What tribute can friendship or affection pay, to the memory of a man like this? There is only one that is worthy of his virtues; and that is to record them: that, he being gone, his example may inspire the benevolence he practised; and teach others to communicate the blessings he conferred.

Oh that I had the power to pourtray those virtues in all their lustre! Ages unborn would then rejoice, that such a man had lived; and feel the benefits he would have bestowed. But it is a task that cannot be accomplished in a few pages. His life was a vast volume of the best of actions, which originated in the best of principles. Peace, love, and reverence, be with his memory.

For my own part, if, in addition to that uncommon public worth which he possessed, and that noble scale of morality by which he regulated his life, the personal kindness which he heaped on me be remembered, I must have less of affection than savage brutality, did no portion of his spirit inspire me while I speak of these events.

Nor did his friendship end while understanding had the least remaining power. His last act of benevolence was a strenuous but incoherent effort to prevent the mischief which, disturbed as his functions were, he still had recollection enough to apprehend would fall on me.

The reader is informed of the mortgage I gave Mr. Evelyn, when I received not merely a qualification but the possession of an estate; and I imagine he will not think I was too scrupulously careful, to guard and prove the honesty of my intentions, when I further tell him that, for the sums of money which Mr. Evelyn advanced, I insisted on giving my promissory notes for repayment. I was pertinacious, and would accept such favours on no other terms.

This mortgage and these notes were lying in the possession of Mr. Evelyn, at the time of his death. He had apprehended no danger, till the fever and the delirium seized him: at the beginning of which he called his servant, Matthew (I tell the story as the poor fellow told it to me), and, giving him a key, bade him go down to his bureau, and search among his papers for a parchment and some notes, that were tied together with red tape.

Having uttered this, he began to talk in a wild and wandering manner; of fetters, and prisons; and asked Matthew if he knew why such places were built? 'So make haste, Matthew,' said he, 'and burn the parchment, and burn the notes, and burn the bureau. After which, you know, all will be safe, Matthew; and they can never harm Mr. Trevor. You love Mr. Trevor, Matthew: do not you?'

His recollection then seemed to return; and he asked, 'Of what have I been talking? Go, Matthew; seek the parchment and the notes: tied with red tape. Observe: there is no other parchment tied with red tape. Bring them to me directly.'

Matthew had taken the key; but just as he was going the Doctor, who had been sent for, arrived.

Matthew went, however, as he was directed; and, applying the key to the lock, found it was a wrong one.

The Doctor, alarmed for the state in which he saw Mr. Evelyn, immediately wrote a prescription, and rang for the servant to run and have it prepared at the shop of the next apothecary. Matthew answered the bell; and Mr. Evelyn seeing him eagerly demanded—'Where is the parchment? Have you brought me the parchment? Why do not you bring me the parchment?' 'For,' said Matthew, 'I held out the key; and he saw I had nothing else in my hands.'

The Doctor asked Matthew what parchment his master wanted? And Matthew replied, he could not tell: except that his master said it was in the bureau, and tied with red tape. 'Why do not you bring it?' said Mr. Evelyn. Then turning to the Doctor, added—'It is a bundle of misery; and you know, sir, we ought to drive all misery from the face of the earth. I cannot tell how it came in my possession. Why do you not go and bring it me, Matthew? And pray, sir, do you see it destroyed. Promise me that; I beg you will! Because Mr. Trevor is in the country. I am afraid elections are but bad things. What, sir, is your opinion? For I think I shall die; and he will then have no friend on earth to secure him the poll.'

'Seeing my poor master was so disturbed in his mind,' said Matthew, 'the doctor bid me run as fast as I could for the stuff he had ordered: which I did. But I was obliged to wait till it was made up; and when I come back my poor dear master was more distracting light-headed than ever. But still he kept raving about the parchment; and his cousin, Sir Barnard; and you, Mr. Trevor: all which the Doctor said we must not heed, because he did not know what he said. Though, for all that, I could not but mightily fear there was something hung heavy on his mind: for, as long as ever he could be heard to speak, he kept calling every now and then for the parchment. And after that, when he lay heaving for breath and rattling in the throat and nobody could tell a word that he said, he kept moving his lips just in the same manner as when he could make himself heard. I do believe he was calling for it almost as the breath left his body. And I cannot but say that I wish I had found it, and brought it to him; for the ease and quiet of his soul.'



CHAPTER XII

Doubts concerning the justice of wills and testaments: The provident care of the Baronet: A demonstration of his ardent love for his country: Hector loses his election: My determination to accept the Chitern Hundreds

When a man discovers that the pathos of his story, and the virtues which he has in contemplation, are entirely beyond the power of language, what method can he take but that of leaving off abruptly: that he may suffer the imagination to perform an office to which any other effort is inadequate? As Mr. Evelyn lived so he died. To prevent evil and to do unbounded good was his ruling passion. It never left him, till life departed.

It is a phenomenon which has frequently been remarked that, in a state of delirium, the mind has its luminous moments: during which it seems to have a more clear and comprehensive view of consequences than in its more sober periods of health. The evil that excited so strong and painful an alarm in the mind of my dying friend was no idle dream. The Baronet was his heir at law. Mr. Evelyn had made no will: for not only was his death premature but, knowing the mischiefs that have arisen from disputes concerning testamentary bequests, he strongly doubted of the morality of making any. It was never his intention to hoard; and, hoping or I might rather say expecting to have a clear prospect of the approach of death, his plan was to distribute all the personal property in his possession before he died, in the manner that he should suppose would be most useful.

However, whether it were a just sense of rectitude or an improper pride of heart, I own that I felt pleased, as far as myself was concerned, that the intentions of Mr. Evelyn, when he called for the parchment, were not executed. I did not indeed foresee all that was to happen: but I felt an abhorrence of being liable to be suspected of I know not what imputed arts, or crimes; by the aid of which malice or selfishness might assert I had come into the possession of so large a part of Mr. Evelyn's property.

Not that, if the deeds and notes had been destroyed, I should have thought it just to have retained the estate that I held. But my virtue was not fated to be put to this trial. When I met Sir Barnard at the Cocoa tree, he not only knew of the decease of Mr. Evelyn but had ordered seals to be placed on all the locks; under which it was imagined that papers or effects might be secured. Having heard the story of Matthew, I could have no doubt but that the mortgage deeds, and the notes for sums received, would now fall into the Baronet's power.

