CHAP. XXV. THE PENSIONERS ARE NOT PERFECTLY HAPPY IN SHENSTONE-GREEN.

IN process of a little time, the in­habitants of Shenstone-Green began to be weary of looking on the same objects. They had examined the woods, the walks, the fields, and the flowers, till all these became tiresome. The praise of their patron, Sir Ben­jamin, indeed, was still echoed from lip to lip, but somewhat more faintly than at first. At length, they found [Page 2]so few charms in vegetable nature and still life, that they cast about for new sources of entertainment. The first symptom of inquietude which I perceived, was by means of the following letter that was put into my hands by the steward, to whom it was directed at the lodge.

This proposal was instantly laid before Mr. Seabrooke, who set up a long whistle, and said, he had a great mind to laugh at human nature.

For my part, sir, said the steward, I think one has more reason to cry at human nature than to laugh, for [Page 6]I never yet found her four and twenty hours in the same mind in my life.

But what is to be done, my dear Seabrooke? said I,—what is to be done?

Whew—cried this singular man, catching up his hat and stick, and walking off— Whew.

Lord, papa, said Matilda, I can­not see any harm in the gentlemen's amusing themselves with a few horses; besides which, it will be so charming to have Shenstone-Green Races. It will be such an amusement for all the ladies and gentlemen, who may see the whole course from beginning to end. Then it will bring such a [Page 7]world of good company. Who will not go to Shenstone-Green Races? Oh, heavens! I like the idea of all things. Pray, papa, say yes. Let us have a race by all manner of means.

Well, well, my dear, said I, go and join Mr. Seabrooke (who, I perceive, is whistling away in the court), and I shall consider of it. When I had the steward alone, I shut the door, and seizing him by the hand, spoke thus: My old friend, I do not well know why, but I tremble upon this sub­ject. These four gentlemen are, I fear, going to introduce upon us a dangerous entertainment.—Pray what are their particular circumstances; that is, how are they situated?

[Page 8]On my private pensioners-list, sir, they cut rather a queer figure of four. Let me see—I have the catalogue about me, I think—Aye; here they are. They come under the letter J—jockies—jockies, where are you—Oh, here we have them.

SPUR— Alexander. Beat out of New-market eight times—a good­natured man, very honest; but, a lover of the sport.

SLAP-DASH— Simon. A good son and a tender husband (while horses are kept out of his sight) would merit the pen­sion, if he were not to meet on the Green any gentlemen sportsmen.

[Page 9]CUTCORD— Christopher. Thought to be as knowing a one as ever was — taken in. In other respects, a harmless gentleman. Is said to be the best shot, also, in England. Made a point of shoeing his own horses, and always rode himself.

WHIPWELL— William. Is so broken to the bit, that when he had ruined himself, and, literally, RUN himself into jail, he had the bridle and saddle of his bay colt, Zephyr, imprisoned to keep him company. Otherwise, just, generous, and even moral.

Oh Samuel! Samuel! said I, at the bottom of this account, what is to be done?

[Page 10]It does not admit of a question, sir—I wish it did.

What do you mean, Samuel?

I mean, sir, that if you think proper to set beggars on borseback, they will ride to the Devil. I know, an't please your Honour, both man and beast.

But the peril of this project, Samuel?

We have only to guard against the effects, sir. You had better submit, with a good grace, to what you have no power to prevent.

But one might expostulate, Samuel, in a tender manner, obliquely, deli­cately, like a friend.

[Page 11]What, sir, expostulate with four young fellows, whose blood is now galloping through every vein of their bodies, and newly put into possession of two hundred pounds a-year for life!—sir, it would be atrocious.

I would not wish any coercive power to remain with me; but, surely, Samuel, if I were to submit my apprehension of consequences to their judgements.

The judgement of a set of jockies, sir—your honour makes me smile.

Well, then, Samuel, you shall carry them my answer to-morrow.

It is enough, answered Samuel.

CHAP. XXVI. CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF SHEN­STONE-GREEN RACES.

SHENSTONE-GREEN RACES! said I, when I found myself alone—it has an ugly sound. I could have wished, that—but—no matter. One must expect men will have some amusements; and, indeed, on second thoughts, if they had not, how could they dispose of their annuity, or of what service would it be to them?

These reflexions determined me to send my reply without delay. Sub­joined, reader, you have a correct copy:

[Page 15] Just as I was sealing this letter, Matilda and Mr. Seabrooke returned, and the former was made happy for the night, on hearing there would speedily be races on Shenstone-Green.

CHAP. XXVII. SHENSTONE-GREEN RACES CONTINUED.

A FEW days after this permission was given, I happened to be crossing The Green, where I per­ceived these four worthy gentlemen of the whip in close consultation; the subject of which was, whether the starting-post should be fixed on the east or the west side, or whether the ladies booth, or gentlemen's, should be first erected. One said, as the houses were in a circle that commanded the course, booths of any sort were unnecessary.

I can see from my dining-room window every inch of ground, said Mr. Spur.

[Page 17]I will hold you five to four of that, answered Mr. Cutcord.

And I will go your halves, said Mr. Whipwell.

Double it, and say done, cried Mr. Slapdash.

I left them to settle this interesting dispute, and walked on.

Ah SHENSTONE! said I softly, this is but a bad beginning. The figure of my friend being full in the centre, I went up to it, and was almost pe­trified to see the very Founder of the feast plaistered all over with printed advertisements. On examining these more narrowly, I found a formal annunciation of matters intended by the jockey-party, who had stuck and [Page 18]billed my beloved Shenstone from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot. One of the advertisements ran thus: SHENSTONE-GREEN RACES.

MONDAY, May the 1st, the Patron's plate of twenty guineas will be run for by six year olds. (They took this purse for granted.)

A sweepstakes of a hundred guineas.

A private match for fifty pounds.

And several other by-strokes.

The horses, intended to start on the first day, are Mr. Spur's Shenstone.

Mr. Cutcord's chesnut gelding, Annuity; got by Orpheus, who came [Page 19]out of Eurydice, who was got by Pyrrhus.

Mr. Slapdash's bay filly Rent-free, who came of Good-nature, who was from that famous horse Liberal.

Mr. Whipwell's grey colt Beau­champ.

I went home very much mortified at having seen the sacred marble of my friend polluted, and was just going to express my displeasure, when a servant brought me a card and said it waited an answer. I both read and replied to it almo [...] in the same instant.

In an hour after this was sent off, I understood by Mr. Seabrooke, that ample justice had been done by the jockies to Shenstone's statue, which was not only cleared of its incum­brances, but washed and rubbed into the bargain.

I walked out to see the alteration, and felt my heart so elated, that I told Mr. Seabrooke I could not but [Page 22]consider this sudden reverence to our poetical friend's pedestal, as a good symptom. It is respectful, Mr. Seabrooke, said I.

I like it, said Mr. Seabrooke: I like it.

CHAP. XXVIII. MR. HENRY HEWIT HAS A BAD PEN AND A FINE HEART.

BUT the adoption of errour is easy and imperceptible: and the races were not run before poor Sarcasm, who was obliged to wade through all the slavery of his office, came charged with other petitions.

A little matter from half a dozen of your honest tradesmen, sir, said Sa­muel, as he came into the room, where were seated Mr. Seabrooke and Matilda.

Let us see, Samuel: Pray is it good or bad news?

It is human infirmity, sir.

[Page 24]Then I must pity it, said Sea­brooke, and whistle.

Ihheartily pity it too, said Matilda.

The paper being laid open, pre­sented to me the subsequent compo­sition, of which I shall not even alter the orthography.

I had not time to read the names of the people concerned in this letter, before Matilda cried out, Gracious god, is it possible! and just as she had uttered that exclamation, in came a man in a violent hurry whom the reader will recollect as a pensioner under the name of Henry Hewit.

Sir, sir, Sir Benjamin, said Hen­ry, quite out of breath, I have [Page 26]heard of another plot against your honour, but it won't take; I'll be your friend yet; I am Henry Hewit.

What's the matter, Henry?

The cocks, sir, and the cock­fighters. If you let such a bloody piece of business as that come upon your Green, you may look for mur­der and all manner of sins after. Here I am, sir, that never killed a creature, to my knowledge, in the way of sport, in my life. And if I do but catch a spider (which I hate more than any thing else) I break his web to pieces, only to save him from doing his mischief, for his web, sir, is his net, and there it is he hampers his prey. No, sir, don't, pray don't [Page 27]let cockfighters come amongst us. Tell the folks, they may have cricket or fives. If a child of mine was to love cockfighting—I—I—I don't know what I should do to him—I—I­—I verily think I should not bear the sight of him again for ten minutes. Let me beg of you, sir, to consider of it.

Whew—said Mr. Seabrooke, rising up out of his chair, the world, which the boy Alexander won, ought to be given to that man. He would make it happy.

Mr. Henry, said Matilda, you are always giving me a pain in the head, I think. I protest I have such a stroke here that I must take the air a little.

[Page 28]Better the head ache than the heart ache, Miss Matilda; and God knows you'd think of me if you were to see the poor dears go to mangle and murder themselves for nothing.

Insufferable—insufferable, the fel­low's insufferable, said Mr. Seabrooke. I must follow Matilda.

When the wind is in this corner, I have always weak eyes, cried Samuel Sarcasm, blowing his nose.

Then don't go to the cockfighting, Master Sarcasm, rejoined Hewit, for that will make 'em worse, I promise thee.

Whew—cried Seabrooke, running out of the room.

Well. sir, added Henry, what may I say!

[Page 29]Alas! honest Hewit, said I, at the time of providing a town, I did not provide against the follies nor the vices of its inhabitants, whom, in­deed, I took care to have such as were least subject, in my opinion, to either vice or folly.

Then, sir, I am sorry for it, and will take care to be out of the way when the fighting bouts come on. Your Honour's humble servant.

He went away.

But you have yet some authority over your tradesmen, sir, said the good steward, and, I think, might take upon you to forbid a thing of this nature. Suppose we go down together to the tradesmen's-corner and argue the point personally. Cock-fighting, [Page 30]sir, is really atrocious: the idea hath made me sick.

Pleased with the proposal, we set off for Tradesmen's-corner, where a croud was just at that instant collected, to see a pitched battle between a Shen­stone-Green butcher and a Shenstone-Green baker. The blows that re­bounded on their naked bodies were heard at a considerable distance, and the cries of strike him, strike him, at him Tom, at him Dick, echoed from men, women, and children, who all seemed to be highly delighted with the entertainment.

Sarcasm prudently stopped short, and asked me, if I did not think we might find a less bloody opportunity for an humane business?

[Page 31]O Samuel, said I, it in is vain to forbid those to fight cocks, who have a passion for slaughtering one another.

The sooner we go home to bed, sir, the better, said Samuel. Let us shut our eyes for a few hours— against the species.

CHAP. XXIX. A VERY BLOODY CHAPTER, AND A VERY HARD CRUST FOR THE PRO­PRIETOR OF SHENSTONE-GREEN.

IN due time, reader, the races were run, and the cocks were fought. Would to heaven the worst misfortune attending these amusements had been the disfiguration of the beautiful grass-plats of Shenstone-Green, and throwing idly into the air a large sum of money! This, however, was but a part: For the days of the race and of the cock-fight were distinguished by many other more memorable cir­cumstances. The bills of both the diversions being assiduously distri­buted, we had an inundation of [Page 33]strangers pouring in from all quarters, under pretence of seeing Shenstone-Sports. Amongst others, came pad­ding into our territory, some of those shameless women who always attend every dissipated exhibition; and I absolutely heard a hawker, crying out, while he was running through the ranks between the heats, ‘A List of the Sporting Ladies, Gentlemen. A true List of the Sporting Ladies on Shenstone-Green.’

