Front matter (continued 2)

From the day of this visit, Tarefield experienced unknown delights. My father found the curate an excellent hand at back-gammon, "when he minded what he was doing." The honey of Hybla was on Miss Lucretia's lips; and her smiles were the signal for every one's merriment. My father became good humoured, and of course less the invalid. He now thought himself equal to a journey to London, which he had long meditated, and which he considered as indispensibly necessary to his affairs. My sister earnestly seconded his intention, demonstrating that he would be the better for a change of scene, and the exercise it would give him. "Take your pet with you," added she with a gracious nod, "shew her London for a month, and you will return home a young man, and leave behind you those habits of retirement, which have contributed more to make you an old one than either your years or your infirmities." My father observed that he should have too much business on his hands to permit him to shew Mary "the lions," but that the ensuing winter, it was probable, he should pass some weeks in London, and carry with him his whole family. Miss Lucretia's logic had been too conclusive to be recanted; and she saw my father depart for London without his pet. Hope however, remained at Tarefield, and so whispered success, that this defeat was apparently forgotten in new expedients. These were of that sort which it was impossible for poor Howard to overlook or mistake. He confessed his embarrassment to me; and with that integrity of mind which marked his course through life, he declared his love for my angelic Mary. I did not forget my duty, Miss Cowley, although I well knew there was not a man on earth better qualified to be her protector and to render her happy. I failed not to place before my friend the insuperable obstacles which would oppose his wishes, from his want of fortune, and from the influence of the disappointed, and already too envious sister. I pointed out to him the necessity of his being less frequently at the hall, and pleaded Mary's peace as endangered by his persisting in a passion so calculated to reach her innocent bosom. Mr. Greenwood engaged to do his parochial duty for him for a month; in which time my father would be at home, and a more guarded intercourse could be established. Mary affected no concealments with me on the subject of her dejection when Howard left us. Love had made her quick-sighted; and attributing my friend's absence to its true cause, she lamented Miss Lucretia's folly as the only impediment to her happiness, "being certain that no father could reject such a man as Mr. Howard."

I will not prolong my narrative with the arguments which you will naturally suppose I urged against this fond and fallacious belief. Her tears subdued much more than her promises satisfied me, although she repeatedly engaged "to act with a prudence which I should approve; to wait patiently for years; never to cause the least vexation to her dear father, and even to avoid offending her sister by an acknowledgment of Howard's preference." All was easy! time would do every thing for Mary, except to render her indifferent to Mr. Howard! I promised to be neuter, and I kept my word. The lovers, as it will appear, found an expedient to keep up a correspondence, without implicating my honour, or alarming my vigilance. My father's unaccountable detention in London was forgotten by the curate's return, and unable to resist the attraction which drew him to the hall, poor Howard accelerated those measures which it had cost him so many hours of privation to retard. He was present when my father's letter to Miss Flint announced his marriage, with orders to prepare the house for the reception of its new mistress. Our astonishment at this intelligence was succeeded by our cares for Lucretia, who from fury, sunk into violent fits. When restored to more composure, she hung faintly on Howard's arm, and said, "Be not discouraged, my dear Howard! I will convince my father that I have as good a right as himself to be happy. Let the minx whom he has married, be his slave. My duty shall be devoted to a husband, who will not disgrace his family.—He shall, Howard, consent to the justice of my demand. I will force him to be generous; you shall have no reason to complain of fortune!" Poor Howard, sinking with confusion and unable to speak, was relieved by my calling him to assist me. Mary, who in stupid silence had witnessed this scene, fainted; and he was permitted to retire, after having assisted me in conveying her to her room.

You need not be informed, Madam, that in Lady Maclairn's now faded form we beheld the beauteous bride whom my father, in a few days, presented to his children. The more attractive charms of her youth may still be traced in the modest and pensive expression of her countenance. She was extremely agitated on her first appearance, and seemed intimidated to a painful degree. Her brother, Mr. Flamall, accompanied her to the Hall; and by an affected gaiety, endeavoured to encourage his sister, and to recommend himself. Her manners succeeded much better to reconcile us to the stepmother. A quiet melancholy, a mild and endearing attention to every one around her, indicated the sweetness of her temper, and the authority by which she had been compelled to marry a man of seventy. For some days Miss Flint refused to quit her room. My father's resentment was appeased by his gentle help-mate; and she entreated him to assure his daughter, that she neither meant to interfere in her management of his family, nor to lessen her influence. "Tell Miss Flint," added she, "that my office in this house will be confined to my duty, as it regards your ease and comfort; and that in order to be happy myself, it is incumbent upon me to render your children so. I come not as a rival, but as a friend, to this abode." She looked at us with emotion, and a tear escaped. Some concessions produced the submission which my father wished for; a general amnesty took place, and Mr. Flamall so entirely diverted Miss Flint's resentments, that, to my astonishment, she was obsequiously polite to Mrs. Flint. Howard paid his visit of ceremony; my father received him with his usual cordiality; but his general absence was unnoticed. Flamall played at back-gammon with my father, and his young wife engaged his attention. A hasty call from time to time prevented curiosity or enquiry; and I secretly rejoiced that Howard was less in Mary's sight. She was every day more pleased with my father's choice; and considering her as the victim of a brother's interested views, she loved her as being unfortunate, and approached her by a sympathy apparently well understood.

Amiable and uniformly correct as Mrs. Flint's conduct was, you will not be surprised, that I endeavoured, not only as a son, but as a gentleman, to shew her that respect and those attentions to which she was entitled. She loved reading, and my library was hers. Sometimes she would steal an hour from her tiresome duties, and with her needle-work join Mary; and I read to them. She loved flowers and plants; and I became diligent in the culture of them. My father was pleased with this acquiescence on my part, and one morning he asked whether I was not satisfied that he had augmented his comforts. I replied with sincerity, saying that I had no doubt of it; and that I was also convinced, that in his wife Mary would find a guide and a friend. "So I think," returned he smiling, "I saw from the first hour that they would suit each other." A few weeks passed in peace and comfort, when suddenly my father relapsed into ill-humour, and was still more harsh and abrupt with me than ever. Stung by some rudeness of this sort, I asked him what had offended him. "Your conduct," said he roughly. "I do not want you to make love to my wife."—"I am sorry," answered I, "that you so little understand me, Sir; you make me wretched by your suspicions, and injure a woman whom I believe to be truly virtuous."—"I believe her so," returned he, "but I want no rival under my roof." He left me. I was confounded and astonished beyond conception, and in my road to my friend Howard's, which I instantly took, I endeavoured by recalling my most indifferent actions, to find a clew by which to unravel this unaccountable jealousy which my father had shewn. Conscious that I had never in the most remote manner, either experienced or discovered a sentiment beyond that good-will and respect which my actions had evinced, I mentioned, in the course of my conversation with Howard, an incident of a recent date, which at the moment struck me, and which then appeared to explain, in some sort, my father's ill-humour, though not his suspicions.

Mrs. Flint, at the breakfast-table, a few days before, had, with cheerfulness, reminded my father of a promise he had made her in town. "He told me," said she, smiling on my sisters, "that you would like current coin better than fashionable tinsel; and thus prevented me from adding to the incumbrances of band-boxes; but he must keep his word, and enable me to acquit myself handsomely; otherwise, if you will help me, we will pick his pocket now, for I know we shall meet with a good booty." The poor fond old man kissed her, and said she could do what she pleased with him without assistance. She blushed with genuine modesty, took the offered purse, and gratefully gave us each a twenty pound note. I thought at the moment that my father's brow clouded; and I believe she thought so likewise, for, with a sweet smile, she thanked him for his goodness to her. I received, however, my gift with a bow of acknowledgment, not unmixed with the painful idea of my dependance. Howard listened to this little account; but he informed me that Mary had mentioned to him a conversation she had accidentally heard before the wedding gift was mentioned; and that from what had passed between Miss Flint and her maid, she was certain her father suspected the motives of my civilities to the young mother-in-law. Let it suffice, Madam, I determined to leave Tarefield; nor did my friend Howard endeavour to oppose my resolution. He saw that it was impossible I could live at the hall, and that my health and talents were sinking under the continual checks imposed on my activity and spirits.

He solemnly engaged to watch over the only object of my tender regrets, and to maintain his pretentions to her at the point of his life; to guard her as a sacred deposit left in his hands, and never to urge her to commit an act that I could not approve. I knew Howard, Miss Cowley, and I was satisfied. The remainder of the day was given to my secret preparations, and the following morning I was on the road to London; my good father's wedding gift in my purse, and my blessed mother's pocket-book in my bosom. Providence indeed was my guide! for I found a brother in Mr. Heartley, who had recently married the amiable lady you have heard villified at Tarefield-hall. Their union had been delayed from motives of prudence. A patron of merit appeared, and Heartley gave up the possession of the law for a post in the War-office. My friend succeeded in getting me a lieutenancy of marines; and with Heartley's management, my dear mother's dying gift was like the widow's cruise of oil. During my detention in town I received letters from Howard and my sister Mary. I copy a part of my friend's; these are its contents;—