It is true I might, if I pleased, bid him defiance. No: I ought not to have said, if I pleased; but, if I could condescend to acknowledge myself a scoundrel. He had made me his own member, and had himself impowered me to avoid the punishment which is assigned by law to unfortunate debtors: for, under this best of governments, such as a representative of the people was now my privilege. This immaculate constitution, to which all the homage that man can pay is insufficient worship, vaunted as it is and revered by all parties, or all parties are broad day liars, for all and each strive to be most loud and extravagant in praise of it, this constitution in its very essence decrees that things which are vile and unjust, in one man, are right and lawful, in another.

Well then: by the aid of this constitution, which I too must praise if I would escape whipping, I might seat myself as Sir Barnard's member, and aid to countenance and make laws, to which I and the other wise law-makers my coadjutors should not be subject. I might, however offensive the term may be to certain delicate ears, I might become a privileged swindler; and rob every man who should do me the injustice to think me honest.

It cannot be supposed that so dear a lover and so ardent an admirer of the constitution, as Sir Barnard was, should once suspect that I would not benefit myself by all its blessings: that is, that I would not cheat him to the very best of my ability. This supposition had induced him, during our conversation at the Cocoa tree, to struggle with and keep down those indignant risings with which, notwithstanding the modulated tone of his voice, I could see he was more than half choaked.

After what I had heard and situated as I was at present, I had very little doubt either of the purity of his patriotism or the manner in which it would affect me. Still however I had some. There might be a change in his politics; but it might neither be of the nature nor of the extent that I feared.

But these doubts did not distress me long. They were entirely removed, by that most authentic source of intelligence the Gazette; in which, about a fortnight after the death of Mr. Evelyn, I read the following unequivocal proof of the Baronet's inordinate love of his country.

'The King has been pleased to grant the dignity of a Baron of the kingdom of Great Britain to Sir Barnard Bray, Baronet; by the name stile and title of Baron Bray, of Bray hall in the county of Somerset; and to the heirs male of his body, lawfully begotten.'

I was now no longer at a loss for the reason of the Baronet's late sudden departure, and the desertion of his political friends at the election. What are friends? What are elections? What is our country, compared to the smiles of a prime minister; and the titles he can bestow? Nothing now was wanting to the honor of the house of Bray! It might in time I own pant after a Dukedom; and a Duke of Bray might as justly be stiled princely and most puissant as many another Duke. But at present it was full with satisfaction.

This court document, brief though it was, spoke volumes. It was a flash of lightning, that gave me a distinct view of the black and dreadful abyss that was immediately before me; and into which I foresaw I must be plunged.

On the same day, I read that the Idford candidate had been returned for the county of ****; and that consequently Hector had lost his election.

This was not all. Heated by the illiberal practices which always attend such contentions, knowing the bribery that he had used himself, and convinced that he could prove the same corrupt means to have been resorted to by his opponent, he was not satisfied with the devastation he had already committed upon his fortune; but was determined to demand a scrutiny: and if he should be foiled in that effort, he was resolved to try the merits of the election before a committee of the house of commons. Such was the report that was immediately propagated; and which was afterward verified by facts.

With respect to myself, convinced as I was of its danger, I had made my choice. My fixed purpose was to vacate my seat in parliament. It might perhaps be questioned, since the pretended voters had in reality no voice, and their imaginary representative was no more than a person nominated by the new Lord Bray, whether I ought to resign an office which, as I supposed, I should fill for the good of mankind; and give place to some person who, obedient to his leader, would do the reverse?

But one act of baseness cannot authorize another. To bear about me a sense of self-degradation, a certainty that I was sheltering myself from the power of my late patron by a privilege which I considered as highly vicious, a subterfuge such as every man who deserves the name ought to despise and spurn at, this was insufferable. I had lost much: for I had lost hopes that had been extravagant and unbounded in promise: but I had not lost a conscious rectitude of heart, without which existence was not to be endured.



CHAPTER XIII

The comedy of Wilmot successful: The wounded stranger seen at a distance: Oratory abandoned with regret: The dangers that attend being honest: A new invitation from Hector: A journey deferred by an arrest, and another accidental sight of the stranger

It is happy for man that there is scarcely any state of suffering, whether of mind or body, in which pain is unremitting; and wholly unmixed with pleasure. If he be unhappy himself, it will be strange should there be no one more fortunate for whom he has an affection: no friend that is more prosperous, and in whose prosperity he takes delight.

The season of the year had arrived when the comedy of Wilmot had been put into rehearsal, and was to be performed. It was a trying occasion; and those who knew him loved him too well to be absent; though the few intimate friends who had read the piece had no doubt of its success. The partial failure of his tragedy had produced no jealousy of rivalship: though, as its merits had been publicly acknowledged, it had incurred no disgrace. In private life, he was beloved; and, as a public man, his merits had not yet created him enemies. He has since, indeed, in that respect, not been so fortunate. But he has never thought it just to complain: being convinced that mistake, though it should be rectified, should not be resented.

The evening of representation arrived, the house was crowded, the company brilliant, and the plaudits with which the author was honoured established his reputation, and confirmed the judgment of his friends.

During the performance, I sat in the boxes; and, among the spectators in the pit, I discovered a man whose hair was white, whose locks were venerable, and who I was well convinced was the stranger whom I had found wounded at the entrance of Barnes common. I was in a side-box, and he was near the opposite pit door; so that the distance made it rather doubtful: yet the more I looked the more I was convinced it was the same person. The comedy was nearly ended when I first saw him; and I determined, as soon as I had heard the epilogue, to go and satisfy myself how far my persuasion was true.

I went round to the door; but the pit was so crowded that it was with difficulty I could make my way to the seat. When I was there my labour was lost: I could not find him; and, enquiring for him by description of the persons near where he sat, they told me that such a gentleman had been there; but that he complained of the heat, and had left the house immediately after the curtain dropped.

This incident gave me considerable chagrin. However, as his person was very remarkable, and being persuaded he was actually the wounded stranger, I conceived hopes that I should again meet him; in some place where the danger of losing sight of him would not be so great.