Turning, with rapid indignation, from this unforeseen misfortune, I went to another part of the race ground, and came full in the face of an out­rage still more fatal. Exalted above the heads of the people were a mountebank and his men exerting all the ruinous chicane of their itine­racy. [Page 34]The chief of these vagabonds harangued the multitude on the in­estimable virtues of his universal nostrum, and I could see plainly his eloquence was but too palatable. Many bottles of a precious drop, and many boxes of an invaluable powder, were bought of these em­pericks then, which are lying in the bones of the silly purchasers at this moment.

Seabrooke set up a whistle on seeing the quacks, and, jumping up on the scaffold, offered to buy their whole stock in trade.

That will be impossible, sir, replied one of the fellows, for any man in this or in a much richer nation to compass. For I have phials, that [Page 35]scarce hold a thimble full of liquid, which are worth a world each.—Buy our stock in trade, indeed!

Could I have bought them, said Mr. Seabrooke to me in a whisper, I would certainly have chucked the whole purchase into one of the basons of water; and, by poisoning all your fish, Benjamin, convince the people what they were at. After which, the vender might have been led out of The Green victoriously by the nose. As it is, my friend, added he, you must not be surprized that the ser­pents creep out in the sun-shine of Shenstone-Green. It is a fine basking place for them to—cast their skins.

Bending my course forward, I came at last to the cock-pit, where [Page 36]two animals were at that moment engaged in all the ardour of natural animosity. I had scarce time to re­flect how it was possible for rational beings to find any pleasure in bring­ing creatures together to kill or be killed, when the exclamations of, six to two on the Sable, and forty to four on the Ginger, drove me from the scene of horrour. But the violence of the shout still pursued me; and I heard, distinctly, that Ginger was struck through the brain, and Sable came off conqueror, with only the loss of an eye.

But, by this time, the grand run­ning match, which was to finish the evening, came on. I looked round the circle of houses, and beheld [Page 37]every window stuck full with caps and curiosity. Dogs, men, women, and children, were driven from the course, and all was clear within the ropes. Shenstone-Green breathed ex­pectation. Every heart panted, every eye was open. In about a quarter of an hour, four horses were led along The Green by four boys, who were followed by four men. These were Messieurs Spur, Slapdash, Cut­cord and Whipwell; but he who had seen these gentlemen a fortnight before, must have looked very stea­dily to recognize them. Besides that they were totally altered in point of dress, they were totally altered likewise in point of bodily dimensions. Perhaps there never was naturally, four human beings whose size so [Page 38]little resembled each other; and yet they appeared now brought to the same standard, yea, to the delicacy of half a dram weight. The truth is, Mr. Slapdash and Mr. Spur (who were both brawny) had been some time reducing themselves to match Messieurs Cutcord and Whipwell, who were, happily, as much like skeletons and scarecrows as they ought to be. But how such a corporeal reduction could have been performed upon the carcase of Slap­dash is to this moment a mystery. Surely, reader, it will be such to thee, when thou art told, that Mr. Slapdash was one of those squabby men whose necks are of the same breadth with the shoulders. His cheeks were inflated with solid fat, [Page 39]and his belly held forth that burst­ing plenitude which is so remarkably apt to collect in a British subject. But Mr. Slapdash had, it seems, made his very person the object of a wager; and there were very consi­siderable betts depending on his suc­cess or miscarriage. In a point of such importance, Mr. Slapdash, willing to increase his fame, by diminishing his flesh, shut himself up in a dark room, on the fifteenth of April, and sweated himself near dissolution. None but the persons who had laid on his side of the question were per­mitted to see him; and some of these (fearing his flesh would too obsti­nately cling to his bones) played upon him several little tricks, that might tend to his diminution. At one time [Page 40]they contrived, just when the sweat­ing draught was operating, to intro­duce into his room a large cat shod with walnut-shells; at another, one of the wags assumed the shape of a spectre in a white sheet, and clanged a chain in the dead of night at his bed side. At other times, they en­velloped him head over heels in so many blankets, that he could scarce breathe under them. By such kind of sudorifics he had the good luck, at last, to melt down all that super­fluous health and force which stood betwixt him and glory; and to the dismay of those who had betted on the continuity of his corpulence, he came out of his flannels, on the first of May, as meagre and as miserable a looking mortal, as ever disgraced [Page 41]that noble animal which he was to bestride.

As you, my good reader, did not see the exact copy of the last bill, which described the several dresses of the gentlemen-jockies, I shall just acquaint you, that Mr. Cutcord's jacket was blue; Mr. Whipwell's, yellow and white; Mr. Spur's, crim­son; and Mr. Slapdashes, morone. They walked their steeds to the starting-post; they were separately weighed in the scales, and set off. What a thrilling moment!

I looked with all my might for the pleasure which is said to lie full in the view, when four men on horse­back are resolved to outstrip one ano­ther in speed, as much and as far as [Page 42]possible. I am almost afraid, lest I should ruin the credit of my book with all jockies, should I confess, (which, were I not persuaded those gentlemen never read, I should not venture) that I could not work my­self up to one poor sensation of satis­faction. The whole appeared to me so perfectly a matter of the same consequence, that I did not care one farthing about it. To be the first I could not think any honour, and to be last I could not imagine any shame. I asked Mr. Seabrooke's opinion of this. Have you any warm feelings, my good friend?

Whew—answered Mr. Seabrooke, wheeling away to another part of the ground.—Feelings—Whew.—

[Page 43]Not so the spectators. No sooner did the jockies come to the pushing-place, than the confusion of the chace began; and, as the horses ap­proached that part of the course where the grand trials were to be made, where the whip was to be cut into the flank, and the spur dug into the side, the loudest acclama­tions of passion and of pleasure re­echoed to the shore. What that could agonize my heart did I not hear! fifty guineas to five (cried one) on the Crimson. An hundred to a China orange on the blue. Morone against the field, said a third. Shillings against guineas to any amount that yellow is distanced, hollowed a fourth. My pension against yours, sir, cried two others, [Page 44]who were clattering their sticks and clapping their hands, what say you? My pension to yours? Say done if you dare.

Done, sir, done, answered the other.

In the midst of this uproar came up to me, in a violent hurry, Mr. Edward Elixir, who was so pleased and so vexed, that he had alternately laughed and cried during the whole course; but there is no staying long in one place to-day, sir, said he, and away he bounded from side to side as rapid as a roebuck.

Mr. Seabrooke busied himself in driving off a parcel of brats who had taken possession of Shenstone's-statue, [Page 45]from the top of whose pe­destal they had, it seems, a full view of the sport. I incontinently begged pardon, sir, said Seabrooke, of the figure; and talked to it on the un­gentle doings of the day, as if it had life.

But the honours of the course were much divided, and much ob­structed. In turning a difficult cor­ner, Beauchamp ran butt against Shenstone, and had well-nigh foun­dered the former; after that, Beau­champ, having too much rein, ran on the wrong side the post, and stumbled on the fetlocks of Annuity, which Rent-free perceiving, whipped up and was scouring away on the stretch of victory (which he would certainly [Page 46]have gained) had not Annuity that moment got upon his legs, passed Rent-free like lightning, and carried off the prize. Shenstone was brought in, dead lame; and Beauchamp was beat hollow.

CHAP. XXX. THE PROPRIETOR EXERTS HIMSELF; AND IS SO MUCH INSULTED, THAT HE PUTS AN END TO THE CHAPTER ABRUPTLY.

I RETIRED from the course in some confusion, and secretly re­solved to attempt some preventative against the further increase of these disorders. In the mean time, the night was passed by the Shenstonians in riot and revelry, in the fury of planning new follies, and in the triumph of relating the past. Upon surveying the scene the next morn­ing, it is difficult to describe the ap­pearance of a change so perfect. The soft carpet of verdure that be­fore [Page 48]covered the plain, was torn into raggedness by the trampling of beasts and the bustlings of men. The ten­der vegetable fences, which before separated one man's portion from that of a neighbour, were gapped and broken. The flowers lay scattered about their beds in fragments, and the whole scene was disemparadised. As I cast my eye forlornly over the prospect, it brought to my mind these verses of Milton.

But my anger increased as I con­tinued to view the ravages; and in [Page 49]order to check such violent amuse­ments for the time to come, I im­mediate issued forth the following edict:

[Page 50] This notice was no sooner gone abroad, than it produced very dif­ferent consequences. First came a card, written by the parson of my village.

The pleasure I felt on the receipt of this note was great; but it was effaced by the next.

As this was, formerly, a pretty hard morsel for me to digest, so, I conceive, it may be for the reader. I do not see, therefore, how I can so properly show my respect for him, as to end the Chapter at this crisis; in which, my gentlemen of the whip and short waistcoat figure so much—LIKE THEMSELVES.

CHAP. XXXI. THE SPORTS OF FALSE DELICACY.

IT was by setting the politeness of the one against the rudeness of the other, that I was able to strike the balance without any considerable de­pression of spirits. We must always agree to a compromise between good and evil fortune. If, said I, weigh­ing two circumstances, a few unruly and uncultured characters rise up against the very shadow of govern­ment, there are other minds so much better disposed, that pain and pleasure are at least equipoised. Nay, the latter is, in the present case predomi­nant: For who will compare five or six cockfighters and jockies, who have [Page 54]returned to their old infirmities, to upwards of thirty regular persons whose gratitude is ever warm, and whose love of order will continue to increase the felicity of our society? Perhaps my last injunctions might, after all, be carrying my wishes be­yond my power. I may, perhaps, have stepped over the decent limits of that sacred law which every man should tremble to violate while he is conferring a benefit. The rights of hospitality are so extremely delicate, that while distress or poverty is under its protection, the greatest caution should be exerted. For the future I am determined to be more circum­spect.

At the conclusion of this soliloquy in came Matilda, introducing to me a [Page 55]female friend and a young pensioner. I pretended to receive them as new faces, or, at least, such as I had only tran­siently seen at the time of their initia­tion. But, in reality, they were that very Sidney and Eliza whose peculiar passion for each other hath been already delineated.

Mr. Seabrooke was not at home. He was hunting May-ladies in the wood.

Amongst many intricate scenes which I have seen pass in the company of four people, that which was in this interview acted by our extraordi­nary lovers, was not the least.

I, who was in the secret, soon found out that there was a double plot [Page 56]to be sustained, for Mr. Sidney was to pass as a casual acquaintance, and Eliza was not to betray the least traits of her affection even to her friend Matilda. Let us see how this was performed. Nature hath not often assumed a more delicate disguise.

In compliment, perhaps, to me, the conversation turned—notwith­standing we were then at the tea-table —upon the pleasures of pure bene­volence; and upon Shenstone-Green.

It warms the heart in such a manner, said Eliza: It so anticipates the elysium we are to expect hereafter— It brings so much of heaven down upon earth—Then it gives such op­portunities of bringing old friends together. (Here she glanced her eye towards Sidney.)

[Page 57]Madam, said Sidney—a little dis­concerted—is there any thing amiss about my person that you are pleased to honour it with so particular an attention?

No! said Eliza (rather blushing).

Is your tea made to your liking, dear Eliza? said Matilda.

Perfectly, replied Eliza (willing to turn the conversation by adverting to trifles), I lately take a great deal of sugar.

Indeed, cried Sidney, you are much changed then; for I remember—formerly—

What do you remember, Mr. Sid­ney? said Eliza (interrupting him for [Page 58]fear he should finish his blunder) What do you remember?

I think, said I, (willing to give a good-natured lift) we are quite still after the hurry of our last week's amusements.

Amusements! do you call them, Sir Benjamin? said Eliza. If I had any of my family who could en­courage; or, if there was any per­son whom I respected that did not re­verence you, sir, for the manner in which you expressed your displeasure on that occasion, I should hate him.

As I hope to be saved (exclaimed Mr. Sidney with uncommon earnest­ness) I could never bear the idea, Eliza. You know it.

[Page 59] You, Mr. Sidney—what right had I to suppose—that you, Mr. Sidney.—

It was the gentleman's humanity that gave him so much emotion, madam, said I, and I am persuaded, he will rather be applauded than censured, for the exertion of such a virtue by Miss Elliot.

