We left Dr. Crack at the end of the last volume in a fair way of falling deeply in love with Miss Henderson, and there, for the present, we will leave him still, conscious that no one envies him. Our attention is now required in another quarter. The gentle, unobtrusive Clara Rivolta, whom nature indeed had never destined to be a heroine or even to be talked about, continued to undergo with much forbearance and quietness the persecuting attentions of the fragrant Henry Augustus Tippetson, who divided his time and attentions between the Countess of Trimmerstone and the grand-daughter of old John Martindale. What points of resemblance there were between these two ladies is not easy to say. Tippetson, however, thought much of rank: it was so great an honor to be intimate with a countess. Every body said that Tippetson was too intimate with the Countess, and another every body said that he was going to be married to Clara Rivolta.

Our readers must have observed that we are in general tolerably candid. But sometimes we do find ourselves glowing with an indignation not easily expressed, and feeling a contempt, for the conveyance of which no ordinary terms or allowed language will suffice. This contempt and this indignation do we now feel for that most execrable fribble, for that most attenuated shred of a dandikin, Henry Augustus Tippetson. Singleton Sloper is a lazy, ignorant lob, and Dr. Crack is a conceited puppy; but in neither of these two do we discern any thing at all equivalent in moral turpitude to that effeminate, that more than unmanly, that almost inhuman selfishness that disgraces, or rather constitutes, the character of Tippetson. This young gentleman had learned by rote the common places of polished society, and he played them off with a vile, cunning dexterity on the simple Clara Rivolta, till she was almost deceived as to his character. Her mind had been injured, though unintentionally, by the trumpery sentimentality of Miss Henderson’s foolish correspondence. The circumstances, also, of Mr. Martindale’s oddness of character, of Signora Rivolta’s retired habits, and of the Colonel’s general indifference to every thing, allowed to Clara but little opportunity of seeing or learning the world and its moral elements.

Markham now but seldom paid his visits. When he did, he was sure to find Tippetson there before him, or soon after he entered the house; and such was the cunning and craftiness of that young fox, that, whenever Markham was present, he contrived to pay such attentions as might corroborate to his eye the report of an engagement, and yet such as Clara could not pointedly or freezingly repel. To Markham, therefore, it seemed almost demonstrated that there subsisted an implicit engagement or understanding between the two; and as Markham saw in Tippetson nothing but the perfumed fop, and was not aware of his dirty cunning, he began to fancy that he had given Clara credit for more discernment than she possessed, when she could tolerate and be pleased with the attentions of such an unfurnished blockhead.

The days passed away to Clara very heavily. There was but little comfort to her in life, for there was little satisfaction in her situation. Without exactly knowing it, she missed the intelligent conversation of Markham, which was but imperfectly supplied by the common-place prate of Tippetson. She did not feel that she loved Markham, or that she hated Tippetson; but her feeling was that of dissatisfaction with herself. It was not a feeling of moral pain, but of moral uneasiness. There was nothing in amusement that amused her, and there was nothing in pleasure that pleased her. Her mother was intelligent and parentally kind; but there was in the construction of her mother’s mind that which rendered it unfit for a dexterous and accommodating sympathy with hers. Her mother had all the wisdom of a Mentor, but could not lay aside the majesty of a Minerva. It is a painful and disagreeable state of being, when a soul of natural and ardent sensibility has had its feelings wrongly excited and improperly directed, and when, from the disappointment which naturally results from this, it is beginning to settle down into the coldness of apathy and indifference. This is a condition in which multitudes have been placed; and shame be the portion of those who have placed them therein. “In the transition of this bitter hour” the strength of the mind is tried, and the destiny for life is decided.

