The field day arrived, and I was one of the first upon the ground, which was a beautiful sheepdrove upon the Downs, between Everly and Amesbury. I will call this my second campaign. As the several members of the corps arrived upon the ground, I eagerly accosted them, to know their determination; but most of them appeared shy, and gave evasive answers. I could, however, discover that some of them had got their cue; and these began boldly and manfully to inveigh against the want of good faith in the government, in thus striving to draw the troop into a snare. Some of them even swore that it was as bad as kidnapping; for that the terms upon which the troop had been raised were, that its services should not be required out of the county without the consent of the persons who composed it. "Aye," said I, "that is very true, and we are now, I understand, called together to be asked if we will consent, in case of an invasion, to go out of the county." My speech was broken short by some of them espying our gallant Cornet, moving majestically but slowly along, over the adjoining hill. As he approached us, he was saluted by each of the members in their turn; but, when he came up to me, I fixed my eye upon him with a scrutinizing glance, and so intent was I in endeavouring to trace if possible his thoughts, that I actually forgot to offer him the accustomed salutation, till he reminded me of my inattention, by saying, "good morning, Mr. Hunt." I apologised for my absence of mind, but the fact was, that as I eyed our gallant commander, the dressing-gown scene had involuntarily crept across my brain, and for the moment had so absorbed all my attention, that I was conscious of nothing but the ludicrous appearance of the mighty hero on the morn of the battle of Salisbury.

The bugle now sounded, to announce the approach of the gallant captain Astly, and the troop fell in and was passed through the various manoeuvres by the cornet. This being over, the cornet, after a short conference with the captain, formed us into a circle, within which, as far as I recollect, sat on their chargers, the captain, the cornet, and the Rev. Mr. Polhill, the chaplain to the troop, who held the principal farm at Everly, which he rented of our captain. Having read to us the copy of the Secretary of State's letter to Lord Pembroke, the lord-lieutenant of the county, which stated that an invasion was meditated by our implacable enemy the French, that the government anticipated almost daily an attempt to put it into execution, and that his lordship requested to know whether, in case an invasion actually occurred, the Everly troop would extend their services to the military district of Hants, Wilts and Dorset, the cornet addressed us in a long speech. In this speech the orator did not content himself with leaving the decision to our unbiassed judgments, nor even with hints of his dissatisfaction at the proposal; for he boldly expressed his decided hostility to the measure, and strongly reprobated the idea of farmers leaving their business by going out of the county. His very luminous harangue appeared wonderfully successful in convincing a great proportion of the troop that, by staying at home and looking after our farms, and protecting our own wheat ricks, we should not only be serving ourselves, but should also be supporting the government and opposing the invasion, much more effectually than we should be by marching forty or fifty miles to the coast, to meet the enemy. He proved to demonstration to his willing hearers, that it was our duty to stay at home, and consequently to send an answer to say that, as we had entered the troop for the purpose of keeping in order the turbulent in our own district, we did not feel ourselves justified in leaving the county under any circumstances. He, however concluded in a most heroical strain, by declaring that, in giving this advice to the troop, he was not actuated by any fear, (oh no!) of meeting the enemy; on the contrary, he lustily threatened that if ever they should dare to come into the county of Wilts, at least near Everly or Syrencot[12], they should receive an exemplary chastisement for their temerity, and all the world should know of what sort of men the Everly troop was composed.

I listened to this address with considerable impatience; for such was the effect of example, that I found several of those who, in the morning, had expressed their determination, at all hazards, to vote for going; now drew back; and when I looked at them during this speech I perceived that their eyes dropped down upon their holster pipes. As soon as the Cornet had concluded, I put spurs to my charger, and darted out of my place into the centre of the circle, where, having doffed my helmet, for the first time in my life I addressed myself publicly to a body of my fellow-countrymen. I began with these words: "Comrades, if not fellow-soldiers, at any rate fellow-men, fellow countrymen." I then implored them to reflect upon the consequences of sending such an answer as had been recommended by the Cornet; and I warned them, that, if such an answer were sent, an eternal stigma would be fixed upon the character of the troop. Our conduct upon the Salisbury affair was, I told them, little known out of the county, and we had now an opportunity of wiping off the stain from our character; but if we publicly and deliberately refused to go out of our county to meet the enemy, in case of invasion, we should justly deserve to be branded as poltroons and cowards to the latest posterity. This language excited considerable signs of disapprobation, some few laid their hands upon their swords, and I recollect two of the troop, Gilbert and Workman, threatened aloud. I was, however, not to be deterred. I proceeded in my address to them, and explained the nature of the law in case of invasion; my father having taken down Blackstone's Commentaries, and read to me an extract respecting the posse comitatus. I pointed out to them, that the law compelled every man to bear arms against invaders, and that the Yeomanry Corps, who had been trained, would of course be among the first who would be compelled to act whether they would or not; and that consequently, if they did not feel a desire burning within their breasts either successfully to resist the invader, or fall gloriously in the attempt, if they did not possess any of the amor patriae, yet sound policy ought to induce them to offer voluntarily those services which the law had the power of inforcing against their will.

Although this was my first attempt to speak in public, yet, as my sentiments flowed from my heart, as they were the spontaneous effusions of an ardent spirit, burning with impatience to evince by deeds, as well as words, that I really loved my country, and was willing to lay down my life in its defence, and as I felt indignant at the attempt that had been made by the Cornet to seduce them, as I thought, from their duty, I did not want words to express myself, and I believe that it was quite as eloquent a maiden speech as is made by some Honourable Members in the Honourable House. At any rate it was prompted by a conviction of public duty, and I have never regretted it, though I believe that it made me some rancorous enemies, who have never lost an opportunity, from that day to this, of speaking ill of me behind my back, and doing me an ill turn when they had it in their power.

The Cornet scowled, and many of my comrades looked black, and muttered dissent; but no one seemed inclined to debate the question. At length, after having in vain waited a short time, to see if any one would come forward to second my proposition, our worthy Chaplain, the Rev. Mr. Polhill, gracefully took off his hat, and stepped up between me and some of those who, unable to refute me, and dreading the result of my appeal, were almost disposed to draw their swords upon me for the lecture which I had given them. I shall never forget the venerable air of this truly pious man, who was upwards of seventy years of age. It commanded instant attention, and as he fixed his eye steadily upon me, the most solemn silence reigned around. All the angry passions that my speech had excited were now calmed into the most serious and silent attention, in the expectation that he was about to give me a severe reprimand for my intemperate, and, as some considered it, not only indiscreet but audacious speech. After some short pause he began. I was, at first, rather in doubt what course he meant to pursue, though, from his well known honourable and independent character, I was not in much dread. To the vexation and astonishment of the troop, his first sentence was a warm eulogium upon what he was pleased to call my eloquent appeal to their feelings as men, and to their hearts as Englishmen; and this compliment to me he followed up with a strain of impassioned eloquence, enough to have made the veriest coward brave. He repeated all my arguments, but in a style of language far superior; and, while the tears flowed down his furrowed cheeks, he implored them to save their character from the disgrace which appeared to be hovering over them. He said, that however galling had been the words which had dropped from the lips of his young friend, yet, as he could not find any others that were more appropriate, he himself must repeat them; and must plainly tell them, that, if they returned such an answer as was recommended by the Cornet, they would deserve to be handed down to posterity as poltroons and cowards. He would, he said, go still further; they would not only deserve to be thus branded with infamy, but they would actually be so; and their pusillanimity would be a taint in the blood of their children's children. He begged, he prayed, he intreated, he implored that they would not disgrace the name of man by conduct at once so cowardly and so foolish. But he begged, prayed, intreated and implored in vain—his venerable character protected him from the boisterous disapprobation that they had shown towards me, but they heard him unmoved, or rather as hogs would have listened to the harmonious notes of Orpheus, with a grunt. Still persisting, however, in his efforts to wake a spark of courage in their cloddish bosoms, he declared that, when the day arrived that a foreign foe set foot upon British ground, if he could procure no other conveyance, he would crawl upon his hands and knees to the coast to meet them, and there, old and feeble as he was, he would make a bulwark of his shattered frame, to check in the first onset their daring attempt to destroy our rights and liberties. In fact, he did every thing that man could do, to persuade them to perform their duty, and to save their character from such foul irretrievable disgrace. It was, however, all in vain; for with the exception of myself and the venerable chaplain, they all held up their hands against going out of the county, and it was decided that they should send an answer to that effect to the Lord Lieutenant. I made one more effort, in a short but spirited appeal to their honour as men, to their character as Englishmen; but all remonstrance was thrown away. With one accord they stamped the degrading name of coward upon the colours of the Everly troop of Yeomanry, and I immediately handed over my sword and pistols, or rather indignantly threw them upon the ground, declaring that from that hour I no longer belonged to them, and adding that I would, the next morning, enroll my name in any corps which had extended its services to the military district, unless there was one that had volunteered for unlimited service, in which case I would enroll my name in that corps. I then shook bands with the worthy chaplain, who warmly applauded my conduct, saying that he never would attend them again upon any occasion, and that he would much rather have sacrificed his life than have lived to see so fine a body of his fellow-countrymen desert, at such a moment their duty to themselves and their country. I felt so ashamed of their conduct that I put spurs to my horse and galloped from the field in disgust, lest, by my remaining even for a short time, I should become contaminated by some portion of their vile spirit. Thus ended my military career in the Everly troop of Yeomanry, among the members of which were many private friends, for whom I entertained a very sincere regard, and who would never have disgraced themselves in such a way had it not been for the unworthy recommendation and advice of their officers.

