Title: Modern literature: a novel, Volume III (of 3)
Author: Bisset, Robert
Language: English
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Transcriber’s note

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

_italic_



                          MODERN LITERATURE:

                              _A NOVEL._

                               VOL. III.



Printed by A. Strahan, Printers-Street.



                          MODERN LITERATURE:

                              _A NOVEL_,

                           IN THREE VOLUMES.

                               VOL. III.

                        By ROBERT BISSET, L.L.D.

                          Non ignota loquor.

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

                                 1804.



                               CONTENTS

                                  OF

                           THE THIRD VOLUME.


  CHAP. I.

  _Excursion of Hamilton with his Wife and Sister. Approaches to Windsor.
  Prospect from the Keep. Ideas suggested by Association. Apartments
  of the Castle. Paintings. The Terrace. Royal Family. The King on his
  own private Grounds. Combination of Objects that render this Scene
  interesting and impressive. Approach to Oxford in the Dusk of the
  Evening. Full View of this City and its Colleges. Blenheim. Bybury.
  Fair Maid of the Inn. Strolling Players. Our Hero learns that Hamlet
  had been performed by the Preacher O’Rourke. His Conversation with
  Ophelia. More Insight into Methodistical Itinerancy. They proceed to
  Tetbury. O’Rourke preaches from an inverted Tub. Affinity between
  the Doctrines of Methodism and Mahomedism. The Preacher announces
  a Collection. He solves Cases of Conscience. Motives and Modes of
  Solution. Fees to the Ghostly Monitor. For want of them a poor
  inoffensive Creature driven to despair. A Stranger arrives in pursuit
  of the Preacher, who had converted and seduced his Wife. An Account of
  the Love Lectures of Itinerant Methodism. The Devotions of the Preacher
  interrupted by the Constable. Ophelia enraged at his Inconstancy,
  unfolds the Proceedings of the Preacher. His Box is searched. The Watch
  is found close by a Book of spiritual Hymns. The Preacher escapes from
  Custody, and with him a silver Tankard._                        Page 1

  CHAP. II.

  _The Travellers proceed to Bristol. Clifton. Hotwells. Road from
  Bristol to Bath. Description of Bath. Charming Situation. Charitable
  and beneficent Institutions. But too much a Scene of Gambling and
  Methodistical Adventurers. Principle of these two Classes the same.
  Of the two, Methodism the more conducive to Gallantry. Conjecture
  that Ovid would have approved of Methodists in one Respect. A
  Digression concerning the Scottish Missionaries. Hamilton meets with an
  Acquaintance. Mr. Manchester accompanies them to the Rooms. Account of
  the Company. A fashionable Clergyman. Ingenious Scheme for dramatizing
  the Pulpit, and rendering Action and Spouting a Substitute for Genius,
  Learning, and Eloquence. Pulpit Exhibitions of Parson Gilliflower.
  Rendezvous of the Preacher and Gambler for comparing their Proceeds.
  Hamilton and his Companions leave Bath. Incident at Cherril Downs. They
  relieve a Lady in great Distress, and convey her to Marlborough._
                                                                 Page 60

  CHAP. III.

  _History of the distressed Lady. Her former Happiness as the Wife of a
  worthy and estimable Man. Acquaintance with the Countess of Cheatwell;
  who introduces Mrs. Raymond to her own particular Friends. Mrs. Raymond
  begins to have a Relish for those Parties: tries her Luck at Gaming.
  She begins with great Success. The Tide of Fortune changes. She
  becomes acquainted with a very elegant Youth. She is dunned for Debts:
  encounters the said Youth at Play, in hopes of liquidating the same.
  Grievously disappointed. He extricates her from her Embarrassments,
  and takes her Note by way of Form. Where Cash fails, Means of paying
  Gaming Debts. Discoveries. Mrs. Raymond flies from Society. Immediate
  Causes of the Situation from which she was relieved by the Travellers.
  Hamilton discovers her to be the Sister of Sir Edward Hamden. She is
  prevailed on to accompany the Party to London. They leave Marlborough.
  Description of the Forest, and of Tottenham-Park._             Page 93

  CHAP. IV.

  _Interview of Hamilton with Sir Edward Hamden. Affection of the
  Brother for the Sister, and the Husband for his Wife. Penitence of
  Mrs. Raymond. Matters are accommodated. Hamilton returns to his great
  Work. Plan and Progress of the Execution. Publication: establishes the
  Author’s fame. Praised by Men of Genius, Friends to the Constitution
  and the Public. Dispraised by literary Dunces. Eager Rage of the Dunce,
  Doctor Dicky Scribble. He wastes much Time in abusing the Production
  of Hamilton from Coffee-House to Coffee-House. The Efforts of the
  Dunce are impotent against proved Genius. The Reviews praise the
  Work, except one, the Property of a Bookseller, who was bringing out
  another Work on the same Subject. Dejection of Charlotte Hamilton.
  Aspiring Views of Mortimer, tainted by the Dissipation of the French
  Capital. He captivates Miss Louisa Primrose, whose Fortune he wishes
  to espouse: frankly avows his Situation and Sentiments in a Letter to
  Charlotte. She instantly releases him from his Engagements. He marries
  Miss Primrose and her Five Thousand a Year. Increasing Intimacy between
  Hamden and Hamilton. Literature and Politics of that Time. Burke and
  Paine. Under Classes of literary Men Votaries of Revolution. Rise
  and Progress of certain Literary Occupations. Decayed Shopkeepers
  and Mechanics often take to writing. Various Stages of such, from
  Collectors of Rout Intelligence up to Newspaper Reporters. Thence
  to Political Pamphleteers and Philosophers. Stages of a Magazine
  Writer. Vast Numbers that become literary Journeymen, without having
  served an Apprenticeship. Trade of an Editor. Unoccupied Counsellors
  and Physicians seek for Briefs and Fees in the literary Line. Action
  and Re-action of superficial Literature and mischievous Politics.
  Instances. Causes favourable to the Diffusion of an innovating Spirit
  among the Vulgar and Ignorant. Principles, Sentiments, and Views of
  such Revolutionists. Perverting and inflammatory Writings. St. Leon.
  Doctrines, Character, and Works of a Metaphysical Treatise, for
  assimilating Man to Beasts. Means proposed for turning Man to such
  Likeness. Novel of, against Laws and Punishments, and for Thieves and
  Robbers. Specimen of Biography by the same. Jemima, short History
  of. She sets up a new Code of Laws for Female Conduct. Reasons which
  rendered her Doctrines and Exhortations palatable to many Women.
  Meeting of her Votaries. Visitors who are not Votaries admitted.
  Among others Hamilton. Progress of her Disciples in the new Morality.
  Proposed Abolition of Religion. Institution of an Order of Females
  for spreading the new Philosophy, comprehending a burlesque Imitation
  of Bishops. Two arch Infidel Females and Twenty-four Infidels. Jemima
  unanimously appointed Primate of the Order, and Mary second Primate.
  Claims and Pretensions of other Female Infidels to be Members of the
  Twenty-four. Respective Merits examined and explained. Individuals
  and Classes to whom Jemima proposes the Thanks of the Meeting
  for their co-operating Services. Praises bestowed on Teachers of
  Boarding-Schools, Novel Writers, and Circulating Library Keepers. On
  Parents in a low Estate, who give their Daughters Boarding-School
  Education. Conduciveness of Nonsense to Infidelity and the new
  Philosophy. Exclamations of Jemima against her most formidable
  Adversary, in the old Language denominated Common Sense. Meeting breaks
  up. Hamilton’s View of Jemima’s Theory and Inculcations. Domestic
  Occurrences. Birth of a Son to our Hero. Passion of Sir Edward Hamden
  for Charlotte Hamilton. Her Objections: are overcome. Marriage._
                                                                Page 124

  CHAP. V.

  _Adventures of O’Rourke. He revisits his Country, but not the Scenes
  of his former Exploits: becomes a Popish Priest as well as Methodist
  Preacher, and also follows some of his old Occupations. He arrives
  at Dublin. Natural, but fatal Catastrophe of this Preacher and
  Practitioner. Grief of his Wife on hearing of his melancholy End.
  Death of her Child and the Widow O’Rourke. Christian Resignation of
  the old Laird. He rests his sole Hopes in our Hero. Settlement of his
  Estates. Intelligence of these Changes is sent by him to Hamilton, whom
  he strongly urges to come immediately to Etterick. Hamilton re-visits
  Scotland: is chosen Member for the County. His Uncle accompanies him
  to London. His first Speech in Parliament. Admiration of all Parties.
  Attention paid him by the first Men in the House. Behaviour of his
  Uncle during the Speech. His exulting Joy on the Reception his Nephew
  experienced. His Expression of that Joy. The Story brought to a
  Conclusion. Parting View of the principal Characters._        Page 227



MODERN LITERATURE.


CHAPTER I.


HAMILTON, possessed of his lovely and beloved Maria, was stimulated to
more constant and vigorous intellectual exertions than at any former
period of his life. He consulted with his friends, and balanced with
himself, whether he should persevere in the study of the law, or
entirely devote himself to literature. To the latter his inclinations
prompted; but the former appeared the more conducive to his interest.
The ability and industry which would enable an Erskine to acquire
twelve thousand in one year, could scarcely earn so much to a
Robertson or a Gibbon in the course of a literary life. He had been the
means of preventing Maria from affiancing herself to opulence; ought
not he to attempt to supply the defect? His friends thinking that no
attainments were beyond his reach, if directed to the study of the
law, very strongly urged him to be called to the bar. He at length
determined to persevere in his legal studies, but at the same time to
carry on his other pursuits. He made very great progress in the work
which he had undertaken, and by the approach of winter an octavo volume
was ready for publication.

Maria, considering the world as centered in her husband, desired no
amusements or pleasures that could interfere with his engagements,
duties, and ardent wish to fulfil them speedily and effectually; and
except two or three plays, a party to Vauxhall, jaunts for a day to
some of the adjacent villages, she was entirely domesticated. About the
middle of August, however, William finding that his labours were so far
advanced as to afford him respite for a few weeks, proposed to carry
his wife and Charlotte an excursion, by a route of which the greater
part would be new to him, and all beyond the first stage to his fair
fellow travellers. The ladies had never seen Windsor; this, therefore,
was the first object of their destination. On a Sunday morning
early they took the road to Hounslow; changing horses at Cranford
Bridge, they hurried over the bleak and dreary heath; and turning
Colnbroke, were gladdened with the prospect of the grand and commanding
battlements of Windsor Castle, amidst scenery striking and magnificent,
at once uniform and diversified; VARIED in the distribution and
assortment of the beautiful, the romantic, the sublime, ONE in the
interest and impressiveness of the whole. The first care of their
conductor was to give them a complete and comprehensive view of the
situation and prospects of the royal residence. He therefore led them
to the super-eminent elevation of the round tower; where such an extent
of space opens on every side to the astonished spectator, and exhibits
such a multiplicity of objects, as fill him with amazement, which
subsiding sufficiently to permit distinct attention to the several
compartments, is changed into delight. After viewing in succession
the verdant and wooded ridge of St. Leonard’s Hill; the more gentle
eminences, that diversified with dales, line the approaches from the
great park; the romantic environs of Runymede, the sacred theatre
of vindicated rights; the pastoral scenery of Frogmore; the rich
fertility of the northern view long level, by its mantling corns that
had now assumed their ripened yellow hue, diversifying the verdure
of the southern prospect; fringed with distant woods, and bounded
by acclivities, which, without lessening the interest of the nearer
scenery, served to limit contemplation to definite objects. Immediately
under the eye occupied in that direction, the nurse of British learning
raised her venerable head; the Thames, meandring through those woods
and dales and lawns, and washing the glittering towers and hills with
its gilded streams, beautiful itself, and enhanced every other beauty,
and, like the poet’s magic pen, whatever it touched adorned.

To a spectator of genius, a prospect does not merely present
the objects that assail his eyes; its chief effect is often by
association. Destitute of sensibility and fancy a beholder must be,
who reaching the top of Portsdown hill, and descrying the distant Isle
of Wight, or the Fareham forest, the former a more prominent, and the
latter a more beautiful object, than the flat environs of Portsmouth,
would not chiefly regard the town he was approaching, not as a place
containing a certain number of buildings, but as the grand receptacle
of English strength. Hamilton viewing Windsor transcending every place
that he had beheld in the various excellencies of external nature,
cultivated, but not overwhelmed by art, now regarded it in a different
light; as the seat of royalty, subjecting to the survey of its owner
almost every different characteristic of English rural beauty. In
its agricultural and pastoral objects it involves the grand inlet of
transcending commerce; there its benignant possessor can, with the
exultation of conscious patriotism, happy in the accomplishment of its
benevolent purposes, say--“these are the pastures and farms of ability,
enterprize, and industry, fostered by freedom that is regulated by
order, and which having produced opulence, with skilful taste employs
part of it in super-adding ornament to utility, and an opulence
diffused through various ranks, giving to the mechanic and the peasant
those neat and comfortable houses which constitute the many flourishing
hamlets and villages that present themselves to the gladdened eye.
Before us glides the Thames, wafting merchandize between my inland
country and my metropolis, and, even here, long before it imbibes the
ocean, it presents a growing scene of the industry and traffic which
so eminently distinguish its matured course beyond all other rivers.”
“Here,” said our hero, pointing to the chapel, “our Sovereign seeks,
in religion, the best support of moderate and virtuous royalty. There
learning employs her stores in inuring youth to sound knowledge, just
principles, and sentiments which must ever support mingled loyalty and
freedom.”

From this general survey they now descended to particularization.
They viewed the apartments of the castle, which are decorated with
such magnificence of diversified ornaments; contain so numerous an
assemblage and exquisite a selection of monuments of the fine arts;
combine the best productions of the Flemish and Italian schools, and
also shew that English genius taking that course, can excel as well as
in any other. From the royal suite of rooms they now betook themselves
to the Terrace, to view the SOVEREIGN A PRIVATE GENTLEMAN ON HIS
OWN GROUNDS, frankly mingling with his people, and deriving pleasure
from the many and strong testimonies of loyalty, delighted with
contemplating the welfare and happiness of its objects. They saw him
accompanied by his queen, and surrounded by his family. The scenery,
the music, the company, and above all, the royal party, rendered the
effect peculiarly impressive. Our travellers spent the whole of that
day at Windsor: the following morning they took a ride round the great
park, and afterwards visited Eton College. After an early dinner they
took the road to Oxford; they were charmed with the romantic beauties
between Salt Hill and Henley, where having stopped half an hour, it
was the dusk of the evening, when the spires and cathedrals of Oxford
presented themselves in solemn grandeur through the gloom of the
twilight. The next morning they walked out to survey the venerable
city. It was the season of the vacation, and stillness appeared to
prevail throughout; every scene seemed retired and sequestered--the
chosen abodes of profound reflection and philosophy--

         “----Deep solitudes and awful cells,
    Where ever pensive contemplation dwells.”

These were reservoirs of theoretic wisdom, whence issued streams that
being guided by practical skill and experience, produced most important
benefits to society. Here our hero recalled to his mind a reflection he
had made at Cambridge, of the benefit that arose from the commixture
of religious with literary institutions. He mentioned this remark to
his intelligent fellow travellers, and finding a copy of Newte’s
tour, read to them a very striking passage on the subject. “Oxford
and Cambridge,” says that very able writer, “may be justly considered
not only as venerable monuments of ancient times, but as a kind of
garrison, established by public authority, for the preservation of
loyalty, literature, and religion. If our universities may be thought,
in some respects, to check and retard the progress of knowledge,
by means of fixed forms, laws, and customs, it is at least equally
certain, that they are salutary bulwarks against the precipitate and
desolating spirit of innovation. The reverence paid by our ancestors
to piety and to learning, strikes us in Oxford as by a sensation,
and shews how fit objects these are of esteem and veneration, to the
common sense of mankind. For different nations, and races of princes
and kings, have concurred, in the course of many centuries, to pay
homage to the shrine of saints and the seats of the muses. It is not an
easy matter to prevent or shake off a respect for any noble or royal
family, whose antient representatives, the founders and benefactors
of the different colleges and halls, are brought to remembrance by
pictures, statues, charters, and stately edifices. These take fast hold
of the ductile mind of the students, and are associated in their memory
with many of the most pleasing ideas that have ever occupied their
minds. From impressions of this kind, a love of their early haunts and
companions, naturally associated together in their imaginations, is
nourished in the breasts of the generous youth, and also an attachment
to their king and country. Take away these memorials of antiquity,
those noble and royal testimonies of respect to sanctity of life,
and proficiency in learning, remove every sensible object, by which
sentiments of early friendship, loyalty, and patriotism are kindled
and inflamed in young minds, and disperse our young gentlemen in other
countries for their education, or even in separate little academies and
schools in our own, and you weaken one of the great pillars by which
the constitution and spirit of England is supported and perpetuated.”

They now proceeded to view the different colleges and libraries. When
they were in Pembroke College, our hero observed, that as one of the
chief glories of English literature had been educated at this seminary,
as a monument that they had fostered so very eminent a pupil, they
should erect a statue to Samuel Johnson. They passed several hours
in the Bodleian library; they viewed also the various chapels, and
were particularly pleased with some of the paintings. The city and
university in general impressed our travellers with reverence and
awe, and the contemplation furnished to our hero various ideas that
he afterwards found useful in his literary pursuits. Having remained
a day and two nights at Oxford, they set off for Woodstock to view
Blenheim, one of the most signal monuments of national gratitude to an
illustrious hero for discomfiting the ambitious enemies of his country.
From Woodstock a spacious portal of the Corinthian order conducted them
into the park, and opened to them the lake, the bridge, but conspicuous
beyond the rest the castle. Designed by Sir John Vanbrugh, and like the
other structures of that architect, ponderous; the palace of Blenheim,
nevertheless, exhibited regularity and proportion. Admitted into
the house they found the apartments grand and magnificent, decorated
with monuments of genius and of taste, especially paintings. To the
spectator who with the exhibitions combined the renowned founder of
the Marlborough family, the most interesting were the representations
of his heroic actions. The holy family; the offering of the Magi; our
Saviour blessing the children; filial affection exemplified in the
Roman daughter; return of our Saviour from Egypt; bearing testimony to
the genius of Rubens, or an honour to the taste and selection of any
nobleman, but have no appropriate relation to that illustrious family
more than any other. The same observation will apply to the Dorothea of
Raphael; the Pope Gregory and Female Penitent of Titian. But the most
appropriate decorations are the battles of Marlborough represented on
tapestry. The disposition of the grounds was also extremely skilful;
but to the historical or political reader the most interesting
portion was, that which either described or alluded to the exploits
and victories of John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough, and especially
the lofty column which serves as a pedestal to the statue of the
consummate general, and presents an inscription describing the talents
and qualities of the head and heart of this extraordinary personage;
the atchievements of so efficacious and singular a character, and the
effects which they had produced; the following inscription composed by
Bolingbroke, appears to be singularly adapted.--

             The castle of _Blenheim_ was founded by Queen
                                 ANNE
                   In the fourth year of her reign,
                In the year of the christian æra 1705,
             A monument designed to perpetuate the memory
                                of the
                            Signal victory
              Obtained over the _French_ and _Batavians_,
                    Near the village of _Blenheim_,
                      On the banks of the Danube,
                     By JOHN, Duke of MARLBOROUGH,
          The hero, not only of this nation, but of this age,
        Whose glory was equal in the council and in the field;
             Who by wisdom, justice, candour, and address,
            Reconciled various and very opposite interests;
                         Acquired an influence
                 Which no rank, no authority can give,
              Nor any force but that of superior virtue;
                  Became the fixed important centre,
                   Which united in one common cause,
                    The principal states of Europe;
             Who, by military knowledge, and irresistible
                                valour,
              In a long series of uninterrupted triumphs,
                     Broke the power of _France_,
            When raised the highest, when exerted the most,
                   Rescued the empire of desolation;
           Asserted and confirmed the liberties of _Europe_.

This memorial, so clear, so strong, and so appropriate, our hero
regarded as peculiarly adapted to its glorious subject.

Having viewed whatever appeared most worthy of inspection in Blenheim
castle and park, our travellers returned to Woodstock, where they
dined, and, in the evening, set off for Whitney, whence, that night,
they reached Bybury in Glocestershire. Here they found a very good
inn, and a young woman, who did not officiate as a servant, paid her
respects to the ladies; upon seeing this person, our hero thought her
very handsome, and after his Maria, one of the most charming girls he
had ever beheld; and they afterwards found, upon enquiry, that she
was reckoned the beauty of the vale of Evesham. They learned that
the most commodious apartment for supper was a public room, where
several parties were sitting at different tables. There had been,
it seems, a play in an adjoining barn; and the greater number of the
spectators were at supper in the wide and extensive theatre; but a
few of the higher order were promoted to the dining room, and our
travellers overheard some dramatic criticism. A decent substantial
looking man declared himself extremely delighted, and was proceeding
with particulars, when a great, stout, portly figure entered in a
dress which appeared to be an old sailor’s jacket bespangled with
whip-cord, and whispering something to the waiter, was shewn to a box
facing that of Hamilton. The company was at first silent, and then
began a clapping, but not so loud as to prevent the waiter’s voice
from being heard bawling, “eggs and bacon for the ghost, and a pot of
mild ale,” and soon after, “for the queen, a glass of crank hot and
strong, beef steaks and onions for Ophelia.” Hamilton having heard
this order, conceived that the gentleman in the blue jacket, though
really so abounding in flesh and blood, was intended to be the ghost
of the elder Hamlet. Accordingly he accosted him; “I find, sir, that
by being too late, these ladies and I have missed the performance of
a very excellent tragedy.” “Yes,” replied the other, “if you know any
thing of London plays, you would have been astonished with us.” “You
acted the ghost, sir.” “Yes, and Laertes.” “But had you not to change
your dress?” “No; I had no dress to change with. I should indeed have
taken off the armour, but the taylor was on the stage playing the
king.” “Where is your Hamlet?” “Gone home to supper with the sexton,
who acted the part of the grave-digger. I assure you, that bating his
now and then forgetting his part, our Hamlet is a capital actor; but
here comes the fair Ophelia bearing a mug of porter.” The mistress of
the Danish Prince was arrayed in a green jacket and a red petticoat,
that proved Monmouth-street to extend to distant parts of the kingdom.
But as she was a fine likely girl, her habiliments appeared to the best
advantage, and she sat down by a young farmer, who appeared smitten
with her charms, while she seemed nowise to discourage his addresses,
and it required no ghost to discover what would be the result. Our
hero thought he had seen her somewhere, and as some parts of the
conversation induced the ladies to retire, he entered into discourse
with the representative of Hamlet’s royal sire, and Ophelia and her
new acquaintance having left the room, he enquired whence she came.
The actor replied, that she came to Worcester several months before
with an Irishman; they called themselves Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, but
he believed that was not the real name of the man; and farther, that
he much doubted whether the woman had any title to his name, be it
what it might. The man sometimes acted and sometimes preached: he was
engaged to deliver a sermon the following day at Tetbury, where he had
made several female converts. Madam often joined him in his spiritual
exercises, for she had a good pipe, and was an excellent hand at an
hymn; and being a handsome clever lass, was as graciously received at
the love feasts and communion of saints by the men, as her holy partner
was by the women. “Pray,” said our hero, “what is this Mr. Hamilton’s
figure?” “A very tall stout fellow, with a mark on his cheek, which
he said he got in defending himself against a dozen of robbers, for
he draws a long bow.” Hamilton, as our readers will readily conceive,
concluded this sacred dramatist to be no other than his worthy
connection Mr. Roger O’Rourke, and resolved to repair to Tetbury in
sufficient time to participate of the spiritual food which this noted
cook had provided.

