The desire of communicating knowledge or intelligence, is an argument with those who hold that man is naturally a social animal. It is indeed one of the earliest propensities we discover; but it may be doubted whether the pleasure (for pleasure there certainly is) arising from it be not often more selfish than social: for we frequently observe the tidings of Ill communicated as eagerly as the annunciation of Good. Is it that we delight in observing the effects of the stronger passions? for we are all philosophers in this respect; and it is perhaps amongst the spectators at Tyburn that the most genuine are to be found.

Was it from this motive that Peter came one morning into his master’s room with a meaning face of recital? His master indeed did not at first observe it; for he was sitting with one shoe buckled, delineating portraits in the fire. “I have brushed those clothes, sir, as you ordered me.”—Harley nodded his head but Peter observed that his hat wanted brushing too: his master nodded again. At last Peter bethought him that the fire needed stirring; and taking up the poker, demolished the turban’d head of a Saracen, while his master was seeking out a body for it. “The morning is main cold, sir,” said Peter. “Is it?” said Harley. “Yes, sir; I have been as far as Tom Dowson’s to fetch some barberries he had picked for Mrs. Margery. There was a rare junketting last night at Thomas’s among Sir Harry Benson’s servants; he lay at Squire Walton’s, but he would not suffer his servants to trouble the family: so, to be sure, they were all at Tom’s, and had a fiddle, and a hot supper in the big room where the justices meet about the destroying of hares and partridges, and them things; and Tom’s eyes looked so red and so bleared when I called him to get the barberries:—And I hear as how Sir Harry is going to be married to Miss Walton.”—“How! Miss Walton married!” said Harley. “Why, it mayn’t be true, sir, for all that; but Tom’s wife told it me, and to be sure the servants told her, and their master told them, as I guess, sir; but it mayn’t be true for all that, as I said before.”—“Have done with your idle information,” said Harley:—“Is my aunt come down into the parlour to breakfast?”—“Yes, sir.”—“Tell her I’ll be with her immediately.”

When Peter was gone, he stood with his eyes fixed on the ground, and the last words of his intelligence vibrating in his ears. “Miss Walton married!” he sighed—and walked down stairs, with his shoe as it was, and the buckle in his hand. His aunt, however, was pretty well accustomed to those appearances of absence; besides, that the natural gravity of her temper, which was commonly called into exertion by the care of her household concerns, was such as not easily to be discomposed by any circumstance of accidental impropriety. She too had been informed of the intended match between Sir Harry Benson and Miss Walton. “I have been thinking,” said she, “that they are distant relations: for the great-grandfather of this Sir Harry Benson, who was knight of the shire in the reign of Charles the First, and one of the cavaliers of those times, was married to a daughter of the Walton family.” Harley answered drily, that it might be so; but that he never troubled himself about those matters. “Indeed,” said she, “you are to blame, nephew, for not knowing a little more of them: before I was near your age I had sewed the pedigree of our family in a set of chair-bottoms, that were made a present of to my grandmother, who was a very notable woman, and had a proper regard for gentility, I’ll assure you; but now-a-days it is money, not birth, that makes people respected; the more shame for the times.”

Harley was in no very good humour for entering into a discussion of this question; but he always entertained so much filial respect for his aunt, as to attend to her discourse.

“We blame the pride of the rich,” said he, “but are not we ashamed of our poverty?”

“Why, one would not choose,” replied his aunt, “to make a much worse figure than one’s neighbours; but, as I was saying before, the times (as my friend, Mrs. Dorothy Walton, observes) are shamefully degenerated in this respect. There was but t’other day at Mr. Walton’s, that fat fellow’s daughter, the London merchant, as he calls himself, though I have heard that he was little better than the keeper of a chandler’s shop. We were leaving the gentlemen to go to tea. She had a hoop, forsooth, as large and as stiff—and it showed a pair of bandy legs, as thick as two—I was nearer the door by an apron’s length, and the pert hussy brushed by me, as who should say, Make way for your betters, and with one of her London bobs—but Mrs. Dorothy did not let her pass with it; for all the time of drinking tea, she spoke of the precedency of family, and the disparity there is between people who are come of something and your mushroom gentry who wear their coats of arms in their purses.”

