and it created in me a
similar frenzy. It determined me to do the very thing against which I
was thus solemnly warned, and fly from my patron's house. I could not
enter into parley with him; I could no longer endure the vile
subjugation he imposed on me. It was in vain that my reason warned me of
the rashness of a measure, to be taken without concert or preparation. I
seemed to be in a state in which reason had no power. I felt as if I
could coolly survey the several arguments of the case, perceive that
they had prudence, truth, and common sense on their side; and then
answer, I am under the guidance of a director more energetic than you.

I was not long in executing what I had thus rapidly determined. I fixed
on the evening of that very day as the period of my evasion. Even in
this short interval I had perhaps sufficient time for deliberation. But
all opportunity was useless to me; my mind was fixed, and each
succeeding moment only increased the unspeakable eagerness with which I
meditated my escape. The hours usually observed by our family in this
country residence were regular; and one in the morning was the time I
selected for my undertaking.

In searching the apartment where I slept, I had formerly discovered a
concealed door, which led to a small apartment of the most secret
nature, not uncommon in houses so old as that of Mr. Falkland, and which
had perhaps served as a refuge from persecution, or a security from the
inveterate hostilities of a barbarous age. I believed no person was
acquainted with this hiding-place but myself. I felt unaccountably
impelled to remove into it the different articles of my personal
property. I could not at present take them away with me. If I were never
to recover them, I felt that it would be a gratification to my
sentiment, that no trace of my existence should be found after my
departure. Having completed their removal, and waited till the hour I
had previously chosen, I stole down quietly from my chamber with a lamp
in my hand. I went along a passage that led to a small door opening into
the garden, and then crossed the garden, to a gate that intersected an
elm-walk and a private horse-path on the outside.

I could scarcely believe my good fortune in having thus far executed my
design without interruption. The terrible images Mr. Falkland's menaces
had suggested to my mind, made me expect impediment and detection at
every step; though the impassioned state of my mind impelled me to
advance with desperate resolution. He probably however counted too
securely upon the ascendancy of his sentiments, when imperiously
pronounced, to think it necessary to take precautions against a sinister
event. For myself, I drew a favourable omen as to the final result of my
project, from the smoothness of success that attended it in the outset.




CHAPTER IX.


The first plan that had suggested itself to me was, to go to the nearest
public road, and take the earliest stage for London. There I believed I
should be most safe from discovery, if the vengeance of Mr. Falkland
should prompt him to pursue me; and I did not doubt, among the
multiplied resources of the metropolis, to find something which should
suggest to me an eligible mode of disposing of my person and industry. I
reserved Mr. Forester in my arrangement, as a last resource, not to be
called forth unless for immediate protection from the hand of
persecution and power. I was destitute of that experience of the world,
which can alone render us fertile in resources, or enable us to
institute a just comparison between the resources that offer themselves.
I was like the fascinated animal, that is seized with the most terrible
apprehensions, at the same time that he is incapable of adequately
considering for his own safety.

The mode of my proceeding being digested, I traced, with a cheerful
heart, the unfrequented path it was now necessary for me to pursue. The
night was gloomy, and it drizzled with rain. But these were
circumstances I had scarcely the power to perceive; all was sunshine and
joy within me. I hardly felt the ground; I repeated to myself a thousand
times, "I am free. What concern have I with danger and alarm? I feel
that I am free; I feel that I will continue so. What power is able to
hold in chains a mind ardent and determined? What power can cause that
man to die, whose whole soul commands him to continue to live?" I looked
back with abhorrence to the subjection in which I had been held. I did
not hate the author of my misfortunes--truth and justice acquit me of
that; I rather pitied the hard destiny to which he seemed condemned. But
I thought with unspeakable loathing of those errors, in consequence of
which every man is fated to be, more or less, the tyrant or the slave. I
was astonished at the folly of my species, that they did not rise up as
one man, and shake off chains so ignominious, and misery so
insupportable. So far as related to myself, I resolved--and this
resolution has never been entirety forgotten by me--to hold myself
disengaged from this odious scene, and never fill the part either of the
oppressor or the sufferer. My mind continued in this enthusiastical
state, full of confidence, and accessible only to such a portion of fear
as served rather to keep up a state of pleasurable emotion than to
generate anguish and distress, during the whole of this nocturnal
expedition. After a walk of three hours, I arrived, without accident, at
the village from which I hoped to have taken my passage for the
metropolis. At this early hour every thing was quiet; no sound of any
thing human saluted my ear. It was with difficulty that I gained
admittance into the yard of the inn, where I found a single ostler
taking care of some horses. From him I received the unwelcome tidings,
that the coach was not expected till six o'clock in the morning of the
day after to-morrow, its route through that town recurring only three
times a week.

This intelligence gave the first check to the rapturous inebriation by
which my mind had been possessed from the moment I quitted the
habitation of Mr. Falkland. The whole of my fortune in ready cash
consisted of about eleven guineas. I had about fifty more, that had
fallen to me from the disposal of my property at the death of my father;
but that was so vested as to preclude it from immediate use, and I even
doubted whether it would not be found better ultimately to resign it,
than, by claiming it, to risk the furnishing a clew to what I most of
all dreaded, the persecution of Mr. Falkland. There was nothing I so
ardently desired as the annihilation of all future intercourse between
us, that he should not know there was such a person on the earth as
myself, and that I should never more hear the repetition of a name which
had been so fatal to my peace.

Thus circumstanced, I conceived frugality to be an object by no means
unworthy of my attention, unable as I was to prognosticate what
discouragements and delays might present themselves to the
accomplishment of my wishes, after my arrival in London. For this and
other reasons, I determined to adhere to my design of travelling by the
stage; it only remaining for me to consider in what manner I should
prevent the eventful delay of twenty-four hours from becoming, by any
untoward event, a source of new calamity. It was by no means advisable
to remain in the village where I now was during this interval; nor did I
even think proper to employ it, in proceeding on foot along the great
road. I therefore decided upon making a circuit, the direction of which
should seem at first extremely wide of my intended route, and then,
suddenly taking a different inclination, should enable me to arrive by
the close of day at a market-town twelve miles nearer to the metropolis.

Having fixed the economy of the day, and persuaded myself that it was
the best which, under the circumstances, could be adopted, I dismissed,
for the most part, all further anxieties from my mind, and eagerly
yielded myself up to the different amusements that arose. I rested and
went forward at the impulse of the moment. At one time I reclined upon a
bank immersed in contemplation, and at another exerted myself to analyse
the prospects which succeeded each other. The haziness of the morning
was followed by a spirit-stirring and beautiful day. With the ductility
so characteristic of a youthful mind, I forgot the anguish which had
lately been my continual guest, and occupied myself entirely in dreams
of future novelty and felicity. I scarcely ever, in the whole course of
my existence, spent a day of more various or exquisite gratification. It
furnished a strong, and perhaps not an unsalutary contrast, to the
terrors which had preceded, and the dreadful scenes that awaited me.

In the evening I arrived at the place of my destination, and enquired
for the inn at which the coach was accustomed to call. A circumstance
however had previously excited my attention, and reproduced in me a
state of alarm.

Though it was already dark before I reached the town, my observation
had been attracted by a man, who passed me on horseback in the opposite
direction, about half a mile on the other side of the town. There was an
inquisitiveness in his gesture that I did not like; and, as far as I
could discern his figure, I pronounced him an ill-looking man. He had
not passed me more than two minutes before I heard the sound of a horse
advancing slowly behind me. These circumstances impressed some degree of
uneasy sensation upon my mind. I first mended my pace; and, this not
appearing to answer the purpose, I afterwards loitered, that the
horseman might pass me. He did so; and, as I glanced at him, I thought I
saw that it was the same man. He now put his horse into a trot, and
entered the town. I followed; and it was not long before I perceived him
at the door of an alehouse, drinking a mug of beer. This however the
darkness prevented me from discovering, till I was in a manner upon him.
I pushed forward, and saw him no more, till, as I entered the yard of
the inn where I intended to sleep, the same man suddenly rode up to me,
and asked if my name were Williams.

This adventure, _while it had been passing_, expelled the gaiety of my
mind, and filled me with anxiety. The apprehension however that I felt,
appeared to me groundless: if I were pursued, I took it for granted it
would be by some of Mr. Falkland's people, and not by a stranger. The
darkness took from me some of the simplest expedients of precaution. I
determined at least to proceed to the inn, and make the necessary
enquiries.

I no sooner heard the sound of the horse as I entered the yard, and the
question proposed to me by the rider, than the dreadful certainty of
what I feared instantly took possession of my mind. Every incident
connected with my late abhorred situation was calculated to impress me
with the deepest alarm. My first thought was, to betake myself to the
fields, and trust to the swiftness of my flight for safety. But this was
scarcely practicable: I remarked that my enemy was alone; and I believed
that, man to man, I might reasonably hope to get the better of him,
either by the firmness of my determination, or the subtlety of my
invention.

Thus resolved, I replied in an impetuous and peremptory tone, that I was
the man he took me for; adding, "I guess your errand; but it is to no
purpose. You come to conduct me back to Falkland House; but no force
shall ever drag me to that place alive. I have not taken my resolution
without strong reasons; and all the world shall not persuade me to alter
it. I am an Englishman, and it is the privilege of an Englishman to be
sole judge and master of his own actions."

"You are in the devil of a hurry," replied the man, "to guess my
intentions, and tell your own. But your guess is right; and mayhap you
may have reason to be thankful that my errand is not something worse.
Sure enough the squire expects you;--but I have a letter, and when you
have read that, I suppose you will come off a little of your stoutness.
If that does not answer, it will then be time to think what is to be
done next."

Thus saying, he gave me his letter, which was from Mr. Forester, whom,
as he told me, he had left at Mr. Falkland's house. I went into a room
of the inn for the purpose of reading it, and was followed by the
bearer. The letter was as follows:--

WILLIAMS,

"My brother Falkland has sent the bearer in pursuit of you. He expects
that, if found, you will return with him: I expect it too. It is of the
utmost consequence to your future honour and character. After reading
these lines, if you are a villain and a rascal, you will perhaps
endeavour to fly; if your conscience tells you, you are innocent, you
will, out of all doubt, come back. Show me then whether I have been your
dupe: and, while I was won over by your seeming ingenuousness, have
suffered myself to be made the tool of a designing knave. If you come, I
pledge myself that, if you clear your reputation, you shall not only be
free to go wherever you please, but shall receive every assistance in my
power to give. Remember, I engage for nothing further than that.

"VALENTINE FORESTER."

What a letter was this! To a mind like mine, glowing with the love of
virtue, such an address was strong enough to draw the person to whom it
was addressed from one end of the earth to the other. My mind was full
of confidence and energy. I felt my own innocence, and was determined to
assert it. I was willing to be driven out a fugitive; I even rejoiced in
my escape, and cheerfully went out into the world destitute of every
provision, and depending for my future prospects upon my own ingenuity.