As my father's house lay in my way home, I called on him, to inform him of the result of the meeting. As I rode into the yard he met, me, and seeing I had left my sword behind, "Ah!" he exclaimed, "I see that it is just as I predicted." When I had related to him all that had passed, "Well!" said he, "this is really too bad to laugh at. The expedition against the old women at Salisbury was truly ludicrous; but this deliberate act of cowardice they never can get over; it must and will be blazoned throughout the whole country. You have done rightly, you had no choice; the man who after this decision remains a moment in that troop must expect to be laughed at and despised as long as he lives. But mark my words: prepare yourself for all sorts of ill nature and slander. They who have not had the spirit to follow your example will never forgive you, and to gloss over their own baseness, they will load you with all possible calumny, and will miss no opportunity to do you an injury. As by your resignation you have exposed Astley and Dyke to great odium, be careful how you get into their clutches, or they will squeeze you, rely upon it." I demanded how they could injure me? "Oh!" said my father, "you know but very little of mankind; they that seek an opportunity will seldom want an occasion to do a malicious act. You have been a great sporting crony of Astley's, and have frequently hunted with him; he keeps a pack of hounds, and has hunted over my property, and my farms, for many years, and we have sometimes, though sparingly, sported in return over his. Depend upon it, this will all be put a stop to now."

I replied that upon an average Astley had hunted ten times over my father's farms, where we had sported upon his estate once; that Mr. Astley's hounds met once a week all the season at Littlecot Furze, and that he could not start a hare upon his own estate, or any part of it, without a great chance of her running over some part of my father's property. "That is all very true," said my father, "but, if he cannot be revenged of you in any other way, he will give up his own hounds, in order that he may prevent you from coming over any part of his estate." I had often heard of a man cutting off his own nose to spite his neighbour, but I did not think that, in this instance, it was very likely to happen. "Trust me," said he, "within one month he will forbid you from going over his lands; therefore be on your guard; for be assured that I know the littleness of his soul better than you do, and he will spare no pains to be revenged upon you."

I dined with my father, and returned home in the evening, whither I found the news of the disgrace of the Everly troop had flown before me. My wife heartily approved of my conduct; for she came from the wrong stock to approve of any thing dishonourable. I was received with open arms, as I always had been; but if I had returned and told my wife that I was one of the number that had refused, in case of invasion, to go out of the county to oppose the enemy, I sincerely believe, that I should, for the first time, have met with a very different reception. At all events I should have deserved it.

On the following morning, before I was quite dressed, a messenger came with a letter from Lord Bruce, the colonel of the regiment of Wiltshire yeomanry. I broke the seal and read a very flattering eulogium from his Lordship, on my gallant conduct in resigning my situation in the Everly troop, in consequence of the troop having, as his lordship expressed himself, disgraced itself in such a way as rendered it impossible for an honourable man to remain in it. After paying me many very high compliments, he solicited the honour of enrolling in his troop, (the Marlborough troop,) the name of a gentleman who had acted such a gallant part. After I had breakfasted, I sat down to write an answer; but before I had finished it, another messenger arrived, from an officer of the Devizes troop, to request that I would honour that corps with my name. As, however, Lord Bruce had applied first, and as in that troop I happened to have a particular friend, Mr. Thomas Hancock, the banker of Marlborough, I complied with his lordship's pressing invitation, and enrolled my name in the Marlborough troop the next day.

How true the prediction of my father was, will be seen hereafter, and it soon began to be verified. Before the week was out, I was honoured with a visit from old John Sainsbury, the Everly keeper, who served me with notices from Mr. Astley and all his vassals, not to trespass upon any part of his estates; or from henceforth I should be treated as a wilful trespasser. At the same time he informed me, that his master was grown exceedingly fond of seeing the hares very plenty upon his manors, and that he had disposed of his hounds. This was so precisely what my father had anticipated, that I almost began to think that he possessed some extraordinary means of becoming acquainted with the intentions of men, more than those furnished by common observation. I sent my compliments to the gallant Capt. and desired him to mark his hares, by burning them in the horns, and to teach his keepers to persuade them to stay at home; for if I caught any of them straying upon my father's property, I should certainly make them pay forfeit, and would, if I could, prevent a single one of them from returning to tell the fate of their companions. The reader will understand that the property at Everly belonging to Mr. Astley, joined my father's, without any other division than a mere furrow struck with the plough, between the arable lands; and that the division between the down lands consisted of old bound balls, which were merely small heaps of the sod thrown up together, perhaps some hundred years before; so that those who were not aware of this circumstance, might pass over the plain twenty times, without ever observing that there was any thing to mark the separation; so slight and imperceptible are the landmarks that divide all the estates that are situated upon Salisbury plain.

The first field day of the Marlborough troop came and I joined their ranks. I was fully equipped; the whole of the regiment being dressed in the same uniform as that which was worn by the Everly troop, no alteration was necessary; and as each person supplied himself, at his own expence, with uniform and accoutrements, the arms alone being given by the government, I required nothing but a sword and a brace of pistols, with which I was instantly provided. My new comrades had all volunteered to extend their services, which was my inducement for joining them; but they cut a very sorry figure in the field, both as to their accoutrements and regimentals, and they were not half so well mounted as my late comrades. I could have selected half a score of horses out of the Everly troop that were worth the whole of those of the Marlborough; and as for their discipline, if they had been drilled every day for a year, they would not have been equal to the troop which I had left. Lord Bruce, the colonel, was a complete novice, and he suffered himself to be led by the nose by a serjeant of the 15th, of the name of Walker, who knew little more about the matter than himself. I, however, attended from day to day, without any one attempting to teach me any thing. There were certain fines levied for particular faults, in all these troops, such as for absence without sufficient cause, talking in the ranks, coming to the field too late, not being dressed in uniform, &c. &c.; but I was never reprimanded, fined, or sent to drill, while I was in the troop. We had a dinner at the Castle, at Marlborough, his Lordship in the chair; but as most of the troop were composed of his father's, Lord Aylesbury's tenants, and his dependants, and tradesmen, or belonged to the corporation of the rottenest of rotten boroughs, Marlborough and Great Bedwin, there were very few, except myself and my friends, Hancock and Hitchcock, who dared to say their souls were their own. His lordship was always very polite to me, but he did not appear to relish my delivering my sentiments, which I did with great freedom, upon these occasions. In the field, in the ranks, I knew how to conduct myself, and never failed to pay implicit attention to my duty, nor ever deviated from the strictest discipline; but, when I was at his lordship's table; or at a mess with the troop, I knew of no distinction; I never felt any other controul than that which was dictated by politeness and good manners. Perhaps, young as I was, I might have been thought to have delivered myself upon some occasions, and upon some subjects, with too much freedom; and being always bred up with the idea that nothing was so base and degrading as a slavish disposition, I might, in my endeavour to avoid this, have erred by falling too much into the opposite extreme; but the natural bent of my disposition always led me to avoid giving offence to any one intentionally. My maxim was, never to offer an insult to any one, and to be particularly careful not to say any thing to hurt the feelings of any person in an inferior station of life to my own; never to take umbrage lightly; but if anyone, be he who he might, gentle or simple, offered me a premeditated insult, always to resent it upon the spot, whatever might be the consequence of my so doing.