Hamilton and his lovely companion had now been some time in bed, and
had almost fallen asleep, when they heard a very great noise over their
heads, and men speaking in a loud and furious tone. Striking a light
our hero went to inquire into the cause, and entering the room whence
the bawling issued, found two men in their shirts holding and cuffing
each other. Having, with some difficulty, parted the combatants, who
were now battered and bloody, he asked what was the ground of the
affray, and discovered that it originated in a mistake. The room it
seems belonged to the ghost; the young farmer had become the devotee
of Ophelia, either for religion or some other reason, and it had been
agreed, that they should resume their spiritual confabulations during
the solemn stillness of the night. The farmer went to the wrong door,
and approaching the supposed Ophelia, was surprized by a hoarse voice,
demanding who he was. The farmer, apprehending that another person
had anticipated his wishes, in an equal rage approached the bed, its
possessor starting up, a combat had ensued. The landlord and various
others having now come to the room, the farmer was prevailed on to
withdraw, and so the scuffle ended. Our hero returned to Maria, whom he
found joined by Charlotte, that had been alarmed by the uproar, but
quietness being restored, she departed. Next morning, our hero being
called at an early hour by his previous directions, arose. Enquiring
after the farmer, he learned, that he had huddled on his cloaths
with all possible expedition after the battle, ordered his horse,
and set off swearing at Ophelia, and still imputing his reception to
her design, and not his own blunder: therein he did that young lady
great injustice, as she was scrupulously tenacious of _such_ promises.
Hamilton now proceeding to the dining room, found Miss Ophelia sitting
alone, with breakfast apparatus and a book before her. She rose at
his entrance, and made a very affable kind of a courtsey, which she
accompanied by a no less affable smile. Hamilton asking what the book
was, was told, it was a collection of spiritual hymns, they were to be
that day sung at Tetbury, where her husband was to deliver a sermon. “I
certainly have seen you, Madam?” She rather hung down her head. “Oh, I
remember, Sir; once near the coast of Sussex, you and a very handsome
young lady were alone in the wood, the same that I saw with you last
night, and who my husband told me since you are now married to.” “And
is the gentleman that I saw with you your husband?” “Oh, you know all
about it, Sir, it is needless for me to disguise; but while the soul is
filled with true faith, what can any acts of the body signify, let us
not attend to the filthy rags of works; the more we strip ourselves of
what heathens and unbelievers call morality and virtue, the more easily
may we be covered by the splendid robes of imputed righteousness.” “Do
you, Madam, also assist in preaching?” “Very rarely; I have sometimes
held forth. I once delivered a discourse on the resemblance of human
and divine love; it was allowed by many persons, even that had not yet
received the effectual calling, that my description of human love was
very natural and strong, and we had a good many converts that very day;
for I assure you, that we have not a more powerful engine of conversion
than engaging accounts of the passion of love, such sermons do thrill
so through the heart.” “You will allow me to observe, Madam, that
your language and remarks are far beyond what I should have expected
from either an itinerant preacher or player, or the associate of my
worthy acquaintance Mr. O’Rourke. You certainly have received a liberal
education, and have moved in genteel circles.” “Mr. Hamilton,” she
replied, “I know your character well, and also some circumstances in
which you have been very particularly interested. Allow me to ask you
one question: can you see in my features or countenance a resemblance
to any person that you have known?” Our hero looked a few moments and
started. “I certainly have seen a face very like yours, but you are
not she.” “I am not; but to cut the matter short, my maiden name was
Collings, Joanna Collings, the elder sister of Jenny Collings, your
Jenny Collings, now the wife of a rich booby squire.” “I thought,” said
our hero, “that lady was the wife of a clergyman.” “She is, but has
proved herself totally unworthy of such a husband. My story, Sir, is
short and simple; but were it told, full of warning instruction.” The
ghost actor now making his appearance, interrupted this conversation,
and pointing to his wounded head, said, “Mrs. Ophelia, I have to thank
you for last night’s exploit, that clodpole was one of your lovers,
but I will work him; I will prosecute him; I will serve him with a
_scire facias_, by the Lord I will.” Ophelia retired without making
any reply. Mrs. and Miss Hamilton now entering, breakfast was speedily
dispatched, and they set off on the road to Cirencester; and having
stopped two hours to view Lord Bathurst’s house and grounds, continued
their journey to Tetbury. They learned that the preacher was to exhibit
at six o’clock in the inn yard, from a tub inverted for his convenience
and exaltation. Our hero and his companions had influence with the
waiter to have the tub placed before the windows of the parlour, which
they occupied. The preacher ascended and exhibited the very physiognomy
of O’Rourke. Ophelia was, by this time, arrived at the scene of
spiritual instruction, and officiated as precentor in the modulation of
the psalms; and after one or two extempore prayers, O’Rourke began a
sermon in somewhat better language than Hamilton would have expected,
from his knowledge of Roger’s powers and erudition. The subject was the
joys of Heaven. His explanation on this momentous topic was somewhat
on the Mahomedan establishment, and proceeded on a supposition, that
the supreme constituent of felicity would be Love. He had got various
ideas on that subject from his fair associate, but now and then made
additions of his own. “I proceed now (he said) to the accommodations of
Heaven under the words of my text, ‘pleasure for evermore.’ The best
way of judging of the joys of Heaven, is by considering what rejoices
the saints here upon earth: for instance, now we ourselves like good
eating and drinking as well as those in a state of reprobation, and do
you think we shall not have a very good table, and plenty of wine, or a
drop of whisky, or any other such necessaries as those who have got the
effectual calling relish in their present state? It will be no work and
free quarter there, and what can an honest fellow wish for more. But
the choicest pastimes will be the company of the angels.” Expatiating
particularly upon this topic, his conceptions evidently admitted a
great portion of earthly instead of Heavenly perfection. “There will be
the pretty _dare_ cratures to rejoice the hearts of the saints, with
their sparkling eyes and their sweet _lucks_, and their fine shapes,
all dressed in white muslin; and to use a _samalay_, all as one as the
curragh of Kildare, which every one allows to be one of the finest
sights in the universe; and the country is so pretty and pleasant, as
grand as the bay of Dublin, or Lochswilly, or Carrickfurgus itself,
that faces Port Patrick, as you go over to Scotland; as sweet as the
flowery banks of the Shannon, which you know is the subject of a very
fine song; part of the words are,--

    Now Patty, softest of thy sex,
    Let love’s sweet power prevail.”

And here the divine hummed the tune. “but we shall have it at the
love-feast in the evening. But to return to what we was speaking of:
Heaven is as romantic and charming as--now there is some very fine
prospects not far from this very place, that some of you may know,
that will give some idea of the face of the country in Heaven. There
is Malvern wells; this same valley of Evesham; but Clifton and King’s
Weston gives them the go-by, though I must say the Avon is rather
muddy. Ah, God help you; it is not like our clear Irish streams. Our
Bannar for instance; my little Ophelia has a very good song about that
too, which shall be forth-coming at the love-lectures: but Heaven
is most like the lake of Killarney. There will be also no want of
music in Heaven; and, I do suppose, it will be different according to
different tastes. For myself, I think the choicest instrument is the
Irish bag-pipe; and should Courtenay be gone there, we cannot have
a better hand; I shall find him out, he is a sweet countryman of my
own. I forgot to say one article in the eating way, there will be the
choicest fruits, especially potatoes. Now having described Heaven,
it may be as well to say a few words about hell, although, it being
no very agreeable subject, I shall not be after taking up much of
your time. But you that are making faces there, what are you about?
is it mocking me you are? be _asy_ now. I have a shillelah now, and a
good tough bit of a swich it is. Ay, you will do now, so I shall go
on to describe hell; with which, unless you will follow my counsel,
you, Mr. Smirker, will be better acquainted some day or other. It is
a hideous kind of a place, like the coal-pits of Staffordshire, or
to come nearer the point, like the great cavern in the Devil’s own
premises; there is a great furnace, just like the glass-houses, where
unbelievers are roasted, all as one as pigs, in the great cook-shops,
as you pass through Porrige Island; and as they are alive all the time,
they must be in a pretty kind of a combustion. There is a serjeant’s
guard of devils over every fire. Now Heaven and hell, you may perhaps
_persave_, are different kind of accommodations; and certainly, every
man that has his _seven_ senses about him must see, that the one is a
much better kind of a lodgment than the other; but as our play said
last night, ‘any fool knows that.’ The next question is, how are we to
get to Heaven? We are the boys to direct you; your parsons, and your
bishops, and them kind of people, will tell you long rigmarole stories
about practising virtue and morality, as they call it; that is a very
troublesome kind of way, and a great restraint upon a poor fellow,
and up-hill work. But we that follows the true doctrines, myself
among many others, gets you a _short cut_, all easy and down-hill,
all that you have to do is to believe.--What? you will say; why what
your preacher tells you; that is, the _whole sacret of getting to
Heaven_. If you do that, there’s nothing to hinder you to take your
glass, or any other kind of recreation that may suit your fancy. But
the best proof you can give of believing your preacher, is by shewing
your respect. There is to be a collection this evening, a word to the
wise; after the collection I shall solve cases of conscience at eight
o’clock till ten, when we meet at the love-lectures; for I am the
man to shew you the way to salvation, as sure as I stand here.” At
this instant the preacher, leaning too far forward, slipped his foot
from the edge of the tub, and came to the ground; and some prophane
scoffers having set up a laugh, the saint, in his passion, forgot
his piety, and d----d them for a parcel of scoundrels. “I see you
very well, and if I could find out which it is, I would darken his
daylights for him.” A very stout fellow, who conceived the preacher’s
looks directed to him, came forward and said, with much indignation;
“thee darken my daylights, I will vight thee vor vive guineas.”
O’Rourke, whose courage, as we have already seen, did not equal his
strength, observed, “that the challenger, though not so tall as he, was
extremely active and muscular; thought proper to mention his sacred
calling, and he hastily withdrew into the house.” Here he soon met
with our hero, who took him somewhat severely to task, for so much
longer an absence from his family than he had promised; and gave him to
understand, that if ever he expected any countenance or support from
the family or fortune of Etterick, he must entirely change his plan
of conduct. O’Rourke, who stood greatly in awe of Hamilton, made many
promises of speedy amendment; but he was, for the present, engaged by
his honour, both in playing and preaching, that he must, for a few
weeks, continue at his employments. Hamilton knew O’Rourke too well
to suppose honour could be any kind of restraint upon his actions.
Originally unprincipled and profligate, he was not likely to have
learned rectitude and moderation from his vagabond life, either as a
strolling player or as a strolling preacher; and, indeed, the little
he had heard since he fell in with his associates, entirely concurred
with this view of probability. The real truth it seems was, O’Rourke,
who detested his wife, had no intention to return to her, unless driven
by necessity; and he found his preaching and other gifts becoming
tolerably productive. His barn exhibition had, indeed, only brought him
seventeen shillings and sixpence; but the tub oratory was four times
that sum. The cases of conscience varying from sixpence to a crown per
head, averaged nineteen pence halfpenny; and as he dispatched them
very expeditiously, especially the sixpenny consultations, he managed
about twenty-four of an evening; making, if there be any truth in
calculation, one pound nineteen shillings. He besides received private
gifts on various occasions, and had already acquired the expertness of
an old practitioner, in levying supplies for the sake of distressed
brethren, and of these contributions he gave such an account as is
usual among the itinerant fraternity. But though he had no intention
of repairing to Etterick, he gave a most solemn promise to Hamilton
to be there in six weeks at farthest. Hamilton wishing for farther
acquaintance with the manner of Methodism, expressed a desire to be let
into some of the secrets of the cases of conscience, and endeavoured to
learn if it was possible to be an unobserved witness. By the ministry
of a waiter, who, being son of the sexton, abominated all that might
tend to lessen the payments to the parish church, he was concealed in a
closet adjoining the apartment of the counsellor of conscience.

The first person that applied was, by his own account, a shop-keeper.
The parson of the parish, it seems, had, by some means, discovered that
this dealer had two kinds of weights and measures; one for those that
he supposed to be very sharp, and another for them that he supposed
to be very flat. The clergyman had represented this distinction as
very iniquitous, and assured the tradesman, that if he persisted in
fraud, that punishment would sooner or later overtake him, if not in
this, at least in the next world. The man was unwilling to relinquish
a practice so very gainful; and having frequently heard, that the
circulating preachers were much more indulgent to deviations from
morality, he had repaired to the sermon of Mr. O’Rourke, and was very
much satisfied with the short cut that he described; but wishing to be
more particularly informed, applied personally to the learned O’Rourke,
having stated his case and expressed his hopes, that his practice
was not inconsistent with the true faith. The preacher replied, “I
must first ask you some questions; you have made a good round sum, I
suppose, by this kind of traffic?” “I have not been unsuccessful.”
“Have you applied any part of the proceeds to the relief of the
brethren?” “Oh yes, I pay the poor’s rates.” “Be after understanding
me, I mane to us, the believing boys.” “No, I cannot say I have, except
half-a-crown I gave to-day at the collection.” “Oh, that will not do
gra, you will not get off so asy; charity, as I demonstrated to you,
covereth a multitude of sins, therefore your best way is to give me
a small part of your profits, three or four guineas, or five, as a
_nater_ kind of a sound, which I shall employ according to the best
of my judgment.” “Five guineas is a great sum, please your reverence,
and I do not see how it can lessen the sin.” “You do’nt! then I will
shew you, my boy, how it will lessen the punishment. What would you say
if I was to go and inform against you now; you could be very easily
convicted, and I would refer it to the discovery of your parson, so
do not speak against charity to me, you see your reputation is in my
power.” The client comprehended this hint, as well as the character
of the intimator, and not choosing to run a risk, offered a couple of
guineas, which the counsellor vouchsafed to accept, and told him not
to bother himself with any concern about his weights, to read George
Whitfield’s works, Mr. Coalheave’s sermons, the Missionary Reports, the
hymns of the tabernacle, and of the new chapel hard by Sadler’s Wells,
he forgot the name, and the new magazines for supporting the cause of
the brethren, especially their poetry, composed by a brother tradesman
of your own, when work was slack in Spittlefields. This client being
departed, another made his appearance, a poor, thin, sneaking-looking
person. “Well, my friend,” said O’Rourke, “how long have you been
converted, and what are your doubts?” “Oh, I have been _convarted_
this two months, and have no doubts myself, its my wife that I want
to be convarted, as fine a likely woman as is in all Tetbury, if she
had but the effectual calling; but she meaks geam of me and the new
light, but for that matter she used to meak geam of me before I was
convarted; so I thought, Sir, I would make bold to ax if your reverence
would lend me your assistance.” “Oh, that I will.” A female voice was
now heard calling “Jerry, come along and mind your business,” and the
door opening, a tall strapping wench appeared. “Come now, Polly, hear
what this good man can do for your welfare and comfort, and do not be
obstropulous, but obedient.” The preacher having regarded her with
much complacency said, “Mr. Jerry, you may lave us, I can instruct
your spouse without your company.” Jerry withdrew, and the wife was
about to follow him, but he begged her to hear him a few minutes, she
would not find his instructions so disagreeable as she apprehended. A
parley ensued, in which he undertook to explain the doctrines of love,
and particularly the love of the brethren towards spiritual sisters.
But though his doctrine made some impression, he prematurely supposed
it more persuasive than it hitherto was; why should not the lambs of
faith play together? He now made advances which she could not possibly
misapprehend, but she not being hitherto converted to his faith,
received them as they deserved, and threatened to expose him as a wolf
in sheep’s cloathing. O’Rourke so far mollified her as to prevent
the execution of this threat, and she departed. The preacher was a
good deal ruffled at this disappointment, when a young woman entered
with a very down-cast appearance, and having unfolded her doubts and
apprehensions respecting the state of her faith; from her confession,
it appeared, that she was an innocent and exemplary young woman,
the industrious supporter of her widowed and infirm mother, but had
unfortunately been seized with this maddening enthusiasm, and fancying
herself deficient in the requisite grace, had become hypocondriac,
and conceived an attention to her business, exercised from filial
duty, as too worldly, and an encroachment on the time that ought to
be exclusively devoted to spiritual concerns. But natural affection
still operating, notwithstanding theological perversion, she wished
to find from the preacher, if industry, for the relief of a parent,
was compatible with religious duty. O’Rourke expecting from her very
little consultation fee, wanted to dispatch her as soon as possible, to
make room for more profitable and agreeable customers; and being still
enraged, he gave her a most dreadful description of her condition, and
told her, that if she did not give herself entirely up to the new
faith, she would be most assuredly damned. The poor creature, at this,
fell into an hysteric fit; which alarming the house, the confessional
was, for a time, disturbed. Our hero thinking it incumbent on him to
lessen, if possible, the misery which he had witnessed, determined, in
the morning, to call on the next clergyman and request his intervention
in behalf of this worthy but unfortunate girl.

Meanwhile he attempted to detach O’Rourke from this mischievous craft,
and by taking one from these peregrinators, somewhat to diminish the
vice, folly, or phrenzy, which results from ignorant and destructive
teachers. Having ordered supper, he enquired for the preacher, and
learned that he was gone abroad to a love-feast; and taking it for
granted, that the conviviality and other attractions of that kind of
entertainment might detain him for the evening, he deferred to execute
his resolution till the following morning. As he was supping in company
with his ladies, the waiter, who was just returned from the kitchen,
told him, that there was some rumpus about the preacher, but that he
did not know the rights of it, however he would enquire: before he was
gone for that purpose a man entered the room, pale, wildly staring, and
in a furious tone accosted our hero: “You, I understand, belong to the
same gang; you are one of the strolling company, and are in the plot.”
Hamilton begging his wife and sister not to be alarmed, very coolly and
civilly assured him, that he was in no plot to give him any uneasiness;
that there was some mistake. The stranger having surveyed both Hamilton
and the ladies, said, he apprehended he must have been misinformed,
for that from their appearance he could not conceive they would be
associates with such a scoundrel; “though he be your brother, sir, he
is a villain, and an infamous villain,” “There is no brother of mine,
at present, in the kingdom, and I am sure there is none any where to
whom your description is applicable. But I am convinced there is some
misapprehension; what is the person’s name that has offended you, and
what is he?” “His name,” said the other, “is Hamilton, is not that your
name, Sir? I know it is.” “Hamilton certainly is my name; but who is
this pretended brother of mine?” “That methodist preacher, he is your
brother, he himself has acknowledged that his brother, Mr. Hamilton,
was at the inn.” A note now came to our hero, which was conceived in
these words:--

  “MY DARE SIR,

It has pleased Providence to get me into a bad scrape, so that unless
you lend a _help in_ hand to relieve me, I will be rather ill off. I
pass for your brother, so pray do not contradict it, and I promise you,
if I get out of the _clamper_, I shall never do so no more.

  Your’s, to command,

  ROGER O’ROURKE.”

Hamilton now asked the other, “What his ground of complaint was against
the person in question?” “The most heinous in the world. He has robbed
me of the affection and honour of a wife, whom I loved, and even
yet love to madness; who was to me the best, fondest of women, till
seduced first to mad enthusiasm, and afterwards to dishonour by this
sophister, this profligate hypocrite, this blasphemer of religion.”
The ladies now retiring, our hero learned from the stranger, that
he was a gentleman who had a moderate estate near Tewkesbury, that
he had for several years been the husband of a farmer’s daughter
whom he had married for love, and they had lived in the most perfect
happiness. His wife possessing great sensibility, and a romantic
fancy, had, in the course of a visit at Bristol, been carried to one
of the meetings of Moravians, or other fanatic adventures there, she
had imbibed a liking for visionary absurdities, and soon became the
professed devotee of the romances of methodism. Though he saw the
change with regret, yet not apprehending the moral depravity that so
naturally results from a system which enchains the understanding, and
unmuzzles all the wild impetuosity of passion; which debases the
sentiments, and vitiates the taste, as well as depraves the conduct.
“Having seen you, Sir, and conversed with you, I am convinced I must
have done you injustice in supposing this ignorant vulgar fellow your
brother.” Without directly answering this observation or question,
our hero requested him to proceed: he accordingly went on. “When
she returned, this man, Hamilton, was an itinerant preacher through
the country. She was pleased with his devotion. I having the utmost
confidence in her affection and fidelity, though I disapproved of her
new articles of faith, yet never having contradicted her, I indulged
her propensity; alas! thinking that because the doctrines were jargon,
the practice must be harmless, though silly and absurd, but I have
since fatally discovered my error. Last night my Harriet eloped from
my house, and after various searches and enquiries, I learned that
she had left her husband and children to be a companion of this
ruffian. Tracing his course, I discovered that he was at one of the
fanatical meetings,--entered the place, accompanied by a faithful
servant,--found the villain in a small party--presented a pistol to
his head--and ordered him, on pain of immediate death, to produce my
wife. He confessed his crime, and prayed for mercy, and said, that
the lady was to meet him this night at the inn, where his brother,
Hamilton, and his spouse and his sister Charlotte now were. Leaving
him guarded, I hastened hither to charge you, Sir, with being privy to
the injury which I have received, and in which, I am now thoroughly
convinced, that I did you injustice; I am assured from your deportment,
appearance, and conversation, you cannot be the associate of such a
person, even if you have the misfortune to be his brother.”--“Which,
Heaven be praised (replied Hamilton), is not the case; but to the
disgrace of the family to which I belong, the fellow is married to a
near relation of mine.” “But,” said the other hastily, “the unhappy
woman may be now concealed in the house,” and he ran out. A message now
arrived from O’Rourke, requesting to see Mr. Hamilton in the kitchen of
the inn, to which he had been conducted by directions of the landlord,
who, having the office of chief magistrate, did not conceive that
justice would halt one whit the more, though she carried a barrel or
two of his beer with her. Hamilton, after some deliberation, descended
and found the preacher in durance, and guarded by two or three stout
fellows. He had repeatedly demanded his liberty, and indeed there was
no charge against him that could justify legal detention. “Here,” he
said, “is my brother Hamilton, who will bail me; I have not been the
least to blame, a man put a pistol to my head, and I would confess
any thing rather than be shot.” Before Hamilton could make any answer
to his repeated applications for assistance, the representative of
Ophelia entered the apartment, just as her Hamlet was most solemnly
appealing to Heaven for his innocence. With impassioned violence she
exclaimed, “innocence! a more guilty wretch disgraces not Newgate.
Here is a fellow who, pretending to religion, makes that sacred
principle the cloak for his vices; the chief purpose and effects of
his sanctified discourses and behaviour; his seduction, fraud, and
extortion.” O’Rourke endeavoured to quiet her. “My dare Joanna, won’t
you be easy now, consider, we are fellow labourers in the vineyard of
the new faith, you yourself have been my chief teacher; the saints in
all ancient times, both now and formerly, have been persecuted for
the sake of righteousness, and I must have my own share.” Here Joanna
answered in a violent passion:--“But have not you, you villain, after
all your oaths and imprecations, deserted me? have not you engaged to
give me the slip; to give me up intirely, for this your new mistress?
if you are determined to be Punch, Sir, I will be Joan, but I found
out your scheme, Sir, and I discovered them to the lady’s husband. I
found out the letter, sirrah.” “And so it was you, Mistress,” said
O’Rourke, “that exposed me to all this shame and disgrace, but I will
pound you to brick-dust for it;” and here he attempted to seize her,
but the intervention of the company confined his hands; it did not,
however, confine her tongue, and she began a very impassioned, but not
unconnected, detail of the deception, roguery, and profligacy, which
he had practised during his itinerancy. “You shall find this a worse
villainy than at Gloucester.” The servant of Mr. Benson, the gentleman
who had last suffered from O’Rourke, now made his appearance with a
regular warrant, that he had obtained for apprehending this fellow,
under suspicion of being in possession of a gold watch, the property of
Mr. Benson, which had disappeared the evening before his wife left the
house, and which Joanna had assured him it was most probable O’Rourke
must possess, with also an order to examine his box and effects. The
search was executed, and the watch was found in a corner of the trunk,
carefully wrapped up in a sermon of Huntingdon, with a book of hymns on
the one hand, Whitfield’s sermons on the other, and hard by it a book
of poems, equal in wickedness, but not in wit, to the productions of a
celebrated nobleman, who flourished in “King Charles’s merry reign;” a
pair of pistols, a cutlass, and several other articles. Hamilton, on
this discovery, assured of the fellow’s guilt, resolved to abandon him
to his fate, and to write to the clergyman of Etterick to communicate
the catastrophe to his uncle, whom he knew it would grieve more than
surprize, and gradually open it to his unfortunate cousin. With this
resolution he retired to his apartment. The next morning, one of
the first pieces of news he heard was, that Mr. O’Rourke had found
means to escape, and with him a silver tankard; and that Mr. Benson,
not having yet found his wife, was gone to Bristol in quest of the
fugitives.



CHAPTER II.


