Modern literature: a novel, Volume 3 (of 3)
Date: 2022-09-05T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: England -- Social life and customs -- 18th century -- Fiction

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

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Title: Modern literature: a novel, Volume 3 (of 3)

Author: Robert Bisset

Release date: September 5, 2022 [eBook #68917]
Most recently updated: October 19, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: T. N. Longman and O. Rees, 1804

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68917

Credits: Robert Cicconetti, Eleni Christofaki and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MODERN LITERATURE: A NOVEL, VOLUME 3 (OF 3) ***

Transcriber’s note

Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list of the changes made can be found at the end of the book.

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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Table of Contents

- Transcriber’s note

- MODERN LITERATURE: A NOVEL. VOL. III.

- CONTENTS OF THE THIRD VOLUME.

- MODERN LITERATURE.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAP. V.

- FOOTNOTES:

- Corrections

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE