 CHAPTER XI. Such was the fate of Miss Emily Melville. Perhaps tyranny never exhibited a more painful memorial of the detestation in which it deserves to be held. The idea irresistibly exciting in every spectator of the scene was that of regarding Mr. Trell as the most diabolical wretch that had ever dishonored the human form. The very attendance upon this house of oppression, for the scene was acted upon too public a stage not to be generally understood, expressed their astonishment and disgust at his unparalleled cruelty. If such were the feelings of men bred to the commission of injustice, it is difficult to say what must have been those of Mr. Falkland. He raved, he swore, he beat his head, he rent up his hair. He was unable to continue in one posture and to remain in one place. He burst away from the spot with vehemence as if he sought to leave behind him his recollection and his existence. He seemed to tear up the ground with fierceness and rage. He returned soon again. He approached the sad remains of what had been Emily, and gazed on them with such intentness that his eyes appeared ready to burst from their sockets. Acute and exquisite as were his notions of virtue and honour, he could not prevent himself from reproaching the system of nature, for having given birth to such a monster as Tyrell. He was ashamed of himself for wearing the same form. He could not think of the human species with patience. He foamed with indignation against the laws of the universe that did not permit him to crush such reptiles at a blow as we would crush so many noxious insects. It was necessary to guard him like a madman. The whole office of judging what was proper to be done under the present circumstances devolved upon Dr. Wilson. The doctor was a man of cool and methodical habits of acting. One of the first ideas that suggested itself to him was that Miss Melville was a branch of the family of Tyrell. He did not doubt of the willingness of Mr. Falkland to discharge every expense that might be further incident to the melancholy remains of this unfortunate victim. But he conceived that the laws of fashion and decorum required some notification of the event to be made to the head of the family. Perhaps too he had an eye to his interest in his profession, and was reluctant to expose himself to the resentment of a person of Mr. Tyrell's consideration in the neighborhood. But with this weakness he had nevertheless some feelings in common with the rest of the world, and must have suffered considerable violence before he could have persuaded himself to be the messenger, beside which he did not think it right in the present situation to leave Mr. Falkland. Dr. Wilson no sooner mentioned these ideas than they seemed to make a sudden impression on Mrs. Hammond, and she earnestly requested that she might be permitted to carry the intelligence. The proposal was unexpected, but the doctor did not very obstinately refuse his assent. She was determined, she said, to see what sort of impression the catastrophe would make upon the author of it, and she promised to comport herself with moderation and civility. The journey was soon performed. "'I am come, sir,' said she to Mr. Tyrell, to inform you that your cousin, Miss Melville, died this afternoon.' "'Died?' "'Yes, sir. I saw her die. She died in these arms.' "'Died? Who killed her? What do you mean?' "'Who? Is it for you to ask that question?' "'Your cruelty and malice killed her.' "'Me? My! Pong! She's not dead. It cannot be. It is not a week since she left this house.' "'Do not you believe me? I say she is dead.' "'Have a care, woman. This is no matter for jesting. No. Though she used me ill, I would not believe her dead for all the world.' Mrs. Hammond shook her head in a manner expressive at once of grief and indignation. "'No, no, no, no. I will never believe that. No, never.' "'Will you come with me and convince your eyes? It is a sight worthy of you, and will be a feast to such a heart as yours.' Saying this, Mrs. Hammond offered her hand, as if to conduct him to the spot. Mr. Terrell shrunk back. "'If she be dead, what is that to me? Am I to answer for everything that goes wrong in the world? What do you come here for? Why bring your messages to me?' "'To whom should I bring them, but to her kinsmen, and her murderer?' "'Murderer! Did I employ knives or pistols? Did I give her poison? I did nothing but what the law allows. If she be dead, nobody can say that I am to blame.' "'To blame? All the world will abhor and curse you. Were you such a fool as to think, because men pay respect to wealth and rank, this would extend to such a deed? They will laugh at so bare-faced a cheat. The meanest beggar will spurn and spit at you. "'Ah, you may well stand confounded at what you have done. I will proclaim you to the whole world, and you will be obliged to fly the very face of a human creature.' "'Good woman!' said Mr. Terrell, extremely humbled. Talk no more in this strain. "'Emmy is not dead. I am sure. I hope she is not dead. Tell me that you have only been deceiving me, and I will forgive you everything. I will forgive her. I will take her into favour. I will do anything you please. I never meant her any harm.' "'I tell you she is dead. You have murdered the sweetest innocent that lived. Can you bring her back to life, as you have driven her out of it? If you could, I would kneel to you twenty times a day. What is it you have done? Miserable wretch! Did you think you could do and undo and change things this way and that, as you pleased?' The reproaches of Mrs. Hammond were the first instance in which Mr. Terrell was made to drink the full cup of retribution. This was, however, only a specimen of a long series of contempt, abhorrence, and insult that was reserved for him. The words of Mrs. Hammond were prophetic. It evidently appeared that the wealth and hereditary elevation operate as an apology for many delinquencies. There are some which so irresistibly address themselves to the indignation of mankind. That, like death, they level all distinctions, and reduce their perpetrator to inequality with the most indigent and squalid of his species. Against Mr. Terrell, as the tyrannical and unmanly murderer of Emily, those who dared not venture the unreserved avowal of their sentiments muttered curses, deep, not loud, while the rest joined in a universal cry of abhorrence and execration. He stood astonished at the novelty of his situation. Accustomed as he had been to the obedience and trembling homage of mankind, he had imagined they would be perpetual and that no excess on his part would ever be potent enough to break the enchantment. Now he looked round, and saw sullen detestation in every face, which with difficulty restrained itself, and upon the slightest provocation broke forth with an impetuous tide, and swept away the mounds of subordination and fear. His large estate could not purchase civility from the gentry, the peasantry, scarcely from his own servants. In the indignation of all around him he found a ghost that haunted him with every change of place, and a remorse that stung his conscience and exterminated his peace. The neighbourhood appeared more and more every day to be growing too hot for him to endure, and it became evident that he would ultimately be obliged to quit the country. Urged by the flegishness of this last example, people learned to recollect every other instance of his excesses, and it was, no doubt, a fearful catalogue that rose up in judgment against him. It seemed as if the sense of public resentment had long been gathering strength unperceived and now burst forth into insuppressable violence. There was scarcely a human being upon whom this sort of retribution could have sat more painfully than upon Mr. Terrell. Though he had not a consciousness of innocence prompting him continually to recoil from the detestation of mankind as a thing totally unallied to his character, yet the imperiousness of his temper and the constant experience he had had of the pliability of other men prepared him to feel the general and undisguised condemnation into which he was sunk with uncommon emotions of anger and impatience, that he, at the beam of whose eye every countenance fell, and to whom in the fierceness of his wrath no one was daring enough to reply, should now be regarded with a vowed dislike and treated with unceremonious censure was a thing he could not endure to recollect or believe. Symptoms of the universal disgust smote him at every instant, and at every blow he writhed with intolerable anguish. His rage was unbounded and raving. He repelled every attack with the fiercest indignation, while the more he struggled the more desperate his situation appeared to become. At length he determined to collect his strength for a decisive effort and to meet the whole tide of public opinion in a single scene. In pursuance of these thoughts he resolved to repair, without delay, to the rural assembly which I have already mentioned in the course of my story. Miss Melville had now been dead one month. Mr. Falkland had been absent the last week in a distant part of the country and was not expected to return for a week longer. Mr. Terrell willingly embraced the opportunity, trusting, if he could now affect his re-establishment, that he should easily preserve the ground he had gained, even in the face of his formidable rival. Mr. Terrell was not deficient in courage, but he conceived the present to be too important an epoch in his life to allow him to make any unnecessary risk in his chance for future ease and importance. There was a sort of bustle that took place at his entrance into the assembly, it having been agreed by the gentleman of the assembly that Mr. Terrell was to be refused admittance as a person with whom they did not choose to associate. This vote had already been notified to him by letter by the master of the ceremonies, but the intelligence was rather calculated with a man of Mr. Terrell's disposition to excite defiance than to overall. At the door of the assembly he was personally met by the master of the ceremonies, who had perceived the arrival of an equipage and who now endeavored to repeat his prohibition, but he was thrust aside by Mr. Terrell with an air of native authority and ineffable contempt. As he entered every eye was turned upon him. Presently all the gentlemen in the room assembled round him. Some endeavored to hustle him and others began to expostulate. But he found the secret effectually to silence the one set and to shake off the other. His muscular form, the well-known eminence of his