RANK AND TALENT;
A NOVEL.

BY THE
AUTHOR OF “TRUCKLEBOROUGH-HALL.”

When once he’s made a Lord,

Who’ll be so saucy as to think he can

Be impotent in wisdom?

Cook.

Why, Sir, ’tis neither satire nor moral, but the mere passage of an history; yet there are a sort of discontented creatures, that bear a stingless envy to great ones, and these will wrest the doings of any man to their base malicious appliment.

Marston.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1829.

RANK AND TALENT.

CHAPTER I.

“Law is the world’s great light, a second sun

To this terrestrial globe, by which all things

Have life and being; and without which

Confusion and disorder soon would seize

The general state of men.”

Barry.

The Summer assizes for the county of ——, in the year 18—, excited in the county-town where they were held rather more than the usual sensation; but in the remote and smaller town of Brigland, they roused a stirring interest. Long before the day of the trial, every vehicle which could be hired was engaged to carry the curious to the assizes, to hear the action brought by poor old Richard Smith against the Hon. Philip Martindale, for an assault and false imprisonment. The defendant was by no means popular at Brigland, and there were circumstances, which rendered the injury done to the plaintiff peculiarly hard and oppressive; and whenever the sympathy of the multitude is with the poor oppressed against the rich oppressor, that sympathy is very strong, and indignation is not choice in the terms of its expression, nor does cool deliberation precede judgment. It was the common, and almost universal wish, that the defendant might have to pay heavy damages; and that he might hear from the lips of the plaintiff’s counsel some home truths, which might mortify his pride, and abate his arrogance.

In addition to the excitement which this action produced, there was also another, though smaller stimulus to curiosity, in the first appearance on the circuit of a young barrister, who was a native of the town in which the assizes were held. These two circumstances, therefore, filled the court at an early hour with anxious and curious expectants.

The plaintiff’s attorney had put his brief into the hands of the young barrister; the defendant had retained a more experienced advocate, one well versed in the theory of the law, and, what is far more to the purpose, deeply skilled in the ways of the world, and the practice of courts—one who had the professionally desirable art of mystifying a jury, and of persuading twelve men out of their senses—one who would be sure of every cause he undertook, were it not for the summing up of the judge—one who, by means of a loud voice and swaggering manner, was a terror to nine-tenths of the simpletons who entered the witness’ box—one who never cross-examined a female witness without making her blush, or terrifying her to tears—one who could talk very solemnly about “our holy religion,” and could convert into a joke the clearest principles of morality, or the deepest sufferings of humanity. It was a great amusement to the country people and the county magistrates to hear this very clever man; and poor old Richard Smith was very much alarmed when he found what a dexterous and terrific adversary was employed against him, and he expressed his fears to his own attorney, who comforted him by saying, “Had your cause been a bad one, I would have retained Mr. ——.”

After one or two causes had been disposed of, that of Smith versus Martindale was called. Then, for the first time, and in his native town, did Horatio Markham open his lips in a court of justice. Notwithstanding the profound and anxious silence which prevailed in the court, scarcely one-half of the persons there could hear distinctly the commencement of his speech; but by degrees he gained confidence, and his voice was more audible. The audience, however, was not very highly pleased with what he said. Many thought that he stated the case much too feebly. Some thought that he was afraid of the defendant’s counsel; and others thought he was fearful of offending the defendant himself. The Hon. Philip Martindale, who was on the bench, listened with but slight attention to the speech; and when it was finished, honoured it with a contemptuous sneer. This sneer was reflected in most courtly style by the gentlemen who sat on either side of him; the high-sheriff was one, and a clerical magistrate was the other.

Witnesses were then called to prove the case. From them it appeared very clear that the Hon. Philip Martindale had, upon very defective evidence, and against very credible evidence, committed Richard Smith to jail as a poacher; and the said Hon. Philip Martindale had also with great severity, not to say cruelty, struck the said Richard Smith, in order, as the defendant had said, to punish the old man for his insolence. What this insolence was, would not have appeared to the court, had it not been for the dexterity of the defendant’s counsel, in cross-examining one of the plaintiff’s witnesses.

This witness was a very pretty, modest-looking young woman, who seemed to suffer quite enough from the publicity in which she was placed by being brought to speak in open court. The temptation was too strong for the defendant’s counsel to resist; and he therefore took abundant pains to show his wit, by asking a long string of impertinent questions, and repeating the answers to those questions in a loud insulting tone. He and those who follow his example, are best able to say how far such a mode of proceeding can answer the ends of justice—how far it is consistent with the gravity and decorum of a court, and with the character of a gentleman—how far it is calculated to impress the multitude with a sentiment of reverence for the expounders of the law—and how far it is likely to advance those who adopt it, in their own esteem.

The cross-examination of this young woman, who was the plaintiff’s niece, led to a re-examination, in which it was made manifest to the court, as it had been previously known to most then present, that the severity of the Hon. Philip Martindale towards poor old Richard Smith arose from the vigilance with which the old man guarded his niece, and preserved her from the artifices of the defendant. When this fact came out in evidence, there was an involuntary and indescribable expression of contempt in the court; and the honourable defendant endeavoured to smile away his mortification, but did not succeed, though he was countenanced by the high-sheriff on one side of him, and a clerical magistrate on the other. The contrast between impertinence and decorum was never so strongly manifested as in the cross-examination and re-examination above alluded to; and it has been said that the witty barrister himself was not quite at his ease, and that he broke down in an attempted jest upon gravity.

The counsel for the defendant called no witnesses, but made a witty speech; in which he proved by arguments which made the multitude laugh, that it is a very slight inconvenience to be imprisoned for a few months; that seduction is a very venial offence, and highly becoming a gentleman; that it is a great condescension in a man of high rank to knock down a poor cottager; that gray hairs are a very ludicrous ornament; that it is very insolent in a poor man to interrupt a rich man in his pursuit of vicious pleasure; that the game-laws are so very excellent, that persons only suspected of violating them ought to be punished. Then he gave the jury to understand, that if they should be foolish enough to give a verdict for the plaintiff, they must award the least possible damages. Then he sat down, and took a great quantity of snuff, and winked at the high-sheriff. In spite of all the wit and coxcomical impertinence of this redoubtable advocate, the jury found a verdict for the plaintiff, giving him one hundred pounds damages.

This verdict, and the unpretending sobriety of the young barrister’s mode of arguing his case, occasioned much conversation in the town, and gave also ground for some observations among the gentlemen of the bar. Some of these gentlemen had known Horatio Markham from the very first day that he had entered his name in the Temple. They were acquainted with his taste and the line of his reading, and they knew that the oratorical writers of antiquity and of modern times occupied a place on his shelves and a share of his attention; and they expected that when he held such a brief as that of which we have made mention, he would indulge a little in declamation. It was therefore a matter of surprise to them when he confined himself so strictly to the record, and suffered his case to rest so independently on its own strength. The opposing counsel was completely at fault. He had calculated so confidently on Markham’s eloquence, and was so familiar with the common places of declamation, that he was quite prepared with a copious supply of extemporaneous witticisms, with which he designed to overwhelm the young gentleman, and throw ridicule on his cause. It was therefore a disappointment to him when he found that all this previous preparation was labour lost. But though most of the barristers on the circuit joined with the witty counsel for the defendant in his vituperation of those who had been instrumental in procuring such a verdict, yet secretly they were not displeased that their tyrant had been so fairly set down. Markham was absolutely beginning to be a favourite on the circuit. The judge himself all but publicly complimented him on the able and gentleman-like manner in which he had managed his cause; and even the honourable defendant was mortified that there was nothing in Markham’s language to which any exception could be taken.

When the court had broken up, the young barrister most unblushingly walked into a linen-draper’s shop, and passing on to a little back parlour, took off his gown and wig, and sat down to dine with his father and mother. The old people were proud of their son, and the young man was not ashamed of his parents. But he had seen many instances of young persons who had scarcely deigned to acknowledge those to whom they were not only bound by the ties of nature, but to whose self-denial they owed their distinction and station in life. These little think how much substantial reputation they lose, and how little shadowy honour they gain.

As the family of the young barrister was sitting at dinner, there entered to them unannounced, and without apology, an elderly man, in very singular attire, and of very singular appearance. Markham had a recollection of having seen him in court. His countenance had an expression of archness, and he seemed by his looks as though he were on the eve of uttering some choice piece of wit; there were also observable indications of impetuosity and strong self-will. His head was nearly bald; his shoulders of ample breadth; his stature short; his voice shrill; and his manner of speaking quick and dogmatical. Without taking any notice of the father and mother of the barrister, he addressed himself directly to Horatio.

“I suppose you don’t know me—my name is Martindale.”

“The Hon. Philip Martindale?” replied the young man with great composure; for he was quite ignorant of the person of the defendant in the recent action.

“The Hon. Philip Martindale!” echoed the stranger, with a tone and with a look which answered the question very decidedly. “The Hon. Philip rascal!—no, sir; my name is not made ridiculous by any such lying adjunct. My name is John Martindale; and it is my misfortune to be called cousin by that hopeful spark who was defendant in the action this morning. I am come, sir, to tell you that I think you did yourself honour by the manner in which you conducted the poor man’s cause.”

Horatio Markham perceived that, though the gentleman was somewhat of an oddity, he was a man of some consequence, and apparently a man of good feeling; he therefore replied:

“Sir, you are very polite; you.…”

“No such thing,” interrupted Mr. Martindale; “I am not polite, and hope I never shall be polite. My cousin Philip is a very polite man.” Then directing his conversation to Mr. Markham the elder, he continued: “I congratulate you, sir, on having for a son a young man who can make a speech without fine words and metaphors.”

This seemed to the father a singular ground of congratulation, and he did not know how to reply to it: fortunately, the speaker did not wait for a reply; but turning again to the young man, he said: “You must come and spend a few weeks with me in my cottage at Brigland. I will have no excuses, so tell me when you will come. Will you go home with me tonight?”

Markham recollected that he had in his boyhood heard frequent talk and many singular anecdotes of Mr. John Martindale of Brigland; but as his general character was one of benevolence and shrewd sense, he was not reluctant to accept the invitation, especially as it was given in such terms as not to be refused without that degree of rudeness which did not seem suitable from a young man of humble origin towards an elderly person of high rank. He therefore professed his readiness to spend a short time with his new friend, and fixed the following day for the purpose. The stranger then took his leave.

CHAPTER II.

“I may speak foolishly, ay, knavishly,

Always carelessly, yet no one thinks it fashion

To poise my breath; for he that laughs and strikes

Is lightly felt, or seldom struck again.”

Marston.

Brigland-Abbey was one of those desirable mansions which auctioneers love to describe, but which are beyond all power of advertising flattery. It stood on a gradually descending and very extensive sweep of land; at the back of which rose a dense and ancient forest, and in front flowed a stream which had been artificially widened into the semblance of a fair and placid lake. The building was in harmony with the scenery; graceful, stately, extensive. The architect had successfully imitated the florid Gothic style of building; and over the principal entrance was a window of enormous magnitude, and most brilliant colouring. Through this window the beams of the declining sun cast on the marble pavement of the great hall a luxuriant mass of variegated light, forming one of the most magnificent specimens of internal beauty which any mansion in this kingdom has to boast. This beautiful estate was the property of Mr. John Martindale, but the residence of the Hon. Philip Martindale. The elder Martindale had, for the place of his abode, a fancifully constructed cottage, immediately opposite to the great gates that opened into the park; and so well placed was this residence, that it had a most beautiful and imposing view of the great building. For when Mr. Martindale had finished the erection of the splendid abbey, it was remarked to him, as it has been remarked to many others who have built splendid mansions, “Now you should have another house opposite to this, that you may enjoy the pleasure of looking at this magnificent pile.”

On this principle the proprietor acted; residing in a dwelling called the cottage, and giving up the great house to his hopeful cousin. He found a peculiar pleasure in this whim; for thereby he became master of the master of the great house; and nothing pleased him more than to be mistaken for a person of no consequence, and then to be discovered as the opulent and remarkable Mr. Martindale. Some of his neighbours used to report that he had a right to a title, but that he would not prosecute his claim, because he despised titles as mere foolery. These good people were wrong in their conjecture; but the supposition was not displeasing to Mr. Martindale.

As we are on the subject, we may as well state here that he was an old bachelor, of extensive wealth; and that he was third, fourth, or fifth cousin to a Mr. Martindale, who had recently been created Lord Martindale, but whose income was not quite equal to his title. Now, though Mr. Martindale professed a great contempt for titles, the fact is, that on his remote relative’s obtaining this distinction, he took more notice of him than ever he had before, and gave very strong indications that it was his intention to make the Hon. Philip Martindale his heir. He had established the young gentleman at the Abbey, tempting his vanity by the offer of a residence far too magnificent for his means, and too extensive for his establishment.