There being no expectation of his return, I went in search of my friends: in company with whom, rejoicing in the success of Wilmot and glorying in the acquisition of poetry and the stage, I wholly forgot myself and my own affairs, and spent one more very delightful evening.

These affairs however were not long to be forgotten. The returns of the elections throughout Great Britain had all been made, and the new parliament summoned to assemble. It was with infinite and deep regret that I found myself excluded by my own sense of rectitude. I would willingly have taken my seat, had it been only for one night: for I was eagerly desirous of an opportunity to deliver my thoughts, and urge some of those useful truths which may be uttered with more safety there than in less privileged places.

But I was too well acquainted with the customs and forms of the house to hope that this opportunity could now be found. I had no parliamentary friends; no supporters; and there was not the least probability that a youth so wholly unknown should catch the speaker's eye, whose notice so many were ready to solicit.

These things having been duly weighed, I had already applied for the chiltern hundreds and my seat was declared vacated: to the great joy of Lord Bray; and his now bosom friend, the Earl of Idford. This joy was the greater because it was an event of which they had not the least expectation. The due forms of law had been observed, the seals had been removed from the locks of my late inestimable friend, his cousin the new peer was in possession of the mortgage and the notes for money received, and he had no conception of any motives that could induce me to an act which must leave me entirely at his mercy.

It cannot however be supposed, as I have already said, that I had any intention to retain the estate; which I had received from Mr. Evelyn as a qualification, and a support. It was now the property of Lord Bray; and obligation to him was a thing that would not admit of a question. I did not therefore wait for any notice from his lordship, or his attorney, but desired Mr. Hilary to inform him that I was ready at any time to give up the deeds, and receive back the mortgage.

This would have been a trifle. It was not a sacrifice; but a riddance: by which, could it have ended here, I should have regained something of that elasticity of heart which independence only can feel. Here, however, it could not end. I was obliged to instruct Mr. Hilary to add that I was willing to give my own personal security, by bond or in any manner my creditor should please, for money received and interest due: but to acknowledge that I had no immediate means of payment. In other words, that my person was entirely at the disposal of himself and the law. I might have reminded him that more than half of my debt was incurred by genteel presents to his craving electors; and that he had informed me that it was a necessary expence: but to this I could not condescend.

The little business which, during his life, Mr. Evelyn had in law Mr. Hilary had always transacted. He had a sincere regard for me, and a reverence for the memory of his late kinsman; whose earnest recommendation of me he did not forget. Being well acquainted with the character of Lord Bray, he foresaw and warned me of my danger. While a baronet, to behold himself a peer had been his lordship's darling passion: but that was now gratified; and, as he was proud, he was likewise revengeful. In this case, however, to warn was useless. I had no alternative, except by means that were dishonorable.

Nor was the resentment of Lord Bray single, or so much to be apprehended as that of the Earl, with whom he had entered into strict alliance. My behaviour to Lord Idford had uniformly been what he deemed so very insolent that his antipathy may be said to have taken birth at my first act of disobedience: my refusal to dine at the second table. Since then, as he conceived, it had been progressive in aggravation. My scorn of his selfish politics, my attempt to continue the Letters of Themistocles, and write him who was the supposed author of them into disgrace, the pamphlet of which I was the author, the activity with which I had canvassed in favour of Mowbray, and to sum up all my daring to rival him with the woman on whom he would have conferred his person, his dignity, and his other great qualities, were all of them injuries that rankled at his heart. When these things are remembered, few will feel surprised that the Earl should indulge a passion which is in itself so active: or that he should induce Lord Bray to pursue that kind of conduct to which he was already so much disposed.

The danger however must be faced; and Mr. Hilary wrote, as my attorney, to state the circumstances above recited. A week elapsed before he received an answer: but at the end of that time his lordship's attorney replied, that personal security for so large a sum could not be accepted: my bond would be no better than the notes I had given: and that I was required immediately to pay what was due, to the estate and heirs of the late Mr. Evelyn.

The spirit in which this note was written proved the temper of my creditor; and an incident soon occurred by which his propensity to persecute was called into action. The scrutiny which Hector had demanded was over, and decided against him: but, understanding that there was an absolute breach between me and Lord Bray, Mowbray was convinced that he had accused me falsely. As he was almost certain that he could prove bribery and corruption to have been practised by his opponent, he persisted in determining to bring it before the house of commons. This business kept him still in the country, where he and his partisans were busily collecting information.

He had experienced my utility in the course of the election, he wished to enjoy the same advantage at present, and he and his committee likewise discovered that my evidence was essentially necessary. He therefore wrote me an apology, spoke in the handsomest terms he could recollect of the services I had done him, requested me to come down once more to aid him in his present attempt, and stated the points on which my future testimony would be useful. He further informed me that a gentleman of the law, whom he named, was to set off the morning after I should receive the letter, at ten o'clock, and come post; and that he should be much obliged to me if I would take a seat in the same chaise.

The letter was read in the committee room, as a matter of business; and in this committee room Lord Idford had a secret agent, from whom he gained intelligence of all their proceedings that deserved notice.

Desirous as I was of obliging the brother of Olivia, I made no hesitation to comply. The evening before I was to go down into *****, I went to Mr. Hilary; to acquaint him with the place of my destination, and the manner in which he might direct to me, if any thing new should occur. The agents of Lord Bray, or to speak more truly of the Earl, had been exceedingly industrious; and a writ was already procured. It was intended to take me as I stepped into the chaise, or that evening if possible, and accordingly the door where I lived was watched, and I was seen to come out. My usual pace was brisk, but I happened now to be in haste; and, as they told me themselves, the setters lost sight of me for some time, were afterward cautious of coming up to me in any public street where a rescue was probable, and followed me till I came almost to the door of Mr. Hilary.

Here there was a carriage standing; and, to my great surprise and joy, I saw Mr. Hilary with a light, conducting out the very person whom I had some time before discovered in the pit, and whom I now knew to be the wounded stranger.

I hesitated whether I ought to spring forward, and intrude my enquiries immediately upon him, or make them of Mr. Hilary, with whom it appeared he was acquainted; and, at this instant, the bailiff and his two men came up with me, and told me I was their prisoner.