"Love, my dear Percival, had supplied to our ingenuity a friend not more secret than yourself, but much more tractable and convenient. The hollow oak at the avenue gate received our letters from the time your prudence refused the office. I wrote to my beloved girl the whole detail of our conversation the day preceding your departure, and depositing it in the wonted place, hastened to pay my morning visit at the hall." I was prepared for the question, 'Did I know what was become of you?' I answered to the point. You had been with me the day before, and had mentioned your intention of setting out for London as that morning.—'I told you, Sir,' cried Miss Flint, giving me a significant look, 'that Mr. Howard is not one whom he would trust with his idle schemes!'—'You are mistaken, Madam,' answered I, 'Mr. Flint was explicit with me in regard to his motives for leaving Tarefield. He told me he was weary of idleness, and was determined to seek employment.'—'He has pleased himself, Mr. Howard,' observed your father, with much coolness. 'I can have no objection to his plan, for I have long recommended employment to him; but he has learned to despise my advice, and to think every man a monster who plants sugar-canes. A few hardships will convince him, that the bread earned by the sweat of the brow is as laboriously earned in Europe as in the West-Indies.'—'Percival's talents will, I should hope,' answered I, 'secure him from so bitter an experiment; and his education has not been subservient to commercial views.'—'So much the worse,' replied he, with passion, 'so much the worse for him! He would have been getting forward by this time; with Oliver as his assistant, he would have had three or four hundred pounds per annum.'—'Well,' replied I, 'let us hope he will meet fortune in his own way; and that will never be a dishonourable one.'—'Pray do you know where he means to seek the fickle goddess?' asked Mr. Flamall.—'Were she not blind as well as fickle,' replied I, 'she would seek him; but real merit and persevering courage will, in the long run, get before her.'—'In that case he must be more persevering than he has been,' observed your father, 'and better informed as to what will suit him. His Latin and Greek will do him no good, for he has discovered that priestcraft is as bad as the negro trade; but this comes of a man's having more ballast than his head can carry.'—'Whoever has insinuated into your mind, Sir, this opinion of your son,' replied I, 'did not know him; and I assert that he desired nothing more ardently, than to be ordained to exercise the functions of a parish priest.' He looked vexed, and said he had heard a very different story. I had given my sweet girl a look of intelligence, and she comprehended it. Mrs. Flint had tenderly taken her seat by her, and appeared anxious to console her. Finding your father said no more on the subject of your various sins, I rose to depart; and, resisting all Miss Flint's persuasions, was fairly making my escape, when your father graciously pressed me to stay and dine with him, adding, 'I am not angry with you, Mr. Howard, because you are Percival's friend: he may think as he pleases of me, and follow his own conceit. When he is pennyless he will find out his mistakes, and it may be, not find his father the slave-driver, as he calls me.'—You must, my dear Percival, write to him, &c. &c.

I did write to my father, Miss Cowley. I wish to forget his answer. He reproached me with having gained an interest in his wife's heart. She had sorrowed for me, and had even solicited for my return. He neither wished for my success, nor sent me a guinea. I embarked with my regiment for Canada; from thence I again wrote to my father, and also to my brother Oliver. The reply of the latter was not calculated to have removed my prejudices, if I had entertained any which were unfavourable to his traffic. "He was sorry that I had disobliged my good father, by a conduct which few men could overlook, and which he thought highly criminal, when my affinity was taken into the account. But idleness was the root of all evil; and he hoped I should, in my employment, retrieve my lost time, and regain my father's favour. He had four children; his wife, a teeming woman, expecting a fifth blessing. He wished me well, and was my affectionate brother Oliver." Here our correspondence closed.

During my three or four years banishment I heard of my father's increasing infirmities, and the discontents at the hall; of Howard's having lost his mother, and his being the husband of Mary, my beloved sister; and, in a word, of my father's death, and our inheritance of a shilling. The lieutenant returned to his hospitable asylum a captain. The Heartleys "killed for him the fatted calf," as the returned blessing, not the prodigal. Nothing, however, could detain me in town; and with all my worldly wealth, namely, thirty guineas in my purse, I took my place in a northern stage-coach; and quitting it within a few miles of this spot, endeavoured to hire a horse. Some difficulty arising, to which my impatience could not submit, I determined to leave my portmanteau at the inn, and to walk. I set forward, but was soon overtaken by a heavy rain. A stage-waggon was in sight, and knowing that I had no clothes with me, I accepted the shelter. A neatly-dressed country woman was the only passenger. The rain poured down in torrents, and she began her chat by observing that I had been lucky. I sighed. "Mayhap, Sir," continued she curiously examining my uniform, "you are not used to ride in waggon; but is it not better than being wet to the skin?" I said I found it so; and that it was comfortable. "Oh!" returned she, "many of your honour's poor soldiers would think it so!" Curiosity next came forward. "Had I far to go?"—"Only to the Abbey farm," answered I.—"We pass the door," returned she; "but you will find Mrs. Wilson in great trouble; she is sad indeed."—"Then you know the family?" said I.—"Know them!" repeated she; "who does not, that lives in the parish, and I may say for miles round?"—"I am sorry to hear she is ill," observed I, anxious for more intelligence.—"Why as for the matter of health," returned she, "thank God, she has no reason to complain; but she is sadly troubled to see the curate so poorly. I suppose, Sir, you know Mr. and Madam Howard, who live at the Abbey."—I bowed my head.—"It will make your heart ach, I can tell you," continued she, "to see the poor gentleman; he is a going, that's for certain! He has never held up his head since that old rascal of a father died, and left Madam only a shilling out of all his money. Dame Dobs, who nurses Miss, told me a week agone she did not know which of the dear souls would go first, for Madam Howard was a mere notomy with fretting. Ah! Sir, you may well turn up your eyes to heaven," continued she, with eagerness, "they will find a a God to comfort them there at least; and that is more than their enemies will. They have the staff in their hands here, but the devil gave it them! I would not be the mistress of the hall for this waggon loaded with gold! They say there is no sleeping in one's bed at the hall since the old man died. I do not wonder at it. How should his soul rest after such wickedness? There is Madam Howard and her dear babe left with a shilling! There is a poor son, he is drove from the hall a downright vagabond, if he be alive; but some say he died of hunger and cold in some great forest beyond sea, and was eaten by the blacks; and that his spirit also has been seen in the room where he kept his books, for he was a great scholar. I did not know him, but Dame Dobs did, and she says he was only too good for them."—"What is become of the widow Flint?" asked I.—"Why she, Sir, as a body may say, 'jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire.' She married a second time, with as bad luck as the first. She is a lady, but her husband is in a sad sort of a way, and looks like a ghost. Poor soul! she has had hard trials! But she is not of my mind. I would sooner beg my bread, with my children at my back, than live as she does, like 'a toad under a harrow;' But the money!—Aye, there's the rub!—Master Philip is to have all Miss Flint's wealth, and so all is submitted to; but she may find herself a loser in the end; for Mr. Flamall is as cunning as the devil himself, and only pretends to love Master Flint for his own advantage. They are a precious set! I would sooner wear lindsey-woolsey than Miss Flint's silks and satins! But, dear me, she knows she is hated in the parish; and that we all pray to God to spare to us Mr. Howard, who is a lamb, Sir, and too good for this wicked world; and when Miss Flint comes to her dying bed, what good will all her money do her, who has overlooked all her relations, if nothing worse? It is but lately I settled in these parts; but people have not forgot to talk. They say Madam Howard has been cruelly treated."—Unable to suppress my agitation, I said the vehicle incommoded me, and that I would walk the remaining part of the road. The rain had abated of its violence, and I quitted my loquacious, but honest companion.

Prepared as I had thus been, I could not without the pangs of despair behold my emaciated friend; and the faded form of my once lovely and blooming sister. I dare not recall the anguish of our first embrace! Let it suffice; it appeared that Heaven in its mercy conducted me to them for their consolation. Howard's spirits were renewed, the cherub Mary smiled in her cradle, and we forgot the past in our present comforts. Tarefield-hall was shunned; for I feared my impetuosity, and dreaded to disturb the tranquillity of my dear invalids. Heartley gained me three months leave of absence beyond the term allotted me, and I was happy;—yes, Miss Cowley, happy! for I perceived that I was the cordial of health to those whom I loved more than myself. Howard's cough disappeared; and he began to talk of freeing Mr. Greenwood from his fatigue of going through the parochial duties. This led him to expatiate on that gentleman's generous and unequalled kindness. "I will," added he smiling, "relate to you circumstances, in which you will find that in Greenwood's friendship heaven gave me a full equivalent even for your absence. So prepare yourself for a long story, and for acknowledging that Mr. Greenwood with all his gravity and sanctity favoured two lovers more than you did." He pressed my hand with affection and proceeded.

You have seen detailed in my Mary's letters to me, the growth of Mr. Flamall's influence at the hall. For a time we exulted at his success, as it promised, that by directing Miss Flint's unfortunate fancy from me to himself, we should be released from a serious obstacle to our wishes. On the death of my dear mother, and after a month's absence, I pleaded business and want of spirits for neglecting to visit my kind friends at the hall. Miss Flint took a particular liking to Mrs. Wilson, and visited her daily. Terrified by this attack on my strong-hold, I consulted Greenwood; and made a full confession of my attachment to my sweet Mary, not omitting your fatherly counsels and her trust in my devoted heart. He could only repeat your sage exhortations, and pity me. Mrs. Wilson was a more useful confidant, for I had notice of the enemy's approach; and my escapes were so well managed, that, foiled in the purpose of her frequent visits, Miss Lucretia forgot her dear Mrs. Wilson, and at once made known her intentions to her father. Mr. Flint's letter contained a very civil approbation of my conduct, in as much as I had practised a prudence which did honour to my principles, it certainly being an improbable event, that he should favour an union so unequal in regard to fortune; but finding his daughter's happiness depended on her marrying me, and that I had only been withheld from applying to him from an honest scruple, he informed me that I was secure of his consent, that he should allow Lucretia four hundred pounds per annum, and on the death of the rector induct me to the living of Tarefield. For his further consideration he made no doubt, I would patiently wait till his decease. Good God! continued poor Howard, what were my emotions on reading this letter! The exchange of one word in it would have raised me to envied bliss, and with patience could I have waited for all other considerations had your father been determined to rival in longevity Methusalem himself. But it was not Mary Flint. I answered his letter, and with all the expressions of respect which the subject demanded, finished by asserting, that I had long been an engaged man, and too warmly attached to a beloved object to conceive any measured conduct necessary; that I had on many different occasions, spoken unequivocally of the state of my affections, in Miss Flint's presence; and that my behaviour had never for an instant contradicted my words; nor could any motives of interest dispose me to relinquish a woman whom I loved. You will conclude that my favour at the hall ceased; and in my disgrace, even my pulpit eloquence was forgotten; for the family, when they were disposed to enter a place of public worship, went to Greenwood's parish. Secure as we mutually were on the side of faith and love, my dear Mary and myself contrived with the help of the faithful old oak and those hopes to which we fondly cleaved, to support those little trials of our patience. I had warned her never to keep my letters, and to be prepared for the inspection of a jealous woman. She was so docile to my wishes, that she not only obeyed me in this point, but from a secret misgiving, to the motive of which I was a stranger, she buried in the avenue her little store of gold. This secret I was told when she became my wife. She had been disgusted by Mr. Flamall's behaviour, and dreaded his cunning. Her mother-in-law's kindness favoured her reserve to him, and with growing attachment these young women would soon have been friends.

