The Project Gutenberg eBook of Modern literature: a novel, Volume I
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Title: Modern literature: a novel, Volume I (of 3)

Author: Robert Bisset

Release Date: September 5, 2022 [eBook #68915]

Language: English

Produced by: Robert Cicconetti, Eleni Christofaki and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MODERN LITERATURE: A NOVEL,
VOLUME I (OF 3) ***





Transcriber’s note

Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation
inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list of the changes made
can be found at the end of the book. Formatting and special characters
are indicated as follows:

_italic_




                          MODERN LITERATURE:

                              _A NOVEL_,

                           IN THREE VOLUMES.

                                VOL. I.

                       By ROBERT BISSET, L.L.D.

                          Non ignota loquor.

                                LONDON:

                PRINTED FOR T. N. LONGMAN AND O. REES,
                           PATERNOSTER-ROW.

                                 1804.




Printed by A. Strahan, Printers-Street.




PREFACE.


COURTEOUS READER,

THE production that I now submit to you, proposes to represent the
manners of the times, in various situations, but especially in literary
departments. These are subjects with which I have been, and am,
peculiarly conversant; and I trust the exhibition will be found fair
and impartial, and also general, without any satirical allusion to
individual characters.

Many are prepossessed with a notion, that a writer, who, in a
fictitious story, describes the times, means particular persons, and
not classes of persons. The only work of the kind that I ever produced,
was exposed to this prejudice. In my Highlander, there was scarcely
a character of any note, that was not applied to half a dozen of
individuals, whom I never intended particularly to exhibit, and of
most of whom I had never heard. I confess, however, it is difficult
to pourtray any character, either good or bad, without taking some of
the lines from some good or bad person, whom you have actually known.
But it was my purpose so to assort and mingle features, as to prevent
any approach to individuality. Of the applications, the greater number
were made by the acquaintances and _friends_ of the supposed objects;
some, however, by the parties themselves. I have had several claimants
to characters, that are none of the best; and when the claims were
advanced, I really did not know how or why the imputation arose. Should
a person happen to be a forward, busy, vain-glorious coxcomb, as
thousands are, and I have no knowledge of him, or his qualifications,
I must be surprized, if in having drawn such a general and common
character, I should be charged with intending to expose that individual
person. I may, afterwards, be able to account for the supposition:
but the food of vanity is notoriety; and a frivolous egotist, by
representing himself as of sufficient consequence to be satirized, will
very readily fancy he rises in importance, and will pretend, in every
party, to complain of the attack, while his whole purpose is to make
himself the _subject of talk_. “_Vanity, and vanity of vanities all is
vanity._”

More than half a dozen were mentioned as the models of Doctor Vampus,
the ignorant, boasting, _hawking and peddling_ master of an academy.
To no one person, I am convinced, the whole of that character could
apply; but I am equally convinced, many parts of it might hit a dozen
of dozens of that class of the profession. A village male gossip also
received an individual application, and perhaps some parts might suit
the gossip of that district; but I declare it was applied to gossips
in adjacent districts; and some have done me the honour to say, it
suits such a nuisance in most villages of England. There were several
demireps, one of whom, so far from having any modern individual in
view, I copied from Lady Bellaston, only giving her modern manners, and
substituting for decayed charms, youth and beauty. Lady Mary Manhunt,
I find has been applied to twenty originals, when I really had none
in view, but the veteran rival of Sophia Western. Other demireps, of
lower account, had also a good many applications; and to persons that
I at the time had never heard to be demireps. In one individual case,
referring to the hero’s fair fellow-traveller in a stage-coach, a
totally erroneous and false application, I have been told, was made. In
certain characters, there might be grounds, though I did not know them
at the time; in that character, I am thoroughly convinced there never
were any grounds.

There was a great disposition to apply exhibitions to scenes, with
which I was once conversant; and also to other very distant scenes,
with which I was conversant at the time of the publication. My hero
having first appeared in the Highlands of Scotland, I could not avoid
describing Highland manners; and I exhibited the majority as I found
them, amiable and respectable, and a few as I found them able and
estimable. There, however, as well as in other parts of the world,
there are fools and knaves; and among the weak, there is particularly
the preposterous folly of supposing, birth and rank a substitute for
the want of talents and virtues. That nonsensical absurdity, perhaps, I
might expose, though I cannot see why the application should have been
made to any individual, unless, indeed, it accidentally happened, that
the cap exactly fitted; if it did, it was not my fault; _I made_ the
CAP, but I did not make the _head_. With regard to the other district
in question, some of its inhabitants were of much more importance to
themselves, than either to me or the world, in supposing that I would
consider them individually, as suitable objects of satire. I described
a certain class in society, in the vicinity of London; and I have not
the least doubt, that if the description applied to any, it applies
to every one populous village within ten miles of the metropolis,
as well as to another. Wherever there is gadding, card-playing,
gossiping, half-breeding, mixed with the peculiarities of the
tradesmen, and retired shopkeepers of London and Middlesex; in short,
persons without the education and sentiments of gentlemen and ladies,
thrust into circumstances in which, with the allowable partiality of
self-estimation, they fancy themselves to belong to that rank, and ape
the fashionable amusements of their betters: where, perhaps, the widow
of a rich grocer, or the dashing daughter of mine host, now a _gemman_
and an Esquire, by noise and glare, and affectation, hope to make you
forget the signs of the three sugar-loaves, or the _hog in armour_: to
such impotent attempts of inveterate and incurable vulgarity, to pass
for gentility, the description in question either applies generally, as
was intended, or does not apply at all. One thing, I observed, that the
wise and good characters in that production, have not been applied by
_friends_.

In the work that I now offer to the public, from former experience of
misinterpretation, I have been more scrupulously cautious to guard
against any possibility of individual application. In the former novel,
I merely took care not to copy a fool, a coxcomb, a debauchee, or a
knave, or any other character of a ridiculous or bad kind, from any
persons known to me for these qualifications. Still, however, from
_inadvertence_, I did take a feature or two here and there, that I
grieve to acknowledge, on perusing the picture after it was finished,
struck me with a likeness in some lineament. In the present novel, I
have been much more vigilantly cautious. I not only have not copied
fools, &c. from persons known to me to be such, but in drawing any
character of that or the other _equivalent_ classes, I have carefully
run my memory over the individuals that I know to belong to these,
and have studiously avoided _treading on their sore heel_. The end of
this work being to give a view of modern literature, I, conformably to
fact, represent several men of extraordinary talents and erudition;
many more of respectable, but not extraordinary talents and erudition,
and a considerable number of literary and other book-makers, without
either talents or erudition. In this last class of representation,
have I exerted my principal care to shun individual reference; and
when drawing a picture of a literary dunce, the following has been my
method, and I hope it has succeeded.

I ran over my delineation, and then made my memory run over this
literary dunce, and that literary dunce of my own acquaintance; and
I asked myself this question:--Does not this part of the description
rather hit Jacky Allory; now Jacky is a worthy acquaintance of
mine, a dunce, that without a single spark of genius, and with
some scraps of knowledge, having acquired the gift of spelling, is
an undertaker-general in literature? Will not this picture of a
literary manufacturer rather hit Jacky? On reflecting, I find not
particularly; the circumstances and adjuncts are totally different;
there is no resemblance between the picture and that individual, but a
resemblance that holds between the picture, and every other original
that manufactures books without learning or genius. Jacky stands not
alone, _he is in a croud_; the most inventive malignity, therefore,
can here make no individual application. I have exhibited a specimen
of tours, in which the tourist conveys no information but what was
known before, or what was totally immaterial, whether it was known or
not. Of that kind, numberless specimens have been written, especially
in large quartos. I have endeavoured to copy the general character of
such insignificance and inanity; but to prevent individual application,
have made the scene and limits totally new. The outset of the tour is
the Black Bear Inn, Piccadilly, the course through Knightsbridge, on
to Old Brentford, thence round home by Kingston and Richmond; and in
that circuit, I flatter myself, that in two pages, I have condensed
the essence of many of our most voluminous tourists of the dunce kind.
I have introduced plays written by dunces; but in such a manner, as
to apply generally to many dramatic joiners, individually to none;
having carefully made the history and circumstances probable in
themselves, but totally unlike any that have actually existed. I have
touched upon German literature, and the system of taste, morals, and
religion, which these importations have produced in England. I have
mentioned novels of that kind, and also of other kinds, especially
those that are written by female scribes, not forgetting the effusions
of milliners, when their own work is slack; and, as in duty bound, I
have offered a just tribute of praise to the munificent encouragers
of these inestimable fictions. I have presented a dunce as author of
a history much more voluminous than Gibbon’s; but to preclude any
possible misinterpretation, I have made the subject Jack the Giant
Killer, of whom it is well known no voluminous history has been written
either by a dunce, or any other author. Dunce writers I represent
as faithless and backbiting, towards other professional votaries of
literature. At the same time, to prevent misapprehension, I carefully
declare I do not impute these efforts of malignity, to any thing in
dunces more rancorous than in other men. It arises merely from taking
to an occupation, in which stupidity is not equal to genius; and from
that principle of human nature, that makes us repine at the success
of others, in a pursuit wherein we have failed, though the failure be
owing to no bad fortune, or no unfair means, but simply to unfitness
for the pursuit. If a poor deformed urchin of no fortune, sense, or
accomplishments, were to address a beautiful young lady, and to have
for his rival a very handsome, graceful man of character, talents, and
property, the urchin, most unquestionably, would fail, from the folly
of his suit, but, agreeably to human nature, he would revile, and try
to disparage the accomplished cavalier, who succeeded because he was
formed for success. Such is a literary dunce, in respect to a literary
genius.

Having these general objects in view, from the precautions I have used,
I am thoroughly confident, that no application will be made to any
individual dunce, by his _friends_ who may peruse “Modern Literature:”
for that he himself should make the application, I should have no
apprehension, were the likeness ever so obvious.

One kind of system, of which the most numerous portion of the votaries
cannot be called literary; but that has an extensive influence on
certain departments of the literature of the times, I have not failed
to consider: that is methodism, especially itinerant. There have been
very able men, and I believe also worthy men, among methodists; and
I doubt not, but there are some able, and many good men, partially
tinged with that theory. Having the utmost respect for such disciples
of any Christian sect, I, nevertheless, can plainly see, not only
the tendency, but result of certain theological doctrines, which not
all, but many of the methodists profess to admit. Visionaries of
that class (or if not visionaries, what is much worse, hypocrites),
profess to follow different guides from reason, conscience, and genuine
Christianity; interpreted by reason, and the tenour of the scriptures,
and applied by conscience. To the implicit votaries of faith, without
works, I object, because to the implicit votaries of faith, without
works, reason, and conscience, obviously, and the scriptures expressly
object; and because experience demonstrates, that this chimera is not
only mad, but mischievous. I farther censure a practice, frequent among
that sect, of grossly ignorant men, circulating through the country,
and pretending to instruct mankind. This is the more dangerous,
because not merely an adventure of an individual vagabond, foolish
or frantic, but connected with a principle diffused through many
of the sect, that there still exists among these brethren a divine
inspiration, which every sound Theologian knows to have ceased in the
early ages of the Christian dispensation. Ignorant venders of nonsense
or mischief I have not spared: I have represented an itinerant clown, a
preacher of methodism, in those circumstances which reason may easily
connect with _such_ doctrines and talents; and which experience has
woefully shewn to be closely connected with such doctrines and talents.
I have not written a line, to which any wise and learned methodist,
(and such only are fit for preaching) can affix any blame, as adverse
to his views and exhortations; or which any moral and pious methodist
can censure, as hostile to his practice.

Though literature be the chief object of the present production, it is
far from being the sole; other characters and manners are introduced,
and, I trust, not one will be found to bear individual application,
except a few sketches of great and admirable characters, that
incidentally appear.

The present work is only part of my plan, which will be completed in
another novel, now considerably advanced, and to be entitled “The
Author.”

Sloane-Terrace, May 8th, 1804.




                               CONTENTS

                                  OF

                           THE FIRST VOLUME.


  CHAP. I.

  _A Journey through Yorkshire. Meeting of Brother-Officers. What
  happened on the Road from Doncaster. Disaster of Major Hamilton.
  Kindness of a Cottager, who proves to be an old Soldier, and an
  Acquaintance. Serjeant Maxwell conveys the Major to his Cottage. The
  Arrival of a Surgeon. The Evil proves less than was apprehended.
  Delight of an old Soldier in retracing his Campaigns. Maxwell’s
  Praises of Mr. Wentbridge, the Vicar. That Gentleman visits Hamilton._
                                                                  Page 1

  CHAP. II.

  _Description of the Vicarage. Short Account of Mr. Wentbridge, and
  his Family, comprehending his Marriage with a Curate’s Daughter,
  instead of the proffered Niece of my Lord the Bishop. Description of
  his Daughter Eliza; of Major Hamilton. Loves of the Major and Miss
  Wentbridge; are sanctioned by the Father. Hamilton’s Visit to his
  Brother, the Laird of Etterick. Description of a Country Gentleman
  hunting after Heiresses. Circular Love-Letter on the Occasion. The
  Laird not successful in his Courtships. His kind Reception of his
  Brother. He urges his Brother to join him, in making Love to a Couple
  of Co-Heiresses, offering him his Choice. This liberal Proposition is
  declined by Hamilton; who returns to England._                 Page 22

  CHAP. III.

  _Hamilton arrives at the Vicarage. He accompanies Eliza to a Ball at
  Doncaster. Account of the Company. Mrs. Sourkrout, and her Daughter
  Miss Grizzle. Madam’s Claims to Dignity and Precedence. Miss lays
  Siege to the Heart of Hamilton. Her Battery does not hit the Object.
  Marriage of Hamilton and Eliza._                               Page 52

  CHAP. IV.

  _Attempts of Mrs. and Miss Sourkrout to disturb the Happiness of the
  young Couple: produce no effect. Etterick visits his Brother; learns
  an Account of the Fortune of Miss Sourkrout. Therefore proposes to
  make Love to her; meets her at an Assembly for that Purpose. He is
  graciously received. Whist, the Rubber in great Danger: is saved
  and won by the skilful Conduct of Miss. Profound Remark of the
  Gallant, upon playing through the Honour. He pays her his Addresses
  in Form, and is crowned with Success. They marry, and depart for
  Scotland. Birth of a Son to Major Hamilton. The Major rises to be
  Lieutenant-Colonel. Account of the Childhood of his Son William, till
  he is Seven Years old._                                        Page 68

  CHAP. V.

  _Young Hamilton sent to School, under his Uncle, Doctor Wentbridge.
  Genius, Progress, and opening Character. Account of Mr. Scourge,
  the Usher. Disagreement between him and William. Severity of to
  William; who ridicules him to the Boys, and compares him to Parson
  Thwackum. Dr. Wentbridge interferes. Proficiency of William, and high
  Expectations of the Doctor. Plans of his Parents and Friends, for
  the Destination of William. It is concluded that he shall be sent to
  Cambridge. Etterick announces an Intention of visiting his Brother.
  Short Account of his domestic Comforts. Contests with the old Lady on
  the Score of Genealogy and Dignity. Arguments Pro and Con. Collateral
  Debate on the Supporters, and the opposite Accounts of their Origin.
  Sole Offspring of Etterick and his Grizzle. Graces and Accomplishments
  of the young Susannah. They arrive at the Colonel’s. Description of
  the Person and Accomplishments of young William. He captivates his
  Cousin Susan, but is insensible to the young Lady’s Passion. He sets
  off for the University._                                       Page 88

  CHAP. VI.

  _Studies of Hamilton at Cambridge: he becomes eminently distinguished
  for Science, Literature, and Composition: revisits his Friends in
  Yorkshire. His Cousin Susan again brought on the Carpet. A short
  Sketch of that young Lady. Generalissimo of her Father’s Family. She
  becomes acquainted with Mr. O’Rourke. Sketch of that Irishman as
  Teacher of Dancing. He instructs Miss; and is converted to Methodism.
  He preaches and practises the Doctrine of Faith without Works.
  Machinery of Methodistical Conversion: attempts to convert Miss, but
  is prevented by her hearing that William is returned: hastens to meet
  her Cousin, who still regards her with Indifference. She discovers
  William’s Attentions to a fair Milliner: is urged by her Maid to
  return to O’Rourke, and mind her precious Soul. Grounds of Betty’s
  Reasoning in Favour of O’Rourke and Methodism. Danger of Levity of
  Manners even with innocent Intentions. Jenny Collings. Miss Susan
  becomes entirely a Convert to Methodism. The Ladies of the Family
  all embrace the same Faith. Etterick himself not so easily brought
  into the Fold. Dexterous Scheme of O’Rourke for his Conversion. The
  Preacher’s Doctrines illustrated in his moral Practice. O’Rourke
  becomes the Husband of Miss Susan._                           Page 114

  CHAP. VII.

  _Return of Hamilton to the University. He takes the Degree of
  Bachelor of Arts, and attains the Honour of Senior Wrangler. He
  departs for London to study the Law: is entered of Lincoln’s Inn.
  Interview with Miss Collings. Offers her honourable Atonement:
  generously refused by the young Lady. Dangerous Situations to virtuous
  Repentance. He accompanies Jenny to see the Fair Penitent. She is
  greatly affected. Literary Pursuits of our Hero. His Performances are
  received with Applause. Alarming Intelligence from his Mother. He
  hastens to his Father’s. Finds the Colonel still alive, but in great
  Danger. His Distemper receives a temporary Intermission. Etterick
  visits his Brother. His Account of the Conduct of O’Rourke. The Means
  employed to secure the Estate from his Machinations. Profligate
  Effrontery of the Methodist Preacher. He supposes his Hypocrisy
  completely successful: comes to Yorkshire. His Deportment at the
  Colonel’s. He receives a severe Chastisement from William: finds
  it prudent to decamp. Return of the Colonel’s Distemper, and fatal
  Termination. Family Affairs._                                 Page 156

  CHAP. VIII.

  _Literary Efforts of our Hero. Mr. Jeffery Lawhunt. Appearance, Dress,
  and Manners. His History of himself and his former Avocations. He
  gives an Account of his Dealings with his Authors and Authoresses. A
  Lady proposes to betake herself to the Litterary Line. Lawhunt wishes
  to enlist Hamilton, who refuses his Proposals. Hamilton extends his
  Acquaintance among eminent Scholars and Writers. His first Interview
  with Strongbrain. Called to Scotland by his Uncle. Fellow-travellers.
  Description of Maria Mortimer. Hamilton is captivated by the lovely
  Maria. He finds her the Sister of an intimate Friend: is invited by
  her Father to visit his Country Seat, which he readily promises to
  do in his Return from Scotland. He parts with them at Northallerton.
  New Fellow-travellers. Advantages of Drill Serjeants, as Instructors
  to young Ladies at Boarding School. Reasons for breeding up a Son a
  Genius. Our Hero arrives at his Journey’s End._               Page 198

  CHAP. IX.

  _Etterick’s Account of his Son-in-Law. Farther practical Effects
  of Faith without Works. Hamilton brings the Preacher to professed
  Contrition. The Family of Etterick agree to take a Jaunt to England.
  Hamilton visits the Mortimer Family. Reception from the Father,
  Brother, and Sister. He declares his Passion to Maria, which she
  professes to discourage. Account of young ’Squire Blossom, and his
  Addresses to Maria. His insolent Rudeness. Affray between him and
  young Mortimer. Hamilton prevents a Duel. Hamilton is summoned to
  attend his Family to Brighton. Dejection at the approaching Parting
  with Maria. Maria still professes to discountenance his Love.
  Invitation from Mr. Mortimer’s Brother to him and Family to visit his
  Villa in Sussex. Invitation is accepted. Hamilton departs for London:
  is soon followed by the Mortimers, to whom he introduces his Family.
  Hamilton’s old Friend, Miss Collings, is addressed by ’Squire Blossom.
  Preliminaries. A Treaty of Marriage is concluded. Hamilton end his
  Party set off for Brighton._                                  Page 249




MODERN LITERATURE




CHAPTER I.


SOON after the end of the war that was concluded by the peace of
1763, two gentlemen belonging to a corps that had returned from
the Havannah, leaving their regiment in the South of England, were
journeying northwards to visit the place of their nativity. Neither
had in the course of their campaigns acquired opulent fortunes; but
they had both made such progress in the road to wealth, that without
any reasonable charge of prodigality or imprudence, in revisiting
their relations they could indulge in the comforts of a postchaise.
Travelling not being then effected with the modern rapidity, they
proposed in a week to reach the capital of Scotland. Having set out on
their expedition, they on the third day arrived at the beautiful town
of Doncaster, whence they intended, after an early dinner, to proceed
two stages farther. As they were ordering their repast they descried,
from the windows of their apartment, a gentleman entering the inn,
in whom they recognised a regimental mess-mate, the comrade of their
conviviality, and the partner of their dangers. The new comer, finding
fellow travellers so dear to his heart, insisted these his friends
should accompany him to his native village in the same county. He
could not prevail on them to deviate so materially from their northern
course: he, however, succeeded in arresting its progress for several
hours. Dinner had been on the table at two; at three the postillion had
announced that every thing within the compass of his office was ready,
but found that his fare were disposed to continue longer in their
present quarters. It was seven o’clock before the gentlemen, taking the
most affectionate leave of their companion, though naturally strong and
active, were assisted by the landlord to their seats in the vehicle.
Their friend had not accompanied them to the carriage, being left above
found asleep in an elbow chair.

No road can be plainer than from Doncaster to Ferrybridge. The
postillion was a sharp intelligent fellow, that had been three years
in his present service, and had travelled that stage at least three
hundred times in that period. It was a remarkably fine evening in the
middle of July. Nothing, therefore, appeared more unlikely than that
he should miss his way. It has been often said, that example is more
powerful than precept.--Early in the afternoon the travellers had
ordered their Automedon into their presence, and, perhaps, foreseeing
the probability of their own condition, had strongly interrogated him
concerning his disposition to sobriety; his answers to their questions
contained many asseverations in favour of his own temperance.--While
he pocketed half a crown, which was given as a retaining fee, for the
faithful and careful exertion of his professional skill, and swallowed
a large bumper of brandy to the gentlemen’s health, he had averred
that even his enemies could not say he was _predicted_ to liquor. In
this declaration he might perhaps be correct, as the most competent
witnesses were not his enemies but his friends. It would be a feeble
gratitude which would confine itself to expressions of regard in the
presence of the benefactor. The post-boy’s prayers and libations for
the health and prosperity of the bountiful donors did not cease to flow
in streams of ale as long as the half crown and consequential credit
lasted. After these pious and benignant offerings he had mounted, and
in this condition had taken the northern road. The horses, being less
bereft of their senses than their rational companions, for several
miles proceeded directly to the destined place. They had already
made their way through the turnpikes, passed the delightful woods
around Robin Hood’s well, with their leader snoaring on his seat, and
arrived at Darrington, where a road branches off to the left. There
a pull from their driver put them into a wrong direction. Instead of
keeping directly in the new track, the horses, again left to their
own discretion, entered a cross lane, and had not gone far in this
path when they overturned the carriage in a ditch. This catastrophe
soon recalled both the travellers and their guide from the state
of oblivion by which it was caused. The effects, however, proved
extremely different. The postillion himself, though he tumbled from
his seat, was softly and easily received in a very useful repository,
collected for fertilizing an adjacent field. One of the gentlemen, by
being upper-most as the carriage fell, was by his companion prevented
from being materially hurt; the other was greatly bruised, and upon
more particular examination found unable to move his leg, which was
concluded to be broken. The day had just closed in when this misfortune
happened, and no light was to be seen to guide them to a village or
hamlet, where they might obtain assistance. There were houses not far
from the place, but belonging to peasants or labourers who had retired
early to rest, that with the morning sun they might rise to their
useful occupations.

Captain Graham had escaped unhurt;--having recovered his recollection,
and accustomed to witness more direful mishaps than he trusted his
friend’s disaster would prove, he laid him carefully on the grass,
while he himself, by the clear twilight of a July night, set forwards
in quest of some friendly habitation, where his comrade might repose
until he could be safely removed. Following the track, he in a quarter
of an hour arrived at a solitary cottage, which from its first
appearance he feared was uninhabited, till the barking of a dog made
him hope that this was a faithful centinel guarding, though humble,
the dwelling of man. On his approach the gallant watch, though not
very strong, raised a loud alarm, more vehement and furious as Graham
approached the door of his master. The traveller hallooed with all
his vociferation. A rough voice from the hovel, in a northern accent,
demanded, who is there? and what is wanted? the other briefly mentioned
the mishap. The master of the house soon came forth, and the moon,
having now begun to shine, presented an elderly man, tall, straight,
and muscular, who, in a style of language somewhat better than his
habitation denoted, declared his willingness to assist a fellow
creature in distress. He however requested the gentleman to speak
softly, as there was, he said, a detachment of marauders in the rear of
his house, who if they knew that the commander was out of the garrison
might carry away his stores and equipage. “It is a fair stratagem,
please your honour, however, to fire your minute-guns when you are
shifting your camp. If we go ourselves we shall make the vollies of
the picquet guard amuse the enemy.” He accordingly bound his dog to a
post, well knowing that “in the absence of the commander the artillery
would be incessantly discharged.” This figurative language convinced
Graham, that his attendant was a brother soldier. But hurrying to
the scene of disaster, he took no time to ask any questions, except
such as pertained to the case of his friend, and learned to his great
satisfaction, that there was a skilful surgeon at a town within a
few miles. When they arrived they found Major Hamilton, though in
great pain, very quiet; and the postillion had, in his agreeable bed,
relapsed into a tranquil repose. The new acquaintance proposed that
the gentleman should be carried easily on their arms to his cottage,
where he should have his poor accommodation until better could be
provided. But, the moon being now under a cloud, Graham said, they
should stop a little until her light should enable them to find their
steps with more ease to the patient. The cottager, foreseeing this
difficulty, had brought a lanthern, which, from an œconomy necessary
in his very limited finances, he had forborne kindling till necessary:
but now, striking fire from a flint, he went with his light to examine
the prostrate gentleman, and tried how he could be moved with the
least degree of pain and uneasiness. In this occupation, the rays of
the lamp happening to display on the waistcoat military buttons, the
cottager with an eager curiosity examining more closely exclaimed in
a transport, “Our own regiment by the Lord!” Graham, who had been at
this time endeavouring to awaken the postillion, hearing only the last
words, hastily fancied they imported an unfavourable change in his
friend; but springing to the place found the cottager in transports,
incessantly repeating, “Our own regiment! our own regiment!” At
length comprehending him, he asked if he had really belonged to the
----regiment. “I did,” said the other, rapturously, “I was with them at
Fontenoy and Bergen-op-Zoom, and also in the late war in Ticonderago,
Cape Breton, and Quebec.” “Did you,” called the gentleman on the
ground, “know Hamilton?”--“What, Charles Hamilton,” said the veteran,
“that was made captain at Quebec? I taught the boy his manual, and a
gallant officer he is.”--“You did indeed,” said the gentleman on the
ground, “I see now you are Sergeant Maxwell.”--“That I am, please your
noble honour, extremely sorry for your honour’s misfortune, but I
hope in my poor little tent, though not a marquee, your honour will
feel yourself more convenient and comfortable than if you were among
strangers.” They then with the most tender care removed Major Hamilton
to Maxwell’s cottage, where he was laid with care on ---- the best
bed his host had to bestow. Maxwell having committed his guest to
the care of his sister, a widow who lived with him, departed himself
for medical assistance, and in a short time returned with a surgeon.
This gentleman having examined the leg declared it was not broken but
bruised, and announced that the case was favourable, if the patient
were kept quiet; advised that he should remain where he was, until the
cure was effected, and told Mr. Hamilton, that when he was a little
easier, and fitter for conversation, he would bring him some cheerful
and agreeable company, that would render him more benefit than all
the medicines in his shop; though to the occupation which he was now
exercising he had added the profession of apothecary.