Her indignation was interrupted by the arrival of her maid with a damask table-cloth, and a set of napkins, from the loom, which had been spun by her mistress’s own hand. There was the family crest in each corner, and in the middle a view of the battle of Worcester, where one of her ancestors had been a captain in the king’s forces; and with a sort of poetical licence in perspective, there was seen the Royal Oak, with more wig than leaves upon it.On all this the good lady was very copious, and took up the remaining intervals of filling tea, to describe its excellencies to Harley; adding, that she intended this as a present for his wife, when he should get one. He sighed and looked foolish, and commending the serenity of the day, walked out into the garden.

He sat down on a little seat which commanded an extensive prospect round the house. He leaned on his hand, and scored the ground with his stick: “Miss Walton married!” said he; “but what is that to me? May she be happy! her virtues deserve it; to me her marriage is otherwise indifferent: I had romantic dreams? they are fled?—it is perfectly indifferent.”

Just at that moment he saw a servant with a knot of ribbons in his hat go into the house. His cheeks grew flushed at the sight! He kept his eye fixed for some time on the door by which he had entered, then starting to his feet, hastily followed him.

When he approached the door of the kitchen where he supposed the man had entered, his heart throbbed so violently, that when he would have called Peter, his voice failed in the attempt. He stood a moment listening in this breathless state of palpitation: Peter came out by chance. “Did your honour want any thing?”—“Where is the servant that came just now from Mr. Walton’s?”—“From Mr. Walton’s, sir! there is none of his servants here that I know of.”—“Nor of Sir Harry Benson’s?”—He did not wait for an answer; but having by this time observed the hat with its parti-coloured ornament hanging on a peg near the door, he pressed forwards into the kitchen, and addressing himself to a stranger whom he saw there, asked him, with no small tremor in his voice, “If he had any commands for him?” The man looked silly, and said, “That he had nothing to trouble his honour with.”—“Are not you a servant of Sir Harry Benson’s?”—“No, sir.”—“You’ll pardon me, young man; I judged by the favour in your hat.”—“Sir, I’m his majesty’s servant, God bless him! and these favours we always wear when we are recruiting.”—“Recruiting!” his eyes glistened at the word: he seized the soldier’s hand, and shaking it violently, ordered Peter to fetch a bottle of his aunt’s best dram. The bottle was brought: “You shall drink the king’s health,” said Harley, “in a bumper.”—“The king and your honour.”—“Nay, you shall drink the king’s health by itself; you may drink mine in another.” Peter looked in his master’s face, and filled with some little reluctance. “Now to your mistress,” said Harley; “every soldier has a mistress.” The man excused himself—“To your mistress! you cannot refuse it.” ’Twas Mrs. Margery’s best dram! Peter stood with the bottle a little inclined, but not so as to discharge a drop of its contents: “Fill it, Peter,” said his master, “fill it to the brim.” Peter filled it; and the soldier having named Suky Simpson, dispatched it in a twinkling. “Thou art an honest fellow,” said Harley, “and I love thee;” and shaking his hand again, desired Peter to make him his guest at dinner, and walked up into his room with a pace much quicker and more springy than usual.

This agreeable disappointment, however, he was not long suffered to enjoy. The curate happened that day to dine with him: his visits, indeed, were more properly to the aunt than the nephew; and many of the intelligent ladies in the parish, who, like some very great philosophers, have the happy knack at accounting for everything, gave out that there was a particular attachment between them, which wanted only to be matured by some more years of courtship to end in the tenderest connection. In this conclusion, indeed, supposing the premises to have been true, they were somewhat justified by the known opinion of the lady, who frequently declared herself a friend to the ceremonial of former times, when a lover might have sighed seven years at his mistress’s feet before he was allowed the liberty of kissing her hand. ’Tis true Mrs. Margery was now about her grand climacteric; no matter: that is just the age when we expect to grow younger. But I verily believe there was nothing in the report; the curate’s connection was only that of a genealogist; for in that character he was no way inferior to Mrs. Margery herself. He dealt also in the present times; for he was a politician and a news-monger.

He had hardly said grace after dinner, when he told Mrs. Margery that she might soon expect a pair of white gloves, as Sir Harry Benson, he was very well informed, was just going to be married to Miss Walton. Harley spilt the wine he was carrying to his mouth: he had time, however, to recollect himself before the curate had finished the different particulars of his intelligence, and summing up all the heroism he was master of, filled a bumper, and drank to Miss Walton. “With all my heart,” said the curate, “the bride that is to be.” Harley would have said bride too; but the word bride stuck in his throat. His confusion, indeed, was manifest; but the curate began to enter on some point of descent with Mrs. Margery, and Harley had very soon after an opportunity of leaving them, while they were deeply engaged in a question, whether the name of some great man in the time of Henry the Seventh was Richard or Humphrey.

