CHAPTER 1.

     When fainting Nature call'd for aid,
       And hovering Death prepared the blow,
     His vigorous remedy display'd
       The power of Art without the show;
     In Misery's darkest caverns known,
       His useful care was ever nigh,
     Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan,
       And lonely Want retired to die;
     No summons mock'd by cold delay,
       No petty gains disclaim'd by pride
     The modest wants of every day
       The toil of every day supplied.

                              Samuel Johnson.

  The exquisitely beautiful portrait which the
Rambler has painted of his friend Levett, well
describes Gideon Gray, and many other village
doctors, from whom Scotland reaps more benefit
and to whom she is perhaps more ungrateful, than
to any other class of men, excepting her schoolmasters.

  Such a rural man of medicine is usually the inhabitant
of some petty borough or village,  which
forms the central point of his practice. But, besides
attending to such cases as the village may
afford, he is day and night at the service of every
one who may command his assistance within a
circle of forty miles in diameter, untraversed by
roads in many directions, and including moors,
mountains, rivers, and lakes. For late and dangerous
journeys through an inaccessible country for
services of the most essential kind, rendered at the
expense, or risk at least, of his own health and life,
the Scottish village doctor receives at best a very
moderate recompense, often one which is totally
inadequate' and very frequently none whatsoever. 
He has none of the ample resources proper to the
brothers of the profession in an English town. The
burgesses of a Scottish borough are rendered, by
their limited means of luxury, inaccessible to gout,
surfeits, and all the comfortable chronic diseases,
which are attendant on wealth and indolence. Four
years, or so, of abstemiousness, enable them to
stand an election dinner; and there is no hope of
broken heads among a score or two of quiet electors,
who settle the business over a table. There
the mothers of the state never make a point of
pouring, in the course of every revolving year, a
certain quantity of doctor's stuff through the bowels
of their beloved children. Every old woman from
the Townhead to the Townfit, can prescribe a dose
of salts, or spread a plaster; and it is only when a
fever or a palsy renders matters serious, that the
assistance of the doctor is invoked by his neighbours
in the borough.

  But still the man of science cannot complain of
inactivity or want of practice. If he does not find
patients at his door, he seeks them through a wide
circle. Like the ghostly lover of Barger's Leonora,
he mounts at midnight, and traverses in
darkness paths which, to those less accustomed to
them, seem formidable in daylight, through straits
where the slightest aberration would plunge him
into a morass, or throw him over a precipice, on
to cabins which his horse might ride over without
knowing they lay in his way, unless he happened
to fall through the roofs. When he arrives at such
a stately termination of his journey, where his services
are required, either to bring a wretch into
the world, or prevent one from leaving it, the scene
of misery is often such, that far from touching the
hard-saved shillings which are gratefully offered
to him, he bestows his medicines as well as his attendance---
for charity. I have heard the celebrated
traveller Mungo Park, who had experienced
both courses of life, rather give the preference
to travelling as a discoverer in Africa, than to
wandering by night and day the wilds of his native
land in the capacity of a country medical practitioner.
He mentioned having once upon a time
rode forty miles, sat up all night, and successfully
assisted a woman under influence of the primitive
curse, for which his sole remuneration was a
roasted potato and a drought of buttermilk. But
his was not the heart which grudged the labour
that relieved human misery. In short, there is no
creature in Scotland that works harder and is more
poorly requited than the country doctor, unless
perhaps it may be his horse. Yet the horse is,
and indeed must be, hardy, active, and indefatigable,
in spite of a rough coat and indifferent condition;
and so you will often find in his master,
and an unpromising and blunt exterior, professional
skill and enthusiasm, intelligence, humanity,
courage, and science.

  Mr Gideon Gray, surgeon in the village of Middlemas,
situated in one of the midland counties of
Scotland, led the rough, active, and ill-rewarded
course of life which we have endeavoured to describe.
He was a man between forty and fifty,
devoted to his profession, and of such reputation
in the medical world, that he had been more than
once, as opportunities occurred, advised to exchange
Middlemas and its meagre circle of practice,
for some of the larger towns in Scotland, or
for Edinburgh itself. This advice he had always
declined. He was a plain blunt man, who did not
love restraint, and was unwilling to subject himself
to that which was exacted in polite society. He
had not himself found out, nor had any friend hinted
to him, that a slight touch of the cynic, in manner
and habits, gives the physician, to the common
eye, an air of authority which greatly tends to
enlarge his reputation. Mr Gray, or, as the country
people called him, Doctor Gray, (he might
hold the title by diploma for what I know, though
he only claimed the rank of Master of Arts,) had
few wants, and these were amply supplied by a
professional income which generally approached
two hundred pounds a-year, for which, upon an
average, he travelled about five thousand miles on
horseback in the course of the twelve months. Nay,
so liberally did this revenue support himself and
his ponies, called Pestle and Mortar, which he
exercised alternately, that he took a damsel to
share it, Jean Watson, namely, the cherry-cheeked
daughter of an honest farmer, who being herself
one of twelve children, who had been brought up
on an income of fourscore pounds a-year, never
thought there could be poverty in more than double
the sum; and looked on Gray, though now
termed by irreverent youth the Old Doctor, as a
very advantageous match. For several years they
had no children, and it seemed as if Doctor Gray,
who had so often assisted the efforts of the goddess
Lucina, was never to invoke her in his own behalf. 
Yet his domestic roof was, on a remarkable occasion,
decreed to be the scene where the goddess's
art was required.

  Late of an autumn evening three old women
might be observed plying their aged limbs through
the single street of the village at Middlemas towards
the honoured door, which, fenced off from
the vulgar causeway, was defended by a broken
paling, enclosing two slips of ground, half arable,
half overrun with an abortive attempt at shrubbery. 
The door itself was blazoned with the name of
Gideon Gray, M.A. Surgeon, &c. &c. Some of
the idle young fellows, who had been a minute or
two before loitering at the other end of the street
before the door of the alehouse, (for the pretended
inn deserved no better name,) now accompanied
the old dames with shouts of laughter, excited by
their unwonted agility; and with bets on the winner,
as loudly expressed as if they had been laid
at the starting-post of Middlemas races. ``Half-a-mutchkin
on Luckie Simson!''---``Auld Peg
Tamson against the field!''---``Mair speed, Alison
Jaup, ye'll take the wind out of them yet!''---
``Canny against the hill, lasses, or we may have a
brusten auld carline amang ye!'' These, and a
thousand such gibes, rent the air, without being
noticed, or even heard, by the anxious racers,
---whose object of contention seemed to be, which
should first reach the Doctor's door.

  ``Guide us, Doctor, what can be the matter
now?'' said Mrs Gray, whose character was that
of a good-natured simpleton; ``Here's Peg Tamson,
Jean Simson, and Alison Jaup, running a race
on the hie street of the burgh!''

  The Doctor, who had but the moment before
hung his wet great-coat before the fire, (for he was
just dismounted from a long journey,) hastened
down stairs, auguring some new occasion for his
services, and happy, that, from the character of the
messengers, it was likely to be within burgh, and
not landward.

  He had just reached the door as Luckie Simson,
one of the racers, arrived in the little area before
it. She had got the start, and kept it, but at the
expense, for the time, of her power of utterance;
for when she came in presence of the Doctor, she
stood blowing like a grampus, her loose toy flying
back from her face, making the most violent efforts
to speak, but without the power of uttering a single
intelligible word. Peg Thomson whipped in
before her.

  ``The leddy, sir, the leddy---''

  ``Instant help, instant help''---screeched, rather
than uttered, Alison Jaup; while Luckie Simson,
who had certainly won the race, found words to
claim the prize which had set them all in motion. 
``And I hope, sir, you will recommend me to be
the sick-nurse; I was here to bring you the tidings
lang before ony o' thae lazy queans.''

  Loud were the counter protestations of the two
competitors, and loud the laugh of the idle loons
who listened at a little distance.

  ``Hold your tongue, ye flyting fools,'' said the
Doctor; ``and you, ye idle rascals, if I come out
among you---``So saying he smacked his long-lashed
whip with great emphasis, producing much
the effect of the celebrated _Quos ego_ of Neptune,
in the first <AE>neid. ``And now,'' said the Doctor,
``where, or who, is this lady?''

  The question was scarce necessary; for a plain
carriage, with four horses, came at a foot's-pace
towards the door of the Doctor's house, and the old
women, now more at their case, gave the Doctor
to understand that the gentleman thought the accommodation
of the Swan Inn totally unfit for his
lady's rank and condition, and had, by their advice,
(each claiming the merit of the suggestion,) brought
her here, to experience the hospitality of the _west-room_;---
a spare apartment, in which Dr Gray
occasionally accommodated such patients, as he
desired to keep for a space of time under his own

  There were two persons only in the vehicle. 
The one a gentleman in a riding dress, sprung out,
and having received from the Doctor an assurance
that the lady would receive tolerable accommodation
in his house, he lent assistance to his companion
to leave the carriage, and with great apparent satisfaction,
saw her safely deposited in a decent sleeping
apartment, and under the respectable charge of
the Doctor and his lady, who assured him once
more of every species of attention. To bind their
promise more firmly, the stranger slipped a purse
of twenty guineas (for this story chanced in the
golden age) into the hand of the Doctor, as an
earnest of the most liberal recompense, and requested
he would spare no expense in providing
all that was necessary or desirable for a person in
the lady's condition, and for the helpless being to,
whom she might immediately be expected to give
birth. He then said he would retire to the inn,
where he begged a message might instantly acquaint
him with the expected change in the lady's

  ``She is of rank,'' he said, ``and a foreigner;
let no expense be spared. We designed to have
reached Edinburgh, but were forced to turn off the
road by an accident.'' Once more he said, ``let
no expense be spared, and manage that she may
travel as soon as possible.''

  ``That,'' said the Doctor, ``is past my control. 
Nature must not be hurried, and she avenges herself
of every attempt to do so.''

  ``But art,'' said the stranger, ``can do much,''
and he proffered a second purse, which seemed as
heavy as the first.

  ``Art,'' said the Doctor, ``may be recompensed,
but cannot be purchased. You have already paid
me more than enough to take the utmost care I can
of your lady; should I accept more money, it could
only be for promising, by implication at least, what
is beyond my power to perform. Every possible
care shall be taken of your lady, and that affords
the best chance of her being speedily able to travel.
---Now, go you to the inn, sir, for I may be instantly
wanted, and we have not yet provided
either an attendant for the lady, or a nurse for the
child; but both shall be presently done.''

  ``Yet a moment, Doctor---what languages do
you understand?''

  ``Latin and French I can speak indifferently,
and so as to be understood; and I read a little

  ``But no Portuguese or Spanish?'' continued the

  ``No, sir.''

  ``That is unlucky. But you may make her
understand you by means of French. Take notice,
you are to comply with her request in every thing
---if you want means to do so, you may apply to

  ``May I ask, sir,  by  what  name  the  lady  is  to

  ``It is totally indifferent,'' said the stranger, interrupting
the question; `` you shall know it at
more leisure.''

  So saying, he threw his ample cloak about him,
turning himself half round to assist the operation,
with an air which the Doctor would have found it
difficult to imitate, and walked down the street to
the little inn. Here he paid and dismissed the
postilions, and shut himself up in an apartment,
ordering no one to be admitted till the Doctor
should call.

  The Doctor, when he returned to his patient's
apartment, found his wife in great surprise, which,
as is usual with persons of her character, was not
unmixed with fear and anxiety.

  ``She cannot speak a word like a Christian
being,'' said Mrs Gray.

  ``I know it,'' said the Doctor.

  ``But she threeps to keep on a black fause-face,
and skirls if we offer to take it away.''

  ``Well then, let her wear it---What harm will
it do?''

  ``Harm, Doctor! Was ever honest woman
brought to bed with a fause-face on?''

  ``Seldom, perhaps. But, Jean, my dear, those
who are not quite honest must be brought to bed
all the same as those who are, and we are not to
endanger the poor thing's life by contradicting her
whims at present.''

  Approaching the sick woman's bed, he observed
that she indeed wore a thin silk mask, of the kind
which do such uncommon service in the elder
comedy; such as women of rank still wore in travelling,
but certainly never in the situation of this
poor lady. It would seem she had sustained importunity
on the subject, for when she saw the
Doctor, she put her hand to her face, as if she was
afraid he would insist on pulling off the vizard. He
hastened to say, in tolerable French, that her will
should be a law to them in every respect, and that
she was at perfect liberty to wear the mask till it was
her pleasure to lay it aside. She understood him;
for she replied, by a very imperfect attempt in the
same language, to express her gratitude for the
permission, as she seemed to regard it, of retaining
her disguise.

  The Doctor proceeded to other arrangements;
and, for the satisfaction of those readers who may
love minute information, we record that Luckie
Simson, the first in the race, carried as a prize the
situation of sick-nurse beside the delicate patient;
that Peg Thomson was permitted the privilege of
recommending her good-daughter, Bet Jamieson,
to be wet-nurse; and an _oe_, or grandchild of
Luckie Jaup was hired to assist in the increased
drudgery of the family; the Doctor thus, like a
practised minister, dividing among his trusty adherents
such good things as fortune placed at his

  About one in the morning the Doctor made his
appearance at the Swan Inn, and acquainted the
stranger gentleman, that he wished him joy of
being the father of a healthy boy, and that the mother
was, in the usual phrase, as well as could be

  The stranger heard the news with seeming satisfaction,
and then exclaimed, ``He must be christened,
Doctor! he must be christened instantly!''

  ``There can be no hurry for that,'' said the

  ``_We_ think otherwise,'' said the stranger, cutting
his argument short. ``I am a Catholic, Doctor,
and as I may be obliged to leave this place before
the lady is able to travel, I desire to see my child
received into the pale of the church. There is, I
understand, a Catholic priest in this wretched

  ``There is a Catholic gentleman, sir, Mr Goodriche,
who is reported to be in orders.''

  ``I commend your caution, Doctor,'' said the
stranger; ``it is dangerous to be too positive on
any subject. I will bring that same Mr Goodriche
to your house to-morrow.''

  Gray hesitated for a moment. ``I am a Presbyterian
Protestant, sir,'' he said, ``a friend to the
constitution as established in church and state, as
I have a good right, having drawn his Majesty's pay,
God bless him, for four years, as surgeon's mate in
the Cameronian regiment, as my regimental Bible
and commission can testify. But although I be
bound especially to abhor all trafficking or trinketing
with Papists, yet I will not stand in the way
of a tender conscience. Sir, you may call with Mr
Goodriche, when you please, at my house; and
undoubtedly, you being, as I suppose, the father
of the child, you will arrange matters as you please;
only, I do not desire to be thought an abettor or
countenancer of any part of the Popish ritual.''

  ``Enough, sir,'' said the stranger haughtily, ``we
understand each other.''

  The next day he appeared at the Doctor's house
with Mr Goodriche, and two persons understood
to belong to that reverend gentleman's communion. 
The party were shut up in an apartment with the
infant, and it may be presumed that the solemnity
of baptism was administered to the unconscious
being, thus strangely launched upon the world. 
When the priest and witnesses had retired, the
strange gentleman informed Mr Gray, that, as the
lady had been pronounced unfit for travelling for
several days, he was himself about to leave the
neighbourhood,  but  would  return  thither  in   the
space of ten days, when he  hoped  to  find  his  companion
able to leave it.

  ``And by what name are we to call the child
and mother?''

  ``The infant's name is Richard.''

  ``But it must have some sirname---so must the
lady---She cannot reside in my house, yet be without
a name.''

  ``Call them by the name of your town here---
Middlemas, I think it is?''

  ``Yes, sir.''

  ``Well Mrs Middlemas is the name of the mother,
and Richard Middlemas of the child---and I
am Matthew Middlemas, at your service. This,''
he continued, ``will provide Mrs Middlemas in
everything she may wish to possess---or assist her
in case of accidents.'' With that he placed L.100
in Mr Gray's hand, who rather scrupled receiving
it, saying, ``He supposed the lady was qualified to
be her own purse-bearer.''

  ``The worst in the world, I assure you, Doctor,''
replied the stranger. ``If she wished to change
that piece of paper, she would scarce know how
many guineas she should receive for it. No, Mr
Gray, I assure you you will find Mrs Middleton---
Middlemas---what did I call her---as ignorant of the
affairs of this world as any one you have met with
in your practice: So you will please to be her treasurer
and administrator for the time, as for a patient
that is incapable to look after her own affairs.''

  This was spoke, as it struck Dr Gray, in rather
a haughty and supercilious manner. The words
intimated nothing in themselves, more than the
same desire of preserving incognito, which might
be gathered from all the rest of the stranger's conduct;
but the manner seemed to say, ``I am not a
person to be questioned by any one---What I say
must be received without comment, how little soever
you may believe or understand it.'' It strengthened
Gray in his opinion, that he had before him
a case either of seduction, or of private marriage,
betwixt persons of the very highest rank; and the
whole bearing, both of the lady and the gentleman,
confirmed his suspicions. It was not in his nature
to be troublesome or inquisitive, but he could not
fail to see that the lady wore no marriage-ring;
and her deep sorrow, and perpetual tremor, seemed
to indicate an unhappy creature, who had lost the
protection of parents, without acquiring a legitimate
right to that of a husband. He was therefore
somewhat anxious when Mr Middlemas, after a
private conference of some length with the lady,
bade him farewell. It is true, he assured him of
his return within ten days, being the very shortest
space which Gray could be prevailed upon to assign
for any prospect of the lady being moved with

  ``I trust in Heaven that he will return,'' said
Gray to himself, ``but there is too much mystery
about all this, for the matter being a plain and well-meaning
transaction. If he intends to treat this poor
thing, as many a poor girl has been used before, I
hope that my house will not be the scene in which
he chooses to desert her. The leaving the money
has somewhat a suspicious aspect, and looks as if
my friend were in the act of making some compromise
with his conscience. Well---I must hope the
best. Meantime my path plainly is to do what I
can for the poor lady's benefit.''

  Mr Gray visited his patient shortly after Mr Middlemas's
departure---as soon, indeed, as he could
be admitted. He found her in violent agitation. 
Gray's experience dictated the best mode of relief
and tranquillity. He caused her infant to be brought
to her. She wept over it for a long time, and the
violence of her agitation subsided under the influence
of parental feelings, which, from her appearance
of extreme youth, she must have experienced
for the first time.

  The observant physician could, after this paroxysm,
remark that his patient's mind was chiefly
occupied in computing the passage of the time, and
anticipating the period when the return of her husband---
if husband he was---might be expected. She
consulted almanacks, enquired concerning distances,
though so cautiously as to make it evident she desired
to give no indication of the direction of her
companion's journey, and repeatedly compared her
watch with those of others; exercising, it was evident,
all that delusive species of mental arithmetic
by which mortals attempt to accelerate the passage
of Time while they calculate his progress. At
other times she wept anew over her child, which was
by all judges pronounced as goodly an infant as
needed to be seen; and Gray sometimes observed
that she murmured sentences to the unconscious
infant, not only the words, but the very sound and
accents of which were strange to him, and which,
in particular, he knew not to be Portuguese.

  Mr Goodriche, the Catholic priest, demanded
access to her upon one occasion. She at first declined
his visit, but afterwards received it, under
the idea, perhaps, that he might have news from
Mr Middlemas, as he called himself. The interview
was a very short one, and the priest left the
lady's apartment in displeasure, which his prudence
could scarce disguise from Mr Gray. He never
returned, although the lady's condition would have
made his attentions and consolations necessary, had
she been a member of the Catholic Church.

  Our Doctor began at length to suspect his fair
guest was a Jewess, who had yielded up her person
and affections to one of a different religion; and
the peculiar style of her beautiful countenance went
to enforce this opinion. The circumstance made
no difference to Gray, who saw only her distress
and desolation, and endeavoured to remedy both
to the utmost of his power. He was, however,
desirous to conceal it from his wife, and the others
around the sick person, whose prudence and liberality
of thinking might be more justly doubted. 
He therefore so regulated her diet, that she could
not be either offended, or brought under suspicion,
by any of the articles forbidden by the Mosaic law
being presented to her. In other respects than
what concerned her health or convenience, he had
but little intercourse with her.

  The space passed within which the stranger's
return to the borough had been so anxiously expected
by his female companion. The disappointment
occasioned by his non-arrival was manifested
in the convalescent by inquietude, which was at
first mingled with peevishness, and afterwards
with doubt and fear. When two or three days
had passed without message or letter of any kind,
Gray himself became anxious, both on his own
account and the poor lady's, lest the stranger should
have actually entertained the idea of deserting this
defenceless and probably injured woman. He
longed to have some communication with her,
which might enable him to judge what enquiries
could be made, or what else was most fitting to be
done. But so imperfect was the poor young woman's
knowledge of the French language, and perhaps
so unwilling she herself to throw any light on
her situation, that every attempt of this kind proved
abortive. When Gray asked questions concerning
any subject which appeared to approach to explanation,
he observed she usually answered him by
shaking her head, in token of not understanding
what he said; at other times by silence and with
tears, and sometimes referring him to _Monsieur_.

  For _Monsieur's_ arrival, then, Gray began to become
very impatient, as that which alone could put
an end to a disagreeable species of mystery, which
the good company of the borough began now to
make the principal subject of their gossip; some
blaming Gray for bringing foreign _landloupers_* into

*    Strollers.

his house, on the subject of whose morals the most
serious doubts might be entertained; others envying
the ``bonny hand'' the doctor was like to make
of it, by having disposal of the wealthy stranger's
travelling funds; a circumstance which could not
be well concealed from the public, when the honest
man's expenditure for trifling articles of luxury
came far to exceed its ordinary bounds.

  The conscious probity of the honest Doctor enabled
him to despise this sort of tittle-tattle, though
the secret knowledge of its existence could not be
agreeable to him. He went his usual rounds with
his usual perseverance, and waited with patience
until time should throw light on the subject and
history of his lodger. It was now the fourth week
after her confinement, and the recovery of the stranger
might be considered as perfect, when Gray,
returning from one of his ten-mile visits, saw a
post-chaise and four horses at the door. ``This
man has returned,'' he said, ``and my suspicions
have done him less than justice.'' With that he
spurred his horse, a signal which the trusty steed
obeyed the more readily, as its progress was in the
direction of the stable door. But when, dismounting,
the Doctor hurried into his own house, it
seemed to him, that the departure as well as the
arrival of this distressed lady was destined to bring
confusion to his peaceful dwelling. Several idlers
had assembled about his door, and two or three
had impudently thrust themselves forward almost
into the passage, to listen to a confused altercation
which was heard from within.