I now contracted a very intimate acquaintance with Mr. Thomas Hancock the Banker, and always made his house my home when I went to Marlborough, though my wife's elder brother kept the Castle Inn, where I was always welcome. This brother and myself were, however, never particularly intimate, for we were of very different dispositions. He had been, as I have often heard his father say, and himself acknowledge, a very wild, dissipated youth; but as the "wildest colts make the tamest horses," so had this gentleman put on a very sober sedate demeanour, while he was yet but a young man; and the loss of his wife, who left him with a large young family, increased rather than diminished the grave turn of his mind. His acquaintance lay mostly among the dependents and tenants of his landlord, Lord Aylesbury, and as his chief pursuit appeared to me to be directed towards amassing a fortune, and as our tastes were cast in a very different mould, our friendship, though we were upon very good terms, was not of the inseparable kind. He was very much respected among the persons whom I have before described, with whom he associated; and as he knew well on which side his bread was buttered, he took good care to pay particular attention to the steward of Lord Aylesbury. Nor, as the "grey mare was always the better horse" in that family, did he forget to pay due court to the steward's lady, who, to my taste, was one of the most disgusting of disgusting women, both in person and manners. When he first lost his wife, who was a pretty, amiable, fascinating woman, he seemed as if he would sink under the loss, and we at one time feared that he would never recover from his dejected state. We were, however, agreeably disappointed, as we found that "time wore off the deepest afflictions;" but I own that I imbibed rather a prejudice against him, when I soon after discovered that he was upon the point of marrying another lady, a buxom widow, the very reverse sort of woman to his deceased wife. This lady was the widow of a grocer, who had left her some little property, and she was therefore too much of a lady to marry an Innkeeper, and she had sufficient influence over him to make him quit the Inn, and commence gentleman coach master before she gave him her hand.

One day, in the beginning of August in this year, just as I was preparing to commence harvest by wheat reaping, I received a message from my father, to say he wished to see me, as he was not well. I enquired of the servant whether my father was seriously indisposed, and I received for answer that he had kept his bed all day. At this season of the year, I had generally a horse standing saddled in the stable, and although my dinner was just going upon the table, I mounted, and having desired my family not to wait for me, I appeared at my father's bed-side, who lived at a distance of two miles from Widdington, in less time than that in which many persons who were called active would have put on their boots and changed their coat. I had always been bred up to act with decision, and make all my movements in quick time; and as the servant had also made no delay, my father expressed his surprise and pleasure at the rapidity with which I had attended to his wish. I found him flushed in the face, and with a strong quick pulse. He told me that be had had the misfortune to run a thorn in his leg as he was getting through a hedge the day before, that he had endeavoured in vain to extract it, that it had caused him considerable pain, and had brought on so much fever in the night as to produce delirium. He had had it fomented in the morning, and was in hopes that he was better, but now the inflammation was so much increased that he was fearful of another restless night. I begged to see his leg, and I found it to be so much inflamed, that I wished him immediately to send for the family surgeon, or some better advice. He answered that, if he were not better, he would in the morning. In the mean time, he requested me to look round his farms, and attend to his servants. I told him that I would most cheerfully do so, but that I must entreat him to let me send for some medical man. I had no opinion of our family surgeon, yet I thought, as he was a man of very extensive practice, that he would, at any rate, give my father something to abate the irritation and fever, without the possibility of doing harm. As my father would not consent to have any other person sent for, it was agreed that I should dispatch a messenger to Pewsey, a distance of five miles, while I rode round his farm, to see what the servants were doing.

As soon as I got down stairs I mounted my horse, and, not choosing to trust to the uncertainty of sending a servant, I galloped the five miles in about twenty minutes. The doctor was from home, but I soon traced him out, and by intreaty I got him to make his old mare put her "best leg before," and he was in a very short time in my father's bed room. After having heard his statement, and examined his leg, he recommended bleeding, which was immediately performed. Young and inexperienced as I was, I suggested the propriety of some cooling cathartick; but our doctor said no; my father required sleep, he must take a little warm gruel, and he would send him some physick in the morning. As my father felt drowsy, he requested me to go home; and hoping that he should have a better night, he requested that I would look after his business next day, and that I would come and see him in the forenoon. He had a most excellent nurse in my eldest sister, who was his housekeeper; and I left him I own without any sanguine hopes of finding him much better in the morning, although I did not apprehend that any thing very serious was likely to arise from his accident.

When I got home, I told my wife that I was fearful my father was laid up for the harvest, and I must have her assistance more amongst my servants than I had before required of her, as I was convinced that I should have to attend to the whole of my father's large and extensive business as well as my own, and I must make my arrangements accordingly. Instead of waiting for the forenoon, I called upon my father before 4 o'clock the next morning. When I reached his house my sister was up; she had not been in bed since I saw her; my poor father's leg had been very painful all night, and his fever had again occasioned delirium. I found him in a burning fever, and his inflammation alarmingly increased in his leg: since I left him, he had not, he told me, slept a single moment. I at once proposed to have better advice, and urged the necessity of procuring that advice in time. But who should we get? I recommended my surgeon, Mr. Robert Clare of Devizes. My father had always professed an objection to him, because he said he was a drinking profligate character, but I pleaded that he was an intelligent surgeon, and I soon got over my father's scruples, which I had no sooner done than I was for effecting the object. Devizes was twelve miles distant, but with me the greater the distance the less delay was to be made. I therefore ordered a trustworthy servant to do his best to manage the business, and I was at Devizes and had called the doctor up and was at breakfast before the clock struck six. In ten minutes after that time our horses were at the door, and the proper medicines being prepared, I had them in my pocket and was mounted. Mr. Clare's foot was also in his stirrup, and, he was giving some directions to his assistant, when a man came galloping up to the door with one of his hands wrapped up in a handkerchief, streaming with blood. We enquired what was the matter, to which he replied that he was a birdkeeper, and that wishing to draw a charge of shot he had held the gun upside down, with the intent to shake the shot into his hand; but by some accident the gun had gone off, and the charge had passed through the middle of his hand. At this moment up came another man on horseback, to say that a neighbouring lady was taken in labour, and that the doctor or his assistant must come that moment, as "'twas missusses vust child, and mayster was vrightened out of his senses." Clare dispatched Duffet his assistant off to the good lady in the straw; and then said, "Harry, if you will get off your horse and assist me, we will manage matters for this poor fellow." "Ah," said the man, "cut off my hand as quick as you can, sir, for I have left all the rooks eating my master's corn, and I long to get back again to send them about their business." The doctor smiled as he unbound his hand, which was in a most shocking mangled state. Instead of proceeding to amputate the hand, the doctor, after having washed it in warm water, informed him that he would save his thumb and little finger, if he would stand steady while he took off the three middle fingers. "Very well, sir, if you please, but be sharp," was his reply.—I held his arm, and Mr. Clare, who was a skilful surgeon, in a very few minutes took out the three middle fingers nearly up to the wrist, and having bound up the wound and pressed the thumb and little finger nearly together, he desired the man to ride slowly home, and told him that he would see him again on his return from my father.

The doctor always rode excellent horses, and having mounted one of his very best, and the road lying over the Downs, we arrived at my father's house twenty minutes before eight o'clock. I had already ridden a distance of twenty-six miles. Mr. Clare having examined my father's leg, pronounced the case to be a serious one, and at once recommended that Mr. Grant, an eminent surgeon of Bath, should be called in, as well as Dr. Hill a physician, (for form's sake) from Devizes. He said to my father, whom he knew to be a man of an uncommonly firm mind, "I know you will not be alarmed, Sir, but we must have good advice and assistance, or your leg is in such a state that I fear amputation may be necessary. I have therefore desired your son to send or go for Mr. Grant, of Bath, to assist me, who is one of the most eminent men in the profession." My father firmly replied, "if you think, Sir, that it is absolutely necessary, never wait for Mr. Grant, but take off my leg at once."—"No, Sir," replied Clare, "I shall not advise that at present. I will do all that is necessary for you now; but let your son depart for Mr. Grant immediately. I know your son's expedition, and I know that he will be more likely to prevail upon Mr. Grant to come than any one we can send. In the mean time I will bring over Dr. Hill from Devizes, and see you in the afternoon."