"Fortune now became weary of a love intrigue like ours. My beauteous sylph was seen by Miss Flint's woman, taking a letter of mine from the oak, and dropping one of her own into it. The alarm was given. My letter, seized by the furious sister, and hers, brought by the vile informer to her lady, were proofs of our intelligence which admitted of no palliation. I had, in my letter, very freely mentioned Miss Flint; praying to fortune that she might succeed in her attacks on Flamall's heart, who, Mary had informed me, was become her favourite. She had gone farther into this subject in her letter, and in a word, we had not been sparing in our animadversions on them, nor in our compassion for the nominal mistress of the mansion, who had not the courage to pull a bell-string in her own house. I will hasten from the scene that followed this discovery," continued Howard, wiping the sickly dew from his brow, "to what purpose should I repeat cruelties at which an inquisitor, if not lost to feeling, would blush?——Mary has told me since, that she is convinced they meant to make her mad. Imprisoned in her room, suffered to see no one but Miss Flint, and the woman who had betrayed her; without books, without needle-work, or a candle when dark! reproaches! even blows, Percival! She said she thought sometimes, that her senses were affected, for she frequently found to her surprise, that she had forgotten to go to bed. On one of these occasions she was alarmed by hearing some one at the window calling her gently by name; despair rendered her fearless, and, on approaching it, she found it was a young man who lived in the house as groom. 'I come to serve you Miss,' said he, 'because it is my duty. Your dear mother saved mine from the grave. I am Frank Crofts, to whom you used to bring cakes at Chelsea. Mr. Greenwood knows all about me, and my scheme; here is a letter for you from him; and I shall come for you on Saturday night; fear nothing; try to be easy: you will soon be with my mother, and honest people.' So saying, he retired. Mr. Greenwood's letter was satisfactory. And two nights of repose gave her strength to descend from the room two stories high by means of a ladder. Frank securing some linen she had provided, gave himself no trouble to remove the means of her escape. She recollected her concealed treasure, and he disinterred it. Greenwood was at the avenue gate with a decent looking man and a chaise. He told her she was safe, and that her guide would protect her. She instantly got into the carriage, which was an open, old-fashioned vehicle, with two stout horses, and driven by her conductor. They soon lost sight of the village. Frank retired to his pillow in the stable-chamber: and Greenwood returned home. I have given to my tale the language of romance," continued Howard, smiling, "we are now come to the climax. After morning-service, this lad in passing me, said, 'Go to Mr. Greenwood's,' and he instantly joined some people at the church-gate. I looked at him, and I perceived there was more in his manner, than could be understood by a common observer; with a palpitating heart I took the road to my friend's house. I had not proceeded far, when Frank, breathless with speed, overtook me. 'She is safe, Sir!' said he, 'blessed be God, she is safe. Mr. Greenwood will tell you all about it. They cannot murder her now.' He darted from me. 'I must not be seen with you,' cried he, measuring back his hasty steps. Judge of my feelings! I cannot describe them! Greenwood suffered my tears to flow; and at length begun with his darling topic of the excellency of human nature when uncorrupted by the world's contagion. This Frank Armstrong, as he properly styled himself under his borrowed name," continued my friend, "has been the deliverer of Miss Flint, from the simple suggestions of gratitude and pity. He brought me a letter from his mother who lives at Newcastle, in which she recommends him, to leave no means unemployed to rescue your mistress from her hard captivity, to consult me on every step, and to inform me of the obligations she was under to Mary's mother. These were fully stated, and Frank proceeded to his own confession. He preferred being a sailor to working with his brother-in-law, a wealthy farmer, who lived five miles from Newcastle; he left his good friends secretly, and by chance stopped at the Ram for refreshment. There he met a groom just discharged from the hall, and who disgusted by Miss Flint, entertained Frank with the history of the family, and gave vent to his own resentments. Miss Mary was the heroine of this history. She was an 'angel,' but with the rest, made miserable by the 'she-devil' who ruled in the house; and he had left the hall in a fine 'kick up;' for they had found out that Miss Mary had been writing a love-letter to the curate her sister's sweetheart. Curiosity appears to have been the first stimulus to Frank's project; he won on the landlord to recommend him to the vacated post, and Tarefield being in no great repute for kitchen comforts, he was engaged on trial, and entered into the family as groom, under the name of Frank Armstrong. In a few days Frank was in the family secrets, the kitchen account was in the captive's favour. Anne, the chamber-maid, to use Frank's words, made his blood boil in his veins. He wrote to his mother, promising he would never go to sea, if she would come and take away Miss Mary. The good woman's letter to me, was an undeniable proof of her principles and prudence. I observed, that the only difficulty was to remove Mary from the house. 'Leave that to me, Sir,' said he, exultingly, 'leave that to me, I will die rather than she should! only, as Miss does not know me, I must have a letter from you; she may think that I am an enemy.' Struck by this acuteness, I gave him a short note and he disappeared. The next evening he called upon me. 'All will be ready for Saturday night,' said he. 'My brother will be here. I have contrived it.'—I stared with surprise. 'Why you know, Sir,' said he, 'I could not do without a ladder, seeing Miss Mary is locked into a chamber two stories high; and as for unbolting and unbarring, were she even below stairs that would be impossible, without making more noise than we want. So, Sir, I have provided ladders in plenty, and what is better, as high as the house. He laughed immoderately. It was a good thought, cried he, though I say it; for I have made them a job which will put money into their pockets for the use of the ladder. An explanation followed. I found that Frank could reason on causes and effects. A six weeks drought, said he, with a new moon, promised rain, and I was determined that there should be no want of water at the hall when it did come, so I have been in the false roof and have made such breaches in the tiling, that the garrets are afloat every shower that falls, and we have had plenty! just as though God Almighty had sent them for the purpose of serving the poor young lady.'—But why did you chuse Saturday night? asked I, on any other I could have gone with her. I will answer that in a moment, replied he. First your honour must know, that Sunday is a Sabbath of rest with our folks at the hall; I had them safe in their beds till eight or nine o'clock, and there was time gained. Secondly, Mr. Webster, my brother, could not so well come on any other day, because of his horses: and in the last place, said he, rubbing his hands with vivacity, I shall never as long as I live forget Sunday, whether I am at church or at home. The better the day, the better the deed, say I. God will bless it again, if I can save this poor soul! He then gave me with emotion the account of her treatment which he had learned from Anne the chamber-maid, who was as he said Miss Mary's 'true friend.'

"Yesterday evening Mr. Webster made his appearance, we concerted our measures, and all has succeeded. The rescued prisoner is now on the road to a shelter, and she is safe from pursuit.

"I am," continued Mr. Greenwood with dignity, "perfectly satisfied with my own motives for an interference in this business. It is the duty of every man to assist the oppressed. Mr. Flint by his imbecility and injustice has forfeited the rights of a parent; he has given up his authority into the hands of an enraged and disappointed woman, whom he well knew to be ungovernable in her passions, and under whose power he himself groans. I have acted for this father, Mr. Howard; he may one day thank me, as the deliverer of his child. It requires but a superficial knowledge of human nature, and little experience in life, to know the fatal effects of counteracted and opposed passion, in a youthful mind, when cruelty is the means employed to accomplish the purpose. I am not disposed to believe that many girls die of love; but I have seen many examples of an evil more to be dreaded than death, by an improper and harsh opposition to this passion, as well as others; and when I saw your Mary I was convinced that I was acting in favour of humanity and justice. I have, however," continued he, "engaged her promise of obedience to my directions; and I now claim your word of honour, to be governed by me. I will endeavour to see Mr. Flint; have patience; write to your beloved Mary. I will take care she has your letters; and you will soon hear from her. But you must not quit Tarefield without my permission." I answered him with my tears; he was satisfied.

A month passed. Greenwood found Mr. Flint inaccessible. He desired to see Miss Flint; and at length gained his point. With well affected concern she mentioned her father's illness as the reason of his refusing his friendly visits, adding, that no consolation could at that moment reach a mind sunk to despair, by the conduct of an ungrateful and too tenderly beloved child. She entered into the detail of my infamous duplicity, and Mary's as infamous advances to my preference. I wave however, continued she, my own injuries, bitterly as I still feel them; but the letters now in my father's hands I can never forget. The cruel mockery, the insolence of them, as they relate to him, is unpardonable! Would you believe it possible, added she, that amongst these proofs of depravity in a girl so young, my father has one, which has convinced him, that she was in Percival's secrets; and that she favoured him in his profligate inclination for Mrs. Flint, telling him, that in time she might listen to him more kindly. Could you give credit to this report Mr. Greenwood asked she, on a less certain evidence than mine? Even yours, replied Mr. Greenwood, is insufficient; for I will maintain every syllable you have uttered to be false, till I have seen those letters, and have confronted them with the declaration of the supposed writers. When I see Mr. Flint less a prisoner than he is, when he is permitted to listen to truth and to justice, you may have, Madam, better claims to my confidence than you have at present. If your visit was intended as an insult, replied she, rising with fury, its purpose is accomplished; and your character, which you have forgotten, shall be your protection, till you leave this spot. It shall do more, said Mr. Greenwood calmly, for it is proper I should warn you to pause in the road you are in. I am well informed, Miss Flint, and I caution you, as the minister of a master who "hateth the oppressor, and abhorreth the workers in iniquity," to consider what you have done to offend him; and what you still meditate to do, in order to ruin that innocent which is God's peculiar care.