  The Doctor hastened forward, the foremost of the
intruders retreating in confusion on his approach,
while he caught the tones of his wife's voice, raised
to a pitch which he knew, by experience, boded
no good; for Mrs Gray, good-humoured and tractable
in general, could sometimes perform the high
part in a matrimonial duet. Having much more
confidence in his wife's good intentions than her
prudence, he lost no time in pushing into the parlour,
to take the matter into his own hands. Here
he found his helpmate at the head of the whole
militia of the sick lady's apartment, that is, wet
nurse, and sick nurse, and girl of all work, engaged
in violent dispute with two strangers. The
one was a dark-featured elderly man, with an eye of
much sharpness and severity of expression, which
now seemed partly quenched by a mixture of grief
and mortification. The other, who appeared actively
sustaining the dispute with Mrs Gray, was
a stout, bold-looking, hard-faced person, armed
with pistols, of which he made rather an unnecessary
and ostentatious display.

  ``Here is my husband, sir,'' said Mrs Gray in a
tone of triumph, for she had the grace to believe
the Doctor one of the greatest men living,---``Here
is the Doctor---let us see what you will say now.''

  ``Why just what I said before, ma'am,'' answered
the man, ``which is, that my warrant must
be obeyed. It is regular, ma'am, regular.''

  So saying, he struck the forefinger of his right
hand against a paper which he held towards Mrs
Gray with his left.

  ``Address yourself to me, if you please, sir,''
said the Doctor, seeing that he ought to lose no
time in removing the cause into the proper court. 
``I am the master of this house, sir, and I wish to
know the cause of this visit.''

  ``My business is soon told,'' said the man. ``I
am a King's messenger, and this lady has treated
me, as if I was a baron-bailies officer.''

  ``That is not the question, sir,'' replied the Doctor.
``If you are a king's messenger, where is
your warrant, and what do you propose to do
here?'' At the same time he whispered the little
wench to call Mr Lawford, the town-clerk, to come
thither as fast as he possibly could. The good-daughter
of Peg Thomson started off with all activity
worthy of her mother-in-law.

  ``There is my warrant,'' said the official, ``and
you may satisfy yourself.''

  ``The shameless loon dare not tell the Doctor his
errand,'' said Mrs Gray exultingly.

  ``A bonny errand it is,'' said old Lucky Simson,
``to carry away a lying-in woman, as a gled*

*    Or Kite.

would do a clocking-hen.''

  ``A woman no a month delivered''---echoed the
nurse Jamieson.

  ``Twenty-four days eight hours and seven minutes
to a second,'' said Mrs Gray.

  The Doctor having looked over the warrant,
which was regular, began to be afraid that the females
of his family, in their zeal for defending the
character of their sex, might be stirred up into
some sudden fit of mutiny, and therefore commanded
them to be silent.

  ``This,'' he said, ``is a warrant for arresting the
bodies of Richard Tresham, and of Zilia de Mon<c,>ada,
on account of high treason. Sir, I have
served his Majesty, and this is not a house in which
traitors are harboured. I know nothing of any of
these two persons, nor have I ever heard even their

  ``But  the  lady  whom   you   have   received   into
your family,'' said the messenger, ``is Zilia de
Mon<c,>ada, and here stands her father, Matthias de
Mon<c,>ada, who will make oath to it.''

  ``If this be true,'' said Mr Gray, looking towards
the alleged officer, ``you have taken a singular
duty on you. It is neither my habit to
deny my own actions, nor to oppose the laws of
the land. There is a lady in this house slowly recovering
from confinement, having become under
this roof the mother of a healthy child. If she be
the person described in this warrant, and this gentleman's
daughter, I must surrender her to the laws
of the country.''

  Here the Esculapian militia were once more in

  ``Surrender, Doctor Gray! It's a shame to hear
you speak, and you that lives by women and weans,
abune your other means!'' so exclaimed his fair
better part.

  ``I wonder to hear the Doctor!''---said the
younger nurse; ``there's no a wife in the town
would believe it o' him.''

  ``I aye thought the Doctor was a man till this
moment,'' said Luckie Simson; ``but I believe
him now to be an auld wife, little baulder than
mysell; and I dinna wonder now that poor Mrs

  ``Hold your peace, you foolish women,'' said the
Doctor. ``Do you think this business is not bad
enough already, that you are making it worse with
your senseless claver?*---Gentlemen, this is a

*    Tattling.

very sad case. Here is a warrant for a high crime
against a poor creature, who is little fit to be moved
from one house to another, much more dragged to a
prison. I tell you plainly, that I think the execution
of this arrest may cause her death. It is your
business, sir, if you be really her father, to consider
what you can do to soften this matter, rather
than drive it on.''

  ``Better death than dishonour,'' replied the
stern-looking old man, with a voice as harsh as
his aspect; ``and you, messenger,'' he continued,
``look what you do, and execute the warrant at
your peril.''

  ``You hear,'' said the man, appealing to the
Doctor himself, ``I must have immediate access to
the lady.''

  ``In a lucky time,'' said Mr Gray, ``here comes
the town-clerk.---You are very welcome, Mr Lawford.
Your opinion here is much wanted as a man
of law, as well as of sense and humanity. I was
never more glad to see you in all my life.''

  He then rapidly stated the case; and the messenger,
understanding the new-comer to be a man
of some authority, again exhibited his warrant.

  ``This is a very sufficient and valid warrant, Dr
Gray,'' replied the man of law. ``Nevertheless,
if you are disposed to make oath, that instant removal
would be unfavourable to the lady's health,
unquestionably she must remain here, suitably

  ``It is not so much the mere act of locomotion
which I am afraid of,'' said the surgeon; ``but I
am free to depone, on soul and conscience, that
the shame and fear of her father's anger, and the
sense of the affront of such an arrest, with terror
for its consequences, may occasion violent and dangerous
illness---even death itself.''

  ``The father must see the daughter, though they
may have quarrelled,'' said Mr Lawford; ``the
officer of justice must execute his warrant, though
it should frighten the criminal to death; these
evils are only contingent, not direct and immediate
consequences. You must give up the lady, Mr
Gray, though your hesitation is very natural.''

  ``At least, Mr Lawford, I ought to be certain
that the person in my house is the party they
search for.''

  ``Admit me to her apartment,'' replied the man
whom the messenger termed Mon<c,>ada.

  The messenger, whom the presence of Lawford
had made something more placid, began to become
impudent once more. He hoped, he said, by means
of his female prisoner, to acquire the information
necessary to apprehend the more guilty person. If
more delays were thrown in his way, that information
might come too late, and he would make
all who were accessary to such delay responsible
for the consequences.

  ``And l,'' said Mr Gray, ``though I were to be
brought to the gallows for it, protest, that this
course may be the murder of my patient.---Can
bail not be taken, Mr Lawford?''

  ``Not in cases of high treason.'' said the official
person; and then continued in a confidential tone,
``Come, Mr Gray, we all know you to be a person
well affected to our Royal Sovereign King George
and the Government; but you must not push this
too far, lest you bring yourself into trouble, which
every body in Middlemas would be sorry for. The
forty-five has not been so far gone by, but we can
remember enough of warrants of high treason---
ay, and ladies of quality committed upon such
charges. But they were all favourably dealt with
---Lady Ogilvy, Lady MacIntosh, Flora Macdonald,
and all. No doubt this gentleman knows
what he is doing, and has assurances of the young
lady's safety---So you must just jouk and let the
jaw gae by, as we say.''

  ``Follow me, then, gentlemen,'' said Gideon,
``and you shall see the young lady;'' and then,
his strong features working with emotion at anticipation
of the distress which he was about to inflict,
he led the way up the small staircase, and
opening the door, said to Mon<c,>ada who had followed
him, ``This is your daughter's only place
of refuge, in which I am, alas! too weak to be her
protector. Enter, sir, if your conscience will permit

  The stranger turned on him a scowl, into which
it seemed as if he would willingly have thrown
the power of the fabled basilisk. Then stepping
proudly forward, he stalked into the room. He
was followed by Lawford and Gray at a little distance.
The messenger remained in the doorway. 
The unhappy young woman had heard the disturbance,
and guessed the cause too truly. It is Possible
she might even have seen the strangers on
their descent from the carriage. When they entered
the room, she was on her knees, beside an
easy chair, her face in a silk wrapper that was hung
over it. The man called Mon<c,>ada uttered a single
word; by the accent it might have been something
equivalent to _wretch_; but none knew its import. 
The female gave a convulsive shudder, such as that
by which a half-dying soldier is affected on receiving
a second wound. But without minding her
emotion, Mon<c,>ada seized her by the arm, and with
little gentleness raised her to her feet, on which
she seemed to stand only because she was supported
by his strong grasp. He then pulled from her
face the mask which she had hitherto worn. The
poor creature still endeavoured to shroud her face,
by covering it with her left hand, as the manner
in which she was held prevented her from using
the aid of the right. With little effort her father
secured that hand also, which, indeed, was of itself
far too little to serve the purpose of concealment,
and showed her beautiful face, burning with blushes
and covered with tears.

  ``You, Alcalde, and you, Surgeon,'' he said to
Lawford and Gray, with a foreign action and accent,
``this woman is my daughter, the same Zilia
Mon<c,>ada who is signal'd in that protocol. Make
way, and let me carry her where her crimes may
be atoned for.''

  ``Are you that person's daughter?'' said Lawford
to the lady.

  ``She understands no English,'' said Gray; and
addressing his patient in French, conjured her to
let him know whether she was that man's daughter
or not, assuring her of protection if the fact were
otherwise. The answer was murmured faintly,
but was too distinctly intelligible---`` He was her

  All farther title of interference seemed now
ended. The messenger arrested his prisoner,
and, with some delicacy, required the assistance of
the females to get her conveyed to the carriage in

  Gray again interfered.---``You will not,'' he said,
``separate the mother and the infant?''

  Zilia de Mon<c,>ada heard the question, (which,
being addressed to the father, Gray had inconsiderately
uttered in French,) and it seemed as if it
recalled to her recollection the existence of the
helpless creature to which she had given birth,
forgotten for a moment amongst the accumulated
horrors of her father's presence. She uttered a
shriek, expressing poignant grief, and turned her
eyes on her father with the most intense supplication.

  ``To the parish with the bastard!''---said Mon<c,>ada;
while the helpless mother sunk lifeless into
the arms of the females, who had now gathered
round her.

  ``That will not pass, sir,'' said Gideon.---``If
you are father to that lady, you must be grandfather
to the helpless child; and you must settle
in some manner for its future provision, or refer
us to some responsible person.''

  Mon<c,>ada looked towards Lawford, who expressed
himself satisfied of the propriety of what
Gray said.

  ``I object not to pay for whatever the wretched
child may require,'' said he; ``and if you, sir,'' addressing
Gray, ``choose to take charge of him,
and breed him up, you shall have what will better
your living.''

  The doctor was about to refuse a charge so uncivilly
offered; but after a moment's reflection, he
replied, ``I think so indifferently of the proceedings
I have witnessed, and of those concerned in
them, that if the mother desires that I should
retain the charge of this child, I will not refuse to
do so.''

  Mon<c,>ada spoke to his daughter, who was just
beginning to recover from her swoon, in the same
language in which he had first addressed her. The
propositions which he made seemed highly acceptable,
as she started from the arms of the females,
and, advancing to Gray, seized his hand, kissed it,
bathed it in her tears, and seemed reconciled, even
in parting with her child, by the consideration,
that the infant was to remain under his guardianship.

  ``Good, kind man,'' she said in her indifferent
French, ``you have saved both mother and child.''

  The father, meanwhile, with mercantile deliberation,
placed in Mr Lawford's hands notes and
bills to the amount of a thousand pounds, which
he stated was to be vested for the child's use, and
advanced in such portions as his board and education
might require. In the event of any correspondence
on his account being necessary, as in case
of death or the like, he directed that communication
should be made to Signior Matthias Mon<c,>ada,
under cover to a certain banking-house in London.

  ``But beware,'' he said to Gray, ``how you
trouble me about these concerns, unless in case of
absolute necessity.''

  ``You need not fear, sir,'' replied Gray; ``I have
seen nothing to-day which can induce me to desire
a more intimate correspondence with you than may
be indispensable.''

  While Lawford drew up a proper minute of this
transaction, by which he himself and Gray were
named trustees for the child, Mr Gray attempted
to restore to the lady the balance of the considerable
sum of money which Tresham (if such was
his real name) had formerly deposited with him. 
With every species of gesture, by which hands,
eyes, and even feet, could express rejection, as
well as in her own broken French, she repelled the
proposal of reimbursement, while she entreated
that Gray would consider the money as his own
property; and at the same time forced upon him a
ring set with brilliants, which seemed of considerable
value. The father then spoke to her a few
stern words, which she heard with an air of mingled
agony and submission.

  ``I have given her a few minutes to see and
weep over the miserable being which has been the
seal of her dishonour,'' said the stern father. ``Let
us retire and leave her alone.---You,'' to the messenger,
``watch the door of the room on the outside.''

  Gray, Lawford, and Mon<c,>ada, retired to the
parlour accordingly, where they waited in silence,
each busied with his own reflections, till, within the
space of half an hour, they received information
that the lady was ready to depart.

  ``It is well,'' replied Mon<c,>ada; ``I am glad she
has yet sense enough left to submit to that which
needs must be.''

  So saying, he ascended the stair, and returned,
leading down his daughter, now again masked and
veiled. As she passed Gray, she uttered the
words---``My child, my child!'' in a tone of unutterable
anguish; then entered the carriage, which
was drawn up as close to the door of the Doctor's
house as the little enclosure would permit. The
messenger, mounted on a led horse, and accompanied
by a servant and assistant, followed the carriage,
which drove rapidly off, taking the road
which leads to Edinburgh. All who had witnessed
this strange scene, now departed to make their conjectures,
and some to count their gains; for money
had been distributed among the females who had
attended on the lady, with so much liberality, as
considerably to reconcile them to the breach of the
rights of womanhood inflicted by the precipitate
removal of the patient.


  The last cloud of dust which the wheels of the
carriage had raised was dissipated, when dinner,
which claims a share of human thoughts even in
the midst of the most marvellous and affecting incidents,
recurred to those of Mrs Gray.

  ``Indeed, Doctor, you will stand glowering out
of the window till some other patient calls for you,
and then have to set off without your dinner;---
and I hope Mr Lawford will take pot-luck with us,
for it is just his own hour; and indeed we had
something rather better than ordinary for this poor
lady---lamb and spinage, and a veal Florentine.''

  The surgeon started as from a dream, and joined
in his wife's hospitable request, to which Lawford
willingly assented.

  We will suppose the meal finished, a bottle of
old and generous Antigua upon the table, and a
modest little punch-bowl, judiciously replenished
for the accommodation of the Doctor and his guest. 
Their conversation naturally turned on the strange
scene which they had witnessed, and the Town-Clerk
took considerable merit for his presence of

  ``I am thinking, Doctor,''  said  he,  ``you  might
have brewed a bitter browst to yourself if I had not
come in as I did.''

  ``Troth, and it might very well so be,'' answered
Gray; ``for, to tell you the truth, when I saw
yonder fellow vapouring with his pistols among the
women folk in my own house, the old Cameronian
spirit began to rise in me, and little thing would
have made me cleek to the poker.''

  ``Hoot! hoot! that would never have done. 
Na, na,'' said the man of law, ``this was a case
where a little prudence was worth all the pistols
and pokers in the world.''

  ``And that was just what I thought when I sent
to you, Clerk Lawford,'' said the Doctor.

  ``A wiser man he could not have called on to
a difficult case,'' added Mrs Gray, as she sat with
her work at a little distance from the table.

  ``Thanks t'ye, and here's t'ye, my good neighbour,''
answered the scribe; ``will you not let me
help you to another glass of punch, Mrs Gray?''
This being declined, he proceeded. ``I am jalousing
that the messenger and his warrant were just
brought in to prevent any opposition. Ye saw how
quietly he behaved after I had laid down the law---
I'll never believe the lady is in any risk from him. 
But the father is a dour chield; depend upon it, he
has bred up the young filly on the curb-rein, and
that has made the poor thing start off the course. 
I should not be surprised that he took her abroad
and shut her up in a convent.''

  ``Hardly,'' replied Doctor Gray,  ``if  it  be  true,
as I suspect, that both the father and daughter are
of the Jewish persuasion.''

  ``A Jew!'' said Mrs Gray; ``and have I been
taking a' this fyke about a Jew?---l thought she
seemed to gie a scunner at the eggs and bacon that
Nurse Simson spoke about to her, But I thought
Jews had aye had lang beards, and yon man's face
is just like one of our ain folks---I have seen the
Doctor with a langer beard himsell, when he has
not had leisure to shave.''

  ``That might have been Mr Mon<c,>ada's case,''
said Lawford, ``for he seemed to have had a hard
journey. But the Jews are often very respectable
people, Mrs Gray---they have no territorial property,
because the law is against them there, but
they have a good bank in the money market---
plenty of stock in the funds, Mrs Gray, and, indeed,
I think this poor young woman is better with
her ain father, though he be a Jew and a dour chield
into the bargain, than she would have been with the
loon that wronged her, who is, by your account,
Dr Gray, baith a papist and a rebel. The Jews
are well attached to government; they hate the
Pope, the Devil, and the Pretender, as much as
any honest man among ourselves.''

  ``I cannot admire either of the gentleman,'' said
Gideon. ``But it is but fair to say, that I saw Mr
Mon<c,>ada when he was highly incensed, and to all
appearance not without reason. Now, this other
man Tresham, if that be his name, was haughty to
me, and I think something careless of the poor
young woman, just at the time when he owed her
most kindness, and me some thankfulness. I am,
therefore, of your opinion, Clerk Lawford, that the
Christian is the worst bargain of the two.''

  ``And you think of taking care of this wean
yourself, Doctor? That is what I call the good

  ``At cheap cost, Clerk; the child, if it lives, has
enough to bring it up decently, and set it out in
life, and I can teach it an honourable and useful
profession. It will be rather an amusement than
a trouble to me, and I want to make some remarks
on the childish diseases, which, with God's blessing,
the child must come through under my charge;
and since Heaven has sent us no children------''

  ``Hoot, hoot!'' said the Town-Clerk, ``you are
in ower great a hurry now---you have na been sae
lang married yet.---Mrs Gray, dinna let my daffing
chase you away---we will be for a dish of tea belive,
for the Doctor and I are nae glass-breakers.''

  Four years after this conversation took place,
the event happened, at the possibility of which the
Town-Clerk had hinted; and Mrs Gray presented
her husband with an infant daughter. But good
and evil are strangely mingled in this sublunary
world. The fulfilment of his anxious longing for
posterity was attended with the loss of his simple
and kind-hearted wife; one of the most heavy
blows which fate could inflict on poor Gideon, and
his house was made desolate even by the event
which had promised for months before to add new
comforts to its humble roof. Gray felt the shock
as men of sense and firmness feel a decided blow,
from the effects of which they never hope again
fully to raise themselves. He discharged the duties
of his profession with the same punctuality as
ever, was easy, and even, to appearance, cheerful
in his intercourse with society; but the sunshine of
existence was gone. Every morning he missed the
affectionate charges which recommended to him to
pay attention to his own health while he was labouring
to restore that blessing to his patients. 
Every evening, as he returned from his weary
round, it was without the consciousness of a kind
and affectionate reception from one eager to tell,
and interested to hear, all the little events of the
day. His whistle, which used to arise clear and
strong so soon as Middlemas steeple was in view,
was now for ever silenced, and the rider's head
drooped, while the tired horse, lacking the stimulus
of his master's hand and voice, seemed to shuffle
along as if it experienced a share of his despondency.
There were times when he was so much
dejected as to be unable to endure even the presence
of his little Menie, in whose infant countenance
he could trace the lineaments of the mother,
of whose loss she had been the innocent and unconscious
cause. ``Had it not been for this poor
child''---he would think; but, instantly aware that
the sentiment was sinful, he would snatch the infant
to his breast, and load it with caresses---then hastily
desire it to be removed from the parlour.

  The Mahometans have a fanciful idea, that the
true believer, in his passage to Paradise, is under
the necessity of passing barefooted over a bridge
composed of red-hot iron. But on this occasion,
all the pieces of paper which the Moslem has preserved
during his life, lest some holy thing being
written upon them might be profaned, arrange
themselves between his feet and the burning metal,
and so save him from injury. In the same manner,
the effects of kind and benevolent actions are sometimes
found, even in this world, to assuage the
pangs of subsequent afflictions.

  Thus, the greatest consolation which poor Gideon
could find after his heavy deprivation, was in the
frolic fondness of Richard Middlemas, the child
who was in so singular a manner thrown upon his
charge. Even at this early age he was eminently
handsome. When silent or out of humour, his
dark eyes and striking countenance presented some
recollections of the stern character imprinted on the
features of his supposed father; but when he was
gay and happy, which was much more frequently
the case, these clouds were exchanged for the most
frolicsome, mirthful expression, that ever dwelt on
the laughing and thoughtless aspect of a child. 
He seemed to have a tact beyond his years in discovering
and conforming to the peculiarities of
human character. His nurse, one prime object of
Richard's observance, was Nurse Jamieson, or, as
she was more commonly called for brevity, and _par
excellence_, Nurse. This was the person who had
brought him up from infancy. She had lost her
own child, and soon after her husband, and being
thus a lone woman, had, as used to be common in
Scotland, remained a member of Dr Gray's family.
After the death of his wife, she gradually obtained
the principal superintendence of the whole household;
and being an honest and capable manager, was
a person of very great importance in the family.

  She was bold in her temper, violent in her feelings,
and, as often happens with those in her condition,
was as much attached to Richard Middlemas,
whom she had once nursed at her bosom, as if he
had been her own son. This affection the child
repaid by all the tender attentions of which his age
was capable.

  Little Dick was also distinguished by the fondest
and kindest attachment to his guardian and benefactor,
Dr Gray. He was officious in the right time
and place, quiet as a lamb when his patron seemed
inclined to study or to muse, active and assiduous
to assist or divert him whenever it seemed to be
wished, and, in choosing his opportunities, he
seemed to display an address far beyond his childish

  As time passed on, this pleasing character seemed
to be still more refined. In every thing like exercise
or amusement, he was the pride and the
leader of the boys of the place, over the most of
whom his strength and activity gave him a decided
superiority. At school his abilities were less distinguished,
yet he was a favourite with the master,
a sensible and useful teacher.

  ``Richard is not swift,'' he used to say to his
patron, Dr Gray, ``but then he is sure; and it is
impossible not to be pleased with a child who is so
very desirous to give satisfaction.''

  Young Middlemas's grateful affection to his patron
seemed to increase with the expanding of his
faculties, and found a natural and pleasing mode
of displaying itself in his attentions to little Menie*

*    Marion.