This was so settled, and without delay I had changed my horse and galloped back to Devizes; with Mr. Clare, in my way to Bath. As we passed along he informed me, seriously, that my father was not merely in a dangerous state, but that he had not even the slightest hopes of his recovery. I was thunder-struck; I had hardly ever thought of such a thing. My father, at the age of 63, was one of the most healthy, vigorous, active men in the kingdom, and had scarcely ever had a day's serious illness in his life. To see him walk, ride, mount his horse, or in fact do any thing; he was so active, so alert, that his motions were more like a youth of eighteen or twenty than those of an old man; and to look upon him, no one would guess his age to be much above forty, though his hair lead been as white as the driven snow for years. The truth was, that he had all his life been an active, temperate, prudent man, and at the age of sixty his constitution had never received a single shock. I have often heard him say, that he had never been ill since he had the small pox, which he caught in the natural way, when a boy at the age of eight years. In the drawing-room, he frequently shamed myself, as well as all the young men of the village; for he was the most polite and attentive man I ever saw. If a lady dropped her fan, her shawl, her handkerchief, nay even a pin, he was the first to spring to her aid and pick it up; and this he would do in less time than one of our modern yawning, lounging, dandies would take to drawl out "pray Maam shall I have the honour, &c." He would take a cheerful bottle, and make one of the merriest of the gayest party, but never to excess; for he was arrived at that time of life that he knew how to enjoy every pleasure in moderation. He had acquired wealth sufficient for all his wants, and enough to assist a friend; and, where he had a confidence, he was unlimited in his generosity. If he saw a man persecuted unjustly, he was sure to become his friend. In one respect this had led him into a great error, he having advanced to a brewer of Bath as much as seven thousand pounds, without much better than personal security. He had the finest farms in that part of the county, and they were cultivated like gardens; no man was surrounded with brighter prospects, or was possessed of greater worldly blessings; and When Mr. Clare seriously told me that he had no hopes of his recovery, I was absolutely overpowered with astonishment and anguish, and was incapable of uttering a single sentence. "If," said he, "your father ever recovers it will be a miracle; it is too late to attempt amputation. If I had seen him yesterday, before he was bled, his life might have been saved; but my opinion is, that if the Pewsey doctor had taken a pistol and shot him through the head, he would not have been more instrumental to his death than he was at the moment when he took a pound of blood from him in the state in which his leg must have been last night. Between you and I, he is a murdered man, and I do not believe that all the surgeons on earth can save him without a miracle; but we must see what can be done. I know you will not be long riding the thirty miles, to Bath. When you return, call at my house, and leave word at what time Mr. Grant will come, and I will accompany him to Littlecot, either to-night or to-morrow morning. As you go through Devizes call likewise upon old Hill the physician, and make him ride over this afternoon. We must let him earn a guinea or two, as he wants it badly enough, and there is no chance of his doing any harm, for he will not venture to alter what I have ordered, unless I am present. As soon as Grant comes we will do our best; though I assure you I cannot give you any hopes."

As I had to ride a distance of sixty miles, I calculated the time I should be on the road, and as I was to go thither and back on the same horse, and it was very hot weather, I somewhat slackened my pace, that I might not knock up the poor animal. As I passed through Devizes, I left word for Dr. Hill to repair immediately to my father's; and without loosing one single moment for my own refreshment, I reached my friend's, at the brewery in Walcot Street, a few minutes before one o'clock, having come the thirty miles in some thing less than three hours. Two men were instantly set to clean and refresh my horse, to prepare him for my return, while I hastened to find Mr. Grant. He was visiting his patients, for he at that time had the best practice in Bath. Seeing my distress, his servant readily accompanied me to that part of the town where he was most likely to meet with his master; and we soon found the doctor, coming out of a gentleman's house in Brock Street.[21] Upon my accosting him with considerable earnestness and agitation, he invited me to return with him into the house, where I informed him of my earnest desire that he should proceed forthwith, in a chaise and four, to see, and if possible, save my father. To this pressing application he replied that, sorry as he was to be obliged to refuse, he must nevertheless do so, it being impracticable for him to leave Bath; but he added, that his old friend, Bob Clare, was as able a man, and as good a judge how to proceed in such a case, as himself or any surgeon or physician in England. I urged that it was Mr. Clare's most particular wish that he should come; that Mr. Clare had not time to write, or he would have explained that it was a peculiar case. I then described it, together with the symptoms, as well as I could. He shook his head, and said at once, "I fear, if I could go, that I should be too late. That Pewsey doctor can kill much easier than I can cure. The taking of blood away at such a moment was most stupid, it was most damnable; he ought to have put blood into him, instead of taking it away. I fear, after that, there is no hopes. What says Bob Clare?" "I am sorry to say, sir, that you are too well agreed in your opinion; but for God's sake lose no time to fly and do your utmost to save the best of parents." He repeated that it was impossible; for that he had the most important engagements that evening, to break which would never be pardoned, either by his patients, or by the medical men who were coming over, one of them from Clifton, on purpose to meet him. He said, however, that he would recommend me to a friend, who would, perhaps, be able to attend me; and he assured me that he was a very clever man, quite as capable as himself in such an affair. No, this would not do for me; Mr. Clare wished the assistance of Mr. Grant, and I would not accept of any one else. I implored, I wept, and, in agony of supplication, I knelt and seized his knees, declaring that I would not loose my hold till he had promised to go to see my father. I offered him any sum that he might demand, and assured him that I would engage to procure such post horses, as would take him there and back in six hours. He gazed upon me with astonishment. At length be exclaimed, "your uncommon filial piety has triumphed. No money should have induced me to leave Bath under my present circumstances; but such devotedness, such unfeigned and unusual affection in a son for a father, I never before witnessed:" and turning round to the lady of the house, who, with her two daughters, had been drawn to the spot by my raving agony, he said, "I should be for ever ashamed of myself if I did not yield to the prayers of such unbounded filial affection."—Then addressing me, "return," said he, "my young friend, and inform Clare that I will take him up in the morning at six o'clock, and we will be at your father's before eight. I see that you think there is great delay in this, but nothing on earth could induce me to leave Bath before I have seen my patients here. I have an important engagement, a consultation, which will not be concluded before one in the morning. Instead of going to bed, I will start at two in a chaise with four horses, and will be at Devizes by six; and do you take care that Bob is ready, so as not to keep me waiting, for I shall be there to a minute." I could not help sighing, and looking doubtfully, and as he took my hand, I said, "are you sure that you will come? Are you sure that nothing will prevent you?" "My good lad," he replied, "in our profession we are so often put in mind of the uncertainty of life, that we are sure of nothing but death. But this you may rely upon, that if I am alive and able to come, I will be at Devizes at six o'clock, and at your father's by eight." I thanked him most earnestly, and enquired if I could do any thing to forward his good intention, by hiring or bespeaking the horses for his carriage. To this enquiry he replied, that his servant would take care of that; but that I might order horses to be ready for him at Devizes. I consequently assured him that four of the best post horses in the kingdom should be ready and waiting for him at Mr. Clare's door, by the time he arrived there; and this I could safely promise, as I had the interest to procure such from the Bear Inn. I now took leave of him, and he gave me the most friendly salutation; and so did the lady and her two daughters, who had looked and listened to my entreaties with a great degree of interest. Nor had they confined themselves to silent good wishes, for they had most fervently joined in supplicating the doctor to comply with my request; and they now expressed their earnest hopes for the recovery of my father; which was balm to my ears.