intellectual powers, the long habits to which every man was formed of acknowledging his ascendancy, were all in his favour. He considered himself as playing a desperate stake, and had roused all the energies he possessed to enable him to do justice to so interesting a transaction. Disengaged from the insects that at first pestered him, he paced up and down the room with a magisterial stride and flashed an angry glance on every side. He then broke silence. If anyone had anything to say to him he should know where and how to answer him. He would advise any such person, however, to consider well what he was about. If any man imagined he had anything personally to complain of it was very well. But he did expect that nobody there would be ignorant and raw enough to meddle with what was no business of theirs and intrude into the concerns of any man's private family. This being a sort of defiance one and another gentleman advanced to answer it. He that was first began to speak, but Mr. Terrell, by the expression of his countenance and a peremptory tone by well-timed interruptions and pertinent insinuations, caused him first to hesitate, and then to be silent. He seemed to be fast advancing to the triumph he had promised himself. The whole company were astonished. They felt the same abhorrence and condemnation of his character, but they could not help admiring the courage and resources he displayed upon the present occasion. They could without difficulty have concentred afresh their indignant feelings, but they seemed to want a leader. At this critical moment Mr. Falkland entered the room. A mere accident had enabled him to return sooner than he expected. Both he and Mr. Terrell reddened at sight of each other. He advanced towards Mr. Terrell without a moment's pause, and in a peremptory voice asked him what he did there. Here, what do you mean by that? This place is as free to me as you, and you are the last person to whom I shall deign to give an account of myself. The place is not free to you. Do not you know you have been voted out? Whatever were your rights, your infamous conduct has forfeited them. Mr. what do you call yourself? If you have anything to say to me, choose a proper time and place. Do not think to put your bullying ears under shelter of this company. I will not endure it. You are mistaken, sir. This public scene is the only place where I can have anything to say to you. If you would not hear the universal indignation of mankind, you must not come into the society of men. Miss Melville, shame upon you, inhuman, unrelenting tyrant! Can you hear her name, and not sink into the earth? Can you retire into solitude and not see her pale and patient ghost rising to reproach you? Can you recollect her virtues, her innocence, her spotless manners, her unresentful temper, and not run distracted with remorse? Have you not killed her in the first bloom of her youth? Can you bear to think that she now lies mouldering in the grave through your cursed contrivance that deserved a crown ten thousand times more than you deserve to live? And do you expect that mankind will ever forget or forgive such a deed? Go, miserable wretch! Think yourself too happy that you are permitted to fly the face of man. Why, what a pitiful figure do you make at this moment? Do you think that anything could bring so hardened a wretch as you are to shrink from reproach if your conscience were not in confederacy with them that reproached you? And were you fool enough to believe that any obstinacy, however determined, could enable you to despise the keen rebuke of justice? Go, shrink into your miserable self! Be gone and let me never be blasted with your sight again! And here, incredible as it may appear, Mr. Trell began to obey his imperious censurer. His looks were full of wildness and horror, his limbs trembled, and his tongue refused its office. He felt no power of resisting the impetuous torrent of reproach that was poured upon him. He hesitated. He was ashamed of his own defeat. He seemed to wish to deny it. But his struggles were ineffectual. Every attempt perished in the moment it was made. The general voice was eager to abash him. As his confusion became more visible, the outcry increased. It swelled gradually to hootings, tumult, and a deafening noise of indignation. At length he willingly retired from the public scene, unable any longer to endure the sensations it inflicted. In about an hour and a half he returned. No precaution had been taken against this incident, for nothing could be more unexpected. In the interval he had intoxicated himself with large drafts of brandy. In a moment he was in a part of the room where Mr. Falkland was standing, and with one blow of his muscular arm levelled him with the earth. The blow, however, was not stunning, and Mr. Falkland rose again immediately. It is obvious to perceive how unequal he must have been in this species of contest. He was scarcely risen before Mr. Terrell repeated his blow. Mr. Falkland was now upon his guard and did not fall, but the blows of his adversary were redoubled with a rapidity difficult to conceive, and Mr. Falkland was once again brought to the earth. In this situation Mr. Terrell kicked his prostrate enemy and stooped apparently with the intention of dragging him along the floor. All this passed in a moment and the gentlemen present had not time to recover their surprise. They now interfered, and Mr. Terrell once more quitted the apartment. It is difficult to conceive any event more terrible to the individual upon whom it fell than the treatment which Mr. Falkland in this instance experienced. Every passion of his life was calculated to make him feel it more acutely. He had repeatedly exerted an uncommon energy and prudence to prevent the misunderstandings between Mr. Terrell and himself from proceeding to extremities, but in vain. It was closed with a catastrophe, exceeding all that he had feared or that the most penetrating foresight could have suggested. To Mr. Falkland, disgrace was worse than death. The slightest breath of dishonour would have stung him to the very soul. What must it have been with this complication of ignominy, base, humiliating, and public? Could Mr. Terrell have understood the evil he inflicted, even he, under all his circumstances of provocation, could scarcely have perpetrated it? Mr. Falkland's mind was full of uproar, like the war of contending elements, and of such sufferings as casts contempt on the refinements of inventive cruelty. He wished for annihilation, to lie down in eternal oblivion, in an insensibility which, compared with what he experienced, was scarcely less enviable than beatitude itself. Horror, detestation, revenge, inexpressible longings to shake off the evil, and a persuasion that in this case all effort was powerless, filled his soul even to bursting. One other event closed the transactions of this memorable evening. Mr. Falkland was baffled of the vengeance that yet remained to him. Mr. Terrell was found by some of the company, dead in the street, having been murdered at the distance of a few yards from the assembly-house. I shall endeavour to state the remainder of this narrative in the words of Mr. Collins. The reader has already had occasion to perceive that Mr. Collins was a man of no vulgar order, and his reflections on the subject were uncommonly judicious. This day was the crisis of Mr. Falkland's history. From hence took its beginning that gloomy and unsociable melancholy of which he has since been the victim. No two characters can be in certain respects more strongly contrasted than the Mr. Falkland of a date prior and subsequent to these events. Hitherto he had been attended by a fortune perpetually prosperous. His mind was sanguine, full of that undoubting confidence in its own powers which prosperity is qualified to produce. Though the habits of his life were those of a serious and sublime visionary, they were nevertheless full of cheerfulness and tranquility. But from this moment his pride and the lofty adventurousness of his spirit were effectually subdued. From an object of envy he was changed into an object of compassion. Life which Hitherto no one had more exquisitely enjoyed became a burden to him. No more self-complacency, no more rapture, no more self-approving and heart-transporting benevolence. He who had lived beyond any man upon the grand and animating reveries of the imagination seemed now to have no visions but of anguish and despair. His case was peculiarly worthy of sympathy, since no doubt if rectitude and purity of disposition could give a title to happiness few men could exhibit a more consistent and powerful claim than Mr. Falkland. He was too deeply pervaded with the idle and groundless romances of chivalry ever to forget the situation humiliating and dishonorable according to his ideas in which he had been placed upon this occasion. There is a mysterious sort of divinity annexed to the person of a true knight that makes any species of brute violence committed upon it indelible and immortal. To be knocked down, cuffed, kicked, dragged along the floor, sacred heaven the memory of such a treatment was not to be endured. No future lustration could ever remove the stain. And what was perhaps still worse in the present case, the offender having ceased to exist, the lustration which the laws of night errantry prescribe was rendered impossible. In some future period of human improvement it is probable that that calamity will be in a manner unintelligible, which in the present instance contributed to tarnish and wither the excellence of one of the most elevated and amiable of human minds. If Mr. Falkland had reflected with perfect accuracy upon the case he would probably have been able to look down with indifference upon a wound which, as it was, pierced to his very vitals. How much more dignity than in the modern due-list do we find in Themistocles, the most gallant of the Greeks, who, when Eurybiades, his commander in chief, in answer to some of his remonstrances, lifted his cane over him with a menacing air accosted him in that noble apostrophe. Strike but here! How would a man of true discernment in such a case reply to his brutal assailant? I make it my boast that I can endure calamity and pain. Shall I not be able to endure the trifling inconvenience that your folly can inflict upon me? Perhaps a human being would be more accomplished if he understood the science of personal defence, but how few would be the occasions upon which he would be called to exert it. How few persons would he encounter so unjust and injurious as