He did not see his aunt again till supper; the time between he spent in walking, like some troubled ghost, round the place where his treasure lay. He went as far as a little gate, that led into a copse near Mr. Walton’s house, to which that gentleman had been so obliging as to let him have a key. He had just begun to open it when he saw, on a terrace below, Miss Walton walking with a gentleman in a riding-dress, whom he immediately guessed to be Sir Harry Benson. He stopped of a sudden; his hand shook so much that he could hardly turn the key; he opened the gate, however, and advanced a few paces. The lady’s lap-dog pricked up its ears, and barked; he stopped again—

—“The little dogs and all,
Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see they bark at me!”

His resolution failed; he slunk back, and, locking the gate as softly as he could, stood on tiptoe looking over the wall till they were gone. At that instant a shepherd blew his horn: the romantic melancholy of the sound quite overcame him!—it was the very note that wanted to be touched—he sighed! he dropped a tear!—and returned.

At supper his aunt observed that he was graver than usual; but she did not suspect the cause: indeed, it may seem odd that she was the only person in the family who had no suspicion of his attachment to Miss Walton. It was frequently matter of discourse amongst the servants: perhaps her maiden coldness—but for those things we need not account.

In a day or two he was so much master of himself as to be able to rhyme upon the subject. The following pastoral he left, some time after, on the handle of a tea-kettle, at a neighbouring house where we were visiting; and as I filled the tea-pot after him, I happened to put it in my pocket by a similar act of forgetfulness. It is such as might be expected from a man who makes verses for amusement. I am pleased with somewhat of good nature that runs through it, because I have commonly observed the writers of those complaints to bestow epithets on their lost mistresses rather too harsh for the mere liberty of choice, which led them to prefer another to the poet himself: I do not doubt the vehemence of their passion; but, alas! the sensations of love are something more than the returns of gratitude.

LAVINIA.

A Pastoral.

Why steals from my bosom the sigh?
Why fixed is my gaze on the ground?
Come, give me my pipe, and I’ll try
To banish my cares with the sound.

Erewhile were its notes of accord
With the smile of the flow’r-footed Muse;
Ah! why by its master implored
Shou’d it now the gay carrol refuse?

’Twas taught by Lavinia’s sweet smile,
In the mirth-loving chorus to join:
Ah, me! how unweeting the while!
Lavinia—can never be mine!

Another, more happy, the maid
By fortune is destin’d to bless—
’Tho’ the hope has forsook that betray’d,
Yet why should I love her the less?

Her beauties are bright as the morn,
With rapture I counted them o’er;
Such virtues these beauties adorn,
I knew her, and prais’d them no more.

I term’d her no goddess of love,
I call’d not her beauty divine:
These far other passions may prove,
But they could not be figures of mine.

It ne’er was apparel’d with art,
On words it could never rely;
It reign’d in the throb of my heart,
It gleam’d in the glance of my eye.

Oh fool! in the circle to shine
That Fashion’s gay daughters approve,
You must speak as the fashions incline;
Alas! are there fashions in love?

Yet sure they are simple who prize
The tongue that is smooth to deceive;
Yet sure she had sense to despise,
The tinsel that folly may weave.

When I talk’d, I have seen her recline,
With an aspect so pensively sweet,—
Tho’ I spoke what the shepherds opine,
A fop were ashamed to repeat.She is soft as the dew-drops that fall
From the lip of the sweet-scented pea;
Perhaps when she smil’d upon all,
I have thought that she smil’d upon me.

But why of her charms should I tell?
Ah me! whom her charms have undone
Yet I love the reflection too well,
The painful reflection to shun.

Ye souls of more delicate kind,
Who feast not on pleasure alone,
Who wear the soft sense of the mind,
To the sons of the world still unknown.

Ye know, tho’ I cannot express,
Why I foolishly doat on my pain;
Nor will ye believe it the less,
That I have not the skill to complain.

I lean on my hand with a sigh,
My friends the soft sadness condemn;
Yet, methinks, tho’ I cannot tell why,
I should hate to be merry like them.