Our hero and his fellow travellers now continued their journey, and, in
a few hours, arrived at Bristol, and spent the remainder of that day in
surveying the charming prospects which Clifton afforded. The company at
the Hotwells was not numerous, and our hero found no names or people
with whom he had any acquaintance. The following day they proceeded
to Bath, through a most delightful country, with all the pastoral
verdure of beginning summer, and yellow fruitfulness of autumn; with
a picturesque succession and interspersion of hill, dale, vale, and
den, watered by numberless streams which a heavy rain, the preceding
night, had recruited from the drought of the dog-day heats, while it
had also freshened all the other objects. At length they came in sight
of the delightful city of Bath. This charming retreat is situated in
a deep narrow valley, bounded on the north, south, and south-west,
by lofty hills, forming a very pleasant, natural amphitheatre, and
affording the city a double advantage, a barrier against the winds,
and fountains of the purest waters. These hills abound with white
free-stone, of which the houses are built. On the north-west side the
valley widens, divided into rich meadows, watered by the river Avon. At
this season of the year, the town being almost empty of visitants, the
objects of their attention were the town itself, its accommodations,
and ornaments. With much pleasure they found, that with the various
sources of health, and provisions for gaiety and splendour, mingled
numerous institutions for benevolence and compassion; and learned,
that in the midst of amusement, relaxation, and abstraction, from the
cares of business, there was a tear for pity, and a liberal hand for
melting charity. With English generosity, they found, that there was
a tincture of the unsuspicious openings of English credulity, and
that Bath was a great receptacle for gamblers, quack doctors, legacy
hunters, jugglers, fortune tellers, methodist preachers, and other
adventurers in swindling, who wish to obtain the property of their
neighbours, without giving any value in return. These, however, so far
from being dishonourable to Bath, are merely symtomatic of its great
and numerous delights, which attract the opulent and liberal from all
parts of the kingdom, and these bloodsuckers naturally follow; and,
indeed, the absence from serious concerns, which chiefly distinguishes
Bath, is peculiarly conducive to the custom of either the gaming-house
or the conventicle, as gallantry reigns there as well as in other
places. These pastimes, particularly the itinerant assemblages, are
extremely conducive to gallantry. Indeed, if Ovid, when he wrote his
“Treatise on the Art of Love,” had been acquainted with Methodism,
instead of directing young bucks, that might be in quest of a mistress,
to the Circus and Theatre, he would have sent them to the Tabernacle;
the former, as he acknowledges, might fail even in the warm latitudes
of Italy, but the latter is a sure repository, in the most northern
parts of Britain[1]. But to return from this digression, our hero,
among other places, conducted his ladies to the south parade, whence
they had so delightful a prospect. They were particularly struck
with Prior Park, the aspect of which so greatly resembled Fielding’s
description of Mr. Allworthy’s seat. As they walked about in this
charming promenade, they felt their spirits enlivened by the number
and variety of gay and agreeable objects. Though Bath was, at this
time, empty in comparison to its most flourishing seasons, yet was it
not without some variety of characters, with some of which our hero
luckily found the means of becoming acquainted. As they were leaving
the South Parade, a gentleman accosted Hamilton, whom he recognized
to be a resident at Bath; that, in an occasional visit to London, he
had met, in different parties, both fashionable and literary. This was
a Mr. Manchester, who, a man of liberal education and good talents,
had been intended for the bar, but having unexpectedly succeeded to
a considerable estate, had not practised; and becoming expensive
and dissipated, had wasted half his fortune. Recovering, however,
from his infatuation, before he was entirely undone, he had retired
from the metropolis to Bath, where he could live more cheaply, and
enjoy the epitome of London pleasures. One of his chief amusements
was the observation of characters, a pastime for which, naturally
sagacious, thoroughly acquainted with the world, and having no serious
employment, he was admirably calculated; and being somewhat soured
by the consequences of his youthful follies, saw and exhibited the
foibles of others with sarcastic acrimony. After some conversation,
this gentleman, learning that Hamilton and his ladies intended to
visit the rooms, offered to accompany them, and which was very gladly
received. Till the established hour, he passed the intermediate time at
the White Hart, and amused them with anecdotes numerous and satirical.
At seven they crossed over to the Pump Room; and being introduced to
the master of the ceremonies by Mr. Manchester, were very graciously
received; and as none of them chose to dance, they listened, with very
little interruption, to the remarks of their companion. “Observe,” he
said, “that slender soft looking young man, that is bowing with such
obsequiousness to a fat portly dowager, as he sneaks along the side of
the room; what would you suppose him to be?” “Some person dependant
on those that he passes.” “The supposition is natural, but not just;
that is Mr. Commode, who received the chief part of his tuition in
Tavistock-street, as a man-milliner, where he learned to bow with a
simpering obsequiousness to the customers of the shop, until coming to
a good fortune of his uncle, a rich soap-boiler, at Bristol, he was
made a Captain of Militia. Still he retains the manners and habits of
his former craft, and gives his directions to the orderly serjeant
in the same tone of voice as he used to say, ‘pray, Miss, would you
have your hat done with an orange or lilac ribbon, them lilacs are
now very much worn; you would have the handkerchief very small and
thin.’” A very loud horse-laugh calling their attention, Mr. Manchester
laughing also, though with much less vociferation; “Oh, I know that
voice well, its owner is Blunderbuss the attorney, that large gigantic
fellow, with the broad shoulders and thick calves, in the crimson
coloured coat (and as the person in question turned about, Manchester
proceeded), with a broad and thick head, the red plush waistcoat, and
the nankeen breeches; that worthy litigant is also out of his element,
he is a native of Bristol, and his father, being clerk to a justice
of the peace, undertook to breed Bob to the law. Bob, however, having
connections of his own, preferred another course; his chief intimate,
a boatswain of a man of war, was extremely struck with his musical
talents, and prevailed on him to accompany him to his ship; there
he was soon found qualified for the place of a mate, and at length,
his friend being promoted to a larger ship, he himself obtained the
appointment of boatswain, which he held till some years after the end
of the war: he was remarkable for domineering wherever he durst, and
for truckling to all his superior officers. Returning home he resumed
his legal practice, and became the attorney of the village of Hambrook,
there being no other lawyer in the place, he did pretty well in common
matters; but _being excessively stupid, could not be trusted out of the
dog-trot way_.” “He has, I suppose,” said our hero, “the chicanery of a
petty-fogger.” “Not much of that,” said the other, “he has good will,
but not head for it: he makes sad blunders; if he is employed to hunt
after evidence, instead of investigating the truth by dexterity and
insinuation, and winding it out from unwilling witnesses, he talks to
them as if he were at ‘a hey for the boatswain’s whistle’.” “With all
his thickness, I suppose,” said our hero, “from his jolly corporation
and clothes, he has got into the secret of making long bills.” “Oh,
that he has, he charges as highly as the first attorney in Bristol.”
“That is very unfair,” said one of the ladies, “for a man, without
ability and skill, to rate his services as highly as a master of his
profession.” “Not intentionally unfair in him, Madam,” said Manchester,
“Blunderbuss is a blockhead, but Blunderbuss does not know himself to
be a blockhead.” “How does such a fellow get business.” “He is the only
lawyer in the place, courts the ‘squire and all his retinue, down to
his huntsman or whipper-in; regales them with the ‘boatswain hoarsely
bawling;’ and, as far as noise goes, is a very pleasing companion. He
too, by some means, has succeeded to a fortune, and sets up now, as you
see, for a beau.”

“Do you know that clergyman,” said Hamilton, “that is walking between
two ladies on the opposite side of the room.” “Very well, he is one
of our most popular preachers, a very different practitioner in his
profession from Blunderbuss, and perfectly skilled in hitting the
prevailing taste. The professional excellencies of our great theatrical
performers are so extremely impressive, that bold adventurers in
divinity, seeing the efficacy of tone and jesture in this stage,
_have undertaken to dramatize the pulpit_; and this is one of the
most successful actors. He has a fine voice, both as to tone and
cadence, and thereby pleases such fashionables hearers as judge of
sermons upon the principle of the Opera. He has graceful attitudes,
and therefore is pleasing to church going connoiseurs in dancing:
he has fine action, the see-saw of hands, with his right the touch
of the heart, at once displaying his feeling and his diamond ring:
he cries at the proper place, that is, where a gap in the sense
requires such a suppliment. These movements are extremely delightful
to such theatrical connoisseurs as regard, in the pulpit, stage-trick
more than the real exhibition of nature, truth, and sense. He is
besides famed for elocution, and delivers common place remark with
such a degree of impressiveness, as to pass, with the bulk of his
hearers, for the profoundest wisdom and most energetic eloquence.
He thereby delights the many votaries of spouting and frequenters
of debating societies. Such a delicacy is so very efficacious as,
in a great degree, to supersede the necessity of genius, learning,
and eloquence; even elegant composition is not requisite: indeed,
how can one compose without materials: all that is requisite in the
language, is the musical melody of the several periods, without any
disposition, or connection, or adjustment of parts to the whole. There
are other ingredients in his discourses that are extremely suitable
to the prevailing taste, the whine of sentiment, and the vagaries of
description, which are peculiarly pleasing to the novel-reading class
of church-goers. You have the tender ties of affection, delicious
endearments, sweet reciprocations of love, all as animated as in the
tales of Derwent Priory, Sir Harry Clarendon, or any other effusion
of the Gallimatia press. Besides his hair, so skilfully matted and
baked, his white cambrick handkerchief, and his opera-glass, announcing
a beau, naturally attract the regard of the belles. Your popular
preachers are moreover men of stature, and the same figures that are in
request in the pulpit, are chiefly sought to stand behind a carriage,
and would also have been choice acquisitions to Serjeant Kite; and
he that is born to be six feet high, is born to be a great man. With
so many qualifications, you may depend on it, Mr. Gillyflower, the
clerical harlequin before us, would outstrip, in favour, a Horseley,
a Watson, a Blair.” “I can hardly think that,” said our hero. “Cannot
you,” replied Manchester: “pray whether is Belvidera and Lady Randolph,
or Mother Shipton and General Jackoo, most highly prized?”

A groupe now attracted their eyes, consisting of several pairs;
first, there was a tall, raw boned, elderly officer, with a lady,
his co-temporary in years, but very gayly and youthfully dressed.
Miss, for so it seems she was, primmed and simpered with a capacious
mouth, while Master sighed and ogled, from eyes whose regard was
oblique, the one looking to the right, while the other turned in
towards the nose; and the lady was heard to whisper, “There is not a
decent-looking person in the room out of our own party; _what frightful
mawkins the women are_!” Next came a smart girl about twenty, squired
by a gentleman whom she called captain; thirdly, a young lady about
the same age, with a stalking form of godliness by her side, while a
youth brought up the rear, whose countenance denoted a great mixture
of archness and simplicity. “This,” said Manchester, “is the family
of the Clodpoles, that have come to have a peep at Bath, and to get
acquainted with the grandees. Aunt Deborah, who takes the lead, is
entrusted with the care of the young folks, and a precious governante
she is, and a precious set of acquaintances has she formed. Deborah has
been ogling at the other sex until her eyes are almost dim with the
exercise. For five-and-forty years that she has continued in a state
of celibacy, thirty of the time has she been trying to get out of it.
The old gentleman whom she now assails having been a merchant, and
not succeeding so well while he was whole, found himself much better
off, when, after due preparation, he broke. Finding the experiment
answer very well once, he thought it would not be amiss to try it
twice, when it did still better; to be sure he could not obtain his
certificate, but that signified little, he could now live without
trade. The young one is his nephew, who also began by being a merchant;
his uncle advanced him the money, with which he established a good
credit in business, that, as soon as he had atchieved, he broke also,
and with the proceeds is come to live at Bath, to try what he can do
in the matrimonial way. Miss Jenny Clodpole is greatly taken with
Captain Bilkum; for, in imitation of the worthy Gibbet, he assumes
that as a “good travelling name,” while Mr. Nicholas, the Moravian
preacher, takes Miss Grizzle in hand; and of his instructions no doubt,
in due time, the effects will be manifest. Nicholas is also a nephew
of the old gentleman’s, and was extremely serviceable to his cousin
the Captain, by his friendly testimony before the Commissioners at
Guildhall.” “I think I remember something of that,” said Hamilton;
“was he not pillored?” “Oh yes; and the following Sunday preached at
Mr. Coalheave’s Tabernacle, on the text, ‘Whom the Lord loveth he
chasteneth.’ The worthy senior, to promote the views of the two no
less worthy youths, attends to Miss Deborah, who conceives him smitten
with her own charms. The Captain is a buck, and swears bloodily, and
ridicules Nicholas; while the preacher seriously and meekly reproves
the unchristian demeanour of the Captain, and fervently prays for his
conversion. Of an evening they often meet at the house of a hospitable
lady (here Manchester whispered our hero). The gambler, and his friend
the saint, are both extremely attentive to the young ‘squire as well
as his sisters; the former gives him a lesson at unlimited loo, the
latter on subscriptions for the good of the brethren. Next advanced
a party consisting of four: first, a gentleman in canonicals, with
the priggish primness of a dissenter, instead of the frank openness
of a church divine. With him walked an old lady, arrayed in very
tawdry finery; simpering and smiling, and endeavouring to assume the
air and manner of a boarding-school miss; though really bearing more
the appearance of having been a boarder in a very large house at the
bottom of Moor-fields. Then followed a middle-aged man, with a very
capacious mouth, and great grey goggling eyes, staring and gaping, and
having every mark of what the Scotch would call a _gilliegaapus_[2].
The partner of this accomplished person was a broad, fat, frouzy
woman; bearing a rubicund face, plentifully studded with carbuncles,
whose chin descended in dewlaps, like those of a cow, which nearly
approached another part of her person; that also, in shape, position,
and dependency, resembled the appurtenances of the same animal. The
first remark of the reverend gentleman, was a conjecture concerning the
state of the thermometer at Bath, while his lady made some enquiries
concerning the circulating library. The fat person meanwhile was
listening with admiration to the wisdom of the preacher; and regarding,
with no less admiration, the figure and face of her elegant spouse,
whose eyes were turned to some young ladies that appeared to have come
from Queen-Anne-street East. Mr. Manchester fortunately happened to
know this party, and after slightly bowing to them, gave the following
account to our travellers. This is the Reverend Mr. Nicknack, one of
the dissenting tribe of spiritual teachers, remarkable for exactness in
little things; he keeps a diary, in which is recorded every occurrence
of his life. By referring to his valuable manuscript, he can inform
you who called upon him, and upon whom he called, every hour of the
day; and every day in the year 1740, and downwards: how he relished his
breakfast; whether his dinner was hot or cold, over or under roasted
or boiled, during the same period. He commenced his observations on
the thermometer in the hard frost with which that year began, and
knows its state and changes to the present moment. No less careful
has he been in recording his state of health and person. I once had
a sight of his diary, and remember the following passage: ‘Sunday,
April 20th, 1746, (whispering our hero,) 9 o’clock, breakfast half
past nine--excellent advice of Locke--costive this morning--twelve,
delivered my first sermon--difficult trial, strain hard, and make it
out--touch upon the victory of Culloden--greatly admired by my Lady
Dunderhead and Mrs. Sarah Sapscull--Robertson of Gladsmuir present. I
am told censures my sermon--no judge--old ladies the best judges of
composition, after all. It is said Robertson is about a history--dare
say it will be sad stuff.’ Mr. Nicknack came to London, and made a very
decent livelihood in the preaching line. Among his flock, he is a great
advocate for _wills_; and, in visiting the substantial sick tradesmen,
never fails to remind them of their testament. Out of gratitude, they
do not forget their counsellor; he, with modest humility, accepts the
bequests; and, as he has a sharp eye after fees, Nicknack has picked
up a good deal of money. His spouse, both in her state of maidenhood,
and long after, even to the time of her marriage, had been known by the
name of Margery Macgregor, and was nearly related to a worthy dowager
of that name; long eminent for the virtue of hospitality, which she
exercised in an elegant and airy situation at the top of Henderson’s
stairs. Dame, or, to use the Scottish phrase, Lucky Macgregor, was
remarkably pious, and her visitors never failed to find her reading
the bible. While she recommended the care of her youthful guests to
elect ladies, she herself persevered, like the Bereans of old, in
searching the Scriptures. The exact relation between Lucky Macgregor
and Miss Margery, I really do not know; but I think it must have been
near, as both in person and mind they strictly resembled each other.
Miss Margery was no less holy than the dowager, nevertheless she was
a gay, sprightly lass, with the true Secederian articles of faith and
practice. If she was long unmarried, it was not for want of good will;
often did she make the attempt, and often did she fail; but at last she
succeeded. Having for many years set her cap at man after man, she, in
her forty-seventh spring, became the spouse of Mr. Nicknack. From that
time she has taken to religion in its Calvinistic forms, doctrines, and
adjuncts; is a zealous votary of free grace; and, both in theory and
practice, testifies her conviction of the efficacy of faith, without
the trouble of works. Besides studying the gospel, her favourite
pastime is reading novels[3]. These occupations, with gossipping and
gadding, defamation, and what she calls dress, pretty well employ her
time. No doubt, her happy state may partly arise from religion; not
but that a cordial, known by the name of _gin_, contributes its aid.
Mrs. Nicknack is no less dexterous than her husband in fishing out
presents. She is a very zealous friend, and will stick at no assertion,
true or untrue, in recommending the brethren; and sometimes, indeed,
she has got into scrapes, by recommending that stupid dog behind: he
is a near relation of hers, a fellow who undertakes to print, without
being able to read. The old lady herself is a most furious democrat,
_abuses the king_, and one of the ablest ministers that the world
ever beheld, the bishops, and all constituted authorities. On that
score, she might deserve to be apprehended, were the ravings of an old
woman of any consequence to the state. She has an innocent delight in
demolishing reputations, and setting people by the ears: _she says she
is a Christian_.” “If she be,” said our hero, “her Christianity is not
the Christianity of the Scriptures; at least, I do not recollect any
passages of sacred writ that inculcate greed, gossipping, disloyalty,
lying, and slandering, which appear to be the virtues which adorn
this devotee of spiritual and _spirituous_ comforts. But who is the
relation behind her?” “her nephew, Malcolm Macandrew, a fellow who,
with a very small portion of sense and knowledge, contrived to get
a very great portion of notoriety. He was a poor orphan, bred up in
an hospital at Edinburgh, taken out of charity to be apprentice to a
printer, to whom his father had been servant: in return for this kind
patronage, as soon as he was eighteen, he debauched his master’s wife,
and was said to have joined her in embezzling effects. He afterwards
seduced the sister of one customer, and the daughter of another; and,
finding his character notorious in the Scottish capital, he found
it necessary to decamp: but, that he might leave none of the things
undone which ought to have been done, he married two wives within
a week of his departure; set off, and left the spouses to contest
precedency, and shift for themselves. One of them dying for want, he
escaped a prosecution for bigamy. He came to England, for reasons
best known to him. At length, his other wife being dead, he married
a fat widow, that kept an ale-house, where he had run a score, which
he could not otherwise discharge. With this lovely partner, he got
several hundred pounds, which afforded him for some time the means
of keeping a couple of mistresses; and, after his money was gone, he
picked up a little from his holy aunt; in return for his assiduity in
fetching and carrying scandal for that pious cousin of Lucky Macgregor,
collecting for her use spiritual hymns and amorous histories, and
ministering to her when she happens to be overtaken with liquor.
This worthy relation is thoroughly acquainted with his history and
conversation; but, in the piety of her friendship, _bears frequent
testimony_ that he is possessed of ability, honour, integrity, and
every other meritorious qualification. The fellow was beginning to pick
up business in London from people that knew nothing of his character,
or attended to the attestations of that good Christian Mrs. Nicknack;
but, by a combination of rascality and ingratitude, guided by ignorance
and folly, he provoked an able and willing satirist, who will not
spare him; so that Malcolm Macandrew will come to be as notorious in
London as he was in the north, when obliged to leave Edinburgh for his
profligacy.”

Manchester having for some time amused them with these and other
anecdotes of persons whom he happened to recognize, they departed
for the evening. Our travellers continued several days at Bath;
and, after seeing every thing that was remarkable, set off towards
London. Having breakfasted at Chipenham, as they were proceeding on to
Marlborough, they, at Cherril Downs, alighted to take a view of the
white horse, which they had seen at so great a distance. After viewing
with admiration its shape and proportions, as they were crossing to a
different part of the eminence, which appeared to promise an extensive
and charming prospect, they found a woman, decently dressed, but
with evident marks of deep dejection, sitting in an hollow. A pale
and disconsolate countenance did not prevent her from exhibiting the
mien and expression of a gentlewoman. Our hero accosted her with a
tone and expressions of soothing compassion, enquired whether he could
be of any service to a lady, who evidently laboured under some great
distress. “Oh, sir,” she said, “it is not in your power to relieve my
afflictions.” She said no more, but burst into tears, which terminated
in a fit. The ladies, by smelling bottles, endeavoured to restore her
perception and consciousness, and at length succeeded. Moved by their
kindness and tenderness, she, in a low voice, expressed her gratitude:
“Charming ladies,” she said, “you are bestowing your goodness on a
wretch unworthy to live! leave me to my fate; I wish by death to
terminate an existence, miserable from the most irremediable cause,
a wounded conscience.” “Whatever,” said our hero, “madam, may be the
source of your sufferings, I trust they admit of alleviation, which my
wife and my sister will join me in administering to the utmost of our
power. Let us conduct you to Marlborough, and perhaps there you may
favour us with so much confidence and information, as may enable us to
devise some mode of effectual relief.” The lady was long inflexible;
but at length yielded to their generous urgency. Our hero handed her
into the chaise, which he ordered to drive gently, while he walked
by its side. Having arrived at Marlborough, and dined, the soothing
attention of the travellers wrought so much upon the stranger, that
she could no longer refuse their intreaties to give them such outlines
of her story as she could bear to recite. “From your appearance
and goodness, I am confident that I may rely upon your honour that,
whatever you may discover, you will not divulge.” After this preface,
she proceeded as will be found in the following chapter.



CHAPTER III.