you if his own conduct were directed by the principles of reason and benevolence. Beside how narrow would be the use of this science when acquired, it will scarcely put the man of delicate make and petty stature upon a level with the athletic pugilist. And if it did in some measure secure me against the malice of a single adversary, still my person and my life, so far as mere force is concerned, would always be at the mercy of two. Further than immediate defence against actual violence it could never be of use to me. The man who can deliberately meet his adversary for the purpose of exposing the person of one or both of them to injury, tramples upon every principle of reason and equity. Dueling is the vilest of all egotism, treating the public, who has a claim to all my powers and exertions, as if it were nothing and myself, or rather an unintelligible shimmera I annexed to myself, as if it were entitled to my exclusive attention. I am unable to cope with you. What then? Can that circumstance dishonour me? No. I can only be dishonoured by perpetrating an unjust action. My honour is in my own keeping, beyond the reach of all mankind. Strike! I am passive. No injury that you can inflict shall provoke me to expose you or myself to unnecessary evil. I refuse that. But I am not, therefore, pusillanimous, when I refuse any danger or sufferings by which the general good may be promoted, then brand me for a coward. These reasonings, however simple and irresistible they must be found by a dispassionate inquirer, are little reflected on by the world at large, and were most of all uncongenial to the prejudices of Mr. Falkland. But the public disgrace and chastisement that had been imposed upon him, intolerable as they were to be recollected, were not the whole of the mischief that redounded to our unfortunate patron from the transactions of that day. It was presently whispered that he was no other than the murderer of his antagonist. This rumour was of too much importance to the very continuance of his life, to justify its being concealed from him. He heard it with inexpressible astonishment and horror. It formed a dreadful addition to the load of intellectual anguish that already oppressed him. No man had ever held his reputation more dear than Mr. Falkland, and now in one day he was fallen under the most exquisite calamities, a complicated personal insult, and the imputation of the foulest of crimes. He might have fled, for no one was forward to proceed against a man so adored as Mr. Falkland, or in revenge of one so universally execrated as Mr. Terrell. But flight he disdained. In the meantime the affair was of the most serious magnitude, and the rumour unchecked seemed daily to increase in strength. Mr. Falkland appeared sometimes inclined to adopt such steps as might have been best calculated to bring the imputation to a speedy trial. But he probably feared, by too direct of an appeal, to judicature, to render more precise an imputation, the memory of which he deprecated, at the same time that he was sufficiently willing to meet the severest scrutiny, and if he could not hope to have it forgotten that he had ever been accused, to prove in the most satisfactory manner that the accusation was unjust. The neighbouring magistrates at length conceived it necessary to take some steps upon the subject. Without causing Mr. Falkland to be apprehended, they sent to desire he would appear before them at one of their meetings. The proceeding being thus opened, Mr. Falkland expressed his hope that if the business were likely to stop there, their investigation might at least be rendered as solemn as possible. The meeting was numerous. Every person of a respectable class in society was admitted to be an auditor. The whole town, one of the most considerable in the county, was apprised of the nature of the business. Few trials invested with all the forms of judgment have excited so general an interest. A trial under the present circumstances was scarcely attainable, and it seemed to be the wish both of principal and umpires, to give to this transaction all the momentary notoriety and decisiveness of a trial. The magistrates investigated the particulars of the story. Mr. Falkland, it appeared, had left the rooms immediately after his assailant, and though he had been attended by one or two of the gentlemen to his inn, it was proved that he had left them upon some slight occasion as soon as he arrived at it, and that, when they inquired for him of the waiters, he had already mounted his horse and ridden home. By the nature of the case no particular facts could be stated in balance against these. As soon as they had been sufficiently detailed, Mr. Falkland therefore proceeded to his defense. Several copies of his defense were made, and Mr. Falkland seemed, for a short time, to have had the idea of sending it to the press, though for some reason or other he afterwards suppressed it. I have one of the copies in my possession, and I will read it to you. Saying this, Mr. Collins rose, and took it from a private drawer in his escutoire. During this action he appeared to recollect himself. He did not, in the strict sense of the word, hesitate, but he was prompted to make some apology for what he was doing. You seem never to have heard of this memorable transaction, and indeed that is little to be wondered at, since the good nature of the world is interested in suppressing it, and it is deemed a disgrace to a man to have defended himself from a criminal reputation, though with circumstances the most satisfactory and honourable. It may be supposed that this suppression is particularly acceptable to Mr. Falkland, and I should not have acted in contradiction to his modes of thinking in communicating the story to you, had there not been circumstances of peculiar urgency that seemed to render the communication desirable. Saying this he proceeded to read from the paper in his hand. Gentlemen, I stand here accused of a crime, the most black that any human creature is capable of perpetrating. I am innocent. I have no fear that I shall fail to make every person in this company acknowledge my innocence. In the meantime, what must be my feelings? Conscious as I am of deserving approbation, and not censure, of having passed my life in acts of justice and philanthropy, can anything be more deplorable than for me to answer to a charge of murder? So wretched is my situation that I cannot accept your gratuitous acquittal, if you should be disposed to bestow it. I must answer to an imputation, the very thought of which is ten thousand times worse to me than death. I must exert the whole energy of my mind to prevent my being ranked with the vilest of men. Gentlemen, this is a situation in which a man may be allowed to boast. A cursed situation. No man need envy me the vile and polluted triumph I am now to gain. I have called no witnesses to my character. Great God! What sort of character is that which must be supported by witnesses? But, if I must speak, look round the company, ask of every one present, inquire of your own hearts. Not one word of reproach was ever whispered against me. I do not hesitate to call upon those who have known me most to afford me the most honorable testimony. My life has been spent in the keenest and most unintermitted sensibility to reputation. I am almost indifferent as to what shall be the event of this day. I would not open my mouth upon the occasion if my life were the only thing that was at stake. It is not in the power of your decision to restore to me my unblemished reputation, to obliterate the disgrace I have offered, or to prevent it from being remembered that I have been brought to examination upon a charge of murder. Your decision can never have the efficacy to prevent the miserable remains of my existence from being the most intolerable of all burdens. I am accused of having committed murder upon the body of Barnabas Terrell. I would most joyfully have given every farthing I possess and devoted myself to perpetual beggary to have preserved his life. His life was precious to me beyond that of all mankind. In my opinion, the greatest injustice committed by his unknown assassin was that of defrauding me of my just revenge. I confess that I would have called him out to the field, and that our encounter should not have been terminated but by the death of one or both of us. This would have been a pitiful and inadequate compensation for his unparalleled insult. But it was all that remained. I ask for no pity, but I must openly declare that never was any misfortune so horrible as mine. I would willingly have taken refuge from the recollection of that night in a voluntary death. Life was now stripped of all those recommendations for the sake of which it was dear to me. But even this consolation has denied me. I am compelled to drag forever the intolerable load of existence upon penalty, if at any period, however remote, I shake it off, of having that impatience regarded as confirming a charge of murder. Gentlemen, if by your decision you could take away my life without that act being connected with my disgrace, I would bless the cord that stopped the breath of my existence forever. You all know how easily I might have fled from this purgation. If I had been guilty, should I not have embraced the opportunity? But, as it was, I could not. Reputation has been the idle, the jewel of my life. I could never have borne to think that a human creature in the remotest part of the globe should believe that I was a criminal. Alas! what a deity it is that I have chosen for my worship! I have entailed upon myself everlasting agony and despair. I have but one word to add. Gentlemen, I charge you to do me the imperfect justice that is in your power. My life is a worthless thing, but my honour, the empty remains of honour I have now to boast, is in your judgment, and you will each of you, from this day, have imposed upon yourselves the task of its vindicators. It is little that you can do for me, but it is not less your duty to do that little. May that God, who is the fountain of honour and good, prosper and protect you. The man who now stands before you is devoted to perpetual barrenness and blast. He has nothing to hope for beyond the feeblest consolation of this day. You will easily imagine that Mr. Falkland was discharged with every circumstance of credit. Nothing is more to be deplored in human institutions than that the ideas of mankind should have annexed a sentiment of disgrace to a purgation, thus satisfactory and decisive. No one entertained the shadow of a doubt upon the