He instantly quitted the room, leaving her confounded or choaked with rage. Mr. Greenwood soon after gave me my leave of absence. I flew to my every earthly good. Mrs. Croft had conducted her to Berwick, and on my joining her, we were united in the presence of as many witnesses as curiosity and the admiration of Mary's beauty collected. We passed a week with Mr. Webster, and finally settled here, with a welcome of a long hoped for blessing. Frank was early in his visit of congratulation, and our gratitude overcame him. He gazed on Mary. "Now I see," cried he, "the same face I so well remembered; but Lord help me! when you came, like a reed, down the ladder, and I saw your deadly paleness, I could hardly help thinking that ghosts had bones, and that I had one in my arms, for you looked for all the world like one. Who could have believed, Sir," added he, "turning to me with exultation, that a month or six weeks with my mother, could have made roses so cruelly frost-bitten, blown again! Oh! I would give the world if Miss Flint could see you both at this moment! she would be paid interest for all her wicked labours! but she will have it, yes, yes, Sir, the reckoning will stand; there are no sponges for her accounts! you know that, Mr. Howard, no white-washing in the creed you teach!"

"I am prolix, Percival," continued my brother, "but you share in the enthusiasm, which has for its object, a character like this." He at length, sedately gave us the particulars of the discovery of Mary's escape, which, you will easily imagine, produced the utmost confusion: I was naturally the first person suspected as having aided her; but I had, fortunately, passed the Saturday at Bishop's-Auckland, and had slept there. This alibi proved, and my remaining quiet at Wilson's perplexed them, and lost in conjectures, they gave up the fruitless question. Frank was requested to convey our letters to Mr. Flint. My master keeps his room, said he, sorrowfully; and Madam Flint no more dares to act in the matter, than to swallow fire, or poison, poor soul! But do not cry, my dear lady, all will turn out well in time. Let me consider, I will contrive! Anne goes into the room, and there is nothing she can refuse me, she is as honest as the day is light, and loves you, Madam. Never fear, you have got Mr. Howard at your side, and it is a long lane indeed that has no end. I know but of one that never ends, let them take that who like it, say I; but yours is a sure road, Madam, and never mind, altho' it is not, at present, all on the nail. "Oh Percival," exclaimed poor Howard, lifting up his expressive eyes to Heaven, "what is man when true to his endowments! He is indeed but little lower than the angels, and worthy of the all-perfect hand which made him! But I shall meet this fellow-mortal, and rejoice with him in his glorious recompence! Our letters were committed to his faithful hands. Two or three days after, he came to make his farewell visit, and to request Mary to write to his mother, that she was satisfied with his conduct. Our letters to the hall were returned, the seals unbroken. Anne was discharged at a moment. Mr. Flamall, said Frank, paid me my wages, and told me I did not suit my place nor the family. I could have told you that, said I, long ago; but you had nothing to do with me, nor I with you, Mr. Flamall. I spoke as I felt, Sir, added he, nodding to me. He warned me if I valued a whole skin, not to be insolent; but I told him that neither my skin nor my honesty would be in danger from him. He said, I was a low scoundrel. I never heard, said I, keeping my ground, of a scoundrel who was not low, though he tacked squire or counsellor to his name. He advanced to strike me, but he thought better of it, I believe, for he turned on his heel. I wish to the Lord he had, he would have met with his match at a hard blow, though he will never find one in his roguery. Anne says there are fine doings going on between him and Miss Flint. So much the better, let them have their swing, till their own noose catches them! 'tis the old one's trick, you know that, Sir, continued he, and have often told us that his snares were of our own making, and that we had arms in our hands, that would bind his, if we were disposed to use them. But I must go, added he, to fetch my things, and I will call again for your letter, Madam, and my blessing. He bowed, and hastily left us, penetrated with admiration and gratitude."

From this time we have not seen him; but we hear from his mother, that he is married and settled, and continues in the line of conduct that was to be expected from such beginnings of virtue and goodness.

To Mr. Greenwood's and Mr. Wilson's exertions in my favour, I stand indebted for the bread which has supported me here; the former convinced the rector, that I was an honest man; and the latter employed such zeal in my cause, that a paper was signed by most of my flock, containing such a report of me, as proved that I was qualified for a bishopric at least. Happy in the wife of my bosom, cherished by the worthy beings who sheltered us as the honour and blessings of their roof, I should have forgotten Tarefield-hall, with its inmates, but my poor Mary heard continually of her father's declining health, and prompted by her tenderness, she was as continually making attempts to see him. A letter she sent to Mrs. Flint, reached her, and in a few days we were surprised by the sight of Mary's clothes and linen, which were left without a message. In arranging them, with the sweet hope which this consideration inspired, a note dropped from a gown sleeve; it was from Mrs. Flint, and contained a bank bill of twenty-five pounds. "I send you as a token of my love, my dear and injured girl," wrote Mrs. Flint, "the inclosed trifle; this is all I am able to do. My interference in respect to sending you your clothes, has been highly resented. Believe, that in me you have a friend, but alas! that friend is too much oppressed to serve you, or your unhappy father, whose heart still turns to his child. Have patience; write no more to Harriot Flint, she is watched, and hazards her peace even in this simple act of humanity.

"In proportion as your father approached his grave," continued my brother, "my wife became wretched, and my spirits were in continual agitation lest in the concessions which she prompted me to make, I should be censured, as being governed by self-interest. At length we heard of his death, and in due form were summoned by an attorney, a Durham man, to the hall, in order to be present at the opening of Mr. Flint's will. You know its purport. When the lawyer had finished reading, I rose, and taking my nearly sinking Mary's cold hand, I fixed my eyes on the heiress's face. 'This is at least Howard's,' said I, 'and in his affection at least your sister is rich. Neither malice nor envy dare invade these rights. The Being whom we adore is able to provide for us, and the bread he bestows, will be that of peace and a good conscience.' Miss Flint made no reply. Mrs. Flint, who had during this time covered her face from observation, now rose with emotion, and stopping me as I was advancing to the door with my precious burden, she said, 'As Mr. Flint's wife I was dumb; but as his widow I will speak. If Mrs. Howard wishes to follow her father's remains, have the goodness, Sir, to let me hear from you.' She hastily left the room before me. The next day my wife received from her a parcel of mourning stuffs; but my heart revolted at favours given to beggary. I sent them back with a card, 'Mrs. Howard is provided with mourning.' A fever of some danger prevented my Mary's thinking of the funeral. It was magnificent, and your mother's remains were disinterred and brought hither to rest with her husband's. Poor Mary has been one of Greenwood's hearers ever since; and even my nerves were for a time shaken by their monument, which is in the chancel."

CHAP. VI.

Memoirs of the Flint Family continued.

"My health had not been spared in these vexations, and its interruptions made a coward of me. I experimentally felt the truth of our favourite Terence's observation, 'I am a man, and have the feelings of a man.' Whilst counting my throbbing pulse, my widowed Mary and helpless child smote on my heart, and weakened still more the springs of life. My little fund of about five hundred pounds had insensibly diminished; you were remote and might never return; and I yielded to despondency. But my God has graciously heard my sighs; you are with me and I am comforted; for you will never forsake my wife and child."—I must pause, Miss Cowley.

I saw with sanguine hopes the renewal of my brother's health and cheerfulness. I received orders to join my regiment, and our embarkation for America soon followed. Once more, oceans divided me from my dear friends! Waving as useless the detail of my military life, I will hasten to a conclusion. My brother's letters were for a time such as I wished; but the arrow had been aimed too well. He died when I was remote; leaving his daughter in her fifth year. My return to England followed in a few months after this event.

In our passage home we captured a rich vessel bound for St. Malo's. In the engagement I lost my leg; but gained six or seven hundred pounds prize money.

On reaching London after a delay thus imposed, I found Heartley on his dying bed; this trial did not accelerate my recovery. A fever succeeded to his last embrace. Alas, his virtues suited not the world he had escaped! Its cold and ungenial maxims could not find admission into a heart glowing with every noble affection. Trusting to vigorous health, and scorning the prudence which gives but to receive, he lived honourably and died poor, leaving his widow with a jointure of barely two hundred pounds per annum, for the support of herself and two children. This inestimable woman found in her difficulties and principles resources for ennobling her character. Her sorrows were reserved for her pillow; and with a calm and collected mind, she disposed of her effects, paid every outstanding debt; and then declared to her friends, her intention of quitting London, in order to give in retirement those habits to her children, which alone could render them contented and independent. Mr. Wilson's house was the asylum she chose; and in me she saw the guardian whom her husband had named for his son. My dear Mary had her share in these arrangements, and we left town, I having succeeded in my application, and seen my claims established as an invalid on half-pay. We reached this place: and I entered Wilson's friendly gate once more. Again did I fold in my agonizing embrace the image of death. Great and merciful Being! thou wilt not in rigour remember the frenzy of my despair, while, bending over my fainting sister, I called down for vengeance on her destroyer! For some days my soul sickened whilst I contemplated in her emaciated form, the triumph of cruelty and the ravages of sorrow. But she smiled me to resignation; and my heart received the blessings which Heaven had spared me. Our tranquillity met with no disturbance from the hall. I had been settled more than a month, when one morning, in passing the hall gate, I saw Miss Flint and Mr. Flamall standing in the road opposite to it, as though waiting for some one from the house. I passed them as an absolute stranger. Mr. Flamall called me by name, and added, "Miss Flint, Sir, wishes to speak to you." She advanced, and I stopped. "I should have sent my attorney to you, Sir," said she haughtily, "if I had not thought that you would in less than a month have found leisure to call at the hall."—"When I have any business at the hall, or interest in those who reside there, I shall find leisure to call," replied I, with ill-suppressed emotion. "I neither expected, nor desired your visit," answered she, "on my own account; but I beg to know your pleasure in regard to the books you left behind you, when you deserted it."—"Consult your lawyer," replied I; "if it be allowed that I have a right to more than a shilling, send them; I will pay the carriage, as I did the bookseller of whom they were purchased." I walked on, and soon saw that she was joined by Mr. Snughead, to whom she had recently given the living of Tarefield. This circumstance did not contribute to restore my equanimity. Poor Howard pressed on my memory and I returned home dejected.