Gray. Her slightest wish was Richard's law, and
it was in vain that he was summoned forth by a
hundred shrill voices to take the lead in hye-spye,
or at foot-ball, if it was little Menie's pleasure that
he should remain within, and build card-houses for
her amusement. At other times he would take
the charge of the little damsel entirely under his
own care, and be seen wandering with her on the
borough common, collecting wild flowers, or knitting
caps made of bulrushes. Menie was attached
to Dick Middlemas, in proportion to his affectionate
assiduities; and the father saw with pleasure
every new mark of attention to the child on the
part of his proteg<e'>.

  During the time that Richard was silently advancing
from a beautiful child into a fine boy, and
approaching from a fine boy to the time when he
must be termed a handsome youth, Mr Gray wrote
twice a-year with much regularity to Mr Mon<c,>ada,
through the channel that gentleman had pointed
out. The benevolent man thought, that if the
wealthy grandfather could only see his relative, of
whom any family might be proud, he would be
unable to persevere in his resolution of treating as
an outcast one so nearly connected with him in
blood, and so interesting in person and disposition.
He thought it his duty, therefore, to keep open the
slender and oblique communication with the boy's
maternal grandfather, as that which might, at some
future period, lead to a closer connexion. Yet
the correspondence could not, in other respects, be
agreeable to a man of spirit like Mr Gray. His
own letters were as short as possible, merely rendering
an account of his ward's expenses, including
a moderate board to himself, attested by Mr Lawford,
his co-trustee; and intimating Richard's state
of health, and his progress in education, with a few
words of brief but warm eulogy upon his goodness
of head and heart. But the answers he received
were still shorter. ``Mr Mon<c,>ada,'' such was their
usual tenor, ``acknowledges Mr Gray's letter of
such a date, notices the contents, and requests Mr
Gray to persist in the plan which he has hitherto
prosecuted on the subject of their correspondence.''
On occasions where extraordinary expenses seemed
likely to be incurred, the remittances were made
with readiness.

  That day fortnight after Mrs Gray's death, fifty
pounds were received, with a note, intimating that
it was designed to put the child R. M. into proper
mourning. The writer had added two or three
words, desiring that the surplus should be at Mr
Gray's disposal, to meet the additional expenses of
this period of calamity; but Mr Mon<c,>ada had left
the phrase unfinished, apparently in despair of
turning it suitably into English. Gideon, without
farther investigation, quietly added the sum to the
account of his ward's little fortune, contrary to the
opinion of Mr Lawford, who, aware that he was
rather a loser than a gainer by the boy's residence
in his house, was desirous that his friend should
not omit an opportunity of recovering some part of
his expenses on that score. But Gray was proof
against all remonstrance.

  As the boy advanced towards his fourteenth
year, Dr Gray wrote a more elaborate account of
his ward's character, acquirements, and capacity. 
He added, that he did this for the purpose of enabling
Mr Mon<c,>ada to judge how the young man's
future education should be directed. Richard, he
observed, was arrived at the point where education,
losing its original and general character,
branches off into different paths of knowledge,
suitable to particular professions, and when it was
therefore become necessary to determine which of
them it was his pleasure that young Richard should
be trained for; and he would, on his part, do all
he could to carry Mr Mon<c,>ada's wishes into execution,
since the amiable qualities of the boy made
him as dear to him, though but a guardian, as he
could have been to his own father.

  The answer, which arrived in the course of a
week or ten days, was fuller than usual, and written
in the first person.---``Mr Gray,'' such was the
tenor, ``our meeting has been under such circumstances
as could not make us favourably known to
each other at the time. But I have the advantage
of you, since, knowing your motives for entertaining
an indifferent opinion of me, I could respect
them, and you at the same time; whereas you, unable
to comprehend the motives---I say, you, being
unacquainted with the infamous treatment I had
received, could not understand the reasons that I
have for acting as I have done. Deprived, sir, by
the act of a villain, of my child, and she despoiled
of honour, I cannot bring myself to think of beholding
the creature, however innocent, whose look
must always remind me of hatred and of shame. 
Keep the poor child by you---educate him to your
own profession, but take heed that he looks no
higher than to fill such a situation in life as you
yourself worthily occupy, or some other line of
like importance. For the condition of a farmer, a
country lawyer, a medical practitioner, or some
such retired course of life, the means of outfit and
education shall be amply supplied. But I must
warn him and you, that any attempt to intrude
himself on me further than I may especially permit,
will be attended with the total forfeiture of
my favour and protection. So, having made known
my mind to you, I expect you will act accordingly.''

  The receipt of this letter determined Gideon to
have some explanation with the boy himself, in
order to learn if he had any choice among the professions
thus opened to him; convinced, at the same
time, from his docility of temper, that he would
refer the selection to his (Dr Gray's) better judgment.

  He had previously, however, the unpleasing task
of acquainting Richard Middlemas with the mysterious
circumstances attending his birth, of which
he presumed him to be entirely ignorant, simply
because he himself had never communicated them,
but had let the boy consider himself as the orphan
child of a distant relation. But though the Doctor
himself was silent, he might have remembered
that Nurse Jamieson had the handsome enjoyment
of her tongue, and was disposed to use it liberally.

  From a very early period, Nurse Jamieson,
amongst the variety of legendary lore which she
instilled into her foster son, had not forgotten what
she called the awful season of his coming into the
world---the personable appearance of his father, a
grand gentleman, who looked as if the whole world
lay at his feet---the beauty of his mother, and the
terrible blackness of the mask which she wore, her
een that glanced like diamonds, and the diamonds
she wore on her fingers, that could be compared to
nothing but her own een, the fairness of her skin,
and the colour of her silk rokelay, with much proper
stuff to the same purpose. Then she expatiated
on the arrival of his grandfather, and the awful
man, armed with pistol, dirk, and claymore,
(the last weapons existed only in Nurse's imagination,)
the very Ogre of a fairy tale---then all the
circumstances of the carrying off his mother, while
bank-notes were flying about the house like screeds
of brown paper, and gold guineas were as plenty
as chuckie-stanes. All this, partly to please and
interest the boy, partly to indulge her own talent
for amplification, Nurse told with so many additional
circumstances, and gratuitous commentaries,
that the real transaction, mysterious and odd as it
certainly was, sunk into tameness before the
Nurse's edition, like humble prose contrasted with
the boldest flights of poetry.

  To hear all this did Richard seriously incline,
and still more was he interested with the idea of
his valiant father coming for him unexpectedly at
the head of a gallant regiment, with music playing
and colours flying, and carrying his son away on
the most beautiful pony eyes ever beheld: Or his
mother, bright as the day, might suddenly appear
in her coach-and-six, to reclaim her beloved child;
or his repentant grandfather, with his pockets stuffed
out with bank-notes, would come to atone for
his past cruelty, by heaping his neglected grandchild
with unexpected wealth. Sure was Nurse
Jamieson, ``that it wanted but a blink of her
bairns bonny ee to turn their hearts, as Scripture
sayeth; and as strange things had been, as they
should come a'thegither to the town at the same
time, and make such a day as had never been seen
in Middlemas; and then her bairn would never be
called by that lowland name of Middlemas any
more, which sounded as if it had been gathered out
of the town gutter; but would be called Galatian,*

*    Galatian is a name of a person famous in Christmas gambols.

or Sir William Wallace, or Robin Hood, or after
some other of the great princes named in storybooks.''

  Nurse Jamieson's history of the past, and prospects
of the future, were too flattering not to excite
the most ambitious visions in the mind of a
boy, who naturally felt a strong desire of rising in
the world, and was conscious of possessing the
powers necessary to his advancement. The incidents
of his birth resembled those he found commemorated
in the tales which he read or listened
to; and there seemed no reason why his own adventures
should not have a termination corresponding
to those of such veracious histories. In a word,
while good Doctor Gray imagined that his pupil
was dwelling in utter ignorance of his origin,
Richard was meditating upon nothing else than the
time and means by which he anticipated his being
extricated from the obscurity of his present condition,
and enabled to assume the rank to which, in
his own opinion, he was entitled by birth.

  So stood the feelings of the young man, when,
one day after dinner, the Doctor snuffing the
candle, and taking from his pouch the great leathern
pocketbook in which be deposited particular papers,
with a small supply of the most necessary
and active medicines, he took from it Mr Mon<c,>ada's
letter, and requested Richard Middlemas's
serious attention, while he told him some circumstances
concerning himself, which it greatly imported
him to know. Richard's dark eyes flashed
fire---the blood flushed his broad and well-formed
forehead---the hour of explanation was at length
come. He listened to the narrative of Gideon
Gray, which, the reader may believe, being altogether
divested of the gilding which Nurse Jamieson's
imagination had bestowed upon it, and reduced
to what mercantile men termed the _needful_,
exhibited little more than the tale  of  a  child  of
shame,  deserted  by  its  father  and  mother,   and
brought up on the reluctant charity of a more
distant relation, who regarded him as the living
though unconscious evidence of the disgrace of his
family, and would more willingly have paid for
the expenses of his funeral, than that of the food
which was grudgingly provided for him. ``Temple
and tower,'' a hundred flattering edifices of Richard's
childish imagination, went to the ground at
once, and the pain which attended their demolition
was rendered the more acute, by a sense of shame
that he should have nursed such reveries. He remained,
while Gideon continued his explanation,
in a dejected posture, his eyes fixed on the ground,
and the veins of his forehead swoln with contending

  ``And now, my dear Richard,'' said the good
surgeon, ``you must think what you can do for
yourself, since your grandfather leaves you the
choice of three honourable professions, by any of
which, well and wisely prosecuted, you may become
independent if not wealthy, and respectable
if not great. You will naturally desire a little
time for consideration.''

  ``Not a minute,'' said the boy, raising his head,
and looking boldly at his guardian. ``I am a free-born
Englishman, and will return to England if I
think fit.''

  ``A free-born fool you are''---said Gray; ``you
were born, as I think, and no one can know better
than I do, in the blue room of Stevenlaw's Land,
in the Town-head of Middlemas, if you call that
being a free-born Englishman.''

  ``But Tom Hillary,''---this was an apprentice of
Clerk Lawford, who had of late been a great friend
and adviser of young Middlemas---``Tom Hillary
says that I am a free-born Englishman, notwithstanding,
in right of my parents.''

  ``Pooh, child! what do we know of your parents?---
But what has your being an Englishman
to do with the present question?''

  ``Oh Doctor!'' answered the boy, bitterly, ``you
know we from the South side of Tweed cannot
scramble so hard as you do. The Scots are too
moral, and too prudent, and too robust, for a poor
pudding-eater to live amongst them, whether as a
parson, or as a lawyer, or as a doctor---with your
pardon, sir.''

  ``Upon my life, Dick,'' said Gray, ``this Tom
Hillary will turn your brain. What is the meaning
of all this trash?''

  ``Tom Hillary says that the parson lives by the
sins of the people, the lawyer by their distresses,
and the doctor by their diseases---always asking
your pardon, sir.''

  ``Tom Hillary,'' replied the Doctor, ``should be
drummed out of the borough. A whipper-snapper
of an attorney's apprentice, run away from Newcastle!
If I hear him talking so, I'll teach him to
speak with more reverence of the learned professions.
Let me bear no more of Tom Hillary, whom
you have seen far too much of lately. Think a
little, like a lad of sense, and tell me what answer
I am to give Mr Mon<c,>ada.''

  ``Tell him,'' said the boy, the tone of affected
sarcasm laid aside, and that of injured pride substituted
in its room, ``tell him, that my soul revolts
at the obscure lot he recommends to me. I am
determined to enter my father's profession, the
army, unless my grandfather chooses to receive
me into his house, and place me in his own line of

  ``Yes, and make you his partner, I suppose, and
acknowledge you for his heir?'' said Dr Gray;
``a thing extremely likely to happen, no doubt,
considering the way in which he has brought you
up all along, and the terms in which he now writes
concerning you.''

  ``Then, sir, there is one thing which I can demand
of you,'' replied the boy. ``There is a large
sum of money in your hands belonging to me; and
since it is consigned to you for my use, I demand
you should make the necessary advances to procure
a commission in the army---account to me for
the balance---and so, with thanks for past favours,
I will give you no trouble in future.''

  ``Young man,'' said the Doctor, gravely, ``I am
very sorry to see that your usual prudence and good
humour are not proof against the disappointment
of some idle expectations which you had not the
slightest reason to entertain. It is very true that
there is a sum, which, in spite of various expenses,
may still approach to a thousand pounds or better,
which remains. in my hands for your behoof. But
I am bound to dispose of it according to the will of
the donor; and at any rate, you are not entitled to
call for it until you come to years of discretion;
a period from which you are six years distant, according
to law, and which, in one sense, you will
never reach at all, unless you alter your present
unreasonable crotchets. But come, Dick, this is
the first time I have seen you in so absurd a humour,
and you have many things, I own, in your situation
to apologise for impatience even greater than
you have displayed. But you should not turn
your resentment on me, that am no way in fault. 
You should remember, that I was your earliest
and only friend, and took charge of you when
every other person forsook you.''

  ``I do not thank you for it,'' said Richard, giving
way to a burst of uncontrolled passion. ``You
might have done better for me had you pleased.''

  ``And in what manner, you ungrateful boy?''
said Gray, whose composure was a little ruffled.

  ``You might have flung me under the wheels of
their carriages as they drove off, and have let them
trample on the body of their child, as they have
done on his feelings.''

  So saying, he rushed  out  of  the  room,  and  shut
the door behind him with great violence, leaving
his guardian astonished at his sudden and violent
change of temper and manner.

  ``What the deuce can have possessed him? Ah,
well. High-spirited, and disappointed in some
follies which that Tom Hillary has put into his
head. But his is a case for anodynes, and shall
be treated accordingly.''

  While the Doctor formed this good-natured resolution,
young Middlemas rushed to Nurse Jamiesons
apartment, where poor Menie, to whom his
presence always gave holyday feelings, hastened
to exhibit, for his admiration, a new doll, of which
she had made the acquisition. No one, generally,
was more interested in Menie's amusements than
Richard; but at present Richard, like his celebrated
namesake, was not i'the vein. He threw
of the little damsel so carelessly, almost so rudely
that the doll flew out of Menie's hand, fell on
the hearth-stone, and broke its waxen face. The
rudeness drew from Nurse Jamieson a rebuke,
even although the culprit was her darling.

  ``Hout awa,' Richard---that wasna like yoursell,
to guide Miss Menie that gate.---Haud your
tongue, Miss Menie, and I'll soon mend the baby's

  But if Menie cried, she did not cry for the doll;
and while the tears flowed silently down her cheeks,
she sat looking at Dick Middlemas with a childish
face of fear, sorrow, and wonder. Nurse Jamieson
was soon diverted from her attention to Menie
Gray's distresses, especially as she did not weep
aloud, and her attention became fixed on the altered
countenance, red eyes, and swoln features
of her darling foster-child. She instantly commenced
an investigation into the cause of his distress,
after the usual inquisitorial manner of matrons
of her class. ``What is the matter wi' my
bairn?'' and ``Wha has been vexing my bairn?''
with similar questions, at last extorted this reply:

  ``I am not your bairn---I am no one's bairn---
no one's son. I am an outcast from my family,
and belong to no one. Dr Gray bas told me so

  ``And did he cast up to my bairn that he was
a bastard?---troth he was na blate---my certie,
your father was a better man than ever stood on
the Doctor's shanks---a handsome grand gentleman,
with an ee like a gled's, and a step like a
Highland piper.''

  Nurse Jamieson had got on a favourite topic,
and would have expatiated long enough, for she
was a professed admirer of masculine beauty, but
there was something which displeased the boy in
her last simile; so he cut the conversation short,
by asking whether she knew exactly how much
money his grandfather had left with Dr Gray for
his maintenance. ``She could not say---didna ken
---an awfu' sum it was to pass out of ae man's
hand---She was sure it wasna less than ae hundred
pounds, and it might weel be twa.'' In short, she
knew nothing about the matter; ``but she was
sure Dr Gray would count to him to the last farthing;
for everbody kend that he was a just man
where siller was concerned. However, if her bairn
wanted to ken mair about it, to be sure the Town-clerk
could tell him all about it.''

  Richard Middlemas arose and  left the apartment,
without saying more. He went immediately
to visit the old Town-clerk, to whom he
had made himself acceptable, as, indeed, he had
done to most of the dignitaries about the burgh. 
He introduced the conversation by the proposal
which had been made to him for choosing a profession,
and after speaking of the mysterious circumstances
of his birth, and the doubtful prospects
which lay before him, he easily led the Town-clerk
into conversation as to the amount of the
funds, and heard the exact state of the money in
his guardian's hands, which corresponded with the
information he had already received. He next
sounded the worthy scribe on the possibility of
his going into the army; but received a second
confirmation of the intelligence Mr Gray had
given him; being informed that no part of the
money could be placed at his disposal till he was
of age: and then not without the especial consent
of both his guardians, and particularly that of his
master. He therefore took leave of the Town-clerk,
who, much approving the cautious manner
in which he spoke, and his prudent selection of
an adviser at this important crisis of his life, intimated
to him, that should he choose the law, he
would himself receive him into his office, upon a
very moderate apprentice-fee, and would part
with Tom Hillary to make room for him, as the
lad was ``rather pragmatical, and plagued him
with speaking about his English practice, which
they had nothing to do with on this side of the
Border---the Lord be thanked!''

  Middlemas thanked him for his kindness, and
promised to consider his kind offer, in case he
should determine  upon  following  the  profession  of
the law.

  From Tom Hillary's master Richard went to Tom
Hillary himself, who chanced then to be in the
office. He was a lad about twenty, as smart as
small, but distinguished for the accuracy with which
he dressed his hair, and the splendour of a laced
hat and embroidered waistcoat, with which he
graced the church of Middlemas on Sunday. Tom
Hillary had been bred an attorney's clerk in Newcastle-upon-Tyne,
but, for some reason or other,
had found it more convenient of late years to reside
in Scotland, and was recommended to the Town-clerk
of Middlemas, by the accuracy and beauty
with which he transcribed the records of the burgh. 
It is not improbable that the reports concerning the
singular circumstances of Richard Middlemas's
birth, and the knowledge that he was actually possessed
of a considerable sum of money, induced
Hillary, though so much his senior, to admit the lad
to his company, and enrich his youthful mind with
some branches of information, which, in that retired
corner, his pupil might otherwise have been some
time in attaining. Amongst these were certain
games at cards and dice, in which the pupil paid,
as was reasonable, the price of initiation by his
losses to his instructor. After a long walk with
this youngster, whose advice, like the unwise son
of the wisest of men, he probably valued more than
that of his more aged counsellors, Richard Middlemas
returned to his lodgings in Stevenlaw's Land,
and went to bed sad and supperless.

  The next morning Richard arose with the sun,
and his night's rest appeared to have had its frequent
effect, in cooling the passions and correcting
the understanding. Little Menie was the first
person to whom he made the _amende honorable_;
and a much smaller propitiation than the new doll
with which he presented her would have been accepted
as an atonement for a much greater offence. 
Menie was one of those pure spirits, to whom a
state of unkindness, if the estranged person has
been a friend, is a state of pain, and the slightest
advance of her friend and protector was sufficient
to regain all her childish confidence and affection.

  The father did not prove more inexorable than
Menie had done. Mr Gray, indeed, thought he
had good reason to look cold upon Richard at their
next meeting, being not a little hurt at the ungrateful
treatment which he had received on the
preceding evening. But Middlemas disarmed him
at once, by frankly pleading that he had suffered
his mind to be carried away by the supposed rank
and importance of his parents, into a idle conviction
that he was one day to share them. The
letter of his grandfather, which condemned him to
banishment and obscurity for life, was, he acknowledged,
a very severe blow; and it was with
deep sorrow that he reflected, that the irritation of
his disappointment had led him to express himself
in a manner far short of the respect and reverence
of one who owed Mr Gray the duty and affection
of a son, and ought to refer to his decision every
action of his life. Gideon, propitiated by an admission
so candid, and made with so much humility,
readily dismissed his resentment, and kindly enquired
of Richard, whether he had bestowed any
reflection upon the choice of profession which had
been subjected to him; offering, at the same time,
to allow him all reasonable time to make up his

  On this subject, Richard Middlemas answered
with the same promptitude and candour.---``He
had,'' he said, ``in order to forming his opinion
more safely, consulted with his friend, the Town-clerk.''
The Doctor nodded approbation. ``Mr
Lawford had, indeed, been most friendly, and had
even offered to take him into his own office. But
if his father and benefactor would permit him to
study, under his instructions, the noble art in
which he himself enjoyed such a deserved reputation,
the mere hope that he might by-and-by be of
some use to Mr Gray in his business, would greatly
overbalance every other consideration. Such a
course of education, and such a use of professional
knowledge when he had acquired it, would be a
greater spur to his industry, than the prospect
even of becoming Town-clerk of Middlemas in his
proper person.''

  As the young man expressed it to be his firm
and unalterable choice, to study medicine under
his guardian, and to remain a member of his
family, Dr Gray informed Mr Mon<c,>ada of the
lad's determination; who, to testify his approbation,
remitted to the Doctor the sum of L.100 as
apprentice fee, a sum nearly three times as much
as Gray's modesty had hinted at as necessary.

  Shortly after, when Dr Gray and the Town-clerk
met at the small club of the burgh, their
joint theme was the sense and steadiness of Richard

  ``Indeed,'' said the Town-clerk, ``he is such a
friendly and disinterested boy, that I could not
get him to accept a place in my office, for fear he
should be thought to be pushing himself forward
at the expense of Tam Hillary.''

  ``And indeed, Clerk,'' said Gray, ``I have
sometimes been afraid that he kept too much
company with that Tam Hillary of yours; but
twenty Tam Hillarys would not corrupt Dick

                CHAPTER III.

        Dick was come to high renown
        Since he commenced physician;
        Tom was held by all the town
        The better politician.
                       _Tom and Dick._

  At the same period when Dr Gray took under
his charge his youthful lodger Richard Middlemas,
he received proposals from the friends of one
Adam Hartley, to receive him also as an apprentice.
The lad was the son of a respectable farmer
on the English side of the Border, who, educating
his eldest son to his own occupation, desired to
make his second a medical man, in order to avail
himself of the friendship of a great man, his landlord,
who had offered to assist his views in life,
and represented a doctor or surgeon as the sort of
person to whose advantage his interest could be
most readily applied. Middlemas and Hartley
were therefore associated in their studies. In
winter they were boarded in Edinburgh, for  attending
the medical classes which were necessary
for taking their degree. Three or four years thus
passed on, and, from being mere boys, the two
medical aspirants shot up into young men, who,
being both very good-looking, well dressed, well
bred, and having money in their pockets, became
personages of some importance in the little town
of Middlemas, where there was scarce any thing
that could be termed an aristocracy, and in which
beaux were scarce and belles were plenty.