Graham was under an indispensible necessity of hurrying to the north,
and as soon as he found that his friend, though confined, was in
friendly hands, under safe and skilful management, resolved to pursue
his journey. Hamilton in a few days was able to bear without any danger
of bad effects a moderate degree of conversation, and to enjoy the
company of his host and brother soldier, Maxwell, at stated intervals;
and as the old Sergeant was very fond of descanting on subjects which
had occupied the better part of his life, it fortunately happened
that his rural avocations prevented him from being with the Major too
frequently to disturb the repose necessary in his present situation.
Sunday, being a day of intermission from the labours of husbandry,
the veteran halberdier devoted to attendance on his guest, and to a
recitation of the labours of war. Early in the morning he repaired
to the Major’s room, and, breakfasting by his bed, had gone over the
battles of Dettingen, Fontenoy, had concluded peace, begun a new war,
reached America, sailed up to St. Lawrence, descended, landed, mounted
the heights of Abraham, and was at the second wound of the illustrious
Wolfe, when his venerable sister entering the apartment reminded him
that the hour for church was arrived. Maxwell, whose father having
been a schoolmaster and precentor in his native village had instilled
into him sentiments of religion, had been extremely regular in his
attendance at public worship, was moved by this admonition; but
considering the social virtues as an important branch of piety, at
last concluded that the day could not be better spent than in cheering
the spirits of a brother under indisposition, and chose to spend it
in the company of his guest. The arrival of the surgeon for some time
interrupted the progress of the battle of Quebec; but after this
gentleman departed the subject was resumed, and Maxwell’s campaigns
were concluded before the entrance of chicken broth for the officer’s
repast, accompanied with beans and bacon for the host himself. As
Hamilton took his barley water, Maxwell also indulged himself with
barley juice, wishing to God his noble commander were well enough
to partake of his home-brewed, of which, praised be his gracious
Sovereign, he could, he said, always afford a comfortable can; and,
so please your honour, here’s His Majesty’s health, and God bless
all his friends! Hamilton devoutly saying, Amen. His sister coming in
told him, that neighbour Hayrick, passing in his return from church,
had informed her, that the vicar had asked him, if he knew any thing
of Mr. Maxwell, and what had detained him from Divine Service? and
that he (Hayrick) “had said as how Tom Tipple the postillion had most
killed a gemman with his shay, that the gemman was dying at neighbour
Maxwell’s cottage, and that Maxwell, he supposed, had stayed at home to
keep him kumpany.” The hearers both smiled at this exaggerated account,
and being left to themselves, Maxwell spoke highly in praise of the
clergyman, though with many listeners what he said would have rather
been against than for that reverend gentleman. “I understand him,”
said Maxwell, “when he preaches as plainly as if it was one of our
own officers.--He tells us that the Bible is our word of command, and
if we mind it we shall never be behind in our duty.--Every man to mind
his own station, and do as he would be done by, and though it may be a
toilsome march, he will get safely invalided in garrison at last; but
if he is a deserter or a poltroon, he will go to the devil; as where
else ought such fellows to go?--This is what he told us t’other Sunday;
he was upon fighting the good fight. Not long before he was about the
Centurion, who, he told us, is all as one of our captains. Lord, thinks
I to myself, for he read the whole story, what excellent discipline
they kept!” Hamilton, who remembered the passage, having assented
to this criticism, Maxwell proposed the vicar’s health, and, having
emptied and replenished the jug, entertained his friend with many
anecdotes in praise of his reverend pastor, who had been extremely
kind to himself individually, and had presented to him that very flitch
of bacon on which he had that day dined. “Extremely good in its kind it
is,” said Maxwell, “but a little too salt.”--To this cause he imputed
his being so excessively dry, and the quantity of ale that he said he
was obliged to swallow.

His eloquence and his ale at last setting the old hero asleep, allowed
to the Major an hour of rest, which he had begun very much to want.
When both were refreshed, the sister announced Mr. Wentbridge. Maxwell
hastened out to meet the vicar, and soon introduced a gentleman
turned of fifty, of a countenance mild, pale, and penetrating, with
grey hairs thinly scattered over his head; a figure tall, elegant,
and prepossessing, and, though somewhat slender, strong and active.
The visitor with much softness, in a tone of humanity, and a voice
subdued by the apprehensions of disturbing the temporary repose of
dangerous illness, expressed his concern for the accounts which he had
received.--Maxwell, answering in a voice loud and cheerful, assured
his pastor, that the gentleman was in no kind of danger, and briefly
narrated the circumstances. “I have been just a-telling my noble
Major about your Reverence’s sermons and good deeds.”--Hamilton, now
addressing Mr. Wentbridge, expressed the pleasure he hoped to derive
from acquaintance with so respectable a gentleman.--The clergyman,
though pious and devout, was frank and open in his manner; Hamilton was
an honest, bold, and intelligent soldier: two such characters were not
long strangers; they were mutually delighted, and the setting sun had
reminded the vicar of the evening devotions of his family, before he
thought of withdrawing.--Shaking his new acquaintance cordially by the
hand, he took his leave, promising to return the following day.--The
next morning, the Sergeant being engaged in stacking a plentiful crop
of hay which he had raised on a field of very moderate extent, his
hostess attended the invalid with his breakfast, when, the conversation
turning upon the last night’s visitor, he learned many particulars
farther to his honour, and the landlady was just entering into an
account of his family, when Mr. Wentbridge himself interrupted the
discourse.--The Vicar and the Major, as they increased in knowledge of
each other, advanced in reciprocal esteem. Wentbridge found Hamilton
a man of abilities and extensive knowledge, besides a very impressive
and engaging deportment.--The soldier soon discovered in Wentbridge,
besides the talents, learning, and virtuous sentiments, which became
his sacred profession, a fund of scientific and political knowledge,
which he was not incompetent to appreciate, relieved by delicacy and
strength of wit and of humour, which he could highly relish.--The skill
of the surgeon, with the vigour of his own constitution, the kind care
and assiduity of his host and hostess, and the interesting and amusing
conversation of his new clerical friend, combined speedily to raise the
Major from his bed, and in a few weeks he was able to move about on his
crutch, and sometimes to take the air in the vicar’s chaise-cart. In
the beginning of September he found himself sufficiently well to accept
of an invitation to the parsonage-house.




CHAPTER II.


MR. Wentbridge’s vicarage, situate in a pleasing district of the
West Riding, amounting to about 200l. per annum, in a cheap country,
afforded to very moderate wants ample means of supply.--The possessor
was besides skilled in farming; and as one part of his vicarage was
twenty acres of land, and he rented thirty more, he had an opportunity
of employing his agricultural talents to his own emolument, and also by
example to the benefit of his neighbours. No lands were better fenced
or cultivated, laid out in a more skilful and productive rotation of
crops, a more agreeable variety of tillage or pasturage, than the snug
fields of the parson of Brotherton. Their situation also enabled
the taste of the cultivator to superinduce elegance and beauty on
fruitfulness and utility. The house was placed on the south-east slope
of a gentle hill, terminating in a small plain that was bounded by a
river, which, winding round the farm, appearing to rise out of woods
on the right and on the left, seemed to lose itself behind an advanced
post of the hill, whilst, seeking the eastern confines of Yorkshire,
it hastened to make a part of the conflux of rivers that after their
coalition are distinguished by the name of Humber. In this aspect was
situated the chief part of the vicar’s arable farm; behind were his
offices and lands of steeper ascent, bounded by a wood, which covering
all the upper part of the hill, besides beautifully diversifying
the scene, sheltered the parsonage from the northern blast. Here
Wentbridge on a beautiful pinnacle erected a small summer-house,
commanding an extensive, rich, and delightful prospect, which on the
south comprehended the environs of Wakefield, Sheffield, Doncaster, and
Bawtry, to the confines of Nottinghamshire; on the west, Pontefract,
Leeds, Halifax; extended to the east to the borders of Lincolnshire,
and to the north from the adjacent Ferrybridge to York Minster; and
in its compass included the various picturesque scenes of the finest
part of one of the finest counties in England.--The worthy clergyman’s
heart expanded with benevolent pleasure, as from his little hut he
contemplated the goodly prospect that spread around----

    “Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns,
    And glittering towers, and gilded streams;”

--As he viewed the scenes of pastoral beauty, agricultural
fruitfulness, and manufacturing skill, all combining so powerfully
to produce individual pleasure and prosperity, national opulence and
grandeur. But the patriotism and philanthropy of Mr. Wentbridge were
mingled with other affections, the same in general source, though
more specific in object and operation. His domestic sensibilities
were extremely strong, and in his relations were afforded energetic
incentives to exertion. This clergyman, now about fifty-four years
of age, had been half that time incumbent of Brotherton. About the
age of thirty he had married the daughter of a neighbouring curate,
and thereby rather hurt his worldly interest, as the niece of a
right reverend bishop had cast the eyes of affection upon him, and
would have brought a living of five hundred a year, intended by his
lordship as a dowry to the young lady, who had, with two sisters, not
very extraordinary in beauty, hung very heavily upon his hands. The
right reverend divine indeed, _very contrary to the usual practice of
dignitaries_ in the church, in his disposals of SPIRITUAL preferment,
bethought himself of _Carnal_ subjects. In bestowing a cure of souls,
he had not altogether neglected the consideration of bodies, nor,
in appointing within his diocese ministers for the propagation of
christian knowledge, had he overlooked the propagation of christians.
In short, the bishop having in his gift a considerable number of
livings, and at his disposal a no less considerable number of
daughters, nieces, and cousins, had suffered it to be understood by
reverend young batchelors, that the expectants of livings might be sure
of success if willing to perform all the duties which his providential
care had annexed to incumbency; in other words, that whoever desired
the blessings of tithe pigs, must with his appointment take a wife by
way of a fine. Mr. Wentbridge having been sounded on this subject had
demurred; it was said, indeed, that he observed to a friend, that he
could have no objections to the provisions which the right reverend
bishop had proposed for his bread, but for his meat he liked to choose
for himself. The truth is, Miss Sukey Snatchum was not a very delicate
morsel.

Wentbridge, as we have said, made a different election, and got no
promotion from the bishop. With his wife he lived extremely happy for
twenty years, when, having caught a fever from a sick cottager, whom
she deemed it her duty to visit, she, to his inexpressible grief,
died, leaving two sons and one daughter. The eldest son, now about
twenty-three, was brought up to his father’s profession; the second,
having been on a visit to a school-fellow at Hull, was so delighted
with the shipping, that he caught a fondness for the sea, and was in
the India service. The only child that constantly resided with the
vicar was his daughter.

Eliza Wentbridge was about nineteen years of age, and though not
regularly beautiful had an agreeable, engaging, and expressive
countenance, a good height, a comely figure, with a frank, open, and
unembarrassed manner, the result of good sense, good dispositions,
and a judicious education. Wentbridge had, indeed, spared no pains in
himself forming and directing his daughter’s understanding and heart,
and his wife had contributed her share both to her mind and manners;
and the savings of œconomy and self-denial had not been wanted in
super-adding accomplishment to useful acquirement. For several years
she had resided chiefly at Doncaster, with a sister of her mother, who,
seeking independence by laudable industry and meritorious exertion,
devoted her time and talents to the superintendance of a boarding
school. She was now returned to her father’s, the favourite companion
of his declining years, the partner of his amusements, the minister
of his bounties, the attendant of his excursions, and often the
associate of his studies. Miss Wentbridge was well acquainted with the
best British authors, and a very competent judge of their respective
merits. She was particularly fond of history, then beginning to form
so brilliant a portion of her country’s literature. She inherited from
her father a very high admiration of British efforts in the various
departments of ability and exertion. She admired the national heroism;
often listened with delight to her father’s descriptions of the ardent
struggles for independence, which repelled the operose attempts of
bigotry and despotism, under a glorious sovereign of her own sex,
though she often wished, that with the great and lofty virtues of
that illustrious Princess there had been mixed more of the feminine
softness, the mild and gentle charities which might have spared the
lovely Mary. Descending to more recent events, she would with pleasure
hear the natural though homely recitals of old Maxwell, and enjoy the
fire of his eye, when describing the defence of Bergen-op-Zoom, or the
capture of Quebec; she was well acquainted with the events of the war
just terminated, especially such as displayed heroism, or manifested
British character. Such was the young lady to whom Major Hamilton was
now introduced. Hamilton himself was a man of a very prepossessing
appearance, tall, and graceful; in face, figure, and deportment, at
once elegant and manly. He was now twenty-eight years of age, eleven
of which had been passed in his Majesty’s service.--At the commencement
of the war he had become a lieutenant. Quebec made him a captain, the
Havannah a major. Maxwell had, with his usual glee, recited the actions
to which he himself had been a witness, and had not been sparing in
celebrating his praises, and included the fortitude with which he had
borne his late disaster. Mr. Wentbridge had also spoken in terms of
praise, esteem, and respect concerning the abilities and sentiments of
his new acquaintance, so that Miss Wentbridge had before she saw him
received a very favourable impression of the guest whom her father now
brought to the parsonage. Though for the present lame, Hamilton was a
very fine man, and, though pale for want of exercise, had a countenance
extremely impressive and interesting, intelligent, and animated, with
fine blue eyes, which failed not to speak what he thought and felt. He
was extremely pleased with the acquaintance which he had now made, and
did not fail to testify by words and looks the satisfaction which he
received.

In a few weeks Hamilton’s disaster was healed, but he continued at
Maxwell’s, “apprehensive,” he said, “of the consequences of a long
journey.”--The surgeon, indeed, declared to him, that he might now
proceed northwards whenever he chose; but though he had shewn the
most thorough conviction of the other’s medical skill, had declared
his perfect satisfaction with the treatment of his own wound, and had
made a handsome pecuniary recompence, still, however, he did not rely
so completely on his authority as to commence his travels. Meanwhile
he spent the greater part of his time at the vicarage, where his
heart became completely captivated, and he, ere it was long, had the
satisfaction to find, that Miss Wentbridge was not insensible to his
attentions. Having none to control his inclination, he had no motive
to disguise his wishes from the venerable clergyman, and frequently,
when they were alone, declared in general terms the high respect he had
for his daughter, but did not descend to more particular explanations,
until he should ascertain the sentiments of the young lady herself.
He had not, indeed, any reason to suspect aversion, but he wished
to be more accurately certified, that he might not have construed
complacency, or at most esteem, into affection.

It was now the latter end of October, and the season being wet, the
autumnal rains had swelled brooks into rivers, when our soldier, in
his way to the parsonage, perceiving the young lady in a shrubbery by
the summer-house before mentioned, hastened to join her, over a long
plank which connected the banks of a rivulet, that passed the lower
walks of their pleasure-ground, instead of taking a circuit of thirty
yards to a regular bridge. The place where he was to cross being a
small level at the bottom of a steep hill, formed a kind of pond,
supplied by the cascade from the upper ground, and now deepened by the
great accumulation of water. The plank being slippery, and Hamilton
not having completely recovered the dextrous command of his limb, he
tumbled into the pool and entirely disappeared. Mr. Wentbridge, who
was in a distant part of the shrubbery, aroused by a single shriek,
ran to the spot whence the voice had issued, and found his daughter
in a swoon, whence being by his efforts recovered, she awoke only to
misery, and called on the name of Hamilton, in the wildest phrenzy
of despairing love. The worthy clergyman, who had before suspected
the passion of his daughter, was now apprehensive that some dreadful
disaster had befallen its object. He had been able to remove Eliza
to a mossy bench, and she was still, in terms of the most endearing
affection, deploring the beloved youth; when, descending from the
summer-house, he presented himself safe and sound, though all dropping
with wet. Our Major had been stunned by the sudden plunge, but soon
recovering had swam to the bottom of the bank, and waded farther down,
where he saw the ascent was more practicable, and, missing the nearest
path, had through the labyrinth of a grove found a difficulty in
regaining a view of the summer-house, to which the way was entangled
by copse and briars, and hence so much time had elapsed before his
return. He with rapture heard his Eliza bewailing his fate. When
she was so far recovered as to be conscious of his return, first
her astonishment, her anxious doubts, and lastly her joy, gave her
lover the conviction which he had so eagerly desired to receive. The
considerate care of the father hastened him away to the comforts of
a fire and dry clothes, before he would suffer him to explain the
circumstances of his escape to the young lady, who still appeared to
entertain an unsettled belief of the reality.

In an hour Hamilton completely readjusted, and secure from every
disagreeable effect of this involuntary cold bath, was alive only to
the delightful sensations which its effects had produced.

When he rejoined the fair hostess, in her blushes, in the enchanted and
enchanting pleasure of her countenance, he read the confirmation of
the sentiments which her despair had betrayed. She no longer attempted
to disguise the delight with which she listened to his addresses, and
the tenderness which she felt for his virtues and accomplishments. He
the following day, with her consent, applied to her father, and his
proposals were most favourably and gladly received by the vicar, from
personal esteem and not from motives of interest. A country squire,
far superior to this gallant officer in fortune, had made proposals
to Miss Wentbridge, which the father never approved, and the daughter
had ever most positively rejected. Hamilton, also, if he had chosen
to sacrifice at the shrine of avarice might at different times have
affianced himself to riches, but especially during his recent stay at
London, where his charms had made a conquest of the only daughter
of an eminent dry-salter, with whom he had danced at a ball, at the
Mary-le-bone gardens. But though both parties disregarded interest as
the principal ground of matrimonial connection, yet it was resolved not
completely to disregard pecuniary convenience.

Hamilton received pressing letters from his Scottish friends to
repair to the north, to arrange some concerns with his elder brother,
possessor of his paternal estate; and saw the necessity of compliance.
He wished his destiny to be irrevocably united to his Eliza’s before
his departure; but the affair being referred to the arbitration of the
vicar, he in a friendly award recommended to the parties to postpone
the accomplishment of their purpose until after Hamilton’s return.
The reasons which he assigned for this procrastination, though not
conformable to the wishes of the lovers, were such as their judgments
could not but approve.

Hamilton accordingly set off for his own country, and arrived at the
seat of his ancestors. His elder brother, Hamilton, of Etterick, was
a country gentleman, of about five and thirty, mild in his temper,
amiable in his disposition, and hospitable in his manner of living.
He possessed a good estate, and, being still a bachelor, proposed
by marriage to make it better. He had, indeed, for several years
been, to use his own expression, looking about him for a wife. This
circumspiciency was not without discrimination. His object was what
the Scotch call _a well-tochered lass_, that is, a young lady with
a good portion. Having this simple purpose in view, he had made his
addresses successively to every heiress within forty miles of him,
and had not neglected the proprietors of legacies from old aunts,
cousins, or any other enriching windfall, nor even dowagers if they
had a fortune as well as a jointure. Indeed it had been observed, that
when a lady, to whom he had paid no attention before, happened to have
benefited by any such casualty, he immediately ordered a new pair of
buck-skin breeches, and rode off a courting. If these expeditions
proved unsuccessful, it was not for the want of a fixed plan of
operations. He had been instructed by a friend, that ladies were fond
of receiving love-letters. He, therefore, like Parson Adams with his
sermons, generally travelled with one about him, in case of what might
happen. Not being a man of very fertile invention, the composition
of such productions was not to him a matter of ready execution. The
best substitute for riches is parsimony. If, therefore, his genius
could not do much, the next best means was to make a little go a
great way. He very cunningly contrived that one letter should serve
many courtships. He, as was before observed, proceeded by regular
approaches, being well apprised of the stores in the garrison. His
disposition for the siege were first, as we have said, the buck-skin
breeches, with which he proposed to open the trenches, that he might
make good his communication with the covered way. His next step was the
letter, or proffered terms of capitulation. This summons was to the
following effect:--

“Madam, having by the death of my mother, and the marriage of my
sisters, a kind of vacancy in the family, that makes the house somewhat
lonesome, I find I shall be obliged to enter into the matrimonial
state. Understanding, from report, that you are not disinclineable to
the married condition, I have thought of making you proposals. All my
friends give you a very high character, that I assure you, not any
consideration of property is what now induces me to make bold. Besides
the extraordinary beauty of your face and person, the whiteness of
your skin, your shining eyes, and the fine fall of your shoulders,
the dignity of your walk, not to mention other charms, which, though
invisible, may be well supposed, has created in me a passion, which
preys upon my heart, and will, if not gratified, throw me into a
consumption; which, as the Family Physician observes, is, in this
country, a very frequent and dangerous distemper. Your fortune, I
do assure you, is totally out of my thoughts, and, if you had not a
shilling, I should prefer you to any other woman, though mistress of
all the riches in the city of Glasgow. I hope, therefore, you will
have compassion upon your sincere lover, who thinks of nothing but
your charms. My lawyer will meet with yours whenever you may please
to appoint.--I propose a jointure, which, if you should survive me,
will give you ten per cent. for your money; the said money thereupon
to become my property.--With the most disinterested love, I am, madam,
your adoring swain,

  DUNCAN HAMILTON.”

Though this letter, in many cases, answered pretty well, yet, in some,
it did not altogether suit. Among the various objects of his passion
was a Creole, to whom the praise of whiteness of skin did not entirely
apply; a lady who squinted, that could not so properly be praised for
her eyes. To a third, the fall of the shoulders had been as well left
out, as she happened to be somewhat humpbacked; a fourth, that limped,
might have dispensed with the encomiums bestowed on gracefulness
of gesture.--The laird of Etterick having circulated his courtship
to every opulent lady that he could hear of was soon smoaked. The
portioned misses and dames began to compare notes, and found that as
the object was the same in all his love pursuits, viz. the rent-roll,
funded property, and cash at their bankers’, the means were similar in
every case. At last the laird of Etterick’s courtship became a jest
in the country, and he, now approaching forty, was a bachelor. His
personal charms were not very likely to shorten his celibacy. He was
about five feet four inches high, and extremely slender, with stooping
shoulders, and a pair of legs, whose shape, though often rousing men
to martial deeds, when beating on a kettle-drum, were not the most
promising supporters for a lover.

Hamilton found his worthy senior extremely rejoiced to see him, but
somewhat downcast at a late disappointment. An estate within two or
three miles of him had, it seems, devolved upon an elderly maiden by
the death of a nephew. As, besides her age, she happened to have but
one eye, he had sanguinely hoped for success, and made his addresses
a few days after the interment; but the lady, large raw-boned and red
hair, bestowed her hand and fortune on an Irish recruiting sergeant of
grenadiers.--As rebuffs, however, were familiar to this suitor, he was
not very deeply afflicted. Major Hamilton soon opened to his brother
his engagements with the fair Eliza, and expatiated on the charms of
his lovely mistress. The brother confined his remarks to one question,
whether the property of her father was in land, mortgages, or the
funds? As the major, though he strongly praised other qualifications
of his fair mistress, did not dwell upon her fortune, the laird was
not without apprehensions that he had neglected the main chance, and
advised him to be cautious. “As to love,” says he, “my dear brother,
it does not make the pot boil, and as you soldiers are none of the
richest, I think it would be much better for you to look after a girl
of substance, than to give up your mind to beauty. There are close by
the Eilden hills two young women, just come to capital fortunes, by
the death of their uncle, a rich Paisley weaver. I only heard of it
two days ago, and should have been off immediately myself, but that I
was waiting for you, and also for a pair of new boots. They have ten
thousand pounds each, besides a good freehold estate;--that, my dear
brother, would be just the thing to fit us. Indeed I have even made
up my mind how we should dispose of the money; I would sell to you,
for seven thousand pounds, my spouse’s half of the estate, so that you
would be a landed gentleman of five hundred a year, with three thousand
more to get you on in the army, which, being now time of peace, is
as good a way of laying out your money as any other. Besides, then I
could afford to pay you your portion, which, now as I have been making
purchases and improvements, would derange my plans. I think there is
no time to be lost; for there will be other chaps in the market; and
it being indifferent to me which I shall marry, you may have your
choice.”--The major was totally unmoved by the proffered pieces of
manufactory, but informed his brother, that respecting his portion,
about fifteen hundred pounds, he knew that the proprietor of Etterick
could command such a sum at a day’s notice, and that, as he might have
immediate occasion for it, it would be necessary to make arrangements
for its payment when demanded. This intimation the laird, who gained
much more by his employment of this sum than he paid for its use,
did not altogether relish, but as he could not contest the point,
he answered;--Certainly it was reasonable the major should receive
his money, but that it was not so easy to be raised as he imagined.
Hamilton had, indeed, made repeated applications from abroad, to have
the sum in question remitted to a banker in London, to be vested in
the funds. But the laird as often eluded the requisition.--Though
really attached to his brother, yet he did not forget that, like the
brother of every body else, he was mortal, and probably the sooner
for his profession; and thought that, to use his own phrase, “a bird
in hand was worth two in the bush; and the money, to which he was
eventually heir, was as well in his own custody.” The laird, with a
very moderate understanding, and mild milkiness of disposition, had a
heart less contracted by interested selfishness, than debarred from
benevolent exertion, by feeble timidity, or misguided by family vanity.
His heiress-hunting adventures did not arise so much from grasping
avarice, as from a desire of aggrandizing the house of Etterick. His
pecuniary anxieties resulted less from the desire of accumulation, the
means of gratifying which he had fully in his power, than the fear of
incurring difficulties, for which there were, in his situation, no
probable grounds. Hamilton had written him on his arrival in England,
that he desired to have the disposal of his own money; the laird having
lately bought a property contiguous to his estate, saw that he could
not discharge his brother’s claim without borrowing, and conceived
himself about to be embarrassed, although his estate was two thousand a
year, without any other incumbrance. He had complained to their mutual
friends, of the loss that would accrue to him, if the major insisted on
payment. Those friends, knowing the little foundation for the laird’s
apprehensions, urged his brother to have the affair settled as speedily
as possible, by coming to the spot himself.

The proprietor of Etterick, during the first days of Hamilton’s visit,
repeatedly endeavoured to dissuade him from his intended marriage,
and from taking his money into his own management; but found himself
entirely disappointed in both. At last, a neighbouring gentleman
advanced the sum upon the laird’s personal bond, and Hamilton soon
after returned to the south. He had meanwhile arranged, by letters,
the investment of his property, and the prolongation of his leave
of absence, so that the six following months he could, without
interruption, devote to love and his Eliza.




CHAPTER III.


AFTER an absence of six weeks, which had appeared as many years, he
found himself in sight of the vicarage, and as his chaise ascended the
hill, hailed old Maxwell, who blessed him with the intelligence, that
Miss Wentbridge was in perfect health; and in a few minutes he was in
the vicar’s parlour, and received by the object of his fond attachment,
in such a manner as shewed, that his mistress’s love, though less
impetuous, was no less ardent than his own. The worthy vicar who,
superintending the labours of the opening spring, had, from an adjacent
field, beheld his arrival, in a few minutes joined the enchanted
couple, and diverted their emotions. During the absence of Hamilton,
the vicar had, in an annual visit at the archi-episcopal palace of
York, become acquainted with a general officer of distinguished fame,
who spoke very highly of the abilities, virtues, and high promises of
Hamilton. The testimony of so competent a judge, coinciding with the
opinion which he had himself formed, enhanced Wentbridge’s estimation
of the merits of his brave young friend; and in the destined husband
of his daughter, he fancied he beheld a future commander-in-chief of
an army, fighting for his king and country. Mr. Wentbridge, with the
expansion of the philosophical scholar, and the liberality of the
enlightened gentleman, was not without a professional predilection for
forms of little intrinsic importance. He preferred marriage after the
more tedious process of publishing the banns, to the expedition a
licence, so much more consonant to the eagerness of lovers. As he was
extremely tenacious on this subject, the impatience of the gentleman,
and perhaps of the lady, was obliged to give way.--To divide the
feelings of so very tantalizing a situation, the judicious clergyman
promoted parties and amusements. One of these was a visit to Doncaster,
to be present at a ball. Among the company there came, in the party
of the mayoress, two ladies, the one old and the other young, both
remarkable for the supercilious sourness of their countenances, which,
though not entirely ugly, were extremely disagreeable. The old one,
naturally short, appeared still more abridged by a habit of stooping,
arising chiefly from the eager anxiety with which she bent herself in
company to listen to what was going forward, especially if there was
any appearance of whispering; and as she had of late become a little
deaf, greater efforts were necessary: so that, next to the acidity
which we have before remarked, the chief expression of her visage was
the straining of curiosity not altogether gratified.--The young one,
though not much sweeter than the other in the natural cast of her
visage, tried to make up that deficiency by industry, and where a young
man to her mind made his appearance, she smiled, and simpered, and
lisped, but all could not conceal the groundwork. On these occasions
she succeeded no better than children who, attempting to lessen the
bitterness of the apothecary’s potions by lumps of sugar, only make the
dose more mawkish and loathsome.

This mother and daughter (for so they were) were hardly seated, when
Hamilton and his mistress rose to dance a minuet. The beauties of
Eliza’s face and person, with the graces of her performance, were
of themselves sufficient to rouse the censorious animadversions of
Mrs. Sourkrout; but another cause called forth associations of more
poignant malignity. She fancied she recognized the exact image of one
who had gained the affections of the man whom she had destined for
herself. Enquiring the name of the miss that (as she phrased it) was
figuring away, she was confirmed in her conjecture, on hearing it was
Wentbridge. This Mrs. Sourkrout was that niece of a right reverend
bishop, whom we have before mentioned, as intended by his lordship, as
the condition to be annexed to the gift which he would have bestowed
upon Mr. Wentbridge, for the cure of souls. By the unexpected death
of her uncle, failing in her hopes of a spiritual incumbent, she had
accepted of a carnal, and became the lady of a topping butcher,
extremely proud of the honour of having to wife the _nevoy_ of my
lord the bishop. Mr. Sourkrout throve a-pace, rose to be alderman of
the corporation, and at last to be mayor. Madam was not insensible to
this elevation, and deported herself with what she conceived suitable
dignity, by taking the lead in all companies of the borough, that was
the scene of her grandeur. Even afterwards, when, upon the decease of
her spouse, she began to think herself slighted in the scene of her
late glory, and retired to a distant part of the country, she, among
her new acquaintances, as the dowager of a mayor, expected an homage
and deference, which she was not always so fortunate as to meet; and,
happening to fix upon a neighbourhood not deficient in real gentry,
she found herself less valued there, than when presiding over the
municipal gossips of her corporation entertainment. This inattention
to her dignity added to the sourness of her temper, not naturally
very sweet. There was another source of bitterness; the lapse of many
years had not obliterated the disappointment of her youth, and if love
for the husband might have, perhaps, evaporated from a heart not the
best adapted for retaining tender affections, there was one passion
which remained in its earliest force, hatred for the wife. She had
hated her when alive, and still hated her when dead. Brooding over
her detestation, her fancy saw its object in all that torture and
tormenting beauty and loveliness, which had captivated the object of
her own passion. She had heard, with rage, of the charms of Eliza, and
her striking resemblance of her mother. As the devil, in sending envy
to the human heart, sends its severest punishment in the admiration of
its object, and its own rankling gall, she could not, for her soul,
avoid thinking Eliza the most engaging woman in the room. Nay, her
attempts, in her own mind, to under-rate the charms of Miss Wentbridge,
recoiled on herself in exaggerating their witchery. But though envy
cannot really force itself to a contempt of its object, it may easily
try to assume that disguise. Mrs. Sourkrout, while pining at the
perception of such excellence, observed to her next neighbour, that
the young person on the floor, though awkward and hoydenish, was a
decent enough looking girl. “I suppose,” says she, “she is the daughter
of some farmer, curate, or excise-man; it is wrong of them people
bringing their daughters into genteel company; it gives them high and
foolish notions; don’t you think so, my dear,” said she, turning to her
daughter; “Yes ma’am,” was all the answer that came from Miss, who,
had paid little attention to the question or antecedent conversation.
Miss’s thoughts were indeed far otherwise employed.