But Mr. Sidney's virtues, sir, are always so much of the violent kind, answered the lady.

Always, madam, said the gentleman?

How can Mr. Seabrooke, pos­sibly be in that filthy wood, said Matilda, when he might be so much more agreeably engaged.

Filthy wood, Miss Beauchamp, cried Sidney—silthy wood, do you [Page 60]call it.—Oh! my God! Eliza, I believe, will not subscribe to the pro­priety of that epithet! Filthy wood!

Why should you suppose so, Mr. Sidney, said Eliza. I see nothing very remarkable that—that.—

Not remarkable—Oh! Miss Elliot—how you talk!—Was it not in that blessed wood.—

Blessed wood, Mr. Sidney!—

That—that the birds, and—and—

Pray Mr. Sidney, said I, do you not think the walks are tolerably laid out, and the benches well fixed upon the whole?

Admirably sir, replied Sidney; but we shall know more of it to night, for—

[Page 61]Mr. Sidney, said Eliza. Mr. Sidney!

For I intend to walk in it.—Sir Benjamin, that's all.

What, alone, said Matilda?

Unless, madam, Sir Beauchamp would permit me the honour—the honour—

Hem—hem, coughed Eliza with all her force. The honour of—of your.—The poor fellow had got into a mistake, of which he could by no means clear himself.

No, said I, touching Matilda gent­ly on the cheek; my little friend here, seldom goes out of an evening.

Mr. Seabrooke and I, are to play at chess, papa—answered Matilda, smiling.

[Page 62]The eyes of Eliza were lighted up in a moment. Sidney seemed as if a load was taken from his heart; and in a few minutes, after Sidney had formally invited Eliza to honour him with her hand home, the visitors departed.

No sooner were they gone, than Matilda observed, with great simpli­city, that Mr. Sidney was a mighty pretty man, if he had not got such a trick of stammering; and that, as to Eliza, she said, she never saw her in such a peevish temper before.

Mr. Seabrooke now coming in, I pretended some business on the Green, and left them together.

CHAP. XXXII. THE SAME SUBJECT.

I WENT immediately to the wood, where, after hunting through many mazes, and stopping to listen at every five paces, I both heard and saw the persons I sought. I had an opportunity to conceal myself behind a cluster of elms, where, I could so shift about as occasion might require, that, had the sun, instead of the moon, been shining, I might have carried on my little stratagem undiscovered. To this manoeuvre, it is reader, that I am able to give you the following dialogue.

It does not signify talking, Miss Elliot, you have fairly betrayed it.

No, sir, it is through your means that Sir Benjamin and his daughter know the whole matter.

The delicacy of my passion, Miss Elliot, is—

Neither prudent nor consistent, sir. Had your passion been truly deli­cate—

Had it been. Heavens, madam, am I doubted.

Mr. Sidney, Mr. Sidney, you have done very ill: We shall be the talk or [Page 65] Shenstone-Green. Our passion will be as public—

As Eliza has made it. Sir Ben­jamin has a right to laugh at the hobble—the hobble which—

You have brought yourself into.—It would have been some consolation indeed, had our affection been dis­covered properly. But as you think we have both bungled—

No, madam; not both, my heart dictated every word.

Sir, my tenderness was to the full as apparent as yours.

Mine, madam, betrayed itself in every trifle; our patron saw it as plain—

Not to see mine, sir, would argue blindness and want of understanding. When I talked of old friends being brought together, I looked at you in such a manner, that it would be im­possible to mistake my meaning.

My tenderness, Miss Elliot, was still more conspicuous in the way that I took notice of yours.

But I have better demonstrations, sir. Think about the affair of the wood.

In that madam, I exposed my pas­sion infinitely beyond Eliza.

Tis false, you did not, Mr. Sid­ney.

I did. Think too of my embar­rassment about the birds.

Rather remember the delicate con­fusion of my cough, when you im­prudently invited Matilda to walk with you.

That completes my victory, Miss Elliot, for in that half-uttered in­vitation, I laid open my tender soul to the whole view of the com­pany.

You are a very unjust man, and I have a great mind to submit it to Sir Benjamin himself.

Rather, madam, let us part for ever; it is but too clear we shall [Page 68]never agree. You never loved me.

Not love you, Sidney?

Oh! Heavens what is the matter Eliza!

Nothing—Mr. Sidney.

Your dear eyes are wet—Oh! heavens, forgive me; forgive me thou best of women!

Ah! Sidney—Sidney!

This kiss is the seal of our eternal reconciliation—come my best love— the dew falls—you may catch cold— let me conduct you home.

[Page 69] These two sensitive souls now em­braced with the fondest affection, and going home, lingered a few minutes at the door of the lady, and then parted.

CHAP. XXX. HUMAN NATURE SHOWS OFF ON SHENSTONE-GREEN.

FOR two or three days after my edict about the impropriety of racing and cock [...]ting, the Shen­stonians were remarkably tranquil; and I was just on the brink of felici­tating myself hereupon, when the steward came to the Mansion-house with a bundle of papers, whose very size threatened an invasion of the peace.

What have you got there, Samuel? said I. As much as I can well carry sir, replied Samuel, laying down his load, and adjusting his grey locks.

[Page 71]But of what kind Mr. Sarcasm?

Of poor human nature, an't please your honour. She is always ailing sir, and, like a sick man afflicted with a complication, one disorder is no sooner cured than twenty more make their appearance.

While the steward was making this physical remark, he loosened the red tape which was tied round the papers, and presented them to me in the following order. To begin with trifles, sir, amuse yourself with N ^o. 7.

N ^o. 7. was directed—To the knight of the noble soul, Sir Ben­jamin Beauchamp.

[Page 76]The names of my most obedient humble servants were inclosed in the following

• SPLITCLOTH against FREDERICK FLASH, Esq.

  FOR cloth furnished and clothes made, as by bill delivered — 700£. 17s. 7½d.

  N. B. This debt was not more than seven months standing, and F. Flash was esteemed the best dressed man in England all that time. Split­cloth has declared he will take the odd 17s. and 7d½. and F. Flash to pay original cost of writ, and prison fees.

• [Page 77] PERSIAN against GAYMAN,

  FOR one thousand pounds worth of mercery, sent by said Gayman's order, to the lodgings of Miss Snoozle, N ^o. 11, Bond-street.

  N. B. Snoozle set the fashions for three parts of the summer. The vogue was nothing but Snoozle­caps, Snoozle-hats, Snoozle-hoods and Snoozle-sacks; it was even a fashion to say such or such a thing that had any pretensions to air, was à la Snoozle. The last time Mr. Gay­man saw this lady, was just when Persian's writ was served upon the said Gayman, at her apartment.

• [Page 78] POLICY against HAZARD.

  Mr. Hazard though originally in, at the suit of Policy, a broker, hath twenty-eight detainers, amounting in the whole to a sum not exceeding thirty thousand pounds; and if Sir B. B. does not stand his friend, must lie for life. Mr. Hazard's case is particularly hard. He was the man who, some years ago, rendered him­self famous by insuring tickets in the lottery, and bought up as many wholes, as would have made him the richest commoner in England, had his purchases consisted of prizes in­stead of blanks. Mr. Hazard is still more to be pitied, in consideration that he, in conjunction with some others, ruined himself by playing at [Page 79]push-pin one rainy evening, when they nor he had any other intention than to pass the time betwixt tea and supper. But men of real spirit can never answer for themselves when set in for it.

As I saw the list was made out wholly on the same principle, I did not think it necessary to go on, but, with great marks of amazement in my countenance, asked the steward, if he supposed this letter was sent in the way of waggery or seriousness?

Bless me, answered Samuel, your honour seems to know but little of things terrestrial. This is to me atrocious. Are you to be told, sir, that the passions can make us believe any thing; and while the miser is [Page 80]priding himself upon the propriety of putting a thousand pounds into his chest, the prodigal thinks he is doing as meritorious an action in throwing double that sum away? You and I, sir, (who are neither miser nor prodigal) can say this is wrong; but if we were engaged in the schemes, either of amassing or dissipating, we should applaud ourselves as well as the worst of them.

That proves, Samuel, said I, that thou art thyself a little near-sighted.

How doth your honour make that out! Have not I always said, you were a little bit of a miser, Samuel?

But your honour knows I would never allow it. Upon the same prin­ciple, [Page 81]I have now and then said, since the building of Shenstone-Green that—

I was a prodigal, hey?

But your honour would never ad­mit it. In short, sir, the man who commits an errour, and the man who criticizes it, have each of them dif­ferent words to express the same thing. What I call profusion, you call gene­rosity; what you call avarice, I call discretion. So that you may depend on the sincerity of the prisoners in his majesty's Fleet. But lay them by as a foreign matter, and let us come nearer your honour.

He now gave me N ^o. 6.

Why this is going backwards said I.

[Page 82]No matter, answered the steward, for the order of numbers; I offer them to your honour in the order of importance; beginning with the least atrocious, and so going regularly on to the greater.

Though Samuel said this very coolly, it set me on the tremble. After the petition of the prisoners, I did not expect the matter to soar higher. But you shall judge, reader, how far I was mistaken, when you are in the humour to amuse yourself with the next chapter.

CHAP. XXXIV. THE PENSIONERS ARE POLITE.

N ^O. 6. was addressed to Mr. Sar­casm.

Pray Mr. Sarcasm signify to our patron, that a very modest family upon the Green, are constantly insult­ed by one of the pensioners who hath the next house; in which he keeps an infamous madam, within ear-shot of us. On the first day of the races, we saw her trolloping about the course in a faded silk gown, and a dirty fringed petticoat; on the second day, she appeared in the same dress, walking arm in arm with the above pensioner, and, since that time, she [Page 84]has been introduced into the man's house, where she sings and swears in such a manner that we are both shock­ed, and disturbed. These two sit up best part of the night; and about twelve o'clock this morning, a very splendid vis a vis, entirely new, and constructed on a French model; made its appearance at madam's door. The family who complain of this grievance have no carriage at all; nor do they think it consistent with the modesty they ought to maintain under present circumstances; but, they cannot with patience bear to see a vile creature exalted above women of virtue. To make the matter still worse, there are four more dressed up husseys of this wretch's acquaintance, who are come down in a phaeton and four horses, [Page 85]which are driven by a great gauky masculine she-thing, who gathers up the reins, and smacks the long whip like a stage coachman. Suggest, therefore, we beg of you Mr. Sar­casm to the most amiable Sir B. Beauchamp, how much the purity of his charming Paradise must suffer by the introduction of these harlots, who will not only ruin all the Shenstonian batchelors, but throw out all their lures to alienate every husband from the arms of his honourable wife. The extirpation, therefore, of this evil, while it is yet in the bud, is submitted to our patron, whose virtuous heart, will, we are assured, adopt such mea­sures as may most effectually serve the female innocence and fidelity, [Page 86]which he hath so kindly taken in charge.

Signed by the above family, and all the other ladies of Shenstone-Green.

This letter made so strong an im­pression, that I desired Samuel to lay the rest of the papers by, till some other time; for this is an affair, Samuel, said I, which must be taken into immediate consideration.

Sir, replied the steward, the name of the pensioner who has been guilty of the crime in question is Danby; a young gentleman who stands in my book of anecdotes, as the best hearted young man in the world. The cha­racter I have had of him, previous to his being marked for the Green is this, [Page 87]"Danvers Danby, Esq. a person of fine genius, unbounded generosity, tender feelings, lively passions, and adored by the ladies."

And is Mr. Danby, said I, the author of such an indelicate action?

Why your honour should consider that all the qualities which constitute his fine character, lean, as I may say, wholly to spirited things.

Spirited things quotha; do you consider what may be the effect of these spirited things?—May I not have a brothel brought upon my Green; and instead of conjugal har­mony and continency, may not my dear Shenstone's system—

[Page 88]Suppose sir, your honour was to tell the Shenstonians, once for all, a piece of your mind. I think some­thing might be done yet.