Fifteen years ago I was married to a very amiable and worthy man,
and highly esteemed and respected. Heaven can witness I long loved
him dearly, and still regard him as much as ever! During the first
ten years of our union, although we spent the winter in town, and
mingled with people of our own rank, our pleasures were principally
domestic; our parties were select and elegant, and not indiscriminate
and numerous. We occasionally attended at operas, routs, and other
fashionable amusements; but did not place our chief enjoyment, in such
scenes of glare, noise, and insipidity; for insipid I then thought
them. Would to Heaven my sentiments had always continued the same!
About six years ago, in an evil day, I became acquainted with the
Countess of Cheatwell. Her ladyship’s manners are very insinuating
towards those whom she wishes to win. Our acquaintance commenced at
Buxton, where, she declared, the retirement of the place was much
more agreeable to her than the gaieties of Brighton, or even Bath
itself; and that though she was obliged, on account of some friends
and connections, to be frequently in great and numerous parties, for
her own part, her chief delight was selections of friends, sociable
and rational conversation. She had heard, she said, of our wise mode
of enjoying society, and was eager to be able, by detaching herself
from many of her present acquaintances, to imitate so laudable an
example: in short, she won my friendship and confidence. The following
winter we often visited. She confessed to me, it was impossible at
once to leave off her former acquaintances; and appealed to me if it
would not be better to effect her intended change gradually, and so
ultimately please herself without disgusting those, to gratify whom
she had sometimes engaged in amusements, of which SHE HERSELF TOTALLY
DISAPPROVED. Her plan I thought perfectly reasonable; but warned her
against contracting a fondness for such pursuits. ‘Believe me,’ said
the countess, ‘there is no danger of that: the more I see of gaming
and its consequences, the more do I hold it in detestation, and the
more firmly am I resolved to _keep out_ of its destructive vortex.
Indeed, I know of no more effectual means of producing an abhorrence
of that vice, _than by frequenting scenes in which it is practised_.
On a weak mind, to be sure, they may have a contrary tendency; but,
on a vigorous understanding, with a firm, self-possessing heart,
their effects are most certainly beneficial. You yourself, my dear,
whose mind surpasses in strength that of most ladies, by occasionally
witnessing such fashionable amusements, (as they are called, very
improperly, I admit,) would be, if possible, more riveted in your
aversion.’ In the course of our intimacy, I was prevailed on to be
present at some of her ladyship’s routs; and, though she and I in
private concurred in expressing our reprobation of gaming, I did not
find my aversion by any means increase, and was indeed so delighted
with her _ladyship’s own particular friends_, whose manners were
extremely engaging; and with the exquisite music, _and other parts
of her entertainments, in which nothing was neglected to gratify the
taste, and enchant the fancy_, that I insensibly became passionately
fond of such parties. I even began to _try my town fortune_ at
amusements, which appeared to me so much to engage the earned attention
of my new acquaintances. Lady Cheatwell, in very friendly terms,
advised me to refrain; but, when she found me determined to persevere,
said, she would commit my tuition to _her own particular friends,
who would take care to guard me against imposition_, which, as she
observed, is too frequently employed on such occasions. Indeed, they
taught me so well, that I was very successful; and had in a short time,
at my command, a much greater sum than ever I had in my possession
from my husband. Although our fortune was considerable, yet he was
economical; a disposition I acquiesced in as prudent, as we had several
children, all of whom were daughters; and a great part of the estate,
with the title, would go to the heir-male. Having now plenty of money,
I indulged in various expences, which I should not have before thought
of. I proposed to my husband to imitate some others of our own rank, by
giving splendid routs, balls, and masquerades: and, trusting to my _own
stores_, I assured him that the expence would not be heavy. My husband,
who was very much under my influence, agreed, though I believe not
altogether consistently with his own judgment and wish. At this rate
we went on during the winter. I was often at Lady Cheatwell’s _petits
soupers_, where I began to think the company really enchanting. So
easy, good humoured, agreeable, and engaging were the ladies; so soft,
so _insinuating_, so winning were the gentlemen; that I thought I was
in a much more delightful society than I had ever witnessed. I was
not, however, without some crosses; the expences of our entertainments,
when the bills came in, turned out to be infinitely greater than we
had anticipated; my own good fortune began to change: towards the end
of the season, I found that I was, on the whole, a loser to the amount
of fifteen hundred pounds; so that I was by no means in a condition
to assist, as I once had proposed, in defraying _the extraordinaries_
of our winter campaign. At this time, a note from a lady of fashion
reminded me of a debt incurred at hazard for twelve hundred pounds,
which she requested I should have the goodness to pay immediately, as
she was herself much distressed for one of the same kind. I considered
my own winnings in reversion as a certain resource for my _debts of
honour_; and luckily, as I thought, that evening there was to be an
assembly at Lady Cheatwell’s, where the play would be deep. Thither I
accordingly went at the appointed hour; and soon going to pharo, was
for some time successful with a young nobleman, an intimate friend of
Lady Cheatwell, of all our parties, and whom I greatly admired for the
elegance of his manners, and gracefulness of his figure. Encouraged by
my success, I proposed very high stakes; but, after many vicissitudes,
found myself three thousand pounds in debt; and went home in deep
despair. The next morning, I had a visit from my antagonist; who, from
the distress in which he saw me, conceiving the real state of the
case, begged me not to be uneasy on his account, and, taking out his
pocket-book, presented me with my own note to him cancelled, and also
with a receipt from the fair applicant of the preceding day. He had,
it seems, heard of the circumstance, and settled the account in half an
hour after. I confess I was charmed with this youth’s behaviour, and
I am afraid not the less from the uncommon fineness of his face and
person, and evident attachment to myself. My opinions had become less
austere, from my intimacy with Lady Cheatwell and her coterie. They
persuaded me, that a married lady might have a _sentimental affection_
for another man, without interfering with her duty to her husband; and
spoke much in favour of _Platonic love_. Before we went out of town,
I became fonder and fonder of this generous man; and not the less so,
as I found my husband much out of humour on account of the expences
we had incurred. I felt a reluctance at the thoughts of going to the
country, the greater as I found my husband had conceived a very bad
opinion of my sentimental friend, so that it would be impossible
for him to visit me at our country seat, as we had projected. Two
evenings before we were to leave town, I was invited to sup with Mrs.
Cogdie and her charming daughter Biddy, Miss’s sentimental friend,
_a married gentleman_ I had often seen, Lady Cheatwell, my admirer,
O’Blackleg, and one or two more of the peculiar intimates of our set.
A more exquisite and enchanting party, I thought, I had never been
in! The conversation was all interest, all sentiment, all love. My
Lady Cheatwell delivered her opinion on marriage and its duties, in a
way I once should have disapproved; but was then quite fascinated. By
some means or other, small and select as our party was, it was thought
expedient to divide it into smaller sets. Pairs filed off together (as
I since have known it to be _the custom_ of that mansion); I was left
alone with my charming youth; and--(_she sobbed out_)--we ceased to be
Platonists! My gallant contrived to pass a good part of the summer in
disguise, near our country-seat; and I became daily fonder and fonder
of him. We frequently indulged in gaming, and I was much oftener a
loser than a winner. One day, after he had spent about a fortnight
at Bath, he returned with a melancholy countenance. I was extremely
alarmed, and endeavoured to discover the cause. He long refused to
inform me; but at length acknowledged he had been stripped of all his
money, and contracted a very large debt, which he had no means of
paying, as he entirely depended on his father, who would be very much
incensed were he to hear of his folly, as he necessarily must, from
his inability to discharge the debt himself. I myself owed my lover
more than four thousand pounds; for which he had taken, as he said,
merely as a matter of form, my notes at different times. I prayed him
to endeavour to raise money on them; and that, by the time they were
payable, I should be in town, and have an opportunity of disposing of
my jewels, and getting Dovey’s paste; as usual with my Lady Cheatwell’s
friends, and other ladies of fashion, when they have great debts to
pay, for either losses at play, the emergencies of their gallants, or
any other extravagance. After much reluctance, he consented; and we
abandoned ourselves to our passion as before; but managed with such
secrecy, that I was totally unsuspected. In a few weeks, my lover
told me he was obliged to be absent for a month on a family party,
at his father’s, in a county two hundred miles from our mansion. The
month appeared an age to me; but, when it was finished, he did not
return: a week, and another passed away; still I saw or heard nothing
of him. It was now the middle of November, when a servant announced
a gentleman from Lady Cheatwell, who wanted to see me. I desired him
to be shewn into my dressing-room; and I found the gentleman was Mr.
Patrick O’Blackleg. He had, he said, made use of Lady Cheatwell’s name,
to obtain admittance on a business which he explained in a few words.
He had procured money to my lover on my notes, and was engaged for
their punctual payment; and, from what my lover had said, trusted to
the disposal of my jewels for cash, for that purpose. He gave me also
to understand, to my great surprise, mortification, and affliction,
that my gallant had eloped with another married lady, and was gone to
the Continent. To add to my shame and affliction, I could perceive
that O’Blackleg thoroughly knew the footing on which the nobleman and
I had been. On coming to town for the winter, O’Blackleg paid me very
close attention, and found means to raise money upon my jewels; and,
in short, so ingratiated himself in my favour, that he succeeded as my
lover. I was now a confidential member of the gaming society at Lady
Cheatwell’s and her friends; and could tell you of many instances both
of _married and unmarried women, who have been seduced into profligacy,
from the morals of the gaming circles, and the difficulties from gaming
losses_; but I do not propose to mitigate my own unworthiness by
pleading the example of others.

Vain is the idea of long persistence in vice without discovery. The
change of female conduct from rectitude to profligacy generally affects
the outward manners; and I apprehend mine must have undergone an
alteration. Besides, the company that I now kept were not favourable
to fame. My reputation suffered; and the reports of my infidelity
at length reached the ears of my husband. In the grief of so ill
requited love, he wrote me a letter, containing no reproaches, but
more rending to the heart than the most opprobrious charges. He simply
desired me to review his conduct in every circumstance and relation
towards me and our children, and to ask myself whether he had ever
given me reason to inflict so grievous an injury on my husband and
my daughters. He was, however, convinced, that my deviation had been
caused by the depraving company into which I had lately fallen, and
that I was still retrievable: though he could not promise immediately
to live in the same house with me, yet he wished, for my own sake and
our offspring, and my noble-minded brother, that my reputation might
still be preserved; he would retire for some years to the Continent;
I should occupy the country-house, and totally break off acquaintance
with those fashionable connexions, which had effected such an evil to
him and to myself. There he hoped my own deportment would be such as
would justify and invite his speedy return. A reproof so mild, but yet
so poignant; forgiveness so generous and so humiliating, aggravated my
shame, compunction, and remorse. For several hours these most painful
sentiments were so predominant, as to overpower every other, and to
prevent me from forming any resolution concerning the acceptance of
the proffered pardon: But, re-reading the letter, I perceived, what
had at the first perusal escaped my observation, that my husband
presumed my guilt not to be made public. This supposition I well knew
was unfortunately without grounds; my profligate paramour had blazoned
my disgrace. To have carried conscious, though concealed guilt into
a house where innocent virtue had always reigned, would have been
extremely grating; but to carry public infamy into the house of so
honourable a master--here she sobbed, and for some time was unable to
proceed; but at length recovering, and assuming a firmer tone, no, I
was not so much lost to ingenuous feeling as that. Revolving on the
miserable condition into which I was reduced by my own conduct, I
came to a determination to secrete myself for ever from my brother,
children, and husband, all of whom I still most fervently love. My few
remaining jewels I sent sealed to my husband’s banker; money I have
none, but raised a hundred pounds by the disposal of some less valuable
effects. I intended to retire to the west of England, in quest of an
old servant of my mother’s, whom I knew to be honest and faithful, and
to conceal myself with her until death should relieve my sufferings,
which I hoped, from my declining health, might speedily be the case. To
conceal my rout I took a circuitous course, and sometimes walked from a
post-town two or three miles, and sat down to await the arrival of some
periodical or chance vehicle. The person whom I sought is the wife of a
small farmer, near Cherril. Having walked this morning from Chipenham,
I was overtaken by a return-chaise, which carried me to the Downs;
leaving the carriage I struck to the right in quest of the hamlet,
which I knew to be within two miles of the White Horse. As I pursued
my solitary course a fellow started up from an hollow, who with a very
short preface began to make proposals, that lost as I was I received
with the indignation they deserved. As he became urgent I swooned away.
When I returned to life I found the ruffian waiting my recovery, as
he avowed his determination to perpetrate his purpose; looking about
he suddenly ran off. Perceiving a chaise at some distance I accounted
for his departure. I now found out that my pockets were rifled, and
that I had not a single shilling left in the world. My strength quite
exhausted, I was totally unequal to the short distance that I had to
surmount; and now that my little store was plundered, I was reluctant
to seek the intended asylum: to burden the scanty subsistence of hard
earning industry, with the maintenance of inefficient idleness. I
felt myself an outcast from society. My desolate situation, a wounded
conscience, readily brought me home to myself. I wished to terminate my
sufferings by death. Such were the feelings of a guilty mind in extreme
misery, when your generous intervention enabled me to exercise cooler
reflection.

Our travellers were much affected by the lady’s narrative; Hamilton
used his eloquence to console her, and to persuade her that the
circumstances which she mentioned, and the contrition which she
displayed, evinced such a mind as when restored to its place in
society, would first compensate, and finally obliterate the unhappy
effects of artful and pernicious companions, in suspending rectitude of
principle, and perverting justness and vigour of understanding. “I am
convinced,” he said, “that still your husband, whose character your
account and his letter so clearly elucidate, will be deeply grieved
at your disappearance, and would with joyful delight adhere to his
proposal. Will you, madam, suffer me to apply to any of your friends
who might be entrusted with the important charge of mediating between
you and your brother, and husband?” “Ah, no, sir, I wish to be for ever
hidden from their eyes, I could not bear to see their faces turned on
me with unmerited kindness, they are both men of the highest merit;
my husband engaged in the exercise of private and domestic virtues,
has it is true not signalized himself in public efforts; my brother,
hardly five-and-twenty, is already the admiration of the senate. Alas!
poor Edward, with the highest accomplishments of person and mind, he
was unhappy before his sister’s disgrace could reach his ears. Hamden
lamented the disappointment of virtuous love; here his susceptible
heart must feel rage and indignation for the vice and degeneracy of his
sister.” At the name of Hamden, Maria and her husband were aroused;
and the latter, with some impatience waiting till the conclusion of
the sentence, eagerly asked, are you, madam, the sister of Sir Edward
Hamden, my most intimate and admired friend? “Good Heavens!” replied
the lady, “are you that Mr. Hamilton that saved my brother’s life;
and is this the lady that was Miss Mortimer? But I need not ask. The
description and circumstances render the question quite superfluous.”
Hamilton hastily answering it was as she supposed, and proceeded to
inform her, that he had now a clue to guide him in promoting her
comfort and peace of mind. “Hamden,” said he, “has a liberality of
soul equal to the extent of his understanding, and in estimating
every act, or series of acts, makes allowance for the circumstance
and situations.” “But what liberality or candour,” replied she, “can
palliate such infidelity as mine, against such a husband.” Here she
again fell into a paroxysm of passion, and our hero resolved to forbear
the renewal of the subject until she was more composed. Meanwhile they
agreed to pass the evening in their present quarters, and to view
this ancient and venerable town[4], that gave its title to one of the
greatest heroes that ever graced the annals of England. The lady not
chusing to accompany them, was prevailed on to try the effects of
repose, in order to tranquillize her agitated spirits. Having viewed
the town and environs, they returned to their place of sojourning for
the night. Our hero communicated to his wife and sister a project he
had formed of applying to his friend Sir Edward Hamden, and explaining
the circumstances of his sister Mrs. Raymond’s case and sentiments;
convinced that he would be able to effect an impression in her favour.
Meanwhile he intended to offer her a secret asylum in or near London,
and requested the ladies to join in endeavouring to persuade her to
accompany them to London, without particularizing the scheme in her
favour which he had in agitation. Mrs. Raymond long resisted their
application, and declared her resolution never to receive from her
husband or brother, kindness, every title to which she said she had
entirely forfeited. Without professing to confute her reasoning, or
oppose her determination, they endeavoured to reconcile her in some
degree to herself. In the course of their conversation they found that
she had a strong and lively sense of religion, although its practical
operation had in her late conduct been so fatally suspended. To this
principle they addressed themselves, and powerfully inculcated the
meritoriousness and efficacy of the penitence which she so clearly
evinced, that it would certainly conciliate every candid and christian
reviewer. They appealed to her self-estimation, and tried to impress
on her the merit that attached to the energetic effort of restored
virtue, and without diminishing that shame which follows unhackneyed
vice, or softening the calls of conscience, they persuaded her that
future performance of her religious and moral duties would heal the
wounded spirit, and regain the esteem and approbation of the worthy.
Grateful for their goodness, rather than convinced by their reasoning,
she yielded to their instances more than their arguments, and agreed
to accompany them to London; and a post-coach was bespoken for the
morning. After an early breakfast they set off through the forest,
which not exceeding twelve miles in circumference, and containing a
most delightful seat, Hamilton persuaded them to view. Marlborough
forest belongs to the Earl of Ailesbury, and is almost the only
privileged ground of that denomination possessed by a subject. It is
in circumference about twelve miles, plentifully stocked with deer
of a large size, and rendered very pleasant and delightful, by the
many walks and vistas cut and levelled through the several coppices
and woods, with which it abounds. Eight of these vistas meet in a
point near the middle of the forest, where a late lord prepared and
cleared the ground for erecting an octagon tower, whose sides were
to be correspondent to the vistas; through one of which we have a
view of the seat, at about two miles distance, called Tottenham,
from a park of that name, in which it is situated, contiguous to the
forest. It is a stately edifice, erected on the same spot of ground
where stood an ancient palace, destroyed by fire, of the Marquis of
Hertford, afterwards Duke of Somerset, so justly celebrated for his
steady adherence, and powerful assistance to the royal cause, during
the whole course of the civil wars; from whom the Earl of Ailesbury
was descended. The present edifice was begun, carried on, and finished
after the model, and under the direction of our modern Vitruvius,
the late Earl of Burlington, who, to the strength and convenience of
the English architecture, has added the elegance of Italian taste.
The house has four towers, and four fronts, each of them diversely
beautified and adorned; to which are now added four wings, wherein are
rooms of state, a noble and capacious room for a library, containing
a judicious and large collection of several thousand books, in all
languages, but especially the modern. The beauty of the buildings is
much augmented by the large canals, the spacious and well planted
walks which surround it; one of which, leading to the London road,
extends two miles in length. About the same distance from hence, on
the opposite side, are to be seen the remains of a large house, called
Wolf-hall, the seat of Sir John Seymour, father of the unfortunate
protector, of which no more is standing than suffices for a farm house.
Here King Henry VIII. as tradition goes, celebrated his nuptials with
Lady Jane Seymour, and kept his wedding dinner in a very large barn,
hung with tapestry, on the occasion; for confirmation of which they
shew you in the walls some tenter-hooks, with small pieces of tapestry
fastened to them: and between this place and Tottenham there is a walk,
with old trees on each side, still known by the name of King Henry’s
walk. Wolf-hall was anciently the seat of St. Maurs, or Seymours, who,
from the time of Henry II. were hereditary bailiffs and wardens of the
forest of Savernac, in memory of which a large hunting horn, ornamented
with silver, is still preserved by the present noble owner, the Earl
of Ailesbury, together with a beautiful pedigree of the family, from
William the Conqueror. They proceeded through the charming confines of
Wiltshire and Berkshire, and arrived at the castle at Speenhamland,
where they dined, and in the evening they proceeded to Reading[5], and
the following day arriving in London, completed their excursion.



CHAPTER IV.


The day after our hero’s return to London, he went in quest of Sir
Edward Hamden, and had the pleasure to learn that he was in town.
Hearing at what hour he was to be at home, he returned to his house,
and had an interview. Sir Edward told him, that his chief object in
visiting the metropolis, at such a season, was to solicit the advice
and assistance of his friend Hamilton. He had only arrived the day
before, and finding Hamilton was out of town, had resolved to remain
a few days, in hopes of his return. The subject on which he wished to
consult him, he said, was of the most delicate nature, and filled him
with great anxiety and distress. He then opened to his friend the fall
of his unhappy sister, and among many circumstances, which Hamilton
well knew before, mentioned that Raymond was so passionately attached
to his wife, that notwithstanding all that happened, he was disposed to
forgiveness, and to impute her misconduct to his own want of caution,
in not preventing an intimacy between her and a notorious directress
of gambling fraud. “Indeed I so far agree with him, that poor Caroline
owes her ruin to the baneful example of this unprincipled banditti.
Every woman that defrauds at gaming will and must be wicked in any
other way that temptation may happen to prompt; and she who cheats at
cards to gratify her avarice, will, if opportunity offer, and fear do
not restrain, make as free with her chastity as with her honesty.”
“I hope, Sir Edward, for the honour of female continence, that your
theory is erroneous; because, if true, it would make so many now of
fair character no better than prostitutes.” “Nay, there are degrees in
both, and I should reason by analogy; there are many who would finesse
or shuffle, or pack at cards, who would not venture to use loaded dice.
These I should conclude might intrigue with a friend, without publicly
exposing their reputation; but mine is more than theory, I never
yet met a lady who cheated at cards, but would have done something
else, except old women that have passed these kinds of amusements.
But to return to our subject. Raymond is very desirous of bestowing
forgiveness on his misguided wife; he, however, cannot bring himself
immediately to live with her. He proposes going for some time to the
continent, and that she should retire to the country, but an obstacle
for the present has arisen, the unhappy woman has eloped, and we in
vain have endeavoured to discover her retreat. It is for that purpose
I wish your advice and assistance.” While the baronet was about to
explain in what way Hamilton could render service, our hero interrupted
him, and informed him of all that had happened upon the road, and very
strongly testified the penitence of Mrs. Raymond. He could not prevail
on Hamden immediately to see her; nevertheless the proposed arrangement
was soon concluded, and the repentant sinner repaired to her asylum.

After the completion of this business, Hamilton returned with increased
vigour to his literary pursuits. The lives of men of letters, though
often instructive in operation, progress, and result, are commonly
barren in incident: while he was preparing the first part of his
grand essay for the public, no private occurrences happened of
sufficient importance to constitute a part of our narrative. One
benefit he found, an author of sense may derive from writing on a
continuous subject, within the reach of his abilities, and the range
of his knowledge; while he attempts to inform and instruct others, he
informs and instructs himself. The task which he undertook happened
to require research and investigation, as well as deduction and
exhibition, and improved his own knowledge and power of reasoning,
whilst he endeavoured to communicate knowledge and instruction to
others. At length the work made its public appearance, and established
the literary character of its author. It demonstrated to the public
the force and extent of his talents, the accuracy and range of his
knowledge, the depth of his philosophy, which though yet more
theoretical in several doctrines and opinions, than is consistent
with fact and practice, manifested on the whole, that strength of
discrimination, completeness of comprehension, boldness of conception,
and fertility of invention, which when matured by experience, becomes
soaring genius, guided by beneficial wisdom. The arrangement evinced
a mind that at once perceived the relations and dependencies of
parts, and grasped the whole. The language to the essential qualities
of clearness, strength, and expressiveness, added the agreeable
accompaniments of elegance and harmony. Fame and emolument did not fail
to follow distinguished merit, arising from exertions on a subject
which had been judiciously chosen, with a view at once to temporary
popularity and permanent importance. With the public voice concurred
those private individuals, whose opinions he chiefly regarded. A
Robertson and a Gibbon, a Watson, a Fergusson, and a Burke, spoke its
praises, while jackalls only of jacobinism barked disapprobation. A
Strongbrain bore his testimony to the excellence of the production
with discriminate applause; while detractors and envy attested the
same truth in the obloquy of the dunces, the impotent babbling of the
enraged and contemptible Doctor Dicky Scribble. Scribble lost a good
deal of his own time in going from coffeehouse to coffeehouse, to abuse
Hamilton’s production, and in the same period might have manufactured
two or three books, by his usual drudgery. Hamilton enjoyed the feeling
so pleasing to an author, in the assurance that his literary fame was
established. Most of the reviews bore high testimony to the merits
of Hamilton’s work; two, indeed, censured it, one the property of a
bookseller, who was bringing out a publication on the same subject; and
another that was supported by a club of democratic dissenters; but many
of the contributors having either gone, or _been sent_ to parts beyond
seas, and Tom Paine and Thelwal being less in vogue, it has since been
crushed. The jacobins, both French and English, reviled the book for
its political principles, nevertheless they could not avoid allowing it
literary excellence.

About this time Hamilton observed that Charlotte was often pensive,
and even to dejection. Making this observation to Maria, she told
him she conjectured the reason to be the absence and silence of John
Mortimer. The fact was, Mortimer was a very aspiring, ambitious young
man, and having in France rendered essential service to the British
government, especially by developing schemes of political missionaries
for the propagation of revolutionary principles, he had become a great
favourite with the British ambassador, and was not without hopes of
a seat in parliament. He had been captivated by the charms of Miss
Hamilton, but he was not so deeply enamoured that ambition did not
give him a contrary pull. He was a very handsome fellow, and much
admired among the French ladies, in whom political regeneration had not
produced moral: he was greatly addicted to gallantry, and nothing is
more destructive of virtuous love than habitual dissipation when at a
distance from the beloved object.

Louisa Primrose had been extremely affected by the marriage of
Hamilton, and her mother, to amuse her by change of scene, took a trip
to the continent. At Paris she frequently met with young Mortimer;
by degrees became much more chearful; and at last was extremely fond
of his company. Mortimer thought her a fine girl, though not equal to
Charlotte, and he knew she had such a fortune as could raise him to
the height that he wished; but though a man of the world, Mortimer was
also a man of honour, and therefore resolved to adhere to his promises
to Charlotte, unless released by herself. He therefore very fairly
stated to her his situation in a letter. Dignity, pride, and every
elevated sentiment combined in determining her to grant the release
that he appeared to desire, and she did it without any reproach, or a
single expression that could indicate either regret or displeasure.
Her magnanimity, however, was extremely painful to herself, and was
the source of the disconsolation that her friends remarked; but she
would not communicate either her sentiments or their cause; a vigorous
understanding, and firmness of mind, by degrees enabled her to regain
her chearfulness. Mortimer in the course of the winter married Miss
Primrose and her five thousand a year.