Those observers of character, countenance, and dispositions, greatly
err; who, from acidity, or even harshness of visage, temper,
conversation, and actions, infer in women an insensibility to
amorous passions. Indeed these appearances very often arise from
extreme sensibility, crossed in its pursuits, repining at the want
of attainment, or, perhaps, regreting unfortunate success. Mary of
England, the votary of the sourest bigotry, was still more the devotee
of boundless love for her husband. There has often been observed to be
a considerable analogy between mankind and irrational animals. We know
there are cats who will scratch, and bite, and tear others with all the
dissonance of squalling treble, yet softly and gently purr upon their
mates. Miss Sourkrout was a very susceptible young damsel; and if she
still remained in a state of celibacy, it was not for want of good will
to the opposite condition.--She had often shot the rays of love from
her azure-coloured orbs, but they had not reached the destined marks.
Perhaps, indeed, this might be owing to their oblique direction; for it
often happened, that when she intended to direct the artillery of her
charms to the front, its force was spent beyond the right or the left
wing.

Miss Sourkrout had no sooner beheld the manly and graceful Hamilton,
than she was captivated. She immediately betook herself to ogling, an
art in which if she was not perfect, it was not for want of practice.
Planting her batteries opposite to him, she forgot that the movements
of her gunnery were more curvilineal than suited her purpose, and
horizontally instead of perpendicularly carried best at an angle of
forty-five.--She was enraged at the apparent insensibility of the
major, whom she deemed impenetrable to all her glances; but in fact
none of them had reached him.--Those from her right eye caused much
agitation in the heart of a superannuated beau, that sat near the fire
at the upper end of the room; whereas the left reaching an attorney’s
clerk, who sat by the door at the bottom, he conceived himself
challenged to execute a _capias, alias, et pluries_.--This learned
gentleman, not ignorant of the goods, tenements, and hereditaments of
Miss Sourkrout, formed a resolution, which he communicated immediately
to a friend (the waiter by whom he had been introduced), to leave his
master, get possession of Miss and her property, and, perhaps, might
have obtained a verdict in his favour, but for a _nisi prius_, which
proved the young lady’s affections to be the property of another
defendant.

Miss Sourkrout, after having in vain endeavoured to make Hamilton
sensible of her sentiments, made some enquiries, in consequence of
which, she learned his name, and also his approaching marriage with
his partner, whom, in her own mind, she presently denounced for the
severest vengeance. She did not doubt, that so very accomplished a
gentleman must have been entrapped, before he could involve himself
in marriage with a girl of so very inferior a fortune. She concluded,
that such a project must arise from the forwardness of the young lady,
and the lover’s unacquaintance with an object worthy of his addresses.
She, during the country dances, made overtures to conversation which
the major, having no suspicion of her intention or design, returning
with the usual complacency of a gentleman, impressed Miss Sourkrout
with an idea, that her regards were perceived by the object, and that
the discovery was agreeable. As the ball broke up, watching Hamilton’s
motions, she whispered him on the stairs, that he should hear from
her in the morning. Accordingly as they were ready to set out for
the vicarage, a letter was brought to Hamilton, subscribed Juliet,
declaring he was the Romeo had won her affections at a dance, and
hoping that the former Rosalind would, in his affections, give way to
another mistress. Hamilton, who had not been unused to such billets,
smiled and put the letter in his pocket, neither knowing nor desiring
to know who might be the author. The lady, finding that her hero was
departed without paying any attention to so tender an intimation, fell
into a furious passion, terminating in a fit that soon summoned her
mother. The old lady learning the cause of this commotion, sympathized
readily in her daughter’s resentment, and even prompted its effusions,
when she considered that the successful rival of Grizzelina was the
daughter of that abominated woman, who had triumphed over herself. The
mother and daughter, not knowing that the nuptials were so very near,
agitated various schemes for preventing their accomplishment.

Meanwhile the auspicious day arrived, which was to unite this gallant
soldier to his lovely mistress. They were married in the parish church;
old Maxwell, at the express desire of the bridegroom and bride, made
one of the guests at the wedding-dinner. The day was spent in the
most happy cheerfulness, rising to a festive conviviality in some of
the guests, especially the veteran halberdier, which, on any other
occasion, the vicar would probably have reproved; but his heart now
so overflowed, that he readily forgave the effect arising from the
overflowings of his cellar.

Maxwell, in his cups, descanted on the soldier’s character, and
especially the superior success of military men among the ladies. On
that topic he sang as well as he could, the famous song of Dumbarton’s
drums, dwelling with peculiar emphasis on the verse--

    “A soldier alone can delight me O,
    His manly looks do invite me O, &c.”

As several young neighbours were present, a dance was proposed, and
towards the close, Maxwell, who at the beginning had refreshed himself
with a nap, proposed to the company to dance a hornpipe: the Dusty
Miller was attempted, but the music was so little to the performer’s
mind, that he begged the noble commander, as he styled him, to shew
them what Scotch musicianers could do. Hamilton good-humouredly took
his own violin, on which he was a very masterly player, and desired his
veteran friend to name his tune; Maxwell accordingly called for--_If
you kiss my wife_.--Hamilton executed it in so animating a style as
quite inspired the sergeant to feats of agility, that Ireland himself
could hardly surpass. Supper soon after terminated the ball; the party
broke up; Hamilton retired to the happiness of virtuous love in the
arms of his Eliza.




CHAPTER IV.


FOR two months our young couple had enjoyed each other with ardent and
increasing affection, though not without attempts to interrupt their
happiness.--These sprang from Mrs. and Miss Sourkrout whose inventions,
not being so fertile as their dispositions were malignant, had confined
their exertions to anonymous letters, too frivolous in contrivance,
and absurd in execution to produce any effect. From some circumstances
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were able to trace them to the rightful authors;
but without deigning to resent malice so very inefficient.--About
this time a letter arrived from the laird of Etterick, in which he
announced his intention of visiting his brother.--His expectations
from the co-heiresses had, it seems, though he had tried both, proved
as fallacious as his hopes from any of his former undertakings. He
was now meditating to try his fortune among the English ladies, who,
he hoped, would be more sensible to his merits than the misses of his
own country. In a few weeks he arrived at Brotherton; and was greatly
pleased with his reception at the vicarage. He soon contracted a very
high admiration for the worthy clergyman, not so much on account of his
abilities, learning, virtue, and piety, as for his skill in rearing
cattle; and declared, that he had gained so much knowledge of green
crops, during the time he passed in Yorkshire, as would much more
than indemnify the expences of his excursion. Though he spent much
of his time with Mr. Wentbridge, when superintending his husbandry,
and still more with the hind, yet the evenings were passed in the
parlour, and he frequently heard mention made of the machinations of
Miss Sourkrout. As the state of her finances did not happen to be
brought on the carpet, her name excited little attention. But as the
season advanced the evenings grew long and fine, the laird, tiring of
domestic society, found out a neighbouring public house, wherein he was
introduced to an amicable company, consisting of the parish clerk, the
barber, the exciseman, the lawyer, and some others, who, though the
chief subject of their conversation was the state of public affairs,
would sometimes descend to more private considerations. In one of these
conferences the attorney, who had that day returned from Doncaster,
informed the company that he had the honour of spending the evening
in the house of an alderman, that there he had met with a young lady
of a capital fortune, who had treated him with great complacency. “I
do believe,” said he, with a self-approving nod, “that if I had not
been married I might----hem.” The laird, aroused by this intelligence,
inquired what the amount of the lady’s property was, and how it was
disposed of, learned from the communicative lawyer the account he had
heard from the alderman’s lady, that there was twelve thousand pounds
burdened, indeed, with a dowager. The next day the laird, though not
much addicted to balls or assemblies, proposed to his brother and
sister-in-law to go to the first meeting of that sort which should be
held at Doncaster, “wishing,” he said, “to have a view of the Yorkshire
lasses.”--They readily agreed to his proposal, and about a week after
repaired to the festive scene. Thinking an auxiliary might be useful,
in carrying on his enterprize, he had bethought himself of applying to
the attorney, and opened his mind so much to the satisfaction of that
learned gentleman, that he declared he should want no assistance in his
power. The lawyer, early in the day appointed for the ball, rode to
Doncaster, and making a visit to the alderman’s lady, informed her, by
way of news, that there was to be a Scotch gentleman of _four_ thousand
a year in the assembly room that evening, the elder brother of parson
Wentbridge’s son-in-law; that he had heard much of Miss Sourkrout, and
had been making many enquiries about her temper and dispositions. Mrs.
Alderman regarding a dowager mayoress as a very high lady, and having
attained the pinnacle of dignity at which she herself aspired, was
desirous of gratifying the mother and daughter, and hastily conveyed to
them this intelligence.

Both madam and miss were arouzed. A triumph over the daughter of
Wentbridge, who was the wife of a younger brother of the squire, was
not the least consideration with either. No beauty that mantua-makers
or milliners could bestow on so short a notice was spared. When the
company met, the laird having learned which was Miss Sourkrout, after
taking something of a circuit round the room, came to miss, and very
respectfully requested the honour of her being his partner in a country
dance, when they should begin. Miss most graciously complied, and,
though fond of exhibiting herself in a minuet, forbore for the present
that gratification. He, meanwhile, entered into conversation with
both miss and her mother. He soon took a great fancy to the sagacity
of the old lady, and the ingenuity of the young one. At length, the
time for their dance arrived, and a couple exhibited themselves, which
attracted the eyes of the company more than any that appeared that
evening.--The gentleman extremely lank, with high cheek-bones, a lean
visage, the solemn seriousness of aspect which so often distinguishes
our northern countrymen, opposed the lady, squab, fat, and blowsy,
flirting and simpering; he with narrow shoulders, and a flat chest; she
with back broad and brawny, chest large, deep, and capacious. The swain
moved in the attitude of a trotting dromedary, so useful to Arabs; the
nymph like a quadruped which, though little relished by Jews, is not
without value among Christians, and if we may believe Fielding, had
even occupied the chief care of a christian pastor[1]. As both had
laboured extremely hard, they were very happy when the rules of the
assembly suffered them to have rest. The mother most politely thanked
the laird for his attention to Grizzle, to which he answered, after
much consideration, that he thought it the duty of a gentleman to be
polite to ladies: that was a maxim that, he said, had been very early
impressed upon him by his worthy grand-mother, to whom, he observed, he
was chiefly indebted for his education; having, while his brother went
to school, been brought up under the old lady’s own eye. Mrs. Sourkrout
proposed, as they appeared heated with dancing, to take to a rubber,
saying, “she doubted not that a gentleman of his appearance could play
at whist.” “O yes,” replied he, “that was one of my grand-mama’s chief
lessons; from the time I was twelve year old, till I was past twenty,
we spent almost every evening in that pastime, and while my mother
lived, and my sisters were at home, we long after kept in the same
course: but since I am an orphan and lonesome, I send for my foreman,
and take a hit at backgammon. But I should like a rubber very much.”
A party was accordingly formed. Mr. Hamilton and the fair nymph were
partners. Their opponents had won a double, were nine to four of the
second, and had turned up the king; three tricks were gained before the
laird and his partner had got one. Miss Sourkrout, the dealer, with
the king guarded, had two aces, from which she reasonably entertained
sanguine hopes of a bumper. Miss having the queen, knave of trumps,
and a long suit; after taking a trick, shewed a suit; with profound
skill discontinued it, to play through the honour; at the second round
drove the king prisoner into the hands of her partner’s victorious
ace. Her right-hand adversary’s ten fell by the same fatal blow, the
laird’s nine and eight exhausted all the enemy’s trumps, and left his
three lord of the board. Now did the comprehensive wisdom of the laird,
having before its view every trick, return his partner’s suit; the lady
made two more, one only remained the destined victim of the corps de
reserve, and thus secured the victory. A single hand determined the
next game in favour of the laird and miss. Mr. Hamilton considered
the rubber as won by miss’s dexterity, which raised her very high in
his estimation. He with much gravity remarked, “that it was a very
providential circumstance, that she thought of playing through the
honour.”

The major and his lady observed their brother’s attention to Miss
Sourkrout, but thinking it accidental, regarded it with unconcern. The
next morning the laird went to pay the lady a visit, and was very
graciously received.

A few days after, taking an opportunity of being alone with the major,
he turned the discourse upon Miss Sourkrout, with a very particular
detail of her cash and moveables, according to the information which
he had received from his acquaintance the attorney. The major strongly
dissuaded his brother from attempting any such connection; but as in
his dissuasives he said nothing to the disparagement of her fortune, he
made little impression.

The laird visited and revisited the fair object of his pursuit, and as
she and her mamma had taken care to be well informed concerning his
circumstances, he was received with kindness, manifesting itself the
more openly at every succeeding interview. A few weeks concluded the
negotiation, and after a decent sacrifice to coyness and decorum, the
esquire was blessed with all the happiness that the lawful possession
of miss’s charms, such as they were, could bestow. The senior and
junior relations of mayoral dignity soon after set out with the esquire
for the house of Etterick.

Major Hamilton, meanwhile, after having spent the destined time in
Yorkshire, rejoined his regiment, then quartered at Berwick and
adjacent towns.--The remainder of the summer and the following winter
he and his lady passed in the county of Northumberland. The time now
approaching, that was to render her a mother, Eliza anxiously wished
to repair to the vicarage. The major, procuring a short leave of
absence, accompanied her thither, and soon after (March 22d, 1765,)
she presented him with a son and heir. In due time the infant was
christened by a neighbouring clergyman, whilst his grand-father, being
sponsor, gave to him his own name of William. Mrs. Hamilton having
resolved not to delegate to another the duty which she found herself
able to discharge, it was agreed that the vicarage should continue
to be her chief residence, while she suckled little William; and as
the regiment was now removed to York, that the major should spend,
at Brotherton, all the time that he could spare from professional
duty. As these visits, depending in some degree on contingences, were
neither fixed as to time, nor certain as to duration, they enhanced
the impassioned affection with which the husband and wife regarded
each other, and their little boy. Whilst the mother, in the father’s
absence, traced his beloved features in the son, she could not help
reflecting, that the cause of their frequent separation was the
performance of duties that might tear them much farther and longer
asunder; carrying her fancy to events not improbable, she often dwelt
with anxious tenderness on the likelihood there was that Hamilton might
be ordered abroad. Peace, it was true, did not at present seem about
to be soon broken, but discontents already manifested themselves in
America, and might become more serious; should troops be requisite to
support the authority of government, no regiment, she thought, was
more likely to be selected than that of which her adored husband was a
member.--These considerations tinged the love of Eliza with a pensive
softness, that rendered her more peculiarly interesting. Her father,
who divined the cause of her uneasiness, assured her, that should any
circumstance call his esteemed and valued son-in-law to a distant
land, William should be his care, and that no pains or expence, which
an income, though moderate not scanty, could afford, should be wanting
to give him an education becoming a gentleman and a scholar. The
forebodings of Mrs. Hamilton for several years proved unfounded. After
William was of sufficient age and strength to allow her absence, she
accompanied her husband to the regimental quarters, which, though they
frequently shifted, were never farther removed than Liverpool, Chester,
Shrewsbury, or some other town within a hundred miles of her father and
her son.

Before William had reached the second year of his age she had brought
him a brother, and soon after he attained his third she produced
another boy. Young William by this time was a strong, active, sprightly
little fellow, and the chief favourite of his grand-father, who looked
on him as a kind of phenomenon, and though only in his fourth year,
began to teach him the first rudiments of literature.

Having about a year before risen to be lieutenant-colonel of his
regiment, Hamilton had so closely attended to the troops that he
procured a leave of absence for six months, which he, with his
lady, spent with the vicar, and in vigilantly watching the opening
understanding and heart of their eldest son; and from the acuteness of
his remarks, quickness and retentiveness of his memory, and readiness
of his ingenuity, together with the affectionate kindness of his
disposition, all seen through the exaggerating medium of parental
partiality, regarded him as a surprizing instance of intelligence
and goodness. Affection, however, did not so much blind discernment
as to prevent them from discovering that his temper was irritable
and fiery, that under the impulse of anger he would very readily do
mischief, though he soon repented; and they strongly represented to
the vicar this defect in the child, and he promised his efforts to its
correction. Hamilton now rejoined his regiment, which was ordered to
the south of England, and did not for the two following years after
find leisure to revisit his son. William, during this interval, made
quick proficiency under his grand-father; at six years old began his
accidence, and at seven had made no small progress in Corderius.
Besides the old vicar he had another preceptor, who as anxiously
superintended the efforts of his bodily strength, as his grand-father
his mental improvement. This was sergeant Maxwell, who instructed him
in boxing and cricket, as he had himself learned them in his youth,
from Hampshire and Sussex men, when quartered in the south of England;
and also procured him the instructions of young villagers, eminent
for the Yorkshire wrestling, and especially for cross buttocks. Under
his various tutors William made such advances that he had few matches
of his own age, at either grammatical or gymnastical exercises. About
this time the vicar’s eldest son, after having held a fellowship at
Cambridge for several years, was presented to a living in his native
country, near twenty miles from his father’s house. Having, during his
residence at the university, been accustomed to tuition, he proposed
to add to his income by establishing an academy. The vicar highly
approved of this plan, proposed to send his young grandson as a scholar
to the new seminary. His son-in-law and daughter, who were now at the
vicarage, were greatly delighted with this scheme, as they saw their
boy, with many excellent qualities, required much stricter and steadier
discipline than was administered by his grandfather’s indulgence.
The colonel’s regiment being speedily to embark for Ireland, it was
at his instance determined that young Hamilton should be immediately
sent to school. The second son of colonel Hamilton had died an infant,
the third was, at the earnest entreaty of the vicar, left to replace
William. The youngest child, a daughter, accompanied her parents.
Mrs. Hamilton, with extreme reluctance, parted from her two boys;
yet convinced that their respective situation was the fittest that
could be chosen for their several ages, bore it with fortitude. She
was now less uneasy on her husband’s account, than during the first
appearance of American discontent.--The conciliatory policy with which
the administration of lord North had commenced, had already, in a
great measure, quieted disturbances, and it was hoped that measures so
agreeable to the mildness of his character would be uniformly adhered
to, and produce a total cessation of dissatisfaction. From these
expectations, so gratifying to loyal and patriotic politicians, Mrs.
Hamilton drew an inference conducive to private happiness, that the
colonel would not be ordered to America. Cherishing these hopes, she
with the less regret took leave of her father and children, whom, as
the distance was comparatively inconsiderable, she hoped ere long to
have in her arms.




CHAPTER V.


WILLIAM Hamilton, the young hero of this true history, was eight years
of age when he removed to his uncle doctor Wentbridge’s school, in the
neighbourhood of Weatherby. That gentleman began his seminary with a
considerable prospect of success, and among a good number of pupils
had several boys of nearly his nephew’s standing. William’s genius,
therefore, both quick and strong, was stimulated by emulation. His
literary career gave his uncle very thorough satisfaction. Before
he reached his eleventh year, he was advanced to Cæsar and Ovid’s
Metamorphoses, and at the head of a class of promising scholars
in the various school exercises. Though in his disposition frank,
liberal, and bold, and very popular among his schoolfellows, yet he
continued passionate; his anger being vented in violence where prowess
could operate, but where valour was inapplicable, converging itself
into poignant and severe sarcasm; insomuch that his uncle told the
old vicar, William would turn out a very clever fellow whatsoever
profession he embraced, but if he became literary would most probably
be a satirist. The venerable clergyman was pleased with the testimony
borne by his son to his grandson’s ability, but declared his sincere
wish that the violence of his passions might be restrained, and his
sarcastic efforts might be repressed. Though Dr. Wentbridge was no
less desirous of confining his nephew’s satirical effusion within the
limits of moderation, he could not always succeed. There was at the
school an usher of acute and vigorous talents, but malignant in his
disposition, sour and sneering in his manners, selfish and avaricious
in his conduct, extremely ugly and coarse in his appearance. It was
customary at the return to school after the holidays for the scholars
to make a present to this person, and their treatment by him was
generally found indulgent or rigorous, according to the amount of the
donation. Dr. Wentbridge had not thought it necessary, as he paid his
teacher sufficiently himself, to make any addition on account of his
nephew. The covetous pedant was displeased at this omission, and vented
his resentment in rigour and insult to the boy as far as he durst,
without offending the master. William had once or twice complained
of the usher’s behaviour, but as Dr. Wentbridge well knew the
plaintiff’s irritability, and highly valued the defendant on account
of his preceptorial qualifications, he, on rather a summary inquiry,
gave judgment in the defendant’s favour.--The usher, encouraged by
these acquittals, had persisted in persecuting young Hamilton. One
day the boy, now turned of twelve, having finished an exercise, in
which he had translated into English verse the storm in the first
Æneid, had betaken himself to Tom Jones, which he was reading at his
leisure hours with a devouring eagerness. He had before pointed out
parson Thwackum to his schoolfellows, as the representative of Mr.
Scourge, and the usher, was not without an intimation of William’s
comments, but had not a plausible pretext for venting his gall. Now
perceiving that Hamilton was engaged with this novel, while those
about him were occupied at their exercises, he imperiously demanded
why he was not at his task. “The task is finished,” answered the
other, without the reverential preface of, sir.--“What stupid book is
that you are reading, sirrah?”--“I’m reading no stupid book, it’s all
very natural.--There, sir,” said the young dog, “you will see parson
Thwackum is at last found out by his master, and turned off.”--“What
do you say, you scoundrel,” said Scourge. “Away, I am no scoundrel,”
replied the boy, “but parson Thwackum was a scoundrel, and was treated
accordingly.”--The usher considering this remark as treason, proceeded
to summary punishment, and it would have fared hard with our hero,
had not one of the young gentlemen, who was stronger than the usher,
interfered, and sent another to the master, requesting his immediate
presence. Dr. Wentbridge appeared; at once malicious and mean Scourge
preferred his accusation. Wentbridge, not without a knowledge of
the dispositions and character of his deputy, and who of late had
discovered his acrimony against William, soon found out the real merits
of the case: but not desirous of lowering, in the eyes of the scholars,
a teacher whom he found extremely successful, he dismissed his nephew
with a slight rebuke, but sent for him into the parlour, and knowing
he could depend upon his veracity, though not on his temper, desired
him ingenuously to recount the whole circumstances. These Hamilton
very plainly and fully explained. He confessed that, enraged at the
usher’s severity, he had compared him to parson Thwackum, “though,
sir, I must confess, when I saw him entering a complaint to you, and
trying to simper and smile while he is really so rancorous, I thought
of another part.”--“What is that, sir?” said the doctor, pretending
to speak angrily: “Why, sir,” said William, who penetrated into his
uncle’s real sentiments, “that part in which Mr. Blifil, trying to
do mischief, has one of those grinning sneers, with which the devil
marks his best beloved.”--Wentbridge could hardly avoid smiling at an
application, which he could not help thinking most forcibly apposite,
but constraining his countenance, most severely rebuked his nephew for
speaking so disrespectfully of his teacher. He did not, however, fail
privately to expostulate seriously with the tutor on his harshness,
and charged him to abstain from it in future. The usher, who had a
better place than he could easily get anywhere else, was less violent
thereafter, and though, perhaps, he hated the boy more, flogged him
much less.

William’s time now passed very pleasantly, and he proceeded in his
studies, making rapid proficiency. His father and mother regularly
corresponded with our young hero, and derived high gratification from
his letters.

About two years before the regiment had been ordered to America, so
quickly that they had not time to revisit England, and embrace their
children. Our colonel was actively engaged in the battles of Long
Island, New York, and White-plains, and deemed them all, in decisive
success, little adequate to British force, valour, and efforts. He
accompanied lord Cornwallis in his victorious career through the
Jerseys, and had no doubt of capturing Philadelphia, when the commander
in chief, by recalling the victorious Britons, arrested the progress
as it was about to be complete.--He saw and regretted the dissipated
scenes of New York winter quarters, but fortified by principle, and
confirmed by habit, remained uninfected by the destructive contagion.
Disapproving of plans, he was intrepid and skilful in execution.
Lamenting the late outset of military operations in the campaign of
1777, and the circuitous course of invasion, which postponed active
warfare till the season for it was nearly expired. When the British
army at length took the field, colonel Hamilton was one of its most
valiant and skilful leaders. At Brandy Wine and German town, he was
particularly distinguished; he now hoped that British achievements,
though tardy in commencement, would be effectual in result. But
premature departure from the field completed the inutility of British
valour. Northern discomfiture combining with southern inefficiency,
demonstrated the contest to be henceforth hopeless. Hamilton perceived,
with sorrow, the debauchery that unnerved British prowess, and with
mingled pity and contempt beheld the farcical pageantry of triumph
without atchievement, which terminated inglorious command. The capture
of Burgoyne, and the obstinacy which continued hostile contention,
after its object was desperate, rendered large reinforcements of troops
necessary. The levies of new regiments procured Hamilton promotion,
which permitted him to return to Britain with his lady and his daughter.

Our hero was about fourteen years of age when revisited by his parents;
comely, healthy, active, and strong, and in his mental powers and
acquirements far beyond most youths of sixteen. Both father and mother
were proud of such a son, and anticipated future eminence from so
promising talents and accomplishments. As their second son was now at
the same seminary, a neighbouring boarding school was commodious for
the daughter. The colonel and his lady fixed their abode in the same
village. The venerable vicar of Brotherton having for upwards of forty
years discharged, without assistance, the duties of his trust, was,
after he had turned his seventieth year, prevailed on to delegate the
most laborious part of his function to a curate, and was thus able to
spend much of his time in the houses of his son or daughter.

Old Maxwell, though past his grand climacteric, found no difficulty
in walking twenty miles to visit these friends, and especially to
confer with the colonel on the military operations. “Please your
noble honour,” he would say, “I think we have not done half so much
against those yankies as we did against the French, and yet, God be
praised, British soldiers have fought like----what can I say? Why,
like British soldiers. But their generals----; O Lord, your honour,
the slippery ground at White-plains would not have stopped general
Wolfe; the heights of Abraham were a great deal steeper. Some people
change by preferment. I remember at that very place general ----, then
a colonel, was one of the first that got up the precipice. I must
say,” continued the loquacious veteran, “Fort Washington was a gallant
feat. The defence of Quebec was very well too; and so by G--d was the
attack. That Montgomery was a brave fellow; from his name he must be
a Scotchman by birth. Poor Fraser too--but I do not know how it was,
there was a great deal of courage and valiant fighting with no upshot.
We are no nearer the mark than when we began.” The colonel could not
help really coinciding with some parts of this criticism, though for
obvious reasons he did not reckon it expedient to open his mind without
reserve.

Both the Messrs. Wentbridge concurred in censuring the execution of
the war, but carried their strictures also to its plans and origin.
Hamilton as a military man had lofty ideas of the submission due
to government in every department, political as well as military;
and various disquisitions took place from a diversity of opinion,
sufficient to enliven and animate conversation without causing asperity
of dispute. Our hero was often present at these dissertations; and
being permitted to deliver his opinion, and instructed to support it
with acuteness and force, though with modesty and candour, he greatly
promoted the extension of his knowledge, as well as the invigoration
of his powers, by these exercises. He was himself strongly inclined
to the whig side, a reader of the newspapers, and a profound admirer
of Charles Fox. He often expressed the delight he should feel on
being the author of such speeches as were delivered by that celebrated
orator. His father would answer, “You may, if you have merit enough.
There are some eminent men in parliament, who raised themselves from
a situation no higher than yours.” Topics of this sort sometimes
led to considerations respecting the future profession of our hero,
especially when he approached the age of seventeen, and acquired a
degree of classical literature, as well as other knowledge, that
rendered him fit for being sent to an university. His grandfather
reviewing the happiness which he himself had enjoyed in a sequestered
life, and in the vigour of his own constitution hoping for several
years longer life, wished to secure the reversion of his living to his
grandson. The doctor, who by long residence at college chiefly regarded
academic dignities and promotion, did not doubt that the genius and
erudition of his nephew might rise to the highest appointments in
the university, if not in the church. He himself had by his college
connections procured a living, formed his school, and lately obtained a
more valuable benefice. He knew that a contented and unambitious temper
only prevented him from rising still higher, and saw that Hamilton was
of a much more aspiring disposition. The colonel, much as he venerated
the elder, respected and esteemed the younger Wentbridge, yet valued
political more than ecclesiastical advancement, and desired his son to
rise in the state rather than the church.--They all, however, agreed
that he should speedily be sent to an university; and as Cambridge
was best known and most highly prized by Dr. Wentbridge, that was the
seminary chosen for young Hamilton, and preparations were made for his
being entered of Trinity college.