If thou canst advise any thing to give my perplexed head and heart a little ease, pray, good fellow, lose no time: let me know it. I thought I should both give and receive hap­piness, but I am horridly mistaken; upon my soul I am, Mr. Sarcasm.

Here this ludicrous Mr. Sarcasm, in whom a dry kind of rigid remark was constitutional, sat down at a desk which stood in the room, and wrote as follows:

Pshaw, Mr. Sarcasm, said I (pee­vishly interrupting him), do you ima­gine I am in a temper to be trifled with?

Scarce had these words passed my lips, before a fine, elegant, splendid, and prepossessing young man came into the room with an air of in­genuous distress.

It was Mr. Danby. He fell upon his knee. My dear sir, said he, my [Page 91]worthy protector, I am this instant informed of the offence I have given to some of the persons in our neigh­bourhood. I have done wrong, sir.— I feel.— I repent. Had I reflected but a moment it would have been impossible.—The woman struck my fancy.—I am too apt to follow my feelings, and my sensibility is gene­rally wounded too late.

After such language, Mr. Danby, what can I say? I am disarmed.

The woman is no longer under my roof, sir. Upon my honour I have dismissed her.

It is sufficient, Mr. Danby; I hope there will be no further bad conse­quence. I see your forgetfulness in the true light, and I do not doubt—

[Page 92]Matilda, who had been sitting to embroider in the next room, now opened the glass door which looked into the apartment where we were talking, and rushed in with a coun­tenance like the paleness of death.

Mr. Danby's confusion was visible in every feature: He re-assured me that every thing should be done to my utmost satisfaction, and abruptly withdrew.

I was sensibly alarmed; and desiring the steward to postpone the rest of the business till the next morning, my daughter and I were left together.

She was still labouring with some concealed anxiety, and after fixing her eyes on me very tenderly for some minutes, she fell at my feet, and bathed my hand with her tears.

[Page 93]Matilda, said I, for God's sake, consider your poor father.

I am very young, papa; perhaps very foolish; and am now kneeling for my father's instruction.—That— that young gentleman who is just gone out, sir—that young gentle­man —sir—

Hah!—go on, Matilda.

Has given me the greatest misery ever since he has been at the Green.

How so, Matilda?

Don't be angry with me, dear papa,—but even if you are, I must speak out my whole heart. I have met him at Miss Elliot's. His figure— His conversation—His manner—I am [Page 95]afraid I love him, sir. Indeed I am afraid of it.

Love him, did you say, Matilda?

But he is a libertine—he is a rake. I have heard his whole story.—Yet, sir, he confessed his errour—he is not a shameless man—he—Pray, sir, did he not say, the woman who had seduced him was dismissed?

Ah! Matilda—you are the dear and darling comfort of my life. Heaven knows how long this project of hap­piness, which I have put into execution upon this Green, may be depended on. The edifice was flattering and fair, but, perhaps, it may not prove solid. The gust of ingratitude may weaken, and the tempest of contrary passions may destroy it. It is possible [Page 94]that this little paradise, which I have raised, like a second Eden, around me, may, like the first, which was regu­lated by more powerful patronage, be equally lost. In that case, my Matilda will be the only flower that will remain of all my garden. Her sweetness and beauty must soothe me in every disappointmeet, and supply the place of the angel who gave her being.—Alas! Matilda—I am even jealous of your affections; but I would not keep them all, when your tender heart disposes you to divide them. Of Mr. Danby we know a little. His qualities are fine but they are dangerous. Yet we will enquire. I will, for your sake, have over him the eye of a father, and if it can pos­sibly be you shall not want—

[Page 96]Before I could end the sentence she was weeping upon my neck.—Ah! my dear papa, said she, but this is not all. My heart will burst if you are not acquainted with every thing. I cannot support the burden of hypo­crisy.

Not all, Matilda!—In heaven's name, what do you mean? Speak this moment.

He hath been in distress—I myself saw him send all he could command in the world to a poor family to which he hath obligations. I myself, too, saw the piercing letter, in which the application was made, and —and—

Speak, child. Conceal nothing.

[Page 97]As he had not enough to satisfy his heart, or do them the full service he desired—I gave him my little new-year's purse, and—

What more?

Borrowed twenty guineas of a friend.

What friend, child?

Mr. Seabrooke, sir.—But I did not mention names—Pray don't hate me—I never concealed any thing before.

Matilda, Matilda, (said I, taking her in my arms,) I am not angry; I am both afflicted and rejoiced. Leave the management of this business to me. Act as before, and all may be well. One truth, however, is [Page 98]clear. Let us establish what systems or what societies we please, joy and sorrow shall be for ever mixed, and, wheresoever we fix our dwelling, whether, in a great city, or on Shen­stone-Green, they will pursue us close, and command alternately our smiles and tears.

Hush! said Matilda; Mr. Sea­brooke is coming to the door. Not a word of Mr. Danby.

CHAP. XXXV. WHICH INTRODUCES AN OLD SOLDIER.

MR. Seabrooke had no sooner entered, than he presented to me a letter which, he said, he had just before taken from the postman, whom he saw on his return from walking.

As I knew the delicacy of my poor girl's affection, I gave her this letter to read when she was at leisure, pre­tending that it was a matter of no consequence, but might, perhaps, amuse her a little. I could see the idea of Mr. Danby mount into her eyes as I gave it.

[Page 104]She put the letter into her pocket, from which moment she was so anxi­ous and uneasy, that she pretended a sudden indisposition as an excuse for retiring early to her chamber.

In less than half an hour, she re­turned, declaring that her illness was gone, and she never was so well or so happy in her life; though it appeared plainly, by a redness that remained about her eyes, she had been weep­ing. What a paradox is pleasure!

The truth is, I was little less affect­ed or less pleased than herself at this new trait we had discovered in young Danby, and I resolved, if possible, to make him every way worthy my Matilda. I hope reader, she is by this time thy favourite.

CHAP. XXXVI. HUMAN NATURE LOOKED AT IN AN EXTRAORDINARY SITUATION.

PRETTY early the next morning, my daughter was bestirring her­self in the pantry; and, just as I came down stairs, had thrown a white nap­kin over a little wicker basket, which she said, was destined for Master Hackney Oldblade. Give him this new guinea too, Matilda, said I, and tell him, it is the latest that has been struck of his sovereign. I send it as a token, that I think him no nuisance upon Shenstone-Green, where he may stay and settle.

[Page 106]Matilda tripped away with her pro­visions without waiting to hear more; and just as she was gone, one of Mas­ter Oldblade's friends, Henry Hewit, made his appearance.

Though the conversation which ensued at this interview is very extra­ordinary, I hope, honest reader, thou hast heart enough to suppose it not so far out of nature as to be impossible. If I show thee conduct in a poor un­lettered peasant, which discovers an excellence in humanity, which thou didst not before suspect belonged there­to; be grateful for the pleasure I shall give thee, and do not say, that is unnatural which may only be uncommon.

Sir, said Henry, pulling off his hat with great reverence, I have been [Page 107]some days a miserable fellow, and as I look upon your honour to be my father, I want to tell you why and wherefore I am thus wretched.

Henry, speak?

Your honour has, as I may say, almost killed me with kindness. Pray do not think me wicked if I say how much happier I was, when Shenstone­Green was building, than I am now it is finished. Ever since I had strength in my arms—and you see, sir, I am built almost like a church— I have been used to labour. I have worked, dear, good sir, till work is my play, and play is my work: yes, your honour, I have found it harder to pass my time since I had nothing to do, than ever it was for me to get-up [Page 108]and go to bed with the sun. I will tell your honour why.

Do so, honest Henry.

When I was a labouring man, I knew that I must not eat nor drink till I had done so much for bread and so much for bed. When that so much was finish­ed, I sat me down to a repast, which was so sweetened by my hunger, that every morsel was a feast. Then I went hobbling home at night as weary as weary. So much the better; I made but one sleep of it till day­light, and then got up as gay as a bird to weary myself again.

But your situation, Henry, is much more easy now on Shenstone-Green.

[Page 109]Too easy, a great deal too easy, sir. I do not know that the bones are the better for stretching on a velvet cushion. Had I a good education I might, perhaps, amuse myself with good books or maps, or such things; but, as I can neither read or write, so as to make any pleasure of it, tis but making my head ache to no purpose. No, sir, here lies the mischief; I am a man worth two hundred a year, and have got my fine house over my head; my old work-clothes are thrown away; I have things upon my back that do not sit at all to my liking. I am not company for the other pen­sioners who have most of them spent a good fortune before they came to the Green. I think they look too as if they laugh at me when I go by any [Page 110]of them, as they stand idling at their doors. This conceit hurts my clown's pride so mortally, that I keep out of their sight as much as I can; and to­wards the evenings give them the slip out of my back door. Sometimes I escape to the next parish, where my old fellow-labourers live. But even there, I do not find myself at home as usual, because they geer and fleer, and are jealous of my good fortune, and say, they cannot think what your honour could see in my face to stick me up for a gentleman? After this, I am obliged to make them all nearly drunk before they will own me for an old acquaintance. Besides this, sir, I see your honour's tradesmen hate me, and think they have one and all a [Page 111]better right to your bounty than Henry Hewit.

They may think as they please, but I consider Henry Hewit as the best and worthiest man upon Shenstone-Green.

Too good, your honour is too good; for what can I do? I have no exercise, and so have no appetite. I always am feeling for my leather apron. I sometimes catch up my old trowel and am ready to shed tears over it, as if it were because I had thrown away with it an old friend that used to get me the brown bread that I bought myself, I cannot sleep at nights, because I am in a sort of a doze all the day. In short, sir, I look upon it, that I am living a very wicked life, and [Page 112]with your honour's leave, I will mend it.

Is that possible, friend Henry?

Very possible, sir; as thus: I will return my pension to the dear noble hand out of which I received it: I will live in a little snug house amongst your honour's tradesmen: I will take care the people shall know my mind, that there may be no envy nor heart­burning; and I will, if your honour thinks fit, be master mason and brick­layer of all Shenstone-Green. For this, your honour may pay me from time to time, but not all at once; so that though I shall return to my own track and to my own trade—which few know better—yet I shall never want either victuals or work; and, to a [Page 113]poor fellow like me, to want one of these, is to want both.

And are you serious, Henry?

So serious, and please your honour, that I shall break my heart if you do not oblige me. But this is not all. I think I know whom your honour might put into the house and fortune which I shall quit.

I would gladly have a person of my friend Hewit's recommendation.

Then you must know, sir, there is a fine old creature, mangled all over, who has set his face against our ene­mies, till his trade is fairly cut from him by the naked sword. He is a very merry good soul, and when I saw him the other day walking on his [Page 114]wooden stumps, I said to myself, Oh! Henry Hewit, Henry Hewit, there is a man who ought to be in thy place! He is robbed at once of his business and his blood; be an honest lad and go back to thy labour, Henry, and speak a good word for a gentleman-soldier, whose hairs are grey, and whose limbs are gone. I cried like a child as I said this: but if your Honour agrees to my two proposals, I will do nothing but work and laugh all the rest of my life.

I do agree, Henry, and you shall have it just in your own way.

Then, sir, if you please, I will be­gin to work to-morrow, for I have been sideling backwards and forwards, and I see there are some repairs wanting [Page 115]in the brickwork about the Mansion­house. The tiling on the left side is loosened, and I have spied out a crack or two in the back chimnies; one leans a little.

What then, Henry, your eyes have been at work already.

Use, you know, sir, is second na­ture. I never see a building of any kind if it is of brick, but I can tell what should be done in a trice. It is in my way. Lord, your Honour, how happy you have made me! but the cement will be better if I were to mix my lime over night. I will go then and temper my mortar—Lord how happy I am—to say the real factotum, I never was so happy in [Page 116]my life. I must kiss your Honour's hand, I must indeed.

Here the poor excellent fellow leaped about with unaffected joy, and was carried away into many extrava­gant gestures by sensations, which do not frequently, I fear, interrupt the tranquility of human beings.