  Each of the two had his especial partisans; for
though the young men themselves lived in tolerable
harmony together, yet, as usual in such cases,
no one could approve of one of them, without at
the same time comparing him with, and asserting
his superiority over his companion.

  Both were gay, fond of dancing, and sedulous
attendants on the _practeezings_ as he called them,
of Mr M`Fittoch, a dancing-master, who, itinerant
during the summer, became stationary in the winter
season, and afforded the youth of Middlemas
the benefit of his instructions at the rate of twenty
lessons for five shillings sterling. On these occasions,
each of Dr Gray's pupils had his appropriate
praise. Hartley danced with most spirit---Middlemas
with a better grace. Mr M`Fittoch would
have turned out Richard against the country-side
in the minuet, and wagered the thing dearest to
him in the world, (and that was his kit,) upon his
assured superiority; but he admitted Hartley was
superior to him in hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys,
and reels.

  In dress, Hartley was most expensive, perhaps
because his father afforded him better means of
being so; but his clothes were neither so tasteful
when new, nor so well preserved when they began
to grow old, as those of Richard Middlemas. Adam
Hartley was sometimes fine, at other times rather
slovenly, and on the former occasions looked rather
too conscious of his splendour. His chum was at
all times regularly neat and well dressed; while at
the same time he had an air of good-breeding,
which made him appear always at ease; so that his
dress, whatever it was, seemed to be just what he
ought to have worn at the time.

  In their persons there was a still more strongly
marked distinction. Adam Hartley was full
middle size, stout, and well limbed; and an open
English countenance, of the genuine Saxon mould,
showed, itself among chestnut locks, until the hair-dresser
destroyed them. He loved the rough exercises
of wrestling, boxing, leaping, and quarterstaff,
and frequented, when he could obtain leisure,
the bull-baitings and foot-ball matches, by which
the burgh was sometimes enlivened.

  Richard, on the contrary, was dark, like his
father and mother, with high features, beautifully
formed, but exhibiting something of a foreign character;
and his person was tall and slim, though
muscular and active. His address and manners
must have been natural to him, for they were, in
elegance and case, far beyond any example which
he could have found in his native burgh. He
learned the use of the small-sword while in Edinburgh,
and took lessons from a performer at the
theatre, with the purpose of refining his mode of
speaking. He became also an amateur of the
drama, regularly attending the playhouse, and assuming
the tone of a critic in that and other lighter
departments of literature. To fill up the contrast,
so far as taste was concerned, Richard was a dexterous
and successful angler---Adam, a bold and
unerring shot. Their efforts to surpass each other
in supplying Dr Gray's table, rendered his housekeeping
much preferable to what it had been on
former occasions; and, besides, small presents of
fish and game are always agreeable amongst the
inhabitants of a country town, and contributed to
increase the popularity of the young sportsmen.

  While the burgh was divided, for lack of better
subject of disputation, concerning the comparative
merits of Dr Gray's two apprentices, he himself
was sometimes chosen the referee. But in this, as
on other matters, the Doctor was cautious. He
said the lads were both good lads, and would be
useful men in the profession, if their heads were
not carried with the notice which the foolish people
of the burgh took of them, and the parties of
pleasure that were so often taking them away from
their business. No doubt it was natural for him
to feel more confidence in Hartley, who came of
ken'd folk, and was very near its good as a born
Scotsman. But if he did feel such a partiality, he
blamed himself for it, since the stranger child, so
oddly cast upon his hands, had peculiar good right
to such patronage and affection as he had to bestow;
and truly the young man himself seemed so
grateful, that it was impossible for him to hint the
slightest wish, that Dick Middlemas did not hasten
to execute.

  There  were  persons  in  the  burgh  of  Middlemas
who were indiscreet enough to suppose that Miss
Menie must be a better judge than any other person
of the comparative merits of these accomplished
personages, respecting which the public opinion
was generally divided. No one even of her greatest
intimates ventured to put the question to her
in precise terms; but her conduct was narrowly
observed, and the critics remarked, that to Adam
Hartley her attentions were given more freely and
frankly. She laughed with him, chatted with him,
and danced with him; while to Dick Middlemas
her conduct was more shy and distant. The premises
seemed certain, but the public were divided
in the conclusions which were drawn from

  It was not possible for the young men to be the
subject of such discussions without being sensible
that they existed; and thus contrasted together by
the little society in which they moved, they must
have been made of better than ordinary clay, if
they had not themselves entered by degrees into
the spirit of the controversy, and considered themselves
as rivals for public applause.

  Nor is it to be forgotten, that Menie Gray was
by this time shot up into one of the prettiest young
women, not of Middlemas only, but of the whole
county, in which the little burgh is situated. This,
indeed, had been settled by evidence, which could
not be esteemed short of decisive. At the time of
the races, there were usually assembled in the
burgh some company of the higher classes from the
country around, and many of the sober burghers
mended their incomes, by letting their apartments,
or taking in lodgers of quality for the busy week. 
All the rural thanes and thanesses attended on
these occasions; and such was the number of cocked
hats and silken trains, that the little town seemed
for a time totally to have changed its inhabitants. 
On this occasion, persons of a certain quality only
were permitted to attend upon the nightly balls
which were given in the old Townhouse, and the
line of distinction excluded Mr Gray's family.

  The aristocracy, however, used their privileges
with some feelings of deference to the native beaux
and belles of the burgh, who were thus doomed to
hear the fiddles nightly, without being permitted
to dance to them. One evening in the race-week,
termed the Hunters' Ball, was dedicated to general
amusement, and liberated from the usual restrictions
of etiquette. On this occasion all the
respectable families in the town were invited to
share the amusement of the evening, and to wonder
at the finery, and be grateful for the condescension,
of their betters. This was especially the
case with the females, for the number of invitations
to the gentlemen of the town was much more limited.
Now, at this general muster, the beauty of
Miss Gray's face and person had placed her, in the
opinion of all competent judges, decidedly at the
head of all the belles present, saving those with
whom, according to the ideas of the place, it would
hardly have been decent to compare her.

  The Laird of the ancient and distinguished house
of Louponheight did not hesitate to engage her
hand during the greater part of the evening; and
his mother, renowned for her stern assertion of
the distinctions of rank, placed the little plebeian
beside her at supper, and was heard to say, that
the surgeon's daughter behaved very prettily indeed,
and seemed to know perfectly well where
and what she was. As for the young Laird himself,
he capered so high, and laughed so uproariously,
as to give rise to a rumour, that he was
minded to ``shoot madly from his sphere,'' and to
convert the village Doctor's daughter into a lady
of his own ancient name.

  During this memorable evening, Middlemas, and
Hartley, who had found room in the music gallery,
witnessed the scene, and, as it would seem,
with very different feelings. Hartley was evidently
annoyed by the excess of attention which the
gallant Laird of Louponheight, stimulated by the
influence of a couple of bottles of claret, and by
the presence of a partner who danced remarkably
well, paid to Miss Menie Gray. He saw from his
lofty stand all the dumb show of gallantry, with
the comfortable feelings of a famishing creature
looking upon a feast which he is not permitted to
share, and regarded every extraordinary frisk of
the jovial Laird, as the same might have been
looked upon by a gouty person, who apprehended
that the dignitary was about to descend on his
toes. At length, unable to restrain his emotion, he
left the gallery and returned no more.

  Far different was the demeanour of Middlemas. 
He seemed gratified and elevated by the attention
which was generally paid to Miss Gray, and by
the admiration she excited. On the valiant Laird
of Louponheight he looked with indescribable contempt,
and amused himself with pointing out to the
burgh dancing-master, who acted _pro tempore_ as
one of the band, the frolicsome bounds and pirouettes,
in which that worthy displayed a great deal
more of vigour than of grace.

  ``But ye shouldna laugh sae loud, Master Dick,''
said the master of capers; ``he hasna had the advantage
of a real gracefu' teacher, as ye have had;
and troth, if he listed to tak some lessons, I think
I could make some hand of his feet, for he is a
souple chield, and has a gallant instep of his ain;
and sic a laced hat hasna been seen on the causeway
of Middlemas this mony a day.---Ye are standing
laughing there, Dick Middlemas; I would have
you be sure he does not cut you out with your
bonny partner yonder.''

  ``He be ------!'' Middlemas was beginning a
sentence which could not have concluded with
strict attention to propriety, when the master of
the band summoned M`Fittoch to his post, by the
following ireful expostulation:---``What are ye
about sir? Mind your bow-band. How the deil
d'ye think three fiddles is to keep down a bass, if
yin o' them stands girning and gabbling as ye're
doing? Play up, sir!''

  Dick Middlemas, thus reduced to silence, continued,
from his lofty station, like one of the gods of
the Epicureans, to survey what passed below, without
the gaieties which he witnessed being able to
excite more than a smile, which seemed,  however,
rather to indicate a good-humoured contempt for
what was passing, than a benevolent sympathy
with the pleasures of others.

                 CHAPTER IV.

  Now hold thy, tongue, Billy Berwick, he said,
    Of peaceful talking let me be;
  But if thou art a man, as I think thou art,
    Come ower the dike and fight with me.
                                _Border Minstrelsy._

  On the morning after this gay evening, the two
young men were labouring together in a plot of
ground behind Stevenlaw's Land, which the Doctor
had converted into a garden, where he raised,
with a view to pharmacy as well as botany, some
rare plants, which obtained the place from the
vulgar the sounding name of the Physic Garden.*

*    The Botanic Garden is so termed by the vulgar of Edinburgh.

Mr Gray's pupils readily complied with his wishes,
that they would take some care of this favourite
spot, to which both contributed their labours, after
which Hartley used to devote himself to the cultivation
of the kitchen garden, which he had raised,
into this respectability from a spot not excelling a
common kail-yard, while Richard Middlemas did
his utmost to decorate with flowers and shrubs a
sort of arbour, usually called Miss Menie's bower.

  At present, they were both in the botanic patch
of the garden, when Dick Middlemas asked Hartley
why he had left the ball so soon the evening before?

  ``I should rather ask you,'' said Hartley, ``what
pleasure you felt in staying there?---l tell you,
Dick, it is a shabby low place this Middlemas of
ours. In the smallest burgh in England, every decent
freeholder would have been asked if the Member
gave a ball.''

  ``What, Hartley!'' said his companion, ``are 
you, of all men, a candidate for the, honour of mixing
with the first born of the earth? Mercy on us!
How will canny Northumberland (throwing a truer
northern accent on the letter R,) acquit himself?
Methinks I see thee in thy pea-green suit, dancing
a jig with the Honourable Miss Maddie MacFudgeon
while chiefs and thanes around laugh as they
would do at a hog in armour!''

  ``You don't, or perhaps you won't, understand
me,'' said Hartley. ``I am not such a fool as to
desire to be hail-fellow-well-met with these fine
folks---I care as little for them as they do for me. 
But as they do not choose to ask us to dance, I
don't see what business they have with our partners.''

  ``Partners, said you!'' answered Middlemas;
``I don't think Menie is very often yours.''

  ``As often as I ask her,'' answered Hartley, rather

  ``Ay? Indeed?---I did not think that.---And
hang me, if I think so yet,'' said Middlemas, with
the same sarcastic tone. ``I tell thee, Adam, I
will bet you a bowl of punch, that Miss Gray will
not dance with you the next time you ask her. All
I stipulate, is to know the day.''

  ``I will lay no bets about Miss Gray,'' said Hartley;---
``her father is my master, and I am obliged to
him---I think I should act very scurvily, if I were
to make her the subject of any idle debate betwixt
you and me.''

  ``Very right,'' replied Middlemas; ``you should
finish one quarrel before you begin another. Pray,
saddle your pony, ride up to the gate of Louponheight
Castle, and defy the Baron to mortal combat,
for having presumed to touch the fair hand of
Menie Gray.''

  ``I wish you would leave Miss Gray's name out
of the question, and take your defiances to your
fine folks in your own name, and see what they
will say to the surgeon's apprentice.''

  ``Speak for yourself, if you please, Mr Adam
Hartley. I was not born a clown, like some folks,
and should care little, if I saw it fit, to talk to the
best of them at the ordinary, and make myself
understood too.''

  ``Very likely,'' answered Hartley, losing patience;
``you are one of themselves, you know---
Middlemas of that Ilk.''

  ``You scoundrel!'' said Richard, advancing on
him in fury, his taunting humour entirely changed
into rage.

  ``Stand back,'' said Hartley, ``or you will come
by the worst; if you will break rude jests, you
must put up with rough answers.''

  ``I will have satisfaction for this insult, by Heaven!''

  ``Why, so you shall, if you insist on it,'' said
Hartley; ``but better, I think, to say no more about
the matter. We have both spoken what would
have been better left unsaid. I was in the wrong
to say what I said to you, although you did provoke
me.---And now I have given you as much
satisfaction as a reasonable man can ask.''

  ``Sir,''   repeated   Middlemas, ``the    satisfaction
which I demand, is that of a gentleman---the Doctor
has a pair of pistols.''

  ``And a pair of mortars also, which are heartily
at your service, gentlemen,'' said Mr Gray, coming
forward from behind a yew hedge, where he had
listened to the whole or greater part of this dispute. 
``A fine story it would be of my apprentices shooting
each other with my own pistols! Let me see
either of you fit to treat a gunshot wound, before
you think of inflicting one. Go, you are both very
foolish boys, and I cannot take it kind of either of
you to bring the name of my daughter into such
disputes as these. Hark ye, lads, ye both owe me,
I think, some portion of respect, and even of gratitude---
it will be a poor return, if, instead of living
quietly with this poor motherless girl, like brothers
with a sister, you should oblige me to increase my
expense, and abridge my comfort, by sending my
child from me, for the few months that you are to
remain here. Let me see you shake hands, and
let us have no more of this nonsense.''

  While their master spoke in this manner, both
the young men stood before him in the attitude of
self-convicted criminals. At the conclusion of his
rebuke, Hartley turned frankly round, and offered
his hand to his companion, who accepted it, but
after a moment's hesitation. There was nothing
further passed on the subject, but the lads, never
resumed the same sort of intimacy which had existed
betwixt them, in their earlier acquaintance. 
On the contrary, avoiding every connexion not
absolutely required by their situation, and abridging
as much as possible even their indispensable intercourse
in professional matters, they seemed as
much estranged from each other as two persons,
residing in the same small house had the means of

  As for Menie Gray, her father did not appear
to entertain the least anxiety upon her account,
although from his frequent and almost daily absence
from home, she was exposed to constant intercourse
with two handsome young men, both, it
might be supposed, ambitious of pleasing her more
than most parents would have deemed entirely
prudent. Nor was Nurse Jamieson,---her menial
situation, and her excessive partiality for her foster-son,
considered,---altogether  such a matron as
could afford her protection. Gideon, however,
knew that his daughter possessed, in its fullest extent,
the upright and pure integrity of his own
character, and that never father had less reason to
apprehend that a daughter should deceive his confidence;
and, justly secure of her principles, he
overlooked the danger to which he exposed her
feelings and affections.

  The intercourse betwixt Menie and the young
men seemed now of a guarded kind on all sides. 
Their meeting was only at meals, and Miss Gray
was at pains, perhaps by her father's recommendation,
to treat them with the same degree of attention.
This, however, was no easy matter; for
Hartley became so retiring, cold, and formal, that
it was impossible for her to sustain any prolonged
intercourse with him; whereas Middlemas, perfectly
at his ease, sustained his part as formerly upon
all occasions that occurred, and without appearing
to press his intimacy assiduously, seemed nevertheless
to retain the complete possession of it.

  The time drew nigh at length when the young
men, freed from the engagements of their indentures,
must look to play their own independent
part in the world. Mr Gray informed Richard
Middlemas that he had written pressingly upon
the subject to Mon<c,>ada, and that more than once,
but had not yet received an answer; nor did he
presume to offer his own advice, until the  pleasure
of his grandfather should be known. Richard
seemed to endure this suspense with more  patience
than the Doctor thought belonged naturally to his
character. He asked no questions---stated no conjectures---
showed no anxiety, but seemed to await
with patience the tum which events should take. 
``My young gentleman,'' thought Mr Gray, ``has
either fixed on some course in his own mind, or he
is about to be more tractable than some points of
his character have led me to expect.''

  In fact, Richard had made an experiment on
this inflexible relative, by sending Mr Mon<c,>ada a
letter full of duty, and affection, and gratitude,
desiring to be permitted to correspond with him
in person, and promising to be guided in every
particular by his will. The answer to this appeal
was his own letter returned, with a note from the
bankers whose cover had been used, saying, that
any future attempt to intrude on Mr Mon<c,>ada,
would put a final period to their remittances.

  While things were in this situation in Stevenlaw's
Land, Adam Hartley one evening, contrary
to his custom for several months, sought a private
interview with his fellow-apprentice. He found
him in the little arbour, and could not omit observing,
that Dick Middlemas, on his appearance,
shoved into his bosom a small packet, as if afraid
of its being seen, and snatching up a hoe, began to
work with great devotion, like one who wished to
have it thought that his whole soul was in his occupation.

  ``I wished to speak with you, Mr Middlemas,''
said Hartley; ``but I fear I interrupt you.''

  ``Not in the least,'' said the other, laying down
his hoe; ``I was only scratching up the weeds
which the late showers have made rush up so numerously.
I am at your service.''

  Hartley proceeded to the arbour, and seated
himself. Richard imitated his example, and seemed
to wait for the proposed communication.

  ``I have had an interesting communication with
Mr Gray''---said Hartley, and there stopped, like
one who finds himself entering upon a difficult

  ``I hope the explanation has been satisfactory?''
said Middlemas.

  ``You shall judge.---Doctor Gray was pleased
to say something to me very civil about my proficiency
in the duties of our profession; and, to
my great astonishment, asked me, whether, as he
was now becoming old, I had any particular objection
to continue in my present situation, but with
some pecuniary advantages, for two years longer;
at the end of which he promised to me that I
should enter into partnership with him.''

  ``Mr Gray is an undoubted judge,'' said Middlemas,
``what person will best suit him as a professional
assistant. The business may be worth L.200
a-year, and an active assistant might go nigh to
double it, by riding Strath-Devan and the Carse. 
No great subject for division after all, Mr Hartley.''

  ``But,'' continued Hartley, ``that is not all. 
The Doctor says---he proposes---in short, if I can
render myself agreeable, in the course of these two
years, to Miss Menie Gray, he proposes, that when
they terminate, I should become his son as well as
his partner.''

  As he spoke, he kept his eye fixed on Richard's
face, which was for a moment strongly agitated;
but instantly recovering, he answered, in a tone
where pique and offended pride vainly endeavoured
to disguise themselves under an affectation of indifference,
`` Well, Master Adam, I cannot but
wish you joy of the patriarchal arrangement. You
have served five years for a professional diploma---
a sort of Leah, that privilege of killing and curing. 
Now you begin a new course of servitude for a
lovely Rachel. Undoubtedly---perhaps it is rude
in me to ask---but undoubtedly you have accepted
so flattering an arrangement?''

  ``You cannot but recollect there was a condition
annexed,'' said Hartley, gravely.

  ``That of rendering yourself acceptable to a
girl you have known for so many years?'' said
Middlemas, with a half-suppressed sneer. ``No
great difficulty in that, I should think, for such a
person as Mr Hartley, with Doctor Gray's favour
to back him. No, no---there could be no great
obstacle there.''

  ``Both you and I know the contrary, Mr Middlemas,''
said Hartley, very seriously.

  ``I know?---How should I know any thing more
than yourself about the state of Miss Gray's inclinations?''
said Middlemas. ``I am sure we have
had equal access to know them.''

  ``Perhaps so; but some know better how to
avail themselves of opportunities. Mr Middlemas,
I have long suspected that you have had the inestimable
advantage of possessing Miss Gray's affections,

  ``I?''---interrupted Middlemas; ``you  are   jesting,
or you are jealous. You do yourself less, and
me more, than justice; but the compliment is so
great, that I am obliged to you for the mistake.''

  ``That you may know,'' answered Hartley, ``I
do not speak either by guess, or from what you
call jealousy, I tell you frankly, that Menie Gray
herself told me the state of her affections. I naturally
communicated to her the discourse I had
with her father. I told her I was but too well
convinced that at the present moment I did not
possess that interest in her heart, which alone
might entitle me to request her acquiescence in
the views which her father's goodness held out to
me; but I entreated her not at once. to decide
against me, but give me an opportunity to make
way in her affections, if possible, trusting that
time, and the services which I should render to
her father, might have an ultimate effect in my

  ``A most natural and modest request. But what
did the young lady say in reply?''

  ``She is a noble-hearted girl, Richard Middlemas;
and for her frankness alone, even without
her beauty and her good sense, deserves an emperor.
I cannot express the graceful modesty with
which she told me, that she knew too well the
kindliness, as she was pleased to call it, of my
heart, to expose me to the protracted pain of an
unrequited passion. She candidly informed me
that she had been long engaged to you in secret
---that you had exchanged portraits;---and though
without her father's consent she would never become
yours, yet she felt it impossible that she should
ever so far change her sentiments as to afford the
most distant prospect of success to another.''

  ``Upon my word,'' said Middlemas, ``she has
been extremely candid indeed, and I am very much
obliged to her!''

  ``And upon _my_ honest word, Mr Middlemas,''
returned Hartley, `` You do Miss Gray the greatest
injustice---nay, you are ungrateful to her, if
you are displeased at her making this declaration. 
She loves you as a woman loves the first object of
her affection---she loves you better''---He stopped,
and Middlemas completed the sentence.

  ``Better than I deserve, perhaps?---Faith, it
may well be so, and I love her dearly in return
But after all, you know, the secret was mine as
well as hers, and it would have been better that she
had consulted me before making it public.''

  ``Mr Middlemas,'' said Hartley earnestly, ``if
the least of this feeling, on your part, arises from
the apprehension that your secret is less safe because
it is in my keeping, I can assure you that
such is my grateful sense of Miss Gray's goodness,
in communicating, to save me pain, an affair of
such delicacy to herself and you, that wild horses
should tear me limb from limb before they forced
a word of it from my lips.''

  ``Nay, nay, my dear friend,'' said Middlemas,
with a frankness of manner indicating a cordiality
that had not existed between them for some time,
``you must allow me to be a little jealous in my
turn. Your true lover cannot have a title to the
name, unless he be sometimes unreasonable; and
somehow, it seems odd she should have chosen for
a confidant one whom I have often thought a formidable
rival; and yet I am so far from being displeased,
that I do not know that the dear sensible
girl could after all have made a better choice. It
is time that the foolish coldness between us should
be ended, as you must be sensible that its real
cause lay in our rivalry. I have much need of good
advice, and who can give it to me better than the
old companion, whose soundness of judgment I
have always envied, even when some injudicious
friends have given me credit for quicker parts?''