Before William’s departure for the university, he unexpectedly became
acquainted with relations whom he had never as yet seen. The laird of
Etterick had, as we have recorded, returned to the north, possessing
all the charms of his Grizzle’s person, and the half of her twelve
thousand pounds, the old lady having retained the other during life,
a period which the honest laird could not help thinking very long.
Etterick had not all the satisfaction in this connection that he had
hoped;--not that he felt or had any reason to feel jealousy. The
amiable Grizzle had indeed had the good fortune never to excite any
inordinate desire: during her virginty the views of her suitors had
been bounded by her pockets; and since her entering the marriage-state,
all men that saw her regarded her as having disposed of the only
temptation which had been ever in her power; and the laird when in
his cups, sometimes wishing to celebrate the wonderful purity of his
wife, would declare that she was not only singularly virtuous, but
that he would venture to say no man ever desired her to be otherwise.
So wrong-headed women are sometimes found, that the lady did not
relish this compliment, and no subject was more grateful to her than
assertions that attempts had been made upon her virtue. The laird
and she, after the honey-moon was over, were not extremely rapturous
in their expressions of affection. Sometimes, indeed, they fell into
little sparring matches which temper the sweets of connubial ecstacies.
In these family-pieces Mrs. Sourkrout would now and then take a part.
The chief subject of dispute was the rank and consequence of the
respective families, whether the daughter of a mayor or the laird
of Etterick brought the greatest honour. This point was frequently
contested with warmth, and introduced a great variety of narratives,
of arguments, replies, and rejoinders. The laird would mention the
many centuries during which the family of Etterick had lasted. They
had often been in the suite of the earls of Douglas, and had been
extremely active in plundering the English borders. They had three
boars’ heads for their arms: from which it was inferred by themselves,
that their forefathers had been intrepid and successful hunters;
whereas the detractors of the family derived those emblems from the
will and bequest of one of its maternal uncles, who, having been an
eminent pork-butcher at Newcastle, in leaving his wealth to a nephew,
proprietor of Etterick, then much involved, had chosen to annex
to his legacy a condition referring to his own profession. To this
last interpretation the lady would adhere. The laird would farther
asseverate, that the family of Etterick had from many generations
in its marriages kept to its own rank; and that if he had a little
demeaned himself, he still thought Grizzle ought to be sensible of the
promotion she had received, and duly to value the alliance to which
she had been raised.--The lady’s first line of arguments by which she
opposed so unwarrantable attacks on the dignity of the Sourkrouts
consisted of the mayor and his importance, and corporation dinners and
election balls, and the mayoress partner to the chief candidate my
lord Ethelwald Mercia, son to Edgar earl of Pentweazle, the Countess
of Coventry’s Minuet danced by the said lord and said mayoress. But
if the first line by the force of his charge did not discomfit the
boars’ heads and the Etterick antiquity, there was a strong line of
reserve, commanded and with impetuous fury led on by Mrs. Sourkrout
herself, consisting of her uncle the bishop. The laird of Etterick
ought to remember, that the lady who had honoured him with her hand
was great niece to a spiritual lord. Was any of his boars’ heads a
right reverend father in God? could any of them shew a mitre on their
carriage?--The laird, finding his opponents more voluble than himself,
at last desisted from contesting the point; unless now and then when
he returned from a conference with the parson over Maggy Wood’s
whisky-punch, or from a meeting of justices held to promote good morals
and especially sobriety among the poor, or from a Monday’s dinner after
the administration of the sacrament.

With these little interruptions they were not on the whole deficient
in family harmony, and Providence blest their loves with a daughter,
who, followed by no sister and interrupted by no brother, was destined
heir of the estate of Etterick and the money of Sourkrout, both
considerably increased by the œconomy of her parents. Mrs. Sourkrout
passing the summer in Scotland generally wintered at her house in
Doncaster: there she was at this time situated. The laird not having
for many years seen his brother, proposed to fetch the dowager, and
with his wife and daughter to visit the colonel. Accordingly they set
out, and in due time reached the abode of our hero’s parents. The
colonel and his son were abroad on a visit; and Mrs. Hamilton, having
completely forgiven the machinations of the quondam Miss Sourkrout,
now received her with a cordiality and kindness of a sister-in-law,
and was no less affectionate in her treatment of the laird and their
young Miss. The heiress of Etterick was now about fifteen years of
age but a very forward plant, combining her father’s height with her
mother’s breadth and rotundity: she also inherited the maternal locks
with a ruddy complexion and sanguine aspect. Though father and mother
did not coincide in every subject, they agreed respecting Sukey; both
indulged her without restraint or moderation. The old lady, though it
must be confessed not very prone to kindness, cherished this her heir
and representative with more boundless fondness than even her parents
themselves. Miss Sukey was accustomed to speak without reserve whatever
she thought or felt. She had not been half an hour in the house before
she asked Mrs. Hamilton if they had many fine young men about the
place? and whether her cousin William was not very handsome? The lady
of the house having smiled without returning a direct answer, she went
on to an account of the different gentlemen she knew, with an accurate
description of their respective features, face, height, and shape. She
was standing by a window expatiating on these subjects, and her aunt
and mother were sitting at some little distance, when suddenly stopping
and gazing out for a minute she exclaimed, “Good Lord! mother, what a
lovely youth!” but before the mother came to make her observations,
the young man was out of sight. A few minutes after, colonel Hamilton
entered the room; and after a very affectionate meeting with his
brother, and paying his respects to his sister-in-law and niece, he
sent a servant to the doctor’s to summon his two sons. Henry, the
youngest, first made his appearance; a fine, active, blooming boy of
fourteen, with the carelessness about dress incidental to boys before
the ideas of commencing manhood give them different sentiments. Soon
but not immediately after arrived William, and was recognized by his
cousin to be the person whom a little before she had so lavishly
praised. William was now entered the eighteenth year of his age, with
an animated, expressive, and engaging countenance, above the middle
size, well proportioned, graceful, active, and muscular, with a frank
and manly address, and manners which, though they did not amount to
courtly politeness, coming directly, were more impressive than the
most studied refinement. His charms and accomplishments had already
made an impression on some of the young Delias who had learned, while
perusing their prayer-book at church, to take a glance at the Damons,
and with soft eyes, pouting lips, and dimpling cheeks to indicate the
blossoming emotions of nature. William however, though fully sensible
to female charms, had not fixed his attentions on any particular
object; or rather was the admirer of every pretty girl he saw, and
of her most whom he had last beheld. Young as he was, he moreover
possessed a very considerable discernment; and though he might be
pleased for a time he could not be long interested, by any object that
did not add good sense and sensibility to beauty. His cousin, minding
mere external appearance, was captivated at first sight with our young
hero; and having been instructed by her grandmother and her old nurse
that a young lady of fortune is to be baulked in nothing that she may
please to desire, instead of concealing her sensations, she with much
pains displayed them to their object; and though William certainly
did not make the expected return, yet, as she could not learn that he
was attached to any other, she hoped her battery might ultimately be
effectual. But before that blessed time arrived, our hero set off for
the university.




CHAPTER VI.


OUR hero arriving at Cambridge was entrusted to the care of the head
of a college, the old intimate friend of his uncle, and entered as
a pensioner. Hamilton had carried with him a stock of classical
literature that equalled the proficiency of any cotemporary youth
from even Westminster or the other great schools. He also had made
some progress in mathematics. This happened to be what Cantabs call a
good year; among the fresh men there were a great proportion of hard
students. Our hero made one of the number, and made a distinguished
figure in the various exercises. He excelled both in Latin and English
composition in prose and verse, and made several essays at poetry
that displayed a fancy both strong and brilliant. His satiric vein,
which grew with his age, was not unemployed. Enraged against Mr. Fox
for coalescing with a statesman whom in the judgment of Hamilton he
had execrated so justly, he for a time forgot his attachment to the
transcendent orator, and wrote a ludicrous poem in the measure of
Hamilton’s Bawn, containing a brilliancy and force of imagery with a
satiric poignancy not unworthy of a Sheridan. This essay was the more
highly relished at Cambridge because it sided with Mr. Pitt, the proud
political boast of that university. But these sportive exercises of
his genius were far from chiefly employing the talents of our youth.
According to the inculcations of his preceptors, and the example of
the most admired students, he applied himself with peculiar vigour
to mathematics; and as he approached the year of his graduation,
was farther stimulated by the hopes of academical honours. He also
added metaphysics on a more extensive scale than is usual at English
universities, and did not neglect ethics and political œconomy. He
imbibed the high spirit of liberty which Cambridge breathes, was a bold
and constitutional whig, and a great friend to Smith’s doctrines of
free trade. He approved greatly of Mr. Pitt’s principle of commercial
politics, the expediency of exchanging surplus for supply; and wrote in
one of the periodical publications an essay on the Irish propositions,
which was very highly valued by both parties, both for the vigour of
reasoning and eloquence of impression. Some of his academical friends,
to whom he communicated this production, strongly advised him to
superadd the lighter graces of rhetoric; and by their advice he read
Cicero, Quintilian, and Blair. This last work was the subject of his
studies during one of the vacations while he visited his friends in
Yorkshire.

There he passed about two months, delighted and astonished them by his
powers and attainments. Care had been bestowed on his accomplishments
as well as his erudition. His mother saw with pleasure he was the
best dancer at Doncaster ball. His father having introduced him to
the officers of his own corps quartered at Leeds, he was universally
allowed to be one of the finest men on the parade. Old Maxwell vowed
that he ought to be at the head of the grenadier company. The young
farmers acknowledged that at foot-ball, wrestling, and cudgel-playing,
young Mr. Hamilton was a match for any man in the West Riding. The
young damsels bore witness to the handsomeness of his face, the
sweetness and spirit of his eyes, and the fineness of his figure; not
forgetting the charmingness of his dancing. William himself, though
sensible of the power of beauty, was not smitten, at least deeply, by
any young lady. With very considerable sensibility, he had little of
the delicate and sentimental: he liked a pretty girl when he saw her,
and another pretty girl when he saw her; but without being the votary
of languishing and pining love.

His cousin Susan had not yet forgotten her sweet William, as she styled
him. Not but that she had flirted with a cornet of horse, a lieutenant
of marines, the young laird of Mospaul, and some others of late. She
had from being giddy taken rather a serious cast, and it seems from
the following cause. One Roger O’Rourke, a native of Carrickfergus,
had come to Edinburgh to push his fortune, with one coat, one shirt,
one fiddle, and no pair of breeches, and had been employed as a
performer by a dancing-master. Being himself a muscular active fellow
and a capital hand at an Irish jigg, in summer, when his master’s
business was slack, he resolved to try his hand, or rather his legs, in
delivering instructions himself through country villages. In the course
of his itinerancy, he had arrived at Etterick, and had the honour to
give lessons to Miss, in order, as the laird phrased it, to keep her
in exercise. The following winter he had been induced by a female
acquaintance to visit the Methodist chapel, where, as this friend
instructed him, he would hear the choicest doctrines for poor frail
sinners. O’Rourke soon became a convert to tenets which he found very
accommodating, and readily entered into a compromise to swallow all
their articles of faith and keep to his own articles of practice. Being
a fellow of lively fancy, an enterprizing and adventurous disposition;
he having during that winter heard the sermons, joined in the private
devotions, partaken of the love-feasts, given and received the holy
kiss, experienced the communion of saints, in short, served the
apprenticeship of Methodism, he determined to set up as a journeyman,
and the following summer to have two strings to his bow,--dancing and
preaching. Our strapping missionary set out and was not long a visiting
the mansion of Etterick; but with his dress and appearance very greatly
changed. For whereas in the former year, he had been a smart fellow,
with a bonnet and green ribbon, a short green coat, tartan waistcoat,
and trowsers, he had now a slouched hat, a complete suit of black,
which he had got through the munificence of a taylor’s lady, that
described him to her husband as a powerful labourer in the vineyard
of the Lord. Miss, who had regarded her dancing-master with much
complacency, scarcely recognized him under this metamorphosis; and, at
first, when informed of the double capacity in which he proposed to
act, treated him with ridicule. Her mother, however, was of a different
opinion; that good lady was not without a pre-disposition to Methodism.
She had spent some part of the preceding winter at Glasgow, and was
much pleased with the sublimated Calvinism which she there heard; as
she, indeed, always had been the friend of faith without works. She
had at Edinburgh attended the chapel of Lady Glenorchy, or, as it was
usually called, _the Lady’s Kirk_; and, finally, she had quarrelled
with the parson of her own parish, because he had given shelter to a
servant whom she had been pleased to buffet and discharge, though not
in the wrong. Being, therefore, not disinclined to undergo conversion,
she chid her daughter for treating so sacred things lightly. Suke,
having reconsidered the matter, reflected, that, though the outward man
was different, the inward was the same; she even complimented him on
the change; in his trowsers, she said, he had looked too _robustious_,
in his blacks he was more genteel. Under this instructor Miss Sukey
made rapid progress in grace; she had learned all the spiritual terms,
and had read Whitfield’s and many others’ Sermons, and, through the
ministry of the fervent Roger, had very nearly reached the goal of
female saintship[2]; when, behold, a letter arrived from a friend
at Doncaster, that knew nothing of Miss Sukey’s spiritual change;
describing the appearance of William Hamilton at the ball, and setting
forth his charms, and the many young ladies whom they had captivated.
The evangelical pastor and this wandering sheep (not, like Miss
Prudence, little, but of the _Tiviot-dale_ breed,) were sitting on a
sofa, discussing the doctrine of spiritual love, which he elucidated
by apt illustrations; he had exemplified the kiss of peace, and was
imprinting on her lips the kiss of joy, when a foot on the stair made
them withdraw from the closeness of their devotions, afraid lest their
holy zeal, being misconstrued, might be a stumbling-block to the
ungodly; and she had reached the window, when a servant brought the
letter. Miss Sukey having read and reread this epistle, her affection
for Hamilton immediately rekindled in her combustible bosom. Roger and
his kiss of joy had no longer any joy for her. She resolved that her
father and mother should immediately accompany her to Yorkshire. Again
looking at the dear letter, she observed a postscript which had before
escaped her, mentioning that it was remarked that the excellent old
Mrs. Sourkrout had been of late declining much; she ran to her mother
and shewed her this postscript, and did not fail to recollect a dream
which she had about her grandmamma:--she had seen that beloved lady
lying on her death-bed, reproaching her daughter and grand-daughter
for neglecting her in her last moments. Her conscience could not be
at ease unless they posted instantly to the house of their parent. The
mother, who was incapable of refusing any requisition to her daughter,
granted this the more readily, as she wished to take cognizance of the
old lady’s progress in grace. The laird, who was generally passive
on such occasions, did not object to the intended expedition; and,
when his wife and daughter had left the room, ringing for his chief
confidant and counsellor, the footman, with much glee squeezed him
by the hand, saying, “Andrew, my boy, the everlasting dowager is
going at length; by the Lord she has had a tough time of it; when we
have her once under ground, we shall have a ranting night of it at
Maggy Wood’s.” They prepared to set out immediately; Roger accosted
Miss as she came into the hall equipped for her journey, but to his
astonishment received no answer. She hurried into the carriage, was
followed by her parents, and they drove off, leaving the preacher to
account for this sudden change; all he could learn from the servants
was that the old lady was at the point of death, for so Andrew had
reported. He wished Providence had deferred this intelligence a little
longer: meanwhile he addressed himself to the hearts of other devotees.

The travellers had proceeded with such expedition that, having left
Selkirk at three o’clock in the afternoon, they the next evening at
nine arrived at Doncaster, and, very little to the satisfaction of the
laird, found Mrs. Sourkrout engaged at whist and in high spirits, in
the very act of receiving three tricks for a revoke. She was agreeably
surprised by a visit of which she had no apprehension of the motives.
But, though she was not so ill as the laird had expected, she was
so much emaciated he was not without hopes of soon laying her under
ground. The dowager asked Miss Suke if they had taken the colonel’s
in their way, and if she had seen her cousin William? She answered in
the negative; but learned with much satisfaction, that he was expected
in town the following day to the races. The next day came, William
made his appearance, and paid his compliments to Miss with the ease
of good-humoured indifference. Miss was in raptures with her charming
cousin, as she did not scruple openly to call him, but could not help
finding that though he behaved with polite attention he exhibited no
marks of mutual regard. She watched his eyes as they followed various
belles; and though she did not see them fixed long upon one object,
she saw the expression was much more animated towards several objects
than to herself. The third day, she observed our hero very earnestly
ogling a smart young milliner that came to the inn with preparations
for the ensuing ball, and that as she left the room William went out
also; softly following them to the stairs, Miss saw them meet, and
William bestow on her a kind caress not unlike Roger O’Rourke’s kiss
of joy. Though various opportunities had offered, he had never made
the least advances to such a freedom with Miss Sukey. After a minute
the fair companion of Hamilton caught a view of the listener, and
hurried away. Hamilton, who had not seen her motive, hastened after
her to the street. Meanwhile Miss Sukey retired to consult a favourite
servant who had followed them by the stage-coach; she was directed to
watch the motions of the dresser of caps and her supposed admirer,
which she could the more easily do as she had seen both without being
known to either. Betty executed her commission, and observed both at
a small distance in a lane that opened to a large garden belonging to
the inn. This intelligence she communicated to her young mistress,
and they set out to reconnoitre. As the garden was full of bushes and
trees, it was not difficult to see without being seen, or to hear
without being heard. Hamilton was a young man of honour and principle,
and consequently could not deliberately plan the seduction of an
innocent female, nor even intentionally engage her affections and so
distress her heart: but he was by no means averse to intrigues, when
he conceived the object not to come under that description. Jenny
Collings, the daughter to a Sheffield manufacturer, after having
been an apprentice in her native town, was now assistant to one of
the chief milliners in Doncaster. She was a pretty lively girl, with
what are called roguish eyes; fond of admiration, thoughtless, giddy,
with no little appearance of levity. Hamilton had repeatedly seen her,
and, from her volatile manners and appearance, had formed a conjecture
that really did not do her justice. Under that impression he at first
addressed his glances, which she, pleased with the attention of so
fine a youth, had so returned as to convey a different impression from
that which she intended, and to confirm him in his opinion. He had
taken an opportunity before that morning of signifying his attachment,
not doubting that she perfectly understood its nature and object. She
encouraged his advances by a repetition of her unguarded behaviour,
and in this disposition they now met as before seen and reported by
Betty.

Our hero and his companion had arrived at an alcove at a remote part
of the garden, and were engaged in conversation, mingled with that
dalliance which, favoured by opportunity, is between the sexes so
dangerously progressive; when Miss Sukey and Bet posted themselves
behind the recess, to explore the secret transactions between the
parties. The lovers were wound up to a very interesting pitch, and
poor Jenny was about to pay the price of her levity, when her guardian
angel, assuming the shape of a female actuated by curiosity, saved her
from the impending danger. Both Betty and Miss Sukey had heard the
enraptured whisperings of ardent attack, the soft sighs and imperfect
repulses of feeble and yielding defence, when Miss Sukey espied a
cranny in the summer-house, through which she did not doubt she might
more thoroughly ascertain facts. Bending forward over a bush to reach
this place of contemplation, and, in her eagerness, not minding her
balance, she fell plump against the boards into the bush, and set up a
scream. The lovers hastily withdrew, and Jenny had time to recollect
her many engagements for the day to the various belles of Doncaster,
to decorate and equip them for the important evening. She hurried
home without adverting to the perils which she had avoided. Hamilton
having parted with his companion betook himself to the place whence the
interrupting voice had issued, and there met with Miss Sukey and her
attendant. Miss, totally unused to dissimulation, pouted and frowned.
Betty, with the pert flippancy and consequential self-importance of
a waiting-maid exalted into confidence, first asked what he had
done with his sweetheart, and then, putting her hand in her side
and elevating her face, declared that a gentleman such as he _oft_
to be ashamed of himself for keeping company with _sich_ nasty low
trollops. Hamilton walked on as if unconscious to what circumstance
the sage remarks of Madam Betty had alluded. Miss Sukey and Mrs. Betty
having returned to the house, the pin-sticker expatiated with great
severity on the wickedness of Hamilton, and finally declared him
totally unworthy of the regard of her young lady. “Ah! my dear Miss
Sukey, were I to give my humble opinion, I think he is nothing to come
into _compolisom_ with Mr. O’Rourke. Mr. Roger is both more taller
and more properer; he has the fear of God before his eyes, he is in
a state of grace, and is moreover the best built, best shouldered,
and best limbed man one can see in a summer’s day; he is _consarned_
for the good of your soul. If you had seen him how grievously he took
to it when you went away without once speaking to him, you would have
bepitied the poor youth. Were I as you, Madam, I would give over all
thought of your ungrateful cousin and give my mind up to Mr. O’Rourke.
He converted you to a state of grace, and enlightened you with the
knowledge of the gospel. He would be a loving and a cherishing husband,
and not be running after such gilflirts under your nose.” Betty was
not altogether disinterested in this praise. Roger, by his piety and
other qualifications, had made a very deep impression upon this young
woman. He had protested to her that she was the real object of his
affection, and that his attentions to Miss Sukey were only bestowed
on her account. Roger’s Methodism, like that of many others, admitted
a very great laxity in moral practice and the duties of social life.
Betty, who had already given him every testimony in her power of her
love and affection, desired his promotion and aggrandisement; and was
not without the hopes that he might marry the heiress of Etterick,
while she might in private share with him some of the benefits of this
affinity. Besides remote views, she was not without the apprehension of
more urgent circumstances, which for the convenience and welfare of her
and _hers_ required an addition to the worldly substance of Mr. Roger
O’Rourke. She, therefore, very anxiously endeavoured to detach Miss
Sukey from Hamilton. The disappointed affection and pride of Miss Sukey
co-operated with the instances of Mrs. Betty, and the cold deportment
of Hamilton at the ball conduced powerfully to the same purpose.
Our hero had no motive to pretend sentiments and affections which he
did not feel. He was disgusted with Miss’s appearance and general
demeanour; and not knowing, because not regarding, her sentiments
towards himself, he had imputed the adventure in the garden to the
influence of prying and impertinent curiosity, and had from that time
treated her with an undisguised contempt, which those who most deserve
can least bear.--Meanwhile he continued to bestow attention on Jenny
Collings, and they had frequent private interviews. Hamilton did not
intend to seduce,--Jenny did not intend to be seduced;--but the result
was the same as if there had been the deepest premeditation on either
side. So true it is that instances occur in the history of love as well
as of politics in which _killing is no murder_[3]. Designed seduction,
if followed to all its probable effects of vice and misery, is one of
the greatest crimes that can be committed; and exceeded in hurtfulness
by few affecting private individuals only, except murder. But there
are gradations in the one as in the other, according to the degree
of intention: there is a poison which undermines and destroys the
vitals of virtue; an assassination, which attacks it in its unguarded
and defenceless seasons; culpable homicide, in which without _malice
propense_ both parties are to blame, and chance-medley the effect of
unfortunate situations and collisions of passions. From such recontres
female virtue is more frequently in danger than from any other. Many
persons who are peaceable enough when sober, are prone to fight when
heated with liquor: such ought to abstain from too plenteous libations.
There are, likewise, many extremely well disposed young women, who
yet are not to be trusted with the no less intoxicating beverage of
moonlight walks, or even daylight excursions through fields and woods.
Though there may be no particular plot formed against innocence and
happiness, yet nature and passion have contrived a general plot,
which, carried on in such scenes and by such actors, rarely fails to
produce the catastrophe. As, alas! all the human race is frail, the
best and wisest of moral systems has strongly inculcated, that the
surest means of avoiding vice is to keep from temptation. Chastity
may be considered as a garrison, which may stand a very long siege,
may either repulse the assailant or make terms of honourable and
advantageous capitulation. But where discretionary capture is the
besieger’s object, a storm will rarely answer the purpose; he tries
either sap or surprize. The first of these two modes depends on the
skill of the besieger; requires time for his arts to operate, and may
be resisted by equal skill supported by firmness. As he mines, you
may countermine, and, perhaps, finding that you will not surrender at
discretion, in his eagerness to have possession, he will grant such
terms as even the bravest garrison may with honour receive. In a siege
of this kind the chief danger is from _mutiny_; there may be a strong
party well affected to the enemy, let reason, the governor, (not crush
these, for that would often be impracticable, but) win them over by
demonstrating, that firm and vigorous resistance is the only way to
insure to them the terms which they desire. But, perhaps, the most
frequent mode of capture is surprize, the outposts are unguarded, the
centinels are asleep; a reconnoitring party, which has approached the
fortress without any thoughts of a capture, is invited by this obvious
carelessness to make the attempt, and carries the castle before any
alarm is given. Let my youthful readers of the softer sex attend to
these admonitions: let them not trust too much to their own strength:
their surest strength is the caution of conscious weakness. Let parents
and guardians not only supply the garrison with stores of principles,
but strongly line all the approaches to situations from which those
principles might be blown up; and take special care firmly to secure
the outposts: then they may avoid the fortune of Jenny Collings,
who fell a victim, not to the designs of an enemy, but to her own
indiscretion and imprudence.

Our hero now greatly relaxed in the intenseness of his studies. A
cousin of his mother’s who lived by Doncaster had repeatedly asked
him to spend a month in shooting with him. Hamilton had not been
peculiarly addicted to this amusement, and had refused the offer; but
he now changed his mind, and accepted the invitation, alleging that
his Cambridge friends had often ridiculed him for his ignorance of
that diversion, and that on reflection he wished to learn it under so
skilful a master. His parents agreed to be of the party, and Hamilton
continued there during the remainder of the vacation. The sagacious
reader will not need to be informed of the real motive of chusing this
place of residence, or that he very frequently had interviews with Miss
Collings. This poor girl, though thoughtless and giddy, possessed
both sense and feeling. Hamilton, who had conceived her addicted to
intrigue, was now convinced he had totally mistaken her character, and
that he had done her an irreparable injury. Her peace of mind he saw
was gone, and felt with poignant remorse that he was himself the cause.
Her fondness for him increased almost to distraction, while regret
and pity gave a softness to his conversation and attentions, that her
wishes and hopes construed into reciprocal love. As the time approached
in which he must depart for Cambridge, finding that not only the heart
of this young woman was torn asunder, but that her reputation must
eventually suffer, he himself became a prey to dejection, contrition,
and remorse. His parents did not fail to remark his altered countenance
and spirits, but without being able to explore the cause. Meanwhile he
concerted with Miss Collings a plan which, though it might not prevent
suspicion, would hinder certain exposure. Having somewhat reconciled
Jenny to his departure, he returned to the university.

