"Well, I can say no more, Japhet. I wish you well out of his hands."

"You have the power to help me, if that is the case," said I.

"I dare not."

"Then you are not the Melchior that you used to be," replied I.

"We must submit to fate. I must not stay longer; you will find all that you want in the basket, and more candles, if you do not like being in the dark. I do not think I shall be permitted to come again, till to-morrow."

Melchior then went out, locked the door after him, and I was left to my meditations.



Chapter XLVII

A friend in need is a friend in deed—The tables are turned and so is the key—The issue in deep tragedy.

Was it possible that which Melchior said was true? A little reflection told me that it was all false, and that he was himself Sir Henry de Clare. I was in his power, and what might be the result? He might detain me, but he dare not murder me. Dare not! My heart sank when I considered where I was, and how easy would it be for him to despatch me, if so inclined, without any one ever being aware of my fate. I lighted a whole candle, that I might not find myself in the dark when I rose, and exhausted in body and mind, was soon fast asleep. I must have slept many hours, for when I awoke I was in darkness—the candle had burnt out. I groped for the basket, and examined the contents with my hands, and found a tinder-box. I struck a light, and then feeling hungry and weak, refreshed myself with the eatables it contained, which were excellent, as well as the wine. I had replaced the remainder, when the key again turned in the door, and Melchior made his appearance.

"How do you feel, Japhet, to-day?"

"To-day!" replied I; "day and night are the same to me."

"That is your own fault," replied he. "Have you considered what I proposed to you yesterday?"

"Yes," replied I; "and I will agree to this. Let Sir Henry give me my liberty, come over to England, prove his relationship to Fleta, and I will give her up. What can he ask for more?"

"He will hardly consent to that," replied Melchior; "for, once in England, you will take a warrant out against him."

"No; on my honour I will not, Melchior."

"He will not trust to that."

"Then he must judge of others by himself," replied I.

"Have you no other terms to propose," replied Melchior.

"None."

"Then I will carry your message, and give you his answer to-morrow."

Melchior then brought in another basket, and took away the former, and did not make his appearance till the next day. I now had recovered my strength, and determined to take some decided measures, but how to act I knew not. I reflected all night, and the next morning (that is, according to my supposition) I attacked the basket. Whether it was that ennui or weakness occasioned it, I cannot tell, but either way, I drank too much wine, and was ready for any daring deed, when Melchior again the door.

"Sir Henry will not accept of your terms. I thought not," said Melchior, "I am sorry—very sorry."

"Melchior," replied I, starting up; "let us have no more of this duplicity. I am not quite so ignorant as you suppose. I know who Fleta is, and who you are."

"Indeed," replied Melchior; "perhaps you will explain?"

"I will. You, Melchior, are Sir Henry de Clare; you succeeded to your estates by the death of your elder brother, from a fall when hunting."

Melchior appeared astonished.

"Indeed!" replied he; "pray go on. You have made a gentleman of me."

"No; rather a scoundrel."

"As you please; now will you make a lady of Fleta?"

"Yes, I will. She is your niece." Melchior started back. "Your agent, M'Dermott, who was sent over to find out Fleta's abode, met me in the coach, and he has tracked me here, and risked my life, by telling the people that I was a tithe proctor."

"Your information is very important," replied Melchior, "You will find some difficulty to prove all you say."

"Not the least," replied I, flushed with anger and with wine, "I have proof positive. I have seen her mother, and I can identify the child by the necklace which was on her neck when you stole her."

"Necklace!" cried Melchior.

"Yes, the necklace put into my hands by your own wife when we parted."

"Damn her!" replied Melchior.

"Do not damn her; damn yourself for your villany, and its being brought to light. Have I said enough, or shall I tell you more?"

"Pray tell me more."

"No, I will not, for I must commit others, and that will not do," replied I; for I felt I had already said too much.

"You have committed yourself, at all events," replied Melchior; "and now I tell you, that until—never mind," and Melchior hastened away.

The door was again locked, and I was once more alone.

I had time to reflect upon my imprudence. The countenance of Melchior, when he left me, was that of a demon. Something told me to prepare for death; and I was not wrong. The next day Melchior came not, nor the next; my provisions were all gone. I had nothing but a little wine and water left. The idea struck me, that I was to die of starvation. Was there no means of escape? None; I had no weapon, no tool, not even a knife. I had expended all my candles. At last, it occurred to me, that, although I was in a cellar, my voice might be heard, and I resolved, as a last effort, to attempt it. I went to the door of the cellar, and shouted at the top of my lungs, "Murder—murder!" I shouted again and again as loud as I could, until I was exhausted. As it afterwards appeared, this plan did prevent my being starved to death, for such was Melchior's villanous intention. About an hour afterwards I repeated my cries of "Murder—murder!" and they were heard by the household, who stated to Melchior, that there was some one shouting murder in the vaults below. That night, and all the next day, I repeated my cries occasionally. I was now quite exhausted, I had been nearly two days without food, and my wine and water had all been drunk. I sat down with a parched mouth and heated brain, waiting till I could sufficiently recover my voice to repeat my cries, when I heard footsteps approaching. The key was again turned in the door, and a light appeared, carried by one of two men armed with large sledge hammers.

"It is then all over with me," cried I; "and I never shall find out who is my father. Come on, murderers, and do your work. Do it quickly."

The two men advanced without speaking a word; the foremost, who carried the lantern, laid it down at his feet, and raised his hammer with both hands, when the other behind him raised his weapon—and the foremost fell dead at his feet.



Chapter XLVIII

Is full of perilous adventures, and in which, the reader may be assured, there is much more than meets the eye.

"Silence," said a voice that I well knew, although his face was completely disguised. It was Timothy! "Silence, Japhet," again whispered Timothy; "there is yet much danger, but I will save you, or die. Take the hammer. Melchior is waiting outside." Timothy put the lantern in the bin, so as to render it more dark, and led me towards the door, whispering, "when he comes in, we will secure him."

Melchior soon made his appearance, and as he entered the cellar, "Is it all right?" said he, going up to Timothy, and passing me.

With one blow I felled him to the ground, and he lay insensible. "That will do," replied Timothy; "now we must be off."

"Not till he takes my place," replied I, as I shut the door, and locked it. "Now he may learn what it is to starve to death."

I then followed Timothy, by a passage which led outside of the castle, through which he and his companion had been admitted. "Our horses are close by," said Timothy; "for we stipulated upon leaving the country after it was done."

It was just dark when we were safe out of the castle. We mounted our horses, and set off with all speed. We followed the high road to the post town to which I had been conveyed, and I determined to pull up at Mrs M'Shane's, for I was so exhausted that I could go no further. This was a measure which required precaution, and as there was moonlight, I turned off the road before I entered the town, or village, as it ought to have been called, so that we dismounted at the back of Mrs M'Shane's house. I went to the window of the bedroom where I had lain down, and tapped gently, again and again, and no answer. At last, Kathleen made her appearance.

"Can I come in, Kathleen?" said I; "I am almost dead with fatigue and exhaustion."

"Yes," replied she, "I will open the back-door; there is no one here to-night—it is too early for them."

I entered, followed by Timothy, and, as I stepped over the threshold, I fainted. As soon as I recovered, Mrs M'Shane led me up stairs into her room for security, and I was soon able to take the refreshment I so much required. I stated what had passed to Mrs M'Shane and Kathleen, who were much shocked at the account.

"You had better wait till it is late, before you go on," said Mrs M'Shane, "it will be more safe; it is now nine o'clock, and the people will all be moving till eleven. I will give your horses some corn, and when you are five miles from here, you may consider yourselves as safe. Holy saints! what an escape!"

The advice was too good not to be followed, and I was so exhausted, that I was glad that prudence was on the side of repose. I lay down on Mrs M'Shane's bed, while Timothy watched over me. I had a short slumber, and then was awakened by the good landlady, who told me that it was time for us to quit. Kathleen then came up to me, and said, "I would ask a favour of you, sir, and I hope you will not refuse it."

"Kathleen, you may ask anything of me, and depend upon it, I will not refuse it, if I can grant it."

"Then, sir," replied the good girl, "you know how I overcame my feelings to serve you, will you overcome yours for me? I cannot bear the idea that anyone, bad as he may be, of the family who have reared me, should perish in so miserable a manner; and I cannot bear that any man, bad as he is, even if I did not feel obliged to him, should die so full of guilt, and without absolution. Will you let me have the key, that Sir Henry de Clare may be released after you are safe and away? I know he does not deserve any kindness from you; but it is a horrid death, and a horrid thing to die so loaded with crime."

"Kathleen," replied I, "I will keep my word with you. Here is the key; take it up to-morrow morning, and give it to Lady de Clare; tell her Japhet Newland sent it."

"I will, and God bless you, sir."

"Good-bye, sir," said Mrs M'Shane, "you have no time to lose."

"God bless you, sir," said Kathleen, who now put her arms round me and kissed me. We mounted our horses and set off.

We pressed our horses, or rather ponies, for they were very small, till we had gained about six miles, when we considered that we were, comparatively speaking, safe, and then drew up, to allow them to recover their wind. I was very much exhausted myself, and hardly spoke one word until we arrived at the next post town, when we found everybody in bed. We contrived, however, to knock them up, and Timothy having seen that our horses were put into the stable, we lay down till the next morning upon a bed which happened to be unoccupied. Sorry as were the accommodations, I never slept so soundly, and woke quite refreshed. The next morning I stated my intention of posting to Dublin, and asked Tim what we should do with the horses.

"They belong to the castle," replied he.

"Then in God's name, let the castle have them, for I wish for nothing from that horrid place."