Our hero stuck very close to his literary and juridical pursuits. He
kept very little company of a Sunday; Sir Edward Hamden generally spent
the day at his house, or he at Sir Edward’s. Often they prevailed on
Strongbrain to be one of the company, and well as they knew him, he
at every visit astonished them by the grasp of his genius. They all
were friendly to the French revolution, though in different degrees.
Hamilton, who besides being a literary man by profession was young,
regarded what he considered the triumph of liberty with exultation,
and was pleased with a state of things in which he apprehended that
intellect was obtaining its native superiority, and trampling every
distinction but wisdom and virtue. Hamden, with all his personal
merit, not without a sense of rank and birth, was inimical to the
destruction of privileged orders. Strongbrain thought the revolution
too violent to suit the gradual variations of the human character, and
too democratical to suit the mad volatility of the French. Hamilton
observed, that a very rapid change now took place in the political
sentiments of the country, and with the action and re-action of the
press, affected our literature; that though one of its chief objects
was innovation in the church and state, its influence extended much
farther; and that not only in institutions, but manners, principles,
sentiments, thoughts, and even the powers of nature, the great object
was innovation. He traced this spirit of boundless change from
its first origin, in that superstition and despotism which genius
discovered; but observed, that in avoiding great evils it ran into much
greater. He reviewed the efforts of Rousseau, Voltaire, and Helvetius,
and the various concurring causes of the French revolution, and marked
the progress in other parts of Europe, but especially in England,
of the innovating spirit which it was now calling into action, and
attended peculiarly to the literature which it excited. He admired the
genius of Priestly and Price; and though he disapproved of their enmity
to the establishment, yet he revered their high spirit of liberty;
and if he questioned their prudence, he gave them full credit for
sincerity. Though a friend to the church his regard to it was rather
political than religious; if he venerated some, and respected many
of its members, it was for individual qualities, and not official
situation. He profoundly admired Watson, without doing homage to the
Bishop of Landaff. He highly estimated the force and science of a
Horseley, without adopting in every case the authority of the hierarch.
In the classical elegance of a Douglas, the critical acuteness of
a Hurd, and the christian simplicity of a Porteous, he valued the
men, and not simply the mitre. He himself was rather attached to
literary dissenters, whom he conceived to be zealous promoters of that
liberty which Cambridge had taught him to prize. Deeply conversant
in philosophy, and thoroughly acquainted with the laws and practice
of reasoning, he was extremely fastidious in matters of authority,
and in assaying an opinion paid little regard to its currency. If
he erred it was from misinformation of fact, and not feebleness of
investigation, or falsity of principle. Conceiving that political
freedom was necessary to the best exertions of men; and that the French
had long been the victims of civil and ecclesiastical tyranny, he
rejoiced at what he thought their emancipation. He admitted that some
of their proceedings were extremely violent, but imputed the outrages
to a ferment of enthusiasm, which would gradually subside into rational
freedom. As many of the wars of the French monarchs had arisen from the
ambition of the court, he hoped that when that cause was removed no
other would operate in hostility to his country. Somewhat tinged with
the doctrines of the œconomique philosophers, he thought the human race
susceptible of much greater perfection than it had hitherto attained,
and in the refinement of speculation conceived such intellectual and
moral improvement might result from the dissemination of liberty, as
would prevent the frequent recurrence of wars. Though he disapproved of
Price’s exultation over the fallen monarch, as indiscreet and liable to
misconstruction, yet he himself derived it from a liberal spirit and
comprehensive benevolence; which regarding an individual on the one
hand, and twenty-five millions of individuals on the other, preferred
the happiness which he conceived to be attained by the many to the
power which he saw to be wrested from the one. He therefore approved
of the motives and spirit of Price, without implicitly assenting to
his positions. Such was the state of his political sentiments when
Burke produced his extraordinary work. Captivated by the poetry, and
charmed by the eloquence of this wonderful production, he in his first
reading hurried through it without waiting to examine its reasoning
and philosophy. Like the magic pen of Shakespeare this performance,
whithersoever it expatiated, carried with it his fancy and passions. He
saw English votaries of the French revolution, in one page terrible,
in the next contemptible, and in the third disgusting, now as tigers
panting after slaughter and carnage, now as grashoppers teasing with
their importunate chink; then a loathsome object full of blotches and
putrified sores. Here he regarded chivalry as the great parent of
social happiness, lamented its age as for ever gone; there he viewed
Marie Antoinette as in beauty beyond the lot of human excellence; and
next as in pity beyond the lot of human suffering. By the author’s
luminous torch he saw her bearing her son to the loyal officers;
he viewed the Parisian mob breaking into her apartments, and the
swords of ruffians drawn for her destruction, and lamenting followed
her dragged in triumph by a banditti of ruffians. The scene being
changed he was carried into the National Assembly. There the dramatist
exhibited pedlars and excisemen engaged in financial legislation;
country curates as new modelling the church, and country attornies
as establishing a code of laws for the government of an empire; with
a side prospect of fishwomen taking their seats in the senate, while
a mob hallooed behind the scenes. The imagery and pathos of the bard
and orator made the first impression. Reflecting, however, that the
production was not exhibited for the purpose of theatrical effect,
but intended to present facts, enforce conviction, and influence
conduct, he returned to examine it in those lights. He acknowledges
that when he first reviewed his own fascination he imputed it to the
spell of the author’s genius, and supposed that investigation would
convince him that its merit was merely poetic and oratorical. He
therefore resolved, in his next reading, to view it as a series of
reasoning and of philosophy. The connection of argument he did not
immediately perceive; separate links were very massive and strong, but
he frequently could not discover the juncture; and as the links lay
huddled before him, with a vast variety of colouring and decorations,
he thought them detached and unconnected pieces; but unfolding and
viewing the whole, he saw that they formed one continuous chain,
which might have been more simple and regular, but could not well be
stronger. Expanded and profound wisdom he saw in the principles and
deductions respecting intellectual, moral, political processes and
operations, and the influence of religion on the wisdom, virtue, and
happiness of individuals and societies. He was by no means, however,
convinced that the French revolutionists were such men, either in
character or condition, as the author described, and therefore could
not entirely admit the justness of his conclusions, or the probable
fulfilment of his predictions. He was, however, staggered in his
opinion of the French revolution, and resolved to avoid forming any
final judgment until it should be farther known by events. He still had
no apprehensions that it could possibly produce any bad effects upon
Britain. If it were to prove the excellent system of mixed liberty,
an order which some of its earliest votaries had sought, the British
must love and cherish it, as if not similar in detail, analogous in
principle and object to their own. If on the other hand it proved the
bloody and ferocious anarchy which Mr. Burke predicted, no Briton, of
either patriotism or property, could be so frantic as to wish a change
from happiness to misery. But as he attended to the varying state of
opinion and sentiment, he began to apprehend that not a few in the
prevalent eagerness for change were becoming votaries of revolution.

Among literary men, with very few exceptions, even able and learned
writers were friendly to a change of political system, and of the much
more numerous class of writers that were neither able nor learned, at
least three-fourths of writers became enemies to the establishment.
Among these were the lowest retainers of learning. Book-makers,
news-gatherers, paragraph-joiners, collectors and retailers of puns,
poetry, and jokes, scrap-rakers, and other pioneers of literature,
were to a man democratic. In the jacobin clubs literary men possessed
great influence, and many who were, or fancied themselves literary
men, here expected, that if a revolution should take place in England,
they should have the direction of affairs. But the work of Thomas
Paine, which now made its appearance, most completely unhinged loyalty
and patriotism in the breasts of great numbers of professed votaries
of literature, and many others who made no claims to learning; and
the effect of that noted production contributed much more powerfully
to wean our hero from approbation of revolutionary doctrines, than
the deepest wisdom of Burke himself. Perhaps, indeed, there never
was a writer who more completely attained the art of imposing and
impressing nonsense on ignorant and undistinguishing minds, as sense
and sound reasoning; more fitted for playing on the passions of the
vulgar, for gaining their affections by gratifying their prejudices,
and through those affections procuring their assent to any assertion
which he chose to advance. His manner was peculiarly calculated
to impress and affect such objects. The coarse familiarity of his
language was in unison with vulgar taste; the directness of his
efforts, and boldness of his assertions, passed with ignorance for the
confidence of undoubted truth. But it was not only the manner of his
communication, but the substance of his doctrine, that was peculiarly
pleasing to the lower ranks. Vanity, pride, and ambition, are passions
which exist with as much force in the tap-room of an ale-house as in
a senate. When peasants, labourers, and journeymen mechanics were
told that they were as fit for governing the country as any man in
parliament, it was a very pleasing idea; it gave an agreeable swell
to their self-importance. When farther informed that they were not
only qualified for such high appointments, but also, if they exerted
themselves, had the means of attaining them; this was still better: it
brought power, money, and luxury within their fancied reach, and might
induce them to call for an extraordinary pot, to be afterwards paid
from the proceeds of their preferment. Besides the completely ignorant
and vulgar, there was another numerous set, to whom Paine’s works were
peculiarly gratifying; and that was those who, without any original
education, got hold of scraps of learning; who, having no general idea
of the circle of arts and sciences, of the compartments of literature,
fancied that the little knowledge in their own possession constituted
the principal portion of human learning.

The generosity of the English, notwithstanding the distinguishing good
sense of the nation, renders them peculiarly liable to imposture.
Hence arises a temptation to quacks of every kind, and numbers of
that species arise that know no more of what they profess, than Drs.
Solomon and Brodum know of medicine; the coal-heaving teacher of
methodism knows of morality and religion; or the missionary jugglers,
who pester Scotland, and endeavour to sow discord, do of the gospel of
peace; or the hymn manufacturers for the Evangelical Magazine, know of
sense and poetry; or Dr. Dicky Scribble of the many and every subject
which he undertakes to handle. In literature, quackery is not less
common than in vending either pills or methodistical exhortations.
A shopkeeper or mechanic finds his craft not answer his purpose, he
takes to the literary line, begins with collecting the lower branches
of intelligence for newspapers, enquires whose horse ran away in Hyde
Park, what chaise was damaged by a stage-coach on the road between
Kentish-town and Mother Redcap’s, what drunken bricklayer fought with
a drunken blacksmith near the Jews’s Harp. These articles reviewed
and respelt by the editor, constitute the first step of the literary
novitiate. Next he scrapes acquaintance with footmen; when grand
dinners, routes, balls, or assemblies are bestowed, he attends in
the halls, takes a lift of the company, and in his report informs
the public, among many distinguished personages of both sexes, _we_
particularly noticed the following, &c. &c. Going from place to
place, our _scholar_ may, in the course of an evening, acquire a
great variety of such _learning_. This is a more advanced post, but
there are higher in store; he is next promoted to be nomenclator of
the persons who resort to court. He makes acquaintance with the yeomen
of the guards, they, on _proper_ application, repeat to him the names;
on the stairs he enlarges his acquaintance with footmen, and is able
to pick up anecdotes of families; he learns who and who are together,
and becomes such an adept in composition as to dress out a bit of
scandal. He is able to fetch and carry for Blackball, and besides his
periodical labours can venture a little in the anecdote way. Having
become well acquainted with fashionable faces, he is next sent to the
theatres, and by reading the newspaper criticisms becomes something
of a critic himself. To extend his views of dramatic literature, he
betakes himself to the Garrick’s Head, and becomes a humble listener
of the players, afterwards retails their jokes as his own; there he
forms his estimate of dramatic poetry, studies the dramatic censor,
and becomes a theatrical critic. Perhaps now he may rise to be a
parliamentary reporter, and if he do, of course he becomes a political
philosopher and a statesman; and in those days when debating societies
were in vogue, he was also an orator, or we still may be if admissible
to public meetings, especially those in which dinner and wine precede
deliberation and eloquence. Now he undertakes political essays, or
even pamphlets; behold our journeyman, without any learning, human or
divine, set up for an author, and many are such members of the republic
of letters.

Another sets out from a point somewhat more akin to learning,
begins as porter’s boy in the vestibule of the muses, or to speak
less figuratively, opens as _a printer’s devil_. He takes one of
two courses, or both, aspires at being a compositor, or a reader.
In such occupations, if tolerably sharp, he acquires a much better
education than many professed men of letters; he becomes acquainted
with spelling, and even receives an insight into higher parts of
grammar; is tolerably correct in ordinary language. A person of this
kind, if he be steady, becomes extremely useful in his own line; but
should he not be steady, he has recourse to the profession of letters,
offers his services to a magazine, and not for mere collections of
occurrences, like the recorder of run-away horses, and boxing matches,
but deals in selections, and also originals. He becomes a literary
critic and a reviewer, nay, even rises to be an editor, and gradually
acquires such celebrity in that occupation, that he is run upon, and
perhaps distinguished by the title of Editor Atall. Somewhat higher
than these in their outset, are persons who having been bred to
learned professions, especially law and medicine, in which it is very
difficult to get on without ability, knowledge, and skill, find things
will not answer, and being unoccupied by briefs or consultations,
betake themselves to the profession of letters. A man has been called
to the bar, but finds that at Westminster-hall, though _many are
called but few are chosen_, therefore he takes to the instruction of
mankind through newspapers and magazines. A professor of medical art
and science becomes a doctor of medicine, but finds his degree does
not procure a demand for his prescriptions, therefore he offers his
advice, not to the sick, but to those who are in health. Numerous are
the recruits in the literary ranks, from counsellors and physicians,
who, unable to procure clients and patients, have sought refuge in the
occupation of authors. It may be naturally asked, Are not unsuccessful
clergymen in the same situation? To this the answer is obvious,
and indeed trite. Success, good or bad, is not in a clergyman the
consequence of qualifications, good or bad, with the same probability
as in the other learned professions; the recovery or defence of our
property we will not trust to an insufficient lawyer; the recovery
of our health we will not trust to an incapable physician; but our
spiritual concerns we readily entrust, without much investigation of
the competency of the guide. High fees are bestowed on the most eminent
professional men, but rich livings are often bestowed upon blockheads,
and besides, clergy who are not able to rise by their abilities, and
have not interest to compensate the deficiency, have a never-failing
resource in becoming masters of academies. Another reservoir, that for
many years has diffused plentiful supplies of authors, is dissent from
the established church. Scarcely a dissenting minister is to be found,
who is not a professed author. Of these, two were very able and learned
men, and a few others respectable, but much the greater number are far
from having any pretensions to genius and erudition, and most of them,
whether able or weak, the votaries of visionary reveries, instead of
solid and substantial wisdom; and no one class has been so productive
of incapable, illiterate, and trifling authors, as the non-conformists.
In addition to these, were your sentimental writers, who regarded
the supreme happiness of mankind, as consisting in the possession and
gratification of fine sensibility, who decried all restraint as irksome
to the feelings; these figured away in plays and novels, and poems
and fables and tales, abounded in prettinesses and pathos, and many
other qualities, and merely wanted sense, virtue, and piety. Instances
of these and many other kinds, will readily suggest themselves, and
scarcely one of the literary quacks, but had knots of admirers, who
regarded him or her as a shining light, and implicitly followed as a
guide. In such a predisposition for the reception of nonsense, and
especially innovating nonsense, Tom Paine’s book was wonderfully
adapted for circulation.

Many were dabblers in what they supposed metaphysics, for whom Paine
provided his distinctions and definitions, in such a way as to give
them a notion, that when they were repeating his words, they were
pouring forth philosophy. He bestowed on them, with a liberal hand,
his _imprescriptible rights, organization, general will, attaint upon
principles_, and many other phrases, from which his votaries thought
themselves as much instructed, as the under grave-digger in Hamlet
supposed himself from the learned distinctions of the upper. To a man
who should estimate the probable reception of opinions, solely by their
truths, it would appear extremely wonderful how so nonsensical jargon
came ever to have any currency. Recollection of history, however, and
attention to mankind, prevents surprise, that even Paine’s declamations
were applauded. History, indeed, and even the history of our own
country, shews us, that Tom Paine, extravagant as he is, is far from
being new. Our hero remarked, that there was a wonderful resemblance
between Tom Paine and John Cade; Jack maintained the same doctrine
of equality and rank, and as he could not raise himself to the level
of men of merit and abilities, his next best expedient was to pull
them down to his level. Shakespeare, who so thoroughly knew the human
mind in all its vagaries, describes John Cade, John Holland, George
Bevis, &c. as speaking not only the sentiments, but almost the very
language which Paine has since used. Says Paine, “All men are equal;
all artificial distinctions, such as rank, title, and corporate bodies,
are contrary to natural equality, and the rights of man!” Hear we John
Holland and George Bevis.

“_Holland._ Well, I say, twas never a merry world in England since
gentlemen came up.

_Bevis._ O miserable age! Virtue is not regarded in handicraftsmen.

_Holland._ The nobility think scorn to go in leather aprons.

_Bevis._ Nay more, the King’s council are no good workmen.

_Holland._ True, and yet it is said--labour in thy vocation; which is
as much as to say, let the magistrates be labouring men, _and therefore
should_ WE _be magistrates_.”

We may observe a vast similarity of policy between John Cade himself
and Tom Paine. Says Paine, “Down with your lords and commons, and
kings and bishops, destroy them all: pull down your universities, and
cathedrals, and corporations; down, down with them all!” Cade had long
before anticipated the same exhortations. “Go, (says he,) and set
London-bridge on fire; and, if you can, burn down the tower too.--Go,
some, and pull down the Savoy; others to the Inns of Court; down with
them all.--Burn all the records of the realms; _my mouth shall be
the Parliament of England, and hence-forward all things shall be in
common_.”

The arguments of Tom Paine were totally inapplicable, not only to
this, but to any existing society. The proposed experiment could not
be tried but among savages; and among them equality could not long
be preserved. The strong, the courageous, active, and enterprising,
would have the means of subsistence, accommodation, and security, in a
greater degree, than the feeble, the timid, the inert, and indolent.
This absurdity easily escaped detection by the class of readers among
whom the work was most studiously circulated. When John Cade proposed
that the conduit should run with claret for the first year after his
subversion of the existing government, John Holland and George Bevis
were not struck with the impossibility of the proposal being put in
execution, but delighted with the idea that they might now drink
wine, and be as great as lords. “Be brave then,” says Cade, “for your
captain is brave, and vows REFORMATION. There shall be, in England,
seven halfpenny loaves sold for a penny; the three-hoop’d pot shall
have two hoops; and I will make it felony to drink small-beer! All
the realm shall be in common, and in Cheapside shall my palfrey go to
grass. And when I am king, as king I will be--(_All._ God save your
majesty!)--there shall be no money; ALL shall eat and drink on my
score; and I will apparel them ALL in one livery, that they may agree
like brothers, and worship me their lord.” Cade’s admirers were, no
doubt, delighted at the thought of having meat, drink, and raiment,
at free cost, and in their joy forgot to enquire how Cade was to have
means of so extensive beneficence. As Paine, as well as Cade, _vowed
reformation_, every one’s fancy framed reforms in what particularly
concerned himself: the journeyman shoe-maker found that hitherto his
wages were in proportion to his work; through Tom Paine he expected
great wages with very small work. The amateurs of gin and whisky
expected, that through Tom Paine the revenue would be abolished, and
they would have their favourite beverage at less cost. The division
of property, too, many of them expected would not only lessen their
work, and increase their favourite enjoyments, but enable them to live
and revel without working at all. In short, weakness, and ignorance of
understanding, vanity, pride, love of idleness, and luxury, and the
hope of plunder, concurred with the active and incessant endeavours of
democratic underlings, in rendering so extravagant, impudent, absurd,
and mischievous, a publication palatable among numbers of the lower
ranks. Discontent, malignant hatred of a government in which they
themselves were not promoted according to their fancied merits, made
others encourage the writings and principles of Paine, however much
they might have despised his illiterature and sophistry. But not the
ignorant only, writers of respectable talents and erudition declared
the ravings and vagaries of Paine to be the invincible energy of truth
and sense, to combine history and philosophy. Such especially was the
opinion of the Analytical reviewers, who had great influence among
numerous classes of British subjects; and the following contrast
between Burke and Paine exhibits the prominent features of the
sentiments and opinions which in the last ten years of the eighteenth
century had such a powerful effect on the literature of our country.
“Each of them interests our feelings, but in a different manner;
elegant and declamatory, Mr. Burke seduces us along by the charms of
his eloquence: plain, but forcible, Mr. Paine carries us away with him
by the invincible energy of truth and sense. Fanciful and excursive,
Mr. Burke delights the imagination by the beauty of his metaphors, and
the splendour of his ornaments; while his opponent holds our judgment
captive by the native vigour of his arguments, the originality of
his sentiments, and the pointedness of his remarks. Mr. Burke is the
polished and playful courtier, who dances in his chains; Mr. Paine is
the stern republican, who exults in his liberty, and treats with equal
freedom the monarch and the peasant. In a word, without subscribing
implicitly to every principle which our author advances, we cannot
in justice withhold this testimony to the work before us, that it
is one of the most curious, original, and interesting publications,
which the singular vicissitudes of modern politics have produced.
Independent of its value as a polemical work, it is truly excellent
and useful in an historical view. In it the springs and sources of the
French revolution are traced with the acuteness and perspicacity of
a Tacitus; his information bears its authority upon the face of it,
and almost convinces by the weight of its internal evidence.” Such
notions disseminated among great numbers that were totally incapable
of judging, produced very general impression. “Nobility, (it was
said,) is an institution that could only be reconciled to a state of
barbarism. It is a distinction equally impolitic and immoral, worthy
of the times of ignorance and of rapine, which gave it birth; is a
violation of the rights of that part of the nation that is deprived of
it; and as equality becomes a _stimulus_ towards distinction, so on the
other hand this is the radical vice of a goverment, and the source of
a variety of evils. It is impossible that there should be any uncommon
instances of virtue in a state, when recompences belong exclusively
to a certain class of society, and when it costs them no more to
obtain these, than the _trouble of being born_. Amongst this list
of privileged persons, virtues, talents, and genius, must of course
be much less frequent than in the other classes, since without the
possession of any of these qualities, they who belong to it are still
honoured and rewarded. Those who profit by this absurd subversion of
principles, and those who lose by this unjust distribution of favours,
which seem to have grown into a right, cannot have any other than
false, immoral, and pernicious ideas concerning _merit_. The clergy are
a body which subsist by deception. The establishment of a predominant
church is prejudicial to the peace and welfare of a country. Whoever
has any knowledge of the human heart; whoever is convinced of the right
every man has to think for himself, though there are many who renounce
it; whoever has remarked the impression which a superstitious education
makes upon mankind, how it weakens the understanding, fosters holy
pride, and pious hatred; whoever attends to the great abuse, which many
of those who call themselves ministers of the true church, frequently
make of exclusive privileges, which the law confers upon them, will
readily acknowledge, that it would be much better for the community, if
every man were permitted, without interruption or controul, to follow
the dictates of his own fancy, whatever these might be. The church
wants reform, and they never will be brought to reform themselves,
therefore the surest care for their defects is their subversion as a
separate order. The destruction of the clergy is one necessary means
for the perfection of society.--Monarchy is a most absurd institution,
it is quite inconsistent with that equality that is both the right and
the perfection of human nature. Why should any one man be superior
to another?” Is it not very hard that one man should be six feet two
inches high, with broad shoulders, and muscular limbs, when another
is only five feet, with narrow shoulders, and puny limbs? It may
be answered, God and nature have ordered it so, and have made great
inequalities in all their works; but it is the business of philosophers
to correct God and nature; and effectually to prevent civil and
political inequalities, let there be none in nature. Buffon informs us,
that five feet seven is the average height of adult Europeans: then
get the bed of Procrustes, so only can you equalize stature; and the
experiment would not be more impracticable than an attempt to equalize
talents for government.

But a noted argument in favour of the destruction of established
governments was, that complete democracy would be much cheaper than
any mixed government which contained a portion of monarchy. If the
chief perfection of society were cheapness, by living in hovels,
feeding on roots, drinking water, the house and window tax might be
saved, also the land and malt tax, and both ordinary and extraordinary
imposts upon port-wine; but habit and civilization have produced a
liking for accommodations that may be not absolutely necessary. In
civil society we do not estimate smallness of cost as a supreme good,
the same holds in political establishments. Institutions are not good
merely for being low priced, their goodness depends upon the aggregate
of secure and permanent benefit, which they admit. The great proof of
the benefit of revolution as an expedient of economy, was the savings
that the new order of things had produced from France. “In consequence
of the revolution,” said the prophets of economy, “the people will
have much less to pay, and republican France, for cheapness, is a
model for the imitation of other countries. For all these reasons the
nobility, hierarchy, and monarchy, ought to be entirely destroyed. But
such subversion is only a partial establishment of equality; every
species of separate right implies inequality, and therefore ought
to be abolished. All things should be in common; the destruction of
kings, lords, and bishops, is only a means leading to division of
property, and unrestrained gratification of passions, as the great
end:” But as in Britain there was a very strong attachment to the
establishments of the country, of which the aggregate result was by
experience demonstrated to be supremely beneficial by the votaries of
revolution, the first and grand object to be compassed was, to render
the people desirous of change; while therefore the more profound and
designing sought to effect subversion of establishments, in order to
erect new fabrics, that might be subject to their own command, they
found most active instruments in enthusiastic partisans of indefinite
innovation, and especially in literary associates, who readily joined
in supporting theories which appeared to them well fitted to extend
the sway of intellectual powers, and to attach power and pre-eminence
to that species of talents which they conceived themselves to possess.
Proceeding on the simple principle, that good was constituted by
alteration, various writers, including some of considerable ingenuity,
chiefly directed their attention to change, that is all the change
which their literature could effect. Ingenuity, decorated nonsense and
absurdity, the fine spun theories of Joel and Anne, Croft and German
literature, powerfully contributed to the deviation of very inferior
writers, from common sense and experience. In the literary, as in
other classes, a very great number judged and acted not from original
conviction and determination, but from example; and many were merely
driven round in Tom Paine’s political mill, without any comprehension
of the tendency and effects of the labours in which they were employed.
They declaimed against the usurpation of establishments, merely because
others did so before them. These pretended investigators of human
right, and explainers of human happiness, considered the Rights of Man,
merely because the consideration was fashionable; and if the doctrines
of the Pope’s supremacy had been in vogue, would have been the ardent
partizans of a Guise, a Lorrain, and an Alva, and would have praised
the massacres of August 24th, 1572, as readily as of August 10th,
1792. In literature, indeed, aristocracy is very prevalent; there
are chieftains, and there are numerous tribes of retainers, whose
intellectual nourishment is derived from some lord paramount. At this
time, Voltaire, Rousseau, and Priestley, were the liege lords of many
literary vassals, while Paine and others acted as the trumpeters to
collect the powers, and summon them to the charge. The vassals did not
enquire into the justice of the cause, they deemed it their chief glory
to swell the muster-roll of their commanding officer. Hence there was
such a number of combatants on the side of the innovating champions.
The leaders of subversion attacked the bulwarks and defenders of
our political fortress, because they wished to lay it prostrate;
the followers, because their commanders prompted and encouraged
their efforts. Helvetius, or Price, fought for victory, their humble
coadjutors for Helvetius, or for Price--_Principes pro victoria
pugnant; comites pro principe_. In the same way it was in the reign of
Anne, and George I. some eminent writers took to poetry and criticism,
and many scores took to poetry and criticism after them, and humbly
tried to ape their betters, as waiting-maids and milliners, footmen or
hair dressers, endeavouring to imitate the deportment of ladies or of
gentlemen, and would have you suppose them to be persons of fashion.
Lord Bacon has observed, that as people that have no substance of their
own, and are unable or unwilling to labour, must either beg or steal
from somebody else, so must those who undertake to deliver judgment,
or write books without a knowledge of the subject; and if persons do
steal, they will certainly try to lay their hands on the goods that
may be most readily disposed of among the receivers of their stolen
commodities. Tom Paine stole many of his materials from the French
writers, and some from their able co-operators in England; but Tom was
really so dexterous a manufacturer, that he made his political pieces
have the appearance of originals. But most of his successors merely
copied and repeated his sayings. Whitfield hitting the temper of the
times, framed a new theory of religion, which found many votaries:
Whitfield had genius, but a hundred speakers and writers retailed his
commodities from tabernacles, joint-stools, cart-sheds, or written
sermons, pamphlets, or exhortations. So were the new theories of
politics, which originated in misemployed genius, bandied about among
speakers and writers of no genius; and as a transmogrified coal-heaver,
or a vender of quack medicines, might retail from his chapel the
doctrines of Whitfield, and bring in, as a proof of providence, a pair
of breeches instead of a leg of mutton[6]; so a blacksmith could leave
his anvil for his political pulpit, and vend the quack medicines of Tom
Paine.