Soon after the ball before commemorated, Miss Sukey had earnestly
insisted on returning to Etterick. Old grandmamma made one of the
party: and, when the laird returned, he renewed his complaints to
his cronies, that she still was everlasting, and that the treat to
be given on her burial must be postponed, as the dowager was above
ground. His lady by this time had made great progress in bringing her
mamma to a state of grace. Miss being now returned from her wanderings
after another shepherd to the folds of Methodism, and affection for
its pastor also warmly promoted the spiritual amendment of her
grandmother. Betty lent her assistance, and nothing was wanted to
confirm the dowager in the right way, but the ministry of Roger. This
powerful engine of conversion was not wanting long. O’Rourke, having
received faithful information from his votary Betty of the state of
affairs in the Etterick family, was at the mansion-house the day after
their return. He found himself received with great cordiality by his
female devotees, and by Miss with many kind glances. He observed that
the laird regarded him very coldly, and that this displeasure was
increased by the lady, who strongly exhorted her husband to refrain
from profane company at the public-house, and to attend to the
admonitions of Mr. O’Rourke; and the laird feared lest the influence
of the preacher might abridge if not prevent his evening potations.
O’Rourke was naturally a sagacious fellow, with a great deal of
versatility and address. He could become all things to all men. He took
an opportunity of accosting the laird one afternoon in the fields,
and bestowed many encomiums on his skill in farming. The laird, who,
as O’Rourke was a favourite with the higher powers, did not chuse to
behave uncivilly at first, listened to him with indifference, but, as
O’Rourke hit his favourite subjects, at last, with complacency. He had
descanted on the excellence of a field of wheat then ready for the
sickle, and they had walked along a path by its side, when they arrived
at a stile within view of which was the ale-house, the scene of the
laird’s evening amusements. Etterick, supposing that they must now
part, paid his companion a compliment, saying, “Really, Mr. O’Rourke,
you have more sense than I thought you had, and I think you and I
may be better friends than we have been, but don’t you now tell at
home that you saw me going towards Wood’s.” “So far from that, please
your honour,” said O’Rourke, “that if you will allow me I will attend
you, but it is for the honour of your company, and not for the liquor.
Although I must say I see no harm in a cheerful glass with a friend.”
“I thought, Mr. Roger, you would think it contrary to religion.”
“Oh, not all. Our religion minds higher things, faith and grace; but
is not so ticklish as to mind a little drop of whisky.” “Whisky is
good,” replied the laird, “but rum is better;” “and so thinks myself,
please your honour.” By this time they were arrived, and the laird’s
usual companions being engaged at the harvest, they had the parlour to
themselves. The first bowl of punch passed in spiritual discourse, and
O’Rourke had assured the laird, that if he would join the methodists
in their prayers and spiritual devotions, his pleasures at other times
should not be an inch abridged. By the end of the second bowl, this new
disciple had come to a kind of compromise, that he should attend to all
the prayers and devotions which did not interfere with the club-hours.
This point of conscience being satisfactorily settled, they proceeded
in their jovial career. The acquired gravity of the saint gave way to
the natural vivacity of the Irishman. O’Rourke sang several songs, and
told several comical stories, and was actually engaged in the first
stanza of

    “Sweet Molly Mog is as soft as a bog!
    As wild as a kitten, &c.”

when the evening bell rang for prayers, which ever since O’Rourke’s
residence in this mansion had been regularly performed, at stated
periods, by the whole family, besides their private devotions. O’Rourke
was somewhat startled at this sound, as the punch was excellent and
the bowl nearly full; but being a ready-witted fellow, he immediately
dispatched a note to the lady, informing her that he had met his
honour; that the finger of God was evident in the meeting; and that
he was in a blessed condition of conversion. He had got the effectual
calling, and wanted only a little fillip more of the spirit of the
gospel, to make his election sure; that in a short time he would
prevail on him to come home, and join in the evening exercise. Having
sent off this epistle, our apostle gave up Molly Mog; and, to put
the laird in a right frame, expatiated on the joys of heaven and the
terrors of hell. At this last subject he declared, that sinners who
did not repent, that is to say, betake themselves to faith and grace,
would be burned by the devil until they were as black as the skin of a
roasted potatoe. “And come, here’s a bumper to your honour’s salvation,
and I shall be glad at time and place _convanient_ to lend you a lift.
You’re in a blessed disposition, and if you keep to it you’re sure of
getting to heaven among the saints and the pretty little angels; and
heaven, let me tell you, is as fine a place as the Curragh of Kildare,
or the lake of Killarney itself.” “Yes,” answered the laird, with
true Caledonian gravity, “it is a blessed mansion, where God grant we
may arrive with due speed.” “Oh,” replied Roger, “there’s no hurry.”
The laird now whistling, the landlady made her appearance. The laird
inquired what was to pay, and being informed, ordered another bowl,
observing that it was an established rule of the house never to pay
the reckoning over an empty bowl. “And a very good rule it is,” said
the saint: “but as we are in haste, I think we had better have larger
glasses.” Mrs. Wood having joined the company, Roger inquired into the
state of her religion, and finding her rather a stray sheep, undertook
for her guidance, declaring that his heart warmed to so comely and
handsome a woman, and that nothing in his power should be wanting for
her conversion. His honour being gone on a little before, the spiritual
guide saluted the dame with a holy kiss, overtook his comrade, returned
to the mansion-house, and prayed with even more than usual fervour.
The laird joined most sincerely; and, bating that he fell asleep and
snoared in the middle, went through with becoming zeal. The ladies
would have rebuked him for this musical accompaniment, but his friend
Roger took his part, representing that some allowance must be made
for a novice. They now sat down to supper. Our apostle read a lecture
upon temperance, not long,--as it only lasted while he eat a couple of
pounds of minced collops, with onions and potatoes in proportion: he
drank another tumbler, and having recommended himself to the private
prayers of his several disciples, he retired to his own apartment, and
was at the usual time visited by the punctual Betty.

The next day he met the laird, attended him to the former place of
spiritual communion, and in the course of a week made him a complete
convert. The conversion of the landlady was still shorter; nor were
other proselytes wanting on whom his persuasives had equal influence:
so that the preaching coal-heaver himself never in so short a time shot
more sinners into the cellar of repentance, than this worthy instructor
Roger O’Rourke.

Having _thus_ established the holiness of methodism throughout Etterick
and its dependencies, Mr. O’Rourke now began the improvement of his
doctrines. He made ardent love to Miss Sukey, though generally arrayed
in scripture phraseology. “Come, kiss me,” he would say, “with the
kisses of thy lips, for thy love is sweeter than wine.” It was at
length concerted between Mr. Roger and Miss Sukey, that they should be
privately married _in the sight of heaven_; Miss did doubt that her
influence with her parents, added to the influence of Mr. O’Rourke and
his methodism, might reconcile them to the connection. The pastor was
partly of the same opinion, but reserved to himself the privilege,
should he be deceived, of decamping and leaving his present seraglio
of saints, preaching the new light in other parts, or betaking himself
to such other calling as might best suit his purposes. Accordingly the
nuptials were concluded in the manner agreed.

In a few weeks Mr. O’Rourke, having now brought himself into very high
favour with the father, mother, and grandmother, ventured to disclose
his passion for Miss; and, addressing himself to their worldly as well
as their heavenly feelings, assured them he was a gentleman born, and
next heir to a great estate, which he should possess as soon as his two
cousins and their respective sons and daughters should be in the dust.
Although this reversionary prospect was somewhat distant, yet it was
a great comfort to the laird, that Mr. Roger O’Rourke was a gentleman.
Mrs. Sourkrout and her daughter had also the satisfaction to learn
that Mr. O’Rourke’s great grandfather by the mother’s side had been a
bishop; and though it is true he had been popish, still he had a title
to wear a mitre on his carriage. These considerations having all the
evidence in their favour which the testimony of the narrator could
bestow, made a deep impression on the worthy saints, and combined with
their evangelical sympathy in inclining them to admit the suit of this
holy gentleman. Ere long they agreed to his proposals, and the marriage
was duly solemnized. The bridegroom having a dash of vanity, determined
to publish this alliance in the newspapers, which he did in the
following terms, involving in them an allusion to some of his former
avocations.--“Yesterday was married in the holy bands of matrimoney,
the Rev. Roger O’Rourke, _alias_ Roger O’Rourke, esq. to Miss Susan
Hamilton, the only daughter of Duncan Hamilton, esq. by Grizzle his
wife, to the great joy of the ancient and honourable families and
parties consarned.”--This notification the printer took from the copy
_literatim_ and _verbatim_. The nuptials being concluded, the family,
comprehending this new member, returned to Etterick, excepting Betty,
who procured leave of absence, being, she said, going to visit her
parents in the north.




CHAPTER VII.


BEFORE all these affairs were brought to the close which we have
recorded, our hero was returned to Cambridge, to prepare for his
ensuing graduation. He renewed his mathematical studies, but sometimes
could not help reflecting on poor Jenny Collings more than either Sir
Isaac Newton or Maclaurin. The exertion of his faculties, however,
and not desponding regret, were the means by which he could make any
atonement.--The intenseness of his former application had now rendered
only revision necessary. The important period arrived, he stood the
various contests, and attained the honour of senior wrangler, the
highest that a bachelor of arts can reach, and was generally esteemed
one of the ablest and most promising young men that Cambridge had
raised for many years.

He now set out for London, where his father had intended he should be
brought up to the law. He was accordingly entered at Lincolns Inn,
and began the usual course of studies. He had not been long in his
new situation, when one morning, sitting ruminating on his future
prospects, a gentle knock was heard at the door; he opened it himself,
and a female fainted in his arms. Instantly recognizing Jenny Collings,
he carried her into his apartment, and at length brought her to
herself. Having recovered her recollection, she gently reproached him
for his omission, in having suffered a whole month to pass since he
left Cambridge, without writing to her. He declared he had written to
her twice, and was much surprised he had received no answer. “Where
did you address to me?”--“At Doncaster, to be sure: I wrote to you, my
dear Jenny, that I hoped I should in a few weeks have affairs properly
arranged for receiving you here.”--“Good God,” said she, “I dare say
our letters have been opened, and every thing discovered, which I
hoped to conceal. I wrote to you last from Sheffield, having, as I
before mentioned, bade adieu to Doncaster.” Hamilton having declared
he never had received the intelligence; he now inquired tenderly into
her adventures and situation. She acknowledged with a faint blush and
downcast eyes, that in the subject of his anxious interrogatories,
which she had never answered, his apprehensions had been but too well
founded. Conscious of her condition, she had with a broken heart
communicated it to her widowed mother, whose chief hope she had
been. Mrs. Collings, borne down by former afflictions, had not once
reproached her for the grievous addition which her conduct had made;
and by her forbearance had cut her to the heart. “I have,” said Jenny,
“two younger sisters, to whom she intended me as an example, and hoped
I would be a support. I know she must look on me as having blasted all
her expectations. Two days ago she came into the room where we were,
and looking at us alternately, burst out into a fit of crying, which
tore my very soul. I thought her tears and sobs a reproach to me. I
could not bear them. I left the room, went to my own, and resolved to
seek my fortune in the capital. I had six guineas hoarded up, from
different presents of relations, and also of ladies who were pleased
with my attention to their orders. I left the half inclosed in a
farewell letter to my mother, and with the rest sallied out unobserved
to the office of a stage coach, that passed about that time, found a
seat, and this morning arrived in town.--Knowing from yourself that you
were to be in Lincolns Inn, I hurried hither.”

“My dearest Collings,” said our hero, “whatever I can do to atone for
the injury, and to gratify affection, shall be performed. My means
are not great, but I trust they will increase. I understand there is
a considerable market for literary efforts in this place; I am not
without hopes of rising by such exercises; and my dear Jenny shall
share all the fruits of my labours.” “Mr. Hamilton,” said the young
lady, “in what way you mean that proposal, I am very anxious to know:
in one way, in my rank, and after my indiscretion, I cannot flatter
myself it is intended; in another, though my conduct justifies it,
still I am grieved that you should make such an offer.” Here she burst
into a paroxysm of affliction, exclaiming in hysterical shrieks: “I am
ruined, but will not be your mistress.” Our hero, tenderly affected,
disavowed any such intention, and, with a high sense of retributive
justice, and of compassion for a misfortune caused by himself, went
farther than in the calm moments of prudence he would have proposed,
and actually declared that he would by marriage atone for the evil.
Miss Collings answered, “No, sir, I am charmed to find that the man
whom I have trusted so far beyond the bounds of prudence and honour
should prove himself worthy of any trust that can be honourably reposed
in; but I will not avail myself of a generosity that would be ruinous
to yourself. Poor Jenny Collings, the daughter of a lowly mechanic,
shall not be the wife of the noble gentleman that she doats on to
distraction. I know my own business well, and can by it earn the means
of subsisting myself, and lending aid to my mother and her orphan
children. Mr. Hamilton, I love you too well to hear an offer dictated
by pity, or at best the feeling gratitude of a kind heart.” “No, upon
my soul,” said Hamilton, “’tis love for the woman who possesses so many
charms, and, highest of them all, such an affection for myself.”

Soothing speeches and caresses unbent, in considerable degree, the
resolution of Miss Collings, and though she continued firmly determined
not to marry a youth whom she regarded as the first of human beings,
and destined to arrive at the highest situations, yet she felt that
she could not exercise the same firmness in resisting the repetition
of former errors. She was resolved not to live with him, and even,
if possible, to estrange herself from his knowledge: but her purpose
was not immediately executed. Several days passed, the transactions of
which we shall not particularize, but content ourselves with observing,
that nothing is more dangerous to the votaries of penitence, than
renewed intercourse with the partners of frailty. Poor Jenny, with
all her virtuous intentions, passed the chief part of her time with
Hamilton.--One evening she expressed an earnest inclination to see the
Fair Penitent. Our hero attended her to Drury-lane, where she beheld
the effects of indiscretion so strongly drawn by the poet, exhibited
with such force and poignant effect, doubly poignant to the conscious
_Calistas_. Our fair penitent had never seen Mrs. Siddons, and had no
idea that it was possible for acting to approach so near to actual
life and feeling. In the scene between Calista and her parent, she, in
great agitation, exclaimed, “That is no acting, heavenly God, that is
natural.” In the last scene her interest was wound up to the highest
pitch. When Calista is frantic, poor Collings was frantic also; when
Calista died, Collings gave one shriek, and became lifeless in her
lover’s arms. With much difficulty she recovered her consciousness,
but not her perfect recollection, and gazing eagerly in our hero’s
face, and pressing him to her arms, she said, “You are not Lothario,
I was undone by myself.” At length entirely recovering the use of
her reason, and becoming sensible that she had exposed herself, she
was extremely distressed, and begged immediately to retire, and
was conducted home to a lodging which Hamilton had provided in his
neighbourhood. There she was taken very ill; the consequence was, a
very premature change in her condition.--Whilst she was recovering, our
hero, aware that his finances could not easily bear this additional
expence, without additional resources, resolved to exert his literary
abilities, and to feel his way by gratuitous essays and newspapers, and
had the satisfaction to see that his performances were received with
flattering approbation. Understanding that one of the earliest stages
of literary progress was reporting debates, he offered his services for
that purpose. His exertions were received with applause, and procured
him so much emolument as to afford his Jenny a country lodging, which
he thought necessary for the re-establishment of her health. During
her convalescence Miss Collings formed her plans: ardent to adhere in
future to the dictates of virtue, and knowing the weakness of her
heart, she resolved to withdraw entirely from her beloved Hamilton. She
wrote her mother an account of what had happened, and also to her late
employer, at Doncaster, praying an introduction to a correspondent in
London, but desiring that the truth should be fairly stated, though
confidentially imparted. Her employer by return of post complied with
her request, sent her a letter to be delivered to an eminent milliner
in London, informing her at the same time, that she had by another
prepared the lady for Miss Collings’s visit. She accordingly repaired
to the house of Mrs. Fashion, was kindly engaged, and (that being on a
Wednesday) appointed to come to the house the following Saturday, and
commence her labours on the Monday.

It was now near the end of May, and our hero had established, through
his reporting exertions, such a character and connection as insured
him an engagement for the next season, should it be required; and he
was preparing on a Saturday to visit his Collings, while she at the
very instant was writing him a farewell letter;--when the postman’s
knock called him to the door, and a letter was delivered in his
mother’s hand, but hardly legible. Hastily opening it, he found these
words: “My beloved William, your father is extremely ill, we fear
dangerously;--lose no time,--spare no expence,--come instantly.” Though
the letter had no date but Friday morning, it appeared to have been
put into the Doncaster post-office, whence he concluded that they
were now at Brotherton, and therefore trusted he would reach them
in four and twenty hours. Having a credit on his father’s agent, he
went immediately; in half an hour he was on horseback, for the sake
of expedition preferring that mode to a chaise. His father dying was
the only idea present to his mind. Leaving London about twelve, in
ten hours he reached Stamford; where taking chaise during the night,
he met the dawning day at Newark. At Doncaster he found his father’s
servant waiting with horses, and learned that he was still alive
and sensible, and calling every moment, “When do you expect my dear
William?” Our hero galloped, without waiting to hear more, to the
vicarge, and arriving before nine, found that his father was still
alive, but that he had the gout in his stomach, and that the physicians
had very little hopes. One, indeed, said he thought the paroxysms
somewhat abated, and that this fit might leave him, but that he would
be so much reduced, that another would certainly carry him off. Our
hero having spent some minutes in the arms of his weeping mother, and
venerable grand-father, the physician apprized his patient of his son’s
arrival. “Do, dear doctor,” he said, “bring him to my embrace, he will
do me more good than all your prescriptions.” William was introduced,
and eagerly pressed by his languid father. He desired they might be
left alone, and had signified to his son his highest approbation of
his abilities, character, and conduct; when feeling himself exhausted,
he said, he hoped he would by-and-by be able to go on. The physician
now returning, his patient observed, he felt a disposition to sleep;
“That,” said the other, “must be by all means encouraged.” The
colonel soon fell into a slumber, which lasted several hours, and he
awoke free from pain, and very much refreshed. The physician was now
confirmed in his hopes, that the fit was over for the present, though
he apprehended a very speedy return. The next morning the colonel was
able to leave his bed. Resuming the conversation with his son, he
opened to him the whole state of his affairs, the disposition of his
property, and strongly recommended to him, his mother, sister, and
younger brother. “I know, my dear son, my respite is only short, but it
is very satisfactory to me, that it permits me to unfold to the chief
pride of my heart, my thoughts, sentiments, prospects, and wishes. To
you, my eldest son and representative, I have left the half of a very
moderate fortune, and the other half divided between Eliza and Henry.
Your mother, during life, is to have the half of the interest of the
whole, besides the pension which she will receive as a colonel’s widow.
What I have acquired will, if properly managed, prevent indigence,
but will require industry to procure a comfortable independence. I
firmly rely on your efforts and conduct, and have no doubt that you in
your profession will, if you live, attain still higher rank and a much
greater fortune than I have been able to reach in mine.” This subject,
and also his wife and other children, he often resumed.

Our hero, in his eager anxiety to see his father, had entirely
forgotten Miss Collings: but his apprehensions being for the time
relieved, he with much concern fancied to himself the uneasiness and
alarm which his absence would create, and wrote immediately an account
of its cause. In five or six days he received an answer, assuring him
of her unalterable love, but at the same time announcing her fixed
determination never more to behold her adored Hamilton: she informed
him that she had a very advantageous situation in her professional
employment. Our hero, who notwithstanding his success still continued
extremely fond of Jenny, determined, as soon as he should return to
London, to discover her abode. Meanwhile the colonel was able to walk
out, and for a fortnight appeared pretty well. His old friend Maxwell
told him he hoped his honour had got a long furlough, and trusted he
would not be called hastily from his family. The colonel shook his
head, and declared he had a very different opinion. “However,” he said
“with the assistance of my venerable father-in-law, I endeavour to hold
myself in readiness.”

About this time the laird of Etterick, having heard that his brother
was ill, hastened to pay him a visit, which he had before intended, in
order to consult him on several affairs that gave him uneasiness.

Mr. O’Rourke, conceiving himself by his marriage not merely the heir
but the rightful proprietor of the Etterick fortune, had chosen
to assume the state and importance he considered befitting such a
character. Being naturally arrogant and overbearing, he treated
Etterick with an insolence and contempt which he could not bear. This
deportment rather gave a shake to the laird’s new religion, which,
hastily built, and on a very slight foundation, had never been secure.
Moreover he happened to get an insight into the preacher’s real
dispositions and morals, and had evidence which he could not possibly
doubt, that this saint, like many other saints, was a profligate
sinner. This discovery (being a quiet and peaceable man) he did not
communicate to the females of the family; but, renouncing Methodism, he
immediately repaired to his old friend the parson of the parish, and
by his advice made such a settlement of his affairs as would preclude
Mr. O’Rourke’s interference in any of his property. The clergyman
had gone to Edinburgh to have a deed for this purpose properly and
legally formed. Trustees were intended, and the blanks left for their
names. The laird proposed that they should be his brother, nephew,
an eminent counsellor, and Mr. Kerr the clergyman.--An event long
wished for, though unexpected when it actually happened, interrupted
the execution of this deed: this was the death of the dowager,
who, after having spent the evening very cheerfully over a rubber
at whist, and afterwards very piously in prayers and meditations,
and, lastly, very heartily over a hot supper, had withdrawn to her
apartment; where without any ceremony she departed this life about
midnight. Her daughter and grand-daughter hoped she was only in a
fit. “By G--d,” said Roger, who had been that evening very free with
his bottle, “’tis a fit that will last till the day of judgment.” The
old lady having never entertained any apprehensions that death was
a probable contingency, had made no will, so that all her property
devolved upon Etterick. In this state of things the laird, hearing
that his brother was ill, hastened to Yorkshire, and arrived when, as
we have seen, the colonel was recovered. Having explained all these
circumstances, and requested his brother’s acceptance of the trust,
the colonel told him, he was thoroughly convinced that his life would
be very short, and advised him to insert the name of Dr. Wentbridge.
The advice was accepted, and a deed was executed accordingly. The
laird, having of late been extremely uncomfortable at home, was in
no great hurry to return; and, after frequent consultations with his
friends, instructed his counsellor in Edinburgh to repair to Etterick,
and inform his daughter, that for various reasons he was resolved that
Mr. O’Rourke and he should not live in the same house, that a suitable
allowance should be made for her establishment, but that they must
remove immediately. The lady of Etterick, in addition to her spirit of
methodism, had recently very much addicted herself to the spirit of
brandy, and was between both in a state of perpetual intoxication, and
incapable of attending to any business. When the intimation was given,
O’Rourke declared he would have no objection to change quarters, but
that he must have the whole of Mrs. Sourkrout’s fortune, and half the
estate made over to him. The counsellor assured him that there was no
such intention, but that he would inform the lady of the mansion and
her daughter of the allowance which Mr. Hamilton of Etterick intended
as a free gift to bestow on Mrs. O’Rourke. “Inform the lady of the
mansion!” said O’Rourke, “inform a stupid old drunkard! tell me; I
am the person chiefly concerned. I shall accept no less than I said,
Mr. Counsellor, and if I were by that stupid old fool of a laird,
I would make him agree to my terms.” The counsellor declining any
farther conversation upon the subject, O’Rourke determined to set out
immediately in quest of his father-in-law, not doubting but he would
intimidate him to return home, and agree to whatever terms he should
dictate. Adventurous without judgment, he never thought of the various
obstacles he might have to encounter. He ordered the steward into his
presence, and demanded an immediate account of the money he had in
his hands. The man answered, he had settled with the laird before his
departure. “Don’t tell me of the laird, I shall be laird here. What
cash is there at the banker’s? I suppose about seven hundred pounds;
give me a draft for five hundred. I want it immediately.” “You a draft
for five hundred! I cannot give you a draft for a farthing without my
master’s orders.” “Cannot you write a hand like your master’s?” “Sir,”
said the steward, in indignant rage, “you may try that expedient if you
please: and so good morning to you.” As the steward was a very strong
athletic man, and the hero of the country for all manly exercises, the
preacher, gigantic as he was, did not choose forcibly to prevent his
departure. Calling for his horse, he rode to Selkirk, repaired to the
bank, and being known as the son-in-law and heir apparent of Etterick,
easily procured cash for a draft upon Edinburgh, for a hundred pounds,
and ordering a chaise, set off in pursuit of the laird. On the way he
determined to appropriate to himself the whole fortune, and to leave
to the laird and his wife a small annuity. He anticipated opposition
to his designs upon the laird from his Yorkshire connections, and had
worked himself into a very violent rage against colonel Hamilton. The
second day he stopped to dine at Weatherby, where he found the landlord
so much to his mind as a companion, that he indulged himself in a
hearty glass, and in less than two hours they had finished a bottle of
sherry and three of port. In this trim he entered his chaise, and, the
wine operating on the passions before kindled, he resolved to fetch
the laird away by force that very night, if any obstruction should
be made. From the quantity he had drunk, the heat of the weather, and
the dustiness of the roads, being excessively thirsty, he had at every
hedge-alehouse that he passed poured in large potations, and by the
time he arrived at Ferrybridge was in that state of drunkenness in
which a man says whatever he thinks or feels, without any regard to
time, place, or company. He inquired for Brotherton, and informed the
landlord, waiters, and hostlers, that he was going to fetch the fool
his father-in-law from the clutches of that scoundrel colonel Hamilton.
It was now the end of June; and the colonel, having continued free from
any fresh attack, was sitting with his wife and son at a parlour window
facing the gate, while his brother and the reverend old gentleman were
amusing themselves at another window with a hit at backgammon, and
old Maxwell, who had been paying them a visit, was just opening the
gate to depart, when a chaise came up, and a loud, boisterous, and
angry voice called out, “Pray, old fellow, is Hamilton of Etterick
here?” “Old fellow!” replied Maxwell, “I do not know who the devil
you are, but you’re a fellow, and a damned unmannerly fellow.” “Keep
a good tongue in your head, or by Jasus I will give you a touch of
the shillala, my boy.” “O! ’tis your own self, Mr. Patrick,” said
Maxwell, “with a drop of whisky in your head, and therefore I make
allowances. Mr. Hamilton of Etterick is here, what do you want with
him?” During this dialogue our hero went to the gate, where by this
time Mr. O’Rourke was alighted; and accosting him civilly, inquired
his commands. “I am come after that old fool Etterick; are you one
of the Hamiltons?”--“Yes.”--“Then I am Roger O’Rourke, Esq. of
Carrick, and heir apparent of the Etterick estate. You have inveigled
my father-in-law from Etterick, among you, without my privity and
concurrence; and I am come to bring him back. So now, honey, you have
my name, designation, and business; but where is the old one, he must
come off with me immediately. I have ordered a supper and beds at the
Inn there by the bridge.” “You appear, sir,” said Hamilton, “not to
understand what you are saying; but if you are really Mr. O’Rourke
that married my cousin, if you will step in and repose, you may in the
morning be better able to explain yourself.” “What the devil, do you
suppose I am tipsy? Well to be sure I do feel a little comical; but
where is Etterick?”--“He is within.” Our hero’s sister, a fine young
girl about sixteen, had just entered the parlour from the garden,
without having heard of this visitor, when the first object she beheld
was O’Rourke staggering into the room. This person was about six feet
four inches high, about twenty-one inches across the shoulders, with
legs large and muscular in proportion. Projecting from his face was
a huge Roman nose, like the proboscis of an elephant; his eyes were
light grey, and beamed with vivacity mixed with stolidity, and now
farther illuminated and inflamed by the liquor that he had drunk. His
neck, naturally long, now manifested the full dimensions, as from the
heat he had been induced to take off his cravat, and to unbutton his
shirt. Thus easy and disengaged about the throat, still retaining the
outward semblance of methodism, his breast was adorned with a band,
stiff, straight, and perpendicular. This holy teacher of the new light
having made his way into the parlour, to the astonishment of all to
whom he was a stranger, and to the amazement of Etterick, accosted that
gentleman; “Laird, I am come to bring you home, that we may settle our
accounts together; I have taken every thing into consideration, and
have determined how all matters are to be settled: but who are all
these good people in the room?” On being introduced successively, he
thought it incumbent on him to pay his best compliments. Addressing
Miss Hamilton, our hero’s sister, with an expression of mixed
impudence, drollery, and folly, he looked in her face and said, “So
you’re cousin-german to my spouse Sukey: well, you are a sweet little
angel; if I had you instead of her, I should not have looked abroad.
Did you ever see your cousin, my dear?”--“Yes, sir.”--“I don’t suppose
you think her a great beauty; but how the devil should she with such
a father and mother?” Our hero endeavoured to change this discourse,
and at last succeeded; and O’Rourke happening to sit down near old
Mr. Wentbridge, asked him whether he had not e’er a barrel of good
ale among his other tithe pigs. A jug was produced, which gave him
perfect satisfaction. At supper Mr. O’Rourke unfolded the purposes of
his journey; he proposed, he said, to take the estates into his own
possession; he would act very generous. The whole property was not
more than three thousand five hundred a year; he would content himself
with the three thousand, and allow, as he expressed himself, the
five hundred to the proprietor during life. The rest of the company,
considering this modest proposition as the effect of intoxication,
suffered it to pass without remark. The next morning, Mr. O’Rourke
being now refreshed by sleep, and exempt from the fumes of liquor,
though still possessed by the maggots of folly, applied to the laird,
and seriously proposed to him to relinquish his estate, and retire upon
an annuity. It was, he said, much more becoming that a young man in the
vigour of life should enjoy such a property, than an old man with one
foot in the grave. The laird, though totally unmoved by this reasoning,
yet standing in some awe of O’Rourke, very mildly informed him, that if
he would open his pretensions to the colonel, or his son William, he
would receive a complete answer, as they were entirely in the secret
of all his plans and intentions. “I don’t see,” said O’Rourke, “any
business they have with it. You have acted like a fool as you always do
in trusting any one but me.” The laird, whose quietness was the result
of indolence, and not of timidity, fired at this insolence, and he
answered: “You are a very ignorant and impertinent fellow. I consider
my daughter and family disgraced by a connection with a strolling
adventurer.” “Do you know,” said the other, loudly, “whom you are
talking to, you silly old fool?” “Old I am,” replied the laird, “but
not so old as to bear an insult from a low scoundrel. So, sir, leave
this room instantly. I shall take care of my unfortunate daughter,
but for you, a single shilling of mine shall never pass through your
hands again.” “O, I see,” said O’Rourke, “it is all as I suspected,
that old villain, colonel Hamilton, has for his own purposes been
working on your poor weak head.” Etterick, incensed at this, proceeded
to such violence as his feebleness would admit; and the fellow, with
unmanly rage exerting his strength, pushed the old man against the
wall, and he was severely bruised. The noise brought our hero into the
room. “Heaven,” said he, “what’s the meaning of all this?” “’Tis the
old fool’s own fault;” said O’Rourke; “he’s let me into some of your
tricks, but you won’t cheat me.” “Tricks, and cheat!” said our hero,
breasting the other. “Be easy now,” said O’Rourke, “or by Jasus I’ll
throw you down by the old one there. I say your father and you have
been acting like villains.” To such a charge Hamilton could only make
one answer, which he instantaneously did by a blow, that drove the
preacher to the farther end of the room; and, before he could recollect
himself, followed it with a second, which hitting his temples levelled
him with the ground. The whole family was alarmed, the colonel and
even the old clergyman could not help approving William’s conduct.
Meanwhile the reverend missionary recovered, and was blustering and
threatening vengeance upon his antagonist, when the old clergyman
interposed, and William called that if he would follow him to the green
he would give him all the satisfaction he could take. O’Rourke, though
very strong, was not much addicted to fighting, unless he considered
his adversary much his under match, and could have dispensed with this
invitation: hoping, however, to intimidate his opponent by a display of
his size and muscles, (an artifice which had frequently succeeded in
former rencounters,) he went down and stripped. Our hero was not slow
in imitating his example; and old Maxwell, who was present, exultingly
swore, that young Mr Hamilton was the more muscular man of the two.
The conflict began; our hero, who was really somewhat superior to
his adversary in strength and activity, was far before him in cool
intrepidity and skill. The Irishman, wild and furious, struck at
random; the Englishman, parrying his blows, reserved his own efforts,
only irritating the savage impetuosity of the other by fetching blood.
When the preacher was exhausted by ill-directed exertions, Hamilton
began with such tremendous force, that his adversary, who had little
of what amateurs call bottom, after the first knockdown blow, called
for quarter, and Hamilton coolly returned into the house. As it had
been resolved not to admit O’Rourke again into the vicarage, he was
conducted to a public house in the neighbourhood. Our hero, with Dr.
Wentbridge, who arrived that morning, called on him in the course of
the day, to learn more fully the purpose of his visit, and to explain
to him that every expectation of his having now or hereafter any
share of the property, or management of the Etterick estate, was
totally groundless. They carried with them, for his inspection, a
copy of the trust deed. O’Rourke, crestfallen by his defeat, was now
totally dejected, and was as abject under disappointment as he had
been arrogant and insolent in fancied prosperity. He saw that all his
expectations of revelling in the riches of Etterick were forever gone,
and that even if the laird were to change his mind, he had put it out
of his own power. He balanced with himself, whether it would be wise
to return. On the one hand there was the annuity settled on his wife,
which, though only a fourth of what he had proposed to possess, might
enable him to live very comfortably; on the other, his achievements
in the course of his methodistical mission, some of which were now
likely to become public, were not such as would make his reception very
pleasing in that country, and especially from his own wife, whom he now
regarded, as upon her he must depend. If methodistical missionaries
are, perhaps, not directly beneficial to the order and virtue of a
community, they promote one valuable branch of political œconomy: they
are accounted extremely conducive to population; first, unhinging
moral principles by establishing the all-sufficiency of faith, and the
uselessness of virtuous conduct, they open the way for the uncontrolled
dominion of passion; secondly, inflaming the heart with a fanatical
enthusiasm, they facilitate enthusiasms of other kinds; and as the
pastors have an absolute influence over the minds of their votaries,
itinerant preachers, either spontaneous or missionary, are in the
country deemed more effectual and successful ministers of sedition
and profligacy than packmen, strolling players, gypsies, or any other
fraternity of vagabonds. This observation Mr. O’Rourke could testify
from his own experience; for having at different times exercised
the several professions in question, and being indefatigable in his
addresses, was greater in his evangelical itinerancy than in any other.
The result he was now apprehensive would be much greater than his
finances could bear. Besides, his adventure at the Selkirk bank would
not increase the agreeableness of his reception in that part of the
country. He, therefore, thought it best to defer his return, and to try
his methodistical talents in countries to which neither Scotch bailiffs
nor Scotch parish officers could carry their authority. He accordingly
set off towards the manufacturing towns, to exercise his ministry in
its various and extensive functions. In this expedition, we shall for
the present leave the holy Roger O’Rourke.