Just as he was going out, he turn­ed round to desire I would not men­tion his name in the affair of the hopping soldier, because, said Henry, it will have a better look if your Honour was to say, you had heard of Master Oldblade's great fighting feats, and made him a pensioner for the sake of your country; that, your Honour knows would please the old fellow; for all your sword-blade gen­try [Page 117]have a sort of pride about them— as to me, you may tell him that I am a good bricklayer and mend a crack, or lay a tile for my country as bravely as any man; but, for the matter of fighting, I am a mere mess of milk, and never killed any thing in my life. Say I am gone to my old business, and had only Master Oldblade's house for a time.

To make any comment on this be­haviour on the part of our bricklayer, would be to suspect the reader's sense and sensibility.

I leave it, therefore, with his feel­ings.

CHAP. XXXVII. THE REVERSE OF THE PICTURE.

BUT human nature having, in the two last chapters, exibited her bright side, we must now be content to look on the reverse of her picture.

Mr. Samuel Sarcasm, who was ever scrupulously exact to his appoint­ments, appeared with the rest of the papers which remained unexamined.

Now, Samuel, said I, I have time to finish.

He gave me N ^o 5, which, reader, I make thee a present of with all my heart.

FIRST, WE are making a purse of a few hundreds, to establish a sweet little epitome of a Pantheon, where we will, though at a small expence, have our vocal gods and goddesses, at least, twice a week. And we will call it, by way of compliment, Shen­stone-Green Pantheon.

SECONDLY, WE, knowing per­fectly well, all the arts of surprize and delicate slight, propose also a kind [Page 121]of Cornelys, where our lights, rooms, and partitions shall shift about at the word of command. This must be named The Country Cornelys on Shen­stone-Green.

THIRDLY, WE earnestly intreat your assistance in erecting a building for Theatrical works, to be written by ourselves and our husbands, and to be acted by one another. Though this scheme will certainly be attended with some expence, yet it will be such an encouragement to genius, as will raise up in the pensioners a laudable emulation; and, indeed, not to have a play-house upon Shenstone-Green, (which is, as it were, poets ground, and ought to be dedicated to the muses) would be a sin and a [Page 122]shame. Besides, if we should not be able to furnish new pieces amongst ourselves, there are plenty of play-wrights who will send us their chef d'aeuvres from the capital, where, you know, interest has, now and then, the key of the stage-door; and where the managers themselves gene­rally forestall the dramatick market. We have been looking about the Green, and find that our play-house will stand vastly well near the Church, or rather between that and Parsonageplace. So that the muses will be sup­ported by the temple of devotion on one hand, and a doctor of divinity on the other. This we will call Shenstone-Green Theatre.

FOURTHLY, WE, (above all other things) have set our hearts upon a [Page 123] Masquerade, which is at once so inno­cent, so elegant, and so universally admired, that, not to have a monthly one on Shenstone-Green would be such an impeachment upon our want of taste as never was heard of. This, therefore, must be put in hand imme­diately. Masks and dominos may be had from Tavistock-street, London. Fancy-dresses depend on ourselves.

LASTLY, WE propose a weekly Concert of Musick, and, for cheapness sake, the same band may serve for the orchestra of our theatre. But as these dear amusements will, under your patronage, sir, be ours, we shall, by way of getting back some of our charges, tax all tickets taken by strangers. The Shenstonian pen­sioners [Page 124]being the only persons to be admitted gratis, excepting our good and amiable patron, Sir Benjamin, who is, in each place, to have a lodge with a decorated canopy fitted up and properly illuminated, under the title of Beauchamp Box, or the Lord President's Place on Shenstone-Green.

Signed by all the Ladies of the Green, except Miss Eliza El­liot, who obstinately refuses: but as we consider that girl a particular kind of creature (too grave and too glum for her age) her suffrage hath not been much solicited.

CHAP. XXXVIII. THE WHISTLER WHISTLES LUSTILY ALL THROUGH THIS CHAPTER.

HEIGHO, Samuel! this is pro­mising work. Is it not?

Since the writing hereof, sir, there have been some of the fair petitioners at my office, just to strengthen their arguments, by assuring your Honour that, with those few diversions men­tioned in their list, they will under­take to make Shenstone-Green superior either to Bath or Paris. They add, furthermore—and as all spoke of it together, there is the less doubt of their sincerity—that, there shall not be a single hour in the day or night, but what shall bear its characteristic [Page 126]amusement. Shenstone-Green, Samuel —I believe they might say, old Sa­muel — Shenstone-Green, old Samuel, shall have more ton than any spot in the habitable globe, and, by the crouds of fashion which we shall gather about us, the jubilees of the dear poet Shenstone, shall be more vivant, and more vogueish, than those, even headed by his mirrour Mr. Garrick, of Shakespeare himself. After this, they fluttered out of my office, which was never so perfumed before.

And would you not prevent this inundation of luxury, which, Samuel, cannot possibly, be admitted without an inundation of folly also?

Prevent it sir, said Matilda, who was sitting on Mr. Seabrooke's knee. [Page 127]Why would you prevent it? What can be more harmless than a Pantheon?

Whew—said Mr. Seabrooke.

More innocent than a Cornely's? said Matilda.

Whew—said Mr. Seabrooke.

More moral than a play-house? demanded Matilda.

Whew— Whew—replied Seabrooke.

Or more enchanting than a mas­querade? asked Matilda.

Whew— Whew— Whew, answered Mr. Seabrooke, lengthening and loud­ning his tone, and taking Matilda in his arms into the garden.

You hear Mr. Seabrooke's senti­ment of the matter, Samuel, said I.

[Page 128]I must own, sir, the gentleman's whistle is loud against it. I take those Whews all to be in the negative: flatly in the negative.

Shall I then forbid such nonsenses, Mr. Sarcasm?

Your Honour half tempteth me to Whew in the manner of the merry gentleman, who is playing at romps yonder on the grass-plats with Miss Matilda. What signifies your Honour's forbidding a large party of ladies doing the things which they have set their hearts upon. Sure your Honour knoweth as little of women as men.

But I so well know the consequence, Samuel. I am so well convinced, that Shenstone-Green would be in as much [Page 129]agitation and rattle as London, were I to suffer these nonsenses.

And that is the very reason, sir, why the ladies will certainly carry their designs into execution, nem. con. Rattle is the thing they admire.

Indeed, Samuel?

Besides, sir, they offer only to in­troduce things that are allowed in all genteel places, and though your ho­nour chooses to run down causes to their effects; women seldom go that way to work: they stick firmly to the cause, and if that tickles, they never look far enough to pick up a nasty consequence, that would only put the poor dears into a perspiration. Again, sir, have you not made them [Page 130]independent, and the free agent, doth as he listeth, I have heard.

There, Samuel, is the rub. I have tied my hands voluntarily behind me. I left all to the operations of grateful hearts, and imagined that such liberty would be law at Shenstone-Green.

It is plain therefore, that your Honour must give up this point; so we will go to another.

With a very bad grace I can assure thee, Mr. Sarcasm.

Things not possible your Honour knows, should not be attempted. Please to mark therefore your consent, and I will signify the same to the ladies, who protested they should neither eat, drink, or sleep till I sent [Page 131]your answer. 'Tis a lady's maxim, sir, to be restless till she hath her fair longing.

I now wrote underneath this peti­tion, which was, by the by, abomi­nably scrawled, agreeable to Dr. Swift's observation, from corner to corner, the word granted; and my hand so trembled as I gave my sanc­tion to folly, that I wrote almost as unintelligibly polite as the ladies.

Sarcasm signed the petition, as wit­ness, with a fist perfectly firm; and, saying, he imagined I had enough for one day, adjourned till another op­portunity, the examination of the other papers.

CHAP. XXXIX. IT BECOMES NECESSARY TO INTRO­DUCE A CONSTABLE ON SHEN­STONE-GREEN.

I HAD scarce time to breathe upon this circumstance, before one of a different kind, but tending equally to show me I was but a foolish fellow, started up in the form of the following intelligence; which, by way of desert, was brought just after I had dined.

How one imprudence treads on another said I, after having read this letter aloud!

But you see, said Matilda, smiling, the bad women are wholly gone from Mr.—you knows who's papa.

(I concealed Mr. Danby's name at the time of reading this letter).

I begin to think, friend Beauchamp, said Mr. Seabrooke, we must have such a thing as a CONSTABLE in this [Page 138]same Shenstone-Green. Sic transit glo­ria mundi.

A constable, answered I, in great consternation; a constable on Shenstone-Green?

Faith, I begin to think so too, said the little apothecary (who that day dined at the Mansion-house, and who had been thrown into an immoderate fit of laughter, by the ludicrous idea of the baldheaded priest when he was on the retreat). And now you talk of that, said Mr. Elixer, I have a little private business to communicate.

Matilda withdrew. Mr. Seabrooke rose up from the table. And can my dear Seabrooke think it possible for him to retire?

[Page 139] Whew—replied he, wheeling off into the garden, where he would sometimes pass half a day upon the grass-plats in the sunshine.

Look-you, my dear, cried the wor­thy Welchman, when we were alone. I have got a proclamation of war in my pocket. Yes, my dear, war has been declared in Shenstone-Green for some time, and here is a correct list of the killed and wounded. Elixir Ned, must knock them dead yet. Read, read.

"A list of patients now under the cure of Edward Elixir, apothecary and surgeon to the Shenstonian pen­sioners."

But look you my patron said the doctor, I do not let you see this to [Page 140]betray the confidence which should be sacred in my profession, but because I am a little man who loves gratitude, and thinks he ought to have no secrets with a person like Sir Benja­min Beauchamp; for that Sir Benja­min has made me, Edward Elixir, the richest, and the gayest, and the happiest man in Wales. Yes, I do say, the happiest man in Wales. My little wife, Sir Benjamin, has got, through your kindness, a large easy chair which runs upon castors, and I aired her yesterday, for the first time, all about the Green: Yes, and then we both laughed together at the con­ceit, till our mirth became, as it were, a contagious disorder which put into convulsions all the pensioners who beheld us. If you had seen, sir, [Page 141]this sight, how you would have laughed! Only to think of such a slender hop-o'-my-thumb as I, har­nessed to a kind of go-cart, almost as big as a waggon, running off at full speed with such an amazing fine-sized firm-fleshed woman as my wife! Only think of a skipping flea hop­ping away with the majestic elephant! Oh Jesus! my patron, my patron, how happy you have made Teddy Elixir!

Teddy Elixir now falling into one of his pleasure-fits, I left him to enjoy it upon a sopha, where he rol­led about, while I read his list of killed and wounded.

D. Danby, Esq. Attendance every day.

[Page 142] C. Cusheon, Vicar. Every day but Sunday.

Without going any farther, I ex­pressed my hearty concern for these gentlemen, and desired to know the nature of their disorders. Are these pensioners wounded or killed, Mr. Elixir? It must be a very sudden affair.

Alas, sir, answered the apothecary, Venus wounds in a moment.

Venus, Mr. Elixir! Venus?

Lookee you, my patron, you live here at your Mansion-house without knowing what passes in your village. We have of late been visited by four Ve­nuses, who have brought more business upon my hands than I ever had on the [Page 143] Green before. There is warm work going on, I promise you; but, sir you still, my patron. I will send Venus packing, I warrant. I will blow a little powder in her bright eyes that shall make her remember coming upon Shenstone Green, never fear.

The plain truth then, Mr. Elixir, divested of your embellishment, is, that the unhappy women, who were attracted to the Green by those con­founded races, have—

Yes, yes, my patron, exactly that, my patron. Exactly that.

And, amongst other victims less distinguished, are, I presume, these gentlemen.

[Page 144]Jesus, my patron, how well you guess. If I could have guessed half so well, I wish I may never laugh again.

And do you think this a laughing matter, Mr. Elixir?