Clara Rivolta was at this time in such state of mind, that had Tippetson made an offer of his hand, and had her parents approved it, she would have accepted the offer. And on the other hand, had Markham proposed to her, and had her parents expressed the slightest opposition, she would without any painful effort have refused him. To her mother’s mental discernment and strength of character was she indebted for the prevention of the first of these evils. Tippetson saw, as we have said above, that Signora Rivolta knew him, and he was therefore well aware that he could not have any hope of obtaining Clara’s hand till he had gained her affections, and had become essential to her happiness. How soon that was likely to take place is not easy to say. For greater coxcombs than he have been loved by women in other respects sensible and rational.

The mind of Tippetson, if such expression be consistent, was of such a nature as to be totally unable to exist without some stimulus, and yet absolutely without power to frame amusement or employment for itself. He had an ambition, but not a laborious ambition; it was composed of and impelled by trick and artifice. He could only ascend by creeping; and he found it easier to distinguish himself by singularity than by strength, to attract attention by eccentricity than to gain notice by excellence. He had been for a long while Clara’s companion. By the sufferance of the odd old gentleman, Mr. John Martindale, he had been in the habit of considering and finding himself at home at their house. He had never so far committed himself as to give Clara an opportunity of refusing him, nor had his behaviour to her been such as she could at all take notice of. There was nothing in his manner which demanded an explanation; and had he been asked what were his intentions, he could have replied that no one had any right to ask such a question from any part of his conduct. In the same manner as he deported himself towards Clara Rivolta did he, considering the different circumstances of the parties, behave towards the Countess of Trimmerstone. There was, however, this difference in the two cases; viz. that while his attentions were indifferent to the former, they were manifestly agreeable to the latter. In his company Clara was grave and silent, but Lady Trimmerstone cheerful and loquacious. Her ladyship’s ignorance attributed to the young gentleman a high degree of fashionable and scientific knowledge. Few were the Countess’s friends and intimates among persons of real consequence in society. Her parties were as numerously attended as need be, and the report of them looked as well in the Morning Post as the record of any other congregation of the superfine. But though many were her visitors, few were her friends. The cards which announced calls did not bear the names of those with whom she was personally intimate; and if by any accident she met any of the number, their chilling, freezing formality kept her at a mighty distance from them; and so far as acquaintance went, her intimacy with them was no more than if she had been presented at the court of the Emperor of China: she had an audience, but not any understanding of the party. We have, in the course of this narrative, mentioned it as a misfortune that Clara Rivolta had a female friend. We may here state that it was a misfortune that the Countess of Trimmerstone had not a female friend; for the Dowager Lady Martindale had taken herself quite out of the world, and had gone to reside at a distance from town, that she might give her undivided attention to her family. Of her eldest son she had long ceased to have any hopes; and of her daughter-in-law such was her opinion, that she was happy in any excuse to avoid her society.

The Earl of Trimmerstone, who had cared but little for Miss Sampson, now cared less for Lady Trimmerstone. His own acquaintance with that part of polite society with which his lady might with propriety have been made intimate, was very small and contracted; and he took little pains to form any friendships or intimacies for her with them. Every body pitied her, but nobody patronised her. Some, indeed, have gone so far as to say, that whenever they called, they were sure to see Mr. Tippetson there. Some grave ladies thought of hinting to the Countess the impropriety of such familiarity and unreasonable intimacy with this young gentleman. But they thought again that it was no business of theirs; and so they let her alone.

It would be an ingenious work for an ingenious man to write an essay on every body. Many can write well on nothing; but who can write well on every body? Every body is a paradox and a contradiction. Every body said that Tippetson was always with the Countess of Trimmerstone; and every body said that Tippetson was always with Clara Rivolta. This could not be true. Clara was not aware of the young gentleman’s intimacy with the Countess; nor had she ever heard the censorious remarks which the calumnious and wicked world had circulated concerning him. But the Countess was aware of his intimacy with the family of old John Martindale, and of the intention with which that intimacy was kept up. Frequently would she make allusion to it in such style of expression, as to lead the young puppy to imagine that she should, in the event of his marriage, feel the loss of his company. Such indeed was the impudence of this young coxcomb, that he has actually been heard to say that he had not quite made up his mind whether he should take Clara to Scotland, or the Countess to Italy.