For two months the colonel continued free of his complaints, and in
this time his second son, who had been mate of an Indiaman, commanded
by his uncle captain Wentbridge, arrived in Britain, and hurried down
to see his parents.--The colonel rejoiced extremely to see young Henry,
and anticipating, from some twinges and spasms, an early and fatal
return of his distemper, expressed himself thankful to Providence
for allowing him, before his death, to have all his children in his
presence. A fortnight more, however, passed without any important
occurrence; when early one morning Mrs. Hamilton ran into William’s
room, and in the greatest consternation and grief told him his father
was dying. The alarm proved too well founded; the gout had returned to
his stomach, with more violence than ever; every regimen and medicine
requisite in such cases was employed, but all to no purpose. A few
hours brought the malady to a fatal termination. The family was long
inconsolable for the loss of such a head. By degrees, reflection and
time allayed their affliction. Mrs. Hamilton, tenderly loving all her
children, was most strongly attached to her eldest son, who was the
exact image of his father; she could not bear the thought of parting
with him. When the time approached that he must return to London, she
proposed to make the metropolis her residence, and considered her
finances, if œconomically managed, as adequate to such an undertaking.
Her late husband, ever since his marriage, had been extremely
œconomical, and, in addition to his own fifteen hundred pounds, having
received as much by the death of Mrs. Hamilton’s aunt and god-mother,
the sum, by frugality and judicious purchases in the funds, had now
risen to about sixteen thousand consols. Her moiety of the interest
of which, she did not doubt, would be sufficient. Accordingly it was
determined that she should remove to London, as soon as a house was
procured. Old Etterick, who was become extremely fond of his nephew and
niece, would have with much pleasure made one of the party; but the
urgent entreaties and remonstrances of his daughter, who represented
herself and her mother as heart-broken by affliction for the conduct of
O’Rourke (now completely discovered), and her mother as approaching her
dissolution, impelled him to take a different course. The last piece of
intelligence he bore with much resignation, but thought that decency
required his presence on that occasion, and accordingly set off for
Etterick, about the middle of November. Our hero, taking a contrary
direction, proceeded to London.




CHAPTER VIII.


OUR hero now resumed his legal studies, and his literary pursuits.
He continued to admire the administration of Mr. Pitt, in general
principle, and in most of its particular acts. The commercial treaty
with France he regarded as a grand and striking instance of liberal and
enlightened policy, and wrote a very ingenious and able pamphlet in
its favour, but hitherto did not put his name to his performances. He
continued to attend Parliament on important debates, and occasionally
to write essays, but was not yet a professed author.

Meanwhile he made very anxious inquiries concerning Jenny Collings, but
that worthy girl, with great magnanimity and self-denial, resolutely
secluded herself from his company during the whole winter. It was now
the month of May, and on a Sunday morning, which our hero generally
devoted to walking in the fields, and William had strolled as far
as the north gate of Kensington gardens, when he saw at a little
distance before him, on the other side of the wall, a well-dressed
and well-made girl, whom, approaching more nearly, he found, to his
surprise and delight, to be his long-lost Jenny. At so unexpected a
sight poor Collings screamed and almost fainted, but recovering, she
intreated him, for Heaven’s sake, to leave her. But whilst her tongue
said so, it was contradicted by her eyes, that melted with tenderness
and love. Soft and gentle dalliance proceeded to ardent and dangerous
caresses, which Jenny first attempted to resist but at length returned.
Poor Collings again experienced that no trial can be more perilous
to female penitence than meeting with the beloved cause of former
indiscretion.

In the course of their conversation she informed him, that she was
going to Shepherd’s Bush, to spend the day with a sister of her
employer. But learning that she had not absolutely promised, he
persuaded her to feign an excuse, and to spend the day with him. The
ice being once broken, this change was effected with little difficulty,
and from this time the frail fair one consented to interviews as often
as they could find opportunities.

Mrs. Hamilton was now arrived in town, and a house was taken in
Hatton-garden, convenient for her son’s pursuits in Lincolns Inn. Our
hero was now beginning to be known among the booksellers, and was not
without applications from gentlemen and others of that profession.

It was again a Sunday morning; and William, having pretended an
engagement to dine at Richmond, was breakfasting with his mother and
sister, previous to his departure to meet his Jenny; when a loud
knock thundered at the door, and the maid coming up stairs said, that
a person below wanted her master. “A person, Sally, what kind of a
person?” “I don’t think much, he be a gentleman, though he be very
smart.”--“Well, shew him up.” Accordingly the person, as Sally phrased
it, was introduced. He was a short, squat, sturdy man, with a face
round like an apple, chubby, and adorned with cheeks of the kind of
that fruit that is called red-streak, goggling eyes, and an expression
of mingled pertness, self-importance, and inanity. To decorate this
graceful presence, there was a cocked hat, a green coat lined with
yellow satin, a red silk waistcoat, and black silk breeches, all bran
new, with white silk stockings, now inclining to yellow, very smart
shoes, graced with plated buckles, which, having seen service, shewed
the brass in various parts. Having walked in with his hat on, he took
it off and made to the ladies a bow, which he intended at once to
exhibit dignity and condescension; then turning to the gentleman said,
“I presume you are Mr. Hamilton.”--“At your service; pray, sir, be
seated.”--Having taken a chair, the visitor began: “My name, sir, is
Jeffery Lawhunt, I keep a bookseller’s shop; here’s my card; perhaps
you have heard of me, and of my character.”--“Yes, I have,” replied
the other. “I was not brought up to the bookselling business; I was in
the taylor line, and still do a little in that way; these breeches are
my own making, and see, madam, they fit very well.”--The young lady
ran out at this appeal.--“I got the piece pretty cheap, in payment
of a debt that I thought bad.--But I am wandering from the point on
which I called on you.--You must know, sir, since I have taken to the
bookselling trade, I am a great _pattern of learning_, and hearing you
are a very good hand, I am willing to give you employment, sir.”--“You
are very kind,” said Hamilton.--“And as to terms, I tell you how I
do with my journeymen, and I find some of my authors agreeable to
it; also I gives them their wages in traffic.”--“In _traffic_!” said
Hamilton.--“Yes, and I find it a very good way: for instance, a coat,
or a waistcoat, or a pair of breeches, or sometimes in provisions. I
buy a lot of hams, and give pieces of them as payment, both at the
board and printing-house. Do you ever do any thing in the theatrical
line?”--“Never.”--“Could you not write me a pretty smart novel? I
give a very good price. Mrs. Devon, a famous writter, she wrote the
Perseverance of Perplexity, and the Lavish Landlord. She has, first
and last, had twelve guineas of my money. I have a letter in my pocket
here, that will shew you the kind of applications I receive.” Our hero
accordingly perused the following epistle:--

“Mr. JEFFERY LAWHUNT;

Sir;--Having been in business in the child-bed linen way, and not
finding things answer, I have been advised by my friends to set up
in the _litterary_ line, which they tell me requires little capital,
and so no wonder so many poor people takes after it;”--(‘A very just
remark,’ observed Lawhunt;)--“so I am a writing a novel, with plenty
of ghosteses in it; which is now quite the kick.” (‘So it is,’
observed Jeffery, ‘you see she knows what’s what.’) “Now, sir, as I
understand you are a great inkurrager of harudishon, I have made bold
for to offer to you what, to use a compollison, may be called the
first child of my virgin muse.” (‘A very marvellous production,’ said
our hero, ‘this first child of the virgin muse, I dare say, is.’) (‘I
thought,’ observed Jeffery, ‘you would like the figure.’) “I hope it,
will give you satisfaction, and I am, sir, your most humble servant, to
command,

  SARAH SHIFT.

P.S. If you could let me have a little in advance, shud be much
obligated to you.”

“Well, sir, have you complied with the lady’s request?”--“O yes; I
think you will say I behaved very generous.--I gave her two guineas
in money, a flitch of bacon, a couple of fowls, and a green goose from
my cottage in the country, and stuff for a callimanco petticoat. I
got the manuscript, but the printer tells me that the spelling is not
so right as it should be. Now, sir, as I am told you are a scoller, I
would not scruple twenty pounds for a novel that you should write.”
“You are liberal even to munificence, sir; but at present I have no
thoughts of any such composition.”--“Will you favour me with your
company to dinner, sir; there is to be a literary party; there is to be
little Dr. Grub, and Mr. Whippersnapper, a great maker of verses; and
Mr. Macculpin.”--“Is Mr. Macculpin a Scotch gentleman?”--“No; damn the
Scotch, I have had enough of them; though I am Yorkshire myself, they
are _farther north_. Here there was one of them that wrote a book that
I published for him; I thought I could have got him off with thirty
pounds, but he would have three hundred: to law we went, and by G--d
it cost me five hundred before I was done with it. So that my profits,
which I thought would have been six hundred, were little more than
one. I will have nothing more to do with the Scotch. No, Mr. Macculpin
is a Irish gentleman. There will also be Mrs. Ogle that writes hymns
for the Gospel Magazine, and other articles of poetry, especially
sacred; and Mr. Spatter, the reviewer, who is a great favourite with
her. It is not for nothing that he praises her psalms, but that’s
not a subject to speak of before a lady.”--Mrs. Hamilton now hastily
followed her daughter; and Lawhunt, not being able to prevail on our
hero, at length departed, and William hastened to his Jenny, who waited
with the most anxious impatience. Her passion, increased by renewed
indulgence, now knew no bounds. She was willing to sacrifice fame,
employment, and every thing else, and ardently desired to live with
Hamilton.--By perseverance in illicit love, her mind became gradually
debased. Sentiment and affection, though still very strong, began
now to be surpassed by mere sensual desire, and though Hamilton had
no reason for jealousy, the fidelity of Collings was now owing much
more to the closeness of his attentions than to the firmness of her
constancy. She gradually became negligent about her employment, and not
long after relinquished it entirely. Hamilton could not help perceiving
her degeneracy, and coolling in his own passion, but conscious that
he himself was the cause of her apostacy from virtue, and afterwards
from delicacy, felt keen remorse. Her situation soon came to require
retirement; the fruits of their affection was a fine boy, born the very
day his father reached the 24th year of his age.

Hamilton was now extending his acquaintance among gentlemen of the law,
and also men of literary eminence. He had the honour to be known to
Gibbon, who thought very highly of his talents and erudition, perhaps,
not the less that a masterly review of the history was found to be the
production of Hamilton. He occasionally met Dr. Samuel Parr, bishops
Watson and Horseley, and was very intimate with Paley. He knew Dr.
Gillies, and received much valuable information from the accurate and
well digested knowledge of that elegant scholar. He was well acquainted
with the philological research, sportive humour, and convivial
hilarity of the younger Burney; the unassuming manners, careless and
thoughtless deportment, but profound erudition of a Porson.

Our hero, encouraged by the high praises bestowed upon his literary
essays, determined to bring forward a work of some magnitude and
importance.

Hamilton, one afternoon, having been in the neighbourhood of Pancras,
where Miss Collings now resided, and returning through Gray’s Inn
Lane, observing a literary acquaintance in the Burton ale-house,
entered that mansion, where, after they had been about a quarter of
an hour, a gentleman came in, and accosting our hero’s acquaintance,
joined the conversation. Hamilton was astonished at the brilliancy
and strength of this gentleman’s observations, the extent and depth
of his metaphysical, moral, and political science. He soon found that
this was William Strongbrain, a gentleman very highly prized in the
republic of letters, and in Hamilton’s estimation, deserving still
higher praise than that which he had received. Hamilton had read,
with very great admiration, his execution of an historical plan,
projected by another, but left imperfect by his death. He had perused
with peculiar delight a mixture of profound philosophy, enlightened
policy, and poignant satire, exhibited in a book of a very whimsical
title, and comprehending an intellectual and moral portrait of a very
illustrious orator, and that he was at this time engaged in conducting
a review, commenced by a celebrated vindicator of the lovely and
unfortunate Mary. In the course of the evening Hamilton received from
this gentleman such an accession, not only of details and facts, but
of principles and views, as convinced him he would be a very valuable
instructor, while the strength and splendour of his wit and humour
rendered him a most delightful companion. The charms of Strongbrain’s
colloquial powers fascinated our hero to a very late hour, and he
determined to spare no pains in cultivating so very valuable and
pleasant an acquaintance: but for some weeks family parties interrupted
the progress of their new acquaintance. The old vicar and his son
took an excursion to London, whence their friends promised to return
with him to Yorkshire. The day was appointed for their departure,
when a letter arriving from Etterick, strongly soliciting William to
come as soon as possible to Scotland, as his assistance was very much
wanted, both by the father and daughter. The mother had, it seems,
been dead upwards of a year, and for many months the father and Mrs.
O’Rourke had lived together in tranquillity. But of late, disturbance
had taken place, which they thought our hero’s presence would most
effectually remove. Imparting the particulars to his friends, he
convinced them all, that it was necessary, or at least expedient, for
him to comply with the request. Accordingly he set off for the north in
the Highflyer, which left town from Fetter-lane, in his neighbourhood.
They set off between one and two in the afternoon, having only three
inside passengers. Nothing remarkable occurred till they arrived at
Hertford, where our hero ordered some coffee, while the horses were
changing; and having entered a public room, he observed, standing
by a table, talking to an elderly gentleman that appeared settling
with a waiter, an object that riveted him to the spot where he stood.
This was a young lady about nineteen years of age, with a face and
countenance that he thought the most interesting and engaging he had
ever beheld. She was above the middling stature, exquisitely formed,
having her shape and proportions exactly displayed by a riding habit.
Her features were at once regular and prominent, her hair was black,
her forehead small but oval, with eyebrows even, full, and strongly
enhancing the penetrating sagacity and brilliant lustre of her dark
and piercing eyes, that indicated quickness and strength of genius,
mixed with benignity of disposition, and an arch intelligence, that
gave a zest to the softness. Her nose was aquiline, the sweetness of
her mouth, containing teeth like the driven snow, plump, softly pouting
lips, and cheeks on which cupids played in smiles and dimples tempered
the fire of her eyes. Her whole countenance displayed an acute and
powerful understanding, spirit, sensibility, and benevolence, but a
benevolence of ardent affection, and not sentimental mawkishness. Our
hero had gazed on this lovely girl with eyes of speaking delight and
admiration for a minute or two, when perceiving their direction she
sat down by the gentleman. William soon learned that the young lady
and her companion, who was no other than her own father, were to be
his fellow travellers in the coach; whither they were now summoned,
and William had the pleasure of touching her hand as he assisted her
ascent to the vehicle. In the course of the following stage, which
was through a very beautiful country, the observations of the young
lady, though not many, shewed a mind not only alive to the charms of
nature, but which, cultivated and discriminating, could assign to the
various objects their due proportion of the beautiful, the grand, or
the picturesque, as the one or the other happened to pre-dominate.
After they had passed Baldock, a bare and black aspect prevented
farther remarks on the face of the country, and some other travellers
endeavoured to take the lead in the conversation, by introducing topics
on which they conceived they could respectively shine.--One of the
first of these was a parson, who had joined them a little before, and
who, having observed that the conversation was at a stand, imputed the
cessation to veneration and awe of his dignified appearance, and with
condescending graciousness said, “Pray, good people, do not constrain
yourselves on account of my presence; I am candid and liberal, and
ready to make allowance for inexperience or misinformation; therefore
open, and if you should happen to be wrong in any assertion or
observation, I shall put you to rights.” The bright eyes of the
young lady at this pompous and self-sufficient declaration assumed
an expression of sportive archness that immediately demonstrated
her comprehension of his character, and her relish for humour. Our
hero perceiving this, determined to gratify her by inducing his
reverence to a full display. He said, he was extremely happy to find a
gentleman so willing to communicate his instructions; that he himself
was conscious of great ignorance and many errors; but he trusted he
was docile. “Docility,” said the priest, in the imperative tone of
pulpit inculcation, “docility is one step towards the acquisition
of knowledge; to receive instruction you must be willing as well as
capable.” “A very just, and, to my belief, an original remark.” “It
is,” said the parson, “the result of long experience, accompanied by
deep reflection. I have seen and observed much, but I have thought
more. In my inquiries I always dive to the bottom, and do not float
on the surface. What had been the subject of your conversation before
it was interrupted by my presence and your own modesty?” “We were
speaking of the face of the country, which is not so pleasant as that
between Hertford and Stevenage. It is bare and chalky.”--“A bare and
bleak face of a country, young gentleman, is not so pleasant to the
eye, as a succession of woods, lawns, and verdant pastures.--You
will farther observe that an expanse of flat is less agreeable than
a vicissitude of hill and dale. But if you are going much farther
north, I shall have an opportunity of illustrating this remark as we
pass through Lincolnshire. Even in the prospects near London, which
many shallow judges praise, I have discovered defects; they are either
too flat and monotonous, or want the diversification of water; for
water is a very momentous addition to the external aspect of nature.”
These profound remarks were regarded with much admiration by a female
passenger who sat opposite to the beneficent instructor, and next to
the young lady. This listener conceived she was hearing the voice
of wisdom, and being one herself that sought the character of sense
and knowledge in her own circle, she treasured these observations in
her memory, to be afterwards repeated as the discoveries of her own
sagacity. During the delivery of the oracles the coach arrived at
Biggleswade, where they were to sup. The parson having expended his
wisdom upon one topic displayed his stores on another, and opened on
the subject of the coalition, on which, though not new, he professed
to deliver some opinions and observations, that the company would find
a little out of the ordinary way.--“You will observe, Mr. Fox for
many years opposed lord North, and said he was totally unfit for being
a minister.--He said, the country must be ruined if he continued in
office.--He was the chief instrument of driving him out.--Soon after
he formed a coalition with this very man, and came together with him
into office.--I say, my good friends, that in so doing Mr. Fox was not
consistent, mark my words well, Mr. Fox was not consistent.--There
are other parts of Mr. Fox’s conduct which I can no less clearly
demonstrate to be extremely wrong.--What did his India bill do?--It
violated chartered rights; I say, violated chartered rights, and it
raised a fourth estate within the empire.--I pointed that out to my
friends Burke and Windham, and advised them to explain it to Mr. Fox,
but they would have their own ways; and so it fares. There are other
parts of Mr. Fox’s conduct, which I by no means approve. I very much
blame his support of the dissenters, and his friendly disposition
to Priestley, a heretic and infidel, and one that would destroy our
church: one that has himself boasted that he would blow up the church
with gunpowder. Can one that is preparing to blow up the church, be
called a friend to the church? mark that.” Mrs. Halifax, the lady
whom we have before mentioned, being a sound churchwoman, agreed with
the censure of Priestley, and observed that “that was a very strong
_argement_, that those who would set fire to a place could not wish
well to the owner. There was,” says she, “in our neighbourhood, a barn
set on fire on purpose the other week, and all the country said it
must have been done in malice.” Our hero praised the sagacity of those
who found out that wilful incendiaries must act from bad motives.--“I
remember,” he said, “reading in the history of England, that there was
a gunpowder plot contrived, in order to blow up the Parliament house,
and that the chief instrument was one Guy Faux;” he with much gravity
observed, “I cannot think that this same Guy Faux was a well wisher
to the Parliament.” The young lady smiled at this observation in such
a way as demonstrated her thoroughly to comprehend the character,
or at least, intellectual reach of Dr. Truism. The travellers now
returned to the coach, and sleep soon put an end to the conversation.
Our hero had been somewhat amused by the pompous emptiness of Dr.
Truism, but his mind was really engaged by a very different object.
The charms of the young lady engrossed his thoughts and feelings, and
did not suffer Morpheus to possess his usual influence. His fine
expressive eyes had told the fair nymph the sentiments by which he was
impressed, but told it with such delicacy and softness as could not
give offence, at least did not give offence. Whether from the jolting
of the coach, or some other reason, she also was awake a considerable
part of the time. She had fallen into a slumber about morning, and
the rest continued buried in sleep, while some of their noses loudly
testified that it was not the sleep of death. Our hero was gazing on
the lovely nymph with fervid admiration and eager delight, when, the
rising sun playing on her eyelids, opened her beautiful eyes, and
she beheld the impassioned gaze of Hamilton. She could not possibly
misunderstand the expression of his looks, and received them with more
confusion than displeasure. Many minutes elapsed before our hero began
the conversation.--He durst not venture to speak to the young lady on
the subject nearest his heart with his tongue, though his eyes spoke
the language of love, clear, forcible, and impressive; but wishing
to hear the sound of her voice, and to engage her in discourse, he
opened with the common compliments of the morning, which he offered in
a tone mellowed by tenderness. The young lady very sensible of this
intonation, endeavoured to turn the discourse to subjects in which it
could not easily be introduced; and seeing, and still better hearing,
that the spontaneous preceptor was sound asleep, she observed with arch
irony, that it was a very fortunate circumstance for persons pent up
in a stage coach to meet with so wise and learned a gentleman, so very
willing to communicate his stores for the public benefit. “One person,”
said our hero, “receives from his lessons the impression which they
are designed to make. This sleeping lady on the left hand evidently
regards him with very high admiration. I think,” continued he, “there
are few absurdities more laughable and humourous than one person
speaking nonsense, or at least frivolity, and another listening to it
as sense and wisdom.” “It is,” replied the nymph, “I believe, extremely
common, sir, and, perhaps, after all, merely shews that if one person
is weak, another is weaker.” Hamilton observed that he had never seen
it more happily exemplified than by that great master of nature, and
of life, Shakespear, in the dialogue between the grave-diggers.--He
mentioned several other instances, and passed rather abruptly, though
not without design, to another masterly painter of life, and quoted the
celebrated instance of the attorney’s clerk, who so profoundly admired
the wisdom of Mr. Partridge. Before the young lady had an opportunity
of either agreeing or disagreeing with his remarks, he hurried to a
very different subject and character, in the same performance, and
expatiated on the charms and loveliness of Sophia Western; declaring
that Fielding, in his description of that beautiful creature, exactly
hit real objects in their highest perfection. Having a copy of Tom
Jones in the coach, which he had taken to amuse himself, he opened the
first volume, and read with a very poignant significance the account
that he had mentioned, dwelling with peculiar emphasis on the exactness
and delicacy of the shape, the black hair, the full and even eyebrows;
he then asked the young lady if she did not think the following passage
particularly striking: “Her black eyes had a lustre in them which all
her softness could not extinguish; her nose was exactly regular; and
her mouth, in which were two rows of ivory, exactly answered sir John
Suckling’s description in these lines:--

    ‘Her lips were red, and one was thin,
    ‘Compar’d to that was next her chin,
    ‘Some bee had stung it newly.’

Her cheeks were of the oval kind; and in her right she had a dimple,
which the least smile discovered. Her chin had certainly its share in
forming the beauty of her face; but it was difficult to say it was
either large or small, though, perhaps, it was rather of the former
kind.--Her mind was every way equal to her person; nay, the latter
borrowed some charms of the former: for when she smiled, the sweetness
of her temper diffused that glory over her countenance, which no
regularity of features can give.”

The young lady could not misapprehend the scope of this recitation, and
could not avoid blushing. Meanwhile the jolting of the coach upon the
rugged stones of Stamford awakened others of the company, and during
the next two stages the conversation was more mixed and general. The
parson continuing drowsy, the discourse was chiefly carried on by our
hero and the young lady’s father. In the course of their talk, Hamilton
found that the gentleman’s name was Mortimer, and that he had an estate
in the North Riding of Yorkshire, to which his daughter and he were now
proceeding. “Pray, sir,” said Hamilton, “is not the name of the place
Oakgrove, near Northallerton?” “The same,” replied Mr. Mortimer, with
surprise. “Then you are the father of my most intimate friend: we were
four years together at Cambridge.” “What, do you know my son Jack?
Then I dare say, sir, your name is Hamilton.” “The very same, sir.”
“You are a wonderful favourite with our Jack; is he not, Maria?” but
before Maria answered, and she was in no haste, the old gentleman, very
unjustly imputing her silence to forgetfulness, with a view to refresh
her memory said, “Don’t you remember, girl, that when Jack used to be
descanting on his friend, you would say to him, Don’t talk so much to
me, brother, about that Mr. Hamilton, so handsome, so brave, so witty,
and so every thing; or you will make me in love with him by hearsay.”
This reminiscence, delivered by the mere undesigning frankness of an
open and honest country gentleman, overspread Maria with blushes,
the exact source of which she would have found it very difficult to
define. Her father afterwards once or twice unintentionally added
to her confusion, and especially when she appeared absent and in a
reverie, by slapping her shoulders and chucking her chin, and asking
what was become of all her sprightliness; why she did not speak. “Your
brother’s friend here will think you a mere mope.” Maria, who from the
conveyance of his eyes had received strong expression of very different
sentiments, had little apprehensions of that interpretation, but was
still farther confused by the appeal. The parson being now completely
awake, very agreeably relieved Maria, by a dissertation, in which he
demonstrated, that after fatigue one is greatly disposed to sleep, and
that sleep is very refreshing.