While I stood astonished at this sudden and at that precise time unexpected event, the carriage with the stranger in it drove away; and Mr. Hilary shut the door without seeing me.

There is a sense of indignity and disgrace in being arrested, at which all those who have not been frequently subjected to it revolt. I was wholly ignorant of the manners of the people who had laid their hands upon me. I had heard of giving bail: but I had likewise heard that it was a thing of danger, to which men were generally averse; and I had a bitter repugnance to ask any thing which I thought it was likely should be refused. Neither had I any probable person to ask: for my little law reading had taught me that the sureties of a debtor must be house-keepers.

Unwilling therefore to trouble Mr. Hilary, and finding myself without resource, I desired the bailiff to take me wherever he pleased, or wherever the law directed. 'I suppose, Sir, you do not mean we should take you to jail?' said the bailiff.

Ignorant as I was and surprised at the question, I asked where else they meant to take me? He replied 'To my house, Sir: or to any other lock up house that you choose.'

'A lock up house, Sir!' said I. 'Pray what is that?'

The bailiff knew not how to give a direct answer; but replied 'There is some lock up houses at which a gentleman may be treated like a gentleman: though I cannot say but there is others that is shabby enough. I see very well, Sir, you are a young gentleman, and do not know the trim of such things: so, if you please to go to my house, you will find very civil usage. I can tell by your cut, Sir, that you are no scrub; so my wife will take care to furnish you with every thing that is genteel and polite.'

The man smelled excessively of brandy and tobacco; which, corresponding with his gait, looks, and language, seemed an introduction to the purgatory to which I was doomed. I thought proper however to accept his offer, and go to the house where I was to be treated with so much politeness and gentility.



CHAPTER XIV

The good breeding of a bailiff: A period of dejection: A visit from Mr. Hilary: The hopes he conceives

The bailiff and one of his followers walked beside me, cautiously keeping in advance; and the other marched behind till we came to a stand of coaches, and I was asked whether one of them should be called? I was thoroughly ashamed of my company: but a deep sense of indignity confuses thought; and, till it was proposed by the bailiff, I had forgotten that there was such a thing as a coach. His proposal was immediately accepted; and we were driven through Lincoln's-inn-fields into Carey-street, where we were obliged to alight and pass through several narrow allies.

I had no great expectations of the gentility of the bailiff's abode: but, slender as they were, the few I had were disappointed. I was wholly unused to such places: this I suspect was one of the meanest of them; and the approach to the house, as well as all that was in it, bespoke wretchedness, and inspired disgust.

As soon as we entered the doors, the bailiff called aloud for Charlotte (the name of his wife) and desired her to bring light into the drawing room. 'Why what do you talk of, George?' replied Charlotte. 'Are you drunk? Don't you know the gentleman is there that you brought in this morning?'

'Do you think I don't know what I am about?' answered George. 'I have brought another gentleman: so that there gentleman must come down, and hoik into the best parlour.'

'I am sure,' retorted Charlotte with great vivacity and significance, 'he has behaved vastly proper, since he came into my house. He has had friends with him all afternoon; and dined, and called for wine, and done every thing that was genteel.'

Though half in a trance, I was sufficiently awake to understand her meaning. I therefore interrupted the bailiff, who had begun to reply with passion. 'You are very right, Madam;' said I. 'The gentleman must not be disturbed. I have no friends that drink wine; and I drink none myself.'

This hint was quite sufficient. Neither the drawing room nor the best parlour were now to be had; and I was shewn into a dirty back place, which was little more than a closet, decorated with a wooden cut of Lord Lovat over the mantle piece, and corresponding pictures of the king and queen on each side.

Before she shut the door, Charlotte demanded 'if I chose to have some more coals on the fire? And whether I would have two candles or one?' 'Whatever you please madam,' I replied. 'Nay, sir,' said she pertly, 'that is just as you please.' I made no answer, and she shut the door with a dissatisfied air; which she locked on the outside.

At any other time, this George and Charlotte, with their drawing-room, would have presented many whimsical associations to my mind: but at present my attention was called to the iron bars of the one window of my prison hole; and to the recollection that, in all probability, I was now shut up for life. The weight of evil was so oppressive that I sat motionless, in sullen stupefaction, for a considerable time.

Hearing no sound whatever, the bailiff I suppose was alarmed: for he unlocked the door, and coming in abruptly exclaimed 'Oh! I thought it could not be!' Meaning probably that I could not possibly have escaped through the window. Recollecting himself, he asked 'if I did not think proper to send to some friends?' To which I laconically answered, 'No.'

'But I suppose you mean to give bail, sir?'

'I have none to give.'

'I perceive how it is, sir. You are not used to the business; and so you are cast down. You must bethink yourself: for I dare say a young gentleman like you will find bail fast enough; becase why, the sum is not quite four hundred and forty pounds. We have people enough which will go of any message for you; so I would advise you to send, though it is late; becase, as you says you don't drink, there will be no good much in your staying here. Not but what we have as good beds, and as good wines and all sorts of liquors, and can get any thing else as good as a gentleman needs lick his lips to. There is never no complaints at our house. So you had better take my advice, and cheer up your spirits; and get a little something good in your belly, in the way of eating and drinking; and send to let your friends know as how you are nabbed: becase nothing can come of it otherwise, neither to you nor nobody else.'

His discourse awakened me enough to remind me of the necessity of sending to the gentleman, with whom I had intended to travel the next day, and inform him of the impossibility of my taking the journey. This led me to reflect further. The remark of the bailiff was just: delay was prejudicial. What had happened could not be kept secret, secrecy was in itself vicious, and to increase evil by procrastination was cowardly. Thus far roused, I presently conceived and determined on my plan. I saw no probability of avoiding a prison: but, being in this house, I was resolved first to see my friends. I had already sold my horses, and discharged my servant. Clarke, I knew, would reproach me, if I did not accept his goods offices in my distress; when such good offices as he could perform would be most necessary. I intended therefore to request him the next morning to go round and inform such of my friends as I wished to see: but, as the bailiff told me it would be proper to send for my attorney immediately, I thought proper to dispatch a messenger; with one note to him, and another to the gentleman with whom I was to have travelled.