Thus much, said I, Falkland! you may do. Dispose of me as you please
with respect to the goods of fortune; but you shall neither make prize
of my liberty, nor sully the whiteness of my name. I repassed in my
thoughts every memorable incident that had happened to me under his
roof. I could recollect nothing, except the affair of the mysterious
trunk, out of which the shadow of a criminal accusation could be
extorted. In that instance my conduct had been highly reprehensible, and
I had never looked back upon it without remorse and self-condemnation.
But I did not believe that it was of the nature of those actions which
can be brought under legal censure. I could still less persuade myself
that Mr. Falkland, who shuddered at the very possibility of detection,
and who considered himself as completely in my power, would dare to
bring forward a subject so closely connected with the internal agony of
his soul. In a word, the more I reflected on the phrases of Mr.
Forester's billet, the less could I imagine the nature of those scenes
to which they were to serve as a prelude.

The inscrutableness however of the mystery they contained, did not
suffice to overwhelm my courage. My mind seemed to undergo an entire
revolution. Timid and embarrassed as I had felt myself, when I regarded
Mr. Falkland as my clandestine and domestic foe, I now conceived that
the case was entirely altered. "Meet me," said I, "as an open accuser:
if we must contend, let us contend in the face of day; and then,
unparalleled as your resources may be, I will not fear you." Innocence
and guilt were, in my apprehension, the things in the whole world the
most opposite to each other. I would not suffer myself to believe, that
the former could be confounded with the latter, unless the innocent man
first allowed himself to be subdued in mind, before he was defrauded of
the good opinion of mankind. Virtue rising superior to every calamity,
defeating by a plain unvarnished tale all the stratagems of Vice, and
throwing back upon her adversary the confusion with which he had hoped
to overwhelm her, was one of the favourite subjects of my youthful
reveries. I determined never to prove an instrument of destruction to
Mr. Falkland; but I was not less resolute to obtain justice to myself.

The issue of all these confident hopes I shall immediately have
occasion to relate. It was thus, with the most generous and undoubting
spirit, that I rushed upon irretrievable ruin.

"Friend," said I to the bearer, after a considerable interval of
silence, "you are right. This is, indeed, an extraordinary letter you
have brought me; but it answers its purpose. I will certainly go with
you now, whatever be the consequence. No person shall ever impute blame
to me, so long as I have it in my power to clear myself."

I felt, in the circumstances in which I was placed by Mr. Forester's
letter, not merely a willingness, but an alacrity and impatience, to
return. We procured a second horse. We proceeded on our journey in
silence. My mind was occupied again in endeavouring to account for Mr.
Forester's letter. I knew the inflexibility and sternness of Mr.
Falkland's mind in accomplishing the purposes he had at heart; but I
also knew that every virtuous and magnanimous principle was congenial to
his character.

When we arrived, midnight was already past, and we were obliged to waken
one of the servants to give us admittance. I found that Mr. Forester had
left a message for me, in consideration of the possibility of my arrival
during the night, directing me immediately to go to bed, and to take
care that I did not come weary and exhausted to the business of the
following day. I endeavoured to take his advice; but my slumbers were
unrefreshing and disturbed. I suffered however no reduction of courage:
the singularity of my situation, my conjectures with respect to the
present, my eagerness for the future, did not allow me to sink into a
languid and inactive state.

Next morning the first person I saw was Mr. Forester. He told me that
he did not yet know what Mr. Falkland had to allege against me, for that
he had refused to know. He had arrived at the house of his brother by
appointment on the preceding day to settle some indispensable business,
his intention having been to depart the moment the business was
finished, as he knew that conduct on his part would be most agreeable to
Mr. Falkland. But he was no sooner come, than he found the whole house
in confusion, the alarm of my elopement having been given a few hours
before. Mr. Falkland had despatched servants in all directions in
pursuit of me; and the servant from the market-town arrived at the same
moment with Mr. Forester, with intelligence that a person answering the
description he gave, had been there very early in the morning enquiring
respecting the stage to London.

Mr. Falkland seemed extremely disturbed at this information, and
exclaimed on me with acrimony, as an unthankful and unnatural villain.

Mr. Forester replied, "Have more command of yourself, sir! Villain is a
serious appellation, and must not be trifled with. Englishmen are free;
and no man is to be charged with villainy, because he changes one source
of subsistence for another."

Mr. Falkland shook his head, and with a smile, expressive of acute
sensibility, said, "Brother, brother, you are the dupe of his art. I
always considered him with an eye of suspicion, and was aware of his
depravity. But I have just discovered--"

"Stop, sir!" interrupted Mr. Forester. "I own I thought that, in a
moment of acrimony, you might be employing harsh epithets in a sort of
random style. But if you have a serious accusation to state, we must not
be told of that, till it is known whether the lad is within reach of a
hearing. I am indifferent myself about the good opinion of others. It is
what the world bestows and retracts with so little thought, that I can
make no account of its decision. But that does not authorise me lightly
to entertain an ill opinion of another. The slenderest allowance I think
I can make to such as I consign to be the example and terror of their
species, is that of being heard in their own defence. It is a wise
principle that requires the judge to come into court uninformed of the
merits of the cause he is to try; and to that principle I am determined
to conform as an individual. I shall always think it right to be severe
and inflexible in my treatment of offenders; but the severity I exercise
in the sequel, must be accompanied with impartiality and caution in what
is preliminary."

While Mr. Forester related to me these particulars, he observed me ready
to break out into some of the expressions which the narrative suggested;
but he would not suffer me to speak. "No," said he; "I would not hear
Mr. Falkland against you; and I cannot hear you in your defence. I come
to you at present to speak, and not to hear. I thought it right to warn
you of your danger, but I have nothing more to do now. Reserve what you
have to say to the proper time. Make the best story you can for
yourself--true, if truth, as I hope, will serve your purpose; but, if
not, the most plausible and ingenious you can invent. That is what
self-defence requires from every man, where, as it always happens to a
man upon his trial, he has the whole world against him, and has his own
battle to fight against the world. Farewell; and God send you a good
deliverance! If Mr. Falkland's accusation, whatever it be, shall appear
premature, depend upon having me more zealously your friend than ever.
If not, this is the last act of friendship you will ever receive from
me!"

It may be believed that this address, so singular, so solemn, so big
with conditional menace, did not greatly tend to encourage me. I was
totally ignorant of the charge to be advanced against me; and not a
little astonished, when it was in my power to be in the most formidable
degree the accuser of Mr. Falkland, to find the principles of equity so
completely reversed, as for the innocent but instructed individual to be
the party accused and suffering, instead of having, as was natural, the
real criminal at his mercy. I was still more astonished at the
superhuman power Mr. Falkland seemed to possess, of bringing the object
of his persecution within the sphere of his authority; a reflection
attended with some check to that eagerness and boldness of spirit, which
now constituted the ruling passion of my mind.

But this was no time for meditation. To the sufferer the course of
events is taken out of his direction, and he is hurried along with an
irresistible force, without finding it within the compass of his efforts
to check their rapidity. I was allowed only a short time to recollect
myself, when my trial commenced. I was conducted to the library, where I
had passed so many happy and so many contemplative hours, and found
there Mr. Forester and three or four of the servants already assembled,
in expectation of me and my accuser. Every thing was calculated to
suggest to me that I must trust only in the justice of the parties
concerned, and had nothing to hope from their indulgence. Mr. Falkland
entered at one door, almost as soon as I entered at the other.




CHAPTER X.


He began: "It has been the principle of my life, never to inflict a
wilful injury upon any thing that lives; I need not express my regret,
when I find myself obliged to be the promulgator of a criminal charge.
How gladly would I pass unnoticed the evil I have sustained; but I owe
it to society to detect an offender, and prevent other men from being
imposed upon, as I have been, by an appearance of integrity."

"It would be better," interrupted Mr. Forester "to speak directly to the
point. We ought not, though unwarily, by apologising for ourselves, to
create at such a time a prejudice against an individual, against whom a
criminal accusation will always be prejudice enough."

"I strongly suspect," continued Mr. Falkland, "this young man, who has
been peculiarly the object of my kindness, of having robbed me to a
considerable amount."

"What," replied Mr. Forester, "are the grounds of your suspicion?"

"The first of them is the actual loss I have sustained, in notes,
jewels, and plate. I have missed bank-notes to the amount of nine
hundred pounds, three gold repeaters of considerable value, a complete
set of diamonds, the property of my late mother, and several other
articles."

"And why," continued my arbitrator, astonishment grief, and a desire to
retain his self-possession, strong contending in his countenance and
voice, "do you fix on this young man as the instrument of the
depredation?"

"I found him, on my coming home, upon the day when every thing was in
disorder from the alarm of fire, in the very act of quitting the private
apartment where these articles were deposited. He was confounded at
seeing me, and hastened to withdraw as soon as he possibly could."

"Did you say nothing to him--take no notice of the confusion your sudden
appearance produced?"

"I asked what was his errand in that place. He was at first so terrified
and overcome, that he could not answer me. Afterwards, with a good deal
of faltering, he said that, when all the servants were engaged in
endeavouring to save the most valuable part of my property, he had come
hither with the same view; but that he had as yet removed nothing."

"Did you immediately examine to see that every thing was safe?"

"No. I was accustomed to Confide in his honesty, and I was suddenly
called away, in the present instance, to attend to the increasing
progress of the flames. I therefore only took out the key from the door
of the apartment, having first locked it, and, putting it in my pocket,
hastened to go where my presence seemed indispensably necessary."

"How long was it before you missed your property?"

"The same evening. The hurry of the scene had driven the circumstance
entirely out of my mind, till, going by accident near the apartment, the
whole affair, together with the singular and equivocal behaviour of
Williams, rushed at once upon my recollection. I immediately entered,
examined the trunk in which these things were contained, and, to my
astonishment, found the locks broken, and the property gone."

"What steps did you take upon this discovery?"

"I sent for Williams, and talked to him very seriously upon the
subject. But he had now perfectly recovered his self-command, and calmly
and stoutly denied all knowledge of the matter. I urged him with the
enormousness of the offence, but I made no impression. He did not
discover either the surprise and indignation one would have expected
from a person entirely innocent, or the uneasiness that generally
attends upon guilt. He was rather silent and reserved. I then informed
him, that I should proceed in a manner different from what he might
perhaps expect. I would not, as is too frequent in such cases, make a
general search; for I had rather lose my property for ever without
redress, than expose a multitude of innocent persons to anxiety and
injustice. My suspicion, for the present, unavoidably fixed upon him.
But, in a matter of so great consequence, I was determined not to act
upon suspicion. I would neither incur the possibility of ruining him,
being innocent, nor be the instrument of exposing others to his
depredations, if guilty. I should therefore merely insist upon his
continuing in my service. He might depend upon it he should be well
watched, and I trusted the whole truth would eventually appear. Since he
avoided confession now, I advised him to consider how far it was likely
he would come off with impunity at last. This I determined on, that the
moment he attempted an escape, I would consider that as an indication of
guilt, and proceed accordingly."

"What circumstances have occurred from that time to the present?"