They now arrived at Grantham, where they were to breakfast. Our hero
was waiting to hand Maria from the coach, when, by some inattention
of the waiter, the step gave way, and she would have fallen on the
pavement, had not Hamilton caught her so quickly as to prevent every
danger to her person, but not without an unavoidable shock to her
delicacy, of which the adroitness of our hero rendered the cause of
the shortest possible duration, and she herself only conjectured
what had happened. Greatly agitated, she tottered into the house,
and found herself ready to faint; when sal-volatile for the present
prevented her, and she was able to collect her scattered spirits.
Her father, who had not attended to the accident, at least in all
its circumstances, and knew nothing of her being indisposed, sent
to hurry her to breakfast. Nanny, who delivered this message, and
who was remarkably loquacious, began, “Miss, you is wanted in the
parlour to breakfastes.--Well, I have been two years and a half, come
next _Michalmus_, in _sarvice_ here, and of all the men that ever I
see, _mallicious_ and souldiers, with the colonels and captains, and
sargents and cruperals, and sweet grenadiers, none of them, in my mind,
is fit to carry a candle to the charming gentleman that had you in his
arms.” Maria looking down at the last observation, Nanny, to encourage
her, “Don’t be abashed, ma’am, you need not be ashamed; a more prittear
leg I never see in my life, and besides----.” But before this sentence
was finished, Maria hurried away, desiring no farther elucidations. Our
hero, as she entered the room, with considerate delicacy forbore every
inquiry that could allude to the accident, which he knew she must wish
to be buried in oblivion. As they proceeded, though he could not so far
command himself as to avoid doing homage to her with his eyes, yet he
avoided such topics as led to discussions concerning beauty and love.
Fortunately the rest of the company were in a great degree disused to
such subjects, and the conversation being diversified, Maria, though
much less brilliant than usual, took some part in it; and as they got
beyond the bounds of Nottinghamshire, they all joined in celebrating
the praises of Yorkshire. Having dined at Doncaster, they, about six
in the evening, arrived at Ferrybridge. Here our hero had intended
to wait for the Glasgow mail, to convey him to Carlisle; but he now
changed his mind, and said, that as he had never seen Edinburgh, he
would go to York, and take his seat in the Edinburgh mail. The parson
now left them, and soon after the lady and another passenger, so that
there remained only squire Mortimer, his daughter, and our hero. When
they arrived at York about ten, Hamilton took his place in the mail in
which the squire and his daughter meant to proceed to Northallerton.
Mortimer had strongly solicited our hero to accompany him to his seat,
and see his friend John, who was commander in chief in his absence.
Hamilton informed him of the necessity of his immediate procedure;
but promised to visit Oakgrove on his return. At the usual hour they
arrived at Northallerton, and the father having pointed out his house,
which was in the immediate neighbourhood, they came to the Inn, whence
the squire declared he would see his new friend fairly set off, before
Maria and he should walk home. They were sitting in a parlour, and, the
squire having gone out, Hamilton very strongly expressed the delight
which he had enjoyed from so charming a companion, and the eagerness
with which he would avail himself of her respectable father’s friendly
invitation. “I shall,” he said, “have very great happiness in seeing
my friend John, than whom I can love no _man_ more affectionately, but
with what exquisite joy I shall again behold his lovely and angelic
sister.” Before he had time to finish, the squire returned; and a
minute or two after, a tall strapping lady, very thinly dressed, and
who about the neck anticipated the imitation of mother Eve, that has
since become so prevalent, came in, saying, she understood there
was one gentleman to be her fellow passenger in the mail, she had
come to have the pleasure of his acquaintance before they embarked
together. “I understand,” she continued, “that he is a very handsome
young gentleman, and so, sir, I suppose you are he.” Hamilton, though
not unacquainted with the world, and not without many opportunities,
could not be called a man of gallantry, and made a very slight answer
to this compliment, perhaps the more slight from the presence of
Maria. The squire, a hearty and a civil man, yet had not that kind of
politeness which can completely dissemble sentiments and opinions; he
was moreover a wag. He winked significantly on Hamilton, and calling
him aside, whispered, “This will be a good joke to your friend John,
but take care, my boy, some of those dashing misses are Tartars.” He
might have explained this metaphor, but was interrupted by the sound
of the horn, and the coachman summoning them to depart. Accordingly
Hamilton was under the necessity of leaving the charming Miss Mortimer,
and at parting, though he hardly spoke with his tongue, yet in half a
minute expressed with his eyes an ardour of affection and tenderness
of regret, which Maria must have been as remarkable for dullness as
she was for the contrary, if she had not observed. She did more than
observe, she also felt.--After a very cordial squeeze of the father’s
hand, and a renewal of his promise to visit the Grove on his return,
he departed. Having, after the coach was set off, continued to gaze
on the window where Maria stood, on the turning of the corner he lost
sight of the beloved object, and, regardless of his fellow traveller,
threw himself back, and feigning to be asleep, brooded in fancy over
the lovely image of Maria. His companion was one of those young ladies
who, having the eye of an hawk after the handsome of the opposite sex,
are not unskilled in quarrying upon destined prey. Miss Dartwell was a
very likely girl, with animated and fascinating eyes, a clear and fresh
complexion, rosy lips, white teeth, tall, straight, and well made. She
was the daughter of a tradesman, who being in tolerable circumstances,
proposed, at the instigation of his wife, to breed Fanny to be a young
lady, trusting that she would acquire, by marriage, rank and fortune;
and thus enable her parents to look down upon their neighbours.
With these hopes they had sent her to a boarding school, near the
metropolis; there she learned to smatter a little French, to strum a
little on the pianoforté, to read a little, and to speak a great deal.
The lady governess of the seminary often boasted of her connections,
and among these had a brother whom she used to style an officer in
the guards, and indeed so he was, and a very useful officer too, and
having risen from the ranks to be corporal, had afterwards become a
sergeant, then sergeant major, and lastly, an adjutant. He had a son,
who, inheriting his military spirit, was now a sergeant of grenadiers,
one of the handsomest young fellows on the parade, and peculiarly
eminent for his skill in drilling. About this time it began to be
deemed expedient by some of the wise persons who superintended female
tuition, to have their fair pupils initiated in military affairs; the
exercise of a soldier would give them _a free and easy carriage, and
improve their shapes_. The lady to whom the formation and guidance of
Miss Dartwell was committed, thinking such preceptorial employment
might be a good job for her nephew, introduced sergeant Sycamore in
this capacity. Miss Fanny, being the tallest of the young corps,
occupied the right hand, and thinking it incumbent on her to do honour,
by dexterity of performance, to her conspicuous stature and situation,
and being well formed, active, and alert, soon surpassed the rest of
the company, and was appointed _fugle_. Her exhibitions and evolutions
procured great praise from the sergeant, to which she would listen with
much complacency. She often would make comparisons between this heroic
youth, and the various other teachers of his sex, and declared to her
intimates, that he was far before the dancing-master himself. “To be
sure, Mr. Cotillion is a very pretty man, but Mr. Sycamore is a very
pretty and a very fine man.” Notwithstanding the strict vigilance of
boarding schools, the sergeant found means to make a conquest of one
of the teachers, no very difficult achievement; and thereby to have
various opportunities of conversing with the misses entrusted to her
charge: and how could he employ his time better, than in giving them
_private_ lessons? Practising the military steps, Miss Dartwell became
distinguished for _free and easy carriage_, and the _improvement of
her shapes_. Soon after this display of tactics the sergeant, by
the influence of another disciple, of much higher rank, who, though
of a more advanced age, had condescended to avail herself of his
instructions, was promoted to a pair of colours, and ere long to a
lieutenancy of guards, whence he had recently been appointed a captain
in a marching regiment. Miss Dartwell, after her studies, had returned
to her parents, and had received offers of marriage from divers young
tradesmen, whom she rejected with disdain, not failing to reprobate
the insolence of such fellows, who durst presume to make proposals to
a young lady that had been _at boarding-school_, and learned so many
fine accomplishments. Meanwhile she did not fail to manifest to young
squires and captains of militia, that their addresses would not be
deemed so degrading. Being artful and insinuating, she had laid snares
with an apparent probability of success for a spruce young counsellor,
but at last found that the lawyer was perfectly acquainted with the
difference between being taken in _mesne_ process, where the caption
was only temporary, and being taken in _execution_, from which there
was no bail.--Her father being now dead, and having some hundred pounds
at command, she resolved to set out in quest of Sycamore, and having,
in London, learned that his regiment was at Inverness and Fort George,
she had left the metropolis in a different coach the same morning as
our hero, and having arrived late the evening before at Northallerton,
had waited for the mail. Such was the fellow-traveller of our hero.
Captain Sycamore still continued the principal favourite of his fair
pupil. Deeming the attention and regard of this worthy preceptor the
chief good, yet, being in her philosophy rather a peripatetic than a
stoic, she considered it as the _summum_ but not _solum expetendum_,
the greatest but not the only blessing which life might afford. Though
she was approaching Sycamore, still he was three hundred miles off:
here was a very fine young man close by her; besides, soldiers might,
in change of scene, be inconstant. She now recollected that there was
some reason to suppose Sycamore rather forgetful. She was one of those
prudential persons who preferred possession to reversion, and thought a
bird in the hand worth two in the bush. But to justify the application
of this proverb, it was necessary that the bird should actually be in
hand, and not merely, because very near, supposed within reach. She
had penetrated into the sentiments of our hero, the few minutes she
saw him with Miss Mortimer, and observing his concern, she forbore
for some time to interrupt his reverie, but at length tired even of so
long a silence, she attempted to engage him in discourse. She began
with indifferent topics, dexterously sliding into his opinion, however
slightly it might be delivered, and by degrees opened upon plays and
romances, the species of reading in which she was chiefly conversant,
thence passing to various descriptions of beauty, she endeavoured to
please him by bestowing high panegyrics on the young lady, who had come
in the coach to the last inn. To her observations Hamilton made civil
and assenting answers, but very short. They now arrived at Darlington,
where miss to her great vexation found that they were to be joined by
another traveller. This was a stout, hearty, plain man, who appeared
to be a substantial farmer or a yeoman. He soon, however, informed
the company he was a freeholder of Durham, and proceeded, in the usual
style of vulgar loquacity, to open upon his own private affairs. He,
it seems, farmed his own lands, and had two sons; one of whom, a
stout young man, he was breeding up to husbandry: but the other, a
poor puny lad, quite unfit for labour, therefore he was making him a
_genus_, he was to be a great _scolard_; he was not more than seventeen
years of age, and in two or three years more would be fit for the
_varsity_; so Mister Syntax, our schoolmaster, tells me; and he is a
_perdigious_ great _scolard_. From his own affairs, this communicative
person, in the natural course, proceeded to those of his neighbours,
mentioned many names, totally unknown to his fellow-travellers, but, at
last, came to one lady, of whom they and most others had very often
heard. Not being sparing in his strictures on combined profligacy and
folly, or the connexions which these had formed, he observed, that he
remembered her a very good, agreeable young woman. “But, ah! master,
when women once begin going to the devil, they do not stop half way;
first they are bashful and coy, and we must court them; but after men
has once their own way, by jingo then they courts us, and are no more
shamefaced.” Our hero could not controvert the observations of this
sage, and almost smiled at (as he conceived) their applicability to
his fair companion. Whether the lady perceived, or at least felt their
appositeness, could not easily be discovered. She certainly did not
blush but, perhaps, that might be partly from her original tuition
at the boarding-school, and partly from having of late been totally
disused to the suffusion. At Durham they only stopped to change
horses. Before they reached Newcastle their fellow-traveller left
Hamilton and Miss Dartwell to themselves. The lady began to resume the
operations which the worthy freeholder had interrupted: Hamilton, as we
have seen, was not insensible to the attractions of even this species
of ladies, yet, at present, his imagination was so much engrossed by
the charms of the lovely Miss Mortimer, that his senses were less
alive to present objects. To Morpeth they were still alone, and the
lady began to hope that her efforts would not be in vain. But as they
arrived at the inn, whom should miss descry, at a window, but her
old friend and favourite, captain Sycamore? Reversing her intended
application of the proverb, about “a bird in hand,” she hastened from
the coach, and with looks of the warmest affection, flew to her
military instructor. Hamilton proceeded on his journey.--From Berwick
he crossed the country in the morning, and arrived at Etterick.




CHAPTER IX.


THE old gentleman received his nephew with very great delight, and
having ordered for him every refreshment that the house afforded, or
at least that he could command, proceeded without delay to unfold his
various reasons for requesting the presence of William. “I had,” he
said, “many trials while my wife was alive, but it pleased the Lord to
take her to himself. I was resigned, and since that time have lived
with Susan very comfortably. She, to be sure, was down in the mouth,
from the behaviour of (whispering) that damned scoundrel her husband;
and sometimes I have thought that, bad as he was, she regretted his
absence as much as any thing, however, that’s between ourselves. In
fact, he returned about a month ago, and behaved very civilly for a
week, and his wife appeared as fond of him as ever. I hoped he had
taken himself up, and to encourage him, allowed him as much money as I
could spare for the present, and promised to do more if he continued
to behave himself: but I soon found the money did him more harm than
good: he returned to his old practices, and at length became so
extremely insolent that I dare hardly call my house my own. He daily
abuses me for having (he says) _defrauded him_, by securing my property
as I have done; and as to my daughter, he takes up with the vilest
trollops under her very nose; and told her, no longer ago than last
night, in his cups, that he knew no other use that she and the old
fool her father could be of, but by their fortune giving him the means
of pleasure. He has no idea that I wrote to you to come down, and
talks very highly, boastingly, and falsely, about your encounter and
his in Yorkshire.”--After farther conversation Hamilton retired into
an adjoining dressing-room, to make some change in his habiliments,
when Mr. O’Rourke, who, having been abroad, had heard nothing of the
guest that was arrived, entered the apartment, and accosting the laird
in a loud and imperious tone, told him that he required more money
immediately. “I have a demand that cannot be put off; so I must have
none of your excuses or delays.” “I have really no money for you; you
know very well how I am circumstanced.” “Yes, yes, I know how those
villains choused you.” “What villains, sir?” “Your brother and his
son, to be sure; but I fancy the son will keep out of my way again.”
“Here he comes,” said the old gentleman, “to answer for himself”; and
immediately our hero presented himself before O’Rourke. Astonishment at
first suspended the faculties of the preacher, but was soon succeeded
by consternation and fear, and as Hamilton sternly regarded him, the
impudence of the bully was totally overwhelmed by the dread of merited
chastisement. Hamilton, however, abstaining from actual violence,
coolly asked his uncle if he would leave the management of the man
entirely to him? “That I will my dear nephew: you know I sent for you
for that very purpose.”--“Then,” said Hamilton, “you, Mr. O’Rourke,
withdraw, until my uncle and I determine how to proceed.” This command
he very submissively and expeditiously obeyed. Having learned the
details of O’Rourke’s conduct, our hero asked his uncle, whether he
did not think a separation would be the wisest measure? “I think so,”
said the laird, “but I am afraid Susan will not altogether agree; for
she has still a great hankering after the fellow.” Mrs. O’Rourke now
came to pay her compliments to her cousin, bringing with her her little
boy, whom she introduced to William, who bestowed great encomiums on
his young relation. The lady answered with a sigh, that he already
appeared to have the look and shape of his father. Hamilton, as they
farther conversed, easily discovered that an entire separation was
not to the lady’s mind. Of course it would be totally inexpedient
to propose such a measure. She expressed her hopes, that he might
be reclaimed, and earnestly conjured Hamilton to devise some means
for making the experiment. While they were deliberating, a servant
entering in hurry and agitation, informed them, that there were king’s
messengers[4] below, and that they were in pursuit of Mr. O’Rourke.
Hamilton, having inquired into the circumstances of the case, found
that they were writs against the preacher, for sums amounting to five
hundred pounds, for debts incurred during his former residence in
that country, and that other prosecutions were threatened from places
which he had since visited, in the course of his methodistical mission
or other adventures. Hamilton advised his uncle not to interfere
immediately, but to suffer him to undergo, for a time, the punishment
of his vices, and afterwards to relieve him conditionally, according
to his future conduct. Etterick agreeing to this advice, O’Rourke was,
for the present, taken to the county gaol. Hamilton, in a day or two,
sent the steward to see the prisoner, and endeavour to learn from
himself the amount of his incumbrances. O’Rourke, abject in adversity,
humbled himself before this agent, whom, in the insolence of fancied
prosperity, he had formerly treated with imperious rudeness; in the
most supplicatory terms entreated his interposition, acknowledged his
own unworthiness, and confessed that his debts were not much less than
a thousand pounds. He wrote letters to his wife, father-in-law, and our
hero, reproaching himself and praying forgiveness. These humiliations
wrought upon the feelings of Mrs. O’Rourke, and at her earnest
entreaties it was agreed that the laird should privately guarantee a
loan for the liquidation of the debts, but that the land-steward, who
was to be the ostensible lender, should take O’Rourke’s bond, to be
held _in terrorem_, with a threat of execution if he repeated any of
his former misconduct. Hamilton both before and after the release spent
much time in exhorting the husband of his cousin to act as became the
connection which he had formed, and advised him particularly to abstain
from hard drinking and from methodism, both of which intoxicating the
brain, unhinging the faculties, and giving full reins to passion, often
led to madness, profligacy, or both. O’Rourke acknowledged that it was
very true, and promised faithfully hereafter to avoid the drunkenness
of either strong liquor or fanaticism, both of which he confessed
from experience, heightened the propensity towards loose women and
other irregularities. Though Hamilton did not altogether rely on the
conscientious penitence of this person, yet knowing that his fears,
wherever circumstances led them to operate, would powerfully influence
his actions, desired to have him under his own eye. He, therefore,
prevailed with the father and daughter to spend the following winter in
London, and to pass the intervening time at different watering places,
whither he promised occasionally to join their party. Arrangements
being made for their meeting in England, our hero informed them that he
had engaged to visit a college-friend in Yorkshire. He took his uncle’s
horses to Berwick, whence he set out by the mail, in which, though full
of passengers, nothing occurred interesting in itself, or, at least,
that engaged the attention of our hero, which was entirely engrossed
by the anticipation of the pleasure he was to receive at Oak-Grove.
Arriving at Northallerton, and inquiring about Mr. Mortimer’s family,
he had the happiness to hear that they were all in perfect health; and
hastily dining, he walked on towards Oak-Grove.

The morning on which the squire and his daughter had parted with
Hamilton, they had immediately gone home; Mr. Mortimer retired to
bed and to sleep; his daughter to bed, but not to sleep. Some hours
after she descended to the parlour, where she found herself in the
affectionate arms of her brother John. Having asked many kind questions
about herself and their father, and how she liked London, he could
not help observing, that, retaining all her sweetness and tenderness,
she was much less sprightly and communicative.--“What’s the matter
with you, Maria? have you lost your heart that you are so pensive?”
At this question, Maria bushed, but pretended to laugh. Before she
could answer the question, her father making his appearance, after the
reciprocity of embrace, of looks, and expressions, that parental and
filial love might be expected to produce, and some discourse on private
and domestic affairs, he turned to his daughter:--“Well, Maria, how
long,” he said, “have you been up?” “Near these two hours, sir.” “O,
then you have been telling John all the fine sights you have seen,
at the plays, and operas, and Ranelagh, and Vauxhall.” “Very little
of that,” said John. “And of his friend, our fellow-traveller.”--“My
friend, your fellow-traveller?” said the son: “no not a word: who was
he?” “Lord, girl, how came you to be so forgetful? Besides, the young
man was really very civil to you.” Maria again blushed. “Who is the
subject of your discourse?” said John. “Your friend Mr. Hamilton was
our fellow traveller from Hertford; and as fine a young man as ever I
saw; is he not, Maria?”--“Pretty well, pretty well,” replied the lady;
“nothing extraordinary,” repeating her blushes. “Pretty well!” replied
the father; “by the lord Harry, miss, I believe you had not the use of
your eyes. I think he’s a very handsome and a very fine young man. I am
sure John does not agree in your opinion, do you, John?” “Not in the
opinion which she has expressed.” “And besides you are to consider you
are very much obliged to him; he saved you from a very bad fall.” Maria
now pretended some errand out of the room, and the father continued
to descant upon the agreeableness of Hamilton, and his attentions to
Maria and to him on finding who they were. “I don’t know how it was,”
he said, “Maria is an excellent girl, and a daughter to my wish, and I
have hardly any occasion to find fault with her, but she was silent and
reserved during most of the journey. I invited your friend to visit us
as he returns from Scotland. I winked and even whispered to her, that
out of common civility she ought to join in the invitation, but she did
not say a word.”

Mr. Mortimer was an extremely worthy man; but, totally without disguise
himself, he did not readily suspect it in any other. John was a man
of abilities, penetration, well-acquainted with the world, and with
the fair sex, and not ignorant of the artifices and dissimulation
which modesty and delicacy often introduce in the most virtuous and
elevated female bosoms. He heard from the communicative old gentleman,
all the detail of their journey, including the dashing miss that set
off with Hamilton. In various conversations with his sister he turned
the discourse upon his friend, but observed that she rather shifted
the subject. She was much graver than usual, or if she attempted
the appearance of gaiety, it was evidently an effort. One day a
family in the neighbourhood was dining at Mr. Mortimer’s, and Maria,
with a companion, was seated near a window that commanded a view of
Northallerton, and the interjacent fields, and exerting herself to
amuse the company, she had begun a very animated account of the comic
performance of Mrs. Jordan in the country girl, and had placed her on
the table sealing the letter, when the gate-bell ringing, she hastily
turned about, and as hastily withdrawing her eyes, was overspread with
blushes, and stopped short in the middle of her description. “Dear
Maria,” said the father, “what’s the matter with you, girl?” A servant
now entering addressed Mr. Mortimer, saying, “_Here be a young squire
axing for my measter and young measter_:” and immediately after, our
hero made his appearance, and was received with warm affection by his
friend, and cordial kindness by the old gentleman. His reception from
Maria appeared to her father too cold a civility to an acquaintance,
who was the friend of her brother, to whom she herself had been
obliged. When the ladies withdrew, they all, with the exception of
Maria, united in praising the face, figure, and address of the young
stranger.--Though Miss Mortimer was far from dissenting in her heart
from these opinions, yet she had several reasons for concealing her
acquiescence. Maria had often, among her companions, ridiculed the
folly of love at first sight, and declared the thought it impossible
for a rational woman to be enamoured of a man, however agreeable in
appearance and manners, before she had an opportunity of knowing the
qualities of his understanding and heart; and also, unless she had
reason to conceive him attached to herself. This theory Miss Mortimer
had often supported with brilliant ingenuity, but had begun now to
apprehend that, like many plausible and splendid hypotheses, it would
not stand the test of experiment. She really feared that she prized
her fellow-traveller much too highly for so short an acquaintance,
and besides, had not been without uneasiness since his departure, in
company with the lady from Northallerton. Delicacy had restrained not
only the tongue, but the eyes of our hero from that expression which
his heart dictated, and though the young lady would have been ashamed
and vexed by the repetition of the looks which she had received in
the coach, she, perhaps, was not altogether pleased at what she,
not certain as to the motive, considered as a change. A lady whose
affections are perfectly unengaged, may be pleased with attentions,
which are merely homage to her charms, and, though indifferent to
the man who has bestowed them, may be piqued or mortified at their
discontinuance, real or imagined. The mind of Maria, however, was
too strong to be much affected by pique. She was less mortified than
anxious. She recollected, however, that there was no motive, which
she could avow, for coldness and distance to a gentleman who was her
father’s guest, the intimate friend of her brother, and whose manners
and deportment had a claim to every attention which the politeness
of hospitality could exact from a younger and fair hostess: she,
therefore, resolved to attempt a greater degree of care and frankness.
At tea, the worthy host, in order to amuse the company with a joke,
a pastime of which he was very fond, began to roast our hero about
his fellow-traveller to the north. Hamilton, whose eyes were turned
towards Miss Mortimer, observed her flush and suddenly look to him at
this address, but on perceiving the direction of his eyes withdraw
hers in confusion. Animated by these movements, which he flattered
himself indicated, at least, a curiosity about his conduct, he very
eagerly and briefly related her meeting with an officer, who appeared
to be her husband; and having spoken very slightly of the appearance
and accomplishments of the lady, he, for some reason, chose to descant
on the grace, elegance, and manly beauty of the gentleman whom she
had met. He did not, he said, know who they were, having parted with
them at Morpeth, and having heard nothing, and indeed thought nothing
of them from that time to the present. Maria in this account saw two
circumstances, with neither of which she was displeased: first, that
Hamilton had cultivated no acquaintance with the lady: secondly, that
he was extremely desirous to make that known. One or two opportunities
had occurred for his countenance speaking to Maria the energetic
and impassioned language of love; and she did not misunderstand the
expression.

A country performer, who had learned that there was a party at Oak
Grove, arrived with his violin and rural second, to exhilarate the
company. The strains of loyalty, begun in the vestibule, announced his
arrival. He and his comrade were instantly introduced; and Hamilton
requested the hand of the charming hostess. Both gentleman and lady
excelled in agility, grace, and justness of musical ear; and though
all the other young people acquitted themselves extremely well, yet
no couple equalled, or nearly equalled, William and Maria.--In the
course of their festive amusement, and in the intervals of rest, our
hero did not fail to tell his fair partner how beautiful she was,
how lovely, how irresistibly interesting. She pretended to consider
these declarations as mere words of course, and to answer with gay
indifference. Gaiety, sprightliness, and brilliancy she displayed;
indifference did not appear. Our hero, inspired by Maria, and moreover
warmed with the social bowl, to which the old gentleman had allowed but
little respite, gave vent, after supper, to his imagination; delighted
by the novelty and beauty of his imagery, and by the sallies of his
wit, surprised and fascinated his hearers. The stage happening to be
mentioned, and Mrs. Siddons in Belvidera called from our youth the
pathos of genius so irresistibly impressive, that glistening eyes
and moistened cheeks of the fair auditors bore unequivocal testimony
to the softness of their sensibility. Far transcending all the female
guests, in the vigour of her imagination, and the tenderness of her
heart, Maria, by the action and reaction of fancy and of feeling,
was more enchanted and affected by the descriptions and exhibitions
of our hero, than any of her companions. She saw how exquisitely his
countenance corresponded with the varying subject; and, indeed, though
she did not see it, her own was in changing unison. The members of the
party were so extremely pleased with each other, that the dawning morn
was the first intimation that midnight was passed. Late as it was,
and though William had not been in bed the preceding night, yet he
lay awake, meditating on love and Maria, and wholly bent on winning
the affections of so charming a fair. In the tumultuous eagerness
of passion, reason did not altogether neglect one of her favourite
votaries, but asked, to what end could he indulge his affection?
was his situation in life such as to justify so early a marriage,
deserving as the young lady might be? would not it be prudent to
defer his advances until he had made greater progress in the destined
pursuits of life?--Honour and humanity said, “Do not irretrievably
engage the heart of this lovely and interesting young woman, before
you are assured that no impediments may retard, or obstacles obstruct
gratification.” To these monitors the ingenuity of love answered,
“That instead of opposing he would satisfy them all.” He was conscious
that he possessed talents, erudition, and literary powers, which, if
steadily and uniformly exerted, would procure him an income sufficient
for real happiness; that Maria would stimulate exertion; and that so
inspired he would probably be greater and richer than if acting without
any such motive; but, at least, he would be happier. At length he was
overpowered by sleep, and was in a dream caressing the object of his
waking thoughts, when his jolly host entering his apartment roused him
to breakfast, that, according to an appointment on the former evening,
they might take a ride over his farm and estate.--“I suppose, my young
friend, you are like John, therefore I need not offer you a tankard for
your morning draught.” Hamilton acknowledged the resemblance in that
part of their taste, and the squire left him, and, while he equipped
himself, went to pay his compliments to the other guests. Having left
his room, he was preparing to descend to the parlour, whence he heard
the cheerful voice of his host; when a door opening into the landing
place, Maria unexpectedly presented herself to his enraptured view.--He
thought her somewhat pale, and inquired after her health, not as a
compliment, but as one whose whole soul was concentrated in its object.
She answered him with sweetness, but still attempted indifference. He
softly took hold of her hand, and earnestly requested one moment’s
conversation. Confounded by his address, she at first stood still,
but recollecting herself, gently withdrew her hand, saying, she must
descend to the breakfast-room. The allegation of reason sounding so
like an apology for departure, delighted our hero, who confidently
expected ere long he might have the opportunity which he wished. Most
of the morning was occupied in viewing the farms of the squire and his
tenants. His own demesnes evinced the skill and ability of the farmer
and gardener, that happily mingled utility with pleasure; in whose
plans, culture was the groundwork, while decoration was the edging and
interspersion, in which productiveness, the primary object, did not
preclude delight. The fields, husbandry, houses, dress, and persons of
his tenants, evinced the industrious and thriving farmers of Yorkshire.

The rest of the visitors were now departed, and Hamilton was the only
guest. They returned to dinner. The squire, convivial from sociability,
but not intemperate from habit, promoted neither by precept nor by
example the absorption of any more liquor than suited the tastes
of his company. After a cheerful but moderate glass, the gentlemen
joined Maria in the garden. Young Mortimer was soon after summoned
to Northallerton, on some business which would require about half
an hour’s attendance, and the squire was a little after obliged to
give audience to one of his tenants; so that now there remained only
our hero and the object of his adoration. The reader will not doubt
that Hamilton embraced so favourable an opportunity of unfolding his
sentiments, which he did with mingled ardour, tenderness, and delicacy.
The young lady heard him with agitation, but an agitation that appeared
to arise more from apprehension than from anger. Educated with the
strictest sense of decorum and propriety, as well as modesty, she
thought she was wrong in listening to him; but his deportment was so
respectful, engaging, and persuasive, that though she once or twice
attempted it, she was unable to chide him for so hasty a declaration,
or even abruptly to leave him and retire. She, in a very low voice
and faltering accents, requested him not to talk on such a subject
to her; they were almost strangers to one another; it was impossible
he could know so much of her mind and dispositions as to justify the
preference which he professed; though accident had left them alone at
this time, she would take care to prevent the recurrence of such a
situation; at least, unless he promised to desist in future from such a
topic. Hamilton declared his resolution to open his sentiments to his
friend John, and she was deprecating the application, when her father
rejoining them, interrupted their discourse.