subject, and yet a mere concurrence of circumstances made it necessary that the best of men should be publicly put on his defence, as if really under suspicion of an atrocious crime. It may be granted, indeed, that Mr. Falkland had his faults, but those very faults placed him at a still further distance from the criminality in question. He was the fool of honour and fame, a man whom, in the pursuit of reputation, nothing could divert, who would have purchased the character of a true, gallant, and undaunted hero at the expense of worlds, and who thought every calamity nominal but a stain upon his honour. How atrociously absurd to suppose that any motive capable of inducing such a man to play the part of a lurking assassin! How unfeeling to oblige him to defend himself from such an imputation! Did any man, at least of all a man of the purest honour, ever pass in a moment from a life unstained by a single act of injury to the consummation of human depravity? When the decision of the magistrates was declared, a general murmur of applause and involuntary transport burst forth from every one present. It was at first low, and gradually became louder. As it was the expression of rapturous delight and an emotion disinterested and divine, so there was an indescribable something in the very sound that carried it home to the heart, and convinced every spectator that there was no merely personal pleasure which ever existed, that would not be foolish and feeble in the comparison. Everyone strove who should most express his esteem of the amiable accused. Mr. Falkland was no sooner withdrawn than the gentleman present determined to give a still further sanction to the business by their congratulations. They immediately named a deputation to wait upon him for that purpose. Everyone concurred to assist the general sentiment. It was a sort of sympathetic feeling that took hold upon all ranks and degrees. The multitude received him with huzzas. They took his horses from his carriage, dragged him along in triumph, and attended him many miles on his return to his own habitation. It seemed as if a public examination upon a criminal charge, which had hitherto been considered in every event as a brand of disgrace, was converted, in the present instance, into an occasion of enthusiastic adoration and unexampled honour. Nothing could reach the heart of Mr. Falkland. He was not insensible to the general kindness and exertions, but it was too evident that the melancholy that had taken hold of his mind was invincible. It was only a few weeks after this memorable scene that the real murderer was discovered. Every part of this story was extraordinary. The real murderer was Hawkins. He was found with his son under a feigned name, at a village about thirty miles distant, in want of all necessaries of life. He had lived there from the period of his flight in so private a manner that all the inquiries that had been set on foot by the benevolence of Mr. Falkland, or the insatiable malice of Mr. Terrell, had been insufficient to discover him. The first thing that had led to the detection was a parcel of clothes covered with blood that were found in a ditch, and that, when drawn out, were known by the people of the village to belong to this man. The murder of Mr. Terrell was not a circumstance that could be unknown and suspicion was immediately roused. A diligent search being made, the rusty handle, with part of the blade of a knife, was found thrown in a corner of his lodging, which, being applied to a piece of the point of a knife that had been broken in the wound, appeared exactly to correspond. Upon further inquiry, two rustics, who had been accidentally on the spot, remembered to have seen Hawkins and his son in the town that very evening, and to have called after them and received no answer, though they were sure of their persons. Upon this accumulated evidence both Hawkins and his son were tried, condemned, and afterwards executed. In the interval between the sentence and execution Hawkins confessed his guilt with many marks of compunction, though there are persons by whom this is denied. But I have taken some pains to inquire into the fact, and then persuaded that their disbelief is precipitate and groundless. The cruel injustice that this man had suffered from his village tyrant was not forgotten upon the present occasion. It was by a strange fatality that the barbarous proceedings of Mr. Terrell seemed never to fall short of their completion, and even his death served eventually to consummate the ruin of a man he hated. A circumstance which, if it could have come to his knowledge, would perhaps have in some measure consoled him for his untimely end. This poor Hawkins was surely entitled to some pity, since his being finally urged to desperation and brought, together with his son, to an ignominious fate, was originally owing to the sturdiness of his virtue and independence. But the compassion of the public was in a great measure shut against him, as they thought at a piece of barbarous and unpardonable selfishness, that he had not rather come boldly forward to meet the consequences of his own conduct, than suffer a man of so much public worth as Mr. Falkland, and who had been so desirous of doing him good, to be exposed to the risk of being tried for a murder that he had committed. From this time to the present, Mr. Falkland has been nearly such as you at present see him. Though it be several years since these transactions, the impression they made is forever fresh in the mind of our unfortunate patron. From thence forward his habits became totally different. He had before been fond of public scenes, and acting apart in the midst of the people among whom he immediately resided. He now made himself a rigid exclusive. He had no associates, no friends. Inconsoleable himself, he yet wished to treat others with kindness. There was a solemn sadness in his manner, attended with the most perfect gentleness and humanity. Everybody respects him, for his benevolence is unalterable. But there is a stately coldness and reserve in his behaviour, which makes it difficult for those about him to regard him with the familiarity of affection. These symptoms are uninterrupted, except at certain times when his sufferings become intolerable, and he displays the marks of a furious insanity. At those times his language is fearful and mysterious, and he seems to figure to himself by turns every sort of persecution term which may be supposed to attend upon an accusation of murder. But sensible of his own weakness he is anxious at such times to withdraw into solitude, and his domestics in general know nothing of him but the uncommunicative and haughty but mild dejection that accompanies everything he does. End of CHAPTER I have stated the narrative of Mr. Collins interspersed with such other information as I was able to collect, with all the exactness that my memory, assisted by certain memorandums I made at the time, will afford. I do not pretend to warrant the authenticity of any part of these memoirs, except so much as fell under my own knowledge, and that part shall be given with the same simplicity and accuracy that I would observe towards a court which was to decide in the last resort upon everything dear to me. The same scrupulous fidelity restrains me from altering the manner of Mr. Collins's narrative to adapt it to the precepts of my own taste, and it will soon be perceived how essential that narrative is to the elucidation of my history. The intention of my friend in this communication was to give me ease, but he in reality added to my embarrassment. Hither too I had had no intercourse with the world and its passions, and though I was not totally unacquainted with them as they appear in books, this proved of little service to me when I came to witness them myself. The case seemed entirely altered when the subject of those passions was continually before my eyes, and the events had happened but the day as it were, in the very neighbourhood where I lived. There was a connection and progress in this narrative, which made it altogether unlike the little village incidents I had hitherto known. My feelings were successively interested for the different persons that were brought upon the scene. My veneration was excited for Mr. Clare, and my applause for the intrepidity of Mrs. Hammond. I was astonished that any human creature should be so shockingly perverted as Mr. Turrell. I paid the tribute of my tears to the memory of the artless Miss Melville. I found a thousand fresh reasons to admire and love Mr. Falkland. At present I was satisfied with thus considering every incident in its obvious sense, but the story I had heard was forever in my thoughts, and I was peculiarly interested to comprehend its full import. I turned it a thousand ways and examined it in every point of view. In the original communication it appeared sufficiently distinct and satisfactory. But as I brooded over it, it gradually became mysterious. There was something strange in the character of Hawkins. So firm, so sturdily honest, and just, as it appeared at first, all at once to become a murderer? His first behaviour under the prosecution, how accurately was it calculated to pre-possess one in his favour? To be sure, if he were guilty, it was unpardonable in him to permit a man of so much dignity and worth as Mr. Falkland to suffer under the imputation of his crime. And yet I could not help bitterly compassionating the honest fellow, brought to the gallows as he was, strictly speaking, by the machinations of that devil incarnate Mr. Terrell. His son, too, that son for whom he voluntarily sacrificed his all, to die with him at the same tree. Surely never was a story more affecting. Was it possible, after all, that Mr. Falkland should be the murderer? The reader will scarcely believe that the idea suggested itself to my mind that I would ask him. It was but a passing thought, but it serves to mark the simplicity of my character. Then I recollected the virtues of my master, almost too sublime for human nature. I thought of his sufferings so unexampled, so unmerited, and chid myself for the suspicion. The dying confession of Hawkins recurred to my mind, and I felt that there was no longer a possibility of doubting. And yet what was the meaning of Mr. Falkland's agonies and terrors? In fine the idea having once occurred to my mind it was fixed there forever. My thoughts fluctuated from conjecture to conjecture, but this was the centre about which they revolved. I determined to place myself as a watch upon my patron. The instant I had