  Hartley accepted Richard's proffered hand, but
without any of the buoyancy of spirit with which
it was offered.

  ``I do not intend,'' he said, ``to remain many
days in this place, perhaps not very many hours. 
But if, in the meanwhile, I can benefit you, by
advice or otherwise, you may fully command me. 
It is the only mode in which I can be of service to
Menie Gray.''

  ``Love my mistress, love me; a happy _pendant_
to the old proverb, Love me, love my dog. Well,
then, for Menie Gray's sake, if not for Dick Middlemas's,
(plague on that vulgar tell-tale name,)
will you, that are a stander-by, tell us who are the
unlucky players, what you think of this game of

  ``How can you ask such a question, when the
fields lies so fair before you? I am sure that Dr
Gray would retain you as his assistant upon the
same terms which he proposed to me. You are the
better match, in all worldly respects, for his daughter,
having some capital to begin the world with.''

  ``All true---but methinks Mr Gray has showed
no great predilection for me in this matter.''

  ``If he has done injustice to your indisputable
merit,'' said Hartley drily, ``the preference of his
daughter has more than atoned for it.''

  ``Unquestionably; and dearly, therefore, do I
love her; otherwise, Adam, I am not a person to
grasp at the leavings of other people.''

  ``Richard,'' replied Hartley, `` that pride of yours,
if you do not check it, will render you both ungrateful
and miserable. Mr Gray's ideas are most
friendly. He told me plainly, that his choice of me
as an assistant, and as a member of his family, had
been a long time balanced by his early affection for
you, until he thought he had remarked in you a
decisive discontent with such limited prospects as
his offer contained, and a desire to go abroad into
the world, and push, as it is called, your fortune. 
He said, that although it was very probable that
you might love his daughter well enough to relinquish
these ambitious ideas for her sake, yet the
demons of Ambition and Avarice would return
after the exorciser Love had exhausted the force
of his spells, and then he thought he would have
just reason to be anxious for his daughter's happiness.''

  ``By my faith, the worthy senior speaks scholarly
and wisely,'' answered Richard---``I did not think
he had been so clear-sighted. To say the truth,
but for the beautiful Menie Gray, I should feel like
a mill horse, walking my daily round in this dull
country, while other gay rovers are trying how the
world will receive them. For instance, where do
you yourself go?''

  ``A cousin of my mother's commands a ship in
the Company's service. I intend to go with him
as surgeon's mate. If I like the service, I will
continue in it; if not, I will enter some other line.''
This Hartley said with a sigh.

  ``To India!'' answered Richard; ``happy dog---
to India! Yon may well bear with equanimity all
disappointments sustained on this side of the globe. 
Oh, Delhi! oh, Golconda! have your names no
power to conjure down idle recollections?---India,
where gold is won by steel; where a brave man
cannot pitch his desire of fame and wealth so high,
but that he may realize it, if he have fortune to his
friend? Is it possible that the bold adventurer
can fix his thoughts on you, and still be dejected at
the thoughts that a bonny blue-eyed lass looked
favourably on a 1less lucky fellow than himself?
Can this be?''

  ``Less lucky?'' said Hartley. ``Can you, the
accepted lover of Menie Gray, speak in that tone,
even though it be in jest!''

  ``Nay, Adam,'' said Richard, ``don't be angry
with me, because, being thus far successful, I rate
my good fortune not quite so rapturously as perhaps
you do, who have missed the luck of it. Your
philosophy should tell you, that the object which
we attain, or are sure of attaining, loses, perhaps,
even by that very certainty, a little of the extravagant
and ideal value, which attached to it while the
object of feverish hopes and aguish fears. But for
all that I cannot live without my sweet Menie. I
would wed her to-morrow with all my soul, without
thinking a minute on the clog which so early a
marriage would fasten on our heels. But to spend
two additional years in this infernal wilderness,
cruizing after crowns and half-crowns, when worse
men are making lacs and crores of rupees---It is a
sad falling of, Adam. Counsel me, my friend,---
can you not suggest some mode of getting off from
these two years of destined dulness?''

  ``Not I,'' replied Hartley, scarce repressing his
displeasure; ``and if I could induce Dr Gray to
dispense with so reasonable a condition, I should
be very sorry to do so. You are but twenty-one,
and if such a period of probation was, in the Doctor's
prudence, judged necessary for me, who am
fall two years older, I have no idea that he will
dispense with it in yours.''

  ``Perhaps not,'' replied Middlemas; ``but do
you not think that these two, or call them three,
years of probation, had better be spent in India,
where much may be done in a little while, than
here, where nothing can be done save just enough
to get salt to our broth, or broth to our salt?
Methinks I have a natural turn for India, and so
I ought. My father was a soldier, by the conjecture
of all who saw him, and gave me a love of
the sword, and an arm to use one. My mother's
father was a rich trafficker, who loved wealth, I
warrant me, and knew how to get it. This petty
two hundred a-year, with its miserable and precarious
possibilities, to be shared with the old
gentleman, sounds in the ears of one like me, who
have the world for the winning, and a sword to
cut my way through it, like something little better
than a decent kind of beggary. Menie is in herself
a gem---a diamond---I admit it. But then,
one would not set such a precious jewel in lead or
copper, but in pure gold; ay, and add a circlet of
brilliants to set it off with. Be a good fellow,
Adam, and undertake the setting my project in
proper colours before the Doctor. I am sure, the
wisest thing for him and Menie both, is to permit
me to spend this short time of probation in the
land of cowries. I am sure my heart will be there
at any rate, and while I am bleeding some bumpkin
for an inflammation, I shall be in fancy relieving
some nabob, or rajahpoot, of his plethora of wealth. 
Come --- will you assist, will you be auxiliary?
Ten chances but you plead your own cause, man,
for I may be brought up by a sabre, or a bow-string,
before I make my pack up; then your road
to Menie will be free and open, and as you will
be possessed of the situation of comforter _ex officio_,
you may take her with the tear in her ee,' as old
saws advise.''

  ``Mr Richard Middlemas,'' said Hartley, ``I wish
it were possible for me to tell you, in the few
words which I intend to bestow on you, whether
I pity or despise you the most. Heaven has
placed happiness, competence, and content within
your power, and you are willing to cast them
away, to gratify ambition and avarice. Were I
to give an advice on this subject, either to Dr
Gray or his daughter, it would be to break off all
connexion with a man, who, however clever by
nature, may soon show himself a fool, and however
honestly brought up, may also, upon temptation,
prove himself a villain.---You may lay aside
the sneer, which is designed to be a sarcastic
smile. I will not attempt to do this, because I
am convinced that my advice would be of no use,
unless it could come unattended with suspicion of
my motives. I will hasten my departure from
this house, that we may not meet again; and I
will leave it to God Almighty to protect honesty
and innocence against the dangers which must attend
vanity and folly.'' So saying, he turned contemptuously
from the youthful votary of ambition,
and left the garden.

  ``Stop,'' said Middlemas, struck with the picture
which had been held up to his conscience---``Stop,
Adam Hartley, and I will confess to you------''
But his words were uttered in a faint and hesitating
manner, and either never reached Hartley's
ear, or failed in changing his purpose of departure.

  When he was out of the garden, Middlemas
began to recall his usual boldness of disposition---
``Had he stayed a moment longer,'' he said, ``I
would have turned Papist, and made him my
ghostly confessor. The yeomanly churl!---I would
give something to know how he has got such
a hank over me. What are Menie Gray's engagements
to him? She has given him his  answer,
and what right has he to come betwixt her and
me? If old Mon<c,>ada had done a grandfather's
duty, and made suitable settlements on me, this
plan of marrying the sweet girl, and settling here
in her native place, might have done well enough. 
But to live the life of the poor drudge her father
---to be at the command and call of every boor for
twenty miles round!---why, the labours of a higgler,
who travels scores of miles to barter pins,
ribands, snuff and tobacco, against the housewife's
private stock of eggs, mort-skins, and tallow,
is more profitable, less laborious, and faith,
I think, equally respectable. No, no,---unless I
can find wealth nearer home, I will seek it where
every one can have it for the gathering; and so I
will down to the Swan Inn, and hold a final consultation
with my friend.''

                 CHAPTER V.

  The friend whom Middlemas expected to meet
at the Swan, was a person already mentioned in
this history by the name of Tom Hillary, bred an
attorney's clerk in the ancient town of Novum
Castrum---_doctus utriusque juris_, as far as a few
months in the service of Mr Lawford, Town-Clerk
of Middlemas, could render him so. The last
mention that we made of this gentleman, was when
his gold-laced hat veiled its splendour before the
fresher mounted beavers of the 'prentices of Dr
Gray. That was now about five years since, and
it was within six months that he had made his
appearance in Middlemas, a very different sort of
personage from that which he seemed at his departure.

  He was now called Captain; his dress was regimental,
and his language martial. He seemed to
have plenty of cash, for he not only, to the great
surprise of the parties, paid certain old debts,
which he had left unsettled behind him, and that
notwithstanding his having, as his old practice told
him, a good defence of proscription, but even sent
the minister a guinea, to the assistance of the parish
poor. These acts of justice and benevolence
were bruited abroad greatly to the honour of one,
who, so long absent, had neither forgotten his just
debts, nor hardened his heart against the cries of
the needy. His merits were thought the higher,
when it was understood he had served the honourable
East India Company---that wonderful company
of merchants, who may indeed, with  the
strictest propriety, be termed princes. It was
about the middle of the eighteenth century, and
the directors in Leadenhall Street were silently
laying the foundation of that immense empire,
which afterwards rose like an exhalation, and now
astonishes Europe, as well as Asia, with its formidable
extent, and stupendous strength. Britain
had now begun to lend a wondering ear to the
account of battles fought, and cities won, in the
East; and was surprised by the return of individuals
who had left their native country as adventurers,
but now reappeared there surrounded by
Oriental wealth and Oriental luxury, which dimmed
even the splendour of the most wealthy of the
British nobility. In this new-found El Dorado,
Hillary had, it seems, been a labourer, and, if he
told truth, to some purpose, though he was far
from having completed the harvest which he meditated.
He spoke, indeed, of making investments,
and, as a mere matter of fancy, he consulted his
old master, Clerk Lawford, concerning the purchase
of a moorland farm, of three thousand acres,
for which he would be content to give three or
four thousand guineas, providing the game was
plenty, and the trouting in the brook such as had
been represented by advertisement. But he did
not wish to make any extensive landed purchase
at present. It was necessary to keep up his interest
in Leadenhall Street; and in that view, it
would be impolitic to part with his India stock and
India bonds. In short, it was folly to think of
settling on a poor thousand or twelve hundred
a-year, when one was in the prime of life, and had
no liver complaint; and so he was determined to
double the Cape once again, ere he retired to the
chimney corner of life. All he wished was, to
pick up a few clever fellows for his regiment, or
rather for his own company; and as in all his
travels he had never seen finer fellows than about
Middlemas, he was willing to give them the preference
in completing his levy. In fact, it was
making men of them at once, for a few white faces
never failed to strike terror into these black rascals;
and then, not to mention the good things
that were going at the storming of a Pettah, or
the plundering of a Pagoda, most of these tawny
dogs carried so much treasure about their persons,
that a won battle was equal to a mine of gold to
the victors.

  The natives of Middlemas listened to the noble
Captain's marvels with different feelings, as their
temperaments were saturnine or sanguine. But
none could deny that such things had been; and
as the narrator was known to be a bold dashing
fellow, possessed of some abilities, and, according
to the general opinion, not likely to be withheld
by any peculiar scruples of conscience, there was
no giving any good reason why Hillary should not
have been as successful as others in the field, which
India, agitated as it was by war and intestine disorders,
seemed to offer to every enterprising adventurer.
He was accordingly received by his old
acquaintances at Middlemas rather with the respect
due to his supposed wealth, than in a manner corresponding
with his former humble pretensions.

  Some of the notables of the village did indeed
keep aloof. Among these, the chief was Dr Gray,
who was an enemy to every thing that approached
to fanfaronade, and knew enough of the world to
lay it down as a sort of general rule, that he who
talks a great deal of fighting is seldom a brave
soldier, and he who always speaks about wealth is
seldom a rich man at bottom. Clerk Lawford was
also shy, notwithstanding his _communings_ with
Hillary upon the subject of his intended purchase. 
The coolness of the Captain's old employer towards
him was by some supposed to arise out of certain
circumstances attending their former connexion;
but as the Clerk himself never explained what
these were, it is unnecessary to make any conjectures
upon the subject.

  Richard Middlemas very naturally renewed his
intimacy with his former comrade, and it was from
Hillary's conversation, that he had adopted the
enthusiasm respecting India, which we have heard
him express. It was indeed impossible for a youth,
at once inexperienced in the world, and possessed
of a most sanguine disposition, to listen without
sympathy to the glowing descriptions of Hillary,
who, though only a recruiting captain, had all the
eloquence of a recruiting sergeant. Palaces rose
like mushrooms in his descriptions; groves of lofty
trees, and aromatic shrubs unknown to the chilly
soils of Europe, were tenanted by every object of
the chase, from the royal tiger down to the jackall. 
The luxuries of a Natch, and the peculiar Oriental
beauty of the enchantresses who perfumed their
voluptuous Eastern domes, for the pleasure of the
haughty English conquerors, were no less attractive
than the battles and sieges on which the Captain
at other times expatiated. Not a stream did
he mention but flowed over sands of gold, and not
a palace that was inferior to those of the celebrated
Fata Morgana. His descriptions seemed steeped
in odours, and his every phrase perfumed in ottar
of roses. The interviews at which these descriptions
took place, often ended in a bottle of choicer
wine than the Swan Inn afforded, with some other
appendages of the table, which the Captain, who,
was a _bon-vivant_, had procured from Edinburgh. 
From this good cheer Middlemas was doomed to
retire to the homely evening meal of his master,
where not all the simple beauties of Menie were
able to overcome his disgust at the coarseness of
the provisions, or his unwillingness to answer
questions concerning the diseases of the wretched
peasants who were subjected to his inspection.

  Richard's hopes of being acknowledged by his
father had long since vanished, and the rough repulse
and subsequent neglect on the part of Mon<c,>ada,
had satisfied him that his grandfather was
inexorable, and that neither then, nor at any future

time, did he mean to realize the visions  which
Nurse Jamieson's splendid figments had encouraged
him to entertain. Ambition, however, was not
lulled to sleep, though it was no longer nourished
by the same hopes which had at first awakened it. 
The Indian Captain's lavish oratory supplied the
themes which had been at first derived from the
legends of the nursery; the exploits of a Lawrence
and a Clive, as well as the magnificent opportunities
of acquiring wealth to which these exploits
opened the road, disturbed the slumbers of
the young adventurer. There was nothing to
counteract these except his  love for Menie Gray,
and the engagements into which it had led him. 
But his addresses had been paid to Menie as much
for the gratification of his vanity, as from any decided
passion for that innocent and guileless being. 
He was desirous of carrying of the prize, for which
Hartley, whom he never loved, had the courage
to contend with him. Then Menie Gray had been
beheld with admiration by men his superiors in
rank and fortune, but with whom his ambition incited
him to dispute the prize. No doubt, though
urged to play the gallant at first rather from vanity
than any other cause, the frankness and modesty
with which his suit was admitted, made their natural
impression on his heart. He was grateful
to the beautiful creature, who acknowledged the
superiority of his person and accomplishments, and
fancied himself as devotedly attached to her, as
her personal charms and mental merits would have
rendered any one who was less vain or selfish than
her lover. Still his passion for the surgeon's
daughter ought not, he prudentially determined,
to bear more than its due weight in a case so very
important as the determining his line of life;
and this he smoothed over to his conscience, by repeating
to himself, that Menie's interest was as
essentially concerned as his own, in postponing
their marriage to the establishment of his fortune. 
How many young couples had been ruined by a
premature union!

  The  contemptuous  conduct  of  Hartley  in   their
last interview, had done something to shake his
comrade's confidence in the truth of this reasoning,
and to lead him to suspect that he was playing a
very sordid and unmanly part, in trifling with the
happiness of this amiable and unfortunate young
woman. It was in this doubtful humour that he
repaired to the Swan Inn, where he was anxiously
expected by his friend the Captain.

  When they were comfortably seated over a
bottle of Paxarete, Middlemas began, with characteristical
caution, to sound his friend about the
ease or difficulty with which a individual, desirous
of entering the Company's service, might have an
opportunity of getting a commission. If Hillary
had answered truly, he would have replied, that it
was extremely easy; for, at that time, the East
India service presented no charms to that superior
class of people who have since struggled for admittance
under its banners. But the worthy Captain
replied, that though, in the general case, it
might be difficult for a young man to obtain a commission,
without serving for some years as a cadet,
yet, under his own protection, a young man entering
his regiment, and fitted for such a situation,
might be sure of an ensigncy if not a lieutenancy,
as soon as ever they set foot in India. ``If you,
my dear fellow,'' continued he, extending his hand
to Middlemas, ``would think of changing sheep-head
broth and haggis for mulagatawny and curry,
I can only say, that though it is indispensable that
you should enter the service at first simply as a
cadet, yet, by------, you should live like a brother
on the passage with me; and no sooner were we
through the surf at Madras, than I would put you
in the way of acquiring both wealth and glory. 
You have, I think, some trifle of money---a couple
of thousands or so?''

  ``About a thousand or twelve hundred,'' said
Richard, affecting the indifference of his companion,
but feeling privately humbled by the scantiness
of his resources.

  ``It is quite as much as you will find necessary
for the outfit and passage,'' said his adviser; ``and,
indeed, if you had not a farthing, it would be the
same thing; for if I once say to a friend, I'll help
you, Tom Hillary is not the man to start for fear
of the cowries. However, it is as well you have
something of a capital of your own to begin upon.''

  ``Yes,'' replied the proselyte. ``I should not
like to be a burden on any one. I have some
thoughts, to tell you the truth, to marry before I
leave Britain; and in that case, you know, cash'
will be necessary, whether my wife goes out with
us, or remains behind, till she hear how luck goes
with me. So, after all, I may have to borrow a
few hundreds of you.''

  ``What the devil is that you say, Dick, about
marrying and giving in marriage?'' replied his
friend. ``What can put it into the head of a gallant
young fellow like you, just rising twenty-one,
and six feet high on your stocking-soles, to make
a slave of yourself for life? No, no, Dick, that
will never do. Remember the old song

      'Bachelor Bluff, bachelor Bluff,
     Hey for a heart that's rugged and tough!' ''

  ``Ay, ay, that sounds very well,'' replied Middlemas;
``but then one must shake off a number of
old recollections.''

  ``The sooner the better, Dick; old recollections
are like old clothes, and should be sent off
by wholesale; they only take up room in one's
wardrobe, and it would be old-fashioned to wear
them. But you look grave upon it. Who the
devil is it has made such a hole in your heart?''

  ``Pshaw!'' answered Middlemas, ``I'm sure you
must remember---Menie---my master's daughter.''

  ``What, Miss Green, the old pottercarrier's
daughter?---a likely girl enough, I think.''

  ``My master is a surgeon,'' said Richard, ``not
an apothecary, and his name is Gray.''

  ``Ay, ay, Green or Grey---what does it signify?
He sells his own drugs, I think, which we in the
south call being a pottercarrier. The girl is a
likely girl enough for a Scottish ball-room. But
is she up to any thing? Has she any _nouz?_''

  ``Why, she is a sensible girl, save in loving me,''
answered Richard; ``and that, as Benedict says,
is no proof of her wisdom, and no great argument
of her folly.''

  ``But has she spirit---spunk---dash---a spice of
the devil about her?''

  ``Not a penny-weight---the kindest, simplest,
and most manageable of human beings,'' answered
the lover.

  ``She won't do then,'' said the monitor, in a decisive
tone. ``I am sorry for it, Dick; but she will
never do. There are some women in the world
that can bear their share in the bustling life we live
in India---ay, and I have known some of them drag
forward husbands that would otherwise have stuck
fast in the mud till the day of judgment. Heaven
knows how they paid the turnpikes they pushed
them through! But these were none of your simple
Susans, that think their eyes are good for nothing
but to look at their husbands, or their fingers
but to sew baby-clothes. Depend on it, you must
give up your matrimony, or your views of preferment.
If you wilfully tie a clog round your throat,
never think of running a race; but do not suppose
that your breaking off with the lass will make any
very terrible catastrophe. A scene there may be at
parting; but you will soon forget her among the
native girls, and she will fall in love with Mr Tapeitout,
the minister's assistant and successor. She
is not goods for the Indian market, I assure you.''

  Among  the  capricious   weaknesses   of   humanity,
that one is particularly remarkable which inclines
us to esteem persons and things not by their real
value, or even by our own judgment, so much as
by the opinion of others, who are often very incompetent
judges. Dick Middlemas had been urged
forward, in his suit to Menie Gray, by his observing
how much her partner, a booby laird, had
been captivated by her; and she was now lowered
in his esteem, because an impudent low-lived coxcomb
had presumed to talk of her with disparagement.
Either of these worthy gentlemen would
have been as capable of enjoying the beauties of
Homer, as judging of the merits of Menie Gray.

  Indeed the ascendency which this bold-talking,
promise-making soldier had acquired over Dick
Middlemas, wilful as he was in general, was of a
despotic nature; because the Captain, though greatly
inferior in information and talent to the youth
whose opinions be swayed, had skill in suggesting
those tempting views of rank and wealth, to which
Richard's imagination had been from childhood
most accessible. One promise he exacted from
Middlemas, as a condition of the services which he
was to render him---It was absolute silence on the
subject of his destination for India, and the views
upon which it took place. ``My recruits,'' said the
Captain, ``have been all marched off for the depot
at the Isle of Wight; and I want to leave Scotland,
and particularly this little burgh, without
being worried to death, of which I must despair,
should it come to be known that I can provide
young griffins, as we call them, with commissions.
Gad, I should carry off all the first-born of Middlemas
as cadets, and none are so scrupulous as I
am about making promises. I am as trusty as a
Trojan for that; and you know I cannot do that for
every one which I would for an old friend like Dick

  Dick promised secrecy, and it was agreed that
the two friends should not even leave the burgh in
company, but that the Captain should set off first,
and his recruit should join him at Edinburgh,
where his enlistment might be attested; and then
they were to travel together to town, and arrange
matters for their Indian voyage.

  Notwithstanding the definitive arrangement
which was thus made for his departure, Middlemas
thought from time to time with anxiety and regret
about quitting Menie Grey, after the engagement
which had passed between them. The resolution
was taken, however; the blow was necessarily to
be struck; and her ungrateful lover, long since determined
against the life of domestic happiness,
which he might have enjoyed had his views been
better regulated, was now occupied with the means,
not indeed of breaking off with her entirely, but
of postponing all thoughts of their union until the
success of his expedition to India.