I returned to my friend's, where I had left my horse; and, having taken some slight refreshment, I proceeded without loss of time towards home. Such a melancholy journey I never took before, nor have ever taken since! My mind was wholly absorbed in the reflection that it was possible I should so soon lose the best of fathers, of whose real value I seemed never to have had a true estimation till now that I felt the dread of losing him. A thousand sad forebodings hurried across my brain, and I began already to feel that I had lost the best, the truest and the most sincere friend whom I had in the world. Thus it is with poor weak mortals; they seldom know how to appreciate the most inestimable blessings, till they are in danger of being deprived of them! In this sad state I soon reached Devizes, a distance of nineteen miles, on my return, scarcely having noticed any of the objects which I had passed. I called upon Mr. Clare, and left a note for him, to be ready by six o'clock in the morning, and I ordered four of the best post horses at the Bear to be in waiting at Mr. Clare's door at that hour. Then, without making any other delay, I spurred forward, and reached my father's house within a few minutes of three o'clock. I found him much in the same state as when I left him at eight in the morning. My journey to Bath and back, sixty miles, I had completed including my stay there, in seven hours; having now ridden, in the whole, upon two horses, a distance of eighty-six miles.

My poor father, who had been anxiously expecting my return, expressed great satisfaction at my speed; and taking my hand, he said, "Ah! you are a generous, kind-hearted soul. I told your sister that, if you could find Mr. Grant in any reasonable time, you would return by three o'clock. I knew the horse would carry you the sixty miles in six hours; and I also knew that nothing on earth would delay you when your father's health, probably his life, was at stake. Well," added he, "what says Mr. Grant, will he come?" "Yes, sir, he will be here by eight o'clock in the morning or before; in the mean while, I find that Mr. Clare has ordered you to take some medicine that he has sent." "And has he not ordered any thing to be done to my leg; no fomentation or any other thing?" "No, sir." "Why then," said he, "I fear he gives it up for lost; because, unless something is done to stop the inflammation that is going on there, a mortification must follow"—and having said these words he sunk back upon his pillow, resigned and composed. His leg was not quite so painful as it had been; for the fact was, that mortification had actually taken place, when Mr. Clare first saw it in the morning.

My father now said that, after my very great exertion, in riding such a distance, which he had reckoned up, while I was gone, as being eighty-six miles, rest must be necessary for me; and he therefore did not choose that I should ride any farther, for fear I should make myself ill also; otherwise, he felt a great desire to know how the reaping went on, as neither of us had seen the reapers since they began. I gaily told him I was not at all exhausted; and that if such a thing could in the least add to his pleasure or his comfort, I knew that I could ride to Bath and back again without any difficulty. I added, that as to the reapers, I had anticipated what would be his wish, and consequently, before I came in, I had ordered the saddle to be put upon his horse; and, after my sister had given me some tea, I intended to see all the reapers, both upon his farms and my own—"Ah, my dear son!" he replied, "it must be all yours during this harvest at any rate; no cure that can be performed upon me will enable me to get about during this harvest. I am delighted with your alacrity to please me; and, as I have full confidence in you, and know your capability, I shall not give myself one moment's uneasiness about the business."

Having taken some tea with my father and sister, I mounted the third horse, and rode round the fields, and saw every one of the reapers and other servants. I recollect that there were seventy-six reapers at work in my father's fields, and twenty-eight in mine, making in the whole one hundred and four persons, who had that day begun reaping our wheat crop, which was remarkably fine. I had an opportunity, for the first time since I left home, which was about half-past three in the morning, to call and see my wife; of whom I had not had a sight, though I had passed by the house both in going and returning to Devizes and back, and to Bath and back, four times during the day. I informed her of the true situation of my father, and told her that I should return and sit up with him all night.

By the time I had performed my task it was between nine and ten o'clock, and I had literally tired the third horse. My poor father objected so strongly to my sitting up, that about twelve o'clock I retired to an adjoining room to rest myself, but to sleep I found it impossible. I rose again at four, and after I had enquired how he had passed the night, I rode again round the farms more to pass away the hours previous to the arrival of the surgeons and the physician than for any other purpose. A little before eight, according to their appointment, they drove into the yard in Mr. Grant's chariot with four horses. Oh God! what a moment for me! I shall never forget the agitated state of my mind, divided as it was between hope and fear. At the same instant that I hastened them to the bed-room of my father, I would have given any thing to have delayed the fatal, much-dreaded decision. But no time was to be lost. Seeing the agony in which I stood speechless before them, Mr. Grant took me by the hand, and said, "my good young friend, you must exert all your courage, and be prepared for the worst; my old friend Clare has given me such a description of your father's leg, that I have no hopes of a favourable result." Old Dr. Hill, the physician, now said, "come! come! Mr. Grant, do you bear up; do not make the young man down-hearted, "there are a great many slips between the cup and the lip." It is not so bad as you imagine." Good Heaven! what a strong recollection I at this moment have, of the look of scorn and contempt which Mr. Grant bestowed upon the old Devizes physician! He did not utter a word, but his look was enough.

Having informed my father of their arrival, they all three proceeded to his bed-room; a most awful anxious moment for me, and I never before prayed so devoutly for any thing in my life, as I now did for a propitious decision from Mr. Grant. After the first salutation was over, the surgeons began to examine his leg; and Mr. Grant pointed out to Clare a deep red streak, that passed up the inside of his thigh, quite up to the body. He asked my father whether he had any objection to have his leg opened; to which my father promptly replied "not in the least. I beg you will do any thing you think proper." Mr. Grant then said it would be necessary to make a pretty deep incision, to ascertain the state of the inflamed part. "Proceed as you please, sir," said my father, "I am quite capable of bearing pain." Mr. Clare then made an incision in the calf of his leg, three inches deep, quite down to the bone, and five or six inches in length. The flesh appeared as black as mahogany, and very little blood flowed. This my father bore without the least flinching. Some cloths were wrapped round it, and they desired him to lie down, and compose himself a little. "I will lie down, sir," he replied, "but I hope that I do not appear discomposed." All this while I stood like a statue, as pale as ashes, watching every look of Mr. Grant with intense anxiety. "Well, sir," said Mr. Grant, "I will consult with Mr. Clare, who understands these matters quite as well as I do, and, in fact, as well as any surgeon in England, and we will settle the course you shall follow. Your leg is in a dreadful state, but we will see what can be done for you."

Mr. Grant now took my father by the hand, and was wishing him good morning, when my father, holding his hand, firmly raised himself upon his bed, and said, "I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Grant, for the trouble you have taken to come such a long journey to see me; and my son will most cheerfully remunerate you. There is, however, one thing more which I shall request you to do before you leave me. It is that you will give me your candid and honest opinion of my situation. Have you any well-grounded hopes of my recovery? If you have not, you will confer a great obligation upon me by saying so." Doctor Hill, who was standing at the other side of the bed, prevented any answer, by saying, "Come! come! Mr. Hunt, you are low spirited; come! come! you must not indulge in any such notions; you will do very well again by and by." Upon which my father, turning indignantly round, replied with a firm and rather strong voice, "stand back, and keep your peace for once, Dr. Hill, and do not expose yourself—I am neither low-spirited, nor so weak as to be put off by your common-place cant. Have the modesty, at any rate, to listen with patience to what I am going to say to Mr. Grant, who appears to be a sensible, honest man, or else be so obliging as to leave the room." Then, turning back to Mr. Grant, he said, "I have, sir, contrived so to live as not to fear to die. You are a perfect stranger to me; but you have the character of knowing your profession well, and also of being a humane man; at least my son informs me that you have been induced to take this journey more from humanity than for your fee. I have therefore, a perfect reliance upon your judgment with respect to my case; you see that I have nerve to hear my fate; and it will be a great relief to my mind, and it will afford me even comparative consolation, to be informed of it from your lips, rather than be left in suspence. Nay, I appeal to your humanity, to speak the truth boldly at once, to save my poor afflicted son the pain of communicating it."

Having said this, my father paused, to receive a reply. Oh! what an agonising, heart-rending moment was this for me! Mr. Grant took my father's hand, and seriously delivered himself as follows:—"After what you have said, sir; after the calm and manly appeal which you have made to me, and with so laudable and rational a desire to spare pain to the feelings of your son, I should be doing an injustice to my own sense of duty, and be imposing upon you, if I were to withhold any longer my honest opinion; which is this, that, as a mortification had taken place, for many hours even before Clare first saw you, and as it has approached your body, I cannot, unless some very extraordinary interposition of Providence shall occur, see any hopes of your recovery."

My father, who, during this sad speech, had looked him firmly in the face, calmly and rather cheerfully replied, "I thank you, sir, most sincerely. I am content! the Lord's will be done! Pray take care of my poor son." The last words of the Doctor had produced such an awful effect upon me, that, unperceived by them, I had sunk senseless into a chair.