But though revolutionary politics diffused themselves over great
numbers of the ignorant votaries of literature, they extended to many
others of a very contrary description, and efforts of talents and
erudition were wasted in supporting extravagant paradoxes, pernicious
principles, and wild theories, that could have informed and instructed
mankind by valuable reasonings and inculcations; and our hero had
occasion to see the effect of the Turgot theory of the perfectibility
of man fully exemplified. The English champion of this doctrine was
St. Leon, a writer of very considerable ingenuity, who, with the
œconomique philosophy of the French school, undertook to join some
of the metaphysical tenets of David Hume, as they were interpreted
by St. Leon himself, especially his opinions on the foundations of
morality; and whereas Mr. Hume has asserted, that the qualities and
actions which the mind approves as virtuous, are those which are found
either agreeable or useful to society, St. Leon asserted, that in every
individual action the merit depends on its being performed by the
agent, with a view to the aggregate benefit of all sentient beings,
or, as he phrases it, what is best upon the whole. On this best upon
the whole, together with the perfectibility of man, he constituted a
very singular system that he delivered to the world, in a book which
made a very extensive impression on minds predisposed for boundless
innovation. Our hero was at great pains to make himself master of
a production in which the establishment of the most extravagant
nonsense was the end, for compassing which, acuteness and ingenuity
were the means, and he was at a loss whether most to wonder at the
folly of the propositions which were to be demonstrated, or the skill
and ability of the intermediations; and he could not help thinking
that St. Leon richly deserved to rank with the ancient Pyrrho, with
the modern Hobbes, Spinosa, Mandeville, or any others who misemployed
brilliant talents, in framing absurd or mischievous hypotheses. Powers
which a refined state of society only could have produced, were by St.
Leon exerted in recommending the rudest barbarity and incivilization.
Metaphysical acuteness, and concatenated argumentation, were exercised
in controverting truths, which the grossest stupidity can perceive to
be undeniable, while profound wisdom regards them as the foundation
of society. Polished elegance of composition attempted to effect
the restoration of chaotic ignorance, chaste purity of language
recommended the promiscuous intercourse of the sexes, the calmness of
philosophical disquisition inculcated the destruction of peace and of
order, in the overthrow of property and of law; the ardent pursuer of
the happiness of mankind sought to destroy the tendered endearments
and best affections of the human heart. The votary of benevolence
endeavoured to destroy the sentiments and actions which conduce most
powerfully to the well-being of the human race. Man he asserted to
be perfectible; and professed to stimulate him to the attainment of
that perfection which he affirmed to be in his power; but instead
of affording new motives to intellectual and moral improvement, he
inculcated a system that would have degraded him to the level of
beasts. To complete the downfal of human nature from that reason and
conscience by which it has been distinguished from the brute creation,
he projected to annihilate religion. Lest the fine-spun deductions of
abused logic should be unsuccessful in conveying doctrines so absurd,
and practices so destructive, the powers of fancy are super-added to
render them picturesque and impressive. Subtle sophistry alone could
hardly establish the inutility of criminal justice, but an affecting
fable setting forth the punishment of innocence, and the escape of
guilt, strongly interests the feelings; and the emotions of the heart
are mistaken for the conclusions of the head. A fictitious tale of
an individual case is so skilfully managed, as, to many, to appear
a fair and general exhibition of penal law, and its operation.
Virtuous sensibility is excited against the necessary muniments of
property, and the correctives of crimes. Such was the mis-application
of great literary powers, that sprung from the boundless love of
innovation. Speculative men have often, in theory, supported principles
inconsistent with the common sense of mankind, and the well-being of
society, without reducing their speculations to practice! A reader of
these singular works must have reprobated doctrines that tended, if
admitted, to destroy our respect for marriage, property, promises;
our conviction of the immortality of the soul; the ties of natural
affection, gratitude, friendship; every cement of civil and social
duty; to overturn monarchy, laws, government, and every political
institution. But it might have been supposed that the author merely
advanced paradoxes for the sake of displaying ingenuity; that he
himself was convinced, as much as any other, endowed with reason
must be, of the total incompatibility of such _ravings_ with any
thing that could actually exist. But he followed his speculation by
a practical model, and exhibited as a pattern of perfection a real
character, who, according to his account, systematically deviated
from the chief virtues of her sex. This singular example of female
perfection, whom the writer exhorted her sex throughout the world to
imitate, was a concubine. But of her various qualifications, a few
specimens may serve--First we have her chastity; Miss resorted to
France, and became a kept-mistress; this, according to her panegyrist,
was a species of connection for which _her heart secretly panted_,
and which had the effect of diffusing an immediate tranquillity and
cheerfulness over her manners. The beneficial consequences accruing
to this _exemplary_ lady from _concubinage_ did not always last. Her
keeper forsook her; she followed him to England. Afterwards she lived
on a similar footing with her encomiast himself, who in a few words
exhibits the practical conduct which his lessons inculcated, “We did
not marry. It is difficult to recommend any thing to indiscriminate
adoption, contrary to the established rules and prejudices of mankind;
but certainly nothing can be so ridiculous upon the face of it, or
so contrary to the genuine march of sentiments, as to require the
overflowing of the soul to wait upon a ceremony; and that which,
wherever delicacy and imagination exist, is of all things most sacredly
private, to blow a trumpet before it, and to record the moment when
it arrived at its climax.” When recording her excursion to England,
her orator gives us a sample of her patriotism. “England was a country
for which she expressed a repugnance that almost amounted to horror.”
To her moral and political virtues, he adds the account of her
religious attainments. “She had received few lessons of religion in
her youth, and her religion was almost entirely of her own creation.
She could not recollect the time when she had believed the doctrine
of future punishments.” As she advanced in philosophy, her attendance
on public worship became less and less constant, and was soon wholly
discontinued. Her disregard for the ordinances of piety, drew from her
champion the following reflection:--“I believe it may be admitted as
a maxim, that no person of a well-furnished mind, that has shaken off
the implicit subjection of youth, and is not the zealous partizan of
a sect, can bring himself to conform to the public and regular routine
of sermons and prayers.” Such doctrines and lessons made a very deep
impression on the inferior votaries of literature. The ingenuity of
the author rendered absurdity plausible in his theories, and poison
palatable in his inculcations. The perfectibility of man to be
consummated by a political justice, which should overthrow religion,
government, property, marriage, good faith, patriotism, and all the
relative duties of society, was rung in an infinite number of changes.
The spirit of St. Leon was diffused through books, and pamphlets, and
periodical publications. It met us at the theatre, or popt on us in
the form of novels. Catching as it went the follies of its various
bearers, it babbled in spouting clubs, howled from the tribune, or
by its importunate prattle disturbed the tranquillity of private
companies. So pernicious it is to common sense, reason, truth, virtue,
order, and religion, when men of genius and learning employ their
pens in spreading nonsense, absurdity, and falsehood; vice, disorder,
and irreligion. If a writer of this sort were to take a cool and
dispassionate view of the talents he has received, and the acts which
he has done, the amount might probably be, nature has bestowed on him
a mind competent to the acquisition of valuable and deep knowledge.
Instruction and assiduity operating on these gifts of nature, have
enabled him to communicate his conceptions, thoughts, and discoveries,
agreeably, forcibly, and impressively. What has he done? He exhorted
men and women to avoid the first link of a rational community,
marriage, and to mingle with promiscuous intercourse, according to
temporary impulse, and after the fashion of beasts. Respecting their
offspring, the next gem of civil society, he exhorted them to descend
below beasts, which have a care for their young. He instigated parents
to disregard their children, and children their parents; he carried his
proscription of natural affection through the relation of brother and
sister. Lest this attempt to prevent the formation of a family, and
so to arrest society in its first stage, should prove unsuccessful,
he attacked it in more advanced progress, and endeavoured to destroy
faith between man and man, to proscribe adherence to promises, to
annihilate property, one of the great cements of society, and to banish
religion, the grand security of human happiness. His practical lessons
teach, that the restraints on unmarried women are not conducive to the
welfare of society; that chastity is not a virtue, and concubinage
a vice; that women are not likely to be better members of society,
domestic, civil, and political, for being continent than prostitutes.
He set up an immoral and impious model for the sex, and if all women
were to follow the example of his heroine, universal profligacy and
irreligion would ensue. As far, therefore, as the literary authority
and power of these writings reach, they tend to increase debauchery and
impiety. He has written a metaphysical work, of which the theoretical
propositions are chimerical, absurd, and totally irreconcileable to
human nature, as known to us by experience and induction, the only
guides to just intellectual and moral speculation; and the practical
doctrines, inculcated by precept and example, lead to the most unwise
and immoral conduct, and to consequences that would unhinge all
domestic, social, civil, political, and religious society. Such will
a fair and impartial review of his literary efforts present to St.
Leon the use and improvement of his talents and acquirements. That he
intended such consequences, I by no means assert. I think it probable
he did not. I should rather impute his work to an understanding so
perverted by a favourite hypothesis, as to be unable, however acute
and ingenious on other subjects, to distinguish truth whenever that
hypothesis was concerned. We have no reason to suppose that St. Leon,
who is in private life said not to be unamiable, would be guilty of
such gratuitous wickedness, as to be intentionally a strenuous promoter
of the most destructive profligacy. But whatever his intentions may
have been, the tendency is the same.

Equally absurd is the physical as the moral and political philosophy
of the singular St. Leon. What opinion can we entertain of a man who
seriously thinks that, at some future period, the necessity of sleep to
an animal may cease, who has even asserted that death may be postponed
at pleasure; who maintains that inanimate nature may move without
any animate cause, and even move to certain definite and beneficial
purposes; that a plough may till the ground without any direction from
men, and aid from horses, or any other animals; who, by confounding
the qualities and operations of matter and mind, would afford pretexts
for an inference, that the universe may exist and be directed in its
present system and order without the guidance of an intelligent cause;
who has employed his ingenuity in endeavouring to establish atheism.
Whatever may be St. Leon’s private habits of life, however temperate
in pleasurable indulgence, or fair and equitable in his transactions of
business, his doctrines tend to disseminate profligacy and iniquity;
and as his works are read in a much wider circle than his conduct
is seen or known, the mischief of his precepts and exhortations is
infinitely greater than the benefit of his example and practice. The
author of the “Political Justice,” and the biographical vindication of
concubinage, from his agreeable and persuasive manner, has spread a
great quantity of poison, against which feeble is the antidote to be
found in the private life and conversation of St. Leon.

That singular theorist no doubt possesses genius; subtle indeed rather
than solid and vigorous, fanciful and refining without being profound.
Such a man generally steers out of the walk of common sense and views,
both the natural and moral world, through some other medium than plain
observation and experience.

The eccentric movements of St. Leon, have done all the evil that his
powers and sphere would admit. It is true, he has not done nearly so
much evil as Rousseau, because though resembling that father of false
morals and politics, in deviation from common sense, impressive as St.
Leon is, he is far, very far beneath the author of Eloisa, in force and
fertility of invention; in extent of views, and in the fascination of
eloquence. The whole of his sceptical compositions, (that is the chief
part of his writings) have not done nearly so much evil as the few
essays of Hume, for promoting pyrrhonism and infidelity; because acute
and subtle as St. Leon is, he is much farther beneath Hume in depth of
philosophy and powers of reasoning, than beneath Rousseau in creative
fancy and persuasive eloquence; and twenty pages of Hume could effect
more towards any purpose he chose, than a thousand pages of St. Leon;
and St. Leon’s chief work is a mere expatiation on a principle of Hume,
carried to greater extravagance than Hume himself ever attempted; but
as St. Leon has imitated Hume, in attempting to sap the foundations of
morality and religion, let him remember that such writings constitute
but a small part of Hume’s literary labours; and that he has left one
work of unusual magnitude replete with sound wisdom, and (with certain
exceptions) one of the most beneficial to mankind, that graced the
eighteenth century. Meaning no sneering insult to St. Leon, I shall not
affect to compare him to Hume, but immeasurably below that philosopher,
as this ingenious sciolist may be, he is certainly a writer of very
considerable efficiency. As he has hitherto employed his talents for
the detriment of mankind, let him for once try to exert them for the
benefit of mankind. A very interesting tale he has told to disparage
fair fame, and high consideration in the community; to vindicate
thieves and robbers; and to inculcate that the inmates of jails for
crimes, are more virtuous than the most eminent characters in civil and
political society; and that penal laws are an intolerable grievance
to freemen: in short, to confound all distinctions between reputation
and infamy, virtue and vice, innocence and guilt. Let him endeavour to
write a tale of equal interest, to exhibit the necessary connection
between crimes and punishment, to promote obedience to the laws; and to
advance virtue and religion. The attempt might be at first aukward,
but perseverance and practice would soon render it easier; and St.
Leon’s powers are fully adequate to the task of impressing sense and
utility, as well as absurdity and mischief.

While St. Leon, with various coadjutors and ministers, endeavoured
to effect such moral, religious, and political changes, among human
beings, another very noted person laboured with equal activity, and
greater ardour, to fashion one half of mankind to the new doctrines.
This was Jemima, the celebrated propounder of a new theory, and a new
system of practice, for the information and use of women.

Ever desirous of tracing moral effects to moral causes, Hamilton was
at great pains to enquire into the parentage, education, temperament,
habits, and conduct of Miss Jemima, in the hopes of being able to
discover whence sprang her aberrations from common sense, and from
the principles and sentiments which the experience of mankind, in all
ages, has found it most beneficial to society to cherish among women.
Of this female champion, he found means to learn the history, as well
as the doctrines and opinions. Jemima, it seems, was a woman of strong
and lively parts, and ardent feelings; who, not having found the
world to her mind, proposed to model it to her wishes. She had lived
to the age of thirty, without any invitation to marriage, although
very strongly disposed to that state, and finding little chance of
getting a man married to herself, had cast her eyes upon a man that was
married to another. But the intervention of a wife, either stopped or
limited the proposed converse with this object; and finding celibacy
no longer tolerable, she was filled with rage at the restraints which
all civilized societies have imposed upon women; the rigour of
which was strongly enhanced, by the contrast that it exhibited with
the free and uncontrouled range of the ladies of Otaheite. She had
hitherto conformed to the absurd and aristocratical ideas respecting
female reputation; but these she now resolved to renounce, and to
live openly in a state for which _she had long secretly panted_[7],
and having before abjured religion, without regarding its precepts,
she took to herself a mate; or in the language of the vulgar, became
a kept mistress. It was neither a new nor extraordinary occurrence in
itself, for a woman tired of being a maid, and that had not succeeded
in becoming a wife, to become a concubine; but an event intrinsically
not very material, may be important in its consequences. Like Dr.
Sangrado, she was not content with practicing herself according to
the line which she had marked, but must prescribe the same course of
medicine to all others. She must construct a theory, and write a book.
But as chastity was not the only restraint which civilized society
requires to be imposed on women, she proceeded at once to change their
condition in the community, and in freedom of conduct, as well as the
nature of their pursuits, to place them on the same footing with men.
To compass this purpose, Jemima’s first care was in this her book,
to instruct the understandings of the sex in the _rights of women_.
These, in a few words, were _to act in every case according to their
own pleasure_; and to share in all the prerogatives of men. They were
to be soldiers, sailors, senators, politicians, scholars, philosophers,
and rakes; they were also to be coachmen, postillions, blacksmiths,
carpenters, coal-heavers, &c. She addressed herself to the love of
glory, by which so many of the fair are eminently distinguished, to
incite them to rivalry. She trusted the time would soon arrive, when
the sex would acquire high renown in boxing matches, sword and pistol;
and when nails, the weapons at present employed in deciding their
contests, should be no longer in occupation. Not only the instruments
of war, but the military tactics should be changed; the hair, caps,
and cloaths, were to be no longer the points of attack; women were
to use knock-me-down blows, tierce and cart, point give point, St.
George’s guard. If a lady at a rout, for instance, happened to quarrel
about an odd trick, instead of tearing her own fan, let her challenge
her antagonist, “Damn your eyes, I will darken your day-lights; let
us strip to our dickies this instant, as the fashion goes, the way
is not far: the Countess of Coniac shall be bottle-holder; it is an
office she likes.” By Jemima’s orders they might use dexterity, as well
as prowess, and sometimes fall without a blow. At wrestling let them
bar tripping, unless the antagonist be a man, for then it is fair. To
illustrate, by example, the characters which she wished to form, as
the Squaws and Otaheites were at too great a distance, she mentioned
the ladies that attended the fruit-markets at Covent-Garden, and the
fish-markets at Billingsgate. These, however, were far surpassed by
their sisters in France, the _dames du Halles_, and the _poissardes_.
The English fair above-mentioned, only unsex themselves as far as
feminine softness extends; but the French fair laid aside all feminine
tenderness, and being as ferocious as the most savage soldier of Attila
or Kouli Khan, were much more complete models of the hardened state
which Jemima proposed women to attain. To divest English women entirely
of delicacy and tenderness, sanguine as the projectress was, she feared
would be impracticable; but still she trusted she might have partial
and considerable success.

Hamilton, admiring the genius which beamed through this excentricity
of pernicious inculcation, sought the acquaintance of Jemima, and was
received with great complacency. She saw he was not yet a convert to
her doctrines, or to those of her friends, Topsiturvy and St. Leon;
she hoped that her philosophy would at length prevail over his present
prejudices, that he might become a powerful cooperator in the grand
work of _transmogrifying_ human nature; and she judged him peculiarly
qualified for the conversion of women. Ever since Jemima undertook
to form a new sect, she, in imitation of Whitfield, the coalheaver,
and other _pattern makers_, held private meetings to discuss with the
pupils the symptoms of conversion, their progress in the new faith,
and the probability of complete proselytism. Though a woman presided
at these assemblies, they did not resemble the secrecy and mystery
of the Bona Dea of ancient Rome, to whose festivals no male creature
was suffered to enter; and where a Clodius must disguise himself in a
woman’s habit before he could be admitted. To be received into Jemima’s
meetings, a Clodius need only avow his proper character, than which
none could be better fitted for the practical extension of Jemima’s
doctrines. To one of these meetings our hero received an invitation.
He found a considerable number of guests, but chiefly females. Jemima,
having unfortunately forgotten that an assembly was held at a tavern,
to deliberate _after_ dinner upon politics and philosophy, the last
subject not to begin till after the _sixteenth_ round of toasts, and
that some of her particular friends must be of the party, had fewer
visitors than usual. The first quarter of an hour shewed no kind
of revolution in manners and customs, being occupied by the fair
attendants in the same way as if they had been at church before the
service began, that is, in critical remarks on the bonnets, cloaks,
and handkerchiefs of each other; the dress, face, and figure of the
men. Under the two last heads our hero received great commendation.
One lady that was near him declared, in an audible whisper, that he
was an Adonis, Apollo, and Hercules, in one; “but then,” said another
lady, “he is married;” “married!” replied the first, with great
contempt, “you, a disciple of Jemima, and a votary of St. Leon, talk
of marriage! Marriage is a shameful aristocratical monopoly. Why should
so charming a man be _engrossed_?”--“Pray do not talk so loud, Madam,”
said the other. “There again,” said the first, “you forget the precepts
of the adorable Jemima, and the divine St. Leon, that in converse
between the sexes nothing is more unbecoming than secrecy.” “You
yourself,” said a third, “forget the precepts of our great instructors;
you used the term divine, a sound without meaning.”--“I stand
corrected; but the language of old prejudice and darkness will intrude
insensibly into new philosophy and light.” The second lady, observing a
cloak with a very broad border of fine lace, said, in a half jest, she
wished she had an opportunity of getting hold of that cloak. “What,”
said the third, “would you steal?”--“Steal,” said she; “is this your
progress; are not we taught that property is an absurd institution?
She has a surplus of lace; I have a deficiency. Have I not a right
to equalization?” Monrose, who happened to overhear this dialogue,
observed, “women, you are yet only advancing, without having reached
the end of your journey. I shall lend you a spur myself.”--“Thanks,
Monrose, you will interpret and familiarize the profound wisdom of St.
Leon. But hold, here comes our sublime instructress.”

Jemima now ascended a pulpit, from which she addressed the female
part of her hearers. “Women, great objects of my care, I have learned
that there are many who approve the exemption which I have proposed
from the aristocratical restraints, to which the monopolizing tyranny
of men has subjected our sex; who agree with me that women should
be as free as light or air, but like not the toils, hardships, and
dangers of a participation with the men. But let me explain to you the
blessings that are mingled with these apparent hardships; ye, who are
not moved by glory to a sublime rivalry with the hitherto domineering
lords of the creation, to the discharge of masculine duties, should
recollect that there are feminine inducements; with competition in
their labours, you have uncontrouled converse with your rivals. If
heroines mingle with military heroes in the ranks, they also join them
in their tents. If the naval hero and heroine are stationed by the same
gun, they also may be stationed in the same hammock. The hardships of
honour are relieved by the softness of love. If one of my aspiring
pupils should wish to become a stateswoman, and constitute part of
the cabinet, may she not share the now unoccupied affections of our
prime minister, as well as his counsels; or, if she do not affect the
treasurer’s staff, she may be associated with the gallant _minister for
the home department_. Intermingling in various other manly, active, and
laborious occupations, you, my disciples, will be agreeably soothed by
those companions whose hardiness you seek to emulate, when you become
carpenters, brick-layers, stonemasons, tin-women, and smiths. You
will participate in the pleasures, as well as occupations of social
converse; journeywomen and journeymen will be as free, communicative,
and joyous as are the present haymakers of the two sexes. But in
literary and intellectual employments, you will often club with your
rivals. The gentle novel-writer, and the fierce critic will associate
like the lamb and the tyger in the age of Cumean prophecy. The masters
of academies, and mistresses of boarding schools will be no longer
separate professions: young men and young women will be educated
together, and the sweet reciprocations of juvenile sensibility will
qualify the acrimony of rivalry; and, as I trust, in that improved
state of civil society, political institutions will be meliorated
in proportion; no censure or punishment will follow those amiable
young who themselves follow the impulses of nature. The absurdity of
parental affection will, on the side of the fathers, be thoroughly
eradicated, because, in the state recommended by St. Leon, there will
be little possibility of ascertaining among the youthful pupils who the
fathers are. In your case, my friends, there can be no uncertainty;
nevertheless, by following the inimitable precept of Rousseau, you
may soon forget to whom you are mothers. Send the offspring to the
hospitals, and let there be a large repository of that kind near every
village that abounds in boarding schools. The misses will, according
to my plan, have no occasion for that concealment which they are
now obliged to observe. Instructive books from the libraries, drill
serjeants, and dancing masters, the theory and practice of love, may be
studied and exercised as openly in and about London, as by the ladies
of Otaheite.