All this time, where, it may be asked, was the Earl of Trimmerstone? Where, indeed! Every where but where he ought to be. Not having the fear of old John Martindale’s will before his eyes; either forgetting what the old gentleman had threatened, or flattering himself that the language of the will would be altered, he did not for any great length of time abstain from the indulgence of gaming; and though he was by no means a desperate gamester, setting his life on the cast of a die, yet he could not live comfortably without the stimulus; and he did not like to be called a methodist. He still kept horses at Newmarket, but not in his own name. His patriotism was still so great, that for the pure purpose of training up a breed of horses which may make the English cavalry the glory of the world, he continued to dawdle away his time with stable-boys, and lose his money to sharpers. He gamed elsewhere as well as at Newmarket; and sometimes he was a winner. He kept up but little intercourse with his opulent relative; for he was not able to give a very good account of himself. He had taken his seat in the House of Lords, but he had not much distinguished himself as an orator or a voter; for he had once been so careless as to give a proxy against ministers: he apologised for it afterwards, and promised to be more careful for the future. He was grievously negligent of home, and thought that to be the most melancholy hour of the twenty-four, in which having nothing else to do, and no where else to go, he was almost necessitated to return to his own home. We have not described this noble Earl as an ill-tempered or churlish man: he was indeed rather good-humored than otherwise; but his habits and pursuits had rendered him exceedingly anti-domestic. He never spoke a word of a harsh nature to his Countess; and even when he had lost at play, which happened more frequently than the reverse, he did not swear, stamp, or rave; nor was he moody and melancholy; but he would walk restlessly about the house with his hands in his pockets, whistling or humming odds and ends of old songs. When he was a winner, his raptures were not great, and he kept his joys to himself in silent meditation. Thus much for vindication of his behaviour in the married state may be said for him, that he did not deport himself very differently in marriage and in courtship. He had never been a very ardent or attentive lover; and no expectations were therefore raised by the lover’s attentions to be frustrated by the husband’s neglect. He suffered some disappointment indeed in the gratifications derived from exalted rank. He found himself of no more consequence or importance now that he was a noble Earl, than when he was simply and plainly Mr. Martindale; and though this disappointment did not sour his temper, it rendered him still more negligent and careless. Such was the stimulus that his mind required, that he suffered himself not unfrequently to be led into scenes and fooleries by which the dignity of his character was not a little impaired. It may be very well for lads just come from school, and abounding more in high spirits than discretion, to transgress occasionally the limits of strict decorum and grave propriety of demeanour; but it does not become right honorable hereditary legislators approaching the middle of life to play boy’s pranks, and disturb the peace of the neighbourhood. Such conduct does not add greatly to human dignity; and though very amusing for the time being, is not always productive of any permanent satisfaction.