My patron, it is no more than this skip. Our methods of treating that affair are now so infallible, that—

But the wickedness, and the im­propriety of the affair; how will you cure that, Mr. Apothecary? That is something more than your skip, I hope, is it not?

Look-you, my dear patron, Ed­ward Elixir never meddles with other men's business. I stick close to the carcase, which I know how to manage [Page 145]tolerably well. But as for the mind, that is clean out of my way. That is a branch belonging to Mr. Cusheon the vicar. I can only master Death; it is the parson, who should struggle with the Devil. Ha! ha! ha!

But I am astonished, Mr. Elixir, that so sober, discreet and classical a man as Mr. Cusheon should—

Why should my patron be astonish­ed, that asober, discreet, classical man should catch one of the commonest distempers now in the world? We are all liable to accidents. Alas! the classics are not exempt from the strokes of the female gender.

But his profession Mr. Elixir—Ha! ha! ha!

[Page 146]Lack a day, if you think the worse of him for what I have told you, my patron, I shall be the most miserable man in the world—There is my blind side. I am so used to run about with what I hear in order to tell it, which is the way I worked myself first into any practise; for one cannot take a pint of blood from a country patient, but he will have from me a pound of news into the bargain, so that I cannot help chattering, let the consequence be what it will. This is the complaint that every body makes against me, while almost every body tempts me to sin. Oh! how I do hate Mr. Edward Elixir! how I do hate Mr. Edward Elixir!

But hear me, Mr. Apothecary— hear me—it is an affair of moment. I am hurt. I am stung.

[Page 147]Oh! my patron, tell me, I pray you, what can make me such a little infamous apothecary as I am? Why should I cure my patient with my hand, only to wound him again, worse than ever, with my tongue! Curse my tongue, how dare it jab­ber out things sacred and profane in this manner! You ought to discard me, my patron—for Mr. Cusheon is a soft, sleek, gentle gentleman, as ever put on a cassock; and Mr. Danby is the best and most generous esquire that ever came into Wales. What things do I know of his doing? and have I blabbed the only thing that could injure him in the esteem of my patron? Oh! what a complete lit­tle villain I am? Oh! Elixir! Elixir! skilled as thou art in simples, thou [Page 148]art the most atrocious rascal, of a small man, that ever breathed a vein. Look-you, my patron, look-you, if it was not for my poor little wife, who would die if she lost her trund­ler, I would deliver myself into the hands of justice and be hanged direct­ly. Edward—Edward. Teddy, Ted­dy, Elixir, Elixir. Fie! fie! fie!

While our medical phaenomenon was uttering this rhapsody, he some­times addressed me, then himself; sometimes stood so as to observe his figure in the glass, as if willing to have his own image in view, while he loaded it with abuse; and some­times, he pranced about the room in an agony of rage, twitching his wig from side to side, and leaping from chair to chair. But, at length, the [Page 149]vociferation with which he mentioned his being hanged, &c. brought Sea­brooke and Matilda into the room, where they apprehended something was the matter. Seeing them advance, the wretched apothecary (imagin­ing they were come to hear his dif­grace) caught up his hat, as was always his custom; and after assuring us once more, that he was a most in­famous little rascal, ran out of doors.

CHAP. XXXX. A DISCOVERY WHICH NONE COULD HAVE EXPECTED.

I WAS contriving how to conceal the circumstance of Mr. Danby from my poor panting Matilda, who always suspected the conversation turned upon him, though she even had discretion enough to conceal his very name from Seabrooke. Just as I had hit off an excuse, which I ima­gined plausible, a most violent thun­dering at the front door announced four visitors, who were never in the Mansion-house before. They were of the female kind, and three of them so ridiculously discoloured by [Page 151]paint, and so burnt with flaming robes and ornaments, that the gentle Matilda, who was habited simply in an unpretending tender-looking lus­tring, and a white straw hat bound with a single pea-green band, looked like the angel of peace by the side of the furies. She hurried into Sea­brooke's arms; and, from that sanc­turary, beheld the scene.

Sir, said one of the women, cock­ing up the corner of her hat, I sup­pose you are the proprietor of this Shenstone-Green.

I am, madam.

If you are then, sir, I should be glad to know how a gentleman, plum­ing himself upon his generosity, can suffer four unhappy women, who are [Page 152]obliged to attend publick places, to be insulted?

I really do not understand you, madam.

Let me speak, Nancy, to him, (said a second woman, more furiously cap­ped and hatted than the other). I think your name is Sir Benjamin Beauchamp?

I am so called, madam.

Pray then, Sir Benjamin Beauchamp, what right have your virtuous b—h—s of the Green—

Whew— cried Mr. Seabrooke, giv­ing a louder whistle than I ever before heard, and running out of the room with the ever-delicate Matilda.

[Page 153]So much the better, said the wo­man, resuming the conversation. Now Miss Mock Modesty is gone, I can speak my mind plainer. I was going to ask, sir, why you permit such vir­tuous b—h—s, as some of your pen­sioners to sneer at us as we pass their doors?

I suppose you are the ladies who have created such disturbances then in the village; if so, you cannot wonder at any slights you may have received for the irregularity of your conduct.

Pray, Sir Benjamin, let me speak: (said a third woman of a less bold ap­pearance, more decently dressed, and extremely fine featured) These ladies, sir, are apt to be warm in their tem­pers; [Page 154]I have seen more misfortunes, and am more tranquil. Have I leave to speak sir?

You have, madam.

The four women, Sir Benjamin, who are now before you, have been all ruined by your sex. We had once the innocence of your own daugh­ter. Each had too tender a heart, and threw away its noblest affections upon a villain who deceived it. Our parents thrust us from their protec­tion, and the door of every friend was shut against us. The women of virtue, who, perhaps, have given few real proofs of it, often told us, we might honestly work for a subsistence. But, this is only one of the many pre­tences of goodluck, when it wants an apology for insulting distress. [Page 155]Who will employ an handsome young woman discarded by her natural friends, and left struggling in the streets. We have found no such pro­tectors. What remained after such un­happy experience? To put ourselves into eternity, would have added the crime of murder to the misfortune of violation. To expect assistance from men, on any pure or disinterested prin­ciple, was absurdity. Our youth, our beauty, our forlorn situation, were all arguments against such pro­tection. Which is it, sir, of your sex, that will honourably shelter our's un­der such circumstances; or which is it, that does not rejoice to see a lovely form reduced to purchase?

To exist, sir, is the natural effort of an human being; and you know [Page 156]the terms on which our bread was to be procured. Why then should we be insulted? Why should complaints be formally lodged against us, as we un­derstand they are, by persons who have better luck than ourselves? With regard to our coming to this village, we have, alas! but too solid an apology for it. We are the slaves of publick events, and always obliged to have a look out for novelties; we are compelled to take advantage of any thing that may promise a pros­pect of support. We shift our habi­tations as men shift theirs; and when­ever any place is celebrated as the resort of much company, there, alas! it is our fatal lot to go and partake the transient popularity without the joy. It was told to us by those whom [Page 157]we employed for such purposes, that a person of fortune had erected a new town for the use of those whom mis­chance had brought into decay. We dared not propose ourselves as candi­dates; but we thought that those who leaped suddenly into prosperity from the lowest state of indigence or oppression, were the proper objects to relieve us. Lightly come, lightly go, you know, sir. It was probable that the passions would lead to dissi­pation such as became all at once masters of a good fortune. Upon the faith of this expectation, we set off for Shenstone-Green, where, we thought we had as natural a right to try our fortune as any other vaga­bonds. As to your principle of building this town upon the basis of [Page 158] purity, we are, unhappily, not in situations to pay much regard to such ideas. Delicacy is obliged to yield to necessity in our unfortunate case; perhaps, sir, we might, in luckier situa­tions, have contributed as much to the glory of Shenstone Green, and merited as much the bounty of Sir Benjamin Beau­champ, as those who now treat us with indignity. Nay, sir, I even think that, hard as it is with us, you might have founded your village upon a basis of juster and truer benignity.

How so, madam, said I, not a little affected by her discourse, or with the firm, yet gentle, manner in which it was delivered—In what particulars, could I have improved the plan of Shenstone-Green?

[Page 159]Pardon me, sir, resumed the young woman, if I say your bounty might, at the same expence, have been led through more beneficent channels; some of its streams, might, surely, have extended to US.—

I started.

Yes, sir, continued the lady, you may start; but believe me, Shenstone-Green, hath not included the most pitiable part of the creation, nor in­deed, that part, which, under pro­per regulation, have the most pathetic claim upon the proprietor's attention. Custom, it is true, may deaden the delicacy of those feelings, which are the distinguishing ornaments of the female, and habit, may assist extreme indigence in conquering our natural decency; but it is not always a sign [Page 160]that we are irreclaimable, when we yield ourselves up to the only alter­native that is left. Even the unwar­rantable language we sometimes make use of, may find a palliative in the extremities to which we are driven. Those, sir, who live in a more ele­vated state of misfortune, as they are liable to the brutality only of one man, so are they less excuseable, if they commit those crimes which it is in their power to prevent. For, in my opinion, errours are pardonable and punishable in proportion, as the situ­ation of the culprit renders them more necessary.

Crimes necessary! madam, said I.

It is very possible, sir, for certain faults to be if not necessary at least [Page 161] inevitable. They are annexed to a condition, which can neither be pre­vented by the person who is reduced, any more than the faults which result from—

This doctrine I fear, madam, cri­ed I, interfering—This doctrine will not—

Sir, said the lady, interrupting in her turn: I advance only what I know to be fatally true. My igno­rance in the arts of argument, may, perhaps, involve the fact, I desire to explain, in some obscurity, or in too many words; but I am, nevertheless, convinced of the fact itself. How, for instance, is it possible to prevent the effects of our distress? We are [Page 162]obliged to the dreadful drudgery of suiting ourselves to publick caprice. We are obliged to consult every man's particular mode of gratification. Na­ture, I believe, sir, leads to a decent behaviour; but there are, I fear, five perverted appetites, which lean to the grossest pleasure, to one that is deli­cate or true to the original bias of the human feelings. I myself, Sir Benja­min, am an example of the truth I would illustrate. I remember the time when the excess of my timidity was imputed to me, by my relations, as a fault. I blushed almost at myself. In this state of my innocence, when all the affections were fair and impres­sive, a man pretended a generous passion, and, when he had thoroughly [Page 163]made it reciprocal, by breathing a real ardour into a guiltless heart, he abused it. The old story was again repeated. I was treated as the toy which could please no longer, and bequeathed by this barbarous betrayer to his brother-rakes.

These, were all in the higher ranks of libertinism, and for that reason I heard less vulgar language, and saw fewer examples of vice. So that, though it would be absurd to repre­sent myself as a virtuous woman, I should have been left wholly without an apology had I been plunged so deep as my companions.

What are not you as wicked a wretch as us, Fanny? cried all the other women.

[Page 164]Give me leave resumed the young creature—I did not mean to insinuate that as my praise, but as your excuse. If you now and then yield to words that might be better not spoken; it is, I know, because you have had few advantages. Considering the cruel­ties which you have undergone; the company you have been obliged to keep in order to humour the whim of your friends, and the necessities you had on all hands to encounter, it would be very extraordinary if you had not picked up some habits which you are far from admiring, even in yourselves. I very well know, Sir Benjamin, that good hearts beat in the bosoms of these my forlorn asso­ciates. I have seen them share their [Page 165]hard-earned profits with those who have appealed to their bounty. I have seen also the tears drop from their eyes at the agony of that rigid virtue, which would not easily have been persuaded to feel as softly for them. They riot, it is true, but it is to drown the sense of the most poignant reflection, which would otherwise obtrude to their distrac­tion. They dissipate it must be confessed, but it is in compliance with the wanton taste of their visitors. I own even that an oath may occasionally pass their lips; but it is the effect of unhappy practice, and never comes delibe­rately from the mind.

[Page 166]Ah! madam, said I, you touch me too, too tenderly.