chosen this employment for myself I found a strange sort of pleasure in it. To do what is forbidden always has its charms, because we have an indistinct apprehension of something arbitrary and tyrannical in the prohibition. To be a spy upon Mr. Falkland, that there was danger in the employment served to give an alluring pungency to the choice. I remembered to the stern reprimand I had received and his terrible looks, and the recollection gave a kind of tingling sensation, not altogether unallied to enjoyment. The further I advanced the more the sensation was irresistible. I seemed to myself perpetually upon the brink of being countermined, and perpetually roused to guard my designs. The more impenetrable Mr. Falkland was determined to be, the more uncontrollable was my curiosity. Through the whole my alarm and apprehension of personal danger had a large mixture of frankness and simplicity, conscious of meaning no will, that made me continually ready to say everything that was upon my mind, and would not suffer me to believe that when things were brought to the test any one could be seriously angry with me. These reflections led gradually to a new state of my mind. When I had first removed into Mr. Falkland's family the novelty of the scene rendered me cautious and reserved. The distant and solemn manners of my master seemed to have annihilated my constitutional gaiety. But the novelty by degrees wore off, and my constraint in the same degree diminished. The story I had now heard and the curiosity had excited restored to me activity, eagerness and courage. I had always had a propensity to communicate my thoughts. My age was, of course, inclined to talkativeness, and I ventured occasionally in a sort of hesitating way, as if questioning whether such a conduct might be allowed to express my sentiments as they arose in the presence of Mr. Falkland. The first time I did so he looked at me with an air of surprise, made me no answer, and presently took occasion to leave me. The experiment was soon after repeated. My master seemed half inclined to encourage me, and yet doubtful whether he might venture. He had long been a stranger to pleasure of every sort, and my artless and untaught remarks appeared to promise him some amusement. Could an amusement of this sort be dangerous? In this uncertainty he could not probably find it in his heart to treat with severity my innocent effusions. I needed but little encouragement, for the perturbation of my mind stood in want of this relief. My simplicity, arising from my being a total stranger to the intercourse of the world, was accompanied with a mind in some degree cultivated with reading, and perhaps not altogether destitute of observation and talent. My remarks were therefore perpetually unexpected, at one time implying extreme ignorance, and at another some portion of acuteness, but at all times having an air of innocence, frankness, and courage. There was still an apparent want of design in the manner, even after I was excited accurately to compare my observations, and study the inferences to which they led, for the effect of old habit was more visible than that of a recently conceived purpose, which was yet scarcely mature. Mr. Faulklin's situation was like that of a fish that plays with the bait employed to entrap him. By my manner he was in a certain degree encouraged to lay aside his usual reserve and relax his statelyness, till some abrupt observation or interrogatory stung him into recollection, and brought back his alarm. Still it was evident that he bore about him a secret wound. Whenever the cause of his sorrows was touched, though in a manner the most indirect and remote, his countenance altered, his distemper returned, and it was with difficulty that he could suppress his emotions, sometimes conquering himself with painful effort, and sometimes bursting into a sort of paroxysm of insanity and hastening to bury himself in solitude. These appearances I too frequently interpreted into grounds of suspicion, though I might with equal probability and more liberality have ascribed them to the cruel mortifications he had encountered in the objects of his darling ambition. Mr. Collins had strongly urged me to secrecy, and Mr. Faulklin, whenever my gesture or his consciousness impressed him with the idea of my knowing more than I expressed, looked at me with wistful earnestness, as questioning what was the degree of information I possessed, and how it was obtained. But again at our next interview the simple vivacity of my manner restored his tranquility, obliterated the emotion of which I had been the cause, and placed things afresh in their former situation. The longer this humble familiarity on my part had continued, the more effort it would require to suppress it, and Mr. Faulklin was neither willing to mortify me by a severe prohibition of speech, nor even, perhaps, to make me of so much consequence, as that prohibition might seem to imply. Though I was curious it must not be supposed that I had the object of my inquiry forever in my mind, or that my questions and innuendos were perpetually regulated with the cunning of a grey-headed inquisitor. The secret wound of Mr. Faulklin's mind was much more uniformly present to his recollection than to mine, and a thousand times he applied the remarks that occurred in conversation, when I had not the remotest idea of such an application, till some singularity in his manner brought it back to my thoughts. The consciousness of this morbid sensibility, and the imagination that its influence might perhaps constitute the whole of the case, served, probably, to spur Mr. Faulklin again to the charge, and connect a sentiment of shame with every project that suggested itself for interrupting the freedom of our intercourse. I will give a specimen of the conversations to which I allude, and as it shall be selected from those which began upon topics the most general and remote, the reader will easily imagine the disturbance that was almost daily endured by a mind so tremblingly alive as that of my patron. Pray, sir," said I, one day, as I was assisting Mr. Faulklin in arranging some papers, previously to their being transcribed into his collection. How came Alexander of Macedon to be, sir, named the Great? How came it? Did you never read his history? Yes, sir." Well, Williams, and could you find no reasons there? Why, I do not know, sir. I could find reasons why he should be so famous, but every man that is talked of is not admired. Judges differ about the merits of Alexander. Dr. Prado says, in his connection, that he deserves only to be called the Great Cutthroat, and the author of Tom Jones has written a volume to prove that he and all other conquerors ought to be classed with Jonathan Wilde. Mr. Faulklin readened at these citations. A cursed blasphemy! Did these authors think that by the coarseness of their ribaldry that they could destroy his well-earned fame? Are learning, sensibility, and taste no securities to exempt their possessor from this vulgar abuse? Did you ever read Williams of a man more gallant, generous, and free? Was ever mortal so completely the reverse of everything engrossing and selfish? He formed to himself a sublime image of excellence, and his only ambition was to realize it in his own story. Remember his giving away everything when he set out upon his end expedition, professedly reserving for himself nothing but hope? Recollect his heroic confidence in Philip the Physician, and his entire and unalterable friendship for a festion. He treated the captive family of Darius with the most cordial urbanity, and the venerable Cisigambus with all the tenderness and attention of a son to his mother. Never take the judgment, Williams, upon such a subject, of a clerical pedant or a West Minster justice. Examine for yourself, and you will find in Alexander a model of honour, generosity, and disinterestedness. A man who for the cultivated liberality of his mind, and the unparalleled grandeur of his projects, must stand alone the spectacle and admiration of all ages of the world. Ah, sir! it is a fine thing for us to sit here, and compose his panegyric. But shall I forget what a vast expense was bestowed in erecting the monument of his fame? Was not he the common disturber of mankind? Did not he overrun nations that would never have heard of him but for his devastations? How many hundred thousands of lives did he sacrifice in his career? What must I think of his cruelties? A whole tribe massacred for a crime committed by their ancestors one hundred and fifty years before? Fifty thousand sold into slavery. Two thousand crucified for their gallant defence of their country. Man is surely a strange sort of creature who never praises anyone more heartily than him who has spread destruction and ruin over the face of nations. The way of thinking you express, Williams, is natural enough, and I cannot blame you for it. But let me hope that you will become more liberal. The death of a hundred thousand men is at first sight very shocking. But what in reality are a hundred thousand such men more than a hundred thousand sheep? It is mind, Williams, the generation of knowledge and virtue that we love. This was the project of Alexander. He set out in a great undertaking to civilise mankind. He delivered the vast continent of Asia from the stupidity and degradation of the Persian monarchy. And though he was cut off in the midst of his career, we may easily perceive the vast effects of his project. Grecian literature and cultivation. The Seleucidae. The Tyacusis and the Ptolemies followed in nations which before had been sunk to the condition of Brutes. Alexander was the builder, as notoriously as the destroyer, of cities. And yet, sir, I am afraid that the pike and the battle-axe are not the right instruments for making men wise. Suppose it were admitted that the lives of men were to be sacrificed without remorse if a paramount good were to result. It seems to me as if murder and massacre were but a very left-handed way of producing civilisation and love. But, pray, do not you think this great hero was a sort of a madman? What now will you say to his firing the palace of Persepolis, his weeping for other worlds to conquer, and his marching his whole army over the burning sands of Libya, merely to visit a temple, and persuade mankind that he was the son of Jupiter Ammon? Alexander, my boy, has been much misunderstood. Mankind have revenged themselves upon him by misrepresentation, for having so far eclipsed the rest of his species. It was necessary to the realising his project that he