The young man’s vanity was pleased with this arrangement, for he very sensibly felt that he was the occupier of the great house; but he was not so deeply sensible of the fact, that he was quite under the command of his opulent and humorous relative. He looked forward to the possession of ample means at the decease of Mr. Martindale; but he was desirous of supplying his deficiencies, if possible, before that time. It might, indeed, be imagined that the heir-apparent to a barony, and the expectant of most ample wealth, might have made his selection among the daughters of opulence. There were, however, difficulties and objections. The young gentleman himself was, especially, particular as to rank and connexion. None of his family had ever been engaged in or connected with trade, so far as he could ascertain; and most of the large fortunes which appeared at all accessible, had been the obvious result of commercial engagement of some kind or other. He might have had rank; he might have had wealth; but he could not have both.

The occupant of the cottage observed his relative’s vanity, and was in the habit of mortifying it, even though he was not quite free from some tincture of the same in his own temperament. He also was not insensible to the fact, that his honourable cousin was not overstrict in his morals; but his mode of reproving irregularities did not much tend to their correction. The old gentleman was not a magistrate, but was, as far as he thought fit, the dictator of his cousin’s proceedings in the office of magistrate: not that the transaction alluded to in the first chapter was with the approbation or even knowledge of the elder Martindale. Such, however, was the oddity of this gentleman’s humour, that had Horatio Markham declaimed with what some would have considered merited severity against the magistrate for his violation of the laws, he would have been the first to take fire at the insult offered to his relative. He was unprepared for so much temperance, so much good sense, and so little common-place. This circumstance, together with the fact that Markham was of plebeian origin, led Mr. Martindale to invite the barrister to Brigland, that he might amuse himself with his cousin’s annoyance and embarrassment.

As Markham was entering the village on the side of the park, he naturally paused to admire the beauty of the Abbey; and while he was thus engaged, Mr. Martindale rode up to him, and without any preface of common-place salutation, called out—

“That is a fine house, Mr. Barrister. I dare say you would rather pay a visit to an honourable in the Abbey, than to a plain mister in a cottage.”

Horatio apologised that he had not observed Mr. Martindale; but as he began to discern his peculiar humour, he replied: “I was certainly admiring the taste of the architect, and his judgment in selecting so fine and commanding a situation: the very ground, by its disposition, seemed to ask for a mansion of no ordinary magnificence.”

“Oh, ho—you understand how to pay compliments. I suppose you did not know that your humble servant, plain John Martindale, was the designer and builder of this mansion. Did you never hear the proverb, that fools build houses, and wise men live in them?”

“Is the occupier of that mansion a wise man, sir?” replied Horatio.

“I cannot say that he is. And so from that you would infer that it was not a fool who built the house. Well, well, you shall see him soon, and judge for yourself. I told my honourable relative that I should insist upon bringing you to the Abbey.”

Horatio Markham bowed, and they entered the cottage. This building was, in its construction and appearance, almost indescribable. There was no semblance of arrangement or regularity about it. It was very large, and at the same time thoroughly inconvenient. Its furniture was in some points very elegant, and in others mean. While it was in course of building, Mr. Martindale had changed his mind about the plan of it fifty times, or more; and in the furnishing, there had been evidently as much caprice. There was a room called the library; but which that room was, a stranger would have been puzzled to guess; for not a single apartment through the whole house was free from books, and in no one room were the books arranged in any order. There were books upon the tables, and books upon the chairs, and books on the floors. The very staircases were not free from them; and whenever a visitor came to the cottage to spend a day or two, it was an essential part of the preparation to remove the books from the bed on which they were lying.

Now Mr. Martindale was very particular about his books, and would not suffer any of his domestics to meddle with them. In his younger days he had been a reader of books; and when he came to his property, he began to purchase, and cease to read. It was indeed conjectured by some that his large property, which came to him from a distant relative, and in some measure unexpectedly, had, in a degree, disordered his mind. There might, perhaps, be some foundation for this suspicion; but it is a fact, that even before his acquisition of great wealth, he had been remarked for many singularities.

“Now, Mr. Barrister,” said the occupier of the cottage, “what time would you like to dine? You have villainous late hours in London, I know. Some of the great folks there don’t dine till to-morrow morning. If I should ever sport a house in town, and give dinners, I think I shall send out my cards inviting my company to dinner on Tuesday next, at one o’clock on Wednesday morning. Will five o’clock be too soon for you, Mr.?”

“Not at all, sir.” So the business was settled; and then Mr. Martindale proposed a walk into the town to call upon the clergyman, whom he designated by the not much admired name of parson.

“Good morning to you, Mr. Denver; will you condescend to dine at the cottage at five o’clock to-day? In the mean time, let me introduce to you my friend Mr. Markham, a barrister; who has distinguished himself by obtaining a very proper verdict against my hopeful young cousin, the Hon. Philip Martindale.”

Mr. Denver accepted the invitation, politely bowed to Mr. Markham, and expressed great sorrow at the event which was alluded to by Mr. Martindale.

“He is a wild youth, Mr. Parson; why don’t you preach to him, and make him better?” replied Mr. Martindale.—“If I were a parson, I would take much better care of my parishioners than nine out of ten of you black-coated gentry. You are afraid of offending great folks. Now, you would not dare to go up to the Abbey this morning, and tell my honourable cousin that he ought to be ashamed of himself.—Eh! what say you, Mr.? Will you take my arm, and walk up to the great house, and set about rebuking the wicked one?”

Mr. Denver gently smiled, and said: “I fear, sir, that we should not find Mr. Philip at home this morning.”

“Not find him at home!” exclaimed Mr. Martindale; “why not? Where is he gone?”

“He left Brigland early this morning in a post-chaise; and the lad who drove him the first stage saw him take another chaise, and proceed towards London.”

“What! go to London at this time of year!—Let me know nothing about it!—What is he gone for?”

“I cannot conjecture,” replied the reverend divine, “what can be Mr. Philip’s motive for visiting the metropolis at this unusual season.”

“Conjecture!” said Mr. Martindale; “no, I suppose not. But it is so very odd that he should go in such a violent hurry, and not say a word to me on the subject.”

In this, the old gentleman was wrong; for it was by no means unusual for the Hon. Philip Martindale to make an excursion for a day or two without saying any thing about the matter to his worthy relative. These excursions were sometimes to Moulsey, and sometimes to Epsom, and sometimes to Newmarket, and sometimes to St. Mary Axe; and as these excursions were on a species of business with which the old gentleman had no sympathy, the young gentleman thought it superfluous to announce his departure and arrival. A present advantage arising from this arrangement was, that he enjoyed a greater reputation for steadiness than he really deserved, though without a knowledge of these matters his indulgent and opulent relative thought the young man rather too wild. A future disadvantage, however, was likely to compensate for the present advantage; for it was next to impossible to carry on this game without detection, and also very difficult to escape from the vortex.

The knowledge of Philip’s absence without leave discomposed the old gentleman, and rendered him not very well disposed for the enjoyment of company; he had, however, the consolation of anticipating the exercise of a little extra tyranny over his dependent relative, in consequence of this transgression. It is a truth, and a sad one too, that many persons, situated as Mr. John Martindale, are not always really sorry for an opportunity of showing their authority by means of the eloquence or annoyance of rebuke. Had Philip, by any exertion of his own, or by any spirit of pride, removed himself from a state of dependence, it would have been a serious loss to his cousin; and even the very appearance of an act of independence disturbed the old gentleman, and rendered him for a considerable time silent and sulky.

Soon after dinner, however, Mr. Martindale recovered his spirits. He became quite cheerful with the thought that he should make the young man do penance for his transgression. He was, however, not altogether at ease, because his curiosity was excited as to the object of the young gentleman’s excursion. Mr. Denver was unable or unwilling to satisfy his curiosity; and therefore, without making any apology to his guests, the old gentleman withdrew from table, and walked up to the Abbey, with a view of ascertaining, if possible, from some of the servants, the cause of their master’s sudden absence from home.

When three persons have dined together, and have been talking about nothing, or next to nothing, and when one of the three withdraws, it is not very unusual or unnatural that he should form a topic for the remaining two to discourse upon. This was the case when Mr. Martindale left the clergyman and the barrister together.

“It is very singular,” said Markham to his companion, “that a man of such large fortune as Mr. Martindale, should, after building so splendid a mansion, content himself with residing in such a cottage as this.”

“So it appears to us, who have no such choice,” replied Mr. Denver; “but to Mr. Martindale, who is rolling in riches, some other stimulus is necessary than the mere outward manifestation of wealth; and I dare say that he enjoys more pleasure from the whim of having a dependent relative in the great house, than you or I should from dwelling there ourselves. This I can venture to say, that Philip Martindale has not received any great addition to his happiness from being placed at the Abbey. The old gentleman scarcely allows him a maintenance, and is constantly dictating to him in the merest trifles imaginable.”

“What a miserable existence it must be to live dependent on another’s caprice!” exclaimed Horatio.

“Not very pleasant, to be sure,” replied the clergyman; “but it is in expectation of hereafter enjoying an independency; and what else can the young man do? Lord Martindale, his father, has but very contracted means, and a large family to provide for. Indeed, I believe that his lordship himself is, in a great degree, dependent on Mr. Martindale to keep up the dignity of his rank.”

“And does the old gentleman exercise such authority over Lord Martindale and the rest of his family, as he does over the young gentleman who resides at the Abbey?”

“Not quite so much, I believe: he was desirous that his lordship and family should reside at the Abbey; but Lady Martindale so strongly objected to the measure, that it was given up; and Mr. Philip, after a little hesitation, assented to his relative’s proposal to take up his abode here, though Lady Martindale strongly urged him not to relinquish his profession.”

“Profession!—what profession? I think I remember that name in the Temple.”

“Yes, he was at the bar; and I have heard that he was rather successful, considering the short time that he had practised; but as soon as his father became a peer, and his wealthy relative offered him this magnificent seat, he gave up practising, and cut his old friends.”

“Then he has made a very foolish exchange; for the old gentleman, as you call him, does not seem likely to gratify his heirs by a speedy departure from this life, and in all probability his domineering habits will rather increase than diminish as he grows older. But from the brief which I held yesterday, it seems that Mr. Philip Martindale is a man of very profligate habits. How does that suit his cousin?”

“Why, yes, the young man is rather gay; and so indeed was the old gentleman formerly, or his old acquaintance very much belie him. Now, however, he is occasionally very grave in his way, and frequently gives his cousin very serious lectures, which are not of much avail; for Mr. Martindale’s style of reproof is more jesting than rebuking: he says whatever he thinks; and has the oddest mode of thinking of any man that I know. He says any thing to any body, and where he is known nobody heeds him.”

“It struck me yesterday, that there was something very peculiar in the manner in which Mr. Martindale spoke of his cousin; for the charge against the young man was of a very disgraceful nature, and I thought it not very becoming to treat it with any degree of levity.”

“You must make some allowance for the exaggerations of briefs; though I must acknowledge that Philip Martindale was very much to be blamed. Old Richard Smith is a very respectable man for his station in life; and the young woman whom he calls his niece, has always conducted herself in a very proper and becoming manner. But they will not be able to remain at Brigland after this event, unless the old gentleman takes their part very decidedly. I understand that Mr. Philip is very much mortified at the result of the trial; and you, I hear, sir, are in very high favour at Brigland, on account of the success of the trial. The old man says that he is very desirous of thanking you for your exertions. Even Philip Martindale spoke handsomely of you, though you were employed against him; and he was disgusted at his own counsel, whose impertinence, he believes, provoked the jury to their verdict.”

To a much longer speech than this had Horatio Markham given his attention, when he and the reverend divine were interrupted by the return of Mr. Martindale in a downright passion. The cause of that passion we shall narrate in the following chapter.

CHAPTER III.

“There was a time,—

And pity ’tis so good a time had wings

To fly away,—when reverence was paid

To a grey head; ’twas held a sacrilege

Not expiable, to deny respect

To one, sir, of your years and gravity.”

Randolph.

