CALEB WILLIAMS

OR THINGS AS THEY ARE

BY WILLIAM GODWIN

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

LONDON

1903

CONTENTS

• DRAMATIS PERSONAE


• INTRODUCTION


• PREFACE


• AUTHOR'S LATEST PREFACE.


• PREFACE TO THE FIRST
  EDITION.


• VOLUME THE FIRST.
  
  
  
  • Chapter I.
  
  
  • Chapter II.
  
  
  • Chapter III.
  
  
  • Chapter IV.
  
  
  • Chapter V.
  
  
  • Chapter VI.
  
  
  • Chapter VII.
  
  
  • Chapter VIII.
  
  
  • Chapter IX.
  
  
  • Chapter X.
  
  
  • Chapter XI.
  
  
  • Chapter XII.
  
  
  
  


• VOLUME THE SECOND.
  
  
  
  • Chapter I.
  
  
  • Chapter II.
  
  
  • Chapter III.
  
  
  • Chapter IV.
  
  
  • Chapter V.
  
  
  • Chapter VI.
  
  
  • Chapter VII.
  
  
  • Chapter VIII.
  
  
  • Chapter IX.
  
  
  • Chapter X.
  
  
  • Chapter XI.
  
  
  • Chapter XII.
  
  
  • Chapter XIII.
  
  
  • Chapter XIV.
  
  
  
  


• VOLUME THE THIRD.
  
  
  
  • Chapter I.
  
  
  • Chapter II.
  
  
  • Chapter III.
  
  
  • Chapter IV.
  
  
  • Chapter V.
  
  
  • Chapter VI.
  
  
  • Chapter VII.
  
  
  • Chapter VIII.
  
  
  • Chapter IX.
  
  
  • Chapter X.
  
  
  • Chapter XI.
  
  
  • Chapter XII.
  
  
  • Chapter XIII.
  
  
  • Chapter XIV.
  
  
  • Chapter XV.
  
  
  • Postscript.
  
  
  
  

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

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

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

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

THOMAS, a servant of Falkland's.

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

MR. BARNABAS TYRREL, a brutal and tyrannical squire.

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

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

DR. WILSON; MRS. HAMMOND, friends of Miss Melville.

MR. HAWKINS, farmer; YOUNG HAWKINS, his son, Victims of Tyrrel's
brutality, and wrongfully hanged as his murderers.

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

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

LARKINS, one of his band.

AN OLD HAG, housekeeper to the robbers.

A GAOLER.

MISS PEGGY, the gaoler's daughter.

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

MR. SPURREL, a friend who informs on Caleb.

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

INTRODUCTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sir Leslie Stephen said of it the other day:

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

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

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

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

E. A. B.

PREFACE

BY THE AUTHOR.

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

May 12, 1794.

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

October 29, 1795.

AUTHOR'S LATEST PREFACE.

LONDON, November 20, 1832.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

February 14, 1805.

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

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

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

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

The following story consists of such adventures as for the most part have
occurred to at least one half of the Englishmen now existing who are of the
same rank of life as my hero. Most of them have been at college, and shared
in college excesses; most of them have afterward run a certain gauntlet of
dissipation; most have married, and, I am afraid, there are few of the
married tribe who have not at some time or other had certain small
misunderstandings with their wives.¹ To be sure, they
have not all of them felt and acted under these trite adventures as my hero
does. In this little work the reader will scarcely find anything to "elevate
and surprise;" and, if it has any merit, it must consist in the liveliness
with which it brings things home to the imagination, and the reality it
gives to the scenes it pourtrays.

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

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

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

VOLUME THE FIRST.

CHAPTER I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Explanation! What is my offence?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mr. Tyrrel! sir—have a care!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I hope he is not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I must speak with Miss Melville."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI.

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

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

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

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

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

"Died?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Tyrrel shrunk back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gentlemen,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VOLUME THE SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir."

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

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

Mr. Falkland reddened at these citations.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.