But, my pupils, perfection is not to be immediately attained:
our present business is to prepare for that high state of human
regeneration. Of course, we all renounce religion, the prejudice of the
unenlightened; and we all seek equality; but some degree of influence
and controul may be necessary in the present imperfect state, to fit
us for the total reprobation of religion, and the equalization of
mankind, by mowing down every inequality of fortune, rank, talents,
and virtue. I propose to imitate the absurd institutions of the
English church in one instance. There shall be two chief overseers,
and twenty-four overseers of our sex, for the purpose of changing the
heretofore approved characters of women, and diffusing among them
a proper contempt for religion and virtue, especially the sneaking
virtues of modesty and chastity. The candidates for these offices shall
be persons, who, to the utmost of their means and opportunities, have
endeavoured to eradicate these absurd principles of female conduct.
Who may be Primate will be the first consideration.” “That can
require no deliberation,” was the universal cry. “Jemima must be the
Primate.” Jemima acquiesced. “I have next to consider who should be my
colleague. There is a person now engaged in exhibiting to admiration
the most noted females, who have anticipated my doctrines by systematic
deviation, from the rules imposed upon women by aristocratic man: her
name is Mary.” She was appointed colleague by acclamation. “As to
the overseers,” proceeded Jemima, “they may be found among various
classes; but chiefly the writers of sentimental and loving novels,
great repositories of instruction; governesses and usheresses, who
convey such and other inciting works to their youthful charge; and
also parents in humble circumstances, who send their children to
boarding-schools, to learn what is to them useless, and not to learn
what is to them useful. These pupils becoming totally unfit for the
absurdity of marriage, and chaste converse, thereby become fit for
concubinage, unchaste converse, and the promiscuous intercourse which
St. Leon so strongly recommends by precept; and I am proud to say, I
still more strongly recommend by both precept and example. It would be
tedious, at present, to go over twenty-four; and the more so, as so
many in this age of increasing light, have such claims, as it might be
difficult to adjust with a due regard to equity and merit. One person,
however, I must mention. Mrs. Sonnet, though not supreme in ability,
yet has an activity and good will in the cause, that entitles her to
high consideration. All her novels have proposed to decry existing
institutions, exalt the philosophers of France, and to debase what
is called female virtue, by an attempt to shew that it depends on
accident, and not principle. Mrs. Egotist also, though not strictly
one of our votaries, yet tends to promote our interests. With great
skill and ingenuity she softens what the unenlightened call adultery,
by stiling it ‘the error of too susceptible a heart;’ also by holding
forth disobedient children as objects of praise and admiration, she
advances our favourite doctrine of the absurdity of filial duty:
most of her heroes and heroines uniformly and steadily pursue, that
rule of conduct which their parents strongly exhort them to avoid.
Thus friendly to the dissolution of domestic authority, and what the
blind call duties, Mrs. Egotist is no less ardent to decry civil,
ecclesiastical, and political authority, to represent Bishops, and
rulers of every kind as wicked, and most vehemently to reprobate the
execrable and abominable constitution, which we are obliged to suffer
in Britain. Yes, Charlotte, according to the new polity of Jemima,
you must have a mitre. There is a copartnery of either one or two
old ladies, and a young one for writing novels, neither of them are
professedly my votaries, and, indeed, are _professedly_ the contrary.
But there is one most inveterate foe of the new philosophy, known
by the name of Common Sense, and till he can be destroyed, the new
philosophy will never be fully established. Miss Twostools can bring
every page of her works, and her mother about seven-eighths of hers,
to bear witness of their hostility to Common Sense. Admirable in that
view is the story of an old Lord, who supposes himself to have a wolf
in his belly; no less admirable the many adventures of his grandson,
who, to be fitted for the peerage, was committed to the care of the
clerk of the parish, and met so many marvellous adventures as never
did, or could happen to any human being. Mrs. and Miss Twostools are
both too weak for the mitre; but for their good-will may be appointed
_bell-women_ to the cause.” Jemima ran over many other names, such
as Miss Harry Clarendon, Miss Derwent Priory, and numberless others
that our hero forgot. At length the meeting broke up, and many of the
disciples filed off in pairs, probably to study rivalry with the other
sex.

Our hero did not altogether relish this new philosophy, as the best
qualified for rendering mankind happy with their present thoughts and
sentiments, and in the present condition of society; he thought that
the system of St. Leon and Jemima, admirably as it may be adapted to
the circumstances and inclinations of asses, goats, or hogs, is not so
well suited to the situation and dispositions of _all_ men. Candour,
however, obliged our hero to admit, that the parts of this system were
so skilfully harmonized, as to make a very consistent whole, and that
universally adopted as the authors wished it would render man a most
successful imitator of the brute creation; and so far as a man would
be improved by attaining the likeness of a beast, he is indebted to
St. Leon and Jemima, for their benevolent intentions. This was a merit
which the equitable impartiality of our hero, in thought, conversation,
and writing, did not fail to ascribe to the speculative and practical
philosophy of the Political Justice and Rights of Woman.

From the literature which our author either pursued or estimated,
the thread of the story now requires that we should return to more
domestic and private occurrences. The intimacy between Hamilton and
Hamden became so close, that rarely a day passed in which the baronet
did not spend several hours at the house of his friend. When the
return of summer sent to the country most persons whose business and
fortune could permit absence from town, Sir Edward still continued in
London. Even the autumnal season did not call him from the metropolis,
either to the relaxation of watering places, or the diversions of the
country, for both of which he had formerly shewn a high relish. It may
be thought that so intense a liking for the company of a friend, as to
absorb all former predelictions and pursuits, is totally inconsistent
with nature; and that, farther, so frequent and long visits must
be prejudicial to the object of the friendship, by encroaching on
Hamilton’s time and interrupting his studies. Sentiments or conduct
not to be found in human nature, I trust, make no part of this work;
though if they did, and I chose to rest law upon mere precedent,
noted authorities would not be wanting. It may also be supposed that
disregard to the advantage of his friend would be inconsistent with
the character which Hamden has uniformly maintained. For the solution
of these difficulties, simple facts will suffice. Highly as Hamden
prized the company and conversation of our hero, yet his value for it
was not so great as to overbalance all other pursuits. His visits,
long and frequent as they were, did not interfere with the business of
Hamilton.

Disappointed in his first wish of being affianced to Maria Mortimer,
the baronet long resolved never to marry any other; but this resolution
could not prevent him from discovering and admiring excellence that
might occur in another object. So often a visitant in the house of
Hamilton, he very frequently beheld the lovely Charlotte. To the charms
of this young lady his admiration had done justice, even when his
affections were engrossed by another. The more he conversed with her,
the more he was convinced that the excellence of her mind corresponded
with the beauties and graces of her face and person; and he conceived
a very high esteem and admiration for the sister of his friend. He
knew nothing of her attachment for Mortimer; and, having been absent
from town when Charlotte received the first impressions from the
conduct of her lover, he had not witnessed the dejection which it had
first produced. Vigorous understanding and magnanimity, assisted by
a generous pride, made powerful efforts to expel from her mind all
tenderness for the man who had sacrificed love to ambition, and her
exertions were gradually attended with success, while she strove to
appear much less concerned and affected than she really was; and before
Hamden’s return, she seemed to possess her wonted cheerfulness. Esteem
for so very attractive a woman as Miss Hamilton, in such a heart as
Hamden’s, was a step towards love. With a vigorous understanding, just
principles, and polished knowledge, which rendered her a rational
companion, he, by farther acquaintance, discovered her to possess
the refined sentiments, taste, sensibility, and fascinating softness
which made her heart an inestimable treasure to any one who could be
so happy as to win its affections. Hamden was himself, in countenance
and figure, equal to any man; as tall and finely proportioned as
Mortimer, with features as regular; and a countenance that, indicating
equal spirit and intelligence, expressed much more of feeling and
tenderness. His manners and deportment were firm and commanding; but
where such qualities were requisite in the common intercourse of life,
and especially in female society, they were chiefly eminent for an
engaging impressiveness that was almost irresistible. Such softness
and delicacy, were it apart from the general cast and character of his
mind, might appear to approach to insinuation; but combined with the
penetration and strength of his intellect and undeviating integrity,
evidently resulted from feeling and not from artifice! It was manly
virtue; strong and steady in its principles, in its operations mellowed
by tenderness, and relieving force by polished softness. The attentions
of Sir Edward did not pass unperceived by Charlotte, nor altogether
unfelt; she thought him at once a most worthy and amiable man. She
could not avoid acknowledging to herself, that if she had known Hamden
as early as Mortimer, she must of the two have preferred him; but
as still some traces of her first love remained, she determined not
to listen with encouragement to the addresses of another, however
pleasing. The graces, virtues, accomplishments, and increasing
assiduity of Hamden made such progress in the mind of Charlotte as
entirely to eradicate the revolted Mortimer; and she could not avoid
wishing that she had known so very charming a youth two months sooner
than she did. She now did more than esteem his merit; she returned
his love. At length Hamden, flattering himself that he had made an
impression on the bewitching Charlotte, declared her mistress of his
destiny. Charlotte heard him with confusion; and confessing a very high
esteem for his character, and that his love did honour to any woman,
she, with evident reluctance, told him she could not be his; and here
she burst into tears. Hamden employed every means that he could devise
to soothe her mind. In the course of their interview, he wrung from
her an acknowledgment of reciprocal love; but still she adhered to her
protestation, that she could not accept his offer. The baronet, unable
to discover her objection, at length resolved to request the assistance
of her brother in removing her scruples. Informed by his friend of
all that had passed, our hero repaired to his sister; and, after a
long conversation, he, from her affection and confidence, learned her
objection to an union with a man whose passion she requited. Charlotte
had conceived a notion that a young woman not only should bestow with
her hand her heart, but also a heart that never had felt love for
another. This romantic refinement of sentiment, her understanding,
acute and powerful as it was, could not conquer. Prizing Sir Edward so
very highly, she fancied that her affections, though now devoted to
him, yet having once been Mortimer’s, were unworthy of his acceptance.
Her brother at first ridiculed this notion, but finding it too deep
and serious to bear a ludicrous exposure, he argued gravely, clearly,
and forcibly on the subject; and concluded with telling her that her
situation in that respect resembled her lover’s. Each had cherished
other attachments; but, as the objects were out of their reach, and
out of their hearts, and they were now the votaries of mutual love,
there was no reasonable obstruction to her compliance with the wishes
of so amiable a man. Though Charlotte did not yield to this reasoning,
Hamilton saw that it was not without impression. Maria seconded the
instances of her husband; still, however, they did not conquer; but
they did not despair that the victory would be obtained, if not by the
auxiliaries, by the commander in chief himself. Sir Edward, informed of
the ground of defence which Charlotte had taken, exerted his talents
and skill with so much dexterity as at length to prove successful.
Mrs. Hamilton, senior, who was now on a visit to her father, was sent
for express; and her brother was requested to accompany her, and to
perform the ceremony; but the old gentleman declared that he himself
should undertake that office for his grand-daughter, as he had done
for his grand-son. His son and daughter would have dissuaded him from
encountering a journey in the winter season, but the old gentleman
replied, he was no more afraid of the eighty-third winter than any of
its predecessors. He accordingly accompanied them to town, and had the
pleasure of embracing his great grand-son, now a fine child almost a
year old. In a few days after his arrival the nuptials were celebrated,
and Charlotte Hamilton became Lady Hamden.



CHAP. V.


A FEW weeks after the event with which we closed the preceding chapter,
letters arrived from Mr. Hamilton, of Etterick, containing various
articles of intelligence; which, that we may introduce in proper
connection to our readers, it is necessary to revert to a character of
considerable notoriety in these memoirs, the methodistical preacher
and moral practitioner, Mr. Roger O’Rourke. This personage having,
as we have already recorded, departed from Tetbury in company with a
silver tankard belonging to the landlord, and some other articles,
which his dexterity had picked up from his entertainers at the love
feast, departed from public roads, and skulked about the forest of
Dean for several days; but having there seen a woodman, whom he
recollected to have met at Gloucester, and fearing to be traced, he
again crossed the country into Wiltshire. On Cherril Downs he came
up with a solitary lady; and was the identical person who robbed and
frightened Mrs. Raymond. He had seen the travellers; and, though at
a distance, recognized the air and figure of Hamilton: therefore he
made the best of his way. Not doubting that a hue and cry would be
immediately raised after him, he, with extraordinary expedition, made
his way to Dorsetshire; thence, turning to the right, he proceeded
into North Devon, and arrived at Biddeford. There he found a vessel
about to depart for St. David’s, in Wales; and, having no want of
money, took his passage for that port; whence he hoped to find some
conveyance to Cork or Waterford, where he expected to be safe from the
pursuit of the English laws; and should be also at a great distance
from Dundalk, and other scenes of his former pastimes in the north. In
a short time, he procured a conveyance, reached Cork, tried his hand
at methodism, but found the men of Munster little disposed to leave
their favourite popery for any other theory: as he could not convert
them to his theology, his next best project was to convert himself to
their theology. He declared himself a catholic, ready and willing to
become an united Irishman; or to join in whatever was going forward.
He professed he had been brought up to the catholic church, treated
the fathers of that persuasion with plenty of whisky, merry jokes, and
other gratifications agreeable to their reverences; being enabled
to live freely and expensively by the liberality of a rich quaker’s
widow: her the spirit moved to yearn unto him as one that she wished to
make her lord and master, as soon as _three_ months of mourning should
be expired; and, during the remaining _two and a half_, she admitted
him to all the privileges of a husband, except the name. O’Rourke
would have willingly turned quaker, or any thing else, for the lady’s
fortune; but, afraid that his former marriage might be discovered,
before the time stipulated by Mrs. Stiffrump, he bethought himself of
chousing her of her property without any legal contract; and, turning
priest to enjoy the spoils among the fair penitents who, he presumed,
would flock to his confessional, having been always eminent for his
influence among the female votaries of any religion that he happened
for the time to profess. He won so much upon the holy fathers, that in
a month he was admitted one of their order; but not before he had the
misfortune to discover that the widow possessed only the income of her
late husband’s property; the reversion being secured to his relations.
Though this revenue was considerable, yet it was far short of the
profusion of O’Rourke: the lady’s current cash was exhausted; and her
lover, finding she could not by anticipation receive a supply, took
with him her last twenty pounds, a gold watch, and other trinkets, and
without any farther ceremony left her for ever. He now officiated as a
priest, and traversed the country, confessing the women; and exhorting
the men to what he called the emancipation of Ireland. At length, he
visited Dublin, and money falling short, devised various schemes for
levying contributions among saints and other sinners. Finding no want
of methodists in the metropolis of Ireland, which that, as well as
other follies of Britain, fail not to visit, he privately professed
himself a methodist believer, and publicly a popish priest; through
the two he earned a tolerable livelihood. He now became acquainted
with a noted courtezan, who was at great pains to win such a lover,
because she thought her other gallants might by his strength and size
be over-awed to such contributions as she might chuse to require. She
succeeded with Roger, and became so completely mistress over him,
that he ran into extravagant expences. Our preacher had not regularly
followed the occupation of visiting the highways; but he had not let
his arms entirely rust for want of practice. At Cork, in the country,
and in Dublin, he had repeatedly collected supplies for pressing
exigencies; but was too fond of ease and pleasure to take to that
avocation, unless when he was run out of money.

In the present pressure he set off in a carter’s frock late in the
evening, for an alley near a noted gaming-house. There he watched
until he saw a gentleman come out alone, and at the turning of a
corner he presented a pistol; the other made some resistance, but
was over-powered, and forced to deliver his money. O’Rourke having
accomplished his purpose, without taking any precautions to prevent
pursuit, was hastening away, when a serjeant and a party came up on
their way to relieve guard; the robber was running off, the gentleman
gave the alarm, the soldiers pursued, the preacher, in his hurry,
stumbled over a post, and being dashed on the pavement, lay for some
time stunned. In such circumstances he was secured, pinioned, and
carried to the guard-house, where a banker’s book, with the name of the
gentleman, who was well-known to the soldiers, written on the outside,
was found on him, and also a purse, which the gentleman immediately
identified. The next morning he was carried before a justice, and the
evidence being so unquestionable, he was committed for trial: the
sessions being then sitting, he in a few days was tried, condemned, and
the following week hanged, without expressing any sign of penitence;
and so ended the mortal peregrinations of the methodistical apostle,
Roger O’Rourke. The impartial reader, I doubt not will allow, that
the catastrophe of this missionary naturally resulted from his united
faith and practice; and that whoever conceives faith to supersede the
necessity of moral virtue, and to permit the unbounded gratification
of desires; and acting consistently with such doctrines, allows
unlimited indulgence to his passions, takes one of the most direct
roads to the gallows. There was said to be a dispute, whether the
preacher died a methodist or a Roman. This point I have never been
able to ascertain, and, indeed, regard it of no more consequence
of what religious profession a hardened villain dies, than whether
the hypocrite Cantwell, the disciple of methodism, or the hypocrite
Tartuffe, the disciple of Romanism, the more deserved to be hanged,
when _both_ deserved it so incontrovertibly.

Having conducted the husband to his end, we must now pass over to
Scotland to visit his wife. Ever since her return from England, the
daughter of Etterick had been in a state of dejection and despondency,
from the absence and misconduct of her husband, which last did not
fail to reach her ears down to his adventures at Tetbury. Several
months after her arrival at her father’s house, she lost her only
child; and the addition of this new grief, joined with the former in
throwing her into a consumption, from which it was soon foreseen she
would never recover. A person from Selkirk was in Dublin, between the
trial and execution of O’Rourke, and found means to see him in the
condemned hold, and thereby to be assured that he was the identical
son-in-law of the laird of Etterick; he also learned many particulars
of his late history, from his fellow-convicts and the turnkeys, to
whom the preacher most frankly communicated his principal exploits.
In too great eagerness to communicate dismal news, the Selkirk man
wrote to the laird a minute and circumstantial account of O’Rourke’s
last adventures; not forgetting the impenitent obduracy with which
he braved eternity. When this letter arrived, the old gentleman was
taking his afternoon glass, in his daughter’s apartment, while she,
in the last stage of weakness, sought some relief from the uniformity
of the sick bed, by reclining in an easy chair. Her father read the
letter, and having seen its result, fell back on his seat without
sense or motion. Having rung for servants, to afford her parent that
assistance which she was unable to give herself, she snatched up the
letter by which he was so grievously affected, and soon found that she
was much more intimately and fatally concerned. Profligate ruffian
as he was, she deplored him not as an abandoned miscreant, but as
the husband whom she had so tenderly loved. On her deeper grief, the
shock was less instantaneously violent than on her father. She, with
determined calmness, desired to be carried to bed; the physician not
to be sent for, but the clergyman to be fetched immediately. The first
order was disobeyed, but the second was directly executed. The Doctor
announced to the father, now recovered to sorrow, that the dissolution
of his child was inevitable; that he, and with him the whole faculty,
could do no more. The clergyman, whom she had daily consulted during
the progress of her malady, on what now concerned her much nearer
than life, declared to her father, that since it was evidently the
will of Providence she should be withdrawn from this vale of tears,
never did he find a woman or man more thoroughly prepared by genuine
christianity, for undergoing the aweful change. She languished out that
evening, and a part of the following day, and, without a struggle, at
three in the afternoon, she breathed her last; a premature and fatal
victim to the excess of parental indulgence, which at so youthful an
age suffered her to follow her girlish fancy, and to become the wife of
a man whose merits they had never known, and had much reason to doubt.

As a father, Etterick was tenderly afflicted by the death of his
daughter, and in such melancholy circumstances. Nevertheless, when the
first shock being over, allowed time and opportunity for reflexion,
he could not help acknowledging to himself, and to his friends,
the clergyman and physician, that he had very strong grounds of
consolation. At first he had been hurried and surprized to consent
to the marriage of his child, rather than persuaded and induced, and
during many years had regarded the connection with abhorrence. The
family of Etterick had been always distinguished for honour and
reputation, and its present representative had a very high idea of its
dignity. Kind and affectionate he had loved his grandchild, but could
not help repining, that the child of such a miscreant eventually was to
be proprietor of Etterick. His nephew, Hamilton, he loved and admired
to adoration; and now would sometimes dwell on the elevation of the
house of Etterick, when William should be its head: and the fourth day
after Mrs. O’Rourke’s decease, when the clergyman was administering
the soothing comforts of religion, the laird heard him with the most
profound gravity, and after some cessation, asked if there was not
a talk about a vacancy in the county: “Willie, now that he is heir
of Etterick, I think might stand a good chance; and if he were in
parliament, would be an extraordinary honour to our family.” The
clergyman saw that the laird, though he sorrowed, did not sorrow like
those without hope.

At the desire of the old gentleman, he wrote to Hamilton an account of
these events, and urged him to lose no time in repairing to Scotland.
The laird was willing and ready to resign to him three-fourths of the
estate and personal property. The former, by the rise of rents, was now
upwards of six thousand a-year; the latter, by the œconomy of Etterick,
added to the fortune of the Sourkrouts, was at least forty thousand
pounds. This was the substance of the letter that was sent to our hero.

The morning on which it arrived in London, Hamilton received, by
appointment, a bookseller, who was come to make a bargain with him,
concerning a work of three volumes 8vo. The bookseller was strictly
honest, but very hard. Hamilton knowing his own powers and fame,
demanded four hundred pounds per volume: the other began with offering
two hundred and fifty; and as Hamilton would not hear of this proposal,
rose to three hundred; still the author would not bend. The bookseller
knowing Hamilton did not depend entirely on his efforts, and that
it was his own interest to advance in his offer, even to Hamilton’s
demands, said--“Mr. Hamilton, you are a liberal gentleman, as well
as an able writer, do come down somewhat; now let us split the
difference.” Hamilton mused, and appeared to the other not unlikely to
yield, when a servant entering, delivered him a letter with a black
seal, and the Selkirk post mark. Requesting his visitor’s permission to
peruse the epistle, he opened it, and was evidently much affected by
the contents. After several minutes of silence, and thoughtfulness, he
at length said, “Well, Sir, you have been my chief employer, were the
first who highly appreciated my productions, and you have paid me well
and regularly, I shall execute for you the work you propose; I shall
not split the difference with you; you shall have the performance at
three hundred pounds per volume.” The other, after heartily thanking
him for his liberality, appeared curious to know what connection it
had with the letter. Our hero, in general, explained the change that
had taken place; but his determination to finish the work, for the
sake of an employer, by whom he had been always handsomely treated.
The bookseller taking his leave, Maria, who knew nothing of the
intelligence from Scotland, came to the study, and asked how he had
settled with the bookseller: he mentioned the terms.--“I thought,” she
said, “you were resolved to have four hundred pounds.”--“I was,” he
replied, “but I changed my mind; for a reason that I shall by and by
explain to you, and of which my dear Maria will approve.”--“That,” she
replied, “I am convinced I shall. How long a time do you think the work
will require?”--“A year and a half may finish it, and leave me time for
periodical labours. Last year our income, besides our own four hundred,
was six hundred, and this year it will be more.”--“Yes,” said Maria,
“it was in all a thousand, and I dare say will be twelve hundred; and
if we cannot be happy on such a revenue, with our growing prospects
from my uncle, and your grandfather and uncle Wentbridge, we should be
dissatisfied with the fortunes of my brother and Louisa, your sister
and Sir Edward Hambden.”--“It is not impossible,” said our hero, “but
we may have to try a similar experiment, to ascertain our content or
discontent. I have no doubt but our fortune will very soon surpass
your brother’s, and be in a fair way of equalling Sir Edward’s.” Maria
stared. “I don’t understand you, my dear, what do you mean? you are
certainly castle-building.”--“The castle is already built; and now,
Maria, I have a very important piece of intelligence to communicate
to you.” He accordingly explained to her the information he had just
received, and gave her the letter to peruse.

To pretend that Maria was so exalted and disinterested, as to grieve
at the death of a cousin, who was not peculiarly engaging, with whom
she was on no terms of friendship, beyond mere civility and attention;
when the departure of that cousin made her husband possessor of six
thousand a year, and heir to two thousand more, would be to pretend
that this Maria was totally different from all other Marias in their
sober senses. William and she very tenderly congratulated each other,
and rang for their two children. The little boy, just entered the
third year of his age, was returned from seeing the soldiers exercise,
and, in a minute, they heard him in the passage, calling as well as he
could, “Right, right,” and he entered in a marching step, with his gun
shouldered, and fixed bayonet. He advanced to charge upon his father,
but instead of parrying, as usual, and playing with the child, the
father eagerly snatching him in his arms, and congratulated him on the
providential change: his infant sister being brought by the servant,
he solemnly prayed to Heaven that his children might prove worthy of
the situation which they were now destined to fill in society; that
little Maria might resemble her charming and estimable mother; and
that Charles might do honour to the family which he would eventually
represent. When the parents had given vent to their affections, and
recovered themselves, Hamilton set out to inform his mother of the
state of affairs, and to assure her, that her income should rise in
proportion to his. It is needless to say, the mother heartily rejoiced
at this momentous change in the situation of her adored son; but
she immediately declared that she would receive no addition to her
revenue, which was fully adequate to her wants and habits of life.
Hamilton resolved to conquer in this point, but without contesting it
at present. His mother said, she supposed he would write to her father
and brother immediately; but he replied, he would deliver them the
intelligence himself, having only to see Sir Edward, and set off post
that afternoon for Etterick. He took her promise to be with Maria till
his return, repaired to the Baronet’s, who was proudly joyful to find
that such a connection and friend, was now about to move in a sphere
which he was so well qualified to adorn. Returning to his house he took
a hasty dinner with Maria, and set off at six o’clock; the next evening
he reached Dr. Wentbridge’s, at Weatherby, just as his father and he
were sitting down to an early supper, and removed their surprize at
his journey, by joy for its cause. He was prevailed on to take a few
hours’ sleep, and departing with the dawn of July, he, about the same
time the following morning, arrived at the mansion of his ancestors.
He found the old gentleman extremely anxious for his arrival: the
funeral had been deferred, until Hamilton coming, should officiate
as chief mourner; his uncle finding himself totally incapable of that
task: it was now fixed for two days after. The old gentleman, who was
very eager to invest his nephew with the bulk of his property, and the
direction of his affairs, had a deed ready drawn up, conformable to
what had been written to his nephew; and it was that very day properly
executed. A few days after the interment, the old gentleman called
together his tenants to his hall, and publicly announced his nephew as
their landlord. The farmers greatly rejoiced at events which entirely
relieved them from the apprehensions of having for their laird a
profligate unprincipled adventurer; and though they did not know much
of the new proprietor, they had heard enough of him to entertain a
very high opinion of him; and this was greatly increased by his frank
and engaging manners, and the graces of his face and figure. Of his
person, exquisitely as it was formed, many of them chiefly admired the
heighth and strength; and as they went home, well-primed with ale and
whiskey, they declared that the _deevil a stouter, better-bigged man_
than their young laird, would enter the _shire town_, or even walk at
the cross of _Embro’_; and from a Scottish peasant this was a very high
eulogium.