All the other poor creatures drop­ped the air of audacity, and held down their heads to conceal at once their shame and their distress.

If, sir, added the lady, it is yet necessary to enlarge the features of this horrid picture, that I have taken from the life; suffer me to observe, that, we are often beaten for an air of modesty, and rewarded for an ap­pearance of wantonness; we are equally the sport of the brute, and of the bailiff. We are shut out of society that might revive our morals, and we are driven to such as, of necessity, must make us worse. Now then tell [Page 167]me, sir, if we are not, in some sort, justifiable for seeking a shelter where, at least, our disgrace was not so pub­lick, and where were, in hope, that benevolence was the same in the pen­sioners of Shenstone-Green, as in the bosom of the proprietor. We came hither with such ideas, and yet, if my companions would condescend to take council from my example, they would retire from the neighbourhood and try again their fortune in the bustles and beatings of the world. For my own part, sir, I will delay my departure hence, no longer than while I observe, that, if Sir Benjamin Beau­champ had contrived some quiet asy­lum, where the blushes of the most [Page 168]unhappy women might have been concealed from—

While the beautiful and abused Fanny was proceeding in her sentence, a person tapped at the door of the apartment, and, when it was opened, there came hobbling in a large lame man whom I had never seen.

Before the stranger entered, the women had all turned their faces from the door, as if unwilling to be caught in tears.

I come on my stumps to your Honour, (said the man) to thank you for your kind intentions in favour of an old battered fellow, who is proud of his scars. Heaven always raises up a friend to the brave. I am just [Page 169]told by your Honour's steward, that, after tugging about the globe, and sustaining many strokes of the body abroad, and more of the heart at home, poor old Hackney Oldblade—

No sooner was this name pro­nounced than, the most piercing shriek, that, surely ever was uttered, came from the very soul of the young creature who had been so pathetically pleading for herself and her com­panions.

This shriek burst from the afflicted Fanny; the man no sooner heard the voice of a woman in distress, than he forgot the want of his limbs, and ran upon his stumps to offer assistance; but the moment he cast his eye on the [Page 170]sufferer, whose agonies increased, the crutches dropped from his hands, and he fell lifeless on the floor.

Mr. Seabrooke and Matilda came hurrying in: and just as they appear­ed, the other three women were so agitated, that they retreated in the utmost confusion.

CHAP. XLI. HUMANITY AGAIN LOOKS EAIR, AND SHINES THROUGH HER TEARS.

ISTOOD fixed in amazement; while Matilda was assiduously ap­plying her smelling bottle to Fanny, and Seabrooke was rubbing the tem­ples of Oldblade.

Oh! Fanny, Fanny, (cried the latter recovering) see to what you have brought your miserable father.

Father! said Matilda—Oh poor, poor dear!

It is you, Fanny, who are the author of all these broken limbs, and of all these deep furrows, in the [Page 172]front of poor Oldblade. Your mo­ther's heart broke the year after you left us, and then I did not care what be­came of me. I wasted the good fortune which uncle Tibbs left me, because I wanted to wash away the thought of ever having had a daughter. After this, Fan, I went to sea a second time, spent all the profits of my first voyage, (near five hundred pounds) got my legs knocked off, all these scars in my poor breast, and then came home to find all my old friends dead, and beg my bread on his majesty's highway.

All the time the poor fellow was uttering these sentiments he was en­deavouring, by every means in his power, to revive and comfort the unhappy Fanny, who was dissolved [Page 173]in the tears of penitence and despair. She drew her hand over her eyes and was by no means able to speak.

Touched at this, the parent as­sumed its irresistible authority in the bosom of the soldier so absolutely, that he cried out, Well, well, Fan­ny, don't cry, child, don't take on. I forgive thee all my wounds, and all my sorrows. Thee hast, perhaps, had enough of thy own. But, why didst thou suffer poor Hackney to hunt town and country after thee so long? Where didst thee hide thy misery all that time?

Indeed, sir—(said Fanny, raising her head but still shutting her eyes) indeed, I was not quite abandoned. I was a solitary wretch who wept in [Page 174]secret. Even now, though poverty drove me to seek shelter in this place, I have never been able to adopt the example of my associates; and, had it not been for the disinterested bounty of one good gentleman on the Green, I must certainly have starved.

Of one gentleman (cried Matilda, in great confusion). Pray what is his name?

Mr. Henry Hewit, madam, an­swered Fanny. This good man it was who saw me unable to pursue the usual practises of my condition, and took care to provide me with the necessa­ries of life ever since my sickness, and I have been very ill—indeed I have.

[Page 175]I am easy, said Matilda; Mr. Henry Hewit is an angel. I, I thought it was him.

But art sick now, naughty Fan, (said Oldblade, drawing up gently the head of her cloak round her neck.) Well, well, but are you sure it was Mr. Henry Hewit that—

Here Henry himself came into the room to show me how well he looked in his old working clothes. He was just beginning to shake his trowel and flourish his apron, when Fanny started up and exclaimed—Good God! my benefactor is here. Bless him! bless him!

Lookee, Master Henry, said the soldier, I have no knees, and so I [Page 176]can't cleverly come down upon them; but, with all the small shot which have passed through and through these arms, I can, with some pain, (which I don't heed) lift them up to you, as I have often lifted them up to God Almighty, to thank you for the care you have taken of my poor stray daughter.

Daughter! (exclaimed Henry, throwing his trowel on the floor) and have I been all this time protecting the daughter of my friend and supe­rior, Master Oldblade, without knowing it? Ah! Miss Fanny, did not I tell you things would turn out better than you imagined? Poor soul, your Honour, she said, she wanted to be a good girl but nobody would give [Page 177]her the means, however, said she to me, I have broke my mother and father's heart, and so what becomes of me does not signify.

My splinter of a shoulder must hurt thy naughty face, Fan; stay, hussey, and let me make thee a bit of a pil­low thus, said the father, who took off an old silk handkerchief from his neck, and spread it for the cheek of his daughter.

Not give thee the means to be a good girl, says I—(continued Hewit). What! and are you obliged to be wicked against your will? Here's a world for you, said I.—So upon this, your Honour, I gave her a little of that which was of no use to me, and [Page 178]she promised me she would live in my house when I got into the Trades­man's-Corner, and keep me tight and clean—but, don't you suppose, Master Oldblade, that, because of this, and because I am not quite an old fellow, that—that I—

Stop, stop, Henry, stop, (hol­lowed, with all his force, Mr. Old­blade)—don't say a word more. Don't say any thing that must make me cut your throat. If you could suppose I thought Henry Hewit capable—

Capable, father—Oh! he is—the most—

I won't be praised, I won't have foolish fancies said to me, Miss Fan­ny—Give [Page 179]me your hand—If your father says I may kiss your lips, why I'll kiss them in the face of his Honour and the company, and there's an end on't. Here's a noise, indeed, about nothing.

Kiss the naughty hussey, if thee wilt, Henry, answered Oldblade, but I wish I may be damned if the pain of a cannon ball made such a pul­ing baby of me as I am at this minute. I wish I may be damned if it did.

Henry was advancing to Fanny, who, blushing ten thousand graces, lifted up her head and looked at the company, as if she begged us not to think of her too hardly.

[Page 180]Good as you are, Master Hewit, (cried Oldblade, in an extacy) she is my daughter, she is my own dear naughty Fanny, and I have a right to have the first kiss. Huffey (con­tinued he almost sobbing) how dare you lift your head from my neck till I bid you?

Don't, don't, don't be so kind, sir. You will kill me, said Fanny. You will break my heart.

And mine too, I protest, said Matilda.

I will go stop the crack in your Honour's chimnies, said Henry (who kissed Fanny's hand as it lay on her father's bosom and then went out.)

[Page 181]Will your Honour permit, said Oldblade, this naughty girl to have a little room in the house which your kind heart is about to give an old soldier? She shan't stay, I promise you, if—if—if—

Oh Father—Father! said Fanny. Spare, spare me.

Go together, honest fellow, said I, and take thy daughter not only to thy house but to thy heart. I will be with thee presently.

Master Oldblade, (said Mr. Sea­brooke, who had been all the time in great agitation) you and your daughter Fanny, and your friend Hewit, have given me some pretty severe pangs, for which I shall love [Page 182]all three of you while I have breath in my body.

While Seabrooke was saying this, Matilda was busy in adjusting the discomposed cheeks, hair, and hood of Fanny. She wiped the tears from her eyes with her own handkerchief. She smoothed the locks that hung disordered, and then said to me, in a whisper, that she thought it would look like a little sanction which the poor dear seemed to deserve, if I would permit her to go across the Green with Fanny. Then, you know, papa, said she, none of the people will dare to think ill of her.

Charmed with so exquisite, and, alas! so uncommon a mark of female [Page 183]humanity, I left my permission with a kiss upon the mouth that graced the proposal. Upon which Matilda ran to the glass to put on her little straw hat, and then said, now Captain Oldblade, I am ready to conduct you and Fanny to your new house. I know the nearest way.

The father of Fanny stood amazed, and Fanny herself was covered with crimson. Such was the wonderful effect of that great surprize—the seeing one woman truly feel for another. With much intreaty, Fan­ny was persuaded to lay her trembling arm within that of Matilda's, who seemed to be ostentatious of her ac­quaintance, and in that manner they left the Mansion-house.

[Page 184]What an adventure hath here been; and how are the events of this life brought to pass, my friend, said I to Mr. Seabrooke!

Good evening to you, Sir Benja­min, answered Seabrooke, I am go­ing to bed.

At four o'clock in the afternoon, my friend?

As every thing I can possibly see, betwixt this and bed-time, said Sea­brooke, must be poor in the com­parison, I shall only blunt the divine edge of my present sensations, by staring at ordinary occurrences, and so I am resolved to shut myself up [Page 185]from further interruption till a new day.

I humoured his characteristick pe­culiarity, and we parted.

CHAP. XLII. CONTAINING A DUEL WHICH FEW READERS COULD FORESEE.

FINDING myself left alone in the midst of such voluptuous reflec­tions, I walked forth to meet my daughter on her return, that we might share them together: I found her within a few yards of the Mansion-house, coming to me with full speed to tell me, that she left Oldblade and Fanny in the arms of each other. Yes, papa, said she, and there the poor dear lies blushing, while the soldier chides and kisses her; at part­ing, Fanny lifted up her streaming eyes, and cried out in such a voice as made me weep too—Oh! Miss Ma­tilda, Miss Matilda, were there many [Page 187]women like you, there would be more female virtue, and fewer guilty wretches like Fanny Oldblade. Lord, papa, is it so very extraordinary to behave kind to one's own sex?

What right have you to call your­self names hussey, there are worse than you yet, said her father? So, seeing the old fellow going to warm something in a little sauce-pan on the fire, which, he said, was a cordial to him in the worst of times, and would be so to the naughty hussey, who was nevertheless, he said, his own flesh and blood. Then I came away, papa, to make you and Mr. Seabrooke happy.

Mr. Seabrooke, my dear, said I, is so happy already that he is gone to bed.

"To eat in dreams the custard of the day,"

[Page 188]I suppose, replied Matilda in the liveliest manner, applying a line from her favourite poet.

Then let us eat ours, my dear, said I, in the wood, broad awake; it is, you see, one of the finest evenings we could wish, and "seems as it were "sent to invite the world abroad," answered Matilda, using another quo­tation from a different author.

Heighty, toity, child you are quite poetical to night.

Quite poetical, papa, Lord who can help it? Poetry, I have heard say, was first invented when the heart was too happy to be contented with prose. I declare I could now repeat half the verses of Pope and Shenstone, till the [Page 189]village should re-echo with beautiful verses.

Oh! brave! Why then you are in the best humour in the world for an evening's walk in the wood? Every leaf and flower will, at this time of the night, furnish a gay heart with a rhyme, a simile, or a sentiment.

Yes, papa, but I have prettier things than leaves and flowers to make me poetical at present. Fanny Oldblade, never saw Mr. Danby. There, papa, is news for you, Fanny Oldblade never saw Mr. Danby.