My books made their appearance on the following day; and contributed to my success as a tutor. Malcolm, Maclairn, and Henry Heartley were my pupils; and neither of them have disgraced me. I pass over all the fluctuations of a malady so fallacious as my sister's. Her approach to the grave was so gradual, that at times she laughed at our precautions, and beguiled us of our fears; but when on the confines of it, she was untroubled, and spoke of her dissolution with serenity.

One day she told me that she had been writing to Lucretia, and wished me to read the letter before she sealed it. I waved my hand, and turned away my weeping eyes. "Well, I will not urge it," said she putting in a wafer; "but I cannot die in peace, without assuring her, that I sincerely forgive her. I am hastening to an abode, into which no animosities can enter. I have none to impede my entrance; and the time may come, when poor Lucretia will find a consolation in this assurance. I have even recommended my poor child to her regard, as a proof that I have pardoned her unkindness to me. The only sentiment I now can feel for an offending fellow-creature," added she, wiping away a starting tear, "is compassion; and I leave you to judge, Percival, of that which now actuates my breast for a sister, the child of the same parents, of a mother without equal in piety and humanity; of a father!"—her voice sunk—"whom I grieved, perhaps more! Do not think I have forgotten my Howard's noble spirit," continued she; "I have not meanly sued for his child's bread. I have not an anxious care for her as far as relates to her maintenance. I have resigned her to Providence, and I leave her to you. But were I wholly to omit her in a letter of this kind, it would, I think, have shewn a spirit of pride, and of indifference to my child. Her aunt is rich in this world's wealth, she is poor. Lucretia may live to recollect her duty; and in this destitute girl find an object who, without any claims of affinity, will be worthy of her favours. Be not alarmed, my dear Percival," continued she, seeing my emotions, "indeed I have not said too much! You ought to consider that you may be removed, and I have pointed out to Lucretia, a positive duty; I have not solicited her charity."

Mrs. Wilson took charge of this letter. Some time after she returned, her countenance glowing with resentment and the speed she had made. "Thank God!" cried she, showing the letter, "there it is again! For once I have my mind, and what is more, have spoken my mind!" Mrs. Howard took the letter with a trembling hand. "Why surely, my dear lamb!" continued the affectionate woman, "you are not grieved that your enemy will thus set her face against you! Her time is not yet come for your tender mercies, for she is at variance with her Maker. I told her so, word for word, and more than that; for I said Miss Mary would never want her notice. She will remember me, I'll be sworn!"—My sister was touched, though troubled, by this well-meant zeal, whilst I only felt its justice. Two or three days passed, when the now rapidly declining object of my tenderness gave me a packet directed to Miss Flint. "Promise me," said she, "to deliver this into Lucretia's hand; it is become indispensibly necessary that she should know I neither meant to wound her feelings, nor to exasperate her temper. I conjure you to promise me."—"Were she guarded by a legion of devils," exclaimed I, yielding to the anguish which tore my soul, "she shall receive it from my hand into her own! She shall feel the misery which she has caused!"—"Remember," replied she, "that the probe which is not skillfully used must inflame. When you do meet her, remember your mother!"

Her death soon followed. I was frantic in my grief. My passions would not be opposed, and these brought the murderer of my comfort before me in a sister's form. I swore solemnly that she should witness the ruin she had effected; and that I would drag her to Mary's bed of death. These violent agitations subsided to a more collected and determined purpose of thought. I was incapable of receiving Greenwood's arguments, and I was soothed by being left to my design. Greenwood performed the last sad office. Preparations were made for receiving the remains of Mrs. Howard, for the purpose of interment at his church, where her husband was buried; but the hearse and coach stopped short of the hall. Following the coffin I proceeded on foot to the great gate of the house; and, bidding the bearers stop, I rang the bell with fury. A man-servant answered my hasty summons; and, appalled by the object in view, he stood motionless before me. "Tell Miss Flint," said I, "that I must see her; that I am the bearer of a commission from the dead, and that I will be numbered with the dead before I leave this spot if she refuses to admit me." Some little time elapsed: I was admitted; and the trembling heiress, surrounded by her maid-servants, and protected by Mr. Flamall, with terror met my slow approach. Flamall broke the silence. He asked me what I had to say to Miss Flint. I waved my hand. "Be wise!" said I, "this is no time for you."—He took the advice and shrunk from my eye. I presented the packet to Lucretia; she attempted to retreat on seeing the address. "You must take it," said I calmly: "nay, more, Lucretia, you must read the contents in my presence: such are my orders; and before my Maker, have I sworn to fulfil them."—"Give it to some one," cried she, covering her face; "I promise to read it when I am able."—"That will not suffice," replied I, sitting down and bursting into agonizing tears; "I have no apprehensions: a sister's dying blessing cannot injure, a sister's forgiveness cannot wound you." She took the packet, broke the seals, and, hastily glancing her eyes over the two letters it contained, asked me, with rising anger, "whether I was satisfied with having insulted her under her own roof?"—"Call it as you please," answered I, sternly; "my business was not to compliment. I leave you with a remedy you need. Profit from it, lest a worse thing befal you than my insults." I instantly left her; and on my sainted Mary's grave wept my feelings down to composure, Time, and my remaining comforts, healed, to a certain degree, these breaches in my peace. I was at length summoned to town with young Heartley, by his friend, to prepare for his voyage to Calcutta. A month was employed in my cares for Heartley's son, and my gratitude had its turn. I saw him embark with all the sanguine hopes of youth, qualified by my care, for an honourable destination; and gifted by nature with every virtuous and noble trait of his father's character. He was under the protection of a man who loved that father, and I contentedly went back to my lodgings in order to prepare for my return home. My demands on my banker had been extended beyond their usual course; and I had to settle my account with his books before my departure. I called at his house, it had stopped payment; and in a week or ten days detention in town I learned, that I might expect for the remaining sum of five hundred pounds in his hands, a dividend of "five shillings in the pound."

Mrs. Heartley was informed of this event by her London correspondents. My philosophy did not console her; but it was shared by the Wilsons, who observed "that the captain was quite in the right not to fret about it, for that his comforts were in no danger of a bankruptcy."—From this time my influence with them rose to a marked respect and deference, and we had no difference in opinion but on quarter days. About a year and a half since I received a letter from Miss Flint, by the hand of our daily guest Malcolm Maclairn. "She wished to see me, having something to propose which she trusted would heal the differences between us." Mrs. Heartley's and Greenwood's arguments prevailed. I went, and, after some prelude, she told me, that she had been informed of the banker's insolvency, and was willing to relieve me from the burden of supporting Mary. I coldly replied that I had never found her such. "Be it so," answered she, "I mean not in this interview to offend you. I will take another mode of expression. Consider whether a girl may not be as safe under an aunt's protection as under an uncle's, and that you may die and leave her destitute. I have lost sight of my brother Philip; I think she would amuse me; and if you like the proposal send her, I will instruct her to be useful at least."—"Ah, Lucretia!" cried I, "you may at this hour render her so! Let this precious girl be the cement of our renewed ties of nature!"—"I must first be assured that she has not been taught to hate me," answered she, colouring: "neither my intentions nor your wishes can be effected, if this be the case. Let her come; I wish to know her, and she must remain a stranger to me whilst she is at Wilson's; but we will at present drop the subject: in a week I shall expect an answer."

She then detailed to me the miserable state of Sir Murdock Maclairn, pitying his wife, who lived nearly altogether in his apartment. I will pass over the struggles which ensued. Mary eagerly solicited my consent. I saw her motive, and clasped her to my bosom. Mrs. Heartley and Greenwood seconded her. "It was my duty to resign her."—"It was incumbent on all to submit to necessity."—"It was Mary's future support to have an interest with her aunt, and she could not fail in humanizing her."—"By a refusal I was hardening her heart, and perpetuating enmity."—You will distinguish the different speakers. Greenwood's argument prevailed; for they breathed peace and love, and reformation and pardon. I submitted, Miss Cowley, and conducted my harmless, sweet child, to her unfeeling aunt; and I became a weekly visitor at the hall. Surprised by her not coming to see her deserted friends, I questioned her on the cause of her omission. "It will be only for a time," replied she, in a caressing tone, "we must have patience. My aunt fancies I shall not love her if I visit my dear friends. It is unlucky that she should so much dislike them; but I write to my Alice, and that is a comfort. When my aunt perceives that I am obedient to her commands in this no little trial of my patience, she will be more indulgent; in the mean time I am perfectly contented with my situation, and you shall see that she will love me." Mrs. Heartley approved of Mary's conduct, adding "Miss Howard must subdue that inflexible woman, or she is lost to all hope."

You have seen the result! You have witnessed her aunt's obduracy! I accept, with gratitude, your offered protection. Heaven has given you the means, and a mind worthy of the donor! The time may not be far remote when this destitute young woman will present herself before you, weak in her youth, in her beauty, and in her purity. Shelter her, Madam; the work will be honourable, and the recompence beyond what my most fervent prayers of gratitude can reach.

I remain respectfully, Your obliged humble servant, Percival Flint.

P.S. I had intended to suppress one instance of the power of passion over a mind unchecked by reason or religion. You will be tempted to think it insanity. It might be as well could I think thus.