Mr. Hilary was at home and came instantly on the receipt of my billet. When he saw me, he endeavoured to smile; and not appear in the least surprised, or affected. But his feelings betrayed him; the tears started into his eyes, and he was obliged to turn away his face. He made an effort, however, and recovered himself: after which, he rather endeavoured to enter into easy conversation than to talk of business. By this I suspected that he neither durst trust himself nor me; till a little time should have reconciled us to the scene.

This was a proper opportunity for enquiries which my sudden misfortune had not made me forget. I questioned him concerning the stranger, whose person I described; and mentioned my having seen Mr. Hilary light him out of the house, the moment before I was arrested.

'What do you know of him?' said Mr. Hilary, with an eager air. 'Have you ever seen him before?'

'Yes; if I am not very much mistaken.'

'Nay but tell me, what do you know?'

'First answer me concerning who and what he is?'

'A gentleman of large fortune, the last of his family, and a great traveller.'

'Has he met with any accident lately?'

'Yes. But why do you ask?'

'And why do you seem so much awakened by the question?'

'Because he is excessively desirous of discovering some gentleman, who found him after he had been robbed, and left, supposed to be dead; that he may if possible reward his preserver. Now there are some circumstances, as related by the people of an inn to which he was taken, that have suggested a thought to me which, should it prove true, would give me inexpressible pleasure.'

'What are they?'

'That the good Samaritan, who performed this act of humanity, was a young gentleman with a servant out of livery; that he and his man rode two blood horses, both bright bays; that the servant's name was Samuel; and that the master was in person very like you. All which correspond; and I really believe, by your smiling, that it actually was you.'

'Suppose it: what then?'

'Why then I am sure you have gained a friend, who will never suffer you to go to prison.'

The word friend conjured up a train of ideas, which almost overcame me. 'I have lost a friend,' said I, 'who would not have suffered me to go to prison. But he is gone. I accepted even his favours with an aching and unwilling heart; and prison itself will not, I suspect, be so painful to me as more obligations of the same kind, and conferred by a person who, though I am strongly prepossessed in his favour, I scarcely can hope should equal Mr. Evelyn. And, if he even did, an extravagant supposition, I should still hesitate: I doubt if a prison itself be so hateful as a knowledge that I am only out of one on sufferance; and that, when any caprice shall seize my creditor, I may be hunted like a ferocious beast; and commanded to my den, like a crouching cur.

Mr. Hilary endeavoured to combat this train of thinking: but it was not to be conquered. The short period of trial since the death of Mr. Evelyn had afforded me too many proofs of the painful sensations which such a knowledge can excite; and of the propensity which I had to give them encouragement. To be as I have said the slave of any man's temper, not as an effort of duty but from a sense of fear, was insufferable. A prison, locks, bolts, and bread and water, were to be preferred.

Mr. Hilary sat with me till bed time; and, not only to put the bailiff in good humour, but to cheer my heart and his own, ordered supper, and drank more plentifully of wine than was his custom: urging me to follow his example. I did not refuse: for I had a contempt for any thing that had the appearance of an incapacity to endure whatever the tyranny of rancorous men and unjust laws could inflict. The stranger, he told me, was gone down into the country; from whence he would return within a week: but he forbore to mention his name, as he had been instructed; the stranger having enquiries to make, which induced him to keep it secret.

Before he left me, Mr. Hilary received instructions from me to be given to Clarke: after which we quitted the best parlour, into which we had been introduced with great ceremony to sup; and I retired to try how soundly I could sleep, in one of the good beds of a lock-up house.



CHAPTER XV

Morning visitors: A generous proposal rejected: The affectionate friendship of Miss Wilmot: A very unexpected visitor: His extraordinary conduct, and a scene of reconciliation: A letter which excites delightful sensations

The morning came, the diligence of Mr. Hilary was that of a friend, and the best parlour was soon filled: the reader will easily guess by whom. There is an undescribable pleasure, when we are persecuted by one set of human beings, to receive marks of affection from another. It is a strong consolation to know that kindness and justice have not wholly forsaken the earth.

Wilmot, Clarke, and Turl were with me. I called for breakfast; and felt a gratification at enjoying another social meal, before being immured in I knew not what kind of dungeon. Charlotte and her maid, Pol, were very alert; and I believe she almost repented that I was not in the drawing-room, since she found I had so many friends.

Clarke was asked to partake; but answered with a 'no thank you, Mr. Trevor.' I supposed it was awkward bashfulness. I did him wrong. He had a more refined and feeling motive: for, when I pressed him very earnestly, he replied—'At another time, Mr. Trevor, such a favour would make me happy; and you know I have not refused: but, just now, why it would look as if, because you are under misfortunes, I might take liberties.'

Honest-hearted generous fellow! He was still the same. But he breakfasted with us. Be assured, good reader, he breakfasted with us.

And now I had a contest to undergo, which was maintained with so much obstinacy that it became truly painful. Wilmot, in consequence of the success of his comedy, had the power to discharge my debt; and on this at first he peremptorily insisted. But it was what I could not accept. He was, I knew, an Evelyn in soul: but I too panted to be something. I could not endure to rob him of the labour of a life, and walk at large oppressed by the consciousness of impotence: of a depressed and sunken spirit; of which groveling meanness would be the chief feature. Such at least were my sensations: and they were too impetuous to be overcome.

In the ardour we mutually felt, Turl was appealed to by both. At first he strongly inclined to the side of Wilmot: but, hearing my reasons and perceiving the anguish which the proposal gave, he at length said—'Let us pause awhile. We are friends. Imprisonment is a detestable thing; and there is no danger that, as friends, we should suffer each other to endure it long, if there should be any possible and honest means of imparting freedom. We need make no professions. In one part of his argument, Mr. Trevor is undoubtedly right. If he can relieve himself, by his abilities and industry, which he is persuaded he can, it is his duty. For it will not only increase his immediate happiness, but it will give confidence to his efforts, and strength to his mind: qualities that are inestimable. Impediments serve but to rouse the man of genius. To reject aid from a sentiment of haughtiness is a vice: but to despair of our own resources is the death of all true greatness of character. In any case, suspend your contest; in which, though from the best of motives, you are both too warm. Examine your arguments at leisure. If Mr. Trevor can be rendered most happy and useful by accepting your offer, it will then be just in him to cede: but remember once more we are friends, that know each other's worth; and it will be just that I should partake in his release. To this I know you will both joyfully consent. If good can be done, you will not deny me my share!'