"None upon which I can infer a certainty of guilt; several that agree to
favour a suspicion. From that time Williams was perpetually uneasy in
his situation, always desirous, as it now appears, to escape, but
afraid to adopt such a measure without certain precautions. It was not
long after, that you, Mr. Forester, became my visitor. I observed, with
dissatisfaction, the growing intercourse between you, reflecting on the
equivocalness of his character, and the attempt he would probably make
to render you the dupe of his hypocrisy. I accordingly threatened him
severely; and I believe you observed the change that presently after
occurred in his behaviour with relation to you."

"I did, and it appeared at that time mysterious and extraordinary."

"Some time after, as you well know, a rencounter took place between you,
whether accidental or intentional on his part I am not able to say, when
he confessed to you the uneasiness of his mind, without discovering the
cause, and openly proposed to you to assist him in his flight, and
stand, in case of necessity, between him and my resentment. You offered,
it seems, to take him into your service; but nothing, as he
acknowledged, would answer his purpose, that did not place his retreat
wholly out of my power to discover."

"Did it not appear extraordinary to you, that he should hope for any
effectual protection from me, while it remained perpetually in your
power to satisfy me of his unworthiness?"

"Perhaps he had hopes that I should not proceed to that step, at least
so long as the place of his retreat should be unknown to me, and of
consequence the event of my proceeding dubious. Perhaps he confided in
his own powers, which are far from contemptible, to construct a
plausible tale, especially as he had taken care to have the first
impression in his favour. After all, this protection, on your part, was
merely reserved in case all other expedients failed. He does not appear
to have had any other sentiment upon the subject, than that, if he were
defeated in his projects for placing himself beyond the reach of
justice, it was better to have bespoken a place in your patronage than
to be destitute of every resource."

Mr. Falkland having thus finished his evidence, called upon Robert, the
valet, to confirm the part of it which related to the day of the fire.

Robert stated, that he happened to be coming through the library that
day, a few minutes after Mr. Falkland's being brought home by the sight
of the fire; that he had found me standing there with every mark of
perturbation and fright; that he could not help stopping to notice it;
that he had spoken to me two or three times before he could obtain an
answer; and that all he could get from me at last was, that I was the
most miserable creature alive.

He further said, that in the evening of the same day Mr. Falkland called
him into the private apartment adjoining to the library, and bid him
bring a hammer and some nails. He then showed him a trunk standing in
the apartment with its locks and fastening broken, and ordered him to
observe and remember what he saw, but not to mention it to any one.
Robert did not at that time know what Mr. Falkland intended by these
directions, which were given in a manner uncommonly solemn and
significant; but he entertained no doubt, that the fastenings were
broken and wrenched by the application of a chisel or such-like
instrument, with the intention of forcibly opening the trunk.

Mr. Forester observed upon this evidence, that as much of it as related
to the day of the fire seemed indeed to afford powerful reasons for
suspicion; and that the circumstances that had occurred since strangely
concurred to fortify that suspicion. Meantime, that nothing proper to
be done might be omitted, he asked whether in my flight I had removed my
boxes, to see whether by that means any trace could be discovered to
confirm the imputation. Mr. Falkland treated this suggestion slightly,
saying, that if I were the thief, I had no doubt taken the precaution to
obviate so palpable a means of detection. To this Mr. Forester only
replied, that conjecture, however skilfully formed, was not always
realised in the actions and behaviour of mankind; and ordered that my
boxes and trunks, if found, should be brought into the library. I
listened to this suggestion with pleasure; and, uneasy and confounded as
I was at the appearances combined against me, I trusted in this appeal
to give a new face to my cause. I was eager to declare the place where
my property was deposited; and the servants, guided by my direction,
presently produced what was enquired for.

The two boxes that were first opened, contained nothing to confirm the
accusation against me; in the third were found a watch and several
jewels, that were immediately known to be the property of Mr. Falkland.
The production of this seemingly decisive evidence excited emotions of
astonishment and concern; but no person's astonishment appeared to be
greater than that of Mr. Falkland. That I should have left the stolen
goods behind me, would of itself have appeared incredible; but when it
was considered what a secure place of concealment I had found for them,
the wonder diminished; and Mr. Forester observed, that it was by no
means impossible I might conceive it easier to obtain possession of them
afterwards, than to remove them at the period of my precipitate flight.

Here however I thought it necessary to interfere. I fervently urged my
right to a fair and impartial construction. I asked Mr. Forester,
whether it were probable, if I had stolen these things, that I should
not have contrived, at least to remove them along with me? And again,
whether, if I had been conscious they would he found among my property,
I should myself have indicated the place where I had concealed it?

The insinuation I conveyed against Mr. Forester's impartiality
overspread his whole countenance, for an instant, with the flush of
anger.

"Impartiality, young man! Yes, be sure, from me you shall experience an
impartial treatment! God send that may answer your purpose! Presently
you shall be heard at full in your own defence.

"You expect us to believe you innocent, because you did not remove these
things along with you. The money is removed. Where, sir, is that? We
cannot answer for the inconsistences and oversights of any human mind,
and, least of all, if that mind should appear to be disturbed with the
consciousness of guilt.

"You observe that it was by your own direction these boxes and trunks
have been found: that is indeed extraordinary. It appears little less
than infatuation. But to what purpose appeal to probabilities and
conjecture, in the face of incontestable facts? There, sir, are the
boxes: you alone knew where they were to be found; you alone had the
keys: tell us then how this watch and these jewels came to be contained
in them?"

I was silent.

To the rest of the persons present I seemed to be merely the subject of
detection; but in reality I was, of all the spectators, that individual
who was most at a loss to conceive, through every stage of the scene,
what, would come next, and who listened to every word that was uttered
with the most uncontrollable amazement. Amazement however alternately
yielded to indignation and horror. At first I could not refrain from
repeatedly attempting to interrupt; but I was checked in these attempts
by Mr. Forester; and I presently felt how necessary it was to my future
peace, that I should collect the whole energy of my mind to repel the
charge, and assert my innocence.

Every thing being now produced that could be produced against me, Mr.
Forester turned to me with a look of concern and pity, and told me that
now was the time, if I chose to allege any thing in my defence. In reply
to this invitation, I spoke nearly as follows:--

"I am innocent. It is in vain that circumstances are accumulated against
me; there is not a person upon earth less capable than I of the things
of which I am accused. I appeal to my heart--I appeal to my looks--I
appeal to every sentiment my tongue ever uttered."

I could perceive that the fervour with which I spoke made some
impression upon every one that heard me. But in a moment their eyes were
turned upon the property that lay before them, and their countenances
changed. I proceeded:--

"One thing more I must aver;--Mr. Falkland is not deceived; he perfectly
knows that I am innocent."

I had no sooner uttered these words, than an involuntary cry of
indignation burst from every person in the room. Mr. Forester turned to
me with a look of extreme severity, and said--

"Young man, consider well what you are doing! It is the privilege of the
party accused to say whatever he thinks proper; and I will take care
that you shall enjoy that privilege in its utmost extent. But do you
think it will conduce in any respect to your benefit, to throw out such
insolent and intolerable insinuations?"

"I thank you most sincerely," replied I, "for your caution; but I well
know what it is I am doing. I make this declaration, not merely because
it is solemnly true, but because it is inseparably connected with my
vindication. I am the party accused, and I shall be told that I am not
to be believed in my own defence. I can produce no other witnesses of my
innocence; I therefore call upon Mr. Falkland to be my evidence. I ask
him--

"Did you never boast to me in private of your power to ruin me? Did you
never say that, if once I brought on myself the weight of your
displeasure, my fall should be irreparable? Did you not tell me that,
though I should prepare in that case a tale however plausible or however
true, you would take care that the whole world should execrate me as an
impostor? Were not those your very words? Did you not add, that my
innocence should be of no service to me, and that you laughed at so
feeble a defence? I ask you further,--Did you not receive a letter from
me the morning of the day on which I departed, requesting your consent
to my departure? Should I have done that if my flight had been that of a
thief? I challenge any man to reconcile the expressions of that letter
with this accusation. Should I have begun with stating that I had
conceived a desire to quit your service, if my desire and the reasons
for it, had been of the nature that is now alleged? Should I have dared
to ask for what reason I was thus subjected to an eternal penance?"

Saying this, I took out a copy of my letter, and laid it open upon the
table.

Mr. Falkland returned no immediate answer to my interrogations. Mr.
Forester turned to him, and said.

"Well, sir, what is your reply to this challenge of your servant?"

Mr. Falkland answered, "Such a mode of defence scarcely calls for a
reply. But I answer, I held no such conversation; I never used such
words; I received no such letter. Surely it is no sufficient refutation
of a criminal charge, that the criminal repels what is alleged against
him with volubility of speech, and intrepidity of manner."

Mr. Forester then turned to me: "If," said he, "you trust your
vindication to the plausibility of your tale, you must take care to
render it consistent and complete. You have not told us what was the
cause of the confusion and anxiety in which Robert professes to have
found you, why you were so impatient to quit the service of Mr.
Falkland, or how you account for certain articles of his property being
found in your possession."

"All that, sir," answered I, "is true. There are certain parts of my
story that I have not told. If they were told, they would not conduce to
my disadvantage, and they would make the present accusation appear still
more astonishing. But I cannot, as yet at least, prevail upon myself to
tell them. Is it necessary to give any particular and precise reasons
why I should wish to change the place of my residence? You all of you
know the unfortunate state of Mr. Falkland's mind. You know the
sternness, reservedness, and distance of his manners. If I had no other
reasons, surely it would afford small presumption of criminality that I
should wish to change his service for another.

"The question of how these articles of Mr. Falkland's property came to
be found in my possession, is more material. It is a question I am
wholly unable to answer. Their being found there, was at least as
unexpected to me as to any one of the persons now present. I only know
that, as I have the most perfect assurance of Mr. Falkland's being
conscious of my innocence--for, observe! I do not shrink from that
assertion; I reiterate it with new confidence--I therefore firmly and
from my soul believe, that their being there is of Mr. Falkland's
contrivance."

I no sooner said this, than I was again interrupted by an involuntary
exclamation from every one present. They looked at me with furious
glances, as if they could have torn me to pieces. I proceeded:--

"I have now answered every thing that is alleged against me.

"Mr. Forester, you are a lover of justice; I conjure you not to violate
it in my person. You are a man of penetration; look at me! do you see
any of the marks of guilt? Recollect all that has ever passed under your
observation; is it compatible with a mind capable of what is now alleged
against me? Could a real criminal have shown himself so unabashed,
composed, and firm as I have now done?

"Fellow-servants! Mr. Falkland is a man of rank and fortune; he is your
master. I am a poor country lad, without a friend in the world. That is
a ground of real difference to a certain extent; but it is not a
sufficient ground for the subversion of justice. Remember, that I am in
a situation that is not to be trifled with; that a decision given
against me now, in a case in which I solemnly assure you I am innocent,
will for ever deprive me of reputation and peace of mind, combine the
whole world in a league against me, and determine perhaps upon my
liberty and my life. If you believe--if you see--if you know, that I am
innocent, speak for me. Do not suffer a pusillanimous timidity to
prevent you from saving a fellow-creature from destruction, who does not
deserve to have a human being for his enemy. Why have we the power of
speech, but to communicate our thoughts? I will never believe that a
man, conscious of innocence, cannot make other men perceive that he has
that thought. Do not you feel that my whole heart tells me. I am not
guilty of what is imputed to me?