  He might have spared himself all anxiety on this
last subject. The wealth of that India to which he
was bound would not have bribed Menie Gray to
have left her father's roof against her father's commands;
still less when, deprived of his two assistants,
he must be reduced to the necessity of continued
exertion in his declining life, and therefore
might have accounted himself altogether deserted,
had his daughter departed from him at the same
time. But though it would have been her unalterable
determination not to accept any proposal of
an immediate union of their fortunes, Menie could
not, with all a lover's power of self-deception, succeed
in persuading herself to be satisfied with
Richard's conduct towards her. Modesty, and a
becoming pride, prevented her from seeming to
notice, but could not prevent her from bitterly
feeling, that her lover was preferring the pursuits
of ambition to the humble lot which he might have
shared with her, and which promised content at
least, if not wealth.

  ``If he had loved me as he pretended,'' such was
the unwilling conviction that rose on her mind, ``my
father would surely not have ultimately refused
him the same terms which he held out to Hartley. 
His objections would have given way to my happiness,
nay, to Richard's importunities, which
would have removed his suspicions of the unsettled
cast of his disposition. But I fear---I fear Richard
hardly thought the terms proposed were worthy
of his acceptance. Would it not have been natural
too, that he should have asked me, engaged as we
stand to each other, to have united our fate before
his quitting Europe, when I might either have remained
here with my father, or accompanied him
to India, in quest of that fortune which he is so
eagerly pushing for? It would have been wrong
---very wrong---in me to have consented to such a
proposal, unless my father had authorized it; but
surely it would have been natural that Richard
should have offered it? Alas! men do not know
how to love like women. Their attachment is only
one of a thousand other passions and predilections,
---they are daily engaged in pleasures which blunt
their feelings, and in business which distracts them. 
We---we sit at home to weep, and to think bow
coldly our affections are repaid!''

  The time was now arrived at which Richard
Middlemas had a right to demand the property
vested in the hands of the Town-Clerk and Doctor
Gray. He did so, and received it accordingly. 
His late guardian naturally enquired what views
he had formed in entering on life? The imagination
of the ambitious aspirant saw in this simple
question a desire, on the part of the worthy man,
to offer, and perhaps press upon him, the same
proposal which he had made to Hartley. He hastened,
therefore, to answer drily, that he had some
hopes held out to him which he was not at liberty
to communicate; but that the instant he reached
London, he would write to the guardian of his
youth, and acquaint him with the nature of his prospects,
which he was happy to say were rather of
a pleasing character.

  Gideon, who supposed that at this critical period
of his life, the father or grandfather of the young
man might perhaps have intimated a disposition to
open some intercourse with him, only replied,---
``You have been the child of mystery, Richard;
and as you came to me, so you leave me. Then,
I was ignorant from whence you came, and now, I
know not whither you are going. It is not, perhaps,
a very favourable point in your horoscope,
that every thing connected with you is a secret. 
But as I shall always think with kindness on him
whom I have known so long, so when you remember
the old man, you ought not to forget that he
has done his duty to you, to the extent of his means
and power, and taught you that noble profession,
by means of which, wherever your lot casts you,
you may always gain your bread, and alleviate, at
the same time, the distresses of your fellow-creatures.''
Middlemas was excited by the simple kindness
of his master, and poured forth his thanks
with the greater profusion, that he was free from
the terror of the emblematical collar and chain,
which a moment before seemed to, glisten in the
hand of his guardian, and gape to enclose his neck.

  ``One word more,'' said Mr Gray, producing a
small ring-case. ``This valuable ring was forced
upon me by your unfortunate mother. I have no
right to it, having been amply paid for my services;
and I only accepted it with the purpose of keeping
it for you till this moment should arrive. It may
be useful, perhaps, should there occur any question
about your identity.''

  ``Thanks, once more, my more than father, for
this precious relic, which may indeed be useful. 
You shall be repaid, if India has diamonds left.''

  ``India, and diamonds!''---said Gray. ``Is your
head turned, child?''

  ``I mean,'' stammered Middlemas, ``if London
has any Indian diamonds.''

  ``Pooh! you foolish lad,'' answered Gray, ``how
should you buy diamonds, or what should I do
with them, if you gave me ever so many? Get
you gone with you while I am angry.''---The tears
were glistening in the old man's eyes.---``If I get
pleased with you again, I shall not know how to
part with you.''

  The parting of Middlemas with poor Menie was
yet more affecting. Her sorrow revived in his mind
all the liveliness of a first love, and he redeemed
his character for sincere attachment, by not only
imploring an instant union, but even going so far
as to propose renouncing his more splendid prospects,
and sharing Mr Gray's humble toil, if by
doing so he could secure his daughter's hand. But
though there was consolation in this testimony of
her lover's faith, Menie Gray was not so unwise as
to accept of sacrifices which might afterwards have
been repented of.

  ``No, Richard,'' she said, ``it seldom ends happily
when people alter, in a moment of agitated
feelings, plans which have been adopted under mature
deliberation. I have long seen that your
views were extended far beyond so humble a station
as this place affords promise of. It is natural
they should do so, considering that the circumstances
of your birth seem connected with riches and with
rank. Go, then, seek that riches and rank. It is
possible your mind may be changed in the pursuit,
and if so think no more about Menie Gray. But
if it should be otherwise, we may meet again,
and do not believe for a moment that there can be
a change in Menie Gray's feelings towards you.''

  At this interview, much more was said than it is
necessary to repeat, much more thought than was
actually said. Nurse Jamieson, in whose chamber
it took place, folded her _bairns_, as she called them,
in her arms, and declared that Heaven had made
them for each other, and that she would not ask of
Heaven to live beyond the day when she should
see them bridegroom and bride.

  At length, it became necessary that the parting
scene should end; and Richard Middlemas, mounting
a horse which he had hired for the journey,
set off for Edinburgh, to which metropolis he had
already forwarded his heavy baggage. Upon the
road the idea more than once occurred to him, that
even yet he had better return to Middlemas, and
secure his happiness by uniting himself at once to
Menie Gray, and to humble competence. But from
the moment that he rejoined his friend Hillary at
their appointed place of rendezvous, he became
ashamed even to hint at any change of purpose;
and his late excited feelings were forgotten, unless
in so far as they confirmed his resolution, that as
soon as he had attained a certain portion of wealth
and consequence, he would haste to share them
with Menie Gray. Yet his gratitude to her father
did not appear to have slumbered, if we may judge
from the gift of a very handsome cornelian seal,
set in gold, and bearing engraved upon it Gules, a
lion rampant within a bordure Or, which was carefully
dispatched to Stevenlaw's Land, Middlemas,
with a suitable letter. Menie knew the handwriting,
and watched her father's looks as he read
it, thinking, perhaps, that it had turned on a different
topic. Her father pshawed and poohed a good
deal when he had finished the billet, and examined
the seal.

  ``Dick Middlemas,'' he said, ``is but a fool after
all, Menie. I am sure I am not like to forget him,
that he should send me a token of remembrance;
and if he would be so absurd, could he not have
sent me the improved lithotomical apparatus? And
what have I, Gideon Gray, to do with the arms of
my Lord Gray?---No, no---my old silver stamp,
with the double G upon it, will serve my turn---
But put the bonnie dye* away, Menie, my dear---

*	``Pretty toy.''

it was kindly meant, at any rate.''

  The reader cannot doubt that the seal was safely
and carefully preserved.

                 CHAPTER VI.

    A lazar-house it seemed, wherein were laid
    Numbers of all diseased.

  After the Captain had finished his business,
amongst which he did not forget to have his recruit
regularly attested, as a candidate for glory in the
service of the Honourable East India Company,
the friends left Edinburgh. From thence they
got a passage by sea to Newcastle, where Hillary
had also some regimental affairs to transact, before
he joined his regiment. At Newcastle the Captain
had the good luck to find a small brig, commanded
by an old acquaintance and schoolfellow, which
was just about to sail for the Isle of Wight. ``I
have arranged for our passage with him,'' he said
to Middlemas---``for when you are at the dep<o^>t,
you can learn a little of your duty, which cannot
be so well taught on board of ship, and then I will
find it easier to have you promoted.''

  ``Do you mean,'' said Richard, ``that I am to
stay at the Isle of Wight all the time that you are
jigging it away in London?''

  ``Ay, indeed do I!,'' said his comrade, ``and it's
best for you too; whatever business you have in
London, I can do it for you as well, or something
better than yourself.''

  ``But I choose to transact my own business
myself, Captain Hillary,'' said Richard.

  ``Then you ought to have remained your own
master, Mr Cadet Middlemas. At present you
are an enlisted recruit of the Honourable East
India Company; I am your officer, and should
you hesitate to follow me aboard, why, you foolish
fellow I could have you sent on board in handcuffs.''

  This was jestingly spoken; but yet there was
something in the tone which hurt Middlemas's
pride, and alarmed his fears. He had observed
of late, that his friend, especially when in company
of others, talked to him with an air of command
or superiority, difficult to be endured, and yet so
closely allied to the freedom often exercised betwixt
two intimates, that he could not find any
proper mode of rebuffing, or resenting it. Such
manifestations of authority were usually followed
by an instant renewal of their intimacy; but in
the present case that did not so speedily ensue.

  Middlemas, indeed, consented to go with his
companion to the Isle of Wight, perhaps because
if he should quarrel with him, the whole plan of
his Indian voyage, and all the hopes built upon it,
must fall to the ground. But he altered his purpose
of entrusting his comrade with his little fortune,
to lay out as his occasions might require, and
resolved himself to overlook the expenditure of
his money, which, in the form of Bank of England
notes, was safely deposited in his travelling trunk. 
Captain Hillary, finding that some hint he had
thrown out on this subject was disregarded, appeared
to think no more about it.

  The voyage was performed with safety and celerity;
and having coasted the shores of that beautiful
island, which he who once sees never forgets,
through whatever part of the world his future
path may lead him, the vessel was soon anchored
off the little town of Ryde; and, as the waves
were uncommonly still, Richard felt the sickness
diminish, which, for a considerable part of the
passage, had occupied his attention more than any
thing else.

  The master of the brig in honour to his passengers,
and affection to his old schoolfellow, had
formed an awning upon deck, and proposed to have
the pleasure of giving them a little treat before
they left his vessel. Lobscous, sea-pie, and other
delicacies of a naval description, had been provided
in a quantity far disproportionate to the number of
the guests. But the punch which succeeded was
of excellent quality, and portentously strong. 
Captain Hillary pushed it round, and insisted upon
his companion taking his full share in the merry
bout, the rather that, as he facetiously said, there
had been some dryness between them, which good
liquor would be sovereign in removing. He renewed,
with additional splendours, the various
panoramic scenes of India and Indian adventures,
which had first excited the ambition of Middlemas,
and assured him, that even if he should not be able
to get him a commission instantly, yet a short delay
would only give him time to become better acquainted
with his military duties; and Middlemas
was too much elevated by the liquor he had drank
to see any difficulty which could oppose itself to
his fortunes. Whether those who shared in the
compotation were more seasoned topers---whether
Middlemas drank more than they---or whether, as
he himself afterwards suspected, his cup had been
drugged, like those of King Duncan's body-guard,
it is certain that on this occasion he passed, with
unusual rapidity, through all the different phases
of the respectable state of drunkenness,---laughed,
sung, whooped, and hallooed, was maudlin in his
fondness, and frantic in his wrath, and at length
fell into a fast and imperturbable sleep.

  The effect of the liquor displayed itself, as usual,
in a hundred wild dreams of parched deserts, and
of serpents whose bite inflicted the most intolerable
thirst---of the suffering of the Indian on the
death-stake---and the torments of the infernal regions
themselves; when at length he awakened,
and it appeared that the latter vision was in fact
realized. The sounds which had at first influenced
his dreams, and at length broken his slumbers, were
of the most horrible, as well as the most melancholy
description. They came from the ranges of
pallet-beds, which were closely packed together in
a species of military hospital, where a burning
fever was the prevalent complaint. Many of the
patients were under the influence of a high delirium,
during which they shouted, shrieked, laughed,
blasphemed, and uttered the most horrible imprecations.
Others, sensible of their condition, bewailed
it with low groans, and some attempts at
devotion, which showed their ignorance of the
principles, and even the forms of religion. Those
who were convalescent talked ribaldry in a loud
tone, or whispered to each other in cant language,
upon schemes which, as far as a passing phrase
could be understood by a novice, had relation to
violent and criminal exploits.

  Richard Middlemas's astonishment was equal to
his horror. He had but one advantage over the
poor wretches with whom he was classed, and it
was in enjoying the luxury of a pallet to himself
---most of the others being occupied by two unhappy
beings. He saw no one who appeared to
attend to the wants, or to heed the complaints, of
the wretches around him, or to whom he could offer
any appeal against his present situation. He looked
for his clothes, that he might arise and extricate
himself from this den of horrors; but his
clothes were nowhere to be seen, nor did he see
his portmanteau, or sea-chest. It was much to be
apprehended he would never see them more.

  Then, but too late, he remembered the insinuations
which had passed current respecting his
friend the Captain, who was supposed to have been
discharged by Mr Lawford, on account of some
breach of trust in the Town-Clerk's service. But
that he should have trepanned the friend who had
reposed his whole confidence in him---that he should
have plundered him of his  fortune,  and  placed  him
in this  house  of  pestilence,  with  the  hope  that
death might stifle his tongue,  were iniquities not
to have been anticipated, even if the worst of these
reports were true.

  But Middlemas resolved not to be awanting to
himself. This place must be visited by some
officer, military or medical, to whom he would
make an appeal, and alarm his fears at least, if he
could not awaken his conscience. While he revolved
these distracting thoughts, tormented at
the same time by a burning thirst which he had no
means of satisfying, he endeavoured to discover if,
among those stretched upon the pallets nearest
him, he could not discern some one likely to enter
into conversation with him, and give him some information
about the nature and customs of this
horrid place. But the bed nearest him was occupied
by two fellows, who, although to judge from
their gaunt cheeks, hollow eyes, and ghastly looks,
they were apparently recovering from the disease,
and just rescued from the jaws of death, were deeply
engaged in endeavouring to cheat each other of a
few half-pence at a game of cribbage, mixing the
terms of the game with oaths not loud but deep;
each turn of luck being hailed by the winner as
well as the loser with execrations, which seemed
designed to blight both body and soul, now used
as the language of triumph, and now as reproaches
against fortune.

  Next to the gamblers was a pallet, occupied indeed
by two bodies, but only one of which was
living---the other sufferer had been recently relieved
from his agony.

  ``He is dead---he is dead!'' said the wretched

  ``Then do you die too, and be d---d,'' answered
one of the players, ``and then there will be a pair
of you, as Pugg says.''

  ``I tell you he is growing stiff and cold,'' said
the poor wretch---``the dead is no bed-fellow for
the living. For God's sake, help to rid me of th e

  ``Ay, and get the credit of having _done_ him---
as may be the case with yourself, friend---for he
has some two or three hoggs about him---''

  ``You know you took the last rap from his
breeches-pocket not an hour ago,'' expostulated
the poor convalescent---``But help me to take the
body out of the bed, and I will not tell the _jigger-dubber_
that you have been before-hand with him.''

  ``You tell the _jigger-dubber_!'' answered the
cribbage player. `` Such another word, and I will
twist your head round till your eyes look at the
drummer's handwriting on your back. Hold your
peace, and don't bother our game with your gammon,
or I will make you as mute as your bedfellow.''

  The unhappy wretch, exhausted, sunk back beside
his hideous companion, and the usual jargon
of the game, interlarded with execrations, went
on as before.

  From this specimen of the most obdurate indifference,
contrasted with the last excess of misery,
Middlemas became satisfied how little could
be made of an appeal to the humanity of his fellow-sufferers.
His heart sunk within him, and
the thoughts of the happy and peaceful home, which
he might have called his own, arose before his
over-heated fancy, with a vividness of perception
that bordered upon insanity. He saw before him
the rivulet which wanders through the burgh-muir
of Middlemas, where he had so often set
little mills for the amusement of Menie while she
was a child. One drought of it would have been
worth all the diamonds of the East, which of late
he had worshipped with such devotion; but that
drought was denied to him as to Tantalus.

  Rallying his senses from this passing illusion,
and knowing enough of the practice of the medical
art, to be aware of the necessity of preventing
his ideas from wandering if possible, he endeavoured
to recollect that he was a surgeon, and, after
all, should not have the extreme fear for the interior
of a military hospital, which its horrors
might inspire into strangers to the profession. 
But though he strove, by such recollections, to
rally his spirits, he was not the less aware of the
difference betwixt the condition of a surgeon, who
might have attended such a place in the course of
his duty, and a poor inhabitant, who was at once
a patient and a prisoner.

  A footstep was now heard in the apartment,
which seemed to silence all the varied sounds of
woe that filled it. The cribbage party hid their
cards, and ceased their oaths; other wretches,
whose complaints had arisen to frenzy, left off
their wild exclamations and entreaties for assistance.
Agony softened her shriek, Insanity hushed
its senseless clamours, and even Death seemed desirous
to stifle his parting groan in the presence
of Captain Seelencooper. This official was the
superintendent, or, as the miserable inhabitants
termed him, the Governor of the Hospital. He
had all the air of having been originally a turnkey
in some ill-regulated jail---a stout, short, bandy-legged
man, with one eye, and a double portion
of ferocity in that which remained. He wore an
old-fashioned tarnished uniform, which did not
seem to have been made for him; and the voice
in which this minister of humanity addressed the
sick, was that of a boatswain, shouting in the midst
of a storm. He had pistols and a cutlass in his
belt; for his mode of administration being such as
provoked, even hospital patients to revolt, his life
had been more than once in danger amongst them. 
He was followed by two assistants, who carried
handcuffs and strait-jackets.

  As Seelencooper made his rounds, complaint and
pain were hushed, and the flourish of the bamboo,
which he bore in his hand, seemed powerful as the
wand of a magician to silence all complaint and remonstrance.

  ``I tell you the meat is as sweet as a nosegay---
and for the bread, it's good enough, and too good,
for a set of Tubbers, that lie shamming Abraham,
and consuming the Right Honourable Company's
victuals---I don't speak to them that are really sick,
for God knows I am always for humanity.''

  ``If that be the case, sir,'' said Richard Middlemas,
whose lair the Captain had approached, while
he was thus answering the low and humble complaints
of those by whose bed-side he passed---``if
that be the case, sir, I hope your humanity will
make you attend to what I say.''

  ``And who the devil are you?'' said the governor,
turning on him his single eye of fire, while a
sneer gathered on his harsh features, which were
so well qualified to express it.

  ``My name is Middlemas---I come from Scotland,
and have been sent here by some strange
mistake. I am neither a private soldier, nor am I
indisposed, more than by the heat of this cursed

  ``Why then, friend, all I have to ask you is,
whether you are an attested recruit or not?''

  ``I was attested at Edinburgh,'' said Middlemas,

  ``But what the devil would you have, then
you are enlisted---the Captain and the Doctor sent
you here---surely they know best whether you are
private or officer, sick or well.''

  ``But I was promised,'' said Middlemas, ``promised
by Tom Hillary------"

  ``Promised, were you? Why, there is not a man
here that has not been promised something by
somebody or another, or perhaps has promised
something to himself. This is the land of promise,
my smart fellow, but you know it is India that must
be the land of performance. So good morning to
you. The Doctor will come his rounds presently,
and put you all to rights.''

  ``Stay but one moment---one moment only---I
have been robbed.''

  ``Robbed! look you there now,'' said the Governor---
``everybody that comes here has been
robbed.---Egad, I am the luckiest fellow in Europe
---other people in my line have only thieves and
blackguards upon their hands; but none come to
my ken but honest decent, unfortunate gentlemen,
that have been robbed!''

  ``Take care how you treat this so lightly, sir,''
said Middlemas; ``I have been robbed of a thousand

  Here Governor Seelencooper's gravity was totally
overcome, and his laugh was echoed by several
of the patients, either because they wished to
curry favour with the superintendent, or from the
feeling which influences evil spirits to rejoice in
the tortures of those who are sent to share their

  ``A thousand pounds!'' exclaimed Captain Seelencooper,
as he recovered his breath,---``Come,
that's a good one---I like a fellow that does not
make two bites of a cherry---why, there is not a
cull in the ken that pretends to have lost more than
a few hoggs, and here is a servant to the Honourable
Company that has been robbed of a thousand
pounds! Well done, Mr Tom of Ten Thousand---
you're a credit to the house, and to the service,
and so good morning to you.''

  He passed on, and Richard, starting up in a
storm of anger and despair, found, as he would have
called after him, that his voice, betwixt thirst and
agitation, refused its office. ``Water, water!'' he
said, laying hold, at the same time, of one of the
assistants who followed Seelencooper by the sleeve. 
The fellow looked carelessly round; there was a
jug stood by the side of the cribbage players,
which he reached to Middlemas, bidding him,
``Drink and be d------d.''

  The man's back was no sooner turned, than the
gamester threw himself from his own bed into that
of Middlemas, and grasping firm hold of the arm of
Richard, ere he could carry the vessel to his head,
swore he should not have his booze. It may be
readily conjectured, that the pitcher thus anxiously
and desperately reclaimed, contained something
better than the pure element. In fact, a large proportion
of it was gin. The jug was broken in the
struggle, and the liquor spilt. Middlemas dealt a
blow to the assailant, which was amply and heartily
repaid, and a combat would have ensued, but for
the interference of the superintendent and his assistants,
who, with a dexterity that showed them
well acquainted with such emergencies, clapped a
strait-waistcoat upon each of the antagonists. 
Richard's efforts at remonstrance only, procured
him a blow from Captain Seelencooper's rattan,
and a tender admonition to hold his tongue, if he
valued a whole skin.

  Irritated at once by sufferings of the mind and
of the body, tormented by raging thirst, and by the
sense of his own dreadful situation, the mind of
Richard Middlemas seemed to be on the point of
becoming unsettled. He felt an insane desire to
imitate and reply to the groans, oaths, and ribaldry,
which, as soon as the superintendent quitted
the hospital, echoed around him. He longed, though
he struggled against the impulse, to vie in curses
with the reprobate, and in screams with the maniac. 
But his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, his
mouth itself seemed choked with ashes; there came
upon him a dimness of sight, a rushing sound in his
ears, and the powers of life were for a time suspended.

               CHAPTER VII.

   A wise physician, skill'd our wounds to heal,
   Is more than armies to the common weal.
                                   Pope's _Homer_.