should pass for a god. It was the only way by which he could get a firm hold upon the veneration of the stupid and bigoted Persians. It was this and not a mad vanity that was the source of his proceeding. And how much had he to struggle with in this respect, in the unapprehending obstinacy of some of his Macedonians? Why then, sir, at last Alexander did but employ means that all politicians profess to use as well as he? He dragooned men into wisdom and cheated them into the pursuit of their own happiness. But what is worse, sir, this Alexander, in the paroxysm of his headlong rage, spared neither friend nor foe? You will not pretend to justify the excesses of his ungovernable passion. It is impossible, sure, that a word can be said for a man whom a momentary provocation can hurry into the commission of murders. The instant I had uttered these words, I felt what it was that I had done. There was a magnetic sympathy between me and my patron, so that their effect was not sooner produced upon him than my own mind reproached me with the inhumanity of the illusion. Our confusion was mutual. The blood forsook at once the transparent complexion of Mr. Falkland, and then rushed back again with rapidity and fierceness. I dared not utter a word, lest I should commit a new error, worse than that into which I had just fallen. After a short but severe struggle to continue the conversation, Mr. Falkland began with trepidation, but afterwards became calmer. You are not candid, Alexander. You must learn more clemency. Alexander, I say, does not deserve this rigor. Do you remember his tears, his remorse, his determined abstinence from food which he could scarcely be persuaded to relinquish? Did not that prove a cute feeling and a rooted principle of equity? Well, well, Alexander was a true and judicious lover of mankind, and his real merits have been little comprehended. I know not how to make the state of my mind at that moment accurately understood. When one idea has got possession of the soul it is scarcely possible to keep it from finding its way to the lips. Error, once committed, has a fascinating power, like that ascribed to the eyes of the rattlesnake to draw us in to a second error. It deprives us of that proud confidence in our own strength, to which we are indebted for so much of our virtue. Curiosity is a restless propensity, and often does but hurry us forward the more irresistibly the greater is the danger that attends its indulgence. Clitus, said I, was a man of very coarse and provoking manners. Was he not? Mr. Falkland felt the full force of this appeal. He gave me a penetrating look as if he would see my very soul. His eyes were then in an instant withdrawn. I could perceive him seized with a convulsive shuddering, which though strongly counteracted and therefore scarcely visible, had I known not what of terrible in it. He left his employment, strode about the room in anger, his visage gradually assumed an expression of supernatural barbarity. He quitted the apartment abruptly, and flung the door with a violence that seemed to shake the house. Is this, said I, the fruit of conscious guilt, or of the disgust that a man of honour conceives that guilt undeservedly imputed? I had a confused apprehension of what I was doing, but I could not stop myself. Is it possible, said I, that Mr. Falkland, who is thus overwhelmed with the sense of the unmerited dishonour that has been fastened upon him in the face of the world, will long endure the presence of a raw and unfriended youth, who is perpetually bringing back that dishonour to his recollection, and who seems himself the most forward to entertain the accusation? I felt indeed that Mr. Falkland would not hastily inclined to dismiss me, for the same reason that restrained him from many other actions, which might seem to savor of a too tender and ambiguous sensibility. But this reflection was little adapted to comfort me. That he should cherish in his heart a growing hatred against me, and that he should think himself obliged to retain me, a continual thorn in his side, was an idea by no means of favourable augury to my future peace. It was some time after this, that in clearing out a case of drawers I found a paper, that by some accident had slipped behind one of the drawers and been overlooked. At another time perhaps my curiosity might have given way to the laws of decorum, and I would have restored it, unopened to my master, its owner. But my eagerness for information had been too much stimulated by the preceding incidents, to allow me at present to neglect any occasion of obtaining it. The paper proved to be a letter written by the elder Hawkins, and from its contents seemed to have been penned when he had first been upon the point of absconding from the persecutions of Mr. Turrell. It was as follows. Honourable Sir, I have waited some time in daily hope of your honour's return into these parts. Old warns and his dame, who are left to take care of your house, tell me they cannot say when that will be, nor justly in what part of England you are at present. For my share, misfortune comes so thick upon me, that I must determine upon something, that is for certain, and out of hand. Our squire, who I must own at first used me kindly enough, though I am afraid that was partly out of spite to squire Underwood, has since determined to be the ruin of me. Sir, I have been no craven, I fought it up stoutly, for after all you know God bless your honour, it is but a man to a man, but he has been too much for me. Perhaps if I were to ride over to the market-town and inquire of Munsell, your lawyer, he could tell me how to direct to you. But having hoped and waited in this fashion, and all in vain, has put me upon other thoughts. I was in no hurry, sir, to apply to you, for I do not love to be a trouble to anybody. I kept that for my last stake. Well, sir, and now that has failed me I am ashamed, as it were, to have thought of it. Have not I, thinks I, arms and legs as well as other people? I am driven out of house and home. Well, and what then? Sure I aren't a cabbage, that if you pull it out of the ground it must die. I am penniless, true, and how many hundreds are there that live from hand to mouth all the days of their life, begging your honours pardon, thinks I, we little folks had, but the wit to do for ourselves, the great folks would not be such maggoty changelings as they are. They would begin to look about them. But there is another thing that has swayed with me more than all the rest. I do not know how to tell you, sir. My poor boy, my Leonard, the pride of my life, has been three weeks in the county jail. It is true indeed, sir. Squire Terrell put him there. Now, sir, every time that I lay my head upon my pillow under my own little roof, my heart smites me with the situation of my Leonard. I do not mean so much for the hardship. I do not so much matter that. I do not expect him to go through the world upon velvet. I am not such a fool. But who can tell what may happen a jail? I have been three times to see him, and there's one man in the same quarter of the prison that looks so wicked. I do not much fancy the looks of the rest. To be sure Leonard is as good a lad as ever lived. I think he will not give his mind to such. But, come what will, I am determined he shall not stay among them twelve hours longer. I am an obstinate old fool, perhaps, but I have taken it into my head, and I will do it. Do not ask me what. But, if I were to write to your honour and wait for your answer, it might take a week or ten days more. I must not think of it. Squire Terrell is very headstrong, and you, your honour, might be a little hottish or so. No, I would not have anybody quarrel for me. There has been mischief enough done already, and I will get myself out of the way. So I write this, your honour, merely to unload my mind. I feel myself equally as much bound to respect and love you as if you had done everything for me that I believe you would have done if things had chanced differently. It is most likely you will never hear of me any more. If it should be so, set your worthy heart at rest. I know myself too well ever to be tempted to do anything that is really bad. I have now my fortune to seek in the world. I have been used ill enough, God knows, but I bear no malice. My heart is at peace with all mankind, and I forgive everybody. It is like enough that poor Leonard and I may have hardship enough to undergo, among strangers, and being obliged to hide ourselves like housebreakers or high women. But I defy all the malice of fortune to make us do an ill thing. That consolation we will always keep against all the crosses of a heart-breaking world. God bless you, so praise your honour's humble servant to command. Benjamin Hawkins. I read this letter with considerable attention, and it occasioned me many reflections. To my way of thinking it contained a very interesting picture of a blunt, downright, honest mind. It is a melancholy consideration, said I to myself, but such is man. To have judged from appearances one would have said, this is a fella to have taken fortune's buffets and rewards with an incorruptible mind. And yet, see where it all ends. This man was capable of afterwards becoming a murderer, and finished his life at the gallows. Oh poverty, thou art indeed omnipotent. Thou grindest us into desperation. Thou confoundest all our boasted and most deep-rooted principles. Thou fillest us to the very brim with malice and revenge, and renderest us capable of acts of unknown horror. May I never be visited by thee in the fullness of thy power. Having satisfied my curiosity with respect to this paper, I took care to dispose of it in such a manner as that it should be found by Mr. Falkland. At the same time that, in obedience to the principle which at present governed me with absolute dominion, I was willing that the way in which it offered itself to his attention should suggest to him the idea that it had possibly passed through my hands. The next morning I saw him, and I exerted myself to lead the conversation, which by this time I well knew how to introduce, by insensible degrees, to the point I desired. After several previous questions, remarks, and rejoinders I continued. Well, sir, after all I cannot help feeling very uncomfortably as to my ideas of human nature when I find that there is no dependence to be placed upon its perseverance, and that at least among the illiterate the most promising appearances may end in the foulest disgrace. You think, then, that literature and a cultivated mind are the only assurance for