As one of these frolics to which we here allude is somewhat connected with the development of our history, we will relate it. One evening, towards the latter end of May, when the days are at such an inconvenient length that it is hardly candle-light by dinner-time, the Earl of Trimmerstone and Singleton Sloper had agreed to dine at a club-house at nine in the evening, together with a set of honorable ones of the same slip-shod dignity as themselves. Every thing was ordered to be prepared on the most sumptuous possible scale; and though the weather was not warm enough to render ice a luxury, the apartment was ordered to be raised to such a temperature that iced wines might be properly enjoyed. The Earl and his friend did not design to be at the expense of this entertainment; but promised themselves that a young gentleman who was to be of the party, would, for the sake of the honor of such high society, suffer himself to be honorably deprived of enough, and more than enough, to defray the cost of the banquet. The bait appeared to take; but as neither the Earl nor his friend Sloper was absolutely dishonest or addicted to play unfairly, as they both trusted rather to their own skill and experience than to any dishonorable artifices, they were most cruelly and miserably disappointed. For our own part, such is our fastidiousness and delicacy, that we think it at least dishonorable, if not absolutely dishonest, to sit down deliberately to play for large stakes where there is a supposed great advantage in skill or experience; and therefore we do not think that money is fairly won under such circumstances, even though only what is called fair play has been used. We are, however, very glad, when in such cases the knowing ones are taken in. So it happened in the present case. Whatever the young gentleman, whom his lordship intended to pluck, wanted in experience, he seemed to make up by natural quickness and observant attention; and without any design of deep play, he was led on “deeper and deeper still.” Now, Singleton hinted to his lordship that it would be absolutely necessary to apply the “vinous stimulus,” as Dr. Crack called it, more copiously to their too vigilant friend. But whether it was from superior strength and vigor of constitution in the young man, or from the anxiety and agitation of the others, it so happened that the Right Hon. the Earl of Trimmerstone and his worthy friend Mr. Singleton Sloper felt most powerfully the effects of the wine. So much did they feel its effects, that they were compelled to leave off play after being considerable losers. The young gentleman, who had not the slightest supposition that any conspiracy had been formed against him, though he, perhaps, might not be reluctant, with his apparent simplicity, to form a conspiracy against another, felt in high spirits, pleased with his winnings, and proud of the honor of an acquaintance with a man of rank. At an early hour in the morning the party separated; but the young gentleman, as his home lay partly in the same direction, accompanied the Earl and his friend Mr. Sloper. By this time all three of them were under the influence of strong drink, and they were disposed to be exceedingly facetious. The Earl and his friend were on very intimate terms with the watchmen of their own immediate neighbourhood; but, to speak again after the manner of Dr. Crack, “the vinous stimulus had obfuscated their geographical apprehension,” so that they roamed beyond their usual precincts, amusing themselves as they went by copiously complying with the exhortation inscribed on many doors—“knock and ring.” This was not unobserved, nor did it pass unrebuked by the trusty guardians of the night. Advice and reproof are seldom very agreeable; and they are more frequently received with nominal than with real thanks. In the present instance they were most uncourteously received, seeing that an hereditary legislator ought certainly to know how to conduct himself without any monitory assistance from a watchman. The consequence of this indisposition to take good advice, terminated in the unpleasant and mortifying catastrophe of sending a noble earl and two illustrious commoners to the watch-house. But this was not effected by the arm of one individual watchman, nor was it accomplished till a great conflict had taken place between the parties; by the exertions of which conflict the already inebriated gentlemen were reduced to a state of nearly unconscious apathy and insensibility.

If this chapter were not already sufficiently long, we should certainly be tempted to lengthen it by a dissertation on dignity and propriety: in which dissertation we should attempt to demonstrate that nobility and gentry, however ornamental to society under certain conditions, may become, by means of weakness of head and emptiness of mind, a most intolerable nuisance; and we should also show that the homage which is paid to exalted station, undignified by exalted conduct, is the mere sycophancy of selfishness, altogether undesirable to those to whom it is offered, and disgraceful to those who offer it; and we should likewise have set forth, for the edification of the Toms and Jerrys of high life, the bitterness of mortification which is felt by that amiable class when they perceive that those whom they consider as their inferiors actually look down upon them with contempt. Still farther, it would be our laudable endeavour to remind those who squander away their means by low-minded pursuits, are tolerably sure to remain for life in that low and vulgar level to which they have reduced themselves; and lastly, though not least, we should say, with the utmost seriousness of manner, that the low-minded, profligate, and vulgar extravagants in high life, proud as they may be of their loyalty and toryism, do more rapidly and surely hasten the disorganization of society and the downfall of its Corinthian capital, than all the declamations of grumblers general, the washy sophistries of puling debating societies, or the clamorous mob of noisy radicals.

For this fine dissertation we have no room; and we pity our readers that they cannot have the pleasure of reading the development of the above scheme.