"To you, Mr. Falkland, I have nothing to say: I know you, and know that
you are impenetrable. At the very moment that you are urging such odious
charges against me, you admire my resolution and forbearance. But I have
nothing to hope from you. You can look upon my ruin without pity or
remorse. I am most unfortunate indeed in having to do with such an
adversary. You oblige me to say ill things of you; but I appeal to your
own heart, whether my language is that of exaggeration or revenge."

Every thing that could be alleged on either side being now concluded,
Mr. Forester undertook to make some remarks upon the whole.

"Williams," said he, "the charge against you is heavy; the direct
evidence strong; the corroborating circumstances numerous and striking.
I grant that you have shown considerable dexterity in your answers; but
you will learn, young man, to your cost, that dexterity, however
powerful it may be in certain cases, will avail little against the
stubbornness of truth. It is fortunate for mankind that the empire of
talents has its limitations, and that it is not in the power of
ingenuity to subvert the distinctions of right and wrong. Take my word
for it, that the true merits of the case against you will be too strong
for sophistry to overturn; that justice will prevail, and impotent
malice be defeated.

"To you, Mr. Falkland, society is obliged for having placed this black
affair in its true light. Do not suffer the malignant aspersions of the
criminal to give you uneasiness. Depend upon it that they will be found
of no weight I have no doubt that your character, in the judgment of
every person that has heard them, stands higher than ever. We feel for
your misfortune, in being obliged to hear such calumnies from a person
who has injured you so grossly. But you must be considered in that
respect as a martyr in the public cause. The purity of your motives and
dispositions is beyond the reach of malice; and truth and equity will
not fail to award, to your calumniator infamy, and to you the love and
approbation of mankind.

"I have now told you, Williams, what I think of your case. But I have no
right to assume to be your ultimate judge. Desperate as it appears to
me, I will give you one piece of advice, as if I were retained as a
counsel to assist you. Leave out of it whatever tends to the
disadvantage of Mr. Falkland. Defend yourself as well as you can, but do
not attack your master. It is your business to create in those who hear
you a prepossession in your favour. But the recrimination you have been
now practising, will always create indignation. Dishonesty will admit of
some palliation. The deliberate malice you have now been showing is a
thousand times more atrocious. It proves you to have the mind of a
demon, rather than of a felon. Wherever you shall repeat it, those who
hear you will pronounce you guilty upon that, even if the proper
evidence against you were glaringly defective. If therefore you would
consult your interest, which seems to be your only consideration, it is
incumbent upon you by all means immediately to retract that. If you
desire to be believed honest, you must in the first place show that you
have a due sense of merit in others. You cannot better serve your cause
than by begging pardon of your master, and doing homage to rectitude and
worth, even when they are employed in vengeance against you."

It is easy to conceive that my mind sustained an extreme shock from the
decision of Mr. Forester; but his call upon me to retract and humble
myself before my accuser penetrated my whole soul with indignation. I
answered:--

"I have already told you I am innocent. I believe that I could not
endure the effort of inventing a plausible defence, if it were
otherwise. You have just affirmed that it is not in the power of
ingenuity to subvert the distinctions of right and wrong, and in that
very instant I find them subverted. This is indeed to me a very awful
moment. New to the world, I know nothing of its affairs but what has
reached me by rumour, or is recorded in books. I have come into it with
all the ardour and confidence inseparable from my years. In every
fellow-being I expected to find a friend. I am unpractised in its wiles,
and have even no acquaintance with its injustice. I have done nothing to
deserve the animosity of mankind; but, if I may judge from the present
scene, I am henceforth to be deprived of the benefits of integrity and
honour. I am to forfeit the friendship of every one I have hitherto
known, and to be precluded from the power of acquiring that of others. I
must therefore be reduced to derive my satisfaction from myself. Depend
upon it, I will not begin that career by dishonourable concessions. If I
am to despair of the good-will of other men, I will at least maintain
the independence of my own mind. Mr. Falkland is my implacable enemy.
Whatever may be his merits in other respects, he is acting towards me
without humanity, without remorse, and without principle. Do you think I
will ever make submissions to a man by whom I am thus treated, that I
will fall down at the feet of one who is to me a devil, or kiss the hand
that is red with my blood?"

"In that respect," answered Mr. Forester, "do as you shall think
proper. I must confess that your firmness and consistency astonish me.
They add something to what I had conceived of human powers. Perhaps you
have chosen the part which, all things considered, may serve your
purpose best; though I think more moderation would be more conciliating.
The exterior of innocence will, I grant, stagger the persons who may
have the direction of your fate, but it will never be able to prevail
against plain and incontrovertible facts. But I have done with you. I
see in you a new instance of that abuse which is so generally made of
talents, the admiration of an undiscerning public. I regard you with
horror. All that remains is, that I should discharge my duty, in
consigning you, as a monster of depravity, to the justice of your
country."

"No," rejoined Mr. Falkland, "to that I can never consent. I have put a
restraint upon myself thus far, because it was right that evidence and
enquiry should take their course. I have suppressed all my habits and
sentiments, because it seemed due to the public that hypocrisy should be
unmasked. But I can suffer this violence no longer. I have through my
whole life interfered to protect, not overbear, the sufferer; and I must
do so now. I feel not the smallest resentment of his impotent attacks
upon my character; I smile at their malice; and they make no diminution
in my benevolence to their author. Let him say what he pleases; he
cannot hurt me. It was proper that he should be brought to public shame,
that other people might not be deceived by him as we have been. But
there is no necessity for proceeding further; and I must insist upon it
that he be permitted to depart wherever he pleases. I am sorry that
public interest affords so gloomy a prospect for his future happiness."

"Mr. Falkland," answered Mr. Forester, "these sentiments do honour to
your humanity; but I must not give way to them. They only serve to set
in a stronger light the venom of this serpent, this monster of
ingratitude, who first robs his benefactor, and then reviles him. Wretch
that you are, will nothing move you? Are you inaccessible to remorse?
Are you not struck to the heart with the unmerited goodness of your
master? Vile calumniator! you are the abhorrence of nature, the
opprobrium of the human species, and the earth can only be freed from an
insupportable burthen by your being exterminated! Recollect, sir, that
this monster, at the very moment that you are exercising such unexampled
forbearance in his behalf, has the presumption to charge you with
prosecuting a crime of which you know him to be innocent, nay, with
having conveyed the pretended stolen goods among his property, for the
express purpose of ruining him. By this unexampled villainy, he makes it
your duty to free the world from such a pest, and your interest to admit
no relaxing in your pursuit of him, lest the world should be persuaded
by your clemency to credit his vile insinuations."

"I care not for the consequences," replied Mr. Falkland; "I will obey
the dictates of my own mind. I will never lend my assistance to the
reforming mankind by axes and gibbets. I am sure things will never be as
they ought, till honour, and not law, be the dictator of mankind, till
vice be taught to shrink before the resistless might of inborn dignity,
and not before the cold formality of statutes. If my calumniator were
worthy of my resentment, I would chastise him with my own sword, and not
that of the magistrate; but in the present case I smile at his malice,
and resolve to spare him, as the generous lord of the forest spares the
insect that would disturb his repose."

"The language you now hold," said Mr. Forester, "is that of romance, and
not of reason. Yet I cannot but be struck with the contrast exhibited
before me, of the magnanimity of virtue, and the obstinate impenetrable
injustice of guilt. While your mind overflows with goodness, nothing can
touch the heart of this thrice-refined villain. I shall never forgive
myself for having once been entrapped by his detestable arts. This is no
time for us to settle the question between chivalry and law. I shall
therefore simply insist as a magistrate, having taken the evidence in
this felony, upon my right and duty of following the course of justice,
and committing the accused to the county jail."

After some further contest Mr. Falkland, finding Mr. Forester obstinate
and impracticable, withdrew his opposition. Accordingly a proper officer
was summoned from the neighbouring village, a mittimus made out, and one
of Mr. Falkland's carriages prepared to conduct me to the place of
custody. It will easily be imagined that this sudden reverse was very
painfully felt by me. I looked round on the servants who had been the
spectators of my examination, but not one of them, either by word or
gesture, expressed compassion for my calamity. The robbery of which I
was accused appeared to them atrocious from its magnitude; and whatever
sparks of compassion might otherwise have sprung up in their ingenuous
and undisciplined minds, were totally obliterated by indignation at my
supposed profligacy in recriminating upon their worthy and excellent
master. My fate being already determined, and one of the servants
despatched for the officer, Mr. Forester and Mr. Falkland withdrew, and
left me in the custody of two others.

One of these was the son of a farmer at no great distance, who had been
in habits of long-established intimacy with my late father. I was
willing accurately to discover the state of mind of those who had been
witnesses of this scene, and who had had some previous opportunity of
observing my character and manners. I, therefore, endeavoured to open a
conversation with him. "Well, my good Thomas," said I, in a querulous
tone, and with a hesitating manner, "am I not a most miserable
creature?"

"Do not speak to me, Master Williams! You have given me a shock that I
shall not get the better of for one while. You were hatched by a hen, as
the saying is, but you came of the spawn of a cockatrice. I am glad to
my heart that honest farmer Williams is dead; your villainy would else
have made him curse the day that ever he was born."

"Thomas, I am innocent' I swear by the great God that shall judge me
another day, I am innocent!"

"Pray, do not swear! for goodness' sake, do not swear! your poor soul is
damned enough without that. For your sake, lad, I will never take any
body's word, nor trust to appearances, tho' it should be an angel. Lord
bless us! how smoothly you palavered it over, for all the world, as if
you had been as fair as a new-born babe! But it will not do; you will
never be able to persuade people that black is white. For my own part, I
have done with you. I loved you yesterday, all one as if you had been my
own brother. To-day I love you so well, that I would go ten miles with
all the pleasure in life to see you hanged."

"Good God, Thomas! have you the heart? What a change! I call God to
witness, I have done nothing to deserve it! What a world do we live in!"

"Hold your tongue, boy! It makes my very heart sick to hear you! I
would not lie a night under the same roof with you for all the world! I
should expect the house to fall and crush such wickedness! I admire that
the earth does not open and swallow you alive! It is poison so much as
to look at you! If you go on at this hardened rate, I believe from my
soul that the people you talk to will tear you to pieces, and you will
never live to come to the gallows. Oh, yes, you do well to pity
yourself; poor tender thing! that spit venom all round you like a toad,
and leave the very ground upon which you crawl infected with your
slime."

Finding the person with whom I talked thus impenetrable to all I could
say, and considering that the advantage to be gained was small, even if
I could overcome his prepossession, I took his advice, and was silent.
It was not much longer before every thing was prepared for my departure,
and I was conducted to the same prison which had so lately enclosed the
wretched and innocent Hawkinses. They too had been the victims of Mr.
Falkland. He exhibited, upon a contracted scale indeed, but in which the
truth of delineation was faithfully sustained, a copy of what monarchs
are, who reckon among the instruments of their power prisons of state.




CHAPTER XI.


For my own part, I had never seen a prison, and, like the majority of my
brethren, had given myself little concern to enquire what was the
condition of those who committed offence against, or became obnoxious to
suspicion from, the community. Oh, how enviable is the most tottering
shed under which the labourer retires to rest, compared with the
residence of these walls!

To me every thing was new,--the massy doors, the resounding locks, the
gloomy passages, the grated windows, and the characteristic looks of the
keepers, accustomed to reject every petition, and to steel their hearts
against feeling and pity. Curiosity, and a sense of my situation,
induced me to fix my eyes on the faces of these men; but in a few
minutes I drew them away with unconquerable loathing. It is impossible
to describe the sort of squalidness and filth with which these mansions
are distinguished. I have seen dirty faces in dirty apartments, which
have nevertheless borne the impression of health, and spoke carelessness
and levity rather than distress. But the dirt of a prison speaks sadness
to the heart, and appears to be already in a state of putridity and
infection.

I was detained for more than an hour in the apartment of the keeper, one
turnkey after another coming in, that they might make themselves
familiar with my person. As I was already considered as guilty of felony
to a considerable amount, I underwent a rigorous search, and they took
from me a penknife, a pair of scissars, and that part of my money which
was in gold. It was debated whether or not these should be sealed up, to
be returned to me, as they said, as soon as I should be acquitted; and
had I not displayed an unexpected firmness of manner and vigour of
expostulation, such was probably the conduct that would have been
pursued. Having undergone these ceremonies, I was thrust into a
day-room, in which all the persons then under confinement for felony
were assembled, to the number of eleven. Each of them was too much
engaged in his own reflections, to take notice of me. Of these, two were
imprisoned for horse-stealing, and three for having stolen a sheep, one
for shop-lifting, one for coining, two for highway-robbery, and two for
burglary.

The horse-stealers were engaged in a game at cards, which was presently
interrupted by a difference of opinion, attended with great
vociferation,--they calling upon one and another to decide it, to no
purpose; one paying no attention to their summons, and another leaving
them in the midst of their story, being no longer able to endure his own
internal anguish, in the midst of their mummery.

It is a custom among thieves to constitute a sort of mock tribunal of
their own body, from whose decision every one is informed whether he
shall be acquitted, respited, or pardoned, as well as respecting the
supposed most skilful way of conducting his defence. One of the
housebreakers, who had already passed this ordeal, and was stalking up
and down the room with a forced bravery, exclaimed to his companion,
that he was as rich as the Duke of Bedford himself. He had five guineas
and a half, which was as much as he could possibly spend in the course
of the ensuing month; and what happened after that, it was Jack Ketch's
business to see to, not his. As he uttered these words, he threw himself
abruptly upon a bench that was near him, and seemed to be asleep in a
moment. But his sleep was uneasy and disturbed, his breathing was hard,
and, at intervals, had rather the nature of a groan. A young fellow from
the other side of the room came softly to the place where he lay, with a
large knife in his hand: and pressed the back of it with such violence
upon his neck, the head hanging over the side of the bench, that it was
not till after several efforts that he was able to rise. "Oh, Jack!"
cried this manual jester, "I had almost done your business for you!" The
other expressed no marks of resentment, but sullenly answered, "Damn
you, why did not you take the edge? It would have been the best thing
you have done this many a day!"[B]

[Footnote B: An incident exactly similar to this was witnessed by a
friend of the author, a few years since, in a visit to the prison of
Newgate.]

The case of one of the persons committed for highway-robbery was not a
little extraordinary. He was a common soldier of a most engaging
physiognomy, and two-and-twenty years of age. The prosecutor, who had
been robbed one evening, as he returned late from the alehouse, of the
sum of three shillings, swore positively to his person. The character of
the prisoner was such as has seldom been equalled. He had been ardent in
the pursuit of intellectual cultivation, and was accustomed to draw his
favourite amusement from the works of Virgil and Horace. The humbleness
of his situation, combined with his ardour for literature, only served
to give an inexpressible heightening to the interestingness of his
character. He was plain and unaffected; he assumed nothing; he was
capable, when occasion demanded, of firmness, but, in his ordinary
deportment, he seemed unarmed and unresisting, unsuspicious of guile in
others, as he was totally free from guile in himself. His integrity was
proverbially great. In one instance he had been intrusted by a lady to
convey a sum of a thousand pounds to a person at some miles distance: in
another, he was employed by a gentleman, during his absence, in the care
of his house and furniture, to the value of at least five times that
sum. His habits of thinking were strictly his own, full of justice,
simplicity, and wisdom. He from time to time earned money of his
officers, by his peculiar excellence in furbishing arms; but he declined
offers that had been made him to become a Serjeant or a corporal,
saying that he did not want money, and that in a new situation he should
have less leisure for study. He was equally constant in refusing
presents that were offered him by persons who had been struck with his
merit; not that he was under the influence of false delicacy and pride,
but that he had no inclination to accept that, the want of which he did
not feel to be an evil. This man died while I was in prison. I received
his last breath.[C]

[Footnote C: A story extremely similar to this is to be found in the
Newgate Calendar, vol. i. p. 382.]

The whole day I was obliged to spend in the company of these men, some
of them having really committed the actions laid to their charge, others
whom their ill fortune had rendered the victims of suspicion. The whole
was a scene of misery, such as nothing short of actual observation can
suggest to the mind. Some were noisy and obstreperous, endeavouring by a
false bravery to keep at bay the remembrance of their condition; while
others, incapable even of this effort, had the torment of their thoughts
aggravated by the perpetual noise and confusion that prevailed around
them. In the faces of those who assumed the most courage, you might
trace the furrows of anxious care and in the midst of their laboured
hilarity dreadful ideas would ever and anon intrude, convulsing their
features, and working every line into an expression of the keenest
agony. To these men the sun brought no return of joy. Day after day
rolled on, but their state was immutable. Existence was to them a scene
of invariable melancholy; every moment was a moment of anguish; yet did
they wish to prolong that moment, fearful that the coming period would
bring a severer fate. They thought of the past with insupportable
repentance, each man contented to give his right hand to have again the
choice of that peace and liberty, which he had unthinkingly bartered
away. We talk of instruments of torture; Englishmen take credit to
themselves for having banished the use of them from their happy shore!
Alas! he that has observed the secrets of a prison, well knows that
there is more torture in the lingering existence of a criminal, in the
silent intolerable minutes that he spends, than in the tangible misery
of whips and racks!

Such were our days. At sunset our jailors appeared, and ordered each man
to come away, and be locked into his dungeon. It was a bitter
aggravation of our fate, to be under the arbitrary control of these
fellows. They felt no man's sorrow; they were of all men least capable
of any sort of feeling. They had a barbarous and sullen pleasure in
issuing their detested mandates, and observing the mournful reluctance
with which they were obeyed. Whatever they directed, it was in vain to
expostulate; fetters, and bread and water, were the sure consequences of
resistance. Their tyranny had no other limit than their own caprice. To
whom shall the unfortunate felon appeal? To what purpose complain, when
his complaints are sure to be received with incredulity? A tale of
mutiny and necessary precaution is the unfailing refuge of the keeper,
and this tale is an everlasting bar against redress.

Our dungeons were cells, 7-1/2 feet by 6-1/2, below the surface of the
ground, damp, without window, light, or air, except from a few holes
worked for that purpose in the door. In some of these miserable
receptacles three persons were put to sleep together.[D] I was fortunate
enough to have one to myself. It was now the approach of winter. We
were not allowed to have candles, and, as I have already said, were
thrust in here at sunset, and not liberated till the returning day. This
was our situation for fourteen or fifteen hours out of the
four-and-twenty. I had never been accustomed to sleep more than six or
seven hours, and my inclination to sleep was now less than ever. Thus
was I reduced to spend half my day in this dreary abode, and in complete
darkness. This was no trifling aggravation of my lot.

[Footnote D: See Howard on Prisons.]

Among my melancholy reflections I tasked my memory, and counted over the
doors, the locks, the bolts, the chains, the massy walls, and grated
windows, that were between me and liberty. "These," said I, "are the
engines that tyranny sits down in cold and serious meditation to invent.
This is the empire that man exercises over man. Thus is a being, formed
to expatiate, to act, to smile, and enjoy, restricted and benumbed. How
great must be his depravity or heedlessness, who vindicates this scheme
for changing health and gaiety and serenity, into the wanness of a
dungeon, and the deep furrows of agony and despair!"

"Thank God," exclaims the Englishman, "we have no Bastile! Thank God,
with us no man can be punished without a crime!" Unthinking wretch! Is
that a country of liberty, where thousands languish in dungeons and
fetters? Go, go, ignorant fool! and visit the scenes of our prisons!
witness their unwholesomeness, their filth, the tyranny of their
governors, the misery of their inmates! After that, show me the man
shameless enough to triumph, and say, England has no Bastile! Is there
any charge so frivolous, upon which men are not consigned to those
detested abodes? Is there any villainy that is not practised by justices
and prosecutors? But against all this perhaps you have been told there
is redress. Yes; a redress, that it is the consummation of insult so
much as to name! Where shall the poor wretch reduced to the last
despair, to whom acquittal perhaps comes just time enough to save him
from perishing,--where shall this man find leisure, and much less money,
to fee counsel and officers, and purchase the tedious dear-bought remedy
of the law? No; he is too happy to leave his dungeon, and the memory of
his dungeon, behind him; and the same tyranny and wanton oppression
become the inheritance of his successor.

For myself, I looked round upon my walls, and forward upon the premature
death I had too much reason to expect: I consulted my own heart, that
whispered nothing but innocence; and I said, "This is society. This is
the object, the distribution of justice, which is the end of human
reason. For this sages have toiled, and midnight oil has been wasted.
This!"

The reader will forgive this digression from the immediate subject of my
story. If it should be said these are general remarks, let it be
remembered that they are the dear-bought, result of experience. It is
from the fulness of a bursting heart that reproach thus flows to my pen.
These are not the declamations of a man desirous to be eloquent. I have
felt the iron of slavery grating upon my soul.

I believed that misery, more pure than that which I now endured, had
never fallen to the lot of a human being. I recollected with
astonishment my puerile eagerness to be brought to the test, and have my
innocence examined. I execrated it, as the vilest and most insufferable
pedantry. I exclaimed, in the bitterness of my heart, "Of what value is
a fair fame? It is the jewel of men formed to be amused with baubles.
Without it, I might have had serenity of heart and cheerfulness of
occupation, peace, and liberty; why should I consign my happiness to
other men's arbitration? But, if a fair fame were of the most
inexpressible value, is this the method which common sense would
prescribe to retrieve it? The language which these institutions hold out
to the unfortunate is, 'Come, and be shut out from the light of day; be
the associate of those whom society has marked out for her abhorrence,
be the slave of jailers, be loaded with fetters; thus shall you be
cleared from every unworthy aspersion, and restored to reputation and
honour!' This is the consolation she affords to those whom malignity or
folly, private pique or unfounded positiveness, have, without the
smallest foundation, loaded with calumny." For myself, I felt my own
innocence; and I soon found, upon enquiry, that three fourths of those
who are regularly subjected to a similar treatment, are persons whom,
even with all the superciliousness and precipitation of our courts of
justice, no evidence can be found sufficient to convict. How slender
then must be that man's portion of information and discernment, who is
willing to commit his character and welfare to such guardianship!