We stated to the landlord that the horses were to be sent back, and that the man who took them would be paid for his trouble; and then it occurred to me, that it would be a good opportunity of writing to Melchior, alias Sir Henry. I do not know why, but certainly my animosity against him had subsided, and I did not think of taking legal measures against him. I thought it, however, right to frighten him. I wrote, therefore, as follows:—

SIR HENRY,—I send you back your horses with thanks, as they have enabled Timothy and me to escape from your clutches. Your reputation and your life now are in my power, and I will have ample revenge. The fact of your intending murder, will be fully proved by my friend Timothy, who was employed by you in disguise, and accompanied your gipsy. You cannot escape the sentence of the law. Prepare yourself, then, for the worst, as it is not my intention that you shall escape the disgraceful punishment due to your crimes.

Yours, JAPHET NEWLAND.

Having sealed this, and given it to the lad who was to return with the horses, we finished our breakfast, and took a post-chaise on for Dublin, where we arrived late in the evening. During our journey I requested Timothy to narrate what had passed, and by what fortunate chance he had been able to come so opportunely to my rescue.

"If you recollect, Japhet," replied Timothy, "you had received one or two letters from me, relative to the movements of the gipsy, and stating his intention to carry off the little girl from the boarding-school. My last letter, in which I had informed you that he had succeeded in gaining an entrance into the ladies' school at Brentford, could not have reached you, as I found by your note that you had set off the same evening. The gipsy, whom I only knew by the name of Will, inquired of me the name by which the little girl was known, and my answer was, Smith; as I took it for granted that, in a large seminary, there must be one, if not more, of that name. Acting upon this, he made inquiries of the maid-servant to whom he paid his addresses, and made very handsome presents, if there was a Miss Smith in the school; she replied, that there were two, one a young lady of sixteen, and the other about twelve years old. Of course the one selected was the younger. Will had seen me in my livery, and his plan was to obtain a similar one, hire a chariot, and go down to Brentford, with a request that Miss Smith might be sent up with him immediately, as you were so ill that you were not expected to live; but previous to his taking this step, he wrote to Melchior, requesting his orders as to how he was to proceed when he had obtained the child. The answer from Melchior arrived. By this time, he had discovered that you were in Ireland, and intended to visit him; perhaps he had you in confinement, for I do not know how long you were there, but the answer desired Will to come over immediately, as there would be in all probability work for him, that would be well paid for. He had now become so intimate with me, that he disguised nothing; he showed me the letter, and I asked him what it meant; he replied that there was somebody to put out of the way, that was clear. It immediately struck me, that you must be the person if such was the case, and I volunteered to go with him, to which, after some difficulty, he consented. We travelled outside the mail, and in four days we arrived at the castle. Will went up to Melchior, who told him what it was that he required. Will consented, and then stated he had another hand with him, which might be necessary, vouching for my doing anything that was required. Melchior sent for me, and I certainly was afraid that he would discover me, but my disguise was too good. I had prepared for it still further, by wearing a wig of light hair, he asked me some questions, and I replied in a surly, dogged tone, which satisfied him. The reward was two hundred pounds, to be shared between us; and, as it was considered advisable that we should not be seen after the affair was over, by the people about the place, we had the horses provided for us. The rest you well know. I was willing to make sure that it was you before I struck the scoundrel, and the first glimpse from the lantern, and your voice, convinced me."

"Thank God, Japhet, but I have been of some use to you, at all events."

"My dear Tim, you have indeed, and you know me too well to think I shall ever forget it; but now I must first ascertain where the will of the late Sir William is to be found. We can read it for a shilling, and then I may discover what are the grounds of Melchior's conduct, for, to me, it is still inexplicable."

"Are wills made in Ireland registered here, or at Doctor's Commons in London?"

"In Dublin, I should imagine."

But on my arrival at Dublin I felt so ill, that I was obliged to retire to bed, and before morning I was in a violent fever. Medical assistance was sent for, and I was nursed by Timothy with the greatest care, but it was ten days before I could quit my bed. For the first time, I was sitting in an easy chair by the fire, when Timothy came in with the little portmanteau I had left in the care of Mrs M'Shane. "Open it, Timothy," said I, "and see if there be anything in the way of a note from them." Timothy opened the portmanteau, and produced one, which was lying on the top. It was from Kathleen, and as follows:—

Dear Sir,—They say there is terrible work at the castle, and that Sir Henry has blown out his brains, or cut his throat, I don't know which. Mr M'Dermott passed in a great hurry, but said nothing to anybody here. I will send you word of what has taken place as soon as I can. The morning after you went away, I walked up to the castle and gave the key to the lady, who appeared in a great fright at Sir Henry not having been seen for so long a while. They wished to detain me after they had found him in the cellar with the dead man, but after two hours I was desired to go away, and hold my tongue. It was after the horses went back that Sir Henry is said to have destroyed himself. I went up to the castle, but M'Dermott had given orders for no one to be let in on any account.

Yours Kathleen M'Shane.

"This is news indeed," said I, handing the letter to Timothy. "It must have been my threatening letter which has driven him to this mad act."

"Very likely," replied Timothy; "but it was the best thing the scoundrel could do, after all."

"The letter was not, however, written, with that intention. I wished to frighten him, and have justice done to little Fleta—poor child! how glad I shall be to see her!"



Chapter XLIX

Another investigation relative to a child which in the same way as the former one, ends by the Lady going off in a fit.

The next day the newspapers contained a paragraph, in which Sir Henry de Clare was stated to have committed suicide. No reason could be assigned for this rash act, was the winding up of the intelligence. I also received another letter from Kathleen M'Shane, confirming the previous accounts; her mother had been sent for to assist in laying out the body. There was now no further doubt, and as soon as I could venture out, I hastened to the proper office, where I read the will of the late Sir William. It was very short, merely disposing of his personal property to his wife, and a few legacies; for, as I discovered, only a small portion of the estates were entailed with the title, and the remainder was not only to the heirs male, but the eldest female, should there be no male heir, with the proviso, that should she marry, the husband was to take upon himself the name of De Clare. Here, then, was the mystery explained, and why Melchior had stolen away his brother's child. Satisfied with my discovery, I determined to leave for England immediately, find out the dowager Lady de Clare, and put the whole case into the hands of Mr Masterton. Fortunately, Timothy had money with him sufficient to pay all expenses, and take us to London, or I should have been obliged to wait for remittances, as mine was all expended before I arrived at Dublin. We arrived safe, and I immediately proceeded to my house, where I found Harcourt, who had been in great anxiety about me. The next morning I went to my old legal friend, to whom I communicated all that had happened.

"Well done, Newland," replied he, after I had finished. "I'll bet ten to one that you find out your father. Your life already would not make a bad novel. If you continue your hair-breadth adventures in this way, it will be quite interesting."

Although satisfied in my own mind that I had discovered Fleta's parentage, and anxious to impart the joyful intelligence, I resolved not to see her until everything should be satisfactorily arranged. The residence of the dowager Lady de Clare was soon discovered by Mr Masterton; it was at Richmond, and thither he and I proceeded. We were ushered into the drawing-room, and, to my delight, upon her entrance, I perceived that it was the same beautiful person in whose ears I had seen the coral and gold ear-rings matching the necklace belonging to Fleta. I considered it better to allow Mr Masterton to break the subject.

"You are, madam, the widow of the late Sir William de Clare." The lady bowed. "You will excuse me, madam, but I have most important reasons for asking you a few questions, which otherwise may appear to be intrusive. Are you aware of the death of his brother, Sir Henry de Clare?"

"Indeed I was not," replied she. "I seldom look at a paper, and I have long ceased to correspond with any one in Ireland. May I ask you what occasioned his death?"

"He fell by his own hands, madam."

Lady de Clare covered up her face. "God forgive him!" said she, in a low voice.

"Lady de Clare, upon what terms were your husband and the late Sir Henry? It is important to know."

"Not on the very best, sir. Indeed, latterly, for years, they never met or spoke: we did not know what had become of him."

"Were there any grounds for ill-will?"

"Many, sir, on the part of the elder brother; but none on that of Sir Henry, who was treated with every kindness, until he—" Lady de Clare stopped—"until he behaved very ill to him."

As we afterwards discovered, Henry de Clare had squandered away the small portion left him by his father, and had ever after that been liberally supplied by his eldest brother, until he had attempted to seduce Lady de Clare, upon which he was dismissed for ever.

"And now, madam, I must revert to a painful subject. You had a daughter by your marriage?"

"Yes," replied the lady, with a deep sigh.

"How did you lose her? Pray do not think I am creating this distress on your part without strong reasons."

"She was playing in the garden, and the nurse, who thought it rather cold, ran in for a minute to get a handkerchief to tie round her neck. When the nurse returned, the child had disappeared." Lady de Clare put her handkerchief up to her eyes.

"Where did you find her afterwards?"

"It was not until three weeks afterwards that her body was found in a pond about a quarter of a mile off."

"Did the nurse not seek her when she discovered that she was not in the garden?"

"She did, and immediately ran in that direction. It is quite strange that the child could have got so far without the nurse perceiving her."

"How long is it ago?"

"It is now nine years."

"And the age of the child at the time?"

"About six years old."

"I think, Newland, you may now speak to Lady de Clare."

"Lady de Clare, have you not a pair of ear-rings of coral and gold of very remarkable workmanship?"

"I have, sir," replied she, with surprise.

"Had you not a necklace of the same? and if so, will you do me the favour to examine this?" I presented the necklace.

"Merciful heaven!" cried Lady de Clare, "it is the very necklace!—it was on my poor Cecilia when she was drowned, and it was not found with the body. How came it into your possession, sir? At one time," continued Lady de Clare, weeping, "I thought that it was possible that the temptation of the necklace, which has a great deal of gold in it, must, as it was not found on her corpse, have been an inducement for the gipsies, who were in the neighbourhood, to drown her; but Sir William would not believe it, rather supposing that in her struggles in the water she must have broken it, and that it had thus been detached from her neck. Is it to return this unfortunate necklace that you have come here?"

"No, madam, not altogether. Had you two white ponies at the time?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was there a mulberry tree in the garden?"

"Yes, sir," replied the astonished lady.

"Will you do me the favour to describe the appearance of your child as she was, at the time that you lost her?"

"She was—but all mothers are partial, and perhaps I may also be so—a very fair, lovely little girl."

"With light hair, I presume?"

"Yes, sir. But why these questions? Surely you cannot ask them for nothing," continued she hurriedly. "Tell me, sir, why all these questions?"

Mr Masterton replied, "Because, madam, we have some hopes that you have been deceived, and that it is possible that your daughter was not drowned."

Lady de Clare, breathless, and her mouth open, fixed her eyes upon Mr Masterton, and exclaimed, "Not drowned! O my God! my head!" and then she fell back insensible.

"I have been too precipitate," said Mr Masterton, going to her assistance; "but joy does not kill. Ring for some water, Japhet."



Chapter L

In which, if the reader does not sympathise with the parties, he had better shut the book.

In a few minutes Lady de Clare was sufficiently recovered to hear the outline of our history; and as soon as it was over, she insisted upon immediately going with us to the school where Fleta was domiciled, as she could ascertain, by several marks known but to a nurse or mother, if more evidence was required, whether Fleta was her child or not. To allow her to remain in such a state of anxiety was impossible, Mr Masterton agreed, and we posted to ——, where we arrived in the evening. "Now, gentlemen, leave me but one minute with the child, and when I ring the bell, you may enter." Lady de Clare was in so nervous and agitated a state, that she could not walk into the parlour without assistance. We led her to a chair, and in a minute Fleta was called down. Perceiving me in the passage, she ran to me. "Stop, my dear Fleta, there is a lady in the parlour, who wishes to see you."

"A lady, Japhet?"

"Yes, my dear, go in."

Fleta obeyed, and in a minute we heard a scream, and Fleta hastily opened the door, "Quick! quick! the lady has fallen down."

We ran in and found Lady de Clare on the floor, and it was some time before she returned to her senses. As soon as she did, she fell down on her knees, holding up her hands as in prayer, and then stretched her arms out to Fleta. "My child! my long-lost child! it is—it is indeed!" A flood of tears poured forth on Fleta's neck relieved her, and we then left them together; old Masterton observing, as we took our seats in the back parlour,

"By G—, Japhet, you deserve to find your own father!"

In about an hour Lady de Clare requested to see us. Fleta rushed into my arms and sobbed, while her mother apologised to Mr Masterton for the delay and excusable neglect towards him. "Mr Newland, madam, is the person to whom you are indebted for your present happiness. I will now, if you please, take my leave, and will call upon you to-morrow."

"I will not detain you, Mr Masterton; but Mr Newland will, I trust, come home with Cecilia and me; I have much to ask of him." I consented, and Mr Masterton went back to town; I went to the principal hotel to order a chaise and horses, while Fleta packed up her wardrobe.

In half an hour we set off, and it was midnight before we arrived at Richmond. During my journey I narrated to Lady de Clare every particular of our meeting with Fleta. We were all glad to go to bed, and the kind manner in which Lady de Clare wished me good-night, with "God bless you, Mr Newland!" brought the tears into my eyes.

I breakfasted alone the next morning, Lady de Clare and her daughter remaining up stairs. It was nearly twelve o'clock when they made their appearance, both so apparently happy, that I could not help thinking, "When shall I have such pleasure—when shall I find out who is my father?" My brow was clouded as the thought entered my mind, when Lady de Clare requested that I would inform her who it was to whom she and her daughter were under such eternal obligations. I had then to relate my own eventful history, most of which was as new to Cecilia (as she now must be called) as it was to her mother. I had just terminated the escape from the castle, when Mr Masterton's carriage drove up to the door. As soon as he had bowed to Lady de Clare, he said to me, "Japhet, here is a letter directed to you, to my care, from Ireland, which I have brought for you."

"It is from Kathleen M'Shane, sir," replied I, and requesting leave, I broke the seal. It contained another. I read Kathleen's, and then hastily opened the other. It was from Nattee, or Lady H. de Clare, and ran as follows:—

"Japhet Newland,—Fleta is the daughter of Sir William de Clare. Dearly has my husband paid for his act of folly and wickedness, and to which you must know I never was a party.

Yours,

Nattee."

The letter from Kathleen added more strange information. Lady de Clare, after the funeral of her husband, had sent for the steward, made every necessary arrangement, discharged the servants, and then had herself disappeared, no one knew whither; but it was reported that somebody very much resembling her had been seen travelling south in company with a gang of gipsies. I handed both letters over to Lady de Clare and Mr Masterton.

"Poor Lady de Clare!" observed the mother.

"Nattee will never leave her tribe," observed Cecilia quietly.

"You are right, my dear," replied I. "She will be happier with her tribe where she commands as a queen, than ever she was at the castle."

Mr Masterton then entered into a detail with Lady de Clare as to what steps ought immediately to be taken, as the heirs-at-law would otherwise give some trouble; and having obtained her acquiescence, it was time to withdraw. "Mr Newland, I trust you will consider us as your warmest friends. I am so much in your debt, that I never can repay you; but I am also in your debt in a pecuniary way—that, at least, you must permit me to refund."

"When I require it, Lady de Clare, I will accept it. Do not, pray, vex me by the proposition. I have not much happiness as it is, although I am rejoiced at yours and that of your daughter."

"Come, Lady de Clare, I must not allow you to tease my protege, you do not know how sensitive he is. We will now take our leave."

"You will come soon," said Cecilia, looking anxiously at me.

"You have your mother, Cecilia," replied I; "what can you wish for more? I am a—nobody—without a parent."

Cecilia burst into tears; I embraced her, and Mr Masterton and I left the room.



Chapter LI

I return to the gay world, but am not well received; I am quite disgusted with it and honesty, and everything else.

How strange, now that I had succeeded in the next dearest object of my wishes, after ascertaining my own parentage, that I should have felt so miserable; but it was the fact, and I cannot deny it. I could hardly answer Mr Masterton during our journey to town; and when I threw myself on the sofa in my own room, I felt as if I was desolate and deserted. I did not repine at Cecilia's happiness; so far from it, I would have sacrificed my life for her; but she was a creature of my own—one of the objects in this world to which I was endeared—one that had been dependent on me and loved me. Now that she was restored to her parent, she rose above me, and I was left still more desolate. I do not know that I ever passed a week of such misery as the one which followed a denouement productive of so much happiness to others, and which had been sought with so much eagerness, and at so much risk, by myself. It was no feeling of envy, God knows; but it appeared to me as if everyone in the world was to be made happy except myself. But I had more to bear up against.

When I had quitted for Ireland, it was still supposed that I was a young man of large fortune—the truth had not been told. I had acceded to Mr Masterton's suggestions, that I was no longer to appear under false colours, and had requested Harcourt, to whom I made known my real condition, that he would everywhere state the truth. News like this flies like wildfire; there were too many whom, perhaps, when under the patronage of Major Carbonnell, and the universal rapture from my supposed wealth, I had treated with hauteur, glad to receive the intelligence, and spread it far and wide. My imposition, as they pleased to term it, was the theme of every party, and many were the indignant remarks of the dowagers who had so often indirectly proposed to me their daughters; and if there was anyone more virulent than the rest, I hardly need say that it was Lady Maelstrom, who nearly killed her job horses in driving about from one acquaintance to another, to represent my unheard-of atrocity in presuming to deceive my betters. Harcourt, who had agreed to live with me—Harcourt, who had praised my magnanimity in making the disclosure—even Harcourt fell off; and about a fortnight after I had arrived in town, told me that not finding the lodgings so convenient as his former abode, he intended to return to it. He took a friendly leave; but I perceived that if we happened to meet in the streets, he often contrived to be looking another way; and at last, a slight recognition was all that I received. Satisfied that it was intended, I no longer noticed him; he followed but the example of others. So great was the outcry raised by those who had hoped to have secured me as a good match, that any young man of fashion who was seen with me, had, by many, his name erased from their visiting lists. This decided my fate, and I was alone. For some time I bore up proudly; I returned a glance of defiance, but this could not last. The treatment of others received a slight check from the kindness of Lord Windermear, who repeatedly asked me to his table; but I perceived that even there, although suffered as a proteg of his lordship, anything more than common civility was studiously avoided, in order that no intimacy might result. Mr Masterton, upon whom I occasionally called, saw that I was unwell and unhappy. He encouraged me; but, alas! a man must be more than mortal, who, with fine feelings, can endure the scorn of the world. Timothy, poor fellow, who witnessed more of my unhappy state of mind than anybody else, offered in vain his consolation. "And this," thought I, "is the reward of virtue and honesty. Truly, virtue is its own reward, for it obtains no other. As long as I was under false colours, allowing the world to deceive themselves, I was courted and flattered. Now that I have thrown off the mask, and put on the raiment of truth, I am a despised, miserable being. Yes; but is not this my own fault? Did I not, by my own deception, bring all this upon myself? Whether unmasked by others, or by myself, is it not equally true that I have been playing false, and am now punished for it? What do the world care for your having returned to truth? You have offended by deceiving them, and that is an offence which your repentance will not extenuate." It was but too true, I had brought it all on myself, and this reflection increased my misery. For my dishonesty, I had been justly and severely punished: whether I was ever to be rewarded for my subsequent honesty still remained to be proved; but I knew very well that most people would have written off such a reward as a bad debt.

Once I consulted with Mr Masterton as to the chance of there being any information relative to my birth in the packet left in the charge of Mr Cophagus. "I have been thinking over it, my dear Newland," said he, "and I wish I could give you any hopes, but I cannot. Having succeeded with regard to your little protege, you are now so sanguine with respect to yourself, that a trifle light as air is magnified, as the poet says, 'into confirmation strong as holy writ.' Now, consider, somebody calls at the Foundling to ask after you—which I acknowledge to be a satisfactory point—his name is taken down by an illiterate brute, as Derbennon; but how you can decide upon the real name, and assume it is De Benyon, is really more than I can imagine, allowing every scope to fancy. It is in the first instance, therefore, you are at fault, as there are many other names which may have been given by the party who called; nay, more, is it at all certain that the party, in a case like this, would give his real name? Let us follow it up. Allowing the name to have been De Benyon, you discover that one brother is not married, and that there are some papers belonging to him in the possession of an old woman who dies; and upon these slight grounds what would you attempt to establish? that because that person was known not to have married, therefore he was married (for you are stated to have been born in wedlock): and because there is a packet of papers belonging to him in the possession of another party, that this packet of papers must refer to you. Do you not perceive how you are led away by your excited feelings on the subject?"

I could not deny that Mr Masterton's arguments had demolished the whole fabric which I had built up. "You are right, sir," replied I mournfully, "I wish I were dead."

"Never speak in that way, Mr Newland, before me," replied the old lawyer in an angry tone, "without you wish to forfeit my good opinion."

"I beg your pardon, sir; but I am most miserable. I am avoided by all who know me—thrown out of all society—I have not a parent or a relative. Isolated being as I am, what have I to live for?"

"My dear fellow, you are not twenty-three years of age," replied Mr Masterton, "and you have made two sincere friends, both powerful in their own way. I mean Lord Windermear and myself; and you have had the pleasure of making others happy. Believe me, that is much to have accomplished at so early an age. You have much to live for—live to gain more friends—live to gain reputation—live to do good—to be grateful for the benefits you have received, and to be humble when chastened by Providence. You have yet to learn where, and only where, true happiness is to be found. Since you are so much out of spirits, go down to Lady de Clare's, see her happiness, and that of her little girl; and then, when you reflect that it was your own work, you will hardly say that you have lived in vain." I was too much overpowered to speak. After a pause, Mr Masterton continued, "When did you see them last?"

"I have never seen them, sir, since I was with you at their meeting."

"What! have you not called—now nearly two months? Japhet, you are wrong; they will be hurt at your neglect and want of kindness. Have you written or heard from them?"

"I have received one or two pressing invitations, sir; but I have not been in a state of mind to avail myself of their politeness."

"Politeness! you are wrong—all wrong, Japhet. Your mind is cankered, or you never would have used that term. I thought you were composed of better materials; but it appears, that although you can sail with a fair wind, you cannot buffet against an adverse gale. Because you are no longer fooled and flattered by the interested and the designing, like many others, you have quarrelled with the world. Is it not so?"

"Perhaps you are right, sir."

"I know that I am right, and that you are wrong. Now I shall be seriously displeased if you do not go down and see Lady de Clare and her daughter, as soon as you can."

"I will obey your orders, sir."

"My wishes, Japhet, not my orders. Let me see you when you return. You must no longer be idle. Consider, that you are about to recommence your career in life; that hitherto you have pursued the wrong path, from which you have nobly returned. You must prepare for exertions, and learn to trust to God and a good conscience. Lord Windermear and I had a long conversation relative to you yesterday evening; and when you come back, I will detail to you what are our views respecting your future advantage."



Chapter LII

A new character appears, but not a very amiable one; but I attach myself to him, as drowning men catch at straws.

I took my leave, more composed in mind, and the next day I went down to Lady de Clare's. I was kindly received, more than kindly, I was affectionately and parentally received by the mother, and by Cecilia as a dear brother; but they perceived my melancholy, and when they had upbraided me for my long neglect, they inquired the cause. As I had already made Lady de Clare acquainted with my previous history, I had no secrets; in fact, it was a consolation to confide my griefs to them. Lord Windermear was too much above me—Mr Masterton was too matter-of-fact—Timothy was too inferior—and they were all men; but the kind soothing of a woman was peculiarly grateful, and after a sojourn of three days, I took my leave, with my mind much less depressed than when I arrived.

On my return, I called upon Mr Masterton, who stated to me that Lord Windermear was anxious to serve me, and that he would exert his interest in any way which might be most congenial to my feelings; that he would procure me a commission in the army, or a writership to India; or, if I preferred it, I might study the law under the auspices of Mr Masterton. If none of these propositions suited me, I might state what would be preferred, and that, as far as his interest and pecuniary assistance could avail, I might depend upon it. "So now, Japhet, you may go home and reflect seriously upon these offers; and when you have made up your mind what course you will steer, you have only to let me know."

I returned my thanks to Mr Masterton, and begged that he would convey my grateful acknowledgments to his lordship. As I walked home, I met a Captain Atkinson, a man of very doubtful character, whom, by the advice of Carbonnell, I had always kept at a distance. He had lost a large fortune by gambling, and having been pigeoned, had, as is usual, ended by becoming a rook. He was a fashionable, well-looking man, of good family, suffered in society, for he had found out that it was necessary to hold his position by main force. He was a noted duellist, had killed his three or four men, and a cut direct from any person was, with him, sufficient grounds for sending a friend. Everybody was civil to him, because no one wished to quarrel with him.

"My dear Mr Newland," said he, offering his hand, "I am delighted to see you; I have heard at the clubs of your misfortune, and there were some free remarks made by some. I have great pleasure in saying that I put an immediate stop to them, by telling them that, if they were repeated in my presence, I should consider it as a personal quarrel."

Three months before, had I met Captain Atkinson, I should have returned his bow with studied politeness, and have left him; but how changed were my feelings! I took his hand, and shook it warmly.

"My dear sir," replied I, "I am very much obliged for your kind and considerate conduct; there are more who are inclined to calumniate than to defend."

"And always will be in this world, Mr Newland; but I have a fellow feeling. I recollect how I was received and flattered when I was introduced as a young man of fortune, and how I was deserted and neglected when I was cleaned out. I know now why they are so civil to me, and I value their civility at just as much as it is worth. Will you accept my arm:—I am going your way"

I could not refuse; but I coloured when I took it, for I felt that I was not adding to my reputation by being seen in his company; and still I felt, that although not adding to my reputation, I was less likely to receive insult, and that the same cause which induced them to be civil to him, would perhaps operate when they found me allied with him. "Be it so," thought I, "I will, if possible, extort politeness."

We were strolling down Bond Street, when we met a young man, well known in the fashionable circles, who had dropped my acquaintance, after having been formerly most pressing to obtain it. Atkinson faced him. "Good morning, Mr Oxberry."

"Good morning, Captain Atkinson," replied Mr Oxberry.

"I thought you knew my friend Mr Newland?" observed Atkinson, rather fiercely.

"Oh! really—I quite—I beg pardon. Good morning, Mr Newland; you have been long absent. I did not see you at Lady Maelstrom's last night."

"No," replied I, carelessly, "nor will you ever. When you next see her ladyship, ask her, with my compliments, whether she has had another fainting fit."

"I shall certainly have great pleasure in carrying your message, Mr Newland—good morning."

"That fool," observed Atkinson, "will now run all over town, and you will see the consequence."

We met one or two others, and to them Atkinson put the same question, "I thought you knew my friend Mr Newland?" At last, just as we arrived at my own house in St James's Street, who should we meet but Harcourt. Harcourt immediately perceived me, and bowed low as he passed on, so that his bow would have served for both; but Atkinson stopped. "I must beg your pardon, Harcourt, for detaining you a moment, but what are the odds upon the Vestris colt for the Derby?"

"Upon my word, Captain Atkinson, I was told, but I have forgotten."

"Your memory appears bad, for you have also forgotten your old friend, Mr Newland."

"I beg your pardon, Mr Newland."

"There is no occasion to beg my pardon, Mr Harcourt," interrupted I; "for I tell you plainly, that I despise you too much to ever wish to be acquainted with you. You will oblige me, sir, by never presuming to touch your hat, or otherwise notice me."

Harcourt coloured, and started back. "Such language, Mr Newland—"

"Is what you deserve; ask your own conscience. Leave us, sir;" and I walked on with Captain Atkinson.

"You have done well, Newland," observed Atkinson; "he cannot submit to that language, for he knows that I have heard it. A meeting you will of course have no objection to. It will be of immense advantage to you."

"None whatever," replied I; "for if there is any one man who deserves to be punished for his conduct towards me, it is Harcourt. Will you come up, Captain Atkinson; and, if not better engaged, take a quiet dinner and a bottle of wine with me?"

Our conversation during dinner was desultory, but after the first bottle, Atkinson became communicative, and his history not only made me feel better inclined towards him, but afforded me another instance, as well as Carbonnell's, how often it is that those who would have done well, are first plundered, and then driven to desperation by the heartlessness of the world. The cases, however, had this difference, that Carbonnell had always contrived to keep his reputation above water, while that of Atkinson was gone, and never to be re-established. We had just finished our wine when a note was brought from Harcourt, informing me that he should send a friend the next morning for an explanation of my conduct. I handed it over to Atkinson. "My dear sir, I am at your service," replied he, "without you have anybody among your acquaintances whom you may prefer."

"Thank you," replied I, "Captain Atkinson; it cannot be in better hands."

"That is settled, then; and now where shall we go?"

"Wherever you please."

"Then I shall try if I can win a little money to-night; if you come you need not play—you can look on. It will serve to divert your thoughts, at all events."

I felt so anxious to avoid reflection, that I immediately accepted his offer, and, in a few minutes, we were in the well-lighted room, and in front of the rouge et noir table, covered with gold and bank notes. Atkinson did not commence his play immediately, but pricked the chances on a card as they ran. After half an hour he laid down his stakes, and was fortunate. I could no longer withstand the temptation, and I backed him; in less than an hour we both had won considerably.

"That is enough," said he to me, sweeping up his money; "we must not try the slippery dame too long."

I followed his example, and shortly afterwards we quitted the house. "I will walk home with you, Newland; never, if you can help it, especially if you have been a winner, leave a gaming house alone."

Going home, I asked Atkinson if he would come up; he did so, and then we examined our winnings. "I know mine," replied he, "within twenty pounds, for I always leave off at a certain point. I have three hundred pounds, and something more."

He had won three hundred and twenty-five pounds. I had won ninety pounds. As we sat over a glass of brandy and water, I inquired whether he was always fortunate. "No, of course I am not," replied Atkinson; "but on the whole, in the course of the year I am a winner of sufficient to support myself."

"Is there any rule by which people are guided who play? I observed many of those who were seated, pricking the chances with great care, and then staking their money at intervals."

"Rouge et noir I believe to be the fairest of all games," replied Atkinson; "but where there is a per centage invariably in favour of the bank, although one may win and another lose, still the profits must be in favour of the bank. If a man were to play all the year round, he would lose the national debt in the end. As for martingales, and all those calculations, which you observed them so busy with, they are all useless. I have tried everything, and there is only one chance of success, but then you must not be a gambler?"

"Not a gambler?"

"No; you must not be carried away by the excitement of the game, or you will infallibly lose. You must have a strength of mind which few have, or you will be soon cleaned out."

"But you say that you win on the whole; have you no rule to guide you?"

"Yes, I have; strange as the chances are, I have been so accustomed to them, that I generally put down my stake right; when I am once in a run of luck, I have a method of my own, but what it is I cannot tell; only this I know, that if I depart from it, I always lose my money. But that is what you may call good luck, or what you please—it is not a rule."

"Where, then, are your rules?"

"Simply these two. The first it is not difficult to adhere to: I make a rule never to lose but a certain sum if I am unlucky when I commence—say twenty stakes, whatever may be the amount of the stake that you play. This rule is easily adhered to, by not taking more money with you; and I am not one of those to whom the croupier or porters will lend money. The second rule is the most difficult, and decides whether you are a gambler or not. I make a rule always to leave off when I have won a certain sum—or even before, if the chances of my game fluctuate. There is the difficulty; it appears very foolish not to follow up luck, but the fact is, fortune is so capricious, that if you trust her more than an hour, she will desert you. This is my mode of play, and with me it answers; but it does not follow that it would answer with another. But it is very late, or rather, very early—I wish you a good-night."



Chapter LIII

I become principal instead of second in a duel, and risk my own and another's life, my own and others' happiness and peace of mind, because I have been punished as I deserved.

After Captain Atkinson had left me, I stated to Timothy what had passed. "And do you think you will have to fight a duel, sir?" cried Timothy with alarm.

"There is no doubt of it," replied I.

"You never will find your father, sir, if you go on this way," said Timothy, as if to divert my attention from such a purpose.

"Not in this world, perhaps, Tim; perhaps I may be sent the right road by a bullet, and find him in the next."

"Do you think your father, if dead, has gone to heaven?"

"I hope so, Timothy."

"Then what chance have you of meeting him, if you go out of the world attempting the life of your old friend?"

"That is what you call a poser, my dear Timothy, but I cannot help myself; this I can safely say, that I have no animosity against Mr Harcourt—at least, not sufficient to have any wish to take away his life."

"Well, that's something, to be sure; but do you know, Japhet, I'm not quite sure you hit the right road when you set up for a gentleman."

"No, Timothy, no man can be in the right road who deceives; I have been all wrong; and I am afraid I am going from worse to worse: but I cannot moralise, I must go to sleep, and forget everything if I can."

The next morning, about eleven o'clock, a Mr Cotgrave called upon me on the part of Harcourt. I referred him to Captain Atkinson, and he bowed and quitted the room. Captain Atkinson soon called; he had remained at home expecting the message, and had made every arrangement with the second. He stayed with me the whole day; the Major's pistols were examined and approved of; we dined, drank freely, and he afterwards proposed that I should accompany him to one of the hells, as they are called. This I refused, as I had some arrangements to make; and as soon as he was gone I sent for Timothy.

"Tim," said I, "if I should be unlucky to-morrow, you are my executor and residuary legatee. My will was made when in Dublin, and is in the charge of Mr Cophagus."

"Japhet, I hope you will allow me one favour, which is, to go to the ground with you. I had rather be there than remain here in suspense."

"Of course, my dear fellow, if you wish it," replied I; "but I must go to bed, as I am to be called at four o'clock—so let's have no sentimentalising or sermonising. Good-night, God bless you."

I was, at that time, in a state of mind which made me reckless of life or of consequences; stung by the treatment which I received, mad with the world's contumely, I was desperate. True it was, as Mr Masterton said, I had not courage to buffet against an adverse gale. Timothy did not go to bed, and at four o'clock was at my side. I rose, dressed myself with the greatest care, and was soon joined by Captain Atkinson. We then set off in a hackney-coach to the same spot to which I had, but a few months before, driven with poor Carbonnell. His memory and his death came like a cloud over my mind, but it was but for a moment. I cared little for life. Harcourt and his second were on the ground a few minutes before us. Each party saluted politely, and the seconds proceeded to business. We fired, and Harcourt fell, with a bullet above his knee. I went up to him, and he extended his hand. "Newland," said he, "I have deserved this. I was a coward, in the first place, to desert you as I did—and a coward, in the second, to fire at a man whom I had injured. Gentlemen," continued he, appealing to the seconds, "recollect, I, before you, acquit Mr Newland of all blame, and desire, if any further accident should happen to me, that my relations will take no steps whatever against him."

Harcourt was very pale, and bleeding fast. Without any answer I examined the wound, and found, by the colour of the blood, and its gushing, that an artery had been divided. My professional knowledge saved his life. I compressed the artery, while I gave directions to the others. A handkerchief was tied tight round his thigh, above the wound—a round stone selected, and placed under the handkerchief, in the femoral groove, and the ramrod of one of the pistols then made use of as a winch, until the whole acted as a tourniquet. I removed my thumbs, found that the hemorrhage was stopped, and then directed that he should be taken home on a door, and surgical assistance immediately sent for.

"You appear to understand these things, sir," said Mr Cotgrave. "Tell me, is there any danger?"

"He must suffer amputation," replied I, in a low voice, so that Harcourt could not hear me. "Pray watch the tourniquet carefully as he is taken home, for should it slip it will be fatal."

I then bowed to Mr Cotgrave, and, followed by Captain Atkinson, stepped into the hackney-coach and drove home. "I will leave you now, Newland," said Captain Atkinson; "it is necessary that I talk this matter over, so that it is properly explained."

I thanked Captain Atkinson for his services, and was left alone; for I had sent Timothy to ascertain if Harcourt had arrived safe at his lodgings. Never did I feel more miserable; my anxiety for Harcourt was indescribable; true, he had not treated me well, but I thought of his venerable father, who pressed my hand so warmly when I left his hospitable roof—of his lovely sisters, and the kindness and affection which they had shown towards me, and our extreme intimacy. I thought of the pain which the intelligence would give them, and their indignation towards me, when their brother first made his appearance at his father's house, mutilated; and were he to die—good God! I was maddened at the idea. I had now undone the little good I had been able to do. If I had made Fleta and her mother happy, had I not plunged another family into misery?



Chapter LIV

This is a strange world; I am cut by a man of no character, because he is fearful that I should injure his character.

Timothy returned, and brought me consolation—the bleeding had not re-commenced, and Harcourt was in tolerable spirits. An eminent surgeon had been sent for. "Go again, my dear Timothy, and as you are intimate with Harcourt's servant, you will be able to find out what they are about."

Timothy departed, and was absent about an hour, during which I lay on the sofa, and groaned with anguish. When he returned, I knew by his face that his intelligence was favourable. "All's right," cried Timothy; "no amputation after all. It was only one of the smaller arteries which was severed, and they have taken it up."

I sprang up from the sofa and embraced Timothy, so happy was I with the intelligence, and then I sat down again, and cried like a child. At last I became more composed. I had asked Captain Atkinson to dine with me, and was very glad when he came. He confirmed Timothy's report, and I was so overjoyed, that I sat late at dinner, drinking very freely, and when he again proposed that we should go to the rouge et noir table, I did not refuse—on the contrary, flushed with wine, I was anxious to go, and took all the money that I had with me. On our arrival Atkinson played, but finding that he was not fortunate, he very soon left off. As I had followed his game, I also had lost considerably, and he entreated me not to play any more—but I was a gamester it appeared, and I would not pay attention to him, and did not quit the table until I had lost every shilling in my pocket. I left the house in no very good humour, and Atkinson, who had waited for me, accompanied me home.

"Newland," said he, "I don't know what you may think of me—you may have heard that I'm a roue, &c. &c. &c., but this I always do, which is, caution those who are gamesters from their hearts. I have watched you to-night, and I tell you, that you will be ruined if you continue to frequent that table. You have no command over yourself. I do not know what your means may be, but this I do know, that if you were a Croesus, you would be a beggar. I cared nothing for you while you were the Mr Newland, the admired, and leader of the fashion, but I felt for you when I heard that you were scouted from society, merely because it was found out that you were not so rich as you were supposed to be. I had a fellow-feeling, as I told you. I did not make your acquaintance to win your money—I can win as much as I wish from the scoundrels who keep the tables, or from those who would not scruple to plunder others; and I now entreat you not to return to that place—and am sorry, very sorry, that ever I took you there. To me, the excitement is nothing—to you, it is overpowering. You are a gamester, or rather, you have it in your disposition. Take, therefore, the advice of a friend, if I may so call myself, and do not go there again. I hope you are not seriously inconvenienced by what you have lost to-night."

"Not the least," replied I. "It was ready money. I thank you for your advice, and will follow it. I have been a fool to-night, and one folly is sufficient."

Atkinson then left me. I had lost about two hundred and fifty pounds, which included my winnings of the night before. I was annoyed at it, but I thought of Harcourt's safety, and felt indifferent. The reader may recollect, that I had three thousand pounds, which Mr Masterton had offered to put out at mortgage for me, but until he could find an opportunity, by his advice I had bought stock in the three per cents. Since that he had not succeeded, as mortgages in general are for larger sums, and it had therefore remained. My rents were not yet due, and I was obliged to have recourse to this money. I therefore went into the city, ordered the broker to sell out two hundred pounds, intending to replace it as soon as I could—for I would not have liked that Mr Masterton should have known that I had lost money by gambling. When I returned from the city, I found Captain Atkinson in my apartments waiting for me.

"Harcourt is doing well, and you are not doing badly. I have let all the world know that you intend to call out whoever presumes to treat you with indifference."

"The devil you have! but that is a threat which may easier be made than followed up by deeds."

"Shoot two or three more," replied Atkinson, coolly, "and then, depend upon it, you'll have it all your own way. As it is, I acknowledge there has been some show of resistance, and they talk of making a resolution not to meet you, on the score of your being an impostor."

"And a very plausible reason, too," replied I; "nor do I think I have any right—I am sure I have no intention of doing as you propose. Surely, people have a right to choose their acquaintance, and to cut me, if they think I have done wrong. I am afraid, Captain Atkinson, you have mistaken me; I have punished Harcourt for his conduct towards me—deserved punishment. I had claims on him; but I have not upon the hundreds, whom, when in the zenith of my popularity, I myself, perhaps, was not over courteous to. I cannot run the muck which you propose, nor do I consider that I shall help my character by so doing. I may become notorious, but certainly, I shall not obtain that species of notoriety which will be of service to me. No, no; I have done too much, I may say, already; and, although not so much to blame as the world imagines, yet my own conscience tells me, that by allowing it to suppose that I was what I was not, I have, to say the least, been a party to the fraud, and must take the consequence. My situation now is very unpleasant, and I ought to retire, and, if possible, re-appear with real claims upon the public favour. I have still friends, thank God! and influential friends. I am offered a writership in India—a commission in the army—or to study the law. Will you favour me with your opinion?"

"You pay me a compliment by asking my advice. A writership in India is fourteen years' transportation, returning with plenty to live on but no health to enjoy it. In the army you might do well, and moreover, as an officer in the army, none dare refuse to go out with you. At the same time, under your peculiar circumstances, I think if you were in a crack regiment you would, in all probability, have to fight one half the mess, and be put in Coventry by the other. You must then exchange on half-pay, and your commission would be a great help to you. As for the law—I'd sooner see a brother of mine in his coffin. There, you have my opinion."

"Not a very encouraging one, at all events," replied I, laughing; "but there is much truth in your observations. To India I will not go, as it will interfere with the great object of my existence."

"And pray, if it be no secret, may I ask what that is?"

"To find out who is my father."

Captain Atkinson looked very hard at me. "I more than once," said he, "have thought you a little cracked, but now I perceive you are mad—downright mad; don't be angry, I couldn't help saying so, and if you wish me to give you satisfaction, I shall most unwillingly be obliged."

"No, no, Atkinson, I believe you are not very far wrong, and I forgive you—but to proceed. The army, as you say, will give me a position in society, from my profession being that of a gentleman, but as I do not wish to take the advantage which you have suggested from the position, I shrink from putting myself into one which may lead to much mortification. As for the law, although I do not exactly agree with you in your abhorrence of the profession, yet I must say, that I do not like the idea. I have been rendered unfit for it by my life up to the present. But I am permitted to select any other."

"Without wishing to pry into your affairs, have you sufficient to live upon?"

"Yes, in a moderate way; about a younger brother's portion, which will just keep me in gloves, cigars, and eau de cologne."

"Then take my advice and be nothing. The only difference I can see between a gentleman and anybody else, is that one is idle and the other works hard. One is a useless, and the other a useful, member of society. Such is the absurdity of the opinions of the world."

"Yes, I agree with you, and would prefer being a gentleman in that respect, and do nothing, if they would admit me in every other; but that they will not do. I am in an unfortunate position."

"And will be until your feelings become blunted as mine have been," replied Atkinson. "Had you acquiesced in my proposal, you would have done better. As it is, I can be of no use to you; nay, without intending an affront, I do not know if we ought to be seen together, for your decision not to fight your way is rather awkward, as I cannot back one with my support who will not do credit to it. Do not be angry at what I say; you are your own master, and have a right to decide for yourself,—if you think yourself not so wholly lost as to be able eventually to recover yourself by other means, I do not blame you, as I know it is only from an error in judgment, and not from want of courage."

"At present I am, I acknowledge, lost, Captain Atkinson; but if I succeed in finding my father—"

"Good morning, Newland, good morning," replied he, hastily. "I see how it is; of course we shall be civil to each other when we meet, for I wish you well, but we must not be seen together, or you may injure my character."

"Injure your character, Captain Atkinson?"

"Yes, Mr Newland, injure my character. I do not mean to say but that there are characters more respectable, but I have a character which suits me, and it has the merit of consistency. As you are not prepared, as the Americans say, to go the whole hog, we will part good friends, and if I have said anything to annoy you, I beg your pardon."

"Good-bye, then, Captain Atkinson; for the kindness you have shown me I am grateful." He shook my hand, and walked out of the room. "And for having thus broken up our acquaintance, more grateful still," thought I, as he went down stairs.



Chapter LV

I cut my new acquaintance, but his company, even in so short a time, proves my ruin—notwithstanding I part with all my property, I retain my honesty.

In the meantime, the particulars of the duel had found their way into the papers, with various comments, but none of them very flattering to me, and I received a note from Mr Masterton, who, deceived by the representations of that class of people who cater for newspapers, and who are but too glad to pull, if they possibly can, every one to their own level, strongly animadverted upon my conduct, and pointed out the folly of it; adding, that Lord Windermear wholly coincided with him in opinion, and had desired him to express his displeasure. He concluded by observing, "I consider this to be the most serious false step which you have hitherto made. Because you have been a party to deceiving the public, and because one individual, who had no objection to be intimate with a young man of fashion, station, and affluence, does not wish to continue the acquaintance with one of unknown birth and no fortune, you consider yourself justified in taking his life. Upon this principle, all society is at an end, all distinctions levelled, and the rule of the gladiator will only be overthrown by the stiletto of the assassin."

I was but ill prepared to receive this letter. I had been deeply thinking upon the kind offers of Lord Windermear, and had felt that they would interfere with the primum mobile of my existence, and I was reflecting by what means I could evade their kind intentions, and be at liberty to follow my own inclinations, when this note arrived. To me it appeared to be the height of injustice. I had been arraigned and found guilty upon an ex parte statement. I forgot, at the time, that it was my duty to have immediately proceeded to Mr Masterton, and have fully explained the facts of the case; and that, by not having so done, I left the natural impression that I had no defence to offer. I forgot all this, still I was myself to blame—I only saw that the letter in itself was unkind and unjust—and my feelings were those of resentment. What right have Lord Windermear and Mr Masterton thus to school and to insult me? The right of obligations conferred. But is not Lord Windermear under obligations to me? Have I not preserved his secret? Yes; but how did I obtain possession of it? By so doing, I was only making reparation for an act of treachery. Well, then, at all events, I have a right to be independent of them, if I please—any one has a right to assert his independence if he chooses. Their offers of service only would shackle me, if I accepted of their assistance. I will have none of them. Such were my reflections; and the reader must perceive that I was influenced by a state of morbid irritability—a sense of abandonment which prostrated me. I felt that I was an isolated being without a tie in the whole world. I determined to spurn the world as it had spurned me. To Timothy I would hardly speak a word. I lay with an aching head, aching from increased circulation. I was mad, or nearly so. I opened the case of pistols, and thought of suicide—reflection alone restrained me. I could not abandon the search after my father.

Feverish and impatient, I wished to walk out, but I dared not meet the public eye. I waited till dark, and then I sallied forth, hardly knowing where I went. I passed the gaming house—I did pass it, but I returned and lost every shilling; not, however, till the fluctuations of the game had persuaded me, that had I had more money to carry it on, I should have won.

I went to bed, but not to sleep; I thought of how I had been caressed and admired, when I was supposed to be rich. Of what use then was the money I possessed? Little or none. I made up my mind that I would either gain a fortune, or lose that which I had. The next morning I went into the city, and sold out all the remaining stock. To Timothy I had not communicated my intentions. I studiously avoided speaking to him; he felt hurt at my conduct, I perceived, but I was afraid of his advice and expostulation.

At night-fall I returned to the hell—played with various success; at one time was a winner of three times my capital, and I ended at last with my pockets being empty. I was indifferent when it was all gone, although in the highest state of excitement while the chances were turning up.

The next day I went to a house agent, and stated my wish to sell my house, for I was resolved to try fortune to the last. The agent undertook to find a ready purchaser, and I begged an advance, which he made, and continued to make, until he had advanced nearly half the value. He then found a purchaser (himself, as I believe) at two-thirds of its value. I did not hesitate, I had lost every advance, one after another, and was anxious to retrieve my fortune or be a beggar. I signed the conveyance and received the balance, fifteen hundred and fifty pounds, and returned to the apartments, no longer mine, about an hour before dinner. I called Timothy, and ascertaining the amount of bills due, gave him fifty pounds, which left him about fifteen pounds as a residue. I then sat down to my solitary meal, but just as I commenced I heard a dispute in the passage.

"What is that, Timothy?" cried I, for I was nervous to a degree.

"It's that fellow Emmanuel, sir, who says that he will come up."

"Yesh, I vill go up, sar."

"Let him come, Timothy," replied I. Accordingly Mr Emmanuel ascended. "Well, Emmanuel, what do you want with me?" said I, looking with contempt at the miserable creature who entered as before, with his body bent double, and his hand lying over his back.

"I vash a little out of breath, Mr Newland—I vash come to say dat de monish is very scarce—dat I vill accept your offer, and vill take de hundred pounds, and my tousand which I have lent you. You too mush gentleman not to help a poor old man, ven he ish in distress."

"Rather say, Mr Emmanuel, that you have heard that I have not ten thousand pounds per annum, and that you are afraid that you have lost your money."

"Loshe my monish!—no—loshe my tousand pound! Did you not say, dat you would pay it back to me, and give me hundred pounds for my trouble; dat vash de last arrangement." "Yes, but you refused to take it, so it is not my fault. You must now stick to the first, which is to receive fifteen hundred pounds when I come into my fortune."

"Your fortune, but you av no fortune."

"I am afraid not; and recollect, Mr Emmanuel, that I never told you that I had."

"Vill you pay me my monish, Mr Newland, or vill you go to prison?"

"You can't put me in prison for an agreement," replied I.

"No; but I can prosecute you for a swindler."

"No, you confounded old rascal, you cannot; try, and do your worst," cried I, enraged at the word swindler.

"Veil, Mr Newland, if you have not de ten tousand a year, you have de house and de monish; you vill not cheat a poor man like me."

"I have sold my house."

"You have sold de house—den you have neither de house nor de monish. Oh! my monish, my monish! Sare, Mr Newland, you are one d——d rascal;" and the old wretch's frame quivered with emotion; his hand behind his back shaking as much as the other which, in his rage, he shook in my face.

Enraged myself at being called such an opprobrious term, I opened the door, twisted him round, and applying my foot to a nameless part, he flew out and fell down the stairs, at the turning of which he lay, groaning in pain. "Mine Got, mine Got, I am murdered!" cried he. "Fader Abraham, receive me." My rage was appeased, and I turned pale at the idea of having killed the poor wretch. With the assistance of Timothy, whom I summoned, we dragged the old man upstairs, and placed him in a chair, and found that he was not very much hurt. A glass of wine was given to him, and then, as soon as he could speak, his ruling passion broke out again. "Mishter Newland—ah, Mish-ter New-land, cannot you give me my monish—cannot you give me de tousand pound, without de interest? you are very welcome to de interest. I only lend it to oblige you."

"How can you expect a d——d rascal to do any such thing?" replied I.

"D——d rascal! Ah! it vash I who vash a rascal, and vash a fool to say the word. Mishter Newland, you vash a gentleman, you vill pay me my monish. You vill pay me part of my monish. I have de agreement in my pocket, all ready to give up."

"If I have not the money, how can I pay you?"

"Fader Abraham, if you have not de monish—you must have some monish; den you will pay me a part. How much vill you pay me?"

"Will you take five hundred pounds, and return the agreement?"

"Five hundred pounds—lose half—oh! Mr Newland—it was all lent in monish, not in goods; you will not make me lose so much as dat?"

"I'm not sure that I will give you five hundred pounds; your bond is not worth two-pence, and you know it."

"Your honour, Mishter Newland, is worth more dan ten tousand pounds: but if you have not de monish, den you shall pay me de five hundred pounds which you offer, and I will give up de paper."

"I never offered five hundred pounds."

"Not offer; but you mention de sum, dat quite enough."

"Well then, for five hundred pounds, you will give up the paper?"

"Yes; I vash content to loshe all de rest, to please you."

I went to my desk, and took out five hundred pounds in notes. "Now, there is the money, which you may put your hands on when you give up the agreement." The old man pulled out the agreement and laid it on the table, catching up the notes. I looked at the paper to see if it was all right, and then tore it up. Emmanuel put the notes, with a heavy sigh, into his inside coat pocket, and prepared to depart. "Now, Mr Emmanuel, I will show that I have a little more honour than you think for. This is all the money I have in the world," said I, taking out of my desk the remaining thousand pounds, "and half of it I give to you, to pay you the whole money which you lent me. Here is five hundred pounds more, and now we are quits."

The eyes of the old man were fixed upon me in astonishment, and from my face they glanced upon the notes; he could, to use a common expression, neither believe his eyes nor his ears. At last he took the money, again unbuttoned and pulled out his pocket-book, and with a trembling hand stowed them away as before.

"You vash a very odd gentleman, Mishter Newland," said he; "you kick me down stairs, and—but dat is noting."

"Good-bye, Mr Emmanuel," said I, "and let me eat my dinner."



Chapter LVI

I resolve to begin the world again, and to seek my fortune in the next path—I take leave of all my old friends.

The Jew retired, and I commenced my meal, when the door again slowly opened, and Mr Emmanuel crawled up to me.

"Mishter Newland, I vash beg your pardon, but vill you not pay me de interest of de monish?"

I started up from my chair, with my rattan in my hand. "Begone, you old thief," cried I; and hardly were the words out of my mouth, before Mr Emmanuel travelled out of the room, and I never saw him afterwards. I was pleased with myself for having done this act of honesty, and for the first time for a long while, I ate my dinner with some zest. After I had finished, I took a twenty pound note, and laid it in my desk, the remainder of the five hundred pounds I put in my pocket, to try my last chance. In an hour I quitted the hell penniless. When I returned home I had composed myself a little after the dreadful excitement which I had been under. I felt a calm, and a degree of negative happiness. I knew my fate—there was no more suspense. I sat down to reflect upon what I should do. I was to commence the world again—to sink down at once into obscurity—into poverty—and I felt happy. I had severed the link between myself and my former condition—I was again a beggar, but I was independent—and I resolved so to be. I spoke kindly to Timothy, went to bed, and having arranged in my own mind how I should act, I fell sound asleep.

I never slept better, or awoke more refreshed. The next morning I packed up my portmanteau, taking with me only the most necessary articles; all the details of the toilet, further than cleanliness was concerned, I abjured. When Timothy came in, I told him that I was going down to Lady de Clare's, which I intended to do. Poor Timothy was overjoyed at the change in my manner, little thinking that he was so soon to lose me—for, reader, I had made up my mind that I would try my fortunes alone; and, painful as I felt would be the parting with so valued a friend, I was determined that I would no longer have even his assistance or company. I was determined to forget all that had passed, and commence the world anew. I sat down while Timothy went out to take a place in the Richmond coach, and wrote to him the following letter:—

My Dear Timothy,—Do not think that I undervalue your friendship, or shall ever forget your regard for me, when I tell you that we shall probably never meet again. Should fortune favour me, I trust we shall—but of that there is little prospect. I have lost almost everything: my money is all gone, my house is sold, and all is gambled away. I leave you, with only my clothes in my portmanteau and twenty pounds. For yourself, there is the furniture, which you must sell, as well as every other article left behind. It is all yours, and I hope you will find means to establish yourself in some way. God bless you—and believe me always and gratefully yours,

"Japhet Newland."

This letter I reserved to put in the post when I quitted Richmond. My next letter was to Mr Masterton.

"Sir,—Your note I received, and I am afraid that, unwittingly, you have been the occasion of my present condition. That I did not deserve the language addressed to me, you may satisfy yourself by applying to Mr Harcourt. Driven to desperation, I have lost all I had in the world, by adding gaming to my many follies. I now am about to seek my fortune, and prosecute my search after my father. You will, therefore, return my most sincere acknowledgments to Lord Windermear, for his kind offers and intentions, and assure him that my feelings towards him will always be those of gratitude and respect. For yourself, accept my warmest thanks for the friendly advice and kind interest which you have shown in my welfare, and believe me, when I say, that my earnest prayers shall be offered up for your happiness. If you can, in any way, assist my poor friend, Timothy, who will, I have no doubt, call upon you in his distress, you will confer an additional favour on,"

"Yours, ever gratefully,"

"Japhet Newland."

I sealed this letter, and when Timothy returned, I told him that I wished him, after my departure, to take it to Mr Masterton's, and not wait for an answer. I then, as I had an hour to spare, before the coach started, entered into a conversation with Timothy. I pointed out to him the unfortunate condition in which I found myself, and my determination to quit the metropolis.

Timothy agreed with me. "I have seen you so unhappy of late—I may say, so miserable—that I have neither eaten nor slept. Indeed, Japhet, I have laid in bed and wept, for my happiness depends upon yours. Go where you will, I am ready to follow and to serve you, and as long as I see you comfortable, I care for nothing else."

These words of Timothy almost shook my resolution, and I was near telling him all; but when I recollected, I refrained. "My dear Timothy," said I, "in this world we must expect to meet with a chequered existence; we may laugh at one time, but we must cry at others. I owe my life to you, and I never shall forget you, wherever I may be."

"No," replied Timothy, "you are not likely to forget one who is hardly an hour out of your sight."

"Very true, Timothy; but circumstances may occur which may separate us."

"I cannot imagine such circumstances, nor do I believe, that bad as things may turn out, that they will ever be so bad as that. You have your money and your house; if you leave London, you will be able to add to your income by letting your own apartments furnished, so we never shall want; and we may be very happy running about the world, seeking what we wish to find."

My heart smote me when Timothy said this, for I felt, by his devotion and fidelity, he had almost the same claim to the property I possessed, as myself. He had been my partner, playing the inferior game, for the mutual benefit. "But the time may come, Timothy, when we may find ourselves without money, as we were when we first commenced our career, and shared three-pence halfpenny each, by selling the old woman the embrocation."

"Well, sir, and let it come. I should be sorry for you, but not for myself, for then Tim would be of more importance, and more useful, than as valet with little or nothing to do."

I mentally exclaimed, 'I have, I think I have, been a fool, a great fool, but the die is cast. I will sow in sorrow, and may I reap a harvest in joy. I feel,' thought I (and I did feel), 'I feel a delightful conviction, that we shall meet again, and all this misery of parting will be but a subject of future garrulity.' "Yes, Tim," said I, in a loud voice, "all is right."

"All's right, sir; I never thought anything was wrong, except your annoyance at people not paying you the attention which they used to do, when they supposed you a man of fortune."

"Very true; and Tim, recollect that if Mr Masterton speaks to you about me, which he may after I am gone to Richmond, you tell him that before I left, I paid that old scoundrel Emmanuel every farthing that I had borrowed of him, and you know (and in fact so does Mr Masterton), how it was borrowed."

"Well, sir, I will, if he does talk to me, but he seldom says much to me."

"But he may, perhaps, Tim; and I wish him to know that I have paid every debt I owe in the world."

"One would think that you were going to the East Indies, instead of to Richmond, by the way you talk."

"No, Tim; I was offered a situation in the East Indies, and I refused it; but Mr Masterton and I have not been on good terms lately, and I wish him to know that I am out of debt. You know, for I told you all that passed between Emmanuel and myself, how he accepted five hundred pounds, and I paid him the thousand; and I wish Mr Masterton should know it too, and he will then be better pleased with me."

"Never fear, sir," said Tim, "I can tell the whole story with flourishes."

"No, Tim, nothing but the truth; but it is time I should go. Farewell, my dear fellow. May God bless you and preserve you." And, overcome by my feelings, I dropped my face on Timothy's shoulder, and wept. "What is the matter? What do you mean, Japhet? Mr Newland—pray, sir, what is the matter?"

"Timothy—it is nothing," replied I, recovering myself, "but I have been ill; nervous lately, as you well know, and even leaving the last and only friend I have, I may say for a few days, annoys and overcomes me."

"Oh! sir—dear Japhet, do let us leave this house, and sell your furniture, and be off."

"I mean that it shall be so, Tim. God bless you, and farewell." I went downstairs, the hackney-coach was at the door. Timothy put in my portmanteau, and mounted the box. I wept bitterly. My readers may despise me, but they ought not; let them be in my situation, and feel that they have one sincere faithful friend, and then they will know the bitterness of parting. I recovered myself before I arrived at the coach, and shaking hands with Timothy, I lost sight of him; for how long, the reader will find out in the sequel of my adventures.

I arrived at Lady de Clare's, and hardly need say that I was well received. They expressed their delight at my so soon coming again, and made a hundred inquiries—but I was unhappy and melancholy, not at my prospects, for in my infatuation I rejoiced at my anticipated beggary—but I wished to communicate with Fleta, for so I still call her. Fleta had known my history, for she had been present when I had related it to her mother, up to the time that I arrived in London; further than that she knew little. I was determined that before I quitted she should know all. I dared not trust the last part to her when I was present, but I resolved that I would do it in writing.

Lady de Clare made no difficulty whatever of leaving me with Fleta. She was now a beautiful creature, of between fifteen, and sixteen, bursting into womanhood, and lovely as the bud of the moss-rose; and she was precocious beyond her years in intellect. I stayed there three days, and had frequent opportunities of conversing with her; I told her that I wished her to be acquainted with my whole life, and interrogated her as to what she knew: I carefully filled up the chasms, until I brought it down to the time at which I placed her in the arms of her mother. "And now, Fleta," said I, "you have much more to learn—you will learn that much at my departure. I have dedicated hours every night in writing it out; and, as you will find, have analysed my feelings, and have pointed out to you where I have been wrong. I have done it for my amusement, as it may be of service even to a female."

On the third day I took my leave, and requesting the pony chaise of Lady de Clare, to take me over to ——, that I might catch the first coach that went westward, for I did not care which; I put into Fleta's hands the packet which I had written, containing all that had passed, and I bid her farewell.

"Lady de Clare, may you be happy," said I. "Fleta—Cecilia, I should say, may God bless and preserve you, and sometimes think of your sincere friend, Japhet Newland."

"Really, Mr Newland," said Lady de Clare, "one would think we were never to see you again."

"I hope that will not be the case, Lady de Clare, for I know nobody to whom I am more devoted."

"Then, sir, recollect we are to see you very soon."

I pressed her ladyship's hand, and left the house. Thus did I commence my second pilgrimage.



Chapter LVII

My new career is not very prosperous at its commencement—I am robbed, and accused of being a robber—I bind up wounds, and am accused of having inflicted them—I get into a horse-pond, and out of it into gaol.

I had proceeded half a mile from the house, when I desired the servant to turn into a cross-road so as to gain Brentford; and, so soon as I arrived, the distance being only four miles, I ordered him to stop at a public-house, saying that I would wait till the coach should pass by. I then gave him half-a-crown, and ordered him to go home. I went into the inn with my portmanteau, and was shown into a small back parlour; there I remained about half an hour reflecting upon the best plan that I could adopt.

Leaving the ale that I had called for untasted, I paid for it, and, with the portmanteau on my shoulder, I walked away until I arrived at an old clothes' shop. I told the Jew who kept it, that I required some clothes, and also wanted to dispose of my own portmanteau and all my effects. I had a great rogue to deal with; but after much chaffering, for I now felt the value of money, I purchased from him two pair of corduroy trousers, two waistcoats, four common shirts, four pairs of stockings, a smock frock, a pair of high-lows, and a common hat. For these I gave up all my portmanteau, with the exception of six silk handkerchiefs, and received fifty shillings, when I ought to have received, at least, ten pounds; but I could not well help myself, and I submitted to the extortion. I dressed myself in my more humble garments, securing my money in the pocket of my trousers unobserved by the Jew, made up a bundle of the rest, and procured a stick from the Jew to carry it on, however not without paying him three-pence for it, he observing that the stick "wash not in de bargain." Thus attired, I had the appearance of a countryman well to do, and I set off through the long dirty main street of Brentford, quite undecided and indifferent as to the direction I should take. I walked about a mile, when I thought that it was better to come to some decision previous to my going farther; and perceiving a bench in front of a public-house, I went to it and sat down. I looked around, and it immediately came to my recollection that I was sitting on the very bench on which Timothy and I had stopped to eat our meal of pork, at our first outset upon our travels. Yes, it was the very same! Here sat I, and there sat Timothy, two heedless boys, with the paper containing the meat, the loaf of bread, and the pot of beer between us. Poor Timothy! I conjured up his unhappiness when he had received my note acquainting him with our future separation. I remembered his fidelity, his courage in defence, and his preservation of my life in Ireland, and a tear or two coursed down my cheek.

I remained some time in a deep reverie, during which the various circumstances and adventures of my life were passed in a rapid panorama before me. I felt that I had little to plead in my own favour, much to condemn—that I had passed a life of fraud and deceit. I also could not forget that when I had returned to honesty, I had been scouted by the world. "And here I am," thought I, "once more with the world before me; and it is just that I should commence again, for I started in a wrong path. At least, now I can satisfactorily assert that I am deceiving nobody, and can deservedly receive no contumely. I am Japhet Newland, and not in disguise." I felt happy with this reflection, and made a determination, whatever my future lot might be, that, at least, I would pursue the path of honesty. I then began to reflect upon another point, which was, whither I should bend my steps, and what I should do to gain my livelihood.

Alas! that was a subject of no little difficulty to me. A person who has been brought up to a profession naturally reverts to that profession—but to what had I been brought up? As an apothecary—true; but I well knew the difficulty of obtaining employment in what is termed a liberal profession, without interest or recommendation; neither did I wish for close confinement, as the very idea was irksome. As a mountebank, a juggler, a quack doctor—I spurned the very idea. It was a system of fraud and deceit. What then could I do? I could not dig, to beg I was ashamed. I must trust to the chapter of accidents, and considering how helpless I was, such trust was but a broken reed. At all events, I had a sufficient sum of money, upwards of twenty pounds, to exist upon with economy for some time. I was interrupted by a voice calling out, "Hilloa! my lad, come and hold this horse a moment." I looked up and perceived a person on horseback looking at me. "Do you hear, or are you stupid?" cried the man. My first feeling was to knock him down for his impertinence, but my bundle lying beside, reminded me of my situation and appearance, and I rose and walked towards the horse. The gentleman, for such he was in appearance, dismounted, and throwing the rein on the horse's neck, told me to stand by him for half a minute. He went into a respectable-looking house opposite the inn, and remained nearly half an hour, during which I was becoming very impatient, and kept an anxious eye upon my bundle, which lay on the seat. At last he came out, and mounting his horse looked in my face with some degree of surprise. "Why, what are you?" said he, as he pulled out a sixpence, and tendered it to me.