As soon as I recovered a little I was led out of the room, more dead than alive; and even at this moment the words of Mr. Grant vibrate afresh upon my ear. Though I had anticipated such an answer, and had, indeed, no reason to expect any other, yet when the blow came, it was much more stunning, much more overwhelming, than I had any idea of. I was dumb with sorrow; I now, by cruel experience, understood, what dumb sorrow meant. I could neither speak nor give vent to my feelings by tears. The agony of my poor sister, who saw enough to convince her what was the fatal sentence, and who immediately went into violent hysterics, was the first thing that recalled me to myself. The sight of her distress roused me from my lethargy; yet it was with a sort of stupor that I moved to her assistance, and when she had in some degree recovered, my brain was still whirled round and bewildered. I had received such a shock that all the world appeared as one vacant blank before my eyes.

Mr. Clare, at length, called my attention to the wish of Mr Grant to return; and the chaise being brought to the door, he reminded me of the doctor's fee. I asked Clare what would be proper; to which he replied that twenty guineas would be handsome. I, however, gave him thirty, with which he expressed himself very well satisfied; and on his departure he politely requested that he might be numbered among my friends. I made my friend Clare promise to return in the evening; and poor Hill, who had eyed with a mixture of surprise and envy the large sum paid to Mr. Grant, received his two guineas for his two visits, and left the place, cursing, I have no doubt, Mr. Grant in his heart, for having spoken out so plainly as to render his future visits useless, and thereby deprived him of three or four more guineas in fees.

The moment they were gone I returned to my father, endeavouring to suppress my sorrow as much as possible. Taking me by the hand, he said, most tenderly, "My dear son, though I do not feel myself weak, yet, as we must part so soon, pass as much of your time with me as you conveniently can; for I feel at present in very sound mind, and I shall be enabled to give you some good advice, which I hope will be of lasting service to you; and, as it will be given at such a time as this, I am sure that it will sink deep into your heart. In the first place you must not give way to sorrow; for you must be a father to your sister, and to your unfortunate little brothers, who are at school in London. I shall not for one moment repine upon my own account. I am not afraid to meet a merciful Creator; he is not the implacable being that some find it their interest to represent him. I always have had, and shall, to the last, continue to have, full and implicit confidence in his loving kindness and mercy. Be you, therefore, calm and temperate in your grief, and consider that you have a great duty to perform. It must be your task to comfort your father in his last moments, when, perhaps, by the exhaustion of his bodily powers, he may become weak in mind. If this be the Divine will, which, however, may Heaven avert, be it your care to soothe, to comfort, and to cherish; and, if possible, collect and controul my wandering senses. Promise me that you will not leave me long at a time. In you I place my trust, and I know you will not deceive me." I solemnly assured him that I would not leave the house. "Nay,["] said he, "do not say so; all our large farms, with two or three hundred servants, require your attendance, sometimes; but do not leave me long at a time. I feel no symptoms of my approaching end. Send for your wife. She will comfort and be a good companion for your sister, and will assist her to nurse me. I know that you will all make me as comfortable as you can while I remain here." To which I replied, by entreating him not to doubt my affectionate attention.

Mr. Clare and Mr. Grant had both told me that they thought it impossible that he could live more than three days at the most, as the mortification had approached the vital parts.—As he was a very hearty strong man, with a sound constitution, it was possible that he might live full three days; but, nevertheless, as some change might bring on his dissolution much sooner, he ought, they said, to lose no time in settling his affairs. He, himself, began on this subject, by saying, "You know that I made my will since your mother's death, and I see no cause to alter the distribution of my property. I have dealt fairly by all my children. You will possess the manor and estate of Glastonbury, by heirship, in addition to what I have given you. I wish to make a codicil, to appoint you a trustee, in the place of one of those whom I appointed when you were a minor." My uncle Powell, my mother's brother, who was named as a trustee, and his attorney, were, therefore, sent for, and the necessary alteration was made without delay; and without giving my father any trouble, or uneasiness whatever.

As the mortification encreased, his leg grew less painful, and in the night he had some sweet sleep; but I could not be prevailed upon to leave his bed-side for a moment. I devoured every syllable that fell from his lips; and I thought I had suffered the greatest loss if he required any thing, and I was not upon the spot to furnish him with it. My sister was quite knocked up; nature was over-powered; and as I now found the assistance of Mrs. Hunt to be absolutely necessary, she was sent for in the morning. Without her we should have been greatly at a loss; for my poor sister was now more in need of being nursed herself than able to assist in nursing my father, whom we contrived to keep perfectly easy and free from any serious pain till his death. His amazing strength of constitution went beyond the calculation of the doctors; for he lived four days and nearly five nights, after the mortification had visibly passed into his body. During the whole of this time, even to the very last, he was perfectly sensible, and not till he ceased to exist, did he cease to possess all his faculties in the soundest state.

The next morning after Mr. Grant had been, and confirmed his approaching end, he begged to have my sister's piano forte brought up into his bed room; and when he grew fatigued with giving me his kind admonitions, he was much pleased and refreshed by my sister's playing and singing. He was always passionately fond of music, and was a tolerable amateur himself, and it appeared to give him as much pleasure as ever to hear her play and sing "Angels ever bright and fair," &c. &c. Sacred music was mostly his choice upon this occasion, yet he would sometimes request a lively and cheerful air. These tunes frequently lulled him into a sweet sleep, which he now and then enjoyed for an hour at a time; during which period I never failed to watch over him with the most pious care, never suffering him to be disturbed upon any occasion.

During the whole of this time he talked of his approaching dissolution with the greatest calmness and composure; and he gave orders how he would be buried, and named those of his servants who should carry him to the church, to lay him by the side of his dear Elizabeth. He often repeated Pope's universal prayer, and frequently expressed his gratitude that he did not feel as his beloved wife Elizabeth had done at her decease, the moment of which he greatly lamented was clouded with doubts and fears; a circumstance which he had always attributed to bodily weakness; and he prayed devoutly to the author of his being not to suffer his mind to be impaired while he had life in his body. He felt that he had lived the life of an honest man, and had never failed in strictly doing his duty towards his neighbours; he declared that he had gone regularly to church, as an example to his servants and his family, but believed that one private act of devotion was more acceptable in the eyes of a benificent and all-wise divinity, than any mere outward form of public worship. It was, he said, the greatest consolation to him in his last trial, to reflect that he had been honest and upright in all his dealings, and that in his conduct to his fellow creatures, he had uniformly kept in view the sublime precept of "Do unto others as you would they should do unto you." This, he said, was his chief consolation in the hour of trial; and he most emphatically urged us to follow his example, particularly in that respect, as "honesty was the best policy." Recalling to his memory and mentioning all the little menial errors that he had committed, he assured us that they gave him not the least uneasiness; that God was too wise, too just, too good, and too forgiving, to record such faults, and to make his creatures suffer for them where they had not been vicious and premeditated.