But my case was even worse than this. I intimately felt that a trial,
such as our institutions have hitherto been able to make it, is only the
worthy sequel of such a beginning. What chance was there after the
purgation I was now suffering, that I should come out acquitted at last?
What probability was there that the trial I had endured in the house of
Mr. Falkland was not just as fair as any that might be expected to
follow? No; I anticipated my own condemnation.

Thus was I cut off, for ever, from all that existence has to
bestow--from all the high hopes I had so often conceived--from all the
future excellence my soul so much delighted to imagine,--to spend a few
weeks in a miserable prison, and then to perish by the hand of the
public executioner. No language can do justice to the indignant and
soul-sickening loathing that these ideas excited. My resentment was not
restricted to my prosecutor, but extended itself to the whole machine of
society. I could never believe that all this was the fair result of
institutions inseparable from the general good. I regarded the whole
human species as so many hangmen and torturers; I considered them as
confederated to tear me to pieces; and this wide scene of inexorable
persecution inflicted upon me inexpressible agony. I looked on this side
and on that: I was innocent; I had a right to expect assistance; but
every heart was steeled against me; every hand was ready to lend its
force to make my ruin secure. No man that has not felt, in his own most
momentous concerns, justice, eternal truth, unalterable equity engaged
in his behalf, and on the other side brute force, impenetrable
obstinacy, and unfeeling insolence, can imagine the sensations that then
passed through my mind. I saw treachery triumphant and enthroned; I saw
the sinews of innocence crumbled into dust by the gripe of almighty
guilt.

What relief had I from these sensations? Was it relief, that I spent the
day in the midst of profligacy and execrations--that I saw reflected
from every countenance agonies only inferior to my own? He that would
form a lively idea of the regions of the damned, need only to witness,
for six hours, a scene to which I was confined for many months. Not for
one hour could I withdraw myself from this complexity of horrors, or
take refuge in the calmness of meditation. Air, exercise, series,
contrast, those grand enliveners of the human frame, I was for ever
debarred from, by the inexorable tyranny under which I was fallen. Nor
did I find the solitude of my nightly dungeon less insupportable. Its
only furniture was the straw that served me for my repose. It was
narrow, damp, and unwholesome. The slumbers of a mind, wearied, like
mine, with the most detestable uniformity, to whom neither amusement nor
occupation ever offered themselves to beguile the painful hours, were
short, disturbed, and unrefreshing. My sleeping, still more than my
waking thoughts, were full of perplexity, deformity, and disorder. To
these slumbers succeeded the hours which, by the regulations of our
prison, I was obliged, though awake, to spend in solitary and cheerless
darkness. Here I had neither books nor pens, nor any thing upon which to
engage my attention; all was a sightless blank. How was a mind, active
and indefatigable like mine, to endure this misery? I could not sink it
in lethargy; I could nor forget my woes: they haunted me with
unintermitted and demoniac malice. Cruel, inexorable policy of human
affairs, that condemns a man to torture like this; that sanctions it,
and knows not what is done under its sanction; that is too supine and
unfeeling to enquire into these petty details; that calls this the
ordeal of innocence, and the protector of freedom! A thousand times I
could have dashed my brains against the walls of my dungeon; a thousand
times I longed for death, and wished, with inexpressible ardour, for an
end to what I suffered; a thousand times I meditated suicide, and
ruminated, in the bitterness of my soul, upon the different means of
escaping from the load of existence. What had I to do with life? I had
seen enough to make me regard it with detestation. Why should I wait the
lingering process of legal despotism, and not dare so much as to die,
but when and how its instruments decreed? Still some inexplicable
suggestion withheld my hand. I clung with desperate fondness to this
shadow of existence, its mysterious attractions, and its hopeless
prospects.




CHAPTER XII.


Such were the reflections that haunted the first days of my
imprisonment, in consequence of which they were spent in perpetual
anguish. But, after a time, nature, wearied with distress, would no
longer stoop to the burthen; thought, which is incessantly varying,
introduced a series of reflections totally different.

My fortitude revived. I had always been accustomed to cheerfulness, good
humour, and serenity; and this habit now returned to visit me at the
bottom of my dungeon. No sooner did my contemplations take this turn,
than I saw the reasonableness and possibility of tranquillity and peace;
and my mind whispered to me the propriety of showing, in this forlorn
condition, that I was superior to all my persecutors. Blessed state of
innocence and self-approbation! The sunshine of conscious integrity
pierced through all the barriers of my cell, and spoke ten thousand
times more joy to my heart, than the accumulated splendours of nature
and art can communicate to the slaves of vice.

I found out the secret of employing my mind. I said, "I am shut up for
half the day in total darkness, without any external source of
amusement; the other half I spend in the midst of noise, turbulence,
and, confusion. What then? Can I not draw amusement from the stores of
my own mind? Is it not freighted with various knowledge? Have I not been
employed from my infancy in gratifying an insatiable curiosity? When
should I derive benefit from these superior advantages, if not at
present?" Accordingly I tasked the stores of my memory, and my powers of
invention. I amused myself with recollecting the history of my life. By
degrees I called to mind a number of minute circumstances, which, but
for this exercise, would have been for ever forgotten. I repassed in my
thoughts whole conversations, I recollected their subjects, their
arrangement, their incidents, frequently their very words. I mused upon
these ideas, till I was totally absorbed in thought. I repeated them,
till my mind glowed with enthusiasm. I had my different employments,
fitted for the solitude of the night, in which I could give full scope
to the impulses of my mind; and for the uproar of the day, in which my
chief object was, to be insensible to the disorder with which I was
surrounded.

By degrees I quitted my own story, and employed myself in imaginary
adventures. I figured to myself every situation in which I could be
placed, and conceived the conduct to be observed in each. Thus scenes of
insult and danger, of tenderness and oppression, became familiar to me.
In fancy I often passed the awful hour of dissolving nature. In some of
my reveries I boiled with impetuous indignation, and in others patiently
collected the whole force of my mind for some fearful encounter. I
cultivated the powers of oratory suited to these different states, and
improved more in eloquence in the solitude of my dungeon, than perhaps I
should have done in the busiest and most crowded scenes.

At length I proceeded to as regular a disposition of my time, as the man
in his study, who passes from mathematics to poetry, and from poetry to
the law of nations, in the different parts of each single day; and I as
seldom infringed upon my plan. Nor were my subjects of disquisition less
numerous than his. I went over, by the assistance of memory only, a
considerable part of Euclid during my confinement, and revived, day
after day, the series of facts and incidents in some of the most
celebrated historians. I became myself a poet; and, while I described
the sentiments cherished by the view of natural objects, recorded the
characters and passions of men, and partook with a burning zeal in the
generosity of their determinations, I eluded the squalid solitude of my
dungeon, and wandered in idea through all the varieties of human
society. I easily found expedients, such as the mind seems always to
require, and which books and pens supply to the man at large, to record
from time to time the progress that had been made.

While I was thus employed, I reflected with exultation upon the degree
in which man is independent of the smiles and frowns of fortune. I was
beyond her reach, for I could fall no lower. To an ordinary eye I might
seem destitute and miserable, but in reality I wanted for nothing. My
fare was coarse; but I was in health. My dungeon was noisome; but I felt
no inconvenience. I was shut up from the usual means of exercise and
air; but I found the method of exercising myself even to perspiration in
my dungeon. I had no power of withdrawing my person from a disgustful
society, in the most cheerful and valuable part of the day; but I soon
brought to perfection the art of withdrawing my thoughts, and saw and
heard the people about me, for just as short a time, and as seldom, as I
pleased.

Such is man in himself considered; so simple his nature; so few his
wants. How different from the man of artificial society! Palaces are
built for his reception, a thousand vehicles provided for his exercise,
provinces are ransacked for the gratification of his appetite, and the
whole world traversed to supply him with apparel and furniture. Thus
vast is his expenditure, and the purchase slavery. He is dependent on a
thousand accidents for tranquillity and health, and his body and soul
are at the devotion of whoever will satisfy his imperious cravings.

In addition to the disadvantages of my present situation, I was reserved
for an ignominious death. What then? Every man must die. No man knows
how soon. It surely is not worse to encounter the king of terrors, in
health, and with every advantage for the collection of fortitude, than
to encounter him, already half subdued by sickness and suffering. I was
resolved at least fully to possess the days I had to live; and this is
peculiarly in the power of the man who preserves his health to the last
moment of his existence. Why should I suffer my mind to be invaded by
unavailing regrets? Every sentiment of vanity, or rather of independence
and justice within me, instigated me to say to my persecutor, "You may
cut off my existence, but you cannot disturb my serenity."




CHAPTER XIII.


In the midst of these reflections, another thought, which had not before
struck me, occurred to my mind. "I exult," said I, "and reasonably, over
the impotence of my persecutor. Is not that impotence greater than I
have yet imagined? I say, he may cut off my existence, but cannot
disturb my serenity. It is true: my mind, the clearness of my spirit,
the firmness of my temper, are beyond his reach; is not my life equally
so, if I please? What are the material obstacles, that man never
subdued? What is the undertaking so arduous, that by some has not been
accomplished? And if by others, why not by me? Had they stronger motives
than I? Was existence more variously endeared to them? or had they more
numerous methods by which to animate and adorn it? Many of those who
have exerted most perseverance and intrepidity, were obviously my
inferiors in that respect. Why should not I be as daring as they?
Adamant and steel have a ductility like water, to a mind sufficiently
bold and contemplative. The mind is master of itself; and is endowed
with powers that might enable it to laugh at the tyrant's vigilance." I
passed and repassed these ideas in my mind; and, heated with the
contemplation, I said, "No, I will not die!"

My reading, in early youth, had been extremely miscellaneous. I had read
of housebreakers, to whom locks and bolts were a jest, and who, vain of
their art, exhibited the experiment of entering a house the most
strongly barricaded, with as little noise, and almost as little trouble,
as other men would lift up a latch. There is nothing so interesting to
the juvenile mind, as the wonderful; there is no power that it so
eagerly covets, as that of astonishing spectators by its miraculous
exertions. Mind appeared, to my untutored reflections, vague, airy, and
unfettered, the susceptible perceiver of reasons, but never intended by
nature to be the slave of force. Why should it be in the power of man to
overtake and hold me by violence? Why, when I choose to withdraw myself,
should I not be capable of eluding the most vigilant search? These
limbs, and this trunk, are a cumbrous and unfortunate load for the power
of thinking to drag along with it; but why should not the power of
thinking be able to lighten the load, till it shall be no longer
felt?--These early modes of reflection were by no means indifferent to
my present enquiries.