the constancy of our principles? Hmph! Why do you suppose, sir, that learning and ingenuity do not often serve people rather to hide their crimes than to restrain them from committing them? History tells us strange things in that respect. Williams, said Mr. Faulkland, a little disturbed, you are extremely given to censure and severity. I hope not. I am sure I am most fond of looking on the other side of the picture, and considering how many men have been asperced, and even, at some time or other, almost torn to pieces by their fellow creatures, whom, when properly understood, we find worthy of our reverence and love. Indeed! replied Mr. Faulkland with a sigh, when I consider these things I do not wonder at the dying exclamation of Brutus. Oh, virtue! I sought thee as a substance, but I find thee an empty name. I am too much inclined to be of his opinion. Why, to be sure, sir, innocence and guilt are too much embedded in human life. I remember an affecting story of a poor man in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, who would have infallibly been hanged for murder upon the strength of circumstantial evidence, if the person, really concerned, had not been himself upon the jury and prevented it. In saying this I touched the spring that wakened madness in his mind. He came up to me with a ferocious countenance, as if determined to force me into a confession of my thoughts. A sudden pang, however, seemed to change his design. He drew back with trepidation and exclaimed, Detested be the universe and the laws that govern it. Honor, justice, virtue are all the juggle of knaves. If it were in my power I would instantly crush the whole system into nothing. I replied, Oh, sir, things are not so bad as you imagine. The world was made for men of sense to do what they will with. Its affairs cannot be better than in the direction of the genuine heroes, and, as in the end, they will be found the truest friends of the whole, so the multitude have nothing to do but to look on, be fashioned, and admire. Sir Faulkland made a powerful effort to recover his tranquillity. Williams said he, You instruct me well. You have a right notion of things, and I have great hopes of you. I will be more of a man. I will forget the past and do better for the time to come. The future. The future is always our own. I am sorry, sir, that I have given you pain. I am afraid to say all that I think. But it is my opinion that mistakes will ultimately be cleared up. Justice done, and the true state of things come to light, in spite of the false colours that may for a time obscure it. The idea I suggested did not give Mr. Faulkland the proper degree of delight. He suffered a temporary relapse. Justice! he muttered. I do not know what is justice. My case is not within the reach of common remedies, perhaps of none. I only know that I am miserable. I began life with the best intentions in the most fervid philanthropy, and here I am. Miserable. Miserable beyond expression or endurance. Having said this, he seemed suddenly to recollect himself, and reassumed his accustomed dignity and command. How came this conversation? cried he. Who gave you a right to be my confidant? Base-artful wretch that you are. Learn to be more respectful. Are my passions to be wound and unwound by an insolent domestic? Do you think I will be an instrument to be played on at your pleasure till you have extorted all the treasures of my soul? Be gone and fear lest you be made to pay for the temerity you have already committed. There was an energy and determination in the gestures with which these words were accompanied that did not admit of their being disputed. My mouth was closed. I felt as if deprived of all share of activity, and was only able silently and passively to the apartment. Two days subsequent to this conversation Mr. Falkland ordered me to be told to him. I shall continue to speak in my narrative of the silent as well as the articulate part of the intercourse between us. His countenance was habitually animated and expressive, much beyond that of any other man I have seen. The curiosity which, as I have said, constituted my ruling passion stimulated me to make it my perpetual study. It will also most probably happen, while I am thus annoyed in collecting the scattered incidents of my history, that I shall upon some occasions annex to appearances an explanation which I was far from possessing at the time, and was only suggested to me through the medium of subsequent events. When I entered the apartment I remarked in Mr. Falkland's countenance an unwanted composure. This composure, however, did not seem to result from internal ease, but from an effort which, while he prepared himself for an interesting scene, was exerted to prevent his presence of mind and power of voluntary action from suffering any diminution. Williams said he, I am determined, whatever it may cost me, to have an explanation with you. You are a rash and inconsiderate boy and have given me much disturbance. You ought to have known that though I allow you to talk with me upon indifferent subjects, it is very improper in you to lead the conversation to anything that relates to my personal concerns. You have said many things lately in a very mysterious way, and appear to know something more than I am aware of. I am equally at a loss to guess how you came by your knowledge, as of what it consists. But I think I perceive too much inclination on your part to trifle with my peace of mind. That ought not to be, nor have I deserved any such treatment from you. But, be that as it will, the guesses in which you oblige me to employ myself are too painful. It is a sort of sporting with my feelings, which, as a man of resolution, I am determined to bring to an end. I expect you, therefore, to lay aside all mystery and equivocation, and inform me explicitly what it is upon which your illusions are built. What is it, you know? What is it, you won't? I have been too much exposed already to unparalleled mortification and hardship, and my wounds will not bear this perpetual tampering. I feel, sir," answered I, how wrong I have been, and am ashamed that such a one as I should have given you all this trouble and displeasure. I felt it at the time, but I have been hurried along. I do not know how. I have always tried to stop myself, but the demon that possessed me was too strong for me. I know nothing, sir, of what Mr. Collins told me. He told me the story of Mr. Terrell and Miss Melville and Hawkins. I am sure, sir, he said nothing but what was to your honour, and proved you to be more an angel than a man. Well, sir, I found a letter written by that Hawkins the other day. Did not that letter fall into your hands? Did not you read it? For God's sake, sir, turn me out of your house. Punish me in some way or other that I may forgive myself. I am a foolish, wicked, despicable wretch. I confess, sir, I did read the letter. And how dared you read it? It was indeed very wrong of you. But we will talk of that by and by. Well, and what did you say to the letter? No, it seems that Hawkins was hanged. I say, sir, why it went to my heart to read it. I say, as I said the day before yesterday, that when I see a man of so much principle afterwards deliberately proceeding to the very worst of crimes, I can scarcely bear to think of it. That is what you say. It seems, too, you know, a cursed remembrance, that I was accused of this crime. I was silent. Well, sir, you know, too, perhaps, that from the hour the crime was committed. Yes, sir, that was the date. And as he said this there was somewhat frightful. I had almost said diabolical in his countenance. I have not had an hour's peace. I became changed from the happiest to the most miserable thing that lives. Sleep has fled from my eyes, joy has been a stranger to my thoughts, and annihilation I should prefer a thousand times to the being that I am. As soon as I was capable of a choice I chose honour and the esteem of mankind as a good I preferred to all others. You know, it seems, in how many ways my ambition has been disappointed. I do not thank Collins for having been the historian of my disgrace. Wood to God that night could be blotted from the memory of man. But the scene of that night, instead of perishing, has been a source of ever-new calamity to me, which must flow forever. Am I then thus miserable and ruined, a proper object upon which for you to exercise your ingenuity and improve your power of tormenting? Was it not enough that I was publicly dishonoured, that I was deprived by the pestilential influence of some demon, of the opportunity of avenging my dishonour? No. In addition to this I have been charged with having in this critical moment intercepted my own vengeance by the foulest of crimes. That trial is past. Misery itself has nothing worse in store for me except what you have inflicted, the seeming to doubt of my innocence which, after the foulest and most solemn examination, has been completely established. You have forced me to this explanation. You have extorted from me a confidence which I had no inclination to make. But it is a part of the misery of my situation that I am at the mercy of every creature, however little, who feels himself inclined to sport with my distress. Be content. You have brought me low enough. Oh, sir, I am not content. I cannot be content. I cannot bear to think what I have done. I shall never again be able to look in the face of the best of masters and the best of men. I beg of you, sir, to turn me out of your service. Let me go and hide myself where I may never see you more. Mr. Falkland's countenance had indicated great severity through the whole of this conversation. But now it became more harsh and tempestuous than ever. How now rascal! cried he. You want to leave me, do you? Who told you that I wished to part with you? But you cannot bear to live with such a miserable wretch as I am. You are not disposed to put up with the caprices of a man so dissatisfied and unjust? Oh, sir, do not talk to me thus. Do with me anything you will. Kill me, if you please. Kill you!" Volumes could not describe the emotions with which this echo of my words was given and received. Sir, I could die to serve you. I love you more than I can express. I worship you as a being of a superior nature. I am foolish, raw, inexperienced. Worse than any of these. But never did a thought of disloyalty to your service enter into my heart. Here our conversation ended and the impression it made upon my youthful mind it is impossible to describe. I thought with astonishment, even with rapture, of the