In this way, for four days, he spent the close of his existence, principally with me; urging and inculcating every good, honest, and noble principle; cautioning me against the effects likely to result from my great enthusiasm, and pointing out to me the path which he thought would lead to happiness, honour, and renown; and he constantly offered up the most pious and devout thanks to Heaven, for having permitted him to remain so long after he had received notice of his approaching dissolution, as to enable him to give me so much good advice. He anticipated that I should do well and prosper in the world, if my daring independent spirit did not lead me into difficulties; he continued to express great doubts about the prudence of my remaining in the yeomanry cavalry; he said that he had always dreaded some great evil would arise out of it to me; and he submitted whether it would not be much to my advantage to leave it. His death, would, he said, be a most ample reason for my quitting it, as I should have such a large business upon my hand, that it would require every moment of my time to attend to it. "And if you want an excuse," added he, "say it was one of the last wishes of your father that you should do so; but recollect, my dear son, I do not bind you down to any promise of the sort; I only throw out this hint, if you choose to make an excuse. I must, however say, that an honourable and brave man, should never think it necessary to make any excuse for doing that which be deems right and proper. You will recollect these observations and feel their justice, after I am dead and gone; when you will have no sincere friend to advise and admonish you. I own I wish I could have lived another year or two for your sake; as we were now just begun to live as father and son ought to live, upon the most friendly footing. You would have assisted and protected me in my old age; and I know, and you will so feel, that I should have been of the most important service to you. You decide too hastily; you are quick and impetuous; your young hot blood leads you on incautiously into unnecessary dangers and difficulties. The truth is, you are young; and therefore I would not have you otherwise disposed than you are. I have long discovered a noble generous spirit to be the ruling passion of your soul; and all your faults even result from an amiable and a praiseworthy enthusiastic desire to excell. You only want prudence and experience to direct you; but that experience which you might have acquired from me you must now purchase. To have lived to direct, to advise and admonish you, would have been a great happiness to me. But the Lord's will be done! I have given you a good education; I have made you a complete master of your business, as a farmer; God has blessed you with a strong mind, and a sound body; and few young men of your age will begin the world with brighter prospects; you will have a large business upon your hands, that will keep you out of idleness; though, in fact, I do not suspect you of any tendency to idleness; but I hope this fine business will keep you out of mischief. You must be a father to your poor little brothers, who are so unfortunate as to require double care. Your uncle Powell has promised that he will take care of your sisters; but be sure and give them repeated advice not to be led away, against their better judgment, to adopt his form of religion, that of a Quaker. I have not the slightest objection to the Quakers; but I have always found the church of England quite good enough for those who have been bred up in that persuasion. I do not think any one would be justified in dissenting from the church of England till he has acted up to all the Christian precepts of that church. But now, that we are on the subject of religion, and the church of England, mark what I say upon my death bed. It will, I know, sink deeper into your young mind than any thing that I could have said at any other time. Do not, my dear son, for one moment imagine that I wish to inculcate the idea that, as I approach my Maker, I profess to believe all those mummeries that I have hitherto dared to disbelieve and dispute. You know that I never joined in Saint Athanasius's Creed. All such unchristian denunciations I ever held, and I still hold, to be blasphemous impositions. Many of the forms of the church also are superstitious and ridiculous; but the moral precepts of the Christian faith are wise and good. I have never meddled in religious discussions; I have always formed my own opinion to the best of my judgment and belief; and if in any of those opinions I have erred, I have not the least shadow of doubt upon my mind that a wise, just and beneficent Creator and father of all, will pardon my errors. I do not feel the least disposed now to investigate, or puzzle myself, in my last moments, in a vain endeavour to enquire whether I have been right or wrong; the Lord's will be done, say I, and may he in his goodness assist you to continue an honest and an upright man amongst your fellow men. Do your duty by your neighbour, and worship your Maker agreeably to the dictates of your own conscience, and you will live happy; and when the time comes (for, recollect that it must come with ALL) and when it comes with you, my dear son, may you be as well prepared as your father is to enter the presence of your Maker."

I have, I think, shewn the reader enough to impress him with the idea of the incessant pains, the unwearied exertion, of my excellent parent, to inculcate the true principles of honour, morality, and religion upon the mind of his son. He well knew that what he said upon these matters, at such an awful period, was sure to make a lasting impression upon the memory of his son: for whose benefit he appeared to live even to the last. When, at times, he became exhausted with his anxiety to serve me, he would say, "now, my dear boy, go down stairs and get some refreshment, while I meditate, while I commune with God in private, and silently adore his goodness. Come again soon; but, in the mean time, do not let any one disturb my meditations." When I crept quietly back again, I sometimes found him with his hands clasped, still in the act of silent prayer. On seeing me, he would cease, and say, "it is all well;" and then he would return to the most interesting discourse with me. At other times I found him in the most sweet and delightful sleep; his countenance as placid as in the most happy and prosperous moments of his life; as if he were blessed with health and spirits. He always awoke cheerful, and apparently refreshed, and would relate some delightful dream which he had had, frequently consisting of a happy meeting and heavenly conversation with his dear departed Elizabeth, my mother. God of heaven! what did I not feel in those interesting and trying moments! Any weeping, any gloomy sorrow in his presence, he forbad; for he said we all ought to bless the hour, and to rejoice to see a beloved parent upheld at such a moment by his Creator, so as to be enabled to die with such serenity and firmness, and to set such an example to his children. In this manner passed away three days and nights after Mr. Grant had pronounced it impossible for my father to recover. As all the medical men had agreed that it was not probable that he would survive more than two days, I had every now and then a faint hope that the strength of his constitution would overcome the mortification. Mr. Clare, however, who attended daily, repressed that hope by pronouncing it impossible for my father to live. His predictions were verified by the event. On the morning of the fourth day it was evident that my parent grew weak; his voice failed him, he had much greater difficulty in holding any conversation, and his breathing was much less frequent; yet he was calm and cheerful, and felt pleasure in hearing my sister play upon the piano-forte, which caused him a short slumber after each tune.

About the middle of the day, he desired to be alone with me; and taking my hand, with a benignant smile, he said, in a weak but tender tone, "my dearest son, your father's time for quitting this mortal life is arrived. I find that the hand of death is upon me." After a pause of half a minute, to recover from the exertion, he continued, "you will soon lose your best and truest friend. I would not wish to make you a misanthropist; I would not, because it is unnatural at your age, have you suspect all mankind; but of this you may rest assured, that there are few, very few in the world, who will not flatter you if they can get any thing by it. There are none who will tell you of your faults with the candid kindness of a friend; some, indeed, may taunt you with them, in order to irritate and provoke you; but, before another sun rises, you will have lost the only one who must be naturally anxious to advise and admonish you with a pure and disinterested friendship. Young and sanguine as you are, you will be thrown upon the wide world, to think and act for yourself; but your prospects are bright, your father has done his best for you, and in his last moments he will pray for your success and happiness in life. My only sorrow is at leaving your little unfortunate brothers. You must be a father to them, and I have left them an ample fortune, to repay you well for any trouble you may have with them. I know you will be a kind brother to them, and I hope, in return, that they will be grateful to you. I have little dread on your account, for though you are young, yet God and your father have done their duty towards you so bountifully, that there is every prospect of your doing well in the world. I only wish I could have lived to have seen you well out of the yeomanry cavalry! Recollect my last words—you will always find 'honesty the best policy;' therefore always 'do unto others as you would that they should do unto you,' and take care so to live that, when death calls, you may be prepared to follow him, as I now am, in humble but confiding hope, and without repining."

My poor father held me firmly by the hand and looked me steadily in the face, though his eyes grew dim, and his voice was so interrupted by the difficulty of respiration, which now much increased, that he was greatly exhausted. At length he sunk gently back upon his pillow, ejaculating "the Lord's will be done; the Lord be praised." His eyes were fixed and death had overspread his face with a sombre hue; he held my hand about three hours, but never spoke more; lying all the while perfectly still, apparently without the least pain or uneasiness, either in body or mind. In this state he continued till near eight o'clock in the evening, of the 27th of August, 1797, when the best of fathers drew his last breath, and gently slid into the arms of death, without a groan, a struggle, or even a sigh, to the inexpressible grief of his affectionate and deeply-afflicted son. His hand still retained its hold of mine, and I now gave vent to that unbounded sorrow which I had heretofore suppressed and smothered, because I would not make him uneasy. It is to me in my dungeon a source of never-failing pleasure to reflect that all that it was possible for one man to do to save the life of another I did, to save his life; and at any one moment, after his doom was pronounced by the doctors, I would have sacrificed my life, nay, if I had had a thousand lives I would have died by torture a thousand times, to have saved his life. But he had taught me not only by precept, but by example, to bow to the will of God. There never lived a better man, nor a better father; nor did ever a son sustain a greater loss than I did by his death. It has been said, with great truth, that he was the second founder of his family.

After he drew his last breath, I remained kneeling by his bed-side absorbed in grief and silent prayer for nearly an hour, before any one of the family came to me. At length my wife came to my aid, and being roused by her I performed the sad sacred office of closing his eyes for ever.

I shall not make any apology to the reader, for having dwelt so long on this melancholy scene. I trust that it will prove one of the most instructive parts of my history. In fact, and in truth, I would not write another line, if I did not fondly hope that almost every part of my life may prove instructive, as well as entertaining, to my fellow creatures and the rising generation; particularly to those who may embark upon the wide, rough, boisterous, and dangerous ocean of politics. When I recite my own errors, and it has already been seen, that I have committed many and great ones, I am rewarded for the pain I feel in the recollection of them, by the hope that they may prove a beacon and a warning to those young persons who may do me the honour to read these pages; and where they find that the impulse of honourable generous feelings, unguided by prudence, has led me into a wrong course, I trust that the young reader will learn, from my mistakes, how to temper his zeal with that discretion which may enable him to steer clear of those perilous quicksands upon which I have so frequently struck.