Our next-door neighbour at my father's house had been a carpenter. Fresh
from the sort of reading I have mentioned, I was eager to examine his
tools, their powers and their uses. This carpenter was a man of strong
and vigorous mind; and, his faculties having been chiefly confined to
the range of his profession, he was fertile in experiments, and
ingenious in reasoning upon these particular topics. I therefore
obtained from him considerable satisfaction; and, my mind being set in
action, I sometimes even improved upon the hints he furnished. His
conversation was particularly agreeable to me; I at first worked with
him sometimes for my amusement, and afterwards occasionally for a short
time as his journeyman. I was constitutionally vigorous; and, by the
experience thus attained, I added to the abstract possession of power,
the skill of applying it, when I pleased, in such a manner as that no
part should be inefficient.

It is a strange, but no uncommon feature in the human mind, that the
very resource of which we stand in greatest need in a critical
situation, though already accumulated, it may be, by preceding industry,
fails to present itself at the time when it should be called into
action. Thus my mind had passed through two very different stages since
my imprisonment, before this means of liberation suggested itself. My
faculties were overwhelmed in the first instance, and raised to a pitch
of enthusiasm in the second; while in both I took it for granted in a
manner, that I must passively submit to the good pleasure of my
persecutors.

During the period in which my mind had been thus undecided, and when I
had been little more than a month in durance, the assizes, which were
held twice a year in the town in which I was a prisoner, came on. Upon
this occasion my case was not brought forward, but was suffered to stand
over six months longer. It would have been just the same, if I had had
as strong reason to expect acquittal as I had conviction. If I had been
apprehended upon the most frivolous reasons upon which any justice of
the peace ever thought proper to commit a naked beggar for trial, I must
still have waited about two hundred and seventeen days before my
innocence could be cleared. So imperfect are the effects of the boasted
laws of a country, whose legislators hold their assembly from four to
six months in every year! I could never discover with certainty, whether
this delay were owing to any interference on the part of my prosecutor,
or whether it fell out in the regular administration of justice, which
is too solemn and dignified to accommodate itself to the rights or
benefit of an insignificant individual.

But this was not the only incident that occurred to me during my
confinement, for which I could find no satisfactory solution. It was
nearly at the same time, that the keeper began to alter his behaviour to
me. He sent for me one morning into the part of the building which was
appropriated for his own use, and, after some hesitation, told me he was
sorry my accommodations had been so indifferent, and asked whether I
should like to have a chamber in his family? I was struck with the
unexpectedness of this question, and desired to know whether any body
had employed him to ask it. No, he replied; but, now the assizes were
over, he had fewer felons on his hands, and more time to look about him.
He believed I was a good kind of a young man, and he had taken a sort of
a liking to me. I fixed my eye upon his countenance as he said this. I
could discover none of the usual symptoms of kindness; he appeared to me
to be acting a part, unnatural, and that sat with awkwardness upon him.
He went on however to offer me the liberty of eating at his table;
which, if I chose it, he said, would make no difference to him, and he
should not think of charging me any thing for it. He had always indeed
as much upon his hands as one person could see to; but his wife and his
daughter Peggy would be woundily pleased to hear a person of learning
talk, as he understood I was; and perhaps I might not feel myself
unpleasantly circumstanced in their company.

I reflected on this proposal, and had little doubt, notwithstanding what
the keeper had affirmed to the contrary, that it did not proceed from
any spontaneous humanity in him, but that he had, to speak the language
of persons of his cast, good reasons for what he did. I busied myself in
conjectures as to who could be the author of this sort of indulgence and
attention. The two most likely persons were Mr. Falkland and Mr.
Forester. The latter I knew to be a man austere and inexorable towards
those whom he deemed vicious. He piqued himself upon being insensible to
those softer emotions, which, he believed, answered no other purpose
than to seduce us from our duty. Mr. Falkland, on the contrary, was a
man of the acutest sensibility; hence arose his pleasures and his pains,
his virtues and his vices. Though he were the bitterest enemy to whom I
could possibly be exposed, and though no sentiments of humanity could
divert or control the bent of his mind, I yet persuaded myself, that he
was more likely than his kinsman, to visit in idea the scene of my
dungeon, and to feel impelled to alleviate my sufferings.

This conjecture was by no means calculated to serve as balm to my mind.
My thoughts were full of irritation against my persecutor. How could I
think kindly of a man, in competition with the gratification of whose
ruling passion my good name or my life was deemed of no consideration? I
saw him crushing the one, and bringing the other into jeopardy, with a
quietness and composure on his part that I could not recollect without
horror. I knew not what were his plans respecting me. I knew not whether
he troubled himself so much as to form a barren wish for the
preservation of one whose future prospects he had so iniquitously
tarnished. I had hitherto been silent as to my principal topic of
recrimination. But I was by no means certain, that I should consent to
go out of the world in silence, the victim of this man's obduracy and
art. In every view I felt my heart ulcerated with a sense of his
injustice; and my very soul spurned these pitiful indulgences, at a time
that he was grinding me into dust with the inexorableness of his
vengeance.

I was influenced by these sentiments in my reply to the jailor; and I
found a secret pleasure in pronouncing them in all their bitterness. I
viewed him with a sarcastic smile, and said, I was glad to find him of a
sudden become so humane: I was not however without some penetration as
to the humanity of a jailor, and could guess at the circumstances by
which it was produced. But he might tell his employer, that his cares
were fruitless: I would accept no favours from a man that held a halter
about my neck; and had courage enough to endure the worst both in time
to come and now.--The jailor looked at me with astonishment, and turning
upon his heel, exclaimed, "Well done, my cock! You have not had your
learning for nothing, I see. You are set upon not dying dunghill. But
that is to come, lad; you had better by half keep your courage till you
shall find it wanted."

The assizes, which passed over without influence to me, produced a great
revolution among my fellow-prisoners. I lived long enough in the jail to
witness a general mutation of its inhabitants. One of the housebreakers
(the rival of the Duke of Bedford), and the coiner, were hanged. Two
more were cast for transportation, and the rest acquitted. The
transports remained with us; and, though the prison was thus lightened
of nine of its inhabitants, there were, at the next half-yearly period
of assizes, as many persons on the felons' side, within three, as I had
found on my first arrival.

The soldier, whose story I have already recorded, died on the evening of
the very day on which the judges arrived, of a disease the consequence
of his confinement. Such was the justice, that resulted from the laws of
his country to an individual who would have been the ornament of any
age; one who, of all the men I ever knew, was perhaps the kindest, of
the most feeling heart, of the most engaging and unaffected manners, and
the most unblemished life. The name of this man was Brightwel. Were it
possible for my pen to consecrate him to never-dying fame, I could
undertake no task more grateful to my heart. His judgment was
penetrating and manly, totally unmixed with imbecility and confusion,
while at the same time there was such an uncontending frankness in his
countenance, that a superficial observer would have supposed he must
have been the prey of the first plausible knavery that was practised
against him. Great reason have I to remember him with affection! He was
the most ardent, I had almost said the last, of my friends. Nor did I
remain in this respect in his debt. There was indeed a great
congeniality, if I may presume to say so, in our characters, except that
I cannot pretend to rival the originality and self-created vigour of his
mind, or to compare with, what the world has scarcely surpassed, the
correctness and untainted purity of his conduct. He heard my story, as
far as I thought proper to disclose it, with interest; he examined it
with sincere impartiality; and if, at first, any doubt remained upon his
mind, a frequent observation of me in my most unguarded moments taught
him in no long time to place an unreserved confidence in my innocence.

He talked of the injustice of which we were mutual victims, without
bitterness; and delighted to believe that the time would come, when the
possibility of such intolerable oppression would be extirpated. But
this, he said, was a happiness reserved for posterity; it was too late
for us to reap the benefit of it. It was some consolation to him, that
he could not tell the period in his past life, which the best judgment
of which he was capable would teach him to spend better. He could say,
with as much reason as most men, he had discharged his duty. But he
foresaw that he should not survive his present calamity. This was his
prediction, while yet in health. He might be said, in a certain sense,
to have a broken heart. But, if that phrase were in any way applicable
to him, sure never was despair more calm, more full of resignation and
serenity.

At no time in the whole course of my adventures was I exposed to a shock
more severe, than I received from this man's death. The circumstances of
his fate presented themselves to my mind in their full complication of
iniquity. From him, and the execrations with which I loaded the
government that could be the instrument of his tragedy, I turned to
myself. I beheld the catastrophe of Brightwel with envy. A thousand
times I longed that my corse had lain in death, instead of his. I was
only reserved, as I persuaded myself, for unutterable woe. In a few days
he would have been acquitted; his liberty, his reputation restored;
mankind perhaps, struck with the injustice he had suffered, would have
shown themselves eager to balance his misfortunes, and obliterate his
disgrace. But this man died; and I remained alive! I, who, though not
less wrongfully treated than he, had no hope of reparation, must be
marked as long as I lived for a villain, and in my death probably held
up to the scorn and detestation of my species!

Such were some of the immediate reflections which the fate of this
unfortunate martyr produced in my mind. Yet my intercourse with
Brightwel was not, in the review, without its portion of comfort. I
said, "This man has seen through the veil of calumny that overshades me:
he has understood, and has loved me. Why should I despair? May I not
meet hereafter with men ingenuous like him, who shall do me justice, and
sympathise with my calamity? With that consolation I will be satisfied.
I will rest in the arms of friendship, and forget the malignity of the
world. Henceforth I will be contented with tranquil obscurity, with the
cultivation of sentiment and wisdom, and the exercise of benevolence
within a narrow circle." It was thus that my mind became excited to the
project I was about to undertake.

I had no sooner meditated the idea of an escape, than I determined upon
the following method of facilitating the preparations for it. I
undertook to ingratiate myself with my keeper. In the world I have
generally found such persons as had been acquainted with the outline of
my story, regarding me with a sort of loathing and abhorrence, which
made them avoid me with as much care as if I had been spotted with the
plague. The idea of my having first robbed my patron, and then
endeavouring to clear myself by charging him with subornation against
me, placed me in a class distinct from, and infinitely more guilty than
that of common felons. But this man was too good a master of his
profession, to entertain aversion against a fellow-creature upon that
score. He considered the persons committed to his custody, merely as so
many human bodies, for whom he was responsible that they should be
forthcoming in time and place; and the difference of innocence and guilt
he looked down upon as an affair beneath his attention. I had not
therefore the prejudices to encounter in recommending myself to him,
that I have found so peculiarly obstinate in other cases. Add to which,
the same motive, whatever it was, that had made him so profuse in his
offers a little before, had probably its influence on the present
occasion.