On Mr. Howard's bringing his wife to Wilson's, Miss Flint, in transports of fury, flew to the apartment in which hung my mother's picture, and with a hand animated by an implacable ferocity, she cut and defaced the cherub face, which was its beauty. My sister Howard, who was ignorant of this impotent act of revenge, often wished for this picture; and I employed Malcolm's good offices with his brother Philip to gain it. By this means I learned the incident, and consequently diverted my sister's direct application from being made.

CHAP. VII.

LETTER XX.

From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.

You will be prepared, my Lucy, for the resolution I have formed, of supplying to Miss Howard the loss of her parents, as far as I am able; to defeat the malice of her oppressor is a motive which I reject with disdain, as incompatible with my present state of mind. She shall be protected, Lucy, from better principles of action; and protected, as Mr. and Mrs. Howard's child ought to be protected. But I am not altogether satisfied with her remaining under the care of her good uncle. I wish to prepare her for a situation under the roof of her sister Rachel Cowley, when with the name of Hardcastle I shall be qualified to act as a mother to her. She would by remaining at the Abbey be precluded from those improvements she needs for the world; and Mrs. Heartley, whom I have consulted, is of my opinion, that her mind might be strengthened and benefited by being placed more remote from Tarefield, and the extreme tenderness of the Wilsons. She must, whilst with them, experience an attention which tends to confirm the habits of dependance, and to increase the natural timidity of her mind. But I wish to see Mary Howard my equal and friend. Let me have your opinion on this point; consult my dear father. Ask him whether his Rachel Cowley is right in her judgment,—that, with a simplicity which knoweth no evil, and a humility which needs encouragement, something more than the cultivation of the good affections is necessary, in order to meet the world. Mary, at the Abbey, will be made too good for an acquaintance with it; and I wish her sphere of knowledge to be enlarged; yet I am aware of the hazard of entrusting her innocence and beauty the care of strangers; nor would the captain concur in such a plan. I am much perplexed on this point: my views being to produce Miss Howard as she ought to be produced, and as her future provision will render necessary. You know me, Lucy; and you will not call the present object of my attention one unworthy of my principles, or unsuitable to my abilities. "I am an enthusiast," it will be said. This has been said a thousand and a thousand times by a cold-hearted apathy, which sees nothing beyond its own forlorn limits, and in its dread of deviating from that narrow path, rests stationary there, till its powers of action are irrecoverably torpid. Peace be with such! Rachel Cowley is contented to be an enthusiast, and still, "like the needle true," will she turn "at the touch of joy and woe;" though "in turning she trembles too."

I shall expect to have your advice on this subject; being resolved to be governed by a discretion which has never failed to guide safely.

LETTER XXI.

From the same to the same.

I have somewhere read that wonder is the child of ignorance; it was fortunate for me that I recollected this sage remark, for I was in danger of oversetting it, by wondering without being ignorant. Have I ever yet seen Mr. Hardcastle act like a wise and prudent man during my whole life, except in one melancholy instance? And yet, Lucy, the folly and extravagance of his letter to Captain Flint produced so sudden an impression of surprise on my mind, that experience was confounded; and I exclaimed to Mrs. Allen, "Who could have believed this, even of Mr. Hardcastle!" On reflecting more deliberately on this proof of his inveterate opposition to all that is proper and suitable, I find however a consistency in his eccentricities, which might have secured me from wondering. After having laboured in meliorating a stubborn and unfruitful soil, he has taken the fancy to shew his skill in the flower garden, and to please his taste by cultivating the sweeter blossoms of a more genial spring, and a more productive mould. Peace be with him! His work is worthy of his hand! Under his culture will Mary Howard shed her mild fragrance around, and, secure from nipping colds or wintry blasts, she will, with, amaranthine bloom, cheer and delight his bosom! And you, my Lucy, "will be cheered by a companion your friend loves." These are your words. What shall I say to you in return? Nothing. Let Mary speak my thanks, whilst I bless Heaven for permitting me to be the means of sheltering innocence, and communicating to others the happiness I have enjoyed. I must nevertheless check my gratitude, in order to tell you, and this unaccountable Mr. Hardcastle, that I mean in future, to decline the honour of being the bearer of letters, which turn honest people's heads giddy. I am aware, that my own would not better sustain me, on the sight of some signed Hardcastle, than the poor captain's has sustained him; this, however, escaped your good father's consideration, so let it pass; whilst I proceed to inform you, that "gold may be bought too dearly," and that my nerves are not strong enough for heavenly delights. We are, however, somewhat more settled into mortal cares; and the captain, I presume, will, in his letter, find room to tell you when you may look for your guests. We have now something else to do; and which is doing with April faces. Mary is so busy that she does nothing. I am asked over and over again, "whether Miss Hardcastle will not think she dresses too much for a young creature in her condition of fortune; whether, I think Miss Hardcastle will not find her aukward for her age." Then comes hope, to dispel her doubts and fears. "If she should please, if Miss Hardcastle should take a fancy to her as I had done, how happy would be her lot! Her dear uncle's heart would be at rest, and she in a course of improvement!" Why do I write all this to you? Alas! I cannot impose on you. It is not Rachel Cowley that is preparing to set out for Heathcot; and I must weep, and envy.

I will not go to the Abbey to-morrow: what have I to do with trunks and band-boxes destined for your abode! No, I will not go near them! Pity me, my dear Lucy! Tell me that your good uncle has produced some change in your father's inflexible resolutions. Mr. Freeman is a wise man, although he loves my poor Horace so tenderly. Surely he might convince Mr. Hardcastle without invading on the prerogatives of the immortal Newton, that no material injury would be done to the planetary system by our writing to each other! He might go farther, and safely predict, that our marriage would not hasten a single comet. No extraordinary thunders would announce to the world, that happiness had triumphed over cent. per cent. and over certain scruples, unheard of by multitudes, and which multitudes would laugh at. Urge him to try his utmost eloquence in favour of an union of pure and unmixed affection. Can there exist a reason for the cruel separation to which we are doomed? I have no father to offend now; none to implore, but Mr. Hardcastle! Pity your

Rachel Cowley!

LETTER XXII.

From the same to the same.

You bid me hope for every thing that can relieve my spirits from their present oppression; and again you repeat, that Horace cannot have a better advocate than his uncle; yet, my Lucy, I am as weak as an infant. Why am I not permitted to accompany Captain Flint and Mary to Heathcot? I would return to my captivity with patience, could I but see this Mr. Freeman; it would satisfy me: no one here would oppose my journey. Oh! that cruel and too firm spirit may be trusted. Mr. Flamall's ward will not be seduced,—will not be inveigled by Mr. Hardcastle—his son is nothing to him! Malcolm gave me last night a note from Mary, "believing that Miss Cowley can effect every thing." So it appears. She and the captain intreat her to employ her influence with Sir Murdock and Lady Maclairn to favour them with a visit at the Abbey; or to permit Mary to pay her respects at the hall before her departure. Unwilling to disturb the baronet, or to distress his lady, I mentioned Mary's note to her only. She requested me to assure Miss Howard that she sincerely participated with her best friends, in the satisfaction they felt, on the subject of her absence. "Her removal from Mrs. Wilson's," added she, "will do more, I trust, than the captain thinks, towards conciliating her aunt's mind; but independently of this consideration, the advantages she will derive from her situation with Miss Hardcastle, are obvious; and I rejoice at her good fortune. It grieves me to refuse Captain Flint's invitation," continued she; "but the implacable animosity which his sister entertains for the whole family at the Abbey, has been hurtful to Mary's interest. I cannot, without injury to that interest, and exasperating Miss Flint, lose sight of the neutrality I have hitherto maintained. I wish you to give this sweet girl every assurance of my regard and esteem: tell her, Miss Cowley, that I never was her parents' enemy, nor am I capable of being hers. She must not come hither, unless her aunt consent to see her. Say nothing of this application to Sir Murdock. He will attend you as usual. It is utterly beyond my power to act otherwise than I do." Her eyes filled with tears, and to conceal them, she hastily quitted me, saying, that Miss Flint had not sent for her, being too ill to rise.

If I am to believe Mrs. Allen, this "poor woman" is hourly manifesting a better frame of mind; but I am under a fit of the spleen, and want faith for her charity. I am disposed to think that horsewhipping, like Doctor Lob's muscular exercise, or the dumb bells, might have been useful to her constitution. Why may not evil spirits be dislodged, in the same way that certain peccant humours go off, by perspiration? If I thought the remedy a specific for discontent, I would try its efficacy, provided the prescription admitted of a whipping-post, instead of my own bosom, or one as white and as soft as the cygnet's down.

I am just returned from Miss Flint's room; her civility supports me in my theory. She insists on my using the coach as my own. "The weather will not do for an open carriage, and I ought to be careful of my health." Poor woman! on saying this, she exhibited the havoc which sickness has made of late in her robust frame. She looks dreadfully; is much fallen away; and is nearly confined to her bed-room. She mentioned her niece's journey; said she was glad to hear she was going from Wilson's, and thanked me for my recommendation of her to you, adding, "that Mary could be useful when it pleased her, having a pretty taste and a quick hand." Suppose you commission me to purchase for you the unfinished cross-stitch carpet; as needle-work of this sort goes on with you, it will employ Mary very well for seven years; and by that time the Turkey carpeting in Sedley's study, will be the worse for wear. You will think, no doubt, of availing yourself of this "quick hand" in some way or other.

To-morrow, yes, to-morrow, I dine with Miss Howard. Her friends will be collected for the special purpose of taking leave; wishing her a pleasant journey, with such like ceremonies: I have escaped the word fooleries! so much in honour of my self-command. But is it not nonsense, to wish people a pleasant journey who are going to Heathcot? Oh! how much good would it do me, only to behold the direction-post that points out "Heathcot-farm," and that is within one little mile of Lucy. Not a word more will I add in this froward humour; but still subscribe myself

Your own R. Cowley!