Mr. Martindale, as we have said in the preceding chapter, left his company, and walked up to the Abbey to ascertain, if possible, from some of the servants the cause of their master’s sudden journey. The old gentleman was not in the habit usually of entering the house by the grand entrance; but on the present occasion, seeing the great doors partly open, he directed his steps that way; and as he approached, he heard voices with which he had not been familiar, and when he opened the door, he saw two vulgar-looking fellows gaping about in broad astonishment at the splendid decorations of the great hall, interspersing their profound remarks with unseemly puffings of tobacco-smoke from two pipes with which they were regaling themselves. It was not on trifling occasions that Mr. Martindale was struck dumb with astonishment; but at the sight which he then saw, he was so far thunderstruck that he did not instantaneously commence the pouring forth of his interrogatory eloquence. He gazed for a moment or more on the two men, and they gazed as long at him; but their looks were not so full of astonishment as his were: at length he spoke in very hurried tones.

“Who are you? What do you want here? What do you mean by smoking your filthy pipes in this place? Have the goodness to walk out directly.”

To this speech one of the men calmly replied, “We have as much right here, sir, as you have, and perhaps more; for I guess you are only one of the upper servants, and we are sheriffs’ officers.”

“Sheriffs’ devils!” foamed forth the old gentleman; “and who sent you here, I pray? I will have no sheriffs’ officers here, I can tell you.”

This language was not respectful to the men of office, and therefore it was more sharply taken up by the speaker, who, laying aside his composure, very loudly answered:

“Come, old fellow, let us have none of your insolence, or I shall soon let you know who is master.”

Furiously again Mr. Martindale was beginning to reply, by repeating the word “Master! master! master!” when the noise brought the butler to the scene of contention. This butler was more properly a spy over the actions of the Hon. Philip Martindale than a servant of his: he was the immediate pensioner of the old gentleman; but he was also somewhat attached to his nominal master, and he therefore acted the part of a traitor rather treacherously. He knew, but had not communicated to Mr. Martindale, the intention of the young gentleman to make a journey to London, and he knew also the business on which he had gone; and he had also, on previous occasions, known more than he had thought fit to communicate to his employer. When this trusty domestic made his appearance, Mr. Martindale addressed him very impetuously:

“Oliver! what does all this mean? Here are two insolent dirty fellows calling themselves sheriffs’ officers, and strutting about as if the house was their own. Where do they come from? What do they want here? And pray, where is your master? I must insist upon knowing the meaning of all this.”

Mr. Oliver looked foolish and confused, and while he was beating his brains for a plausible lie, one of the officers began to save him all further trouble of invention by saying:

“Why, if you must know the meaning of all this, I will tell you. The Hon. Philip Martindale is—”

“Is gone out shooting,” interrupted the trusty Oliver: “he went out early this morning, sir.”

“Shooting with a long bow,” muttered the officer. “Shooting at this time of year, you rascal!” exclaimed Mr. Martindale: “why, you puppy, this is only the beginning of August.”

“I don’t mean shooting game, sir, but shooting with bow and arrow. He—he—is gone to—an archery meeting.”

“What! is he gone to an archery meeting in London? But pray, Mr. Oliver, can you tell me why he has been so careful of his own carriage as to take a hired chaise?”

“He was afraid, sir, that the journey might be rather too long for his own horses.”

“Yes,” interrupted the officer, “it would have been too far for his own horses to travel.”

“Hold your tongue, you puppy!” was the only acknowledgment which the speaker received for this corroboration of the trusty Oliver’s speech: then turning again to Oliver, Mr. Martindale continued:

“So your master is grown mightily merciful to his horses all on a sudden; and was he also afraid that his travelling chariot would be tired of the long journey? Was it too far for the carriage to travel?”

“I guess it was rather too far for his carriage to go from home,” replied the officer.

“Fellow!” cried Mr. Martindale, “I want none of your fool’s prate.”

“Perhaps not,” replied the man; “you seem to have enough of your own.”

“Silence, you puppy! do you know who you are speaking to? I will not put up with this insolence in my own house. This is my own house; I built it: every article in it is mine.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” replied the officer, “I did not know you: but I will immediately explain.…”

“If you will have the goodness, sir, to step this way,” interrupted Oliver, “perhaps my master may be returned by this time. I will tell you all the particulars.”

Mr. Martindale had kept this fellow a long while in his employment, and had estimated his fidelity by his treachery, forgetting that they who have a double game to play make a double profit upon it; for while the old gentleman had been bribing him to betray the young one, the young one had been paying him to deceive the old one: so that by this double diplomacy Oliver had become, to use a phrase of Dr. Johnson’s, “a very pretty rascal.” By deceiving both parties he had injured both; but they had only themselves to thank for it. Had they been simple enough to follow the old maxim, that honesty is the best policy, they would both have gained their ends more effectually: the elder Martindale would have experienced from the younger greater deference and confidence, and the younger Martindale would have experienced from the elder a greater degree of liberality.

On the present occasion, it never for a moment entered the mind of the old gentleman that the sheriffs’ officers could be at Brigland Abbey on any serious professional engagement. It may indeed be asked, if he did not think that, what was he thinking of? What, indeed! That is a question which he himself could not answer. Having however no suspicion of what was really the case, he was the more easily drawn away by the crafty Oliver from the impending explanation which was threatened by the officer.

Having thus drawn Mr. Martindale away from the immediate explanation which was just coming upon him, Oliver’s next concern was to construct something of a plausible story to account not only for the presence of the officers at the Abbey, but for their rude behaviour, which to his mind appeared totally insoluble on any other theory than that of their being in possession by virtue of their office. To acknowledge this truth appeared to him as the most effectual means to bring ruin on himself and his master. As soon, therefore, as he had conducted the old gentleman into the library, he began to apologise for the presence and rudeness of these men; and Mr. Martindale being removed from the sight of those who had excited his anger, began to grow a little more cool, and was better prepared to hear explanation. Fortunately for Oliver and his master, the curiosity of the old gentleman was not so strongly excited by the presence of the officers as by the absence of the Hon. Philip Martindale. He therefore very easily believed the story which the trusty butler invented, that these officers had been on a visit to one of the servants, and that they were rather intoxicated; but the difficulty to be solved was the absence of the master of the house, and his travelling with post-horses and a hired chaise. Now Mr. Oliver would have been utterly unworthy of his place and occupation as a professional tell-tale and a hired spy, had he been unable to invent, or unready to utter, a most wilful, deliberate, and glorious lie. Having therefore disposed of the difficulty of the presence of the officers, he went on very deliberately to say:

“Did not my master call at the cottage this morning? I am sure he intended to do so; but perhaps he was too early. I think he must have called, but perhaps you were not stirring, sir.”

“Not stirring, you dog; why I was at the mineral spring by five o’clock, or very little after.”

“Oh! then that accounts for your not seeing my master before he went, for he set out just after the turret-clock struck five; and very likely he saw you walking across the meadow, and knew it would be useless to call at the cottage.”

“But I wonder why he did not tell me of his engagement yesterday; for he must have known it then, if he set out so early this morning.”

“I believe, sir,” replied the trusty one, “that I am to blame for that; for a note was brought here yesterday morning, and I forgot to deliver it till just as my master was going to bed. The note was from Sir Andrew Featherstone, to say that the archery-meeting was fixed for this day instead of next Wednesday, in order to accommodate the young ladies from Hollywick Priory, because they must accompany their uncle to Cheltenham on Monday at the latest; and so, sir, my master was forced to go in a hurry; and as he had taken the carriage-horses to the assizes yesterday, and as the other horses had not been much used to the chariot, so he ordered me to go down to the Red Lion to bespeak a pair of chaise-horses, and I by mistake ordered chaise and horses; and as it was very late when I returned, my master would not make any alteration, and he took them as I had ordered.”

“Well,” replied Mr. Martindale, “but Parson Denver told me that your master was gone to London; now Sir Andrew Featherstone has not an archery-meeting at his townhouse.”

“That must be a mistake of Mr. Denver’s; for I am sure that my master is not gone to London. I can show you, sir, the very letter which my master received from Sir Andrew Featherstone.”

Thereupon the trusty Oliver left the worthy old gentleman for a few minutes to his own meditations; and as he knew that it would be in vain to look for a letter which had no existence but in his own imagination, he used this interval in properly tutoring the sheriffs’ officers in case they should again meet Mr. Martindale.

“It is very unfortunate, sir,” exclaimed the butler, when he returned to the library, “but I believe my master must have carried the letter with him; for I saw it on his dressing-table this morning, and I read it when his back was turned; but I think he went into the room again before he left home, and he has, no doubt, taken the letter with him.”

“Ay, ay, never mind; I don’t want to see any of Sir Andrew Featherstone’s foolish letters. Archery, forsooth! and for young women to make such an exhibition of themselves! It is absolutely indecent. I am sorry that Philip should lend himself to encourage any such ridiculous foolery. What crotchet will seize the fashionable world next, I wonder. I suppose we shall have the tread-mill converted into a machine for the amusement of elegant females. It will be a pretty species of gymnastic exercise. Now, Oliver, I beg you will not say a word to your master of my having made inquiries after him, and see that these drunken officers are sent away as soon as possible. It is quite disreputable for the servants to keep such company.”

Mr. Oliver made all the professions and promises which were required of him, and was not sorry to get so easily rid of his difficulties. The old gentleman then recollecting that he had left his guests to entertain each other at the cottage, prepared to return home, but in his way he met old Richard Smith, whom indeed he did not personally know; but as the poor man knew Mr. Martindale, he pulled off his hat, and made a very humble obeisance to the rich man. There was something very striking in the appearance of Richard Smith, especially when his head was uncovered. His hair was of a silvery whiteness, and it hung about his neck in full and graceful ringlets; his forehead was bold and high, and almost without a wrinkle; and his fine eyes, but little dimmed with age, presented the appearance of strength and vigour contending with time. His figure was tall, and but just beginning to bend under the weight of years. The manner in which he made his obeisance was also impressive; there was dignity in his humility, and his bow was neither slavishly obsequious nor vulgarly insolent. There was in his whole appearance a manifestation of that indelible nobility with which nature endows some individuals of the human species in every rank and condition of life, and which all the drilling and tutoring of artificial society can neither imitate nor improve. The venerable look and the graceful demeanour of the old man induced Mr. Martindale to take especial notice of him, and ask his name, and place of abode, and employment.

“My name, sir,” replied the old man, “is Richard Smith; my abode is at Brigland; and I am past labour.”

“Eh! what! Smith! Richard Smith!—Are you the person that my graceless cub of a cousin had the insolence to knock down and send to jail as a poacher? I hope he has paid you the amount of damages awarded to you.”

“It was only yesterday, sir, that the verdict was given, and I have no desire to hurry the gentleman for payment: I wish him to make it convenient to himself.”

“What are you talking about, my good man? Do you think it can make any difference to my cousin when he pays such a sum as one hundred pounds. You fancy you are talking about a shopkeeper.”

“I beg pardon, sir; I do not mean to speak disparagingly of the Hon. Philip Martindale, but lawyer Flint told me this morning, that when he applied to lawyer Price about the settlement of the damages and costs, he was informed that they would be paid in a few days, but it was not quite convenient at present.”

“Nonsense, the lawyers want to cheat you; Philip has money enough to pay you, and I will take care that you shall be paid. I will see Price to-morrow, and he shall settle the business at once. I am afraid the young man is not quite so steady as he ought to be. I don’t at all approve of his behaviour to you and your niece, and I shall tell him my mind pretty plainly.”

The old man shook his head and sighed. Mr. Martindale observed his emotion, and interrogated him more closely concerning the behaviour of Philip, assuring him that, instead of being offended, he should be thankful for any information concerning the conduct of his young relative, in order that he might use his influence to correct it.

“I am not thinking, sir,” replied Richard Smith, with great solemnity of tone, “only of your honourable relative, but of the numbers in his rank of life who make the miseries of the poor their amusement and sport. I am thinking, sir, that it is a sad mockery of the seriousness of legislation, that profligate and ignorant lads should sit as lawgivers.” Mr. Martindale frowned, for he had bought a borough for his hopeful relative; but as he stood in the attitude of listening, the old man went on: “I think it a sad disgrace to the country, that ignominious and painful punishments are denounced against those offences only which the legislators have no temptation to commit.”

“Well done, old gentleman,” replied Mr. Martindale, “you talk like a philosopher. I am quite of your way of thinking. So you don’t think that it is enough to make young gentlemen pay for their frolics; you would have them sent to work at the tread-mill, or give them a public whipping now and then by way of example.”

“And do not you think,” said the old man more sternly, “that such inflictions as these would be more effectual in checking the vices of the higher orders, than a mere fine which is paid and forgotten, or which places vice in the same scale as a luxury?”