When I walk’d in the pride of the dawn,
Methought all the region look’d bright:
Has sweetness forsaken the lawn?
For, methinks, I grow sad at the sight.

When I stood by the stream, I have thought
There was mirth in the gurgling soft sound;
But now ’tis a sorrowful note,
And the banks are all gloomy around!

I have laugh’d at the jest of a friend;
Now they laugh, and I know not the cause,
Tho’ I seem with my looks to attend,
How silly! I ask what it was.

They sing the sweet song of the May,
They sing it with mirth and with glee;
Sure I once thought the sonnet was gay,
But now ’tis all sadness to me.

Oh! give me the dubious light
That gleams thro’ the quivering shade;
Oh! give me the horrors of night,
By gloom and by silence array’d!

Let me walk where the soft-rising wave,
Has pictur’d the moon on its breast;
Let me walk where the new cover’d grave
Allows the pale lover to rest!

When shall I in its peaceable womb,
Be laid with my sorrows asleep?
Should Lavinia but chance on my tomb—
I could die if I thought she would weep.

Perhaps, if the souls of the just
Revisit these mansions of care,
It may be my favourite trust
To watch o’er the fate of the fair.

Perhaps the soft thought of her breast,
With rapture more favour’d to warm;
Perhaps, if with sorrow oppress’d,
Her sorrow with patience to arm.

Then, then, in the tenderest part
May I whisper, “Poor Colin was true,”
And mark if a heave of her heart
The thought of her Colin pursue.

* * * “But as to the higher part of education, Mr. Harley, the culture of the mind—let the feelings be awakened, let the heart be brought forth to its object, placed in the light in which nature would have it stand, and its decisions will ever be just. The world

Will smile, and smile, and be a villain;

and the youth, who does not suspect its deceit, will be content to smile with it. Men will put on the most forbidding aspect in nature, and tell him of the beauty of virtue.

“I have not, under these grey hairs, forgotten that I was once a young man, warm in the pursuit of pleasure, but meaning to be honest as well as happy. I had ideas of virtue, of honour, of benevolence, which I had never been at the pains to define; but I felt my bosom heave at the thoughts of them, and I made the most delightful soliloquies. It is impossible, said I, that there can be half so many rogues as are imagined.“I travelled, because it is the fashion for young men of my fortune to travel. I had a travelling tutor, which is the fashion too; but my tutor was a gentleman, which it is not always the fashion for tutors to be. His gentility, indeed, was all he had from his father, whose prodigality had not left him a shilling to support it.

“‘I have a favour to ask of you, my dear Mountford,’ said my father, ‘which I will not be refused. You have travelled as became a man; neither France nor Italy have made anything of Mountford, which Mountford, before he left England, would have been ashamed of. My son Edward goes abroad, would you take him under your protection?’

“He blushed; my father’s face was scarlet. He pressed his hand to his bosom, as if he had said, my heart does not mean to offend you. Mountford sighed twice.

“‘I am a proud fool,’ said he, ‘and you will pardon it. There! (he sighed again) I can hear of dependance, since it is dependance on my Sedley.’

“‘Dependance!’ answered my father; ‘there can be no such word between us. What is there in £9,000 a year that should make me unworthy of Mountford’s friendship?’

“They embraced; and soon after I set out on my travels, with Mountford for my guardian.

“We were at Milan, where my father happened to have an Italian friend, to whom he had been of some service in England. The count, for he was of quality, was solicitous to return the obligation by a particular attention to his son. We lived in his palace, visited with his family, were caressed by his friends, and I began to be so well pleased with my entertainment, that I thought of England as of some foreign country.

“The count had a son not much older than myself. At that age a friend is an easy acquisition; we were friends the first night of our acquaintance.

“He introduced me into the company of a set of young gentlemen, whose fortunes gave them the command of pleasure, and whose inclinations incited them to the purchase. After having spent some joyous evenings in their society, it became a sort of habit which I could not miss without uneasiness, and our meetings, which before were frequent, were now stated and regular.“Sometimes, in the pauses of our mirth, gaming was introduced as an amusement. It was an art in which I was a novice. I received instruction, as other novices do, by losing pretty largely to my teachers. Nor was this the only evil which Mountford foresaw would arise from the connection I had formed; but a lecture of sour injunctions was not his method of reclaiming. He sometimes asked me questions about the company, but they were such as the curiosity of any indifferent man might have prompted. I told him of their wit, their eloquence, their warmth of friendship, and their sensibility of heart. ‘And their honour,’ said I, laying my hand on my breast, ‘is unquestionable.’ Mountford seemed to rejoice at my good fortune, and begged that I would introduce him to their acquaintance. At the next meeting I introduced him accordingly.