attention and kindness towards me I discovered in Mr. Falkland through all the roughness of his manner. I could never enough wonder at finding myself, humble as I was by my birth, obscure as I had hitherto been, thus suddenly become of so much importance to the happiness of one of the most enlightened and accomplished men in England. But this consciousness attached me to my patron more eagerly than ever, and made me swear a thousand times, as I meditated upon my situation, that I would never prove unworthy of so generous a protector. CHAPTER IV Is it not unaccountable that in the midst of all my increased veneration for my patron, the first tumult of my emotion was scarcely subsided, before the old question that had excited my conjectures recurred to my mind? Was he the murderer? It was a kind of fatal impulse that seemed destined to hurry me to my destruction. I did not wonder at the disturbance that was given to Mr. Falkland by any allusion, however distant, to this fatal affair. That was as completely accounted for from the consideration of his excessive sensibility in matters of honour, as it would have been upon the supposition of the most atrocious guilt. Knowing, as he did, that such a charge had once been connected with his name, he would of course be perpetually uneasy, and suspect some latent insinuation at every possible opportunity. He would doubt and fear lest every man with whom he conversed harboured the foulest suspicion against him. In my case he found that I was in possession of some information, more than he was aware of, without its being possible for him to decide to what it amounted. Whether I had heard a just or unjust, a candid or columniatory tale, he had also reason to suppose that I gave entertainment to thoughts derogatory to his honour, and that I did not form that favourable judgement which the exquisite refinement of his ruling passion made indispensable to his peace. All these considerations would, of course, maintain in him a state of perpetual uneasiness. But, though I could find nothing that I could consider as justifying me in persisting in the shadow of a doubt, yet, as I have said, the uncertainty and restlessness of my contemplations would by no means depart from me. The fluctuating state of my mind produced a contention of opposite principles, that by turns usurped dominion over my conduct. Sometimes I was influenced by the most complete veneration for my master. I placed an unreserved confidence in his integrity and his virtue, and implicitly surrendered my understanding for him to set it to what point he pleased. At other times the confidence which had before flowed with the most plenteous tide began to ebb. I was, as I had already been, watchful, inquisitive, suspicious, full of a thousand conjectures as to the meaning of the most indifferent actions. Mr. Falkland, who was most painfully alive to every thing that related to his honour, saw these variations, and betrayed his consciousness of them now in one manner and now in another, frequently before I was myself aware, sometimes almost before they existed. The situation of both was distressing. We were each of us a plague to the other, and I often wondered that the forbearance and benignity of my master was not at length exhausted, and that he did not determine to thrust from him for ever so incessant an observer. There was indeed one eminent difference between his share in the transaction and mine. I had some consolation in the midst of my restlessness. Curiosity is a principle that carries its pleasures, as well as its pains, along with it. The mind is urged by a perpetual stimulus. It seems as if it were continually approaching to the end of its race, and as the insatiable desire of satisfaction is its principle of conduct, so it promises itself in that satisfaction an unknown gratification, which seems as if it were capable of fully compensating any injuries that may be suffered in the career. But to Mr. Faulkland there was no consolation. What he endured in the intercourse between us appeared to be gratuitous evil. He had only to wish that there was no such person as myself in the world, and to curse the hour when his humanity led him to rescue me from my obscurity and place me in his service. A consequence produced upon me by the extraordinary nature of my situation it is necessary to mention. The constant state of vigilance and suspicion in which my mind was retained worked a very rapid change in my character. It seemed to have all the effect that might have been expected from years of observation and experience. The strictness with which I endeavored to remark what passed in the mind of one man, and the variety of conjectures into which I was led, appeared, as it were, to render me a competent adept in the different modes in which the human intellect displays its secret workings. I no longer said to myself as I had done in the beginning. I will ask Mr. Faulkland whether he were the murderer. On the contrary, after having carefully examined the different kinds of evidence, of which the subject was susceptible, and recollecting all that had already passed upon the subject, it was not without considerable pain that I felt myself unable to discover any way in which I could be perfectly and unalterably satisfied of my patron's innocence. As to his guilt, I could scarcely bring myself to doubt that in some way or other, sooner or later, I should arrive at the knowledge of that, if it really existed. But I could not endure to think, almost for a moment, of that side of the alternative as true, and with all my ungovernable suspicion arising from the mysteriousness of the circumstances, and all the delight which a young and unfledged mind receives from ideas that give scope to all that imagination can picture of terrible or sublime. I could not yet bring myself to consider Mr. Faulkland's guilt as a supposition attended with the remotest probability. I hope the reader will forgive me for dwelling thus long on preliminary circumstances. I shall come soon enough to the story of my own misery. I have already said that one of the motives which induced me to the penning of this narrative was to console myself in my insupportable distress. I derive a melancholy pleasure from dwelling upon the circumstances which imperceptibly paved the way to my ruin. While I recollect or describe past scenes, which occurred in a more favourable period of my life, my attention is called off for a short interval from the hopeless misfortune in which I am at present involved. The man must indeed possess an uncommon portion of hardness of heart who can envy me so slight a relief. To proceed. For some time after the explanation which had thus taken place between me and Mr. Faulkland, his melancholy, instead of being in the slightest degree diminished by the lenient hand of time, went on perpetually to increase. His fits of insanity, for such I must nominate them for want of a distinct appellation, though it is possible they might not fall under the definition that either the faculty or the court of chancery, appropriate to the term, become stronger and more durable than ever. It was no longer practicable wholly to conceal them from the family and even from the neighbourhood. He would sometimes, without any previous notice, absent himself from his house for two or three days, unaccompanied by servant or attendant. This was the more extraordinary as it was well known that he paid no visits, nor kept up any sort of intercourse with the gentleman of the vicinity. But it was impossible that a man of Mr. Faulkland's distinction and fortune should long continue in such a practice, without its being discovered what was become of him. Though a considerable part of our county was among the wildest and most desolate districts that are to be found in South Britain, Mr. Faulkland was sometimes seen climbing among the rocks, reclining motionless for hours together upon the edge of a precipice, or lulled into a kind of nameless lethargy of despair by the dashing of the torrents. He would remain for whole nights together under the naked cope of heaven, inattentive to the consideration either of place or time, insensible to the variations of the weather, or rather seeming to be delighted with that uproar of the elements which partially called off his attention from the discord and dejection that occupied his own mind. At first when we received intelligence at any time of the place to which Mr. Faulkland had withdrawn himself, some person of his household, Mr. Collins or myself, but most generally myself, as I was always at home and always in the received sense of the word at leisure, went to him to persuade him to return. But after a few experiments we thought it advisable to desist and leave him to prolong his absence or to terminate it as might happen to suit his own inclination. Mr. Collins, whose gray hairs and long services seemed to give him a sort of right to be importunate, sometimes succeeded. Though even in that case there was nothing that could sit more uneasily upon Mr. Faulkland than this insinuation as if he wanted a guardian to take care of him or as if he were in or in danger of falling into a state in which he would be incapable of deliberately controlling his own words and actions. At one time he would suddenly yield to his humble, venerable friend, murmuring grievously at the constraint that was put upon him, but without spirit enough even to complain a bit with energy. At another time, even though complying, he would suddenly burst out in a paroxysm of resentment. Upon these occasions there was something inconceivably, savagely terrible in his anger that gave the person against whom it was directed the most humiliating and insupportable sensations. Me he always treated at these times with fierceness, and drove me from him with a behemence lofty, emphatical and sustained beyond anything of which I should have thought human nature to be capable. These sallies seemed always to constitute a sort of crisis in his indisposition, and whenever he was induced to such a premature return he would fall immediately after into a state of the most melancholy inactivity, in which he usually continued for two or three days. It was by an obstinate fatality that whenever I saw Mr. Falkland in these deplorable situations, and particularly when I lighted upon him after having sought him among the rocks and precipices, pale, emaciated, solitary, and haggard, the suggestion would continually recur to me, in spite of inclination, in spite of persuasion, and in spite of evidence. Surely this man is a murderer!