“Why, my good friend, you are a severe legislator; you seem to be angry with my young spark. But now, if your system should be adopted, the injured party would gain no redress; whereas now the wound is healed by heavy damages; and surely it is much better to receive a pecuniary compensation, than merely to have the satisfaction of knowing that the offender is personally punished.”

“Excuse me, sir, but you are not speaking according to your own judgment. You must know that the professed end of the law is security from injury. Substitute a pecuniary compensation for the punishment now denounced against murder, and whose life is safe?”

“You are angry, my friend, you are angry. You should not bear malice; I will take care and see you righted; my cousin shall not have it said of him that he oppresses the poor.”

“Then, perhaps, sir, you will so far befriend me as that I may not be turned out of my cottage; for lawyer Price told me that I should be sent off as soon as the damages were paid.”

At this request of the poor man, or rather at the occasion for the request, Mr. Martindale was really vexed and angry. He had tolerated many of his cousin’s vices under the name of youthful follies; but when he found him guilty of the meanness of so despicable a species of revenge, he was deeply mortified, and with great emotion replied: “The very day that you are driven out of the cottage, Philip shall leave the Abbey.”

Having said this, he hurried home to his guests in no enviable frame of mind. Mr. Denver was accustomed to the old gentleman’s peculiarities; but Horatio Markham, who had never known, and who scarcely apprehended what it was to be dependent on another’s caprices, felt uneasy and constrained, and was beginning to wish that he could, consistently with common politeness, reduce his visit to a day, instead of a week or ten days. He was however soon relieved from his temporary uneasiness, by the return of good humour to the tone and countenance of his host, who proposed that, before visiting the Abbey, they should call at old Richard’s cottage, and inquire into his circumstances.

CHAPTER IV.

“Exceeding fair she was not, and yet fair,

In that she never studied to be fairer

Than nature made her.”

Chapman.

In pursuance of the arrangement proposed the preceding evening, Mr. Martindale and his guest, immediately after an early breakfast, went out in search of Richard Smith’s cottage. They had some little difficulty to find the place; for, though the old man had lived several years at Brigland, he was of such retired habits that he was comparatively unknown in the parish: some persons knew him by sight who did not know his name, and others had heard his name, who were unacquainted with his person.

The cottage in which he lived seemed to have been selected for its very retired situation. It stood in a narrow lane, which, before the building of the great house, had served as a thoroughfare from Brigland Common to the meadows, which, since the erection of the Abbey, had been included in the park. The cottage, though apparently so secluded and almost embowered in wood, was by no means a gloomy abode; for through a natural vista in the wood before it there was an extensive view of highly-cultivated scenery, which showed between the over-arching trees like a beautiful painting in a rustic frame. The light which shone through this opening, drew the eyes of Markham and his companion to notice the beauty of the landscape.

There is a peculiar and almost indescribable effect produced on the mind by the sight of well-known scenery taken from a new point, or viewed with some variety or novelty of accompaniment. The feeling thus excited, has not all its interest from novelty alone, nor is it indebted for its interest to association. In viewing this scene, Mr. Martindale enjoyed this pleasure: he had lived for many years in Brigland, and had long been in possession of this estate, but here was a beauty he had never seen before.

While they were both admiring the scene before them, Horatio Markham fancied that he could hear a distant sound of music, and stood for a moment in a listening attitude. Presently the sound caught the ear of Mr. Martindale; and the two companions looked at each other in mute astonishment, when the faint tinkling of the unknown instrument was accompanied with the human voice in notes of indescribable sweetness. The voice was near enough to be distinctly audible; and Markham, who had a more acute sense of hearing, and a more extensive knowledge of music than his friend Mr. Martindale, soon perceived that neither the words nor the melody were English. It was presently obvious that the music was in the cottage of old Richard Smith. The two listeners waited till the voice was silent, and then, without the ceremony of tapping at the door, entered the poor man’s humble dwelling.

The interior of the cottage was perfectly neat and clean, as might have been anticipated from the style and appearance of the old man; but there was in it more than neatness—there were symptoms that its present tenants had seen better days. There were several articles of furniture and embellishment which cottagers have neither means nor inclination to purchase. Symptoms indeed of better days are to be continually met with in many humble, even in many miserable dwellings; but such symptoms consist generally of those articles which cannot find purchasers, or which are in daily use, or of indispensable utility, or which have an imaginary value far beyond their real value. And the poor people are sometimes proud of these mementos of their high descent. They can perhaps show, in an old black frame, and drawn on durable vellum, their family-arms:—they may have large unwieldy portraits of ancestors who were distinguished somehow or other in former days, but they know not when, and have perhaps forgotten their very names:—they still retain pieces of fine needlework, which make it manifest that some female ancestor had received a boarding-school education; and many a poor old couple eat their daily scanty meal on the remains of the fine porcelain which some of their progenitors used and exhibited only on days of high festivity.

But the articles in Richard Smith’s cottage were of a different character, and of much more recent date than such as those alluded to above. There hung upon the walls some landscapes, which indeed a person in poverty might have drawn, but which no poor man would keep or would embellish with handsome modern frames. There were also several engravings, which had not been published more than sixteen or seventeen years. Instead of the usual cottage clock with clumsily painted figures and elm-case, there stood on a bracket a neat time-piece, with the name of a celebrated Parisian maker. Upon a set of hanging-shelves there lay several volumes of fancifully and apparently foreign bound books. These were for the most part Italian, but a few were French.

While Mr. Martindale was talking to the old man, Horatio Markham, according to a very common, but not very decorous practice of young men who affect literature, was amusing himself with taking down and opening one after another of the books; and seeing the character of them, and that in their selection they gave proof of a correct and polished taste, he could not but look more attentively at the old man’s niece, with an endeavour to trace in her countenance an expression of a style above that of a simple rustic. The human countenance is susceptible of great variety of expression, and owes much to surrounding circumstances: the very same set of features which in one garb and place would savour of rusticity, would bear a different interpretation in another garb and with other adjuncts. In like manner, the imagination of the spectator does much in giving an interpretation to features, and ascertaining physiognomical indications. So when Horatio Markham saw the young woman in the witness-box giving, with downcast look and trembling accents, her testimony as to the injury sustained by a poor old man, he could see nothing more, for he thought nothing more was to be seen, than a modest, simple, and tolerably pretty face, having no remarkable or peculiar expression. But when he saw the same person, with the same features and the same expression of retiring modesty, surrounded with the productions of art, and apparently the only person in the cottage to whom those productions could be interesting, and by whom those books should be read and enjoyed, he soon fancied that he observed indications of a superior mind and a cultivated understanding. Nay, so far did his imagination influence him, that the impulse which he first felt to address some inquiries to the old man’s niece concerning the books and drawings was absolutely repelled by a feeling of awe. He now began to paint to his imagination a person of superior rank, and to be astonished that he had not before observed that her whole style and expression was far above her professed situation.

As he was replacing on the shelf one of the books into which he had been looking, a hard substance fell to the ground, and he stooped immediately to pick it up; but the young woman was before him, and Markham saw, or thought he saw, that the article which she had thus hastily picked up, was neither more nor less than an ivory crucifix. The object itself he would not have noticed, but he was very much struck with the eagerness with which it was taken up and concealed. Apologising for his awkwardness, and accepting an acknowledgment of his apology, he turned from the books to look more minutely at the pictures. The drawings were, without exception, scenes in Italy, evidently executed by a practised hand, and bearing a date which rendered it highly improbable that they should have been the production of the old man’s niece.

The conversation which passed between Mr. Martindale and Richard Smith was indeed heard, but not heeded by Horatio Markham. It had a reference chiefly to the nature of the injury for which the old man had recently sought legal redress; and the account which Mr. Martindale received concerning the conduct of his honourable relative, was not by any means calculated to soothe the already irritated mind of the old gentleman. Turning the discourse from these unpleasant matters, he suddenly asked:

“Did not I hear music just before I came in? Does this young woman play or sing?”

This question excited the attention of Markham, who cast his eyes round the apartment, but all in vain, to find what musical instrument it was which he had heard while he was standing near the cottage. To the question thus asked no answer was given, but the young woman held down her head and blushed; exhibiting, as Markham thought, much more confusion than such an inquiry in such circumstances seemed to demand. Mr. Martindale did not repeat the question, but proceeded to say:

“Well, my good man, I have brought with me the young advocate who pleaded your cause so effectually. I hope he will be as successful in every cause that he undertakes, and that he will never undertake any less honourable to himself.”

“The law is a dangerous profession, sir; but we must not measure a man’s integrity by the brief which he holds. The barrister professes himself an advocate, not a judge; and if he refuses a brief because he thinks the cause a bad one, he acts with prejudice, seeing only one side of the question. Besides, sir, there are few causes which may bear altogether the name of bad. Sometimes a cause may be bad in law, but good in morals; sometimes an action at law may be good so far as the moral feeling is concerned, and bad as to the letter of some statute; and it is possible that some persons may consider any litigation whatever as being inconsistent with the strict letter of Christianity. We must also make great allowances for diversity of temper and disposition: what may appear just to one man appears perhaps too rigidly strict to another. I think, sir, that the barrister’s profession is unduly calumniated. If, indeed, a client comes to an advocate and says, ‘I wish to take an unfair advantage of my neighbour, and I will pay you to assist me,’ then the barrister would act improperly to sell his conscience to his client; but every litigant sees, or fancies he sees, something of right in his cause, and the barrister merely gives him legal assistance. The law is a dangerous profession indeed, because it may lead to a confusion of right and wrong; but while it endangers a man’s integrity, it also gives him abundant and honourable opportunity of displaying an upright mind and good principle. You will excuse an old man,” said he, turning towards Markham; “garrulity is the privilege of age; but I have had experience of the world. I see but little of it now; the time has been that I have seen more.”

Horatio Markham, though but five-and-twenty years of age—though he had gained two causes in the Court of King’s Bench—though he had been successful in his first brief in his native town—though he had at other towns on the circuit held an extraordinary number of briefs for a first journey—though he held those briefs by means of a reputation going before him that he was a man of good talents—though he had more than once received a marked compliment from his seniors both at the bar and on the bench—and though he was of humble origin, and was rationally expecting to rise in a profession which would place him in a higher station than his parents or early acquaintance, yet, with all this, he was not a coxcomb. Moralists and divines may speak as contemptuously as they will of negative virtues; but in defiance of their wisdom, we will contend that, humanly speaking, there was great merit in Horatio, that he did not feel himself unduly elated by all his honors. He attentively listened to the common-place harangue of old Richard Smith, and replied to it with the respect due to old age.

“You are very candid to the profession, sir; few will concede so much: but it would be difficult to find any profession or employment which is not subject to the reproaches of those who are not engaged in it. Indeed, I have known that even individuals in the profession have also spoken disrespectfully of its moral character and tendency.”

“Then,” replied the old man, “they ought to leave it. A profession cannot be indispensable that is essentially immoral. But, sir, I have to thank you for the manner in which you conducted my cause. It was well done of you that you spoke so temperately of the defendant, or that you rather let facts speak for themselves. I have no spiteful feeling against the gentleman, and for my own part could easily have borne with what I received from him; but I have a serious charge here,” pointing to his niece; “that poor child looks up to me for protection, and I must not suffer any one to approach her disrespectfully. I love her as if she were my own. She has, indeed, no other protector. I must be almost fastidious and jealous in the care that I take of her: a life dearer to me than my own depends upon her happiness.”

As the old man was speaking, his face was suffused with a glow of strong feeling; the young woman’s lip quivered, her eye glistened, and she left the room where they were sitting. As she opened the door by which she made her retreat, Markham, whose curiosity had been strongly excited by all the appearances in the cottage, caught a glimpse of a second or inner apartment, apparently fitted up with very great neatness. Of its extent he could form no idea, but its ornaments were of the same nature as those in the room in which he was sitting. Old Mr. Martindale now felt his curiosity roused; he said:

“I am quite curious to know the history of this young woman. Is she really your niece?”

“She is really my niece,” said the old man, “so far as that her mother was my sister’s child.”

“Are these drawings done by your niece too? You seem to have given her a very good education.”

“These drawings,” replied the old man, “are not hers; and as for her education, such as it is, she received it before she was placed under my care.”

“Are her father and mother living?” continued Mr. Martindale; “but I suppose not, by her being placed, as you say, under your sole protection.”

This last part of the sentence was uttered at an interval after the first; for no immediate answer was returned to the interrogation concerning her father and mother. Indeed, the poor man did not seem very willing to enter into any very particular explanation upon the subject; and Mr. Martindale himself, though he had expressed a curiosity to know the history of the young woman, was not so very curious as to persevere in putting a multitude of questions.