It was characteristic of Turl never to speak on serious occasions without leaving a deep impression on his hearers. Wilmot heaved a profound sigh, but was silent.

Having thus far prevailed, I was desirous of being immediately removed to prison: but to this they both vehemently objected. It had an air of ostentation: of affecting to love misery for misery's sake. Time ought to be taken for consideration; and evil should not be sported with, though when unavoidable it ought to be endured with fortitude.

While these debates took place, it was no uninteresting spectacle to contemplate the changes in the countenance of Clarke. Before the adventure of Bath, he had risen much above the level of his companions: but now, when he saw a man willing to part with all he possessed to rescue another from prison, and heard strong reasons why it was probable the offer ought not to be accepted, his feelings were all in arms. His passions, while Wilmot pleaded, were ready to break their bounds; and, when he listened to the answers that were returned, his mind was filled and expanded. He discovered that there is a disinterested grandeur in morality, of which he had no previous conception. He was in a new world; and a dark room, with barred windows, was heaven in all its splendor.

Having agreed to follow their advice, Wilmot and Turl left me; with a promise to return early in the evening: but poor Clarke said 'he had no heart for work that day; and he could not abide to leave me shut up by myself. He saw plainly enough I had true friends; such as would never forsake me: and no more would he, though he could do me no good.' When however I represented to him my wish to be alone, that I might consider on my situation, and requested he would dine with his family, and bring some books from my lodgings in the evening, he complied.

The morning of the day was chiefly consumed; and I was not suffered long to remain alone. I had scarcely dined before a coach stopped at the door, and Charlotte came in with demure significance in her face. 'There is a young lady, sir,' said she, 'which says her name is Wilmot, which wants to see you.'

At this moment, she was the most agreeable visitor that could have arrived. Her heart was full, her eyes were swollen, and red with weeping, and, as soon as she entered the room, she again burst into tears.

It has often been asked why sorrows like these should excite so much gratification? The answer is evident. They are not only tokens of personal respect and affection, but they are proofs that injustice cannot be committed without being perceptibly and often deeply felt by others, as well as by those on whom it is exercised.

When she had appeased her feelings sufficiently to be able to speak, I found that, like her brother, she was come with a disinterested plan for my relief. She began by blaming herself for not having strenuously enough opposed my forbearance with respect to Wakefield; and pleaded with great energy of feeling to persuade me immediately to do myself right. I took the first favourable opportunity to interrupt her; and enquired if she had seen or heard any thing of Wakefield since the letter he wrote? She answered, he had been with her above an hour that very morning.

'In what temper of mind was he?'

'Extremely exasperated.'

'Not at you?'

'Oh no: at Lord Bray: at your persecutors: at the world in general. He says you are not fit to live in it: you are no match for it. You have been persuading him, contrary to all history and experience, that men are capable of virtue and happiness. In short, he owns that he was more than half convinced: but that he believes he shall be obliged to relapse into his former opinions.'

'I have persuaded him?'

'So he says.'

'When? Where?'

'I cannot tell. I thought from his discourse that he had met with you.'

While we were engaged in this conversation, Charlotte again entered; and told me there was a gentleman of the name of Wakefield, who desired to see me. 'Is it possible?' exclaimed Miss Wilmot.

The door opened, and he appeared. 'Belmont!' cried I, with surprise. 'Why did you announce yourself by the name of Wakefield?'

He stretched out his hand to me, and turned his face aside: then recovering himself replied 'The farce is over.'

'What do you mean?'

'That I suppose you will despise me. But do, if you please: for, though I love you, I too despise to fear you. I have done you various wrongs. My name is Wakefield. I have been one of the infernal instruments to bring you here: but I am come to make you all the atonement in my power, and take you out. Forgive me only so far as not to insult me, by repeating your contempt of that villain Wakefield. It is a damned undigestible term: but I deserved it; and you applied it to me without intending an affront. I know you are as brave as you are generous. Till I met with you, I thought myself the first man in the world: but, notwithstanding my evasive raillery, I felt your hand upon me. I sunk under you. There was something in you that excited my envy, at first; and afterward, perhaps, a better passion. What damned accidents they were that made me what I have been I cannot tell. I know not what I shall be: but I know what I am. I disdain penitential promises. If you will be my friend, here is my hand. Good fortune or bad, we will share it together.'

Thus invited, could I refrain? Oh no. I cannot describe the scene that passed. We did not embrace, for we were no actors; and, as our passions for a time were too big for utterance, we were silent.

Miss Wilmot at length looked up; and, while the tears were streaming down her cheeks, her countenance assumed an expression infinitely beyond smiling, though something like it, while she exclaimed—'This is a happy day!'

Her eye first met mine, and then Wakefield's. He instantly hung his head, and said—'Lydia! When we were alone, I could just endure to look at you: but now I cannot. Yet I am an ass. What is done is done. The affections that I have are yours: but I must not, no nor I will not be afraid, even of my own thoughts. I know I have nothing to fear from you. Man is a strange animal; and may be many things in the course of a short life.'

Wakefield then rang the bell, and desired the bailiff would send immediately to Lord Bray's attorney; that my debts might be settled, and I released; and to call, as he knew they must for form's sake, and see that there were no more detainers.

Hearing him give these directions, I could not but ask his meaning? 'What,' replied he, with generous indignation, 'do you suppose that I am come to cant about virtue? That, at least, is a vice of which you have never yet found me guilty. I am here to pay your debts, with money in my possession. Whether, in a court of law, it would be proved to be yours or mine I neither know nor care. But there is something better that I do know: which is that, if I were in your place and you in mine, you would not long let me remain in a house like this. With respect to the future, I am partly persuaded we shall neither of us act the miser.'

Miss Wilmot again exclaimed—'This is a happy day!'

Wakefield was impatient to see me released; and was well acquainted with bailiffs. 'If you are expeditious,' said he to George, 'you will have a guinea for your industry. If you are dilatory, not a farthing more than your fees.'

The promised guinea gave the messenger wings; and in less than an hour the debt was discharged, and a receipt in full delivered.