The old gentleman expressed an ardent desire, that Maria and the
children would make Etterick their summer residence; and also prevail
on his niece, Lady Hambden, with her husband and mother, to join the
party. Hamilton undertook to have this wish accomplished; and having
finished all the business that was immediately pressing, he himself
went south to conduct his family and friends. Early in September
they arrived, and were so pleased with the autumnal amusements and
festivities, and above all, the hospitality and kindness of the “land
of cakes,” that November terminated, before Sir Edward and Lady Hambden
returned with young Mortimer and Louisa, who, a month before, had
arrived at Etterick house. They left the old laird recovered from his
grief, and delighted with the wife and children of his nephew, while
William himself he idolized. At the Michaelmas county court, it became
publicly known that the member for the shire intended speedily to
vacate his seat. Among the freeholders, young Mr. Hamilton of Etterick,
was immediately mentioned, as a gentleman from his situation in the
county, one of the fittest that could be their representative; and
from his abilities, acquirements, and accomplishments, qualified to
reflect lustre on his constituents. The proposition was favourably
received, and Hamilton was induced to declare himself candidate.
There was no opposition, and the election took place a few days
before Sir Edward’s departure. As parliament that season was not to
meet till the end of January, our hero, with his family and mother,
passed the Christmas holidays at Etterick; and soon after new year’s
day, set off for London, whither his uncle also accompanied them. On
their way visiting the venerable old vicar, who was now at Brotherton
parsonage, accompanied by his dutiful and attentive son, the aged
patriarch proposed again to revisit London. His friends, though
somewhat apprehensive of such a journey to his age, yet trusted, that
by easy stages, and by every possible attention to his accommodation,
he might accomplish the expedition without inconvenience. The old
clergyman, by the express stipulation of his great grandson, little
Hamilton, was to travel in the same carriage with that young soldier,
with whom he was a mighty favourite. Old Maxwell was still alive, and
delighted with little Charles, who bore a very striking resemblance
to his grandfather, General Hamilton; and to his father, whom Maxwell
prized no less highly, and more highly he could prize no man, than that
gallant officer whom he had first taught the military exercise, and
afterwards sheltered under disaster. The old man himself was in easy
circumstances, but our Hamilton made particular enquiry concerning his
relations, resolving and promising to use his influence and exertions
for their benefit.

For some weeks after he took his seat Hamilton was silent; but a
grand question arising which he thoroughly knew, he could not forbear
speaking on the side of the constitution and social order. His
speech astonished not only persons who were strangers to the powers
of Hamilton, but even his intimate friends; and Sir Edward Hambden
declared, that the genius of Hamilton rose with the theatre on which it
was exerted. The information and reasoning were such as he expected;
but the energetic and impressive eloquence he could not have looked
for, from even a man of eminent abilities, who was not accustomed to
parliamentary exhibitions. Among the audience in the gallery was the
old laird, who had a great pleasure in resorting to the house, not for
the eloquence he might hear there, but for seeing his nephew among
the members. He had no preconception that William was to open on this
occasion, and was actually engaged in a whispering conversation with
one of the reporters, who was the son of a farmer on his estate,
when the voice of his nephew reached his ears, and with the warmest
eagerness he called out, so as to be heard through most of the gallery,
“_It is our ain Willie_.” His friend whispered him--“Pray do not speak
so loud, you may interrupt your nephew.”--“_Vara weel Sandy, I’ll
be as quiet as a moose._ But Willie is too quiet himself, I wish he
would speak better _oot_: the _booy_ is _blate_ at first.” William
having for some time spoken in that low tone of voice, and modest
humility of manner, which results from ingenuous sensibility, on a
first appearance before the ablest assembly in the world, at length
acquired more firmness, and, as he warmed, entered into all the merit
and interest of his subject. With the powers of his understanding, and
the movements of his heart, his voice, tones, and gestures, and, above
all, his eyes, were in thorough unison. All was energy, interest, and
impression. A dead stillness ruled over the house, as if a Sheridan,
Fox, or a Pitt, had been speaking; not a whisper was heard, except low
breathings of admiration. _One_ indeed would whisper to his neighbour,
“_Vara weel laad_.” Hamilton having finished, the chief orators of both
parties vied with each other, in bestowing praises on this exhibition
of the young member. The question being adjourned, our hero went
to the lobby, to look for his uncle, and just as he met him, found
himself surrounded by gentlemen, congratulating him on the fame he had
established at the very outset of his parliamentary career. Mr. Dundas,
to whom our hero was known, came to him, with Mr. Pitt, who testified
the highest admiration of the union of knowledge, philosophy, and
eloquence. “Happy I am,” said he, “Mr. Hamilton, that our cause has
received such a powerful accession; and that when this venerable sage
(turning to a gentleman near him) is about to withdraw from parliament,
a youth enters, who has adopted his sentiments and principles, and
who so powerfully treads in the steps of him, who first exposed the
genuine nature of the revolutionary system.” The senator announced, by
this description, grasping the hand of our hero, said, “I still have
hopes of the salvation of my country; our youth are not all misled by
destructive theory. Sir, your powers are extraordinary, and are exerted
for your king and country, when such exertions are wanted. You have
read much, and reflected more; your deductions are just as they are
forcible; your feelings are the feelings of loyal and patriotic virtue;
the brilliancy of your eloquence is surpassed only by its depth and
its truth. Of oratory, as well as writing, you demonstrate that the
principle and source is wisdom.

 Sapere bene _dicendi_ principium et fons.”

Our hero modestly replied, “Having read, sir, Aristotle and Bacon,
Cicero and Burke, and endeavoured to imbibe lessons and sentiments,
which I so much admired, I am naturally a friend to mixed government,
modified and rational liberty, and an enemy to uncontrouled licence.”
Burke again squeezing his hand--“You must, Mr. Hamilton, gratify an
old man, by helping me to pass the Easter holidays; I shall learn your
address, and pay you my respects, in hopes of making our arrangements
for Beaconsfield.” Messrs. Fox and Sheridan paid our hero high
compliments. Mr. Fox said, “_Cum talis fis utinam noster esses_.”
Burke, who had moved a little aside, hearing this wish, said aloud,
“_Dii avertite omen_.” About this time, a very loud sobbing was heard
from a corner. The humanity of Burke directed him to the place, and
he found the sobbing issued from an elderly gentleman. In a soothing
voice, he begged to know if he could give any assistance, or alleviate
his grief?--“It is not g-r-i-e-f,” replied the other, “it is j-o-y.”
When our hero coming up, addressed the gentleman by the appellation
of uncle, Burke immediately comprehended the case, and was very much
amused and interested. He congratulated the uncle on the nephew, and
included him in the invitation to Beaconsfield.

The uncle and nephew having gone home, the laird finding the old
clergyman and his son, and both the Mrs. Hamiltons waiting for them
in the supper-room, called out with great emotion, “_I pity you aw,
nane of ye half kenns Willie; nay, for that matter, I did not half
kenn him mysel_.” Hamilton smiled. “What is the matter, uncle?” said
Maria.--“Willie made a speech! Willie made a speech!” and he strutted
through the room: “if you want to _ken_ what kind of speech it was,
ask Mr. _Pett_ and Mr. Dundas, the _saaviours_ of their country;
and ask Mr. Burke, that spoke up for the gentry and dignity of the
country, against rapscallions: he has _inveeted_ Willie and me to his
country _hoose_. Nay, even Mr. Fox, though I suspect he is one of them
as they call Foxites, or democrats, or jacobins, which they tell me
is all _ane_, he praised Willie, and said something in _laatin_ to
him; but you may be all _prood_ of Willie.” Sir Edward Hambden now
arriving, gave the company a full explanation of what they had, in a
considerable degree understood, even from the report of the laird;
and placed the whole speech before them, to their great admiration
and delight. Our hero said very little, except merely rectifying his
uncle’s mistake about Foxites. Neither they, nor their leaders, he
believed were democrats; and he was still more convinced they were not
jacobins, though some parts of their conduct had a tendency to promote
democratical principles and practices.

Our hero having thus laid the foundation of parliamentary fame,
persevered in his career, and was always most distinguished on the
most arduous subjects. He was caressed and courted by the chief men
of the land, presented, with his lady, to their Majesties, and both
received with the most benignant complacency. He had now, though
only twenty-nine, reached a high elevation of fortune, and a much
higher elevation of honour. A rank in society, which he had only
faintly hoped to attain in the decline of years, he now realized in
the youthful vigour of life. His beloved Maria was placed in that
sphere, which she was so well fitted to adorn, and to which it had
been the utmost ambition of his love that she might be raised. To his
growing family, he saw the certainty of opulence and distinction,
and resolved to make it his chief care, that the understandings and
hearts of his children, should be adequate to their fortunes. He saw
his friends prosperous and happy around him, and his absent brother,
for professional talents and enterprize, was promoted to command a
frigate; while his uncle, Captain Wentbridge, who had intended to
divide a considerable property among the children of his sister,
with a mere honorary legacy to his brother, who required or wanted
no pecuniary addition, now destined his second nephew his heir, as
both Hamilton and Lady Hambden had so very ample provisions. Our hero
prevailed on his mother, to accept of as much addition to her income,
as could afford her the comfort of a carriage. He himself persevered
with his literary engagements, and notwithstanding his parliamentary
occupations, completed them within the specified time. Besides the
nine hundred pounds for the three volumes, he had to receive about one
hundred and fifty pounds of a balance on other accounts. As he now had
no occasion to earn profits from literary labours, he resolved to apply
the proceeds to a purpose of the highest consequence to the advancement
of literature. He presented the sum, in all a thousand guineas, to
that WISE AND BENEFICIAL INSTITUTION--THE LITERARY FUND. Placed in
such hands, he knew it would be employed with combined benignity
and discrimination; and that when enlightened dispensers of bounty
administer relief, they so model the donation and mode, as to alleviate
distress without wounding ingenuous sensibility.

The good fortune of Hamilton was pleasing to many of his acquaintances,
and to all his ABLE literary associates. These trusting to their
own efforts and fame, had no motives for repining at the success
of another. But a considerable number of _professed_ votaries of
literature were enraged at his prosperity, though not ill-pleased that
it withdrew him from a field, in which they had the folly to look on
him as a competitor. Of those who were the most violently provoked
against that Providence that elevated Hamilton, the most incessantly
querulous, and furiously acrimonious, was poor Doctor Dicky Scribble,
who was now at as great pains to vilify the parliamentary exhibitions
of Hamilton, as he formerly had been to revile his literary works.
This virulence Dicky poured out in the midst of warm professions of
friendship. Hence many may suppose, that Dicky Scribble is a very
faithless and bad man. He is not so naturally; he is only so from
the accident of situation. _Scribble is a bad man, because he is a
bad writer_; he pours out calumny, not against all, for all do not
interfere with him; but against all writers or intellectual labourers
of growing or established reputation. He calls on them “with no
friendly voice, but to tell them in his darkness how he hates their
light.” Poor Dicky not only supposes himself to have _common sense_,
and that is _straining hypothesis much too far_, but in an infatuation
of self-conceit, bordering upon insanity, fancies himself to be above
ordinary mediocrity; and, astonishing to say, even dreams he is a
man of genius; a notion that proves the justness of one of Swift’s
observations--“That there is no proposition so absurd, but that it will
be believed by some of mankind.” The Doctor is the more enraged against
Hamilton, because he is enraged against his own situation. The world in
general, or at least that part of it which happens to know any thing
of Scribble and his writings, have unfortunately found out that he is
a mere plodding literary blockhead. The booksellers know this opinion,
and none of them now give him any employment, except one or two, who
have some compassion on him, since they conceived him in his labours
an indefatigable drudge. They allow him something for his subsistence,
from the same generous motives which induce a liberal farmer to allow
to his _exhausted donkies_, the run of some of his poorer fields, and
an ass can feed very comfortably on thistles. Dicky is at present
occupied in writing a treatise, to prove that neither Pitt nor Fox,
have any more than common abilities; and that both are deplorably
deficient in eloquence.

Billy Nincompoop, of the Gallimatia Press, still employs Scribble in
the novel line; but as there is said to be a great want of work among
milliners, from the hardness of the times, in the journey-women Dicky
will find formidable rivals. Nincompoop, I am credibly informed, has
two hundred and fifty new romances just a-coming.

The husband of the worthy friend at Brighton, of a gay Countess, still
goes on in his former and manifold occupations; and it is confidently
asserted, is now as upright an honest man, as ever he was since he came
to the years of maturity. His wife is equally disposed to accommodate
visitors, either in person or by proxy: of latter years, proxy has
been the principal mode.

The Countess of Cockatrice, trained up to a certain course in her
youth, when old has not deviated. In her grand climacteric, her objects
and pursuits are the same, as in the charming minor climacteric of her
teens. Her worthy vassal, Mrs. Dicky, still follows lords and ladies;
but as she rather gets old, and less active, her influence decreases
apace.--Lord Bayleaf was, some months ago, reported to be on the brink
of eternity; but it was found that he still stuck fast by his very old
friend Time. It is said, a splendid epitaph was prepared for his tomb;
that the inscription recites the years he has lived upon earth, the
extent of his possessions, his opportunities of doing good, and the
good that he has done, concluding with a text, happily descriptive of
the rewards that await the devout and benevolent--“Thy prayers and
thine alms shall go before thee, as memorials to the throne of God.”
What a multiplicity of such testimonies may this pious and generous
man, in looking back on his well-spent life, expect to hail his arrival
in the regions of bliss!

Captain Mortimer, worn out by infirmities more than age, has retired
from actual service; but still likes the neighbourhood of his favourite
element. He has disposed of his house, on the coast of Sussex, there
being nothing interesting, he observes, either about Brighton or
Worthing, where you hardly ever see a ship, unless one or two from
Shoreham dock, and these only small craft. Ramsgate he tried, and
allowed that the prospect of the Downs was most charming to any one,
who had never seen Plymouth Sound or Spithead. At length he fixed his
residence in the slope of Portsdown hill, whence, from his windows,
he can descry and reckon the ships at Spithead and St. Helen’s. His
bed-room, in a high part of the house, commands the same prospect;
and his old servant, Ben Reef, enters his room every morning at seven
(if it be day-light), to place the telescope between the bed and the
window, that without rising earlier than nine, his now usual hour, he
may ascertain departures and arrivals. Fondly attached to the memory
of his glorious profession, to which he was himself a distinguished
honour, he, nevertheless, pays due regard to the various duties of
social life; and Hampshire contains not a more hospitable and friendly
man; a more benignant and generous benefactor; a more bountiful
supporter of the poor, than this gallant veteran, who having employed
his active life, in serving his king and country, now unqualified for
such efforts, employs the same ardour in benefiting his fellow-subjects
and countrymen. Such is our veteran seaman. Our hero, and all his
friends, use every effort in their power, to shew their love and
respect for such a valuable character.

His brother, ‘Squire Mortimer, though two years older, and not
originally stronger in constitution, yet never having had such
hardships to encounter, is, at sixty-seven, hale and vigorous, and
resides upon his estate. He is still very assiduous in agricultural
pursuits, and has greatly improved his estate. His son John possesses
the estate of his wife, who has brought him several children. She
lately lost her mother. In 1796, Mortimer having a borough at command,
came into parliament, and makes a considerable figure, though scarcely
equal to Sir Edward Hambden, and much inferior to Hamilton.

The venerable old Mr. Wentbridge lived to the great age of
eighty-eight, and died in the most tranquil resignation, leaving his
property equally divided between his three children. His second son,
the Captain, followed him in about six months, bequeathing thirty
thousand pounds to his maritime nephew, one thousand each for a ring
to his brother, his sister, Lady Hambden, and our hero; and dividing
his patrimonial two thousand between his brother and sister. Within
the year he was followed by his brother, who left to his sister both
his father’s and brother’s bequests. A landed property of five hundred
a year he left to his elder nephew, burdened with a jointure of two
hundred and fifty pounds a year to his sister; he left five thousand
pounds each to Captain Hamilton and Lady Hambden.

The old laird of Etterick survived his daughter near six years, and
confessed he was much more comfortable now, than ever he had been since
he was a bachelor. He rarely spoke of the Sourkrouts, either mother
or daughter; and seeing the happiness of William and Maria, Hambden
and Charlotte, and contrasting these ladies with his mother-in law
and wife, he thought he must have been wrong in his original notion,
that the supreme object in marriage is a _well-tochered lass_. Even
his daughter, he could not call to mind, without pain and humiliation;
and therefore called her to mind as little as possible. Often he told
his old friend, the parson, that Providence ordered every thing for
the best. The old gentleman accompanied his nephew to visit Mr. Burke,
whose astonishing powers, as versatile as gigantic, met the nephew
on all the depths of learning and philosophy, and in all the details
and principles of existing politics; met his uncle on spring wheat,
barley, and horse beans; on the different operations and effects of
turnips and hay in fattening cattle; and treated these subjects with a
minuteness and circumstantiality, which hardly any hind could equal;
and surpassed the laird himself, though one of the best farmers in
Scotland. When alone with his nephew, the uncle declared, he did not
believe there was a more sensible man in the world. “He might give a
lesson to Andrew Peebles our _grieve_ (land-bailiff), who has not his
match in _aw_ Tweedle, the Forest, or Tiviotdale.” Etterick, some years
after, expressed deep regret for the death of his Beaconsfield host;
the best farmer, he said, with whom he had ever conversed. The old
gentleman himself, within two years after, departed this life; and the
Scottish rents having still rapidly risen, the whole property exceeded
ten thousand a-year.

Sir Edward and Lady Hambden had a son and heir, born soon after
Hamilton’s first exhibition in parliament; and several sons and
daughters since that time. For the last three years, neither Sir
Edward nor Hamilton have taken any share in the parties of the times;
they conscientiously support every measure which they think calculated
for the good of the country, and in their respective spheres of moral
influence, have, since the commencement of the war, been extremely
active, in inspiriting and invigorating military energy, and in
disciplining the corps which they respectively command. They both
retain a high veneration for Mr. Pitt, and are on the most friendly
terms with the present ministers. Lady Hambden, reflecting on her first
and her last predilection, though she entertains a high respect for
the talents and character of Mortimer, is nevertheless convinced, that
Hambden is much better fitted for communicating domestic happiness to a
woman of her cast and dispositions.

Sir Edward’s sister, Mrs. Raymond, is thoroughly reconciled with her
husband; and by the sincerity of her penitence, and her exemplary
discharge of every duty of virtue and religion, in all the departments
and relations in which she stands in society, does whatever frail human
nature can do, to atone for vice, which, though temporary and short,
was heinous. She, her husband, brother, and all her friends, bless the
day that brought Hamilton and his party, to view the White Horse on
Cherril Downs.

Captain Henry Hamilton was engaged in most of the glorious enterprizes
that distinguished the last war. Under Jervis he acquired high renown,
off St. Vincent’s; and some months after, being sent into harbour,
he was no sooner refitted, than he was dispatched to the North Seas;
and was one of those, who, at Camperdown, followed Duncan’s example,
in breaking the line. The first of August, 1798, brought him to the
mouth of the Nile; there he was wounded, but not dangerously. The
following year, he, under Admiralty orders, cruised on the coasts of
France and Spain; and though he had no opportunity, from the timidity
of the enemy, of attacking any of their war ships, he captured a
Spanish galleon; his share of which far exceeded his succession from
Capt. Wentbridge. At the expiration of the war, he came to arrange his
money concerns, and visit his brother in London. His property in all,
little short of a hundred thousand pounds, when vested in the funds at
a very low price; rose near thirty per cent. by the peace. He sold out,
and purchased a very considerable estate, in the charming vicinity of
Doncaster. While at his brother’s, ‘Squire Mortimer, and his unmarried
daughter, arrived on a visit to William and Maria. The young lady was
a handsome accomplished girl, about three and twenty; the Captain, a
tall, portly, manly, handsome, but weather-beaten seaman, near a dozen
years older, was captivated by her appearance, and frankly told her his
sentiments; nor did she listen with displeasure: in a few weeks the
nuptials were solemnized.

Hamilton and his Maria, the longer they know each other, are the more
tenderly endeared; and have no less than five pledges of affection,
besides one or two whom they lost in infancy. Charles, the eldest,
is now thirteen; received a considerable part of his education at an
eminent seminary in Kensington, of which the head, though master of
an academy, is really a scholar and a gentleman, and totally above
the _custom hunting_ devices of _hawking and peddling_ schoolmasters.
Thence he went to Harrow, where he now makes a very eminent figure in
the fourth form, and also distinguishes himself, like his father, at
the various athletic exercises. Two of his brothers are under the care
of his late master, where they have been also joined by their cousin
Hambden. Miss Hamilton, now in the twelfth year of her age, has been as
fortunately placed as her brothers; having, for several years, been at
Blackland’s house; and under the tuition of the able, discriminating,
skilful, and prudent governess of that eminent seminary, makes rapid
proficiency in the intellectual and moral parts of education, and
in its ornamental accomplishments and external graces; and both in
important and engaging qualifications, she bids fair to equal her
estimable and charming mother, whom she already strikingly resembles,
in the beauties of her face and person. The youngest, a daughter, is
still at home. William, and his Maria, the former only thirty-nine,
and the latter thirty four, are still as handsome a couple as are to
be seen in any private party, or even in any place of public resort.
Unlike the fashionable indifference of too many modern couples, William
and his Maria, in all their relaxations and amusements, are to be seen
together. At assemblies, plays, operas, park, and gardens, you rarely
see the one without the other. Thence they have sometimes experienced
the tittering whispers of levity, or the sneers of envy; but without
discomposure, or even the smallest notice. Both the Hambdens and
Hamiltons dare to support in the face of frivolity and folly, the
dignity of virtuous love.


FINIS.


Printed by A Strahan, Printers-Street.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] See Missionary Travels and Adventures through Scotland, published
in 1799 by James Haldane and Co. in their Expedition to detach the
Scottish Flocks from their established Pastors. Not having the treatise
before us, we cannot exactly quote the pages to which the above
remark alludes, but, to the best of our remembrance, the scene is the
Orkneys, soon after the panegyrising account of the soldier that,
having deserted his drum, had betaken himself to preaching, immediately
before the chapter wherein an unbeliever is converted to the new
faith by stumbling over a cow. From this context, which our imperfect
recollection supplies, the reader of the above work will be able to
find the illustrative passages.

[2] Not exactly a fool, but a gaping, staring, stupid fellow.

[3] To elderly matrons, who in their youth had given way to sentimental
sensibility, stories of love and gallantry are sadly fascinating: they
are, to use the language of Ossian, _the memory of joys that are past_,
pleasing, yet melancholy to the soul.

[4] Marlborough was anciently called Cunetio, situated on the side
of the river Kennet; its present name was probably derived from the
word marle, or chalk, with which the neighbouring hills abound. Its
history under the Saxons is unknown. It consists principally of one
broad street, and one other from the bridge to the town-hall. It is
a corporation, with a mayor, aldermen, burgesses, and town clerk: it
sends two members to parliament, and has a weekly market on Saturday.
John, surnamed Lackland, (afterwards king,) had a castle here, which,
on his revolt from his brother Richard I. was stormed by Hubert,
archbishop of Canterbury. In this castle was held the assembly of the
states of the kingdom, who passed the famous law for suppressing riots,
commonly called, The Statutes of Marlborough. In Camden’s time it was
become a heap of ruins, with only a few fragments of walls remaining
within the ditch. A mansion was built on the spot by the Earl of
Hertford, which, for fifty years, had been let as an inn, called the
castle: the keep was converted into a mount, for a summer-house in the
garden.

[5] Reading is the most considerable trading town in the county, and
contains three parish churches, about two thousand houses, and nine
thousand four hundred and twenty inhabitants. Some years since, an act
of parliament was obtained to new pave the streets, an improvement
which was much wanted; and a new market has been built on the west side
of the market place, for the accommodation of butchers, poulterers,
&c. in the most convenient manner, and first opened for public use in
December, 1800. The Kennet, in passing through the town, besides the
main stream, which is navigable for barges, throws off two branches, on
which there are some considerable flour-mills.

[6] A handicraft methodist preacher prayed for _a pair of breeches_; a
pair was the next day sent.

[7] These are the words of a noted biographer, concerning a no less
noted subject,--_his own wife_!



Corrections

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

p. 11

  may be justy considered not only as venerable
  may be justly considered not only as venerable

p. 15

  the offering of the the Magi;
  the offering of the Magi;

p. 26

  Designed by Sir John Vanburgh,
  Designed by Sir John Vanbrugh,

p. 71

  He to, by some means, has succeeded
  He too, by some means, has succeeded

p. 159

  We may observe a vast similiarity of
  We may observe a vast similarity of

p. 211

 The canditates for these
 The candidates for these



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