There are some persons whose curiosity gains strength by opposition, and others who will not condescend to be at the expense of any great number of questions. Mr. Martindale was of this latter class. Indeed, had he received ever so much intelligence, it would have been of little use, for he would soon have forgotten it. There was another person present whose curiosity had been much more strongly excited. Horatio Markham felt himself fully convinced that the young woman was not a daughter of a cottager: he could, as he fancied, see clearly enough, by her manner and expression, that she was of much superior rank. It was very ridiculous for a young barrister, who had scarcely seen any society at all, who had been born and brought up in a country town, and of a humble family, or, more properly speaking, of no family at all, and who had spent most of his time in study;—it was very ridiculous for him to affect to decide what manners designated or manifested superior breeding. It is a species of vanity, however, in which Markham is by no means singular.

Mr. Martindale having given the old man an assurance of his protection, and having now no more questions to ask, rose and took his leave, accompanied by his young friend.

“That was a pretty young woman at the cottage, Mr. Barrister; but you must not fall in love with her. It will never do for professional men to make love-matches. Love in a cottage is very pretty, very poetical, very well to talk about.”

Markham protested that he had not the slightest notion of falling in love with a person who was a total stranger to him; but seriously, he could not but acknowledge that there was something very superior in the look and manner of the young woman, and that it might not have been impossible for him to have received an impression, had he met with a similar person in a suitable rank in life. He felt himself not well pleased that Mr. Martindale should have thought it within the verge of possibility that a gentleman of the bar should condescend so low as to fall in love with a young woman, the niece of a poor cottager. He forgot, however, that during the time he was in the cottage, he had his eyes very much fixed upon the old man’s niece; he forgot how very completely his attention had been absorbed; and while he was speculating as to the causes which operated in bringing so much elegance and gracefulness into so humble an abode, Mr. Martindale thought him occupied in admiring the young woman’s pretty face. There was certainly a tolerable share of that species of beauty called prettiness in the composition of her features; but as she rather exceeded the middle stature, and wore a general look of thoughtfulness, the word pretty was not comprehensive enough for a description of her person. When she appeared in the court as a witness, her fine glossy black ringlets were totally concealed, and her dark eyes were so bent towards the ground that their life and expression were not visible. Markham had observed her but little; thinking probably that his behaviour could not be more becoming than when it was totally and directly opposed to that of the defendant’s counsel. He was, therefore, not a little surprised when he saw so much beauty and gracefulness in one whom he had taken for a mere country girl; and his curiosity was still more raised when he observed the nature of the decorations of the poor man’s cottage. The charm which struck him most of all was, the total absence of all affectation or artifice both in the old man and in his niece. Richard Smith, indeed, used language superior in ordinary correctness to that of the usual inhabitants of cottages, but did not give himself airs, as some poor men who fancy themselves conjurers, because they happen to be a little better informed than their neighbours; and the young woman appeared quite as free from any species of affectation, either of manner or of dress.

CHAPTER V.

“And, madam, if it be a lie,

You have the tale as cheap as I.”

Swift.

The Rev. Cornelius Denver, perpetual curate of Brigland, was one of the best-tempered creatures in the world. He would not injure any one; he had almost every one’s good word; he was full of smiles and courtesy; he had nothing of the pomp or pride of priestly manners; he did not keep his parishioners at an awful distance, or affect to exercise any spiritual dominion over them by virtue of his calling; he was familiar with all, and good-humoured to all; he had not the slightest tincture of bigotry or party-spirit; in politics and religion he was most truly liberal; he had, of course, his own opinions on these subjects, but he called them into use so seldom, that he and his neighbours scarcely knew what they were; he was equally obliging to all parties, and there were many differing sects of religion in his parish; every possible variety of sectarianism flourished at Brigland, and they all united in praising the curate’s liberality.

There were also many members of the established church in the parish; but though they all praised their curate, they did not all very frequently attend his ministrations. Old Mr. Martindale used facetiously to say, that he should go to church much oftener if Mr. Denver would make longer sermons, but that it was so tantalising to be woke before his nap was half finished. But Mr. Denver served two other churches beside Brigland, and one of them was almost eight miles distant, so he had not much time to spare on Sunday; for he had two services at his own parish, and one every Sunday at the other two.

Our worthy curate was a married man, but he had no family; and that circumstance gave him abundant opportunity to interest himself about the affairs of all the town. Mrs. Denver assisted him greatly in this public and universal sympathy. Mrs. Denver was said to be a very intelligent woman, and had enjoyed that reputation for many years. Her maiden name was Smith—no relation to old Richard Smith; and she had borne that name so long, that she was tired of it, regarding it as Archbishop Tillotson did the Athanasian Creed, wishing that she “was well rid of it.” Many people thought that Mr. Denver married her from a motive of pure good nature, because nobody else was likely to marry her. She was of high family “originally,” as she used to say; being descended from the Simsons of Devonshire, one of whom was knighted by Richard the Third; and she was very particular in stating that her ancestors did not spell the name with p, for that was an innovation, and it was a very inferior family that was called Simpson.

All the gossip of the town and neighbourhood flowed to the parsonage as a centre, and again flowed from it as from a perennial and exhaustless fountain. In justice to the worthy curate it must be stated, that so far as he was concerned, there was nothing of censoriousness blended with his collecting and communicating disposition: he was happy to hear intelligence, and pleased to spread it; but he never pronounced an opinion as to the propriety or impropriety of the matters of which he heard and of which he spoke. It was not exactly so with Mrs. Denver; her candour was not equal to that of her husband: not that she was at all censorious, very far from it; but she could not help, as she said, feeling indignant at the vices and wickednesses which abounded in the world; and she was certainly not to be blamed for what she could not help. Sometimes she would even be angry with her husband on account of the placidity of his temper; and she would even acknowledge that she could have no patience with the abominations of the age. It must be also added, that Mrs. Denver was not quite equal to her husband in the virtue of liberality towards sectarians. She had been brought up as a member of the church established by law, and she could not see how it was possible that any other religion should be true; and for her part, she was fully determined not to countenance any false religion. It was rather unfortunate for the poor woman, that, with the exception of the Martindales, the principal people at Brigland were dissenters; and so there were two or three drawing-rooms from which her orthodoxy would have excluded her, but to which her love of the good things of life attracted her. Mrs. Denver was decidedly loyal: her reverence for majesty was unbounded. She was so grateful to Richard the Third for having knighted one of the Simsons, that she thought she could never say enough in favour of royalty.

Now it came to pass in the progress of events, that while Mr. Martindale and Horatio Markham were in Richard Smith’s cottage, Mrs. Price, the wife of Philip Martindale’s attorney, had gained a piece of intelligence which, as she received it, was imperfect and obscure, but which she hoped and trusted that Mr. and Mrs. Denver might be able to elucidate and complete. She therefore made a very early call at the parsonage, and began by offering an apology for looking in so soon in the day. The apology was most readily accepted: for the good people of the parsonage knew that Mrs. Price would not have called so early had there not been something important to communicate. As soon as she was seated she began:—

“I suppose you have heard, Mrs. Denver, of the sheriffs’ officers being in possession at the Abbey.”

“Sheriffs’ officers in possession at the Abbey! Why, Mrs. Price, what do you mean?”

“Mean, Mrs. Denver! why I mean what I say; there are two sheriffs’ officers now at the Abbey. They were sent in yesterday morning; and old Mr. Martindale saw them there, and asked them what business they had there, and they told him that they were in possession; and the old gentleman asked what was the amount of the claim, and it was such an enormous sum that it was more than he could pay. I don’t know all the particulars, but I heard Oliver talking the matter over to my husband; and Mr. Philip is gone to London in a hired chaise, for they would not let him have his own carriage; and he is gone to get some money of the Jews. He intended to travel all night, that he might get home early this morning, and send the officers away before the old gentleman could know any thing of the matter.”

“Bless me, Mrs. Price, why you astonish me! Who would have thought it? Well, that’s what I always said; I knew it must come to that. You know it was not likely that he could ever support the expense of that great house; and really between ourselves, I never thought that old Mr. Martindale was so very rich as some people said.”

“I don’t know whether the old man is very rich,” replied Mrs. Price; “I am sure the young one is very poor. My husband has advanced money to him which has been owing a very long while; and I cannot see any probability of his getting it again in any reasonable time; and then he cannot even pay the damages in which he was cast in the action of old Smith.”

“Oh, now you talk about old Smith,” interrupted Mrs. Denver, “do you know any thing about that man’s history? for I scarcely ever heard of him before this action took place. Pray where does he live?”

“He lives in the lone cottage in Old Field Lane, I understand. But there is something very odd about that man. I thought perhaps you might know something about him. As for his being a poor man, I don’t believe any such thing. Every body says he has money; and my husband says that he is very sure that Flint would never have undertaken that cause for a poor superannuated labourer; and then Flint told my husband that there was no hurry about the damages. I very much doubt whether the man’s real name is Smith; for that is such a very convenient name for any one to assume.”

“Well, I have never heard any thing of him before; but now you mention it, I think I remember to have seen him one morning when I walked up to the spring with Mr. Denver.”

At this moment the reverend gentleman entered the apartment where the ladies were conversing, and he was immediately assailed with an impetuous torrent of interrogations from both of them, as touching the birth, parentage and education, life, character, and behaviour of the above-named Richard Smith. To these inquiries he returned answers not very satisfactory; and they all three began to blame themselves and each other that they had suffered the old man to settle quietly in the parish without making due previous inquiry concerning his history and origin. He had been, as they all acknowledged, a very quiet, inoffensive creature; but quietness was sometimes a symptom of mischief: it was so with children, and why might it not be so with old men too.

Though Mr. Denver had it not in his power to indulge Mrs. Price with any information, the worthy lady was too generous to withhold from him any information which it was in her power to convey; and she liberally repeated the story of the bailiff being in possession at the Abbey, and of the Hon. Philip Martindale having made a journey to London for the purpose of borrowing money of such as accommodated their particular friends on the most liberal terms and with the strictest secrecy. Mr. Denver was as usual astonished, amazed, thunderstruck at all that was told him. By the way, some of the perpetual curate’s good friends used to think that the good man was not altogether judicious in the use of the word “thunderstruck,” which he always employed when he received any intelligence from any of the ladies of Brigland.

Mrs. Price went on to say, that old Mr. Martindale had expressed his determination to disinherit Mr. Philip; but as that was a very particular secret, she begged that it might not be mentioned. At hearing this request, Mrs. Denver looked at her watch, for she thought it high time that she should take her morning’s round, and endeavour to ascertain whether this profound secret were known to any one else. Mrs. Price took the hint, and departed.

It is by no means the best method to keep a secret to endeavour to find out how many others are in possession of the same. Many a secret has been thus revealed, which might otherwise have been inviolably and safely kept. On the subject of keeping secrets, a great deal may be said; and the matter is surrounded with more difficulties than superficial observers are apt to imagine. For what is the use or benefit of knowing any thing, if we cannot let that knowledge be known. If a secret be confided to us, an honour is thereby conferred; but if that secret be not by us again talked about, directly or indirectly, how can the world know how much we are honoured? Who would give a fig to receive the honour of knighthood, if he were under an obligation to let no one know it? or who would give fifteen pence (pounds some say it costs) for a doctor’s degree, if he could never blazon the honour to the world? We check ourselves in the discussion with the consoling consideration that our business is with facts not with philosophy. Suffice it then to say, that before the day closed, every inhabitant of Brigland who had any care for other’s business, knew that old Richard Smith was mysteriously wealthy, that bailiffs were in possession at the Abbey, that the Hon. Philip Martindale was gone to London to borrow money, and that old Mr. Martindale would never speak to the young gentleman again. Then every body began to think that the Hon. Philip Martindale was the most profligate young man that ever lived; then all his follies became vices, and his irregularities most horrible enormities; then the talk was very loud concerning his pride and his overbearing manners; then Mrs. Dickinson, the landlady of the Red Lion, began to fear that she should not be paid for her chaise.