Just as this account was closed, another messenger came from a different quarter. The anxiety of Miss Wilmot had induced her to take a bold step. In the first emotions of grief, she wrote to Olivia; and informed her of every circumstance, as well as of the place of my detention. This information produced the following letter, and the bills inclosed; as mentioned in its contents.

'I have no words to speak my feelings. I have never yet had an opportunity, since I thought the love I bear you justifiable, to declare them. This is the time. To be silent now would argue a distrust of you, which would degrade me; and render me unworthy both of you and the dignified virtues by which your conduct is guided. Every new fact that I hear of you does but increase that affection; which I find ennobled by being so worthily placed. After the proofs you have so repeatedly given, it would be cowardice and hypocrisy to say less.

'I inclose you five hundred pounds. They are my own. I would sooner even see you suffer than be guilty of an action which I know you could not approve. They are what I have reserved, from money allowed me, to be employed on any urgent occasion. Surely there can be few more urgent than the present. Your refusal of them would wound me to the soul. It would break my heart. I need not add any thing more.

OLIVIA MOWBRAY.'

Who will tell me that virtue is not its own reward? Who will affirm that to conquer selfish desires, to render the passions subservient to reason, and to make those principles we commend in others rules for ourselves, is not the way to be happy? The tide of joy was full to overflowing! And yet, when I recollected that, though no longer a prisoner it was denied me to obey the yearnings of my heart and pass the threshold of Olivia, how suddenly did it ebb!



CHAPTER XVI

A journey to aid Hector once more projected: An interview with the wounded stranger: A discovery of great importance

I shall forbear to repeat the joy and congratulations of friends, with other less events; and hasten to one which gave a more surprising turn to my affairs than even any that I had yet experienced. The morning after my release, it was my intention to go down into the county of ****: agreeable to the desire of Hector. Of this I informed Mr. Hilary, the evening before: but, as I was become very cautious in money matters, I meant to go by the coach.

When he heard this, Mr. Hilary smiled: and told me, if I would go post, he believed he could find me a companion, who would willingly bear half the expence.

I enquired who? and found it was no other than the stranger. He had been down into Cambridgeshire, to settle some affairs; and was now preparing for a journey into my native county, for purposes which he will himself presently explain. A proposal more agreeable than this could not have been made to me; and it was agreed that we should meet and breakfast with Mr. Hilary. When I made the appointment, Mr. Hilary pressed me with unusual earnestness not to be induced to break it, by any accident whatever.

The morning came, I was punctual, and the stranger was there. He had slept at the house of Mr. Hilary. 'This, sir,' said the latter, presenting me, 'is the young gentleman of whose acquaintance you are so very desirous.'

The stranger regarded me earnestly; and, with great emotion in his countenance, asked—'Are you, sir, the humane person, who found me almost expiring; and by whose care I am now among the living?'

'I hope, sir, you do not think there was any thing extraordinary in what I did?'

'I wish I had not reason so to think. How many there are who, from mean and selfish motives, would have passed me I cannot say: but there are few indeed that would have discharged the office you undertook with so much unaffected and generous benevolence. I am in your debt, sir, not only for my recovery, for which I can never repay you, but literally for money expended. I shall forbear thanks, for I have none that are adequate; but suffer me to rid myself of petty obligations.'

'I understand, sir, that you are rich, and I am not. I therefore inform you, without hesitation, I left twenty pounds with the physician.'

'You may well suppose that I returned, after my recovery, to enquire for my preserver. I was then informed of your whole proceedings; and of the anxiety with which, after your journey, you came to complete the charitable office you had begun. And I own, sir, that I was so desirous of seeing a person who, in the very fervour of youth, could act and feel as you have done that, one excepted, you are the man on earth I am most happy to meet.'

'Mr. Hilary tells me that we are to be travelling companions.'

'Most willingly. I have long been a wanderer, and am lately returned to end my days in my native land. During my absence, the elder branches of my family are all deceased. I brought back with me more than sufficient for my own wants: but their property has descended to me, and I now very unexpectedly find myself wealthy.'

'And have you no descendants, sir?'

'None. I am at present in search of a distant relation: whom if I should find, and find him such as my present hopes and past knowledge have pictured him, I shall be one of the happiest of men. To make this and another enquiry is the purpose of the journey I now mean to take. When I left England, I had no intention ever to return: I therefore resolved to hold no correspondence with the persons whom I have left; that I might not revive the memory of scenes and events which had been full of anguish. By accident, about eighteen months ago, being then at Grand Cairo I was informed that a person of my family had long been dead. This determined me to settle my concerns abroad, and revisit my native country. As however my informer spoke only from report, I am desirous, before I make myself known, to verify this fact. I have my reasons; which, from what I have said, you may suspect to be those of resentment. But not so; they are only what I conceive to be necessary precautions. Acrimony and anger have long since died away; and I have but too much cause to condemn those actions of my life in which they were indulged. The relation, whom I hope to find, I may unfortunately discover to be more likely to misuse the wealth, that has devolved to me by the death of the elder branches of my family, than to make it a blessing to himself and others. It is true he is not my heir at law. I have no heir: what I possess is at my own disposal. But he was once my greatest favourite: and I would avoid any action that should excite hopes which it might be weakness and vice in me to gratify.'

This short narrative was not merely delivered with a serious air; but it was accompanied with somewhat of a plaintive tone, that rendered the venerable stranger unusually interesting. It likewise excited various wild yet not impossible conjectures in my mind, which made me very eager to pursue the discourse. Mr. Hilary, whose mind had been full of conjectures mingled with doubt, had not informed him of my name.

'Is the person,' said I, 'in search of whom you mean to take this journey young, or old?'

'About four and twenty. He was the son of my wife's sister; therefore my relation only by marriage. He was certainly the most extraordinary child I ever beheld. I cannot recollect him but with inconceivable emotions of affection. Of all the sportive little creatures I ever met with, he was the most active, the most undaunted, and the most winning. Heaven bless the sweet boy! He was my delight. My eyes overflow whenever I recall to mind the feats of his childhood, which can never be long forgotten by me. My wife and her sister had been at variance, and the first time I saw him was at a fair; when he was not five years old. I found him placed on a table, where he stood reading the newspaper to country farmers; who were collected round him, and hearing him with astonishment. They seemed to doubt if he could possibly be a child, born of a woman; and were more inclined to think him a supernatural being. His flaxen curly hair, his intelligent eyes, his rosy cheeks, his strong and proportioned limbs, and his cheerful animated countenance, rendered him the most beautiful and most endearing of human creatures. The discriminating sensibility which he displayed was enchanting. Oh should he be living, should I find him, and should he be at present all that his infancy promised, God of heaven and earth! I should expire. The pleasure would be too mighty for my years. But, should I survive it, I should once again before I die feel the animating fervor of youth.'