  As Middlemas returned to his senses, he was
sensible that his blood felt more cool; that the
feverish throb of his pulsation was diminished;
that the ligatures on his person were removed,
and his lungs performed their functions more
freely. One assistant was binding up a vein, from
which a considerable quantity of blood had been
taken; another, who had just washed the face of
the patient, was holding aromatic vinegar to his
nostrils. As he began to open his eyes, the person
who had just completed the bandage, said in
Latin, but in a very low tone, and without raising
his head, ``Annon sis Ricardus ille Middlemas, excivitate
Middlemassiense? Responde in lingua

  ``Sum ille miserrimus,''  replied Richard, again
shutting his eyes; for strange as it may seem, the
voice of his comrade Adam Hartley, though his
presence might be of so much consequence in this
emergency, conveyed a pang to his wounded pride. 
He was conscious of unkindly, if not hostile, feelings
towards his old companion; he remembered
the tone of superiority which he used to assume
over him, and thus to lie stretched at his feet, and
in a manner at his mercy, aggravated his distress,
by the feelings of the dying chieftain, ``Earl Percy
sees my fall.'' This was, however, too unreasonable
an emotion to subsist above a minute. In the
next, he availed himself of the Latin language,
with which both were familiar, (for in that time
the medical studies at the celebrated University of
Edinburgh were, in a great measure, conducted in
Latin,) to tell in a few words his own folly, and
the villainy of Hillary.

  ``I must be gone instantly,'' said Hartley---
``Take courage---I trust to be able to assist you. 
In the meantime, take food and physic from none
but my servant, who you see holds the sponge in
his hand. You are in a place where a man's life
has been taken for the sake of his gold sleeve-buttons.''

  ``Stay yet a moment,'' said Middlemas---``Let
me remove this temptation from my dangerous

  He drew a small packet from his under waistcoat,
and put it into Hartley's hands.

  ``If I die,'' he said, ``be my heir. You deserve
her better than l.''

  All answer was prevented by the hoarse voice of

  ``Well, Doctor, will you carry through your

  ``Symptoms are dubious yet,'' said the Doctor
---``That wag an alarming swoon. You must have
him carried into the private ward, and my young
man shall attend him.''

  ``Why, if you command it, Doctor, needs must;
---but I can tell you there is a man we both know,
that has a thousand reasons at least for keeping
him in the public ward.''

  ``I know nothing of your thousand reasons,''
said Hartley; ``I can only tell you that this young
fellow is as well-limbed and likely a lad as the Company
have among their recruits. It is my business
to save him for their service, and if he dies by your
neglecting what I direct, depend upon it I will not
allow the blame to lie at my door. I will tell the
General the charge I have given you.''

  ``The General!'' said Seelencooper, much embarrassed---
``Tell the General?---ay, about his
health. But you will not say any thing about what
he may have said in his light-headed fits? My
eyes! if you listen to what feverish patients say
when the tantivy is in their brain, your back will
soon break with tale-bearing, for I will warrant
you plenty of them to carry.''

  ``Captain Seelencooper,'' said the Doctor, ``I
do not meddle with your department in the hospital:
My advice to you is, not to trouble yourself
with mine. I suppose, as I have a commission in
the service, and have besides a regular diploma as
a physician, I know when my patient is light-headed
or otherwise. So do you let the man be
carefully looked after, at your peril.''

  Thus saying, he left the hospital, but not till,
under pretext of again consulting the pulse, he
pressed the patient's hand, as if to assure him once
more of his exertions for his liberation.

  ``My eyes!'' muttered Seelencooper, ``this
cockerel crows gallant, to come from a Scotch
roost; but I would know well enough how to fetch
the youngster off the perch, if it were not for the
cure he has done on the General's pickaninies.''

  Enough of this fell on Richard's ear to suggest
hopes of deliverance, which were increased when
he was shortly afterwards removed to a separate
ward, a place much more decent in appearance, and
inhabited only by two patients, who seemed petty
officers. Although sensible that he had no illness,
save that weakness which succeeds violent agitation,
he deemed it wisest to suffer himself still to
be treated as a patient, in consideration that he
should thus remain under his comrade's superintendence.
Yet while preparing to avail himself
of Hartley's good offices, the prevailing, reflection
of his secret bosom was the ungrateful sentiment,
``Had Heaven no other means of saving me than
by the hands of him I like least on the face of the

  Meanwhile, ignorant of the ungrateful sentiments
of his comrade, and indeed wholly indifferent
how he felt towards him, Hartley proceeded
in doing him such service as was in his power,
without any other object than the discharge of his
own duty as a man and as a Christian. The manner
in which he became qualified to render his
comrade assistance, requires some short explanation.

  Our story took place at a period, when  the Directors
of the East India Company, with that hardy
and persevering policy which has raised to such a
height the British Empire in the East, had determined
to send a large reinforcement of European
troops to the support of their power in India, then
threatened by the kingdom of Mysore, of which
the celebrated Hyder Ally had usurped the government,
after dethroning his master. Considerable
difficulty was found in obtaining recruits for that
service. Those who might have been otherwise
disposed to be soldiers, were afraid of the climate,
and of the species of banishment which the engagement
implied; and doubted also how far the engagements
of the Company might be faithfully
observed towards them, when they were removed
from the protection of the British laws. For these
and other reasons, the military service of the King
was preferred, and that of the Company could
only procure the worst recruits, although their
zealous agents scrupled not to employ the worst
means. Indeed the practice of kidnapping, or
crimping, as it is technically called, was at that
time general, whether for the colonies, or even for
the King's troops; and as the agents employed in
such transactions must be of course entirely unscrupulous,
there was not only much villainy committed
in the direct prosecution of the trade, but it
gave rise incidentally to remarkable cases of robbery,
and even murder. Such atrocities were of
course concealed from the authorities for whom the
levies were made, and the necessity of obtaining
soldiers made men, whose conduct was otherwise
unexceptionable, cold in looking closely into the
mode in which their recruiting service was conducted.

  The principal depot of the troops which were
by these means assembled, was in the Isle of Wight,
where the season proving unhealthy, and the men
themselves being many of them of a bad habit of
body, a fever of a malignant character broke out
amongst them, and speedily crowded with patients
the military hospital, of which Mr Seelencooper,
himself an old and experienced crimp and kidnapper,
had obtained the superintendence. Irregularities
began to take place also among the soldiers
who remained healthy, and the necessity of
subjecting them to some discipline before they
sailed was so evident, that several officers of the
Company's naval service expressed their belief
that otherwise there would be dangerous mutinies
on the passage.

  To remedy the first of these evils, the Court of
Directors sent down to the island several of their
medical servants, amongst whom was Hartley,
whose qualifications had been amply certified by
a medical board, before which he had passed an
examination, besides his possessing a diploma from
the University of Edinburgh as M.D.

  To enforce the discipline of their soldiers, the
Court committed full power to one of their own
body, General Witherington. The General was an
officer who had distinguished himself highly in
their service. He had returned from India five
or six years before, with a large fortune, which he
had rendered much greater by an advantageous
marriage with a rich heiress. The General and
his lady went little into society, but seemed to live
entirely for their infant family, those in number
being three, two boys and a girl. Although he
had retired from the service, he willingly undertook
the temporary charge committed to him, and
taking a house at a considerable distance from the
town of Ryde, he proceeded to enrol the troops
into separate bodies, appoint officers of capacity to
each, and by regular training and discipline, gradually
to bring them into something resembling
good order. He heard their complaints of ill
usage in the articles of provisions and appointments,
and did them upon all occasions the strictest
justice, save that he was never known to restore
one recruit to his freedom from the service, however
unfairly or even illegally his attestation might
have been obtained.

  ``It is none of my business,'' said General
Witherington, ``how you became soldiers,---soldiers
I found you, and soldiers I will leave you. 
But I will take especial care, that as soldiers you
shall have every thing, to a penny or a pin's head,
that you are justly entitled to.'' He went to work
without fear or favour, reported many abuses to
the Board of Directors, had several officers, commissaries,
&c. removed from the service, and made
his name as great a terror to the peculators at
home, as it had been to the enemies of Britain in

  Captain Seelencooper, and his associates in the
hospital department, heard and trembled, fearing
that their turn should come next; but the General,
who elsewhere examined all with his own eyes,
showed a reluctance to visit the hospital in person. 
Public report industriously imputed this to fear of
infection. Such was certainly the motive; though
it was not fear for his own safety that influenced
General Witherington, but he dreaded lest he
should carry the infection home to the nursery,
on which he doated. The alarm of his lady was
yet more unreasonably sensitive; she would scarcely
suffer the children to walk abroad, if the wind
but blew from the quartet where the Hospital was

  But Providence baffles the precautions of mortals.
In a walk across the fields, chosen as the
most sheltered and sequestered, the children, with
their train of Eastern and European attendants,
met a woman who carried a child that was recovering
from the smallpox. The anxiety of the
father, joined to some religious scruples on the
mother's part, had postponed inoculation, which
was then scarcely come into general use. The infection
caught like a quick-match, and ran like
wildfire through all those in the family who had
not previously had the disease. One of the General's
children, the second boy, died, and two of
the Ayas, or black female servants, had the same
fate. The hearts of the father and mother would
have been broken for the child they had lost, had
not their grief been suspended by anxiety for the
fate of those who lived, and who were confessed
to be in imminent danger. They were like persons
distracted, as the symptoms of the poor patients
seemed gradually to resemble more nearly
that of the child already lost.

  While the parents were in this agony of apprehension,
the General's principal servant, a native
of Northumberland like himself, informed him one
morning that there was a young man from the
same county among the hospital doctors, who had
publicly blamed the mode of treatment observed
towards the patients, and spoken of another which
he had seen practised with eminent success.

  ``Some impudent quack,'' said the General,
``who would force himself into business by bold
assertions. Doctor Tourniquet and Doctor Lancelot
are men of high reputation.''

  ``Do not mention their reputation,'' said the
mother, with a mother's impatience; ``did they not
let my sweet Rueben die? What avails the reputation
of the physician, when the patient perisheth?''

  ``If his honour would but see Doctor Hartley,''
said Winter, turning half towards the lady, and
then turning back again to his master. ``He is a
very decent young man, who, I am sure, never
expected what he said to reach your honour's ears;
---and he is a native of Northumberland.''

  ``Send a servant with a led horse,'' said the General:
``let the young man come hither instantly.''

  It is well known, that the ancient mode of treating
the smallpox was to refuse to the patient
every thing which Nature urged him to desire;
and, in particular, to confine him to heated rooms,
beds loaded with blankets, and spiced wine, when
nature called for cold water and fresh air. A
different mode of treatment had of late been adventured
upon by some practitioners, who preferred
reason to authority, and Gideon Gray had
followed it for several years with extraordinary

  When General Witherington saw Hartley, he
was startled at his youth; but when he heard him
modestly, but with confidence, state the difference
of the two modes of treatment, and the rationale
of his practice, he listened with the most serious
attention. So did his lady, her streaming eyes
turning from Hartley to her husband, as if to
watch what impression the arguments of the former
were making upon the latter. General Witherington
was silent for a few minutes after Hartley
had finished his exposition, and seem buried in
profound reflection. ``To treat a fever,'' he said,
``in a manner which tends to produce one, seems
indeed to be adding fuel to fire.''

  ``It is---it is,'' said the lady. ``Let us trust this
young man, General Witherington. We shall at
least give our darling the comforts of the fresh air
and cold water, for which they are pining.''

  But the General remained undecided. ``Your
reasoning,'' he said to Hartley, ``seems plausible;
but still it is only hypothesis. What can you show
to support your theory, in opposition to the general

  ``My own observation,'' replied the young man. 
``Here is a memorandum-book of medical cases
which I have witnessed. It contains twenty cases
of smallpox, of which eighteen were recoveries.''

  ``And the two others?'' said the General.

  ``Terminated fatally,'' replied Hartley; ``we
can as yet but partially disarm this scourge of the
human race.''

  ``Young man,'' continued the General, ``were
I to say that a thousand gold mohrs were yours in
case my children live under your treatment, what
have you to peril in exchange?''

  ``My reputation,'' answered Hartley, firmly.

  ``And you could warrant on your reputation the
recovery of your patients?''

  ``God forbid I should be so presumptuous! But
I think I could warrant my using those means,
which with God's blessing, afford the fairest chance
of a favourable result.''

  ``Enough---you are modest and sensible, as well
as bold, and I will trust you.''

  The lady, on whom Hartley's words and manner
had made a great impression, and who was eager to
discontinue a mode of treatment which subjected
the patients to the greatest pain and privation, and
had already proved unfortunate, eagerly acquiesced,
and Hartley was placed in full authority in the sick

  Windows  were  thrown  open,  fires   reduced   or
discontinued, loads of bed-clothes removed, cooling
drinks superseded mulled wine and spices. The
sick-nurses cried out murder. Doctors Tourniquet
and Lancelot retired in disgust, menacing something
like a general pestilence, in vengeance of
what they termed rebellion against the neglect of
the aphorisms of Hippocrates. Hartley proceeded
quietly and steadily, and the patients got into a
fair road of recovery.

  The young Northumbrian was neither conceited
nor artful; yet, with all his plainness of character,
he could not but know the influence which a successful
physician obtains over the parents of the
children whom he has saved from the grave, and
especially before the cure is actually completed. 
He resolved to use this influence in behalf of his old
companion, trusting that the military tenacity of
General Witherington would give way on consideration
of the obligation so lately conferred upon

  On his way to the General's house, which was
at present his constant place of residence, he examined
the packet which Middlemas had put into
his hand. It contained the picture of Menie Gray,
plainly set, and the ring, with brilliants, which
Doctor Gray had given to Richard, as his mother's
last gift. The first of these tokens extracted from
honest Hartley a sigh, perhaps a tear of sad remembrance.
``I fear,'' he said, ``she has not chosen
worthily; but she shall be happy, if I can make
her so.''

  Arrived it the residence of General Witherington,
our Doctor went first to the sick apartment,
and then carried to their parents the delightful
account that the recovery of the children might be
considered as certain. ``May  the  God   of   Israel
bless thee, young man!''     said  the  lady,  trembling
with emotion; ``thou  hast   wiped  the  tear  from  the
eye of the despairing mother. And yet-alas!
alas! still it must flow when I think of my cherub
Reuben. Oh! Mr Hartley, why did we not know
you a week sooner?---my darling had not then

  ``God gives and takes away, my lady,'' answered
Hartley; ``and you must remember, that two are
restored to you out of three. It is far from certain,
that the treatment I have used towards the convalescents
would have brought through their brother;
for the case, as reported to me, was of a very
inveterate description.''

  ``Doctor,'' said Witherington, his voice testifying
more emotion than he usually or willingly gave
way to, ``you can comfort the sick in spirit as well
as the sick in body. But it is time we settle our
wager. You betted your reputation, which remains
with you, increased by all the credit due to your
eminent success, against a thousand gold mohrs, the
value of which you will find in that pocketbook.''

  ``General Witherington,'' said Hartley, ``you
are wealthy, and entitled to be generous---I am
poor, and not entitled to decline whatever may be,
even in a liberal sense, a compensation for my professional
attendance. But there is a bound to extravagance,
both in giving and accepting; and I
must not hazard the newly acquired reputation with
which you flatter me, by giving room to have it
said, that I fleeced the parents, when their feelings
were all afloat with anxiety for their children. 
Allow me to divide this large sum; one half I will
thankfully retain, as a most liberal recompense for
my labour; and if you still think you owe me any
thing, let me have in the advantage of your good
opinion and countenance.''

  ``If I acquiesce in your proposal, Doctor Hartley,''
said the General, reluctantly receiving back
a part of the contents of the pocketbook, ``it is
because I hope to serve you with my interest, even
better than with my purse.''

  ``And indeed, sir,'' replied Hartley, ``it was
upon your interest that I am just about to make a
small claim.''

  The General and his lady spoke both in the same
breath, to assure him his boon was granted before

  ``I am not so sure of that,'' said Hartley; ``for
it respects a point on which I have heard say, that
your Excellency is rather inflexible---the discharge
of a recruit.''

  ``My duty makes me so,'' replied the General---
``You know the sort of fellows that we are obliged
to content ourselves with---they get drunk---grow
pot-valiant---enlist over-night, and repent next
morning. If I am to dismiss all those who pretend
to have been trepanned, we should have few volunteers
remain behind. Every one has some idle
story of the promises of a swaggering Sergeant
Kite---It is impossible to attend to them. But let
me hear yours, however.''

  ``Mine is a very singular case. The party has
been robbed of a thousand pounds.''

  ``A recruit for this service possessing a thousand
pounds! My dear Doctor, depend upon it, the
fellow has gulled you. Bless my heart, would a
man who had a thousand pounds think of enlisting
as a private sentinel?''

  ``He had  no  such  thoughts,''  answered  Hartley.
``He was persuaded by the rogue whom he trusted,
that he was to have a commission.''

  ``Then his friend must have been Tom Hillary,
or the devil; for no other could possess so much
cunning and impudence. He will certainly find
his way to the gallows at last. Still this story of
the thousand pounds seems a touch even beyond
Tom Hillary. What reason have you to think that
this fellow ever had such a sum of money?''

  ``I have the best reason to know it for certain,''
answered Hartley; ``he and I served our time
together, under the same excellent master; and
when he came of age, not liking the profession
which he had studied, and obtaining possession of
his little fortune, he was deceived by the promises
of this same Hillary.''

  ``Who has had him locked up in our well-ordered
Hospital yonder?'' said the General.

  ``Even so, please your Excellency,'' replied
Hartley; ``not, I think, to cure him of any complaint,
but to give him the opportunity of catching
one, which would silence all enquiries.''

  ``The matter shall be closely looked into. But
how miserably careless the young man's friends
must have been to let a raw lad go into the world
with such a companion and guide as Tom Hillarys
and such a sum as a thousand pounds in his pocket. 
His parents had better have knocked him on the
head. It certainly was not done like canny Northumberland,
as my servant Winter calls it.''

  ``The youth must indeed have had strangely
hard-hearted, or careless parents,'' said Mrs Witherington,
in accents of pity.

  ``He never knew them, madam,'' said Hartley;
``there was a mystery on the score of his birth. A
cold, unwilling, and almost unknown hand, dealt
him out his portion when he came of lawful age,
and he was pushed into the world like a bark forced
from shore, without rudder, compass, or pilot.''

  Here General Witherington involuntarily looked
to his lady, while, guided by a similar impulse, her
looks were turned upon him. They exchanged a
momentary glance of deep and peculiar meaning,
and then the eyes of both were fixed on the ground.

  ``Were you brought up in Scotland?'' said the
lady, addressing herself, in a faltering voice, to
Hartley---``And what was your master's name?''

  ``I served my apprenticeship with Mr Gideon
Gray of the town of Middlemas,'' said Hartley.

  ``Middlemas! Gray!'' repeated the lady, and
fainted away.

  Hartley offered the succours of his profession;
the husband flew to support her head, and the instant
that Mrs Witherington began to recover, he
whispered to her, in a tone betwixt entreaty and
warning, ``Zilia, beware---beware!''

  Some imperfect sounds which she had begun to
frame, died away upon her tongue.

  ``Let me assist you to your dressing-room, my
love,'' said her obviously anxious husband.

  She arose with the action of an automaton, which
moves at the touch of a spring, and half hanging
upon her husband, half dragging herself on by her
own efforts, had nearly reached the door of the
room, when Hartley following, asked if he could
be of any service.

  ``No, sir,'' said the General sternly; ``this is no
case for a stranger's interference; when you are
wanted I will send for you.''

  Hartley stepped back on receiving a rebuff in a
tone so different from that which General Witherington
had used toward him in their previous intercourse,
and disposed, for the first time, to give
credit to public report, which assigned to that gentleman,
with several good qualities, the character
of a very proud and haughty man. Hitherto, he
thought, I have seen him tamed by sorrow and
anxiety, now the mind is regaining its natural tension.
But he must in decency interest himself for
the unhappy Middlemas.

  The General returned into the apartment a
minute or two afterwards, and addressed Hartley
in his usual tone of politeness, though apparently
still under great embarrassment, which he in vain
endeavoured to conceal.

  ``Mrs Witherington is better,'' he said, ``and
will be glad to see you before dinner. You dine
with us, I hope?''

  Hartley bowed.

  ``Mrs Witherington is rather subject to this
sort of nervous fits, and she has been much harassed
of late by grief and apprehension. When she recovers
from them, it is a few minutes before she
can collect her ideas, and during such intervals---
to speak very confidentially to you, my dear Doctor
Hartley---she speaks sometimes about imaginary
events which have never happened, and sometimes
about distressing occurrences in an early period of
life. I am not, therefore, willing that any one but
myself, or her old attendant Mrs Lopez, should be
with her on such occasions.''

  Hartley admitted that a certain degree of light-headedness
was often the consequence of nervous fits.

  The General proceeded. ``As to this young
man---this friend of yours---this Richard Middlemas---
did you not call him so?''

  ``Not that I recollect,'' answered Hartley; ``but
your Excellency has hit upon his name.''

  ``That  is  odd  enough---Certainly  you  said   something
about Middlemas?'' replied General Witherington.

  ``I mentioned the name of the town,'' said

  ``Ay, and I caught it up as the name of the
recruit---I was indeed occupied at the moment by
my anxiety about my wife. But this Middlemas,
since such is his name, is a wild young fellow, I

  ``I should do him wrong to say so, your Excellency.
He may have had his follies like other
young men; but his conduct has, so far as. I know,
been respectable; but, considering we lived in the
same house, we were not very intimate.''

  ``That is bad---I should have liked him---that
is---it would have been happy for him to have had
a friend like you. But I suppose you studied too
hard for him. He would be a soldier, ha?---Is he

  ``Remarkably so,'' replied Hartley; ``and has a
very prepossessing manner.''

  ``Is his complexion dark or fair?'' asked the

  ``Rather uncommonly dark,'' said Hartley,---
darker, if I may use the freedom, than your Excellency's.''

  ``Nay, then, he must be a black ouzel indeed!---
Does he understand languages?''

  ``Latin and French tolerably well.''

  ``Of course he cannot fence or dance?''

  ``Pardon me, sir, I am no great judge; but
Richard is reckoned to do both with uncommon

  ``Indeed!---Sum this up, and it sounds well. 
Handsome, accomplished in exercises, moderately
learned, perfectly well-bred, not unreasonably wild. 
All this comes too high for the situation of a private
sentinel. He must have a commission, Doctor---
entirely for your sake.''

  ``Your Excellency is generous.''

  ``It shall be so; and I will find means to make
Tom Hillary disgorge his plunder, unless he prefers
being hanged, a fate he has long deserved. 
You cannot go back to the Hospital to-day. You
dine with us, and you know Mrs Witherington's
fears of infection; but to-morrow find out your
friend. Winter shall see him equipped with every
thing needful. Tom Hillary shall repay advances,
you know; and he must be off with the first detachment
of the recruits, in the Middlesex Indiaman,
which sails from the Downs on Monday fortnight;
that is, if you think him fit for the voyage. 
I dare say the poor fellow is sick of the Isle of

  ``Your Excellency will permit the young man
to pay his respects to you before his departure?''