The good people of Brigland were unnecessarily alarmed for the result of Philip Martindale’s indiscretions: it was not true that the old gentleman knew for what purpose the bailiffs were in the house; nor was it probable that, had he known it, he would therefore have cast off his dependent relative. Power is not willingly or readily parted with. So long as the honourable gentleman acknowledged by endeavours to conceal his irregularities that he stood in awe of his opulent relative, so long would he continue an interesting object of patronage to the old gentleman. As, however, it may not be easy to gather from the floating rumours of the gossips of Brigland what was the real truth of the matter, it may be as well to state explicitly that the Hon. Philip Martindale had paid certain debts of honour with that supply which Mr. Martindale thought had been devoted to some other purpose, and an impatient creditor had actually put into force a threat which he had made of sending officers to the Abbey. The young gentleman had recourse in this extremity to some good friends in the city, by whose prompt assistance the supplies were raised, and the Abbey was cleared of those birds of ill omen. Oliver’s story, as we have seen, had satisfied the old gentleman; and he alone remained in ignorance of a fact in his relative’s conduct, which certainly would have disturbed him greatly, but which would not have provoked him to disinheriting.

By the same conveyance which brought the means of liberating the Abbey, old Richard Smith received through the hands of his attorney a satisfaction also of his claim; and as Mrs. Price was all the day occupied in telling the same story as she had told in the morning, it came to pass that she told more lies at the end of the day than she had at the beginning. In the mean time, the day was passing rapidly away, and Philip Martindale did not return. Oliver was a little puzzled to account for this delay to himself, but he could easily account for it to the old gentleman. What a pity it is that those ingenious gentlemen who can invent lies for the satisfaction of others, cannot invent any for the solution of their own difficulties. Mr. Oliver was in some degree of alarm, lest his stories, by some movement of his master, might not well hang together; and had it not been for some very natural fear that he might altogether lose his character and his place, he probably would have been provoked to tell the old gentleman the truth: he considered, however, that as he had so long played a double part, it would be now too late to affect honesty.

CHAPTER VI.

“I joy to see you here, but should have thought

It likelier to have heard of you at court,

Pursuing there the recompenses due

To your great merit.”

Tuke.

It is now high time to introduce more particularly to our readers the Hon. Philip Martindale. He has been glancing and flitting before our eyes; but he has not stayed long enough to be fairly seen and understood. He did not appear to great advantage at the assizes, where he sat laughing or sneering at the progress of his own cause; nor would he have made a very imposing figure, had we opened upon him on the evening of the day of the trial, when, on his return home, the trusty Oliver announced to him the arrival of two gentlemen, calling themselves sheriffs’ officers. To delay any longer to introduce our honorable acquaintance to our readers, would be intruding upon their patience beyond reason.

The Hon. Philip Martindale finding that it would not be possible to get rid of this encumbrance by any other means than by discharging the debt, and knowing that the debt could not be discharged without money, and knowing that money was not at that emergency to be obtained but by the medium of the people of Israel, sent his trusty Oliver to the Red Lion to provide a chaise to carry him on his way to London. It would be more agreeable to us, if it were possible, to bring our readers to an acquaintance with the honorable gentleman lolling in his own chariot, for that would be more befitting his rank in society, than to see him travelling in so plebeian a vehicle as a hired chaise, drawn by a pair of hack horses. But though the Hon. Philip Martindale was a man of high rank, and somewhat proud of the station which he held in society, he was not altogether unable or unwilling to condescend; and though the Denvers, the Flints, the Prices, and all the other gentry, thought him a very proud and haughty man, yet there were many in Brigland, many in Newmarket, and many in London and its vicinity, who could bear testimony to his condescension.

To describe a journey to London in a post-chaise, along thirty or forty miles of turnpike-road, bounded on the right hand by hedges and ditches, and on the left by ditches and hedges, requires powers of description and imagination to which we are too humble to make pretension. As we are not presuming to descant on the history of the journey, we may as well say a word or two concerning the person who took the said journey. We are perfectly aware that it would be more artist-like and effective, to let our characters speak for themselves, and by their own acts or words develope their own peculiarities; but this is not altogether possible to be done effectually; for the same words from different lips have a different meaning; and there is a peculiarity of tone and accent and look which does much towards rendering the character intelligible. These matters may be imitated in the drama on the stage, but they cannot be well transfused into plainly-written dialogue.

Without farther apology, then, we proceed to speak of the Hon. Philip Martindale somewhat more particularly. We speak of this person in the first place, for that was a first consideration with himself. He was tall, but not thin; rather clumsily formed about the shoulders; his gait was rather swaggering than stately; his features were not unhandsome, but they wanted expression; his manner of speaking was not remarkable for its beauty, for he had a habit of drawling which seemed to strangers a piece of affectation; his style of dress was plain, somewhat approaching to that of the driver of a coach, but any one might see in a moment that he was a man of some consequence. As to his mind, he was by no means a blockhead or a simpleton; nor was he to be considered as ill-humored. He was of an easy disposition; and had he been placed in a situation which required the exercise of his mental powers to gain a living, he would have passed for a man of very good understanding.

But there is one kind of capacity required to gain a fortune, and another to spend it. Philip Martindale possessed the former, but he wanted the latter. Our readers are already aware that the young gentleman had for a short time assayed a professional life, and had given promise of fair success; but when he found that a title was awaiting him, and that a dependence was offered him, he renounced his profession, and gave up an independence for a dependence. Now ever since he had changed his style of life, he had changed his habits of social intercourse. While he had chambers in the Temple, he had for companions men of literary acquirements and taste; and all he knew of the prowess and powers of the celebrated dog Billy, or of the no less celebrated heroes of the ring, was from the interesting and beautiful reports which grace the columns of our newspapers: he was then acquainted with no other coachman than the driver of his father’s carriage, and he was not very intimate with him: at that time he was as ignorant of the highest as he was of the lowest ranks; and if he occasionally spent an evening at the Opera, he had nothing to do but to attend to the performance.

But when his circumstances changed, all other things changed too; he renounced the middle of society for the two extremes. It was new for him to have expensive horses; and it was pleasant for him to talk knowingly about what he knew imperfectly; and coachmen, grooms, and stable-boys, could talk best upon a topic which was a favorite with him; and as he had never before been so flattered by homage and deference, he thought that coachmen, grooms, and stable-boys, were most delightful companions; and his acquaintance with them extended and increased accordingly. Then it was that he began to feel the pleasures of high rank. Nobody can enjoy the pleasures of high station who associates only with his equals; it is when he looks into the depths below that he can feel his elevation. The ring and the cockpit are most admirable contrivances to bring men of high rank to a full sense of their dignity. The Hon. Philip Martindale used them abundantly, and doubtless with great advantage. As he descended, so also did he ascend; and from association with black legs, he became qualified to claim acquaintance with the highest ranks in society. The cockpit and the betting-table are very appropriate vestibules to Almack’s; and the slang of the stable is a very suitable accomplishment for a legislator. Farther particulars concerning the Hon. Philip Martindale may be learned from his history, as herein recorded.

As soon as the honorable gentleman arrived in London, he proceeded forthwith to his accommodating friends in the city, from whom he procured the means of ridding the Abbey of its unwelcome guests; and it was his intention to return immediately to dismiss the disagreeable ones in person. But so full of accident and event is human life, that this intention was not put into immediate effect. Just as our young gentleman had left the door of a banking-house in Lombard Street, close behind him, he saw on the opposite side of the way an old, or more properly speaking a new acquaintance, who was as familiar as an old one. The personage in question wore a scarlet coat, white hat, yellow silk handkerchief, and crimson face mottled with purple. Without bending his body, or moving a muscle, he touched his hat to the Hon. Philip Martindale, who most graciously acknowledged the salute, and made a movement to cross the way towards him; whereupon he of the crimson face and scarlet coat hastened to anticipate his honorable friend; and the parties met in the middle of the street, even as Napoleon Bonaparte and the Emperor of Russia met in the middle of the river.

When the high-contracting parties were thus met, the Hon. Philip Martindale commenced the discourse by inquiring of his friend, who was in the guards, that is, was guard to a mail-coach, and who was addressed by the name of Stephen, if he had succeeded in the commission with which he had been intrusted: this commission was the purchasing of a dog for fighting. Stephen expressed his great concern that this important affair had not been concluded; but he was happy to have it in his power to say, that he had heard of a capital bull-terrier to be disposed of at Finchley; and as price was no object, he hoped to bring him up next journey. In the mean time, he was very glad to inform his honour that he had that very morning brought up a couple of game-cocks in very high condition; and if Mr. Martindale would condescend to go as far as Tothill Street, he might see them that very afternoon.

This was too strong a temptation for the legislator to resist. Having therefore made arrangements for remitting to Brigland the means of discharging the claims upon him which were most urgent, he resolved to remain in town for that night at least, and leave it to Oliver’s ingenuity to account for his absence, if there should be any occasion to account for it at all. He appointed, therefore, to meet his friend Stephen in Tothill Street at five o’clock; and in the mean time, betook himself to a coffee-house in the neighbourhood of Charing Cross to fill up the interval.

This interval was exceedingly tedious. There were many newspapers in the room, but there was nothing in them. There was a clock, but it did not seem to go; at least so he thought, but after looking at it for a very long time he found it did go, but it went very slowly. Then he looked at his watch, and that went as slow as the clock. Then he took up the newspapers again one after the other very deliberately. He read the sporting intelligence and the fashionable news. But he did not read very attentively, as he afterwards discovered. Then he looked at the clock again, and was almost angry at the imperturbable monotony of its face. Then he took out his pocket-book to amuse himself by reading his memorandums, but they were very few and very unintelligible. Then he rose up from his seat, and went to the window, and looked at the people in the street; he thought they looked very stupid, and wondered what they could all find to do with themselves. He looked at the carriages, and saw none with coronets, except now and then a hackney-coach. Then he began to pick his teeth, and that reminded him of eating; and then he rang the bell, which presently brought a waiter; and he took that opportunity of drawling out the word “waiter” in such lengthened tone, as if resolved to make one word last as long as possible.

While he was occupied bodily with his sandwich, he was also mentally engaged in reflections on days that were gone; and he could not but think that his hours were not so heavy when he was toiling at the study of law, as now when his rank was higher, and when his residence was one of the most splendid seats in the kingdom. He thought it was very hard that he should stand in awe of an old humorist, and he had for a moment thoughts of emancipating himself from trammels, and assuming to himself the direction of his own actions; but then, on the other hand, he also considered that without the assistance of the old gentleman, he should not be able to clear off the encumbrances with which his own hereditary estate had been burdened by his anticipations. His only resource was an advantageous match; but the difficulty was how to accomplish that object, and to preserve his dignity.

In the same street in which Lord Martindale, his father, lived, there was an heiress, but not altogether unobjectionable. Her origin was plebeian; her wealth was commercial; her connexions decidedly vulgar, notwithstanding all her pains to keep them select, and to curtail the number of her cousins; her manners awkward, and her taste in dress most execrable. Whenever Philip Martindale felt impatient of controul, he thought of Miss Celestina Sampson, and of the many thousands which her industrious father had accumulated by the manufacturing of soap; and by thinking much on the subject, he had been gradually led to consider the match as not altogether intolerable. He thought of many other persons of as high rank as himself, and even higher, who had not disdained to gild their coronets with city gold. There was nothing glaringly or hideously vulgar in Miss Sampson’s manners, though she was not the most graceful of her sex. Then her person was rather agreeable than otherwise, especially when she was not over-dressed; and as for her cousins, they might be easily cut.

In truth, these meditations had so frequently occupied the young gentleman’s mind, that there began to be actually some talk on the subject among the friends of the parties. These thoughts were by some fatality passing in his mind while he was waiting for the arrival of the hour for which his engagement was made; and by a very singular coincidence he was reminded of Miss Celestina: for while he was wishing the time to move more rapidly, there entered into the coffee-room two young gentlemen, who very noisily manifested their importance. They lounged up to the table on which the papers were lying, and each helped himself to one; then they sat down at separate and distant tables, each spreading his paper before him, and lolling with his elbows on the table, and his feet stretched out to the widest possible extent, as if begging to have his toes trod on; and they ever and anon laughed aloud, and called out the one to the other at any piece of intelligence which excited their astonishment, or gave occasion to witty remark. Among other announcements which they thus communicated to each other, was a short paragraph in the fashionable intelligence which had altogether escaped the notice of Philip Martindale; and as its announcement was preceded by a very loud laugh, his attention was especially drawn to it, and it was as follows:

“It is currently reported that the Hon. Philip Martindale of Brigland Abbey, eldest son of Lord Martindale, is about to lead to the hymeneal altar the accomplished and beautiful daughter and heiress of Sir Gilbert Sampson.”

“There, Smart,” said the reader of the above paragraph, “you have lost your chance for ever. What a pity it is you did not make a better use of your time. By the way, do you know any thing of the Hon. Philip Martindale?”

“I know nothing about him, except that I have been told he is one of the proudest men that ever lived; and I can never suppose that he would condescend to marry the daughter of a soap-boiler.”