I informed him of my skill in the profession of a joiner, and offered to
make him half a dozen handsome chairs, if he would facilitate my
obtaining the tools necessary for carrying on my profession in my
present confinement; for, without his consent previously obtained, it
would have been in vain for me to expect that I could quietly exert an
industry of this kind, even if my existence had depended upon it. He
looked at me first, as asking himself what he was to understand by this
novel proposal; and then, his countenance most graciously relaxing,
said, he was glad I was come off a little of my high notions and my
buckram, and he would see what he could do. Two days after, he signified
his compliance. He said that, as to the matter of the present I had
offered him, he thought nothing of that; I might do as I pleased in it;
but I might depend upon every civility from him that he could show with
safety to himself, if so be as, when he was civil, I did not offer a
second time for to snap and take him up short.

Having thus gained my preliminary, I gradually accumulated tools of
various sorts--gimlets, piercers, chisels, _et cetera_. I immediately
set myself to work. The nights were long, and the sordid eagerness of my
keeper, notwithstanding his ostentatious generosity, was great; I
therefore petitioned for, and was indulged with, a bit of candle, that I
might amuse myself for an hour or two with my work after I was locked up
in my dungeon. I did not however by any means apply constantly to the
work I had undertaken, and my jailor betrayed various tokens of
impatience. Perhaps he was afraid I should not have finished it, before
I was hanged. I however insisted upon working at my leisure as I
pleased; and this he did not venture expressly to dispute. In addition
to the advantages thus obtained, I procured secretly from Miss Peggy,
who now and then came into the jail to make her observations of the
prisoners, and who seemed to have conceived some partiality for my
person, the implement of an iron crow.

In these proceedings it is easy to trace the vice and duplicity that
must be expected to grow out of injustice. I know not whether my readers
will pardon the sinister advantage I extracted from the mysterious
concessions of my keeper. But I must acknowledge my weakness in that
respect; I am writing my adventures, and not my apology; and I was not
prepared to maintain the unvaried sincerity of my manners, at the
expense of a speedy close of my existence.

My plan was now digested. I believed that, by means of the crow, I could
easily, and without much noise, force the door of my dungeon from its
hinges, or if not, that I could, in case of necessity, cut away the
lock. This door led into a narrow passage, bounded on one side by the
range of dungeons, and on the other by the jailor's and turnkeys'
apartments, through which was the usual entrance from the street. This
outlet I dared not attempt, for fear of disturbing the persons close to
whose very door I should in that case have found it necessary to pass. I
determined therefore upon another door at the further end of the
passage, which was well barricaded, and which led to a sort of garden in
the occupation of the keeper. This garden I had never entered, but I had
had an opportunity of observing it from the window of the felons'
day-room, which looked that way, the room itself being immediately over
the range of dungeons. I perceived that it was bounded by a wall of
considerable height, which I was told by my fellow-prisoners was the
extremity of the jail on that side, and beyond which was a back-lane of
some length, that terminated in the skirts of the town. Upon an accurate
observation, and much reflection upon the subject, I found I should be
able, if once I got into the garden, with my gimlets and piercers
inserted at proper distances to make a sort of ladder, by means of which
I could clear the wall, and once more take possession of the sweets of
liberty. I preferred this wall to that which immediately skirted my
dungeon, on the other side of which was a populous street.

I suffered about two days to elapse from the period at which I had
thoroughly digested my project, and then in the very middle of the night
began to set about its execution. The first door was attended with
considerable difficulty; but at length this obstacle was happily
removed. The second door was fastened on the inside. I was therefore
able with perfect ease to push back the bolts. But the lock, which of
course was depended upon for the principal security, and was therefore
strong, was double-shot, and the key taken away. I endeavoured with my
chisel to force back the bolt of the lock, but to no purpose. I then
unscrewed the box of the lock; and, that being taken away, the door was
no longer opposed to my wishes.

Thus far I had proceeded with the happiest success; but close on the
other side of the door there was a kennel with a large mastiff dog, of
which I had not the smallest previous knowledge. Though I stepped along
in the most careful manner, this animal was disturbed, and began to
bark. I was extremely disconcerted, but immediately applied myself to
soothe the animal, in which I presently succeeded. I then returned along
the passage to listen whether any body had been disturbed by the noise
of the dog; resolved, if that had been the case, that I would return to
my dungeon, and endeavour to replace every thing in its former state.
But the whole appeared perfectly quiet, and I was encouraged to proceed
in my operation.

I now got to the wall, and had nearly gained half the ascent, when I
heard a voice at the garden-door, crying, "Holloa! who is there? who
opened the door?" The man received no answer, and the night was too dark
for him to distinguish objects at any distance. He therefore returned,
as I judged, into the house for a light. Meantime the dog, understanding
the key in which these interrogations were uttered, began barking again
more violently than ever. I had now no possibility of retreat, and I was
not without hopes that I might yet accomplish my object, and clear the
wall. Meanwhile a second man came out, while the other was getting his
lantern, and by the time I had got to the top of the wall was able to
perceive me. He immediately set up a shout, and threw a large stone,
which grazed me in its flight. Alarmed at my situation, I was obliged
to descend on the other side without taking the necessary precautions,
and in my fall nearly dislocated my ankle.

There was a door in the wall, of which I was not previously apprised;
and, this being opened, the two men with the lantern were on the other
side in an instant. They had then nothing to do but to run along the
lane to the place from which I had descended. I endeavoured to rise
after my fall; but the pain was so intense, that I was scarcely able to
stand, and, after having limped a few paces, I twisted my foot under me,
and fell down again. I had now no remedy, and quietly suffered myself to
be retaken.




CHAPTER XIV.


I was conducted to the keeper's room for that night, and the two men sat
up with me. I was accosted with many interrogatories, to which I gave
little answer, but complained of the hurt in my leg. To this I could
obtain no reply, except "Curse you, my lad! if that be all, we will give
you some ointment for that; we will anoint it with a little cold iron."
They were indeed excessively sulky with me, for having broken their
night's rest, and given them all this trouble. In the morning they were
as good as their word, fixing a pair of fetters upon both my legs,
regardless of the ankle which was now swelled to a considerable size,
and then fastening me, with a padlock, to a staple in the floor of my
dungeon. I expostulated with warmth upon this treatment, and told them,
that I was a man upon whom the law as yet had passed no censure, and who
therefore, in the eye of the law, was innocent. But they bid me keep
such fudge for people who knew no better; they knew what they did, and
would answer it to any court in England.

The pain of the fetter was intolerable. I endeavoured in various ways to
relieve it, and even privily to free my leg; but the more it was
swelled, the more was this rendered impossible. I then resolved to bear
it with patience: still, the longer it continued, the worse it grew.
After two days and two nights, I entreated the turnkey to go and ask the
surgeon, who usually attended the prison, to look at it, for, if it
continued longer as it was, I was convinced it would mortify. But he
glared surlily at me, and said, "Damn my blood! I should like to see
that day. To die of a mortification is too good an end for such a
rascal!" At the time that he thus addressed me, the whole mass of my
blood was already fevered by the anguish I had undergone, my patience
was wholly exhausted, and I was silly enough to be irritated beyond
bearing, by his impertinence and vulgarity: "Look, you, Mr. Turnkey,"
said I, "there is one thing that such fellows as you are set over us
for, and another thing that you are not. You are to take care we do not
escape; but it is no part of your office to call us names and abuse us.
If I were not chained to the floor, you dare as well eat your fingers as
use such language; and, take my word for it, you shall yet live to
repent of your insolence."

While I thus spoke, the man stared at me with astonishment. He was so
little accustomed to such retorts, that, at first, he could scarcely
believe his ears; and such was the firmness of my manner, that he seemed
to forget for a moment that I was not at large. But, as soon as he had
time to recollect himself, he did not deign to be angry. His face
relaxed into a smile of contempt; he snapped his fingers at me; and,
turning upon his heel, exclaimed, "Well said, my cock! crow away! Have a
care you do not burst!" and, as he shut the door upon me, mimicked the
voice of the animal he mentioned.

This rejoinder brought me to myself in a moment, and showed me the
impotence of the resentment I was expressing. But, though he thus put an
end to the violence of my speech, the torture of my body continued as
great as ever. I was determined to change my mode of attack. The same
turnkey returned in a few minutes; and, as he approached me, to put down
some food he had brought, I slipped a shilling into his hand, saying at
the same time, "My good fellow, for God's sake, go to the surgeon; I am
sure you do not wish me to perish for want of assistance." The fellow
put the shilling into his pocket, looked hard at me, and then with one
nod of his head, and without uttering a single word, went away. The
surgeon presently after made his appearance; and, finding the part in a
high state of inflammation, ordered certain applications, and gave
peremptory directions that the fetter should not be replaced upon that
leg, till a cure had been effected. It was a full month before the leg
was perfectly healed, and made equally strong and flexible with the
other.

The condition in which I was now placed, was totally different from that
which had preceded this attempt. I was chained all day in my dungeon,
with no other mitigation, except that the door was regularly opened for
a few hours in an afternoon, at which time some of the prisoners
occasionally came and spoke to me, particularly one, who, though he
could ill replace my benevolent Brightwel, was not deficient in
excellent qualities. This was no other than the individual whom Mr.
Falkland had, some months before, dismissed upon an accusation of
murder. His courage was gone, his garb was squalid, and the comeliness
and clearness of his countenance was utterly obliterated. He also was
innocent, worthy, brave, and benevolent. He was, I believe, afterwards
acquitted, and turned loose, to wander a desolate and perturbed spectre
through the world. My manual labours were now at an end; my dungeon was
searched every night, and every kind of tool carefully kept from me. The
straw, which had been hitherto allowed me, was removed, under pretence
that it was adapted for concealment; and the only conveniences with
which I was indulged, were a chair and a blanket.

A prospect of some alleviation in no long time opened upon me; but this
my usual ill fortune rendered abortive. The keeper once more made his
appearance, and with his former constitutional and ambiguous humanity.
He pretended to be surprised at my want of every accommodation. He
reprehended in strong terms my attempt to escape, and observed, that
there must be an end of civility from people in his situation, if
gentlemen, after all, would not know when they were well. It was
necessary, in cases the like of this, to let the law take its course;
and it would be ridiculous in me to complain, if, after a regular trial,
things should go hard with me. He was desirous of being in every respect
my friend, if I would let him. In the midst of this circumlocution and
preamble, he was called away from me, for something relating to the
business of his office. In the mean time I ruminated upon his overtures;
and, detesting as I did the source from which I conceived them to flow,
I could not help reflecting how far it would be possible to extract from
them the means of escape. But my meditations in this case were vain.
The keeper returned no more during the remainder of that day, and, on
the next, an incident occurred which put an end to all expectations from
his kindness.

An active mind, which has once been forced into any particular train,
can scarcely be persuaded to desert it as hopeless. I had studied my
chains, during the extreme anguish that I endured from the pressure of
the fetter upon the ankle which had been sprained; and though, from the
swelling and acute sensibility of the part, I had found all attempts at
relief, in that instance, impracticable, I obtained, from the coolness
of my investigation, another and apparently superior advantage. During
the night, my dungeon was in a complete state of darkness; but, when the
door was open, the case was somewhat different. The passage indeed into
which it opened, was so narrow, and the opposite dead wall so near, that
it was but a glimmering and melancholy light that entered my apartment,
even at full noon, and when the door was at