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

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

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

"Honourable Sir,

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

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

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

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

"God bless you!

So prays,

Your honour's humble servant to command,

BENJAMIN HAWKINS."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I started with terror, and was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sir,

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

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

"I remain, Sir,

"Your most grateful, respectful,

"and dutiful servant,

"CALEB WILLIAMS."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WILLIAMS,

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

"VALENTINE FORESTER."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What steps did you take upon this discovery?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI.

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

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

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

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

It is a custom among thieves to constitute a sort of mock tribunal of
their own body, from whose decision every one is informed whether he shall
be acquitted, respited, or pardoned, as well as respecting the supposed most
skilful way of conducting his defence. One of the housebreakers, who had
already passed this ordeal, and was stalking up and down the room with a
forced bravery, exclaimed to his companion, that he was as rich as the Duke
of Bedford himself. He had five guineas and a half, which was as much as he
could possibly spend in the course of the ensuing month; and what happened
after that, it was Jack Ketch's business to see to, not his. As he uttered
these words, he threw himself abruptly upon a bench that was near him, and
seemed to be asleep in a moment. But his sleep was uneasy and disturbed, his
breathing was hard, and, at intervals, had rather the nature of a groan. A
young fellow from the other side of the room came softly to the place where
he lay, with a large knife in his hand: and pressed the back of it with such
violence upon his neck, the head hanging over the side of the bench, that it
was not till after several efforts that he was able to rise. "Oh, Jack!"
cried this manual jester, "I had almost done your business for you!" The
other expressed no marks of resentment, but sullenly answered, "Damn you,
why did not you take the edge? It would have been the best thing you have
done this many a day!"²

The case of one of the persons committed for highway-robbery was not a
little extraordinary. He was a common soldier of a most engaging
physiognomy, and two-and-twenty years of age. The prosecutor, who had been
robbed one evening, as he returned late from the alehouse, of the sum of
three shillings, swore positively to his person. The character of the
prisoner was such as has seldom been equalled. He had been ardent in the
pursuit of intellectual cultivation, and was accustomed to draw his
favourite amusement from the works of Virgil and Horace. The humbleness of
his situation, combined with his ardour for literature, only served to give
an inexpressible heightening to the interestingness of his character. He was
plain and unaffected; he assumed nothing; he was capable, when occasion
demanded, of firmness, but, in his ordinary deportment, he seemed unarmed
and unresisting, unsuspicious of guile in others, as he was totally free
from guile in himself. His integrity was proverbially great. In one instance
he had been intrusted by a lady to convey a sum of a thousand pounds to a
person at some miles distance: in another, he was employed by a gentleman,
during his absence, in the care of his house and furniture, to the value of
at least five times that sum. His habits of thinking were strictly his own,
full of justice, simplicity, and wisdom. He from time to time earned money
of his officers, by his peculiar excellence in furbishing arms; but he
declined offers that had been made him to become a Serjeant or a corporal,
saying that he did not want money, and that in a new situation he should
have less leisure for study. He was equally constant in refusing presents
that were offered him by persons who had been struck with his merit; not
that he was under the influence of false delicacy and pride, but that he had
no inclination to accept that, the want of which he did not feel to be an
evil. This man died while I was in prison. I received his last
breath.³

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

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

Our dungeons were cells, 7-1/2 feet by 6-1/2, below the surface of the
ground, damp, without window, light, or air, except from a few holes worked
for that purpose in the door. In some of these miserable receptacles three
persons were put to sleep together.⁴ I was fortunate
enough to have one to myself. It was now the approach of winter. We were not
allowed to have candles, and, as I have already said, were thrust in here at
sunset, and not liberated till the returning day. This was our situation for
fourteen or fifteen hours out of the four-and-twenty. I had never been
accustomed to sleep more than six or seven hours, and my inclination to
sleep was now less than ever. Thus was I reduced to spend half my day in
this dreary abode, and in complete darkness. This was no trifling
aggravation of my lot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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