“There is no answering for that,” responded the other; “necessity has no law. Brigland Abbey cannot be kept up for a trifle; and if I am not misinformed, this same Philip Martindale has been rather hard run on settling-days.”

At hearing this conversation, the young gentleman was greatly annoyed; and in order to avoid any farther intelligence concerning himself, he took his departure, for the hour appointed for meeting his friend Stephen was now very near at hand. He was in very ill-humour with what he had heard, and was quite shocked at the liberties which common people took with the names and affairs of persons of rank. He had composed in his own mind, and was uttering with his mind’s voice, a most eloquent philippic against the daring insolence of plebeian animals, who presumed to canvass the conduct of their superiors; and he was dwelling upon the enviable privacy of more humble life, which was not so watched and advertised in all its movements, till it occurred to him that this publicity was one of the distinctions of high life, and that even calumnious reports concerning the great were but a manifestation of the interest which the world took in their movements. It also came into his mind that many of those actions which seem otherwise unaccountable and ridiculous, owe their being to a love of notoriety; and he thought it not unlikely that some of the great might play fools’ tricks for the sake of being talked of by the little. So his anger abated, and he more than forgave the impertinent one who had made free with his name in a newspaper.

It has been said that we live in a strange world. We deny this position altogether. Nothing is less strange than this world and its contents. But if we will voluntarily and wilfully keep our eyes closed, and form an imaginary world of our own, and only occasionally awake and take a transient glance of reality, and then go back to our dreamings, the world may well enough be strange to us.

CHAPTER VII.

“How durst you come into this room and company without leave?”

Killegrew.

Philip Martindale proceeded, as we have stated, from the coffee-house towards Tothill Street, with a view of keeping his engagement with his friend of the scarlet coat and crimson countenance. He had entered into his memorandum-book the number of the house to which he had been directed, but he omitted as useful a notice, namely, to take down the division or apartment in which the gentleman of the pit had his residence. For the fact is, that the ingenious bird-feeder and fancier resided in an upper apartment, nearer to the sky by one flight of stairs than the Hon. Philip Martindale imagined. The house was a miserable contrast to the splendid mansion which he had left. Whether it had ever been cleansed either by paint or water, since the day it was built, seemed a matter of doubt. The windows had been broken, and had been mended partially but not with glass. The very window-frames seemed to be in such a state of dilapidation that a breeze might blow them from their position.

When the door was opened by a middle aged female, whose miserable and dirty attire made her look twenty years older than she was, the olfactory nerves of the young gentleman were assailed by a grievous combination of various odours, among which onions, tobacco, and gin, were the predominant. Asking of the miserable being who opened the door whether Clarke was within, he was told to walk up stairs. Very slowly and very cautiously did he mount the creaking staircase, setting his foot gently and inquiringly upon each successive stair to ascertain whether it would bear his weight: of one or two he had so much distrust as to step completely over them.

When arrived at the first landing-place, he heard a multitude of voices, which he naturally supposed to proceed from some gentlemen of the fancy. Without knocking at the door, he immediately let himself in, and found to his great astonishment that he had mistaken the apartment. He found himself surrounded by a group of dark-complexioned, sallow-looking, unshorn beings; some of whom were sitting on the floor, others on crazy boxes and broken chairs, and all of whom were smoking cigars. The dingy dress which they wore, and the faded decorations which were suspended on their left breast, immediately proclaimed them to be emigrants. As soon as he entered the room, their voices were stilled, and they turned their inquiring and sickened looks towards him as if to a harbinger of some intelligence of good. The moment that he felt where and with whom he was thus accidentally placed, his spirit sunk within him; and he did feel a deep compassion for the miserable objects which surrounded him.

One of the party, by the freshness of his dress and the cleanliness of his person, appeared to have arrived but recently among them. He was a man of middle age, wearing a very respectable military dress; and though of thoughtful look, he did not appear dejected or heartbroken. To him Mr. Martindale addressed himself in the Italian language, apologising for his accidental and unintentional intrusion. The stranger replied in English, spoken with a foreign accent, but with tolerable fluency, stating that he had just arrived in England, and being directed to where he could find some of his fellow-countrymen, he had but recently entered the house, and was grieved to see them so situated. He also said that he himself was not much better provided for, but that his wife and child were in England, though he could not at present discover in what part of the country. He said that he had received letters from them, but that those letters were lost, with part of his own luggage. But he trusted, he continued, that he should find out, by inquiry, where his family was; and he concluded a long harangue by asking Philip Martindale, with great simplicity, if he knew where Mr. Smith lived.

This is a question which wiser men than the Hon. Philip Martindale would be puzzled to answer; and it is a question which weaker men than he would have smiled at. He was not a man without feeling, though he was a man of the world; and it excited in his mind other thoughts and feelings than those of a ridiculous nature, when he saw a foreigner in England, whose discovery of his wife and child depended on the finding out of the residence of a person of so common a name as Smith. Forgetting, therefore, his engagement with Stephen the guard, he set himself seriously and closely to interrogate the poor man, in order to find some better and more definite clue to the discovery of his family than the name of Smith. Thereupon the countenance of the foreigner brightened up, his eyes sparkled, and the tear was on his cheek, when he said:

“Oh! sare, you are good. I thank you much for your great trouble: you are all so good in England to the poor estranger when he is in misery. It is sad to leave my own land; but what am I without my poor child?”

“Well, my good friend,” replied Philip, “I hope and trust you will find your child. But surely you must have some other knowledge of the person with whom your family is residing than merely the name of Smith. You have had letters from them, you say; can you not recollect from what place those letters were dated?”

“Oh, no! I could not recollect it once: it was no name in the geography; it was in the province.”

“Then, of course, it was not London;” replied Mr. Martindale.

“No, no, no, it was not London; it was in the province: it was far away from London thirty or forty mile.”

“But did not you sometimes send letters to your family, and can you not tell how you addressed your letters to them? Perhaps if you were to consider a little while, you might be able to call to mind something that might assist in discovering the place of their abode. If you had letters, most likely some account was given of the place where they lived: or if it were a small village, they may have mentioned the name of the nearest post-town.”

“Oh yes, it was very pretty place. It was thirty or forty mile from London. It was very beautiful place. There was large, very fine palace called Abbey. There was very fine lake.”

This description reminded Philip Martindale of the place of his own residence, and he therefore asked if the name of the place was at all like Brigland. The foreigner looked thoughtful, and attempted to repeat the word, saying: “Breeklan! Breeklan!” Then, after a pause of a few seconds, his features underwent a complete change, and with a kind of hysteric laugh or screech of exultation, he cried out:

“Oh, that was it! that was it! Oh, good sare, it was Breeklan—oh, tell me where is Breeklan, and I will see my child and my dear wife—oh, I will see them once again—oh, you have save me from great misery.”

Then he seized Philip Martindale’s hand and pressed it with great emotion, repeating his solicitations; and the tears rolled down his cheeks, and he smiled with such an expression of delight, that the young gentleman was moved; and after he had given some charitable donations to the rest of the unhappy ones in the miserable apartment, he proceeded to conduct the newly-arrived stranger where he might find a conveyance to take him to Brigland.

Philip Martindale then returned to the house where the game-cocks were to be seen, and there he met his friend Stephen the guard, and some other friends of the fancy, by the fascinations of whose sweet society he was detained in the metropolis somewhat longer than he designed, and by whose winning ways he found himself poorer than was quite convenient. The opinion he expressed concerning the fighting birds—the particulars of the exhibition with which he was afterwards favoured at the Westminster-pit—the brilliant conversation in which he there engaged—the bets which there he laid and lost—the flattering homage which he there received—the satisfaction which resulted from it—all these and many other matters of a like nature we pass over unrecorded; trusting that, where one reader blames the omission, fifty will commend it.

But though we describe not these scenes, it does not follow that we should pass them over without reflection. One very natural reflection is, that gentlemen of high birth and estate are much to be envied for the pleasure which they enjoy in those scenes. There must be a peculiar delight in such pursuits, or the superfine part of our species could not possibly condescend, for the sake of them, to associate on most familiar terms with persons whose birth is most miserably low, whose understandings are most grievously defective, whose manners are abominably coarse. Take from the side of one of these honorables the jockey, the boxer, the feeder, or the coachman, with whom he is all courtesy and good humor and familiarity, and place there a man of middle rank in society, respectable in every point of view, with what cool contempt would the dignity of high birth regard him. One other reflection is, that such pursuits ought to be calculated to raise these said gentle and noble ones very high in their own esteem, inasmuch as they are not thereby raised in the esteem of others. Their disinterested generosity is also much to be applauded, seeing that by thus lavishing their wealth on those whose only support is the gambling propensity of men of wealth, they take away from the public a large number of such as might otherwise have exercised their wits in picking pockets or breaking into houses. They who would suppress gambling deserve the thanks of the ninnies who would be thus preserved from being plundered in an honorable and gentlemanly manner; but what would become of the rogues and sharpers who live upon the folly of right honorable and high-born simpletons? Politic morality is perhaps one of the greatest difficulties which legislators have to contend with. Begging pardon for these reflections, we proceed with our story.

We have stated that the Hon. Philip Martindale suffered in his purse from his visit to the Westminster-pit. The following morning he meditated much upon the subject; and he also applied the powers of his mind to the ring, and recollected that he had there oftentimes suffered as much in his purse as some of the pummeled heroes had in their persons. Then while he was in the humor for thinking, he endeavoured to calculate how much these amusements had cost him; and in the course of that calculation it most unaccountably came into his mind that many of the frequenters of these exhibitions had no ostensible means of living, and that they yet lived well, and that of course they must have lived upon him and others of high rank and birth. Following that train of thought, and finding that several of the superfine ones who had formerly patronised these sports had for some reason or other gradually fallen off from them, he began to think that he would also abstain from them, and confine himself to the more respectable and gentleman-like avocations of the race-course and the hazard-table: for there he should meet with a more numerous assemblage of persons of his own rank; and as he had three horses entered to run at Newmarket, and as one of these was an especial favorite, he had some expectation of retrieving his losses, at least in part. He fully determined that he would no longer associate with the vulgar ones of the ring and the pit. Oh, what an excellent homily is an empty purse!

Now it happened very fortunately for the trusty Oliver, and for his master too, that when the latter had finished his meditations, and was entering the shop of his gunsmith, he should meet there his worthy friend Sir Andrew Featherstone. The greeting was cordial; for the meeting was agreeable on both sides. Sir Andrew Featherstone was a baronet of very ancient family:—that rendered him acceptable to the Hon. Philip Martindale. But he had other recommendations—he was the best-tempered man in the world. There are myriads of this description. He kept a most excellent table, had a capital pack of hounds, and two very beautiful daughters, whom we shall have great pleasure in introducing to our readers in due course of time. The families of the Featherstones and the Martindales had been intimate time out of mind; and it was the wish of Sir Andrew to marry one of his daughters to the Hon. Philip Martindale. But the young gentleman himself had never given the subject a single thought. By one of those remarkable coincidences which are happening every day, Sir Andrew mentioned the archery-meeting, and expressed a wish that Philip would honor it with his presence. The young gentleman found this reality as great a relief to his mind, as his trusty Oliver had found the invention a relief to his mind; and he immediately dispatched a note to his venerable relative, stating his engagement, and fixing the day of his return to Brigland.

CHAPTER VIII.

“A was an archer, and shot at a frog.”

Anon.

The residence of Sir Andrew Featherstone was called Hovenden Lodge; why it was called a lodge we cannot say. It was a large plain house, situated in a small level park. The hand of improvement had been very busy with it, but the genius of propriety had not presided over the improvements. Several different styles of architecture had been introduced, and to very ill effect; for the very square broad-sided form of the building rendered it unsusceptible of decoration. But Sir Andrew cared nothing about it—he left all those matters to the ladies, who gave directions according to their own taste or lack of taste; and all the return which he made for their architectural diligence and their skilful improvements was to laugh at what he called their absurdities. The usual order was quite reversed at Hovenden Lodge; for while Lady Featherstone and her two daughters, Lucy and Isabella, were drawing plans, or marching about the park, and pointing out to the architect the improvements which they thought desirable, Sir Andrew was standing by the kitchen fire and lecturing the cook, or translating aloud recipes from his favorite French cookery-book, which was the only book that he had ever purchased; and very highly did he value it, fancying that few persons in this kingdom were aware of its existence. He often however had, or we should more properly say, might have had, the mortification of finding that he had been translating from French into English that which had been previously translated from English into French; for whenever his knowing lady reminded him that any recipe was already in the English cookery-books, he would always contend for or discover some delicate variation which gave the French the advantage. He thought, too, that there was a peculiar piquancy in the French terms, and that there was a particular relish in foreign names, which he always took care to utter, but which his obstinately English organs of speech rendered mightily amusing in their utterance.