The following day a hunting party prevented the intended explanation
in the morning; and when they returned to dinner, a neighbouring
gentleman, who invited himself to Oak Grove, was of the party. This was
squire Blossom, whose father, a very great farmer near Richmond, had
acquired a considerable property by speculating in corn and cattle,
and by horse-dealing; and his fortune being more than doubled by the
death of a brother, an opulent manufacturer: a short time before he had
died, leaving to this his only child, an estate of two thousand pounds
a year. This youth having been intended by his father for following his
own footsteps, had received little education, except so far as related
to rearing horses, and disposing of them to the best advantage. In this
last branch he, though only six and twenty, had already attained such
skill that he could over-reach colonel O’Blackleg himself, and was
fast adding to his fortune. He, like his father, was also a skilful
corn-dealer and grazier. Acquing his money with great ease, though not
liberal to other persons, he was not sparing in what ministered to
his own pleasures; being a fresh-coloured strapping fellow, he was a
successful gallant in the country; and young as he was, was a kind of
a patriarch. This person having neither birth, abilities, or any other
source of distinction but his riches and his vices, considered money
as the first constituent of eminence, and next to that the deception
of female credulity. Blossom had frequently seen Maria Mortimer, and
though without taste, feeling, or comprehension to do justice to many
of her charms, yet from sentiments purely animal, he regarded her as
a very desirable object. The fortune of Mr. Mortimer he well knew was
considerably inferior to his own, and as he had several children, the
portion of his daughters could not be great. He himself was determined
not to marry but merely as a matter of convenience, and had in his eye
the only child of an opulent button-maker of Sheffield. This fellow
had the presumptuous wickedness to conceive dishonourable intentions
towards the virtuous and elevated Maria. But, though not without
courage in rencounters of wrestling, cudgel-playing, or boxing, he
was no friend to sword and pistol, which he well knew such an attempt
would immediately raise against him from Maria’s brother, who was
brave, intrepid, and high spirited. Knowing, however, that John was
soon to leave the country, he determined to execute his nefarious
design, when its object should, he conceived, be less guarded. He
therefore had often visited Oak Grove. The father and brother, though
they had no suspicion of his real designs, yet did not much approve
of his attention to Maria, and were not so sordid as to desire, for
the sake of mere fortune, that she should sacrifice herself to a man
whom she did and must despise. Maria, from whom he had not completely
concealed his real design, regarded him with contempt and indignation;
but her fear of involving in a quarrel that might prove fatal to those
whom she most dearly loved, prevented her from explanations. In such
circumstances all that she could do was to avoid his company as much as
possible, and when in it to treat him with chilling coldness.--Blossom,
who considered his own face and figure as irresistible, imputed this
behaviour to artifice and coquetry, and persisted in his scheme.
Accordingly, having met with the father and son, he offered them his
company, intending to return the hospitality of the family by ruining
the daughter. As Blossom and the old gentleman were riding before, John
in a few words communicated the heads of his character;--that he was a
rich blockhead of a profligate horse-jockey; that he hated his company
and conversation, as he was ignorant, impudent, and gross; but that the
reception of such fellows was in the country a sacrifice, which must
be frequently made to social neighbourhood. Maria was dressed that day
with an elegant simplicity, that rendered her irresistibly bewitching.
Blossom and Hamilton, different as they were in their sentiments and
views, both agreed in being more than ever fired by her charms. Our
hero could have instantly married her, to have such corporeal and
mental attractions his own; and Blossom would have almost encountered
any risk to perpetrate his purpose. He easily saw the fondness of
Hamilton, but estimated its nature and object by the grossness and
depravity of his own mind. Hamilton, he could not help perceiving,
was extremely handsome, and as such might doubtless procure a rich
match; he, therefore, could, in Blossom’s opinion, only pursue Maria
as a mistress. He could not avoid observing, that Miss Mortimer
treated Hamilton with much more complacency than himself. Rivalry and
resentment added fresh incentives, and he resolved, cost what it would,
to snatch from the stranger so delicious a morsel. Having, both during
dinner and after, indulged freely in the bottle, his passion was more
and more inflamed, though somewhat dissipated by long and boasting
narratives of his own amours. In the drawing-room he became excessively
troublesome, and, in the temerity of insolent brutality, conceiving
himself not observed by the gentlemen, offered the young lady a gross
affront. The eyes of the virtuous and delicate Maria flashed fire. She
threw in his face the scalding teapot, and forgetting all her caution,
called to her brother to come to turn the fellow out of the house.
John hastily seized the offender, who smarting with pain, maddened
with liquor and with anger, began to pour out the abuse of enraged
vulgarity, calling, he was richer than them all put together. Here’s
a fuss, because----, and he stated the offence. John returned this
speech by a blow, which levelled Blossom with the ground; and after he
recovered, seizing him, and being superior in strength, dragged him
to the door, and thrust him out of the house. Blossom, enraged and
bloody, hastened to the inn at Northallerton, thence wrote a defiance,
conceived in the grossest terms of abuse, avowing his design, and
swearing that it should be effected. Mortimer having read this letter,
declared his resolution to meet the fellow immediately. His father and
sister eagerly beseeched him to disregard a challenge from such a
man. John, however, hastily ran out, followed by his father; and was
immediately after heard above stairs in his own room. Hamilton was
following him, when Maria, afraid he was going to accompany him as his
second, eagerly grasped his arm, and prayed he would hear her for one
minute. “One minute, my lovely Maria! for my life and for ever.” “O my
dear sir,” she proceeded, “prevent my brother from exposing himself,
perhaps, to death: it is all my rashness and precipitancy. I shall be
the murderer of my kind, accomplished, and beloved brother. I shall
deprive my father of his darling son, and bring his grey hairs with
sorrow to the grave. Do, Mr. Hamilton, prevent this calamity, and
you will merit my eternal gratitude.” Hamilton told her, that he had
just formed a scheme, which he trusted would prevent the extremities
she apprehended. He went to his friend, whom he found vehemently
contending with his father, that he must meet and chastise the villain.
“My dear friend,” interrupted our hero, “do you believe me a man of
honour, or that I would suffer an insult to pass without a punishment
adequate to the subject and object?” “I know you would not.” “Do you
think I would accept a challenge from a footman?” “Unquestionably not.”
“Or from any one not a gentleman?” “Certainly not.” “Can you think
the writer of this letter entitled to the treatment of a gentleman?”
“Not by conduct; but by his situation in life, and the estimation of
society.” “His situation in life is nothing to us,” replied our hero,
“and if you will follow my advice, you will satisfy society, even that
part of it that supports the factitious honour of duelling, and punish
the fellow without degrading yourself, a gentleman, to the low level
of a brutal clown.” William accordingly explained his proposition;
that John should write an answer, declaring “that he would not admit
a man of such behaviour to the privilege of a gentleman; but that he
would personally chastise him, and would not suffer him to appear in
any public meeting, until he had publicly asked pardon for his infamous
behaviour.”--John at last agreed to this expedient, and also to defer
the answer till the following morning, when Blossom might have had time
to cool and reflect on the exact predicament in which he stood.--Maria
and her father regarded our hero with the most delighted gratitude, and
the remainder of the evening passed in tranquillity.

Early in the morning Hamilton betook himself in quest of the
esquire.--Blossom, being informed that a gentleman from young Mr.
Mortimer desired to see him, was very little pleased with the message.
His courage had in a great degree flowed from the wine which he drank,
and as the fumes were now in a considerable degree evaporated, part
of the valour had also _oozed_ away. To give it time to return, or
to deliberate how it might be unnecessary, he proposed to defer the
interview about two hours. Our hero returned at the appointed time,
and was introduced to the apartment of Blossom, whom he found sitting
with a bandage round his head, which, however, did not so completely
cover his face as to prevent it from exhibiting impudence contending
with shame and fear. He received Hamilton civilly, and then in a
blustering tone proceeded to exclaim against young Mortimer. Hamilton
cut him short by telling him, his business was merely to deliver him a
letter, and, according to the reply, to add a subsidiary message. The
esquire having read the letter; “And so,” says he, “master Mortimer
refuses the challenge?” “But,” says Hamilton, “he states his reasons
and determination.”--“Pretty reasons: cowardice; don’t you think
so, Clump?” turning to his groom, who had continued in the room.
“Before,” said our hero, “Mr. Clump has the trouble of delivering his
sentiments, I have to ask simply, Will you apologize in the required
manner?” “I’ll be d--d if I do.” “That’s right,” said the groom, “don’t
be _timbersome_.” “Then I have farther to inform you, that Mr. John
Mortimer will, in half an hour, be in the public room, in this inn,
to cane you, if you dare appear there; and that he will repeat the
same discipline in every public place where you dare appear, to teach
you the manners befitting such a person as you, if admitted into the
company of ladies and gentlemen.” Having delivered this embassy, our
hero departed. Blossom having shut the door assumed a very valiant
face, and said to Clump, “Did you ever hear so insolent a fellow as
this messenger? Hamilton they call him: it was with difficulty I could
keep my passion. Did not you remark how red and angry my face looked?”
“No, I thought it was rather pale, please your honour, and whitish
as it were.” “But did not you see me even trembling with rage?” “O
yes, when he spoke about the cane in the public room, your honour
did tremble.” “I think I will run after him yet,” said the esquire,
clapping himself on a chair, “to teach him to talk so to a man of my
consequence: but now that I think of it, I cannot well go out as my
head is tied up. I believe it will be as well to avoid the cold and
keep quiet to-day, Clump; I shall not go down stairs.”--Clump, who was
his master’s chief confident, and was a sharp fellow, did not fail to
perceive the real motive; but professed to acquiesce in the ostensible.
Some time afterwards as the esquire was declaring his ardent desire of
having an opportunity of chastising both Mortimer and Hamilton, Clump
standing at the window, informed him that an opportunity was arrived,
for they both were entering the house. “I will go down, don’t say a
word against it, Clump.” “I, please your honour, I am saying nothing
against it.” “However you may go down first, to see what is going
on.”--Clump in a few minutes returned, bearing in his hand a paper to
the following effect:--

“Whereas, a peasant and clown named Bartholomew Blossom, cow-keeper
and horse-jocky, of Docktail-Place, near Richmond, impudently and
falsely calling himself a gentleman, did audaciously, in a vulgar and
ribaldrous letter, send me a challenge. I hereby declare, that I will
not accept a challenge from the said Bartholomew Blossom, peasant and
clown as aforesaid; but I come prepared to chastise the presumptuous
insolence of the fellow, by caning him in the public room, or streets
of Northallerton, or wherever else I may have the good fortune to find
him. At the same time believing him to be a poltroon and a coward, I
shall forbear beating him if he confines himself to the kitchen or
stables, without arrogating to himself the privilege of making one of a
company of gentlemen.

_August 29._ 1789. JOHN MORTIMER.”

Blossom having perused this paper, declared his resolution of
inflicting a most severe vengeance on the traducer of his honour,
but thought it would be wisest to suspend the execution of his
valourous projects, till after his recovery.--The wound which had
thus respited the courage of Mr. Blossom, in the course of the
evening so quickly healed, that though it rained hard, he set off
in the dark for Docktail-place. There he consulted an attorney,
who not without thoughts of _six and eightpence often repeated_,
strongly urged a prosecution for assault, battery, and wounding; and
not doubting but in such a case the adversary would prosecute for a
challenge; he hoped on the one hand “Bartholomew Blossom, esquire,
of Docktail-place, in the parish of Richmond, in the North Riding of
the county of York, plaintiff; and John Mortimer, esquire, younger,
of Oak Grove, in the parish of Northallerton, in the aforesaid North
Riding, of the aforesaid county of York, defendant; and on the other
hand, John Mortimer, esquire, younger, of Oak Grove, in the parish of
Northallerton, in the North Riding of the county of York, plaintiff,
and Bartholomew Blossom, esquire, of Docktail-place, in the parish
of Richmond aforesaid, in the North Riding of the aforesaid county
of York, defendant, carried through all the process of declarations,
replies, rejoinders, and demurs, and abundantly interspersed with the
vacation after Trinity term, being on the 29th day of August, in the
year of our Lord 1789, and in the reign of our Sovereign Lord George
the Third, King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, Defender of
the Faith, and Arch Treasurer of the Holy Roman Empire,” would help
materially to fill paper and swell the bill. Besides Hamilton could
be introduced as “comforting, aiding, and abetting the said John
Mortimer, &c.” Blossom himself was averse to this counsel, and appeared
disposed to confine his views to having Mortimer bound over to the
peace.--The lawyer strongly urged the contrary, but in vain. Finding
he could not succeed in bringing on cross actions, he determined to
suit himself to the humour of his client, and advised the following
expedient for keeping the peace and preserving the esquire’s honour:
Blossom was to send a thundering defiance to Mortimer, offering to meet
him at Northallerton, and threatening, if he would not fight, to cudgel
him unmercifully. The attorney was to communicate these bloody minded
intentions to a friend, this friend was to alarm the mayor, and both
parties were to be bound over to keep the peace. A captain of Militia
delivered this menacing message to Mortimer. Hamilton and he attended,
met the redoubtable champion in the public room; and knowing there
was help at hand, Blossom both looked and talked very big: Mortimer
immediately proceeded to action; but the magistrate and his attendants
rushing in prevented mischief. The parties were bound over, and thus
the matter terminated.

Meanwhile our hero was becoming every day more fondly enamoured of
his charming Maria. The young lady also on her part the more she
knew Hamilton the more she admired and esteemed his talents and
dispositions. His successful interference preventing the catastrophe,
which her susceptible imagination had apprehended, enhanced her regard.
She had promised him her lasting gratitude; nor was she disposed to
violate such an engagement. She now was not only pleased, but visibly
delighted with his company and conversation.--Besides that range of
genius, extent of knowledge, and happy power of communication, which
must render him, Maria thought, respected and admired in public life,
he seemed to her to have those just moral principles, virtues, and
refined sentiments, which constitute, at once, the use and pleasure
of domestic life. But thinking so favourably of him, and feeling so
kindly to him, she cautiously forbore an acknowledgment of mutual
affection. She observed, that in his ideas he was lofty and aspiring,
and apprehending that whatever love might now dictate, ambition might
hereafter prompt views and connexions more conducive to aggrandizement.
She, therefore, not only refused his immediate offers, but would admit
of no promises or engagements: that if at any future time interest or
inclination might induce him to desire a change, there might be no
restraint upon him from justice and honour. Hamilton communicated his
passion to his friend John, but not thereby any intelligence which he
had not discovered before. Mortimer told him, that there was no man
whom he thought, in character and conduct, so worthy of his dear Maria,
and that their respective ranks were equal; that to such a woman as
Maria, he was confident Hamilton would make an affectionate and devoted
husband, and to such a man as Hamilton, Maria would make a tender,
fond, and interesting wife. “But, my dear friend, (he continued) there
are at present strong objections. You have ability, erudition, and
eloquence; you are breeding to a profession in which, with prudence,
you may rise to be at the head; after giving law to the bar, you may
instruct and delight the senate; inform and direct the cabinet: these
are all attainments within the reach of William Hamilton: and farther
they are within his wish and view. You are ambitious and aspiring,
but seeking the pinnacle, you ought not, having so steep an ascent
to climb, to burden yourself so near the bottom, with the cares of a
family. Your own fortune though sufficient for your support, until
your exertions bring fame and emolument, yet is inadequate to the
maintenance of an increasing family, in the style to which both you and
my sister are accustomed, and before your efforts, by establishing your
reputation, had insured your success, embarrassments might commence,
which breaking your spirits might damp the ardour of your genius,
enfeeble the energy of eloquence and make a man of so transcendant
powers, surpassed in his professions by plodding mediocrity. My dear
Hamilton, I revere you, and by my affection and admiration I conjure
you, at least, for the present, to make no overtures of the kind. Be
called to the bar, be engaged in some cause which will make you known,
and lay the foundation of eminence and opulence. Be once established,
and if you continue your love to Maria, I shall most eagerly promote
a connection that will contribute to her honour and happiness.”
“Happiness, did you say,” cried our hero eagerly, “have you, my dear
Mortimer, any idea that your sister is favourably disposed.” John aware
that an answer in the affirmative would by no means conduce to his
scheme of postponing the subject, evaded a direct answer, but said,
“In cases where there is not certainty we must draw inferences from
probability. Without flattering you, I must say, that the manifest
affection of such a youth as my friend Hamilton is likely to impress
any woman of sensibility that should be unengaged. I have no doubt
that Maria possesses sensibility, and I firmly believe that when you
and she became acquainted she was unengaged; but I am convinced, that
though she should love you, both her reason and strength of mind would
refuse an affiance, which the sincerest and best judging friends of
both must see would be, at present, indiscreet.” Hamilton could not
avoid seeing the sense and candour of his friend’s opinions, and as
the time was approaching at which he was obliged to go south, Mortimer
hoped by absence to prevent the immediate contraction of so premature
an engagement. He knew that during the rest of the autumn he was to
be at Brighton and its environs; and that in winter he was occupied
by professional preparations and literary exertions, and hoped that,
while on the one hand the affiance was suspended, on the other great
advances would be made towards its conclusion with prudence and
propriety. He had frequent conferences with his sister, in which, by
addressing himself to her understanding and elevated sentiments, he
endeavoured to persuade her to refuse every proffer for an immediate or
early marriage. Maria perceived that her brother was well acquainted
with the state of her mind; and did not affect either ignorance of
his meaning, or indifference to its subject; she candidly owned that
her opinion of Mr. Hamilton was very high, but denied that her heart
was irretrievably engaged; having before formed the resolution he
desired, she readily and strongly promised adherence. Hamilton had
already outstayed his time, until a letter from his mother earnestly
requested that he would come speedily to town, to join and direct the
autumnal excursion, and he had taken his place for the metropolis for
the next day but one, which was to be on a Monday.--Saturday evening
he was pensive and sad, and Maria was not joyful; both her brother and
lover observed in her countenance and voice the softness of sorrow,
while a forced cheerfulness concealed her emotions from her father.
Having in the stillness and solitude of a night uninterrupted by sleep,
given full vent to her tenderness, she was at the usual hour in the
breakfast room, exhibiting marks of increasing dejection, which even
her father must have discovered. Our hero directed to her the touching
melancholy of his countenance; and she was almost overcome, when her
father entering with an open letter, gave it to his daughter, saying,
“Read that, my girl: by Jupiter it will be a merry year this; two
jaunts in one summer.” “Two jaunts,” said his son. “Yes, your uncle
Benjamin, instead of wintering in the West Indies as we thought, is
come to Portsmouth with his ship, and begs that we may meet him next
week in London, to go down with him to his box on the coast of Sussex.”
“On the coast of Sussex!” said Hamilton, eagerly. “Yes, near Worthing,
ten miles from Brighton, in the slope of the Downs; a sweet little
place it is; he sends Maria there a draft of a hundred pounds, for
crincum crancums, as he calls it, for herself, and not forgetting her
sisters at school. So Moll, we shall be new-rigged.” Maria’s face now
testified joy and animation, which she in vain endeavoured to conceal
or even to moderate. These movements her father observing, turned to
the young gentlemen, and facetiously remarked the wonderful effects
of dress and finery upon young women. His son said he was assured
the hope of seeing their beloved uncle made _one_ part of the cause
of her joy, though not the _sole_, he whispered to his sister. “Ah,”
said the squire, “brother Ben has a rough face and manner, but he has
a kind heart.” Hamilton with the utmost delight observed the change
which this unexpected intelligence effected on Maria, and interpreted
it in nearly the same manner as John had insinuated. He expressed
great pleasure in the happiness he would have in making his hospitable
friends of Oak-Grove acquainted with the family party that he was going
to join. Elated with the assurance of so soon again beholding his
lovely Maria, he departed at the appointed time, and arrived in London
without any material occurrence. The laird of Etterick, his daughter,
and son-in-law were also now arrived, and lodged at an hotel in the
neighbourhood of Mrs. Hamilton. The laird being alone with his nephew,
expressed himself well satisfied with the behaviour of his son-in-law
since William left Scotland. He was very respectful and attentive,
and had hitherto shewn no disposition to return to his former habits,
either of profligacy or preaching. William finding on enquiry that his
cousin had seen but very little of London, proposed that, before they
went to Brighton, they should spend a week in viewing the metropolis
and its environs, and succeeded. They made exursions to Windsor,
Hampton-court, Richmond, and other places.--One day Miss Hamilton had
gone to the hotel to make an arrangement for a party to one of the
theatres, and passing through a gallery, met a young lady, who, after
regarding her very attentively, blushed, curtsied, and was passing
along. An elderly gentleman came immediately after, who having looked
earnestly in Charlotte’s face said, “I ask your pardon, miss; is your
name Hamilton?”--“Yes, sir,” said she, surprised, “but I have not the
pleasure of recollecting you.” “I dare say not,” said the gentleman,
“for you never saw me in your life, nor I you, miss. But, Molly, did
you ever see so striking a likeness? She’s his very image, is not she?”
“Extremely like, indeed,” replied Maria.--“Have you not a brother named
William?” said the old gentleman. “Yes, sir. I dare say, sir, you must
be Mr. Mortimer.” “Very well guessed,” said the old gentleman, going
down stairs to give some orders. Miss Hamilton, addressing the young
lady, said. “I know you must be Miss Mortimer, you so exactly answer
William’s description.” At this remark Maria blushed; they returned
together, and being predisposed to mutual kindness, the one towards a
young lady whom she had discovered, from the letters and confidential
communications of her beloved brother, to be the object of his fond
attachment: the other towards the sister and softened picture of a man
whose love she felt that she requited, they in a quarter of an hour
ceased to consider one another as strangers. The old gentleman now
returned with his son, who had been to call for his friend William, had
not found him at home, but seen his mother, and accepted an invitation
to dine at Hatton Garden, and promised to prevail on his father and
sister to be of the party, but found his embassy anticipated by Miss
Hamilton. They were all met except William, and the hostess knowing he
had some business to transact which might detain him beyond the dining
hour, ordered dinner. They were just seated, and by some accident,
Maria Mortimer occupied the place nearest the bottom of the table,
and facing the door, when Hamilton hastily knocking and entering the
room, the first object he beheld was his beloved Maria. Having with
an anxious earnestness and confused eagerness of manner, voice, and
countenance accosted Miss Mortimer, and with affectionate kindness her
father and brother, he learned the meeting at the hotel, and had the
satisfaction to see that his sister and mother were delighted with the
object of his adoration. It was resolved to defer the theatre party
till the following evening; and the day was spent with great pleasure
and happiness.

Our hero had been so much engrossed by either the company or image
of Maria, that he had almost entirely forgotten his old flame, Jenny
Collings.--Though Jenny had not forgotten him; yet finding his absence
very tedious, she began to listen to the addresses of another. This
other, it seems, was that redoubtable champion esquire Blossom, who
being frequently in London, had seen Miss Collings before his late
adventure with Mortimer, and afterwards choosing to change the scene
a little had come to London, and renewed his application, in hopes
of seducing the virtue of the fair Collings. He had succeeded, and
had lived with her about a week, when one morning a gentleman was
introduced in a naval uniform, who, in rather a stern voice and manner
demanded to see Miss Collings. Blossom told him, that there was no
such person in the house; the officer answered, “That is false, I know
she is here; I saw her at the window.--Your name is Blossom; you have
seduced my sister, and if you do not marry her instantly, this moment
is your last.”--With that he pulled out a brace of pistols. Jenny being
well tutored for the purpose, ran out with her hair disshevelled, and
throwing herself at her brother’s feet, conjured him not to murder
her betrothed husband. “Are you this lady’s husband?” Blossom made
no answer: the lady answered, “He is in conscience and honour, but I
acknowledge not in law.” Blossom, afraid of the pistols, which were
presented and cocked, resolved to temporize that he might get away, and
accordingly acknowledged that he had promised marriage, and that he was
willing and ready to perform his engagement. That, said the seaman,
alters the case, though I still must blame my sister’s simplicity and
credulity; yet, as I find you disposed to make an honourable atonement,
I shall bury the past in oblivion. There are two friends of mine
without who will witness your proposal of amends. The friends were
called in, the brother agreed in their presence to pardon Blossom, if
he immediately performed the engagement which he had admitted. “I am,
(he said,) obliged to be out of town to-morrow afternoon, therefore
we must finish the calls of honour and justice immediately. There is
a coach in waiting, let us now, Mr. Blossom, go to Doctors’ Commons
and procure a licence for to-morrow morning.” Blossom demurred at
this proposal, but the stern and peremptory conduct of the brother
over-ruled his objections. He accompanied Collings and his companions,
the licence was obtained, the brother did not lose sight of the
bridegroom; the next day the nuptials were solemnized, and the
new-married couple set off for Docktail-Place. Before their departure,
the lady being informed that our hero was returned, wrote the following
epistle to our hero:

  “My beloved Hamilton,

Finding that you are become totally indifferent to your Collings, I
have, contrary to my own inclination, listened to the advices of my
friends, and accepted the addresses of another. I am now the wife
of Bartholomew Blossom, esquire, of Yorkshire, a gentleman of great
fortune and merit. As my affection for you and its consequences have
been concealed from most others, I have that confidence in your honour,
that I am assured no passage will ever escape your lips that can affect
the tranquillity of your affectionate and devoted

  JANE BLOSSOM.”

“P.S. Though I have made a sort of vow to myself for ever to abstain
from your enchanting and dangerous company, I should wish to see you
once to convince you, that though prudence and the instances of my
brother induce me to accept of Mr. Blossom’s hand, my heart will ever
remain fondly attached to the first dear object of its virgin love.

  J. B.”


This letter afforded our hero very great pleasure. He had formed a
resolution of relinquishing all intercourse with Miss Collings, but
determined to use every effort that might be in his power, in order
to promote the interest and advantage of one who had suffered so much
from her attachment to himself. Now her situation in point of rank
and opulence was much higher, through the vice and folly of another,
than any which she could have expected to have attained. He could have
regretted the deception or compulsion, if it had been practised upon
a man of honour and worth. But in the present case he was extremely
well pleased, that a profligate, unprincipled debauchee, who had so
behaved himself to his beloved Maria, was caught where he had proposed
seduction and ruin.

Meanwhile, the party set off for the coast of Sussex; the fair Maria,
with her father and brother, betook themselves to the vicinity of
Worthing, while Hamilton, his mother, and the rest of their party, took
up their residence at Brighton.

Our hero, much as he had been engaged, had still found opportunities
of meeting Dr. Strongbrain, who exacted a promise from him, of sending
him a written account of Brighton and its environs, according to the
impression it made upon him at the time. Our hero was as good as his
word, and wrote a description of this celebrated watering-place, which
the reader will find in the following chapter.


END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.




WORKS _printed for_ T. N. LONGMAN _and_ O. REES, No. 39, _Paternoster
Row_.


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 nor too childish; neither to say too much, nor too little; but to
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 years of age. To such we recommend these agreeable and moral
 narratives, most of which we have perused, with no inconsiderable
 degree of entertainment.”

  _British Critic, August_ 1803.

8. LETITIA; or, a CASTLE WITHOUT a SPECTRE. By Mrs. HUNTER. In Four
Volumes, Price 1l. 1s. In Boards.

 “The Author possesses considerable merit as a writer, as well as an
 observer of human life and manners. Her discriminations are just and
 accurate.”

  _British Critic, December_ 1801.

 “Mrs. Hunter has shewn both talent and judgment in this performance.
 On the whole, the Novel has a good tendency in endeavouring to
 communicate that knowledge of the world, without which it is
 impossible to have the true enjoyment of it.”

  _Monthly Rev. Dec._ 1802.

 “This is one of the very few Novels which, in point of moral and
 religious tendency, demands from us an unqualified recommendation to
 every class of readers.”

  _Anti-Jacobin Rev. Jan._ 1802.

9. The HISTORY of the GRUBTHORPE FAMILY; or the Old Bachelor and his
Sister Penelope. By Mrs. HUNTER. In Three Vols. Price 13s. 6d. in
Boards.

10. The UNEXPECTED LEGACY; a Novel. By Mrs. HUNTER. In Two Vols. 12mo.
Price 9s. in Boards.


  _Works in the Press:_

1. The LAY of the LAST MINSTREL, a Poetical Romance. By WALTER SCOTT,
Esq. Editor of “The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.”

2. SPECIMENS of the MODERN ENGLISH POETS, with Preliminary Remarks,
&c. By ROBERT SOUTHEY. Designed as a Sequel to the “Specimens of Early
English Poets.” By GEORGE ELLIS, Esq.


Printed by A. Strahan, Printers-Street.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] See Parson Trulliber and his _flock_, in Joseph Andrews.

[2] See Miss Prue’s Letter in the Bath Guide, and Mr. Polwhele’s Note.

[3] See Hume’s History of Oliver Cromwell, vol. vii.

[4] Equivalent to bailiffs, in England.




Corrections.

The first line indicates the original, the second the correction.

p. x

  to the public, from former experience of misinterpration,
  to the public, from former experience of misinterpretation,

p. 76

  Miss Sourkout, the dealer,
  Miss Sourkrout, the dealer,

p. 88

  CHAPTER IV.
  CHAPTER V.

p. 105

  daughter of a mayor or the laird of Ettrick
  daughter of a mayor or the laird of Etterick

p. 166

  She wrote her mother an acacount
  She wrote her mother an account

p. 289

  bear-in his hand a paper
  bearing in his hand a paper

p. 296

  these are all attaiments within the reach
  these are all attainments within the reach


Errata

The first line indicates the original, the second how it should read.

p. 258

  At this question, Maria bushed,
  At this question, Maria blushed,

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