LETTER XXIII.

From the same to the same.

"You shall expect a letter by Miss Howard." Well, I will try, and convince my dear girl that I am not a simpleton, whose philosophy resembles the feather in her hat, discomfited by a falling shower, or a rough blast. I will be your Rachel Cowley, although no longer your Beatrix.

I was pleased on Thursday morning to find that my good baronet had not finally renounced all "the pomps and vanities of this wicked world;" being convinced that in a moderate use of them, he will be in less danger of corruption, than many who think sackcloth and ashes the only guards to keep off temptation. He entered the music-parlour, in which Mrs. Allen and myself were prepared for the carriage, with an erect air, and as I thought a firmer step than usual, to ask when the coach should draw up. He wore his bridal suit, somewhat modernized; an embroidered waistcoat, and, as Mrs. Allen and myself both believe, a rich diamond stock buckle; a new hat, and a gold-headed cane. We made no remarks on his finery; he prevented it, by instantly adverting to my robe, which was the one we embroidered together; and paid it many compliments. Mrs. Allen observed, that her grey silk gown and black bonnet would disgrace the well-dressed party. "No," replied he, with easy politeness, "that can never happen, till you keep bad company. Wisdom acknowledges her children under any attire; and sober matron grace is your ornament. But Malcolm means to leave his boots behind him, and begs a corner in the carriage with us," added he, taking a pinch of snuff from a superb gold box; "I am not sorry to see him now and then lay aside the farmer for the gentleman, as of the latter class he may always be, though of the former, without sinking his character; whereas, I have seen farmers, and rich ones, who were not, nor could be gentlemen." Malcolm's entrance and dress produced the consequences to be drawn from Sir Murdock's inferences. He smiled on him with complacence, and said, "Why, now, indeed, you look like a lover, and a Maclairn!"—"When I forget what either of those titles claim," replied he, gaily, "hang a calf skin on my recreant limbs."

Thus attired we reached the Abbey. The captain in his best regimentals was prepared to receive his guests; and leaving the baronet to survey at his pleasure, those stationary friends which lined the room, Mrs. Allen and myself went to Mrs. Heartley's. Mrs. Wilson was with her; the girls were with Malcolm in the garden, and in our view. "Poor Miss Heartley will sadly miss her friend," observed the good woman, looking attentively on them as they walked leaning on Malcolm's arm. "It might have been as well for us had Miss Howard not passed the last month here, as it must make parting with her more hard." I spoke of my Lucy. "I have no doubts of her being happy," replied Mrs. Wilson, "and I know she will be respected, and improved in her learning, as Mr. Howard's daughter ought to be; but as to her comforts with us, they have been always our blessings. To be sure, we could not introduce her as you will do; but otherwise——But, if she be happy? Yet, as my husband and I have told the captain hundreds of times, there was no reason for his troubles on Mary's account. Thank God, we have enough for her and ourselves too, and, though we have relations to maintain, we never grudged them assistance, and surely we had a right to be happy in our turn. But I saw how it was," added she, wiping her eyes, "when the innocent lamb was sent to that savage aunt; the captain thought I should love her too well to please my husband's nieces. Dear me! duty and affection will not always march side by side! They were not born in my house, I never dandled them on my knees, nor saw them frisking before me! yet I do not forget them, they are relations. But this child!"—She wept.—"I beg your pardon, Miss Cowley, but I cannot help being sorry that she is going from us." I consoled her with the assurance that her absence would not be many months; and mentioned my hope of seeing you under her roof, as much a favourite as Mary. "So Mrs. Heartley tells me," replied she rising; "but in the mean time what is become of our young folks. They do not consider how cold it is turned." She disappeared in order to give them the caution. "How little do those understand the genuine goodness of human nature," said Mrs. Heartley, following with her eyes the retreating Mrs. Wilson, "who maintain, that it is indebted to acquired attainments and borrowed lustre for its excellence and stability! No one can estimate the advantages of a good education more highly than myself; but there are some of our fellow-creatures, so richly endowed with virtuous propensities, that they appear to me to be peculiarly marked, in order to humble the pride of human reason; and to exhibit virtue in her native dignity and simplicity. What system of education, or what refinements of the polite world, could have better taught this woman the art of conferring benefits without oppressing the receiver, than her own heart, and the precepts in the gospel. That which thousands in the world would consider as a work of supererogation and superlative merit, she is firmly persuaded, is doing no more than what Mr. and Mrs. Howard's child has a right to exact, because they were good and unfortunate; and she left an orphan under her roof. She has not a doubt of her being answerable for this young creature's comforts; and her regret on losing sight of her, is by no means unmixed with the fear, lest some mischief should arise from her acquaintance with the world. We have happily succeeded in satisfying her on this point; and she blesses God, that Miss Mary is not likely to see London. I am frequently so struck by this good woman's purity of heart, and sound principles of action," continued Mrs. Heartley, "that I am in some danger of despising too much the philosophy and refinements of the world. I cannot help believing, that, whilst immersed in its cares and its pleasures, not only my enjoyments were more controuled, but my heart less pure than it is at present. My ambition, which then looked forwards to the well-earned recompence of my husband's toils, and the honourable establishment of my children in that class to which their parents had a claim, is now settled into the wish of seeing Alice a good wife, and a farmer's wife: and I should be contented to leave her with the qualities of a Mrs. Wilson, and in the protection of a man like Wilson."

"A little refinement," answered I, with an arch smile, "will not spoil your plan of rural innocence and peace. Malcolm may work as industriously as Mr. Wilson, notwithstanding his wicked taste for Virgil and Theocritus; and it will be Alice's own fault, should she neglect the churn for the harpsichord."—"Rather say, her foolish mother's," replied she, laughing, "who, in spite of her convictions, could not leave her bad habits with the world she quitted. However," continued she, "I can give you no stronger proof of being a sincere proselyte to the opinions I have supported, than in the disposal of my daughter. On this important point I have so far deviated from the prescribed rules of parental prudence, as to hazard the censure of weakness, if not indiscretion, in permitting a girl who has no fortune, to engage herself in a promise of marriage to a man nearly as little favoured as herself in this essential article. It may not be amiss," continued she, laughing, "to endeavour to justify my conduct on this particular head, with one so rigidly attached to the doctrine of the 'suitable,' 'convenient,' and 'equal bargain' in this grand business of human life. The truth was, I had no alternative in the question concerning the happiness of my child. I foresaw, that circumstanced as she was, Malcolm Maclairn would either remain a second brother, or become her lover. There was no inequality of condition or of character, to oppose to their growing attachment; both were virtuous and amiable; both had the same moderate expectations; both had been educated for a decent mediocrity, I wrote to Lady Maclairn my observations, not my fears; for I had none. Malcolm's visits were not restrained. I considered, Miss Cowley, that worldly prudence was not without its victims; that human wisdom was not unfrequently frustrated, and that an anxious eye to the future often overshot its mark. In the dread of poverty we sometimes forget to appreciate justly the barriers which talents, industry, and sobriety can oppose to its encroachments, and still more heedlessly, turn from the numberless examples, in which wealth, with the habits it induces, has been the high road to penury. Malcolm is a practical farmer; and from the application of better opportunities, and superior talents, he has enlarged Mr. Wilson's agricultural knowledge, who calls him 'his master.' Malcolm was not sixteen when I warned his mother of his danger," continued Mrs. Heartley smiling; "since his father has sanctioned his views, I have regarded him as my son. Fortunately, Alice's pedigree pleased the good baronet; and he told Malcolm, that with such an education as he described, and from so honourable a stock, any girl was rich to an independent and wise man. From that hour his plans have been brought forward; and when, by means of his friend Wilson's assistance, he can find a farm, my children will be happy. An advantageous project in order to effect this, is now before them; and I hope will turn out as profitably to Mr. Wilson, who is a sensible and prudent man, as to Mr. Maclairn: in the mean time he is contented with the privileges I allow him; and Alice calls me her friend and confidant, and is in no hurry to change her name."

A summons to the party below prevented more on this subject. But tell me, Lucy, what is your opinion of this mother? I thought whilst I listened to her, that I was with ours! I found Mrs. Wilson presiding at the head of Captain Flint's table. The feast, for such it was, was in her parlour. A noble room, with a dark wainscoat, and a profusion of carving, gave dignity to the repast, and also a contrast peculiarly striking to the appearance of the guests; for we ought to have been dressed in farthingales and Queen Bess's ruffs; and the donor of the feast, as we suspect, to have had pages and gentlemen ushers. Simplicity, gaiety, and ease, supplied the place of ancient ceremonials; and I could not help recalling, in remarking the modest but independent farmer Wilson, the times of vassalage, when pride and abject submission bound the human race in the fetters of ignorance. Mrs. Allen, who appeared to be particularly Mrs. Wilson's favourite of the day, assures me, that I am forgiven for my wickedness in sending Mary from the Abbey. Miss Hardcastle's character has effected this lenity on Mrs. Wilson's part. "Her gentleness is exactly the thing; for to Mary Howard, gentleness is meat, drink, and clothing. She hopes Miss Hardcastle will attend to the little cough, which from time to time alarms her fears, Mary's dear parents having died of consumptions; but then indeed these were brought on by sorrow and the barbarity of the wicked. Miss Howard will have no such troubles; yet she has given her the recipe for the cough, which was always useful. How so tender a creature got through her hardship at the hall is beyond her conception! It appears to her a miracle! She who never went to bed or rose without a fire in her room, and who was reared like a cot-lamb!" Mrs. Allen received these hints with due attention, and with good-natured seriousness told her, that she had only one fear to combat with, namely, that Mary would be still too much the cotted-lamb at Heathcot. She smiled, and nodding her honest and contented head, answered, "That is well: she will never be spoiled by nursing, as they are, poor fools!"