“The conversation was as animated as usual. They displayed all that sprightliness and good-humour which my praises had led Mountford to expect; subjects, too, of sentiment occurred, and their speeches, particularly those of our friend the son of Count Respino, glowed with the warmth of honour, and softened into the tenderness of feeling. Mountford was charmed with his companions. When we parted, he made the highest eulogiums upon them. ‘When shall we see them again?’ said he. I was delighted with the demand, and promised to reconduct him on the morrow.

“In going to their place of rendezvous, he took me a little out of the road, to see, as he told me, the performances of a young statuary. When we were near the house in which Mountford said he lived, a boy of about seven years old crossed us in the street. At sight of Mountford he stopped, and grasping his hand,

“‘My dearest sir,’ said he, ‘my father is likely to do well. He will live to pray for you, and to bless you. Yes, he will bless you, though you are an Englishman, and some other hard word that the monk talked of this morning, which I have forgot, but it meant that you should not go to heaven; but he shall go to heaven, said I, for he has saved my father. Come and see him, sir, that we may be happy.’

“‘My dear, I am engaged at present with this gentleman.’

“‘But he shall come along with you; he is an Englishman, too, I fancy. He shall come and learn how an Englishman may go to heaven.’

“Mountford smiled, and we followed the boy together.

“After crossing the next street, we arrived at the gate of a prison. I seemed surprised at the sight; our little conductor observed it.

“‘Are you afraid, sir?’ said he. ‘I was afraid once too, but my father and mother are here, and I am never afraid when I am with them.’

“He took my hand, and led me through a dark passage that fronted the gate. When we came to a little door at the end, he tapped. A boy, still younger than himself, opened it to receive us. Mountford entered with a look in which was pictured the benign assurance of a superior being. I followed in silence and amazement.

“On something like a bed, lay a man, with a face seemingly emaciated with sickness, and a look of patient dejection. A bundle of dirty shreds served him for a pillow, but he had a better support—the arm of a female who kneeled beside him, beautiful as an angel, but with a fading languor in her countenance, the still life of melancholy, that seemed to borrow its shade from the object on which she gazed. There was a tear in her eye—the sick man kissed it off in its bud, smiling through the dimness of his own—when she saw Mountford, she crawled forward on the ground, and clasped his knees. He raised her from the floor; she threw her arms round his neck, and sobbed out a speech of thankfulness, eloquent beyond the power of language.

“‘Compose yourself, my love,’ said the man on the bed; ‘but he, whose goodness has caused that emotion, will pardon its effects.’

“‘How is this, Mountford?’ said I; ‘what do I see? What must I do?’

“‘You see,’ replied the stranger, ‘a wretch, sunk in poverty, starving in prison, stretched on a sick bed. But that is little. There are his wife and children wanting the bread which he has not to give them! Yet you cannot easily imagine the conscious serenity of his mind. In the gripe of affliction, his heart swells with the pride of virtue; it can even look down with pity on the man whose cruelty has wrung it almost to bursting. You are, I fancy, a friend of Mr. Mountford’s. Come nearer, and I’ll tell you, for, short as my story is, I can hardly command breath enough for a recital. The son of Count Respino (I started, as if I had trod on a viper) has long had a criminal passion for my wife. This her prudence had concealed from me; but he had lately the boldness to declare it to myself. He promised me affluence in exchange for honour, and threatened misery as its attendant if I kept it. I treated him with the contempt he deserved; the consequence was, that he hired a couple of bravoes (for I am persuaded they acted under his direction), who attempted to assassinate me in the street; but I made such a defence as obliged them to fly, after having given me two or three stabs, none of which, however, were mortal. But his revenge was not thus to be disappointed. In the little dealings of my trade I had contracted some debts, of which he had made himself master for my ruin. I was confined here at his suit, when not yet recovered from the wounds I had received; the dear woman, and these two boys, followed me, that we might starve together; but Providence interposed, and sent Mr. Mountford to our support. He has relieved my family from the gnawings of hunger, and rescued me from death, to which a fever, consequent on my wounds and increased by the want of every necessary, had almost reduced me.’