The greatest evil of the archery-meeting in Sir Andrew’s opinion was, that it must be attended only with a cold collation, and that must be in a marquee. It had been discussed repeatedly, but as frequently decided against him, that it was absolutely impossible to have a hot dinner. He did not like it, but he bore it very good-temperedly; and was brimful of jokes, ready to let fly with every arrow.

Lady Featherstone, who was never so happy as when she was patronising, was delighted with the thought of the long table under the marquee, and her own self smiling, nodding, and bowing most gracefully to every body: she could undergo a cold dinner every day of her life, for the happiness of thinking that every body said, “What a charming woman is Lady Featherstone!”

The young ladies were in proud and confident expectation of winning the prize; but in still more proud and more confident expectation of exhibiting their elegant selves to an admiring multitude. This, indeed, is the great beauty of archery; it is an elegant exercise, or in other words, it gives an opportunity to young ladies to exhibit themselves in elegant or attractive attitudes; and many a young woman who would have scarcely any chance of a display, hereby acquires a right to be stared at most perseveringly and inveterately. She may be as long as she pleases taking her aim; and if she fears that she shall not hit the target, she may take an aim elsewhere.

And it is a very pretty thing too for young gentlemen in the last year of being at school, or in the first of their undergraduateship. Dressed in the archery uniform, they look so very much like Robin Hood: they go back to old times in almost more than imagination; but more especially, they have an opportunity of playing off the polites. At all events, it is a very innocent amusement; and if properly managed by the lady-patroness, it may rise into something of a matter of importance. If any of the party be in possession of the powers of eloquence, they may draw up a very pretty report of the meeting; and the editors of country papers will feel much honored by inserting the said report; and there will be a very pretty sprinkling of very pretty compliments to the very pretty young ladies, who may be compared to Diana’s nymphs; and there may be quotations from the old songs about Robin Hood and Maid Marian; and very pretty talk about the greenwood shade and the merry horn. Then the editor of the newspaper sells an extra number of papers, which are sent in different directions to distant friends.

The display of beauty and fashion which was exhibited in Hovenden Park on the above-named occasion, bids defiance by its brilliancy to our powers of description. Sir Andrew himself, though his occupation was gone for that day at least, endured with a very good grace his absence from the kitchen; and was prepared to hear and say all that was polite, together with a little that was satirical. Before the business of the day began, he said in the hearing of the exhibitors: “Where shall I stand to be most out of the way; I think I had better take my station in front of the target.”

With many such sayings he entertained the young people; and some of the young ladies laughed so heartily at his attempts at humor, that they could hardly direct the arrows; and then, when any one shot very wide of the mark, he smilingly said, “Well done, my good girl, that’s right, take care you don’t spoil the target.” And notwithstanding all the frowns and rebukes of Lady Featherstone, the facetious baronet continued his interruptions much to the amusement and a little to the annoyance of the party.

We should not have mentioned this crotchet of Sir Andrew’s, but that we think it may be not amiss to take this opportunity of observing that persevering witticisms, forced out in rapid succession on all occasions, and a series of smart sayings, good, bad, and indifferent, uttered without abatement, may often excite the outward and visible sign of merriment long after they have ceased to be agreeable. For laughter is not always the sign of satisfaction, any more than tears are always a token of sorrow. There is no man, however stupid, who cannot occasionally say a good thing; and very few, if any, can utter real wit in every sentence; and miserable is the annoyance of everlasting efforts at facetiousness. It is only tolerable in those who are very young or very weak.

But as one great object of archery-meetings is display, we should be guilty of injustice in omitting to notice a young lady of the party, who came with the full intention of eclipsing every one there;—and she succeeded. We refer to Miss Celestina Sampson. She came accompanied by her father, Sir Gilbert Sampson; who, though a new man, was very well received by Sir Andrew. Miss Sampson was not a beauty, but was good-looking and rather pretty; of middle stature, light complexion, and fine natural colour; good-humored and cheerful; ambitious of elegance, but not well-informed as to the means; critical as to the externals of behaviour, and much exposed herself to the same kind of criticism; sadly afraid of vulgarity, though often sinning through mere ignorance. Her appearance and dress attracted, as she designed, universal attention; but not, as she hoped, universal admiration. She had studied costume with more zeal than taste; and vibrating between the costume of Diana and Maid Marian, she at last appeared, if like any thing at all, a tawdry imitation of Fatima, in the play of Blue-beard.

As Sir Gilbert Sampson was also present, we may say a word or two of him. He had been a soap-boiler. True; but what of that?—he had retired from business, and had washed his hands of soap. He had been a soap-boiler. True; but whose fault was that? Not his own: he had no innate, natural, violent, irresistible, unextinguishable propensity for boiling soap; for if he had, he would never have relinquished the pursuit. The fault was his father’s; for had the father of Sir Gilbert been a duke, Sir Gilbert would never have been a soap-boiler. As to the rest, Sir Gilbert Sampson was a man of good understanding, of extensive knowledge, possessing strong natural powers of mind, and altogether free from every species of affectation.

Lady Sampson had, while she lived, governed by permission of her lord and master. She had dictated concerning the petty details of life; and after her death, her daughter reigned in her stead. Sir Gilbert never troubled himself about trifles; but Miss Sampson took all that care entirely off her father’s hands. The pleasure of his life was the company of a few old acquaintances; but he tolerated parties when Miss Sampson could manage to assemble them.

And this was not a difficulty, even though Sir Gilbert had been a soap-boiler; for his cook was not a soap-boiler, and his fishmonger was not a soap-boiler, and his wine merchant was not a soap-boiler. Sir Gilbert’s dinners were very excellent; and those who partook of them praised them much, and did not say a word about soap while they were at dinner; and that was very kind, and exceedingly condescending: for it is a piece of great presumption in a man who has acquired a property by honest industry to give sumptuous entertainments to those who are spending or who have spent what their ancestors earned for them.

Enough for the present of Sir Gilbert Sampson. Be it however observed by the way, that our good and facetious friend, Sir Andrew Featherstone, regarded Sir Gilbert without any feeling of aristocratic pride, and so did many others of his acquaintance; and that even the Hon. Philip Martindale behaved very politely to him, inasmuch as he was occasionally under apprehension that it might be desirable for him to disencumber and improve the Martindale estate by the means of Sir Gilbert’s wealth. At this meeting, owing to previous matters already recorded, the idea of the possibility of Miss Sampson becoming Mrs., and, in process of time, Lady Martindale, took very strong hold of the young gentleman’s imagination. He therefore, without being aware of any difference in his manner, paid very extraordinary attention to Sir Gilbert; and as the young lady observed this, and was rather ambitious of the honor of so high an alliance, and as she thought that the best way to make a conquest, or to secure one already made, was to make herself agreeable; and as she thought that the best way to make herself agreeable was to put herself very much in the way of the person to whom she wished to be agreeable, and to talk to him and listen to his talk, and smile at what he said if he seemed to think it witty, and to manifest that her attention was more taken up with him than with any one else: Miss Sampson acted upon this principle, but in the over-officiousness of her zeal carried her system so far as to make it almost a persecution.

As to the effect thereby produced upon the Hon. Philip Martindale, very little if any progress was made in his affections. He was accustomed to homage and attention, and took it as a matter of course; he had experienced quite as much attention from the friends of ladies of higher rank than Miss Sampson; and the charms of the young lady’s person or conversation were nothing to him in his matrimonial speculations. If Mr. John Martindale had been a man of infirm health, and likely soon to decide the question as to who should possess his large property, Philip Martindale would not have had any thought whatever of an alliance so much beneath the dignity of his rank and the purity of his blood; or were the old gentleman a little less capricious, or had the young gentleman been a little more prudent in the management of his affairs, then Miss Sampson might have had the beauty of a Venus, the wisdom of a Minerva, or the wealth of Crœsus, and these qualities would have made no impression. On the other hand, under the then present circumstances, Miss Sampson needed not to take any pains to render herself agreeable; for had her person been deformed, and her mind that of an idiot, yet her father, by the accumulation of a large fortune, had done quite enough to make her perfectly agreeable.

And yet, notwithstanding all this confession which we have made for Mr. Philip, we would not have our readers to imagine that the young gentleman was devoid of good qualities or good feelings altogether; he might not have been so candid in his confession for himself as we have been for him, but he was not altogether aware of the influence of circumstances upon his mind. He was placed in a certain rank in society, and must keep up the dignity of that rank; and it was his misfortune if necessity put him upon using means for that purpose not quite in unison with his better judgment. Royalty itself has not free choice in matters of the heart; and nobility, as it approaches royalty in its splendour, is sometimes assimilated to it in its restraints and perplexities. Still, however, making every concession which candour and human kindness prompt us to make in behalf of Philip Martindale; and admitting all the extenuations which a merciful advocate could suggest, we cannot help thinking, and it is our duty to say it, that if he had abstained from the foolish and low pursuits of gaming in all its varieties, and if he had cherished and preserved that spirit of independence which his excellent mother, Lady Martindale, had endeavoured to instil into his mind, he might have upheld the dignity of his rank, if he had sacrificed a little of its splendour. But to our history.

We have mentioned as the patroness of the archery-meeting, Lady Featherstone; and we have said that this lady had two daughters, Lucy and Isabella. It has also been observed that Sir Andrew Featherstone felt a wish to unite one of these young ladies in marriage with Philip Martindale. This was a very natural ambition. The two families had been intimate for several generations. The Martindales had, by various circumstances, gradually advanced in wealth; but the reverse had been the lot of the Featherstones, though they were quite as old and good a family as the Martindales. Singular indeed it was that the only person in the Martindale family who showed any symptoms of alienation from the Featherstones was old John Martindale: the singularity, however, consisted in this, that he had not shown any coolness, or behaved with any reserve, on the increase of his own property; but he had carried himself proudly towards them only since his cousin had acquired a title of nobility and had become a peer. Yet the old gentleman professed to laugh at titles; but nobody thought that old John Martindale was a fool.

Sir Andrew Featherstone, being a good-humoured man, took little notice of countless insults, affronts, slights, and disrespectfulnesses, whereby myriads of the human species are most grievously tormented. He did not, therefore, heed or observe the coldness of old Mr. Martindale; nor was he at all angry with Philip that he gave much of his attention to Sir Gilbert Sampson, and that he tolerated the attentions of Miss Sampson. Lady Featherstone, however, was more observant; and notwithstanding the incessant and manifold attention which she paid to all the party, could not help noticing how very gracious Philip Martindale was with Sir Gilbert. Various were the stratagems by which her ladyship endeavoured and contrived to place Philip in juxtaposition with her daughters when they adjourned to the collation; and very agreeable was her surprise when, after the strictest observation, she did not discern any wandering of the eyes of the young gentleman towards that part of the table where Miss Sampson was seated. Her fears were still farther diminished, when she found that Miss Sampson was deeply, and to all appearance most agreeably, engaged in conversation with a very elegant young gentleman, who seemed almost as much pleased with Miss Sampson as he was with himself. We owe it to our readers to introduce this young gentleman.

Henry Augustus Tippetson was a gentleman of good family, but being a younger brother, and very indolent, was not likely to make any great figure in the world. He was of middle stature; very slender, very fair, very near-sighted when he happened to think of it; having flaxen hair and blue eyes; suspected, but unjustly, of using rouge; very expensive in his dress, and one of Delcroix’s best customers. He was not one of the archers, though he had once attempted to use a bow. He found that the exertion was too much for him, and he feared it might harden his hands. He expressed to Miss Sampson the same fears for her; but the young lady heeded not the apprehension.

Lady Featherstone was very happy to see Miss Sampson so employed; but when her ladyship turned her attention to her own daughters and the gentleman whom she had seated by them, not all her powers of penetration could discover to which of the young ladies Philip Martindale was paying the greatest attention; and most of all was her mind disturbed by observing, that when he addressed himself either to one or the other, though it was with perfect politeness, it was with perfect indifference.

The sports of the day were concluded by a ball, which resembled in every point every ball of the same character. There was the usual allowance of dancing, negus, nonsense, tossing of heads, sneering, quizzing, showing off, blundering, and all the rest of that kind of amusement. It enters not into our plan to dwell any longer on this festival. We must return to Brigland.

CHAPTER IX.

“For fame, (whose journies are through ways unknown,