How have you found that out, Matilda? Oh! oh! let girls alone to find out secrets, papa. But I will tell you all about it; you must know that, when the women came first to town, [Page 190]poor Fanny was so ill as scarce to hold her head up, and was obliged to keep in bed while the other women went about. One of them, told Mr. Danby, they had a sick friend at home who could not stir out, upon which, Mr. Danby put his hand into his pocket and gave them five guineas —only think, papa, of five guineas— to buy proper comforting things for her; but the cruel creatures kept all the money, and Fanny never knew at all of the affair till her father, who was present at the time, asked her, if she was not the person who received five guineas from Mr. Danby. I have received no money, said she, father, since I have been in this part of the world, except from Mr. Hewit, who totally supported me, and—Fan­ny, [Page 191]papa, was going on with her speech when I ran up to her and kissed her cheek ten times over.

But why, Matilda, did you take that fit of fondness in your head, just at that crisis?

Why, just then? Oh! Heavens, papa! How can you ask such a ques­tion? I will assure you, papa, I loved her from that moment better than ever; so, without talking any more, let us listen to the musick of the groves:

Upon my word, Matilda, you tag every tenth word with a rhyme.

[Page 192]We were by this time wandering arm and arm in Shenstone-Wood, and, propensely, deviated into such paths as were least frequented; but one would think, that this forest was fated to produce an adventure as often as ever I entered it. The curfew was just flinging its sound through the trees, when all of a sudden, we dis­tinctly heard a voice coming from the left, pronouncing these words. Sir, the clock strikes, it is the moment promised; I am glad to see you so exact. The next moment, we heard a reply to this, in the clashing of swords, which denoted a very obsti­nate engagement. I am a bad swords­man, sir, cried some one; then make use of your pistols, sir, replied another. In a minute after, two pistols were [Page 191]discharged—Mr. Danby! exclaimed some person, you are wounded, the blood is upon your shirt. I feel it not, replied Danby, load again, sir.

To prevent any further mischief, I would now have rushed forwards, but my poor child had fainted at my feet, and I was struggling to get her up into my arms. Meanwhile the com­batants again fired, and a voice direct­ly exclaimed, My God! he drops; Desist, sir, desist, he is at the point of death.

The shriek, which the wretched Matilda now gave, went at once through her father's heart, and alarm­ed the persons who occasioned it. Two of them came rushing through the bushes, and one, whose name the [Page 192]reader need scarce be told, fell down at the feet of Matilda, and cursed himself as the cause.

As if sensible to his touch, she opened her eyes, and cried out—Ah! Danby, what have you been doing? But you are safe, and I am happy. Here she dropped suddenly on her knee, and remained in that posture some time without speaking.

Though I dared not intimate my fears, I saw Mr. Danby's danger, against whose bosom I pressed my handkerchief to stop the blood, which, in despite of all my efforts, was flow­ing over his shirt. But, just as I was going to whisper my apprehensions to a man who thus forgot his wounds in the embraces of his mistress—em­braces [Page 193]which I did not attempt to hinder—another person came for­ward, who said he had extracted the ball from the side and groin of Mr. Sidney.

Mr. Sidney, exclaimed I, and was Mr. Sidney the antagonist of Mr. Danby!

Look-you, my patron, replied Mr. Elixir—for it was he who attended as surgeon—neither Mr. Sidney, nor Mr. Danby, can possibly die while they are under my care, and as to the rest, though I do not know what they fought upon, I know they fought like two eagles.

Mr. Danby now began to feel his loss of blood, and I made shift to give Elixir the cue to lead him off [Page 194]to examine his wound, without its being suspected by Matilda. Danby had already buttoned up his coat and waistcoat to prevent suspicion; but the livid paleness, which came sud­denly over his countenance, warned him it was time to get away. Yet, even in the midst of his agony, his principal care was how to do this, so as not too much to alarm Matilda: assuming therefore a chearful coun­tenance, and calling into it a smile, he cried—Well, Sir Benjamin, we have had our frolick, and can only say, that it is to you and your fair daughter, to whom we are indebted for the life of one or both of us; for Mr. Sidney and I were both so full of our diversion, that we should cer­tainly have gone on to the end of the [Page 195]chapter had not your interruption saved us. The cause of the quarrel you shall hear, sir, to-morrow. In the mean time it is unnecessary to enjoin silence, lest we should give to the idlers of Shenstone-Green too delicate a subject for conver­sation.

At the end of this speech he took off his hat with a trembling hand, and walked out of the wood very slowly, under the support of his two seconds. Mr. Elixir followed him by another path, telling us that Mr. Sidney was carried off by his friends, and would run no risque of a discovery. Elixir skipped about in triumph.

[Page 196]Perceiving Matilda on the edge of a relapse, I took her in my arms, and blessed the dusk of the night which enabled me to conceal the whole matter.

CHAP. XLIII. WHICH IS NECESSARY TO THE NARRATIVE.

IT is not easy to conceive the terrour in the alteration of my poor daugh­ter's spirits from their late elevation; and as I was obliged to sit up with her the whole night, I congratulated myself in the midst of my grief, that Seabrooke was in bed; for Matilda was so confident that her friend and instructor, Seabrooke, would disap­prove her passion for Danby, she had never once suffered his name to be hinted, and it had always fallen out, hitherto, that when the young man came to the Mansion-house, Seabrooke [Page 198]was absent. Early the next morning Mr. Elixir came to inform us, that both the combatants were in a fair way, and that Mr. Danby had been to visit Mr. Sidney, when the quarrel had like to have been renewed for a very trifling reason, namely, by a dis­pute which arose about the propriety of Mr. Danby, or Mr. Sidney's be­ginning the explanation which each esteemed due to their patron. It is right, said Mr. Sidney, that Sir Ben­jamin should be fully informed of our mistake, lest he should suppose we were wantonly invading the tran­quillity of his village; but for me to tell the story would be—

And if you do not tell it, Mr. Sidney, replied Danby, we must [Page 199]have another meeting, for, on my part, situated as I am in the family, it would be gross indelicacy to speak first.

But how did it end, Mr. Apothe­cary, said Matilda, rising up in her bed—How did it end?

It ended, madam, (replied Elixir) giving a skip, and snapping his singers —just as it should do; for a lady at that time coming into the cham­ber—

A lady! saids Matilda, agitated— into whose chamber did that lady—

Mr. Sidney's, to be sure, madam, answered Elixir—a lady, I say, at that time entering the chamber, ran to the bed-side, and cried out, Oh! [Page 200]Sidney, I heard of your situation not­withstanding all your caution!

And knowing, madam, as you do the nice feelings of Sidney (said this gentleman) how have you had the imprudence to make the matter still more mysterious by this extraordinary visit?

Extraordinary visit, Mr. Sidney, what, when I did not know but you were breathing your last?

And if I had your delicate circum­spection should have survived the very life of Sidney, Miss Elliot.

Miss Elliot, did you say, cried Ma­tilda, was that the lady—Oh! hea­vens! go on, dear Mr. Elixir, go on.

[Page 201]Matilda took hold of the apothe­cary's hand, and smiled. I smiled too perhaps from a very different idea. Mr. Elixir proceeded.

A short altercation ensued between all parties, and when Miss Elliot un­derstood the whole story, she advised, that Mr. Sidney should, dictate while she wrote, and that Mr. Danby and he should mutually sign the paper, which was then to be sent by me, as surgeon, confident, and witness.

And where is that paper, said I, Mr. Elixir? There, sir, it is, said the apothecary. I will leave it with you, and give the finishing stroke to the recovery of my patients.

Lose no time, cried Matilda; and pray, Mr. Elixir, do you know that, [Page 202]if you cut across Pleasant-Pastures, and leave the Tradesman's-Corner as much as possible to the left, you will get there in a trice; and save near a quarter of a mile by it. But, "Still your singer on your lips I pray.

I was very glad to hear poetry re­turning upon Matilda.

As to that, madam, answered Elixir, I have been too infamous a little vil­lain already not to take care of my tongue for the future.

Saying this, he set off, with one of his bounds, for the house of Mr. Sid­ney; and, as Mr. Seabrooke had not yet come from his chamber, I gave Matilda an opportunity to rise, which she did almost in a moment; and [Page 203]then she ran to a little summer-house at the bottom of the garden, where we opened the paper of ex­planation.

CHAP. XLIV. THE PARTICULARS OF THE DUEL EXPLAINED.

THE substance of this was, that Messrs. Danby and Sidney, be­ing in company together, the con­versation turned upon the beauties of Shenstone-Green, the principal and the most accomplished of whom, Mr. Sidney insisted, was the object of his affections. Mr. Danby hereupon asserted with equal fervour, that as he did not conceive there was more than one unmarried lady in the vil­lage, [Page 205]who could be esteemed perfect, he imagined he had a right to ask the name of the other's favourite? Sidney's scrupulous delicacy, being hurt at this idea, he protested that none but his Maker and himself should ever know the least syllable that might lead to the detection of so sacred a circumstance; suffice it to say, added he, that it is impossible for Mr. Dan­by to mistake the person, who main­tains her superiority over every other work of animated nature. Mr. Dan­by immediately caught fire, and warned Sidney to take care how any passion, be might indulge, met a powerful rival in a man, who was not any more than himself able to bear a [Page 206]divided affection. It appears then, said Mr. Sidney, that we love the same person. It is impossible that it should be otherwise, replied Danby, for you frankly confess there is no second person whose comparative at­tractions can—

No, sir, replied Sidney, the object of my affections as much surpasses every other on the Green, as—

Then there is no occasion for similes or allusions, sir, rejoined Danby; it is clear we have the misfortune to love the same lady; it only remains to examine the pro­gress of our respective passions, and to settle accordingly. My passion, sir, continued Danby, has been touched [Page 207]with the utmost delicacy, so as not to distress the innocent heart of my mistress.

As to delicacy, Mr. Danby, said the other, I believe it will be allow­ed, by the lady herself, that mine not only exceeds that of Mr. Danby, but even her own.

Sir, I shall not admit your opinion in either instance, and, I have reason to think my delicacy, and my appli­cation, more agreeable to the lady than those of Mr. Sidney.

Piqued at this, Sidney demanded of his friend, if he would quit his pretensions without further expostu­lation?

[Page 208]Never, never, sir, answered Danby, while I have the power of these arms to defend them.

Then, sir, cried Sidney, such de­fence will be necessary directly. We must settle it without delay.

The paper of explanation acquaint­ed us further, that, after Mr. Sidney had uttered this sentence, Mr. Danby and he called on Mr. Elixir, and one or two more friends, to settle the dispute in the wood. Matilda and I got there soon after, and from our arrival, to the time of the separation of the whole party, particulars have been already described to the reader.

It was not till after the discharge of their pistols, that they came to [Page 209]the simple truth of the whole matter; namely, that they had fought very bravely to no purpose, and that the fair picture, which each had drawn of his mistress, did not belong to one woman, but equally to Eliza and Ma­tilda. The whole only served to prove, that

Well, Matilda, said I (when we had seen this account) what do you think of this business?

Shall I be ingenuous, papa, replied she? As ingenuous as is convenient, my dear. Why then, papa, since all the danger is over, and both are in a very fair way, I own I shall not be sorry at this new instance of Mr. Danby's affection, when I know he [Page 210]is no longer in pain. But only think of my sly friend, Eliza, papa; I will be whipped if I ever sus­pected the matter, and yet now I think of it, her queerness about Mr. Sidney—

Come, come, Matilda, said I, you are as sly as your friend Eliza. Here are you, every hour almost, with that sagacious whistler, Mr. Seabrooke, and he does not so much as suspect that—

Hush, hush, cried Matilda—Mr. Seabrooke is now just coming to us. Look, how he strides along the grass-plat, flourishing his garters, and look­ing to see how much sun he shall have to day!

Thus terminated an unpromising scene very pleasingly.