What a great misfortune for me was the death of my father! Before I was yet twenty-four years of age, with a mind unformed, and I may say, in the common acceptation of the phrase, very young of my age; here was I left in the uncontrolled possession of one of the largest farming concerns in the kingdom! I had a young wife, and a family of my own coming on; and had five sisters and brothers, younger than myself, left without father or mother. I was immediately obliged to attend to the farms, which had had no master to look over them for the last week, that week the most busy one in the year; and I had likewise to give orders for the funeral of my departed father. Exertion was indispensable. It was no use for me to lie down and cry God help me! Necessity, however painful to my feelings, compelled me to see to every thing, because I had no friend either to do it for me, or even to assist me. The whole lay upon the hands of myself and my wife, who was of the greatest assistance to my poor sister, who almost sunk under her afflicting loss.

It was fortunately fine weather, and the wheat harvest was nearly finished before my father was buried. When the awful day of his funeral came, I performed the last sad and solemn office for him, as I had faithfully promised to him that I would, and saw him laid by the side of my poor mother in the silent grave, the tomb and vault of his ancestors, in the chancel of the parish church of Enford, in the county of Wilts.

This melancholy scene made the most lasting impression upon my memory, and such was the effect of the kind benevolent and endearing conversations which I had held with my father, during the four last days of his life, after he knew that he could not survive his illness, that for seven years afterwards, I used in my sleep to hold the most delightful converse in my dreams with the spirit of my beloved parent; in all of which he appeared most anxious for my welfare, and advised, admonished, and kindly cautioned me against every impending evil; so that he was not only the best of fathers when living, but he proved my kind and fostering guardian angel after his death. No young man ever had better advice bestowed upon him than I had; unceasing kind and paternal advice, as well as the best example. Nor was any one ever more sensible of the great and irreparable loss be had sustained than I was; or ever more sincerely deplored the loss of a beloved parent, than I did the loss of my father. Mine was not that sort of sorrow which puts on a gloomy outside, the garb of woe, while the heart beats to a merry tune. But, though I did not assume any hypocritical outward sorrow, yet I was really and truly most sad at heart. The constant employment of the body and the full occupation of the mind is, however, always the very best antidote to grief, and those my business furnished me with, to the fullest extent. When my father died, what he rented, and what he left of his own, was nearly all the tything of Littlecot, as well as Chisenbury farm, and I was in possession of Widdington farm, about two miles distant. All the farms were now in my occupation, and, as I thought it proper to live more centrical, I took Chisenbury House, a large old-fashioned, handsome mansion; and as soon as I could fit it up and furnish it, I went to reside there. This was considered by some as being rather an imprudent and extravagant step; for it would require a considerable income to keep up an establishment such as a house like that demanded. The reader will be able to estimate its size, when I inform him that there were not less than fifty two windows in it to be paid for to the assessed taxes; the number of them, however, I had the prudence to reduce considerably. But, in spite of all my prudence, it could not, considering the scale on which my arrangements were formed, be otherwise than a very expensive residence. Still it was not more, perhaps, than I was fairly entitled to, as the profits arising from my large well cultivated farms enabled me to vie with men of five or six thousand a year, in my domestic establishment. My stables were stored with hunters; my kennels with dogs; my cellars were well stocked with wine and the best old October; and my table always amply furnished the best of viands to my friends. My wife, who was quite as fond of company as I was, made her female guests uniformly welcome. We kept a hospitable house, and we never wanted for company to fill it, or a parson to say grace to a good dinner. At this time we had another daughter born, and every thing went most prosperously with me in the world. My friend, Dr. Clare of Devizes, who was a sporting man, purchased at Lord Audley's sale a handsome curricle, which he offered me, and we soon struck a bargain. Curricles were all the vogue at that time; therefore a dashing young man without a curricle was nothing; and as my wife was a great driver, as well as a good horsewoman, a curricle was almost indispensable.

Let no one suppose, from reading this, that I was become a careless squanderer. The habits of economy which, almost from my infancy, I lead imbibed in consequence of the example that I had always before my eyes, did not desert me even under these circumstances. By management I lived as well, kept as good a house, and had my whole establishment so arranged, as to make quite as good an appearance for a thousand or fifteen hundred a year as many persons make who spend more than thrice that sum. I had at all times plenty of money, and I had every comfort and luxury about me; but in the midst of all this apparent extravagance, I never forgot the poor. All my servants were well paid and well fed, and I scarcely ever failed to attend the parish pay table, to see that those who held the office of overseer turned no one away, who was really in distress, without affording him relief. Thus early I gained the character of being the friend of the poor. I always pleaded the cause of the widow, the orphan, the aged, and infirm; and, being the largest paymaster in the parish to the fund of the poor, I never pleaded in vain. The idle, the indolent, and the dissolute, I left to fight their own battles; but the infirm, the aged, the widow, and the orphan never fruitlessly sued when I was present, and, as I have just said, I seldom failed to attend; if I did I was sure to hear complaints. My readers will recollect that I am writing these Memoirs during the life-time of hundreds who can speak to this fact; and I speak of it not as boasting, but with the firm conviction that it can be substantiated by hundreds who lived in the parish, and that there is not one who will contradict it. The friend of the poor is a title which I earned very early in life, and I hope that I shall deserve to carry it to my grave. Sorry, however, as I should be to lose this honourable title, I would ten thousand times rather lose it than lose the heart-cheering, soul-inspiring reflection that I have always been their friend not for the name, but for the pleasure I felt in protecting and assisting my less fortunate fellow-creatures, when they were in distress. It may be said, if you are really so, why not rest satisfied with the pleasure of knowing it? Why do you sound your own trumpet, and endeavour to blazon it forth to the world? My answer is, because my being incarcerated here for two years and six months has induced me to become my own historian, and I will endeavour to be so faithfully; and I feel that I have need to put upon record all my good qualities, as a set-off to balance my bad qualities. Of the latter I have disclosed a great many already, and as I proceed I shall have to record still more. Now, as we are told that charity covers a multitude of sins, if I possess this good quality of charity, and if I prove that I always exercised it, I think I should not be doing common justice to myself or to my friends, if out of false modesty I were to keep silence. Those who have read my work hitherto will not fail to have discovered that, from my early days, I have proved myself to have been animated by an ardent love of country, that I possessed a sort of inherent patriotism, without having at all entered into politics. A patriot I consider to be a man who is devoted to the laws and constitution of his country in their purity; a defender of the rights and liberties of the people, and one who does his best to promote their happiness and welfare.

Merely possessing the good quality of being charitable, by no means makes a patriot. Therefore, I am not professing any claim to patriotism, on the ground of my being at that period a friend to the poor. In the first place, I believe that charity and a sympathy for the sufferings of my fellow-creatures are inherent qualities of my breast; at any rate I know that I felt them in all their purity as long ago as I can remember. In the next place, I was taught to practice charity by the example of my amiable and excellent mother, who possessed as much christian charity, as well as piety, as any mortal that ever lived; she was, indeed the very milk of human kindness; and although my father taught me to exercise the virtue with more discretion, yet he never checked it.

When my father died he was the Vicar's churchwarden, as well as the principal overseer of the parish of Enford; and, of course, as I came into possession of his estates and farms in that parish, I continued in the parochial offices, as his substitute, till the next Easter. During that time it was a severe winter, and I exercised my own discretion, and without any ceremony raised the pay of the poor, particularly of the aged and infirm, those whose labours were done. I found their pay at two shillings and sixpence per week each; I raised it to three and sixpence each, and in some instances, as in cases of infirmity, still higher; and, when some of the parishioners mentioned their objections, to the measure, I declined to reduce the allowance, but offered to pay out of my own pocket the advance which I had made, in case of my conduct being disapproved of at a meeting or vestry. No meeting, was, however, called; nor in this large parish, where the population is above six hundred, was there any complaint made to the magistrates by any pauper against me during the whole time I was in office.