“‘Inhuman villain!’ I exclaimed, lifting up my eyes to heaven.

“‘Inhuman indeed!’ said the lovely woman who stood at my side. ‘Alas! sir, what had we done to offend him? what had these little ones done, that they should perish in the toils of his vengeance?’

“I reached a pen which stood in the inkstand dish at the bed-side.

“‘May I ask what is the amount of the sum for which you are imprisoned?’

“‘I was able,’ he replied, ‘to pay all but five hundred crowns.’

“I wrote a draft on the banker with whom I had a credit from my father for 2,500, and presenting it to the stranger’s wife,

“‘You will receive, madam, on presenting this note, a sum more than sufficient for your husband’s discharge; the remainder I leave for his industry to improve.’

“I would have left the room. Each of them laid hold of one of my hands, the children clung to my coat. Oh! Mr. Harley, methinks I feel their gentle violence at this moment; it beats here with delight inexpressible.

“‘Stay, sir,’ said he, ‘I do not mean attempting to thank you’ (he took a pocket-book from under his pillow), ‘let me but know what name I shall place here next to Mr. Mountford!’

“‘Sedley.’

“He writ it down.

“‘An Englishman too, I presume.’

“‘He shall go to heaven, notwithstanding;’ said the boy who had been our guide.

“It began to be too much for me. I squeezed his hand that was clasped in mine, his wife’s I pressed to my lips, and burst from the place, to give vent to the feelings that laboured within me.

“‘Oh, Mountford!’ said I, when he had overtaken me at the door.

“‘It is time,’ replied he, ‘that we should think of our appointment; young Respino and his friends are waiting us.’

“‘Damn him, damn him!’ said I. ‘Let us leave Milan instantly; but soft—I will be calm; Mountford, your pencil.’ I wrote on a slip of paper,

“‘To Signor Respino.

“‘When you receive this, I am at a distance from Milan. Accept of my thanks for the civilities I have received from you and your family. As to the friendship with which you were pleased to honour me, the prison, which I have just left, has exhibited a scene to cancel it for ever. You may possibly be merry with your companions at my weakness, as I suppose you will term it. I give you leave for derision. You may affect a triumph, I shall feel it.

“Edward Sedley.”

“‘You may send this if you will,’ said Mountford, coolly, ‘but still Respino is a man of honour; the world will continue to call him so.’

“‘It is probable,’ I answered, ‘they may; I envy not the appellation. If this is the world’s honour, if these men are the guides of its manners—’

“‘Tut!’ said Mountford, ‘do you eat macaroni—’”

* * * * *

[At this place had the greatest depredations of the curate begun. There were so very few connected passages of the subsequent chapters remaining, that even the partiality of an editor could not offer them to the public. I discovered, from some scattered sentences, that they were of much the same tenor with the preceding; recitals of little adventures, in which the dispositions of a man, sensible to judge, and still more warm to feel, had room to unfold themselves. Some instruction, and some example, I make no doubt they contained; but it is likely that many of those, whom chance has led to a perusal of what I have already presented, may have read it with little pleasure, and will feel no disappointment from the want of those parts which I have been unable to procure. To such as may have expected the intricacies of a novel, a few incidents in a life undistinguished, except by some features of the heart, cannot have afforded much entertainment.

Harley’s own story, from the mutilated passages I have mentioned, as well as from some inquiries I was at the trouble of making in the country, I found to have been simple to excess. His mistress, I could perceive, was not married to Sir Harry Benson; but it would seem, by one of the following chapters, which is still entire, that Harley had not profited on the occasion by making any declaration of his own passion, after those of the other had been unsuccessful. The state of his health, for some part of this period, appears to have been such as to forbid any thoughts of that kind: he had been seized with a very dangerous fever, caught by attending old Edwards in one of an infectious kind. From this he had recovered but imperfectly, and though he had no formed complaint, his health was manifestly on the decline.

It appears that the sagacity of some friend had at length pointed out to his aunt a cause from which this might be supposed to proceed, to wit, his hopeless love for Miss Walton; for, according to the conceptions of the world, the love of a man of Harley’s fortune for the heiress of £4,000 a year is indeed desperate. Whether it was so in this case may be gathered from the next chapter, which, with the two subsequent, concluding the performance, have escaped those accidents that proved fatal to the rest.]