I listened in amazement. I was not then acquainted with all the incidents of my childhood so perfectly as, by hearing them repeated, I since have been: but I knew enough of them to be persuaded the discourse that I had heard could relate only to me. I paused. I gazed. My eyes were riveted upon the narrator. At length I exclaimed—'What I have just heard, sir, has excited very strange ideas. They seem almost impossible: and yet I am persuaded they are true. Pardon a question which I cannot refrain to ask. Surely I cannot be mistaken! Your name is Elford?'

'Sir!'

'You are my—'

'Speak! Go on! What am I?'

'My uncle!'

'Heavens! Mr. Trevor! Is that your name?'

'It is.'

'Oh! God! Oh! God! Oh! God!—Hugh! Little Hugh! My boy! My sweet boy!'

Mr. Elford was almost overcome. In a moment he again cried—'My saviour too! Still the same! Courageous, humane, generous! All that my soul could desire! Oh shield me, deliver me from this excess of joy!'



CHAPTER XVII

The conclusion

One event only excepted, little remains to be told of my story; and that one is doubtless anticipated by the imagination of the reader. To describe the enquiries that passed between me and my uncle, the various fortunes we had encountered, and the feelings they excited, would be to write his history and tediously repeat my own. My difficulties now disappeared. I was the acknowledged heir of a man of great wealth: therefore, I myself am become a great man. Heaven preserve me from becoming indolent, proud, and oppressive! I have not yet forgotten that oppression exists, that pride is its chief counsellor, that activity and usefulness are the sacred duties of both rich and poor, that the wealth entrusted to my distribution is the property of those whom most it can benefit, that I am a creature of very few wants, but that those few in others as well as in myself are imperious, and that I have felt them in all their rigour. Neither have I yet shut my doors on one of my former friends. But I am comparatively young in prosperity. How long I shall be able to persevere in this eccentric conduct time must tell. At present I must proceed, and mention the few remaining circumstances with which the reader may wish to be acquainted.

After my uncle had heard me describe Olivia, and mention the motives which induced me to wish to aid her brother, he immediately determined on taking the journey we had before proposed. We neither of us wished to separate. Robust in 'a green old age,' he had no fear of fatigue from travelling this distance; and it would be a pleasure to revisit, in my company, scenes which would bring my former sports and pranks to his recollection. He heard from me a confirmation of the death of Mrs. Elford; and heard it with the same tokens of melancholy in his face which he had betrayed, when he spoke of her himself.

That I should have wished before I took this journey, short as it was, to have seen Olivia, related all my good fortune and partaken in the pleasure it would excite in her, may well be imagined: but forms, and delicacies, and I know not what habitual feelings, forbad me the enjoyment of this premature bliss. I wrote however, and not only to her but to those tried and invaluable friends who were not to be neglected.

We found Hector in a lamentable state. Instead of the bluff robust form, which but shortly before he had worn, his limbs were shrunk, his cheeks formerly of a high red were wan and hollow, his voice was gone, his lungs were affected, and his cough was incessant. He had himself at last begun to think his life in danger; and was preparing to return to town for advice: consequently our stay was short. His reception of me however was friendly. The increasing debility which he felt softened his manners; and, when he understood the good fortune that had befallen me, he seemed sincerely to rejoice.

And now let me request the reader to call to mind, not only my first emotions of love for Olivia, and the violence of the passion that preyed upon me while struggling between hope and despair, but those late testimonies of affection, such as a mind so dignified as hers could bestow; and then let him imagine what our meeting must be. Should he expect me to describe her, such as she was and is, in all her attractions, all her beauties, and all her various excellence, he expects an impossible task. To be beloved by her, to be found worthy of her, and to call her mine, are blessings that infinitely exceed momentary rapture: they are lasting and indubitable happiness.

I know not if it will give him pleasure to be told that, could I have delighted in revenge, I might have satiated myself with that unworthy and destructive passion. The committee, appointed to decide on the election, voted the Idford candidate guilty of bribery and corruption. The fortune of the Earl, like that of Hector, has suffered depredations which half a century will probably not repair. The new-made peer and his party daily became so obnoxious to the nation, by the destructive tendency of their measures, that they were and continue to be haunted by terrors that deprive them of the faculties common to man. My heart bears witness for me that I do not speak this in triumph. I should be no less vicious than unworthy, could I triumph in the misfortunes of any human being: but I were a wretch indeed, were I to make mistakes that are the scourge of mankind a subject of exultation.

Must I repeat more names? Is it necessary to say the virtues of Turl and Wilmot are too splendid to need my praise: or that my social hours are most beneficially and delightfully spent in their society? That I have amply provided for the generous-minded Clarke? That Philip is once more the good and faithful servant of a kind mistress? That Mary and her son are equally objects of my attention? And that I do not mean to boast of these things as acts of munificence: but as the performance of duties?

This were unnecessary. Neither shall I be required to particularize the present happiness of Lydia, now Mrs. Wakefield; and of that man of brilliant and astonishing faculties who is her affectionate companion and friend, and from whose exertions, if I am not strangely mistaken, the world has so much to profit and so much to expect. Like me, he is in the enjoyment of affluence; and he enjoys it with a liberal and munificent spirit. Are there any who hate him, because he once was guilty of hateful crimes? I hope not. It is a spirit that would sweep away half the inhabitants of the 'peopled earth.' For my own part, I delight in his conversation, am enlivened by his wit, and prompted to enquiry by the acuteness of his remarks. He is a man whom I am proud to say I love.

I have told my tale. If it should afford instruction, if it should inspire a love of virtue, briefly, if it should contribute to the happiness of mankind, I shall have gained my purpose. My labours will be most richly rewarded.

THE END