Malcolm waits for my letter. He sleeps at the Abbey in order to accompany the travellers one stage. I have written a note to Mary, in which I have inclosed a bank note of fifty pounds, and in the most dictatorial language of an elder sister, recommended to her care the escort which Providence has given her to her new abode. I could not take leave of this dear girl; it is better as I have managed matters; nor shall I go to the Abbey to-morrow. Malcolm shall have the triumph of consoling the simpletons there; I have enough to do, to make reasonable your

Rachel Cowley.

CHAP VIII.

LETTER XXIV.

From Rachel Cowley to Miss Hardcastle.

It has fallen out exactly as Mrs. Allen predicted: my restlessness has done no more than to weary my body; my mind travels to you, and I must humour it. We will not talk however of those, who, with palpitating hearts, are, as they journey on, thinking of their first reception, and the embarrassments of an introduction to beings of an higher order than such poor mortals as croud this busy scene. How I should enjoy your defeat, Lucy, when your eyes, for the first time, behold "My fairest amongst women," an epithet you have so unmercifully rallied. You will be candid, and I shall forgive you; only in future acknowledge that I can praise accurately, and, in this instance, have praised soberly. It is an age since I have examined my talents in this way; but so confident am I that the sight of Miss Howard and her uncle will establish my excellence as a painter, whose hand is guided by truth and nature, that I fearlessly send you two other portraits, which ought long since to have graced your cabinet. I wish Sedley was thirty years older than he is, it would save me the time necessary to delineate not only the features, but the character of Mr. Greenwood, who,

"In manners gentle, in affection mild, In wit a man, simplicity a child,"

brings to my fancy what Sedley will be when a grandfather, and whom I already reverence as one every time Mr. Greenwood speaks. They certainly are near relations; only nature, always provident as well as kind in her donations, thought that one at a time would be sufficient for her honour; and one in a country enough to allure mankind to a love of goodness and simplicity of heart. One trait which they possess in common, convinces me that my hypothesis is not altogether fallacious; for I dare not be saucy with either, though I love them both. You who are deeper than myself in metaphysics, will descover the cause for my respect and good behaviour with them, when, with others, "my lips utter folly," and I am as "a bubbling brook."

Doctor Douglas is the delight of my eyes, and, like Falstaff, not only witty himself, but the cause of wit in me; and although it may not be Attic salt to all palates, it supplies a seasoning necessary to my hard fare. Douglas is a true and genuine North-Britain, large, muscular, and six feet at least in height. He is by no means a beau; nor is he a sloven, although he looks more like a London watchman than a physician. His dress is the result of system, raised probably upon his early modes of attire, and abhorrence of ligatures. Cold bathing and Bath-coating, a sort of cloth, such as your curricle wrapping-coat, are with him the essentials health and longevity; and he maintains, that with those, and Scotch barley, a man needs not either a carriage, a carpet, turtle soup, crutches, or an apothecary. He is a widower, Lucy, and has too great boys, whom he has rendered, as I am told by himself, fit for any climate, and taught to be contented with even barley-broth and a knapsack. A healthy countenance, and eyes which still sparkle with the vigour of his mind, would deceive you in his age, for he is more than three-score by his register; but the loss of two or three of his fore teeth, are mementos that his youth is past. These several defects and impediments have preserved me from the sin of inconstancy; for I was in danger of admiring, for the first time in my life that I can recollect, one of those figures which you would expect to find at the head of a banditti, in the scenery of a Salvator Rosa. After dinner Mr. Greenwood, observing him making his dessert of a piece of sea-biscuit, which he took from his pocket, could not help expressing his surprise, that he should hazard the loss of such teeth as he envied. "I have every grinder," replied he, "as sound as when Nature gave them me."—"Of this fact I needed no better evidence," answered Mr. Greenwood, "than the seeing you grind that flinty biscuit; but I conceive you might have been taught, by the loss of two or three of your fore teeth, to understand that yours, like your neighbour's, were perishable."—"Why does he not get them supplied?" cried Alice; "they make false teeth now, I am told, of a substance as white and as firm as his own."—"Why do you not plaister over that honest and honourable testimony of your having faced your enemy, Captain Flint?" asked he, with gravity. "The girls like a smooth, though empty front."—"Oh, that is pure malice!" replied Alice, "Captain Flint's scar is his glory, and was acquired in fighting for his country."—"Well, hussey," retorted he, "and mine was gained in buffetting with the stormy surge; and saving from its overwhelming fury twa bonnie lasses, I could not make more arms than I had, and one steered the float, the other grasped one of the sinking wretches, and my teeth I gave to the second; and shall I not wear my laurels in rememberance of my prowess, without cramming my mouth with sea-horse teeth and vile springs?"—"You are quite right, doctor," remarked I; "and what is more, they would, like every thing artificial about you, be disgraced by the gifts of Nature. You can bite close enough with the teeth you have, whilst a fool and a sea-rusk cost you so little to reduce them to dust." He laughed, and displayed from ear to ear, the snowy white and even teeth; not of Lucy Hardcastle's sort, because one would make four of her pearls, but yet as well adapted to the mouth they reside in. So much for the doctors teeth; now for his humour. Some one asked him whether he had lately seen a certain Sir Peregrine Lofley, a gentleman of consequence somewhere in the neighbourhood. "No," replied he, with a peculiar expression of contempt. "He has not had the cholic of late; and when he has, he will not apply to the Scotch quack for physic; he found mine unpalatable."—"How did that happen?" asked Mr. Greenwood; "when I last saw Sir Peregrine he told me you had saved his life, and that the London physicians were fit only to beat your pestle and mortar."—"That opinion speaks the fool," answered he; "but neither the Scotch nor English physicians can cure him of a radical want of brains. You saw him three or four days after I had accomplished the same business which they had done more than once; the only difference consisted in the mode. This fellow," continued he, turning to Sir Murdock, "had, by his gluttony, produced a malady, which, without a miracle, might have killed him in twenty hours; and having heard of 'one Douglas,' who had saved a man from a mortification of the bowels, I was sent for. The danger of Sir Peregrine was not less imminent, but happily yielded to medicine. Perfectly knowing the cause of the malady, I became the friend of nature and of him; and for a few days longer than was absolutely necessary, kept him on a very spare diet. He had been terrified into docility, and, on enlarging his bill of fare, I honestly told him, that his health was in his own hands; that temperance would preserve it, and that excess in eating would shorten his life. From this well-meant caution he drew an inference perfectly useless. He would eat nothing that Doctor Douglas did not order; and during the course of a fortnight I received my fee, for directing his cook to boil his mutton and make his panada. I saw the machine was going on well; and, without farther concern, took his superfluous gold for advice and controul so beneficial to him. Not, however, classing him with my sick patients, I one morning omitted my visit. The following evening as I called on passing his door, I was questioned on the cause of my neglect. He had expected me in the morning. 'I had a great desire for a stewed carp for my dinner,' added he, with a disturbed air, 'but I did not dare to eat of it without your permission.'—'It is not my intention, my good Sir,' replied I, 'to play le docteur Pedro Rezio with you: with the constitution and appetite of le governeur Sancho Panca, all things are lawful with one sauce, moderation and exercise. Eat like a ploughman if it please you, on condition you work like one.' He graciously smiled, and said he would try what he could do when stronger. I now mentioned the melancholy accident which had engaged me the whole of the day. A man working on the roof-beams of a house had fallen; he had broken his thigh, and, as it was supposed, had fractured his head. It appeared that this unfortunate man had been Sir Peregrine's carpenter, but had incurred his sore displeasure by two offences equally unpardonable. The first was, refusing him his vote for the candidate he supported; the second, the man could read; and with this dangerous talent he had discovered, that he was not altogether a piece of elm or oak. 'And was it for this fellow, doctor, that Sir Peregrine Lofley was neglected?' said he, rising from an easy-chair, with much resentment; 'surely you must know that he is a notorious Jacobin! a rascal who reads newspapers and seditious tracts, at alehouses; and prates of magna-charta and the liberty of the press! He is the veriest dog in the neighbourhood a common nuisance! Surely you must have known this!'—'I was perfectly acquainted with the man's reputed character,' answered I, drily; 'but I was called upon to judge of his fractured skull, not of his political creed. It happens, however, fortunately for my hopes of saving his life, which is not unuseful to his wife and six children, that he has loved politics better than ale: the remarkable sobriety of his habits is much in his favour, and I hope to conquer the fever. You must not expect me to call to-morrow, I shall be engaged with him.'—'It will not suit me,' answered he, with evident haughtiness, 'to place my health in any man's hands, on whom I cannot depend for punctuality as well as judgment; and I should conceive that Doctor Douglas has had no reason to complain of my want of attention to his visits.' He offered his guinea: I declined it. 'This was a call en passant,' observed I, 'but it has led to an explanation of your expectations. These, Sir Peregrine, may, on certain occasions, be regarded by me, as not less incumbent on your medical attendant's observance, than they appear useless at this moment. All are men, without distinction, on my list of patients; the urgency of the case settles their precedence. You want not medical aid at present; nor do I want your guineas, in return 'for small talk and bowing,' although born on the other side of the Tweed.' I left him swelling with rage, and have never seen him since; and finding that I am neither a democrat, nor a nuisance, he calls me a pretending quack!'—'And yet,' observed the delighted Sir Murdock, 'the united suffrages of every university in Europe could not have better qualified a man for the purposes of healing the sick. Your remedies must be infallible, doctor, if you can prescribe to other diseases as well as you have done to pride and narrowness of spirit.'—'The patient was heartily welcome to it,' replied he, with invincible gravity. 'I am not an ill-natured man, Sir Murdock, and when a good action of this sort falls in my way I conceive it to be my duty to be useful. It is true that my nostrums, on such occasions, are like most of my unlicensed brethren's, more rough than infallible; but I am more generous than the common herd of venders of this class; I give my pill and bolus gratis to all who apply for them."