  ``To what purpose, sir?'' said the General, hastily
and peremptorily; but instantly added, ``You are
right---I should like to see him. Winter shall let
him know the time, and take horses to fetch him
hither. But he must have been out of the Hospital
for a day or two; so the sooner you can set him at
liberty the better. In the meantime, take him to
your own lodgings, Doctor; and do not let him form
any intimacies with the officers, or any others, in
this place, where he may light on another Hillary.''

  Had Hartley been as well acquainted as the
reader with the circumstances of young Middlemas's
birth, he might have drawn decisive conclusions
from the behaviour of General Witherington,
while his comrade is the topic of conversation. 
But as Mr Gray and Middlemas himself were both
silent on the subject, he knew little of it but from
general report, which his curiosity had never induced
him to scrutinize minutely. Nevertheless,
what he did apprehend interested him so much,
that he resolved upon trying a little experiment,
in which he thought there could be no great harm. 
He placed on his finger the remarkable ring intrusted
to his care by Richard Middlemas, and
endeavoured to make it conspicuous in approaching
Mrs Witherington; taking care, however, that
this occurred during her husband's absence. Her
eyes had no sooner caught a sight of the gem, than
they became riveted to it, and she begged a nearer
sight of it, as strongly resembling one which she
had given to a friend. Taking the ring from his
finger, and placing it in her emaciated band, Hartley
informed her it was the property of the friend
in whom he had just been endeavouring to interest
the General. Mrs Witherington retired in great
emotion, but next day summoned Hartley to a
private interview, the particulars of which, so far
as are necessary to be known, shall be afterwards

  On the succeeding day after these important
discoveries, Middlemas, to his great delight, was
rescued from his seclusion in the Hospital, and
transferred to his comrade's lodgings in the town
of Ryde, of which Hartley himself was a rare inmate;
the anxiety of Mrs Witherington detaining
him at the General's house, long after his medical
attendance might have been dispensed with.

  Within two or three days a commission arrived
for Richard Middlemas, as a lieutenant in the
service of the East India Company. Winter, by
his master's orders, put the wardrobe of the young
officer on a suitable footing; while Middlemas,
enchanted at finding himself at once emancipated
from his late dreadful difficulties, and placed under
the protection of a man of such importance as
the General, obeyed implicitly the hints transmitted
to him by Hartley, and enforced by Winter,
and abstained from going into public, or forming
acquaintances with any one. Even Hartley
himself he saw seldom; and, deep as were his obligations,
he did not perhaps greatly regret the
absence of one, whose presence always affected
him with a sense of humiliation and abasement.

               CHAPTER VIII.

  The evening before he was to sail for the Downs,
where the Middlesex lay ready to weigh anchor,
the new lieutenant was summoned by Winter to
attend him to the General's residence, for the purpose
of being introduced to his patron, to thank
him at once, and to bid him farewell. On the
road, the old man took the liberty of schooling his
companion concerning the respect which he ought
to pay to his master, ``who was, though a kind
and generous man as ever came from Northumberland,
extremely rigid in punctiliously exacting
the degree of honour which was his due.''

  While they were advancing towards the house,
the General and his wife expected their arrival
with breathless anxiety. They were seated in a
superb drawing-room, the General behind a large
chandelier, which shaded opposite to his face,
threw all the light to the other side of the table,
so that he could observe any person placed there,
without becoming the subject of observation in
turn. On a heap of cushions, wrapped in a glittering
drapery of gold and silver muslins, mingled
with shawls, a luxury which was then a novelty in
Europe, sate, or rather reclined, his lady, who,
past the full meridian of beauty, retained charms
enough to distinguish her as one who had been formerly
a very fine woman, though her mind seemed
occupied by the deepest emotion.

  ``Zilia,'' said her husband, ``you are unable for
what you have undertaken---take my advice---retire---
you shall know all and every thing that
passes---but retire. To what purpose should you
cling to the idle wish of beholding for a moment
a being whom you can never again look upon?''

  ``Alas!'' answered the lady, ``and is not your declaration,
that I shall never see him more, a sufficient
reason that I should wish to see him now---should
wish to imprint on my memory the features and
the form which I am never again to behold while
we are in the body? Do not, my Richard, be more
cruel than was my poor father, even when his
wrath was in its bitterness. He let me look upon
my infant, and its cherub face dwelt with me, and
was my comfort, among the years of unutterable
sorrow in which my youth wore away.''

  ``It is enough, Zilia---you have desired this boon
---I have granted it---and, at whatever risk, my
promise shall be kept. But think how much depends
on this fatal secret---your rank and estimation
in society---my honour interested that that
estimation should remain uninjured. Zilia, the
moment that the promulgation of such a secret
gives prudes and scandal-mongers a right to treat
you with scorn, will be fraught with unutterable
misery, perhaps with bloodshed and death, should
a man dare to take up the rumour.''

  ``You shall be obeyed, my husband,''  answered
Zilia, ``in all that the frailness of nature will  permit.
But oh, God of my fathers, of what  clay
hast thou fashioned us, poor mortals, who dread so
much the shame which follows sin, yet repent so
little for the sin itself!'' In a minute afterwards
steps were heard---the door opened---Winter announced
Lieutenant Middlemas, and the unconscious
son stood before his parents.

  Witherington started involuntarily up, but immediately
constrained himself to assume the easy
deportment with which, a superior receives a dependent,
and which, in his own case, was usually
mingled with a certain degree of hauteur. The
mother had less command of herself. She too
sprung up, as if with the intention of throwing
herself on the neck of her son, for whom she had
travailed and sorrowed. But the warning glance
of her husband arrested her, as if by magic, and she
remained standing, with her beautiful head and
neck somewhat advanced, her hands clasped together,
and extended forward in the attitude of
motion, but motionless, nevertheless, as a marble
statue, to which the sculptor has given all the appearance
of life, but cannot impart its powers. So
strange a gesture and posture might have excited
the young officer's surprise; but the lady stood in
the shade, and he was so intent in looking upon his
patron that he was scarce even conscious of Mrs
Witherington's presence.

  ``I am happy in this opportunity,'' said Middlemas,
observing that the General did not speak,
``to return my thanks to General Witherington,
to whom they never can be sufficiently paid.''

  The sound of his voice, though uttering words
so indifferent, seemed to dissolve the charm which
kept his mother motionless. She sighed deeply, relaxed
the rigidity of her posture, and sunk back on
the cushions from which she had started up. Middlemas
turned a look towards her at the sound of
the sigh, and the rustling of her drapery. The
General hastened to speak.

  ``My wife, Mr Middlemas has been unwell of
late---your friend, Mr Hartley, might mention it
to you---an affection of the nerves.''

  Mr Middlemas was, of course, sorry and concerned.

  ``We have had distress in our family, Mr Middlemas,
from the ultimate and heart-breaking consequences
of which we have escaped by the skill
of your friend, Mr Hartley. We will be happy if
it is in our power to repay a part of our obligations
in services to his friend and proteg<e'>, Mr

  ``I am only acknowledged as his proteg<e'>, then,''
thought Richard; but he said, ``Every one must
envy his friend, in having had the distinguished
good fortune to be of use to General Witherington
and his family.''

  ``You have received your commission, I presume.
Have you any particular wish or desire respecting
your destination?''

  ``No, may it please your Excellency,'' answered
Middlemas. ``I suppose Hartley would tell your
Excellency my unhappy state---that I am an orphan,
deserted by the parents who cast me on the
wide world, an outcast about whom nobody knows
or cares, except to desire that I should wander far
enough, and live obscurely enough, not to disgrace
them by their connexion with me.''

  Zilia wrung her hands as he spoke, and drew her
muslin veil closely around her head, as if to exclude
the sounds which excited her mental agony.

  ``Mr Hartley was not particularly communicative
about your affairs,'' said the General; ``nor
do I wish to give you the pain of entering into
them. What I desire to know is, if you are pleased
with your destination to Madras?''

  ``Perfectly, please your Excellency---anywhere,
so that there is no chance of meeting the villain

  ``Oh! Hillary's services are too necessary in the
purlieus of Saint Giles's, the Lowlights of Newcastle,
and such like places, where human carrion
can be picked up, to be permitted to go to India. 
However, to show you the knave has some grace,
there are the notes of which you were robbed. 
You will find them the very same paper which you
lost, except a small sum which the rogue had spent,
but which a friend has made up, in compassion for
your sufferings.'' Richard Middlemas sunk on one
knee, and kissed the band which restored him to

  ``Pshaw!'' said the General, ``you are a silly
young man;'' but he withdrew not his hand from
his caresses. This was one of the occasions on which
Dick Middlemas could be oratorical.

  ``O, my more than father,'' he said, ``how much
greater a debt do I owe to you than to the unnatural
parents, who brought me into this world by
their sin, and deserted me through their cruelty!''

  Zilia, as she heard these cutting words, flung
back her veil, raising it on both hands till it floated
behind her like a mist, and then giving a faint
groan, sunk down in a swoon. Pushing Middlemas
from him with a hasty movement, General
Witherington flew to his lady's assistance, and
carried her in his arms, as if she had been a child,
into the anteroom, where an old servant waited
with the means of restoring suspended animation,
which the unhappy husband too truly anticipated
might be useful. These were hastily employed,
and succeeded in calling the sufferer to life, but in
a state of mental emotion that was terrible.

  Her mind was obviously impressed by the last
words which her son had uttered.---``Did you hear
him, Richard!'' she exclaimed, in accents terribly
loud, considering the exhausted state of her strength
---``Did you hear the words? It was Heaven speaking
our condemnation by the voice of our own child. 
But do not fear, my Richard, do not weep! I will
answer the thunder of Heaven with its own music.''

  She flew to a harpsichord which stood in the
room, and, while the servant and master gazed on
each other, as if doubting whether her senses were
about to leave her entirely, she wandered over the
keys, producing a wilderness of harmony, composed
of passages recalled by memory, or combined
by her own musical talent, until at length
her voice and instrument united in one of those
magnificent hymns in which her youth had praised
her Maker, with voice and harp, like the Royal
Hebrew who composed it. The tear ebbed insensibly
from the eyes which she turned upwards---
her vocal tones, combining with those of the instrument,
rose to a pitch of brilliancy seldom attained
by the most distinguished performers, and then
sunk into a dying cadence, which fell, never again
to rise,---for the songstress had died with her strain.

  The horror of the distracted husband may be
conceived, when all efforts to restore life proved
totally ineffectual. Servants were despatched for
medical men---Hartley, and every other who could
be found. The General precipitated himself into
the apartment they had so lately left, and in his
haste ran against Middlemas, who, at the sound of
the music from the adjoining apartment, had naturally
approached nearer to the door, and, surprised
and startled by the sort of clamour, hasty steps,
and confused voices which ensued, had remained
standing there, endeavouring to ascertain the cause
of so much disorder.

  The sight of the unfortunate young man wakened
the General's stormy passions to frenzy. He seemed
to recognise his son only as the cause of his wife's
death. He seized him by the collar, and shook him
violently as he dragged him into the chamber of

  ``Come hither,'' he said, ``thou for whom a life
of lowest obscurity was too mean a fate---come
hither, and look on the parents whom thou hast so
much envied---whom thou hast so often cursed. 
Look at that pale emaciated form, a figure of wax,
rather than flesh and blood---that is thy mother---
that is the unhappy Zilia Mon<c,>ada, to whom thy
birth was the source of shame and misery, and to
whom thy ill-omened presence has now brought
death itself. And behold me''---he pushed the lad
from him, and stood up erect, looking wellnigh in
gesture and figure the apostate spirit be described
---``Behold me''---he said; ``see you not my hair
streaming with sulphur, my brow scathed with
lightning?---l am the Arch-Fiend---I am the father
whom you seek---I am the accursed Richard Tresham,
the seducer of Zilia, and the father of her

  Hartley entered while this horrid scene was passing.
All attention to the deceased, he instantly
saw, would be thrown away; and understanding,
partly from Winter, partly from the tenor of the
General's frantic discourse, the nature of the disclosure
which had occurred, he hastened to put an
end, if possible, to the frightful and scandalous
scene which had taken place. Aware how delicately
the General felt on the subject of reputation,
he assailed him with remonstrances on such
conduct, in presence of so many witnesses. But
the mind had ceased to answer to that once powerful

  ``I care not if the whole world hear my sin and
my punishment,'' said Witherington. ``It shall
not be again said of me, that I fear shame more
than I repent sin. I feared shame only for Zilia,
and Zilia is dead!''

  ``But her memory, General---spare the memory
of your wife, in which the character of your children
is involved.''

  ``I have no children!'' said the desperate and
violent man. ``My Reuben is gone to Heaven,
to prepare a lodging for the angel who has now
escaped from earth in a flood of harmony, which
can only be equalled where she is gone. The
other two cherubs will not survive their mother. 
I shall be, nay, I already feel myself, a childless

  ``Yet I am your son,'' replied Middlemas, in a
tone sorrowful, but at the same time tinged with
sullen resentment---``Your son by your wedded
wife. Pale as she lies there, I call upon you both
to acknowledge my rights, and all who are present
to bear witness to them.''

  ``Wretch!'' exclaimed the maniac father, ``canst
thou think of thine own sordid rights in the midst
of death and frenzy? My son!---thou art the fiend
who hast occasioned my wretchedness in this world,
and who will share my eternal misery in the next. 
Hence from my sight, and my curse go with

  His eyes fixed on the ground, his arms folded on
his breast, the haughty and dogged spirit of Middlemas
yet seemed to meditate reply. But Hartley, 
Winter, and others bystanders interfered, and
forced him from the apartment. As they endeavoured
to remonstrate with him, he twisted himself
out of their grasp, ran to the stables, and seizing
the first saddled horse that he found, out of
many that had been in haste got ready to seek for
assistance, he threw himself on its back, and rode
furiously off. Hartley was about to mount and
follow him; but Winter and the other domestics
threw themselves around him, and implored him
not to desert their unfortunate master, at a time
when the influence which he had acquired over
him might be the only restraint on the violence of
his passions.

  ``He had a _coup de soleil_ in India,'' whispered
Winter, ``and is capable of any thing in his fits. 
These cowards cannot control him, and I am old
and feeble.''

  Satisfied that General Witherington was a
greater object of compassion than Middlemas,
whom besides he had no hope of overtaking, and
who he believed was safe in his own keeping, however
violent might be his present emotions, Hartley
returned where the greater emergency demanded
his immediate care.

  He found the unfortunate General contending
with the domestics, who endeavoured to prevent
his making his way to the apartment where his
children slept, and exclaiming furiously---``Rejoice,
my treasures---rejoice!---He has fled who
would proclaim your father's crime, and your mother's
dishonour!---He has fled, never to return,
whose life has been the death of one parent, and
the ruin of another!---Courage, my children, your
father is with you---he will make his way to you
through a hundred obstacles!''

  The domestics, intimidated and undecided, were
giving way to him, when Adam Hartley approached,
and placing himself before the unhappy man,
fixed his eye firmly on the General's while he said
in a low but stern voice---``Madman, would you kill
your children?''

  The General seemed staggered in his resolution,
but still attempted to rush past him. But Hartley,
seizing him by the collar of his coat on each side,
``You are my prisoner,'' he said; ``I command
you to follow me.''

  ``Ha! prisoner, and for high treason? Dog,
thou hast met thy death!''

  The distracted man drew a poniard from his
bosom, and Hartley's strength and resolution might
not perhaps have saved his life, had not Winter
mastered the General's right hand, and contrived
to disarm him.

  ``I am your prisoner, then,'' he said; ``use me
civilly---and let me see my wife and children.''

  ``You shall see them to-morrow,'' said Hartley;
``follow us instantly, and without the least resistance.''

  General Witherington followed like a child, with
the air of one who is suffering for a cause in which
he glories.

  ``I    am not ashamed of my principles,'' he said
---``I    am willing to die for my king.''

  Without exciting his frenzy, by contradicting
the fantastic idea which occupied his imagination,
Hartley continued to maintain over his patient the
ascendency he had acquired. He caused him to be
led to his apartment, and beheld him suffer himself
to be put to bed. Administering then a strong
composing drought, and causing a servant to sleep
in the room, he watched the unfortunate man till
dawn of morning.

  General Witherington awoke in his full senses,
and apparently conscious of his real situation, which
he testified by low groans, sobs, and tears. When
Hartley drew near his bedside, he knew him perfectly,
and said, ``Do not fear me---the fit is over
---leave me now, and see after yonder unfortunate. 
Let him leave Britain as soon as possible, and go
where his fate calls him, and where we can never
meet more. Winter knows my ways, and will
take care of me.''

  Winter gave the same advice. ``I can answer,''
he said, ``for my master's security at present; but
in Heaven's name, prevent his ever meeting again
with that obdurate young man!''

               CHAPTER IX.

      Well, then, the world's mine oyster,
      Which I with sword will open.
                         _Merry Wives of Windsor_.

  When Adam Hartley arrived at his lodgings in
the sweet little town of Ryde, his first enquiries
were after his comrade. He had arrived last night
late, man and horse all in a foam. He made no reply
to any questions about supper or the like, but
snatching a candle, ran up stairs into his apartment,
and shut and double-locked the door. The servants
only supposed, that, being something intoxicated,
he had ridden hard, and was unwilling to expose

  Hartley went to the door of his chamber, not
without some apprehensions; and after knocking
and calling more than once, received at length the
welcome return, ``Who is there?''

  On Hartley announcing himself, the door opened,
and Middlemas appeared, well dressed, and
with his hair arranged and powdered; although,
from the appearance of the bed, it had not been
slept in on the preceding night, and Richard's
countenance, haggard and ghastly, seemed to bear
witness to the same fact. It was, however, with
an affectation of indifference that he spoke.

  ``I congratulate you on your improvement in
wordly knowledge, Adam. It is just the time to
desert the poor heir, and stick by him that is in
immediate possession of the wealth.''

  ``I staid last night at General Witherington's,''
answered Hartley, ``because he is extremely ill.''

  ``Tell him to repent of his sins, then,'' said
Richard. ``Old Gray used to say, a doctor had
as good a title to give ghostly advice as a parson. 
Do you remember Doctor Dulberry, the minister,
calling him an interloper? Ha! ha! ha!''
  ``I am surprised at this style of language from
one in your circumstances.''

  ``Why, ay,'' said Middlemas, with a bitter smile,
it would be difficult to most men to keep up
their spirits, after gaining and losing father, mother,
and a good inheritance, all in the same day. 
But I had always a turn for philosophy.''

  ``I really do not understand you, Mr Middlemas.''

  ``Why, I found my parents yesterday, did I
not?'' answered the young man. ``My mother,
as you know, had waited but that moment to die,
and my father to become distracted; and I conclude
both were contrived purposely to cheat me
of my inheritance, as he has taken up such a prejudice
against me.''

  ``Inheritance?'' repeated Hartley, bewildered
by Richard's calmness, and half suspecting that the
insanity of the father was hereditary in the family. 
``In Heaven's name, recollect yourself, and get rid
of these hallucinations. What inheritance are you
dreaming of?''

  ``That of my mother, to be sure, who must have
inherited old Mon<c,>ada's wealth---and to whom
should it descend, save to her children?---I am the
eldest of them---that fact cannot be denied.''

  ``But consider, Richard---recollect yourself.''

  ``I do,'' said Richard; ``and what then?''

  ``Then you cannot but remember,'' said Hartley,
``that unless there was a will in your favour,
your birth prevents you from inheriting.''

  ``You are mistaken, sir, I am legitimate.---Yonder
sickly brats, whom you rescued from the grave,
are not more legitimate than I am.---Yes! our parents
could not allow the air of Heaven to breathe
on them---me they committed to the winds and the
waves---I am nevertheless their lawful child, as
well as their puling offspring of advanced age and
decayed health. I saw them, Adam---Winter
showed the nursery to me while they were gathering
courage to receive me in the drawing-room. 
There they lay, the children of predilection, the
riches of the East expended that they might sleep
soft, and wake in magnificence. I, the eldest brother---
the heir---I stood beside their bed in the
borrowed dress which I had so lately exchanged
for the rags of an hospital. Their couches breathed
the richest perfumes, while I was reeking from a
pest-house; and I---I repeat it---the heir, the produce
of their earliest and best love, was thus treated. 
No wonder that my look was that of a basilisk.''

  ``You speak as if you were possessed with an
evil spirit,'' said Hartley; ``or else you labour
under a strange delusion.''

  ``You think those only are legally married over
whom a drowsy parson has read the ceremony
from a dog's-eared prayer-book? It may be so in
your English law---but Scotland makes Love himself
the priest. A vow betwixt a fond couple, the
blue heaven alone witnessing, will protect a confiding
girl against the perjury of a fickle swain, as
much as if a Dean had performed the rites in the
loftiest cathedral in England. Nay, more; if the
child of love be acknowledged by the father at the
time when he is baptized---if he present the mother
to strangers of respectability as his wife, the laws
of Scotland will not allow him to retract the justice
which has, in these actions, been done to the female
whom he has wronged, or the offspring of their
mutual love. This General Tresham, or Witherington,
treated my unhappy mother as his wife
before Gray and others, quartered her as such in
the family of a respectable man, gave her the same
name by which he himself chose to pass for the
time. He presented me to the priest as his lawful
offspring; and the law of Scotland, benevolent to
the helpless child, will not allow him now to disown
what he so formally admitted. I know my
rights, and am determined to claim them.''

  ``You do not then intend to go on board the
Middlesex?  Think a little---You will lose your
voyage and your commission.''

  ``I will save my birth-right,'' answered Middlemas.
``When I thought of going to India, I
knew not my parents, or how to make good the
rights which I had through them. That riddle is
solved. I am entitled to at least a third of Mon<c,>ada's
estate, which, by Winter's account, is considerable.
But for you, and your mode of treating
the smallpox, I should have had the whole. Little
did I think, when old Gray was likely to have his
wig pulled off, for putting out fires, throwing open
windows, and exploding whisky and water, that
the new system of treating the smallpox was to
cost me so many thousand pounds.''

  ``You are determined, then,'' said Hartley, ``on
this wild course?''

  ``I know my rights, and am determined to make
them available,'' answered the obstinate youth.

  ``Mr Richard  Middlemas,  I  am  sorry  for  you.''

  ``Mr  Adam  Hartley,  I  beg  to  know  why  I  am
honoured by your sorrow.''

  ``I pity you,'' answered Hartley, ``both for the
obstinacy of selfishness, which can think of wealth
after the scene you saw last night, and for the idle
vision which leads you to believe that you can obtain
possession of it.''

  ``Selfish!'' cried Middlemas; ``why, I am a
dutiful son, labouring to clear the memory of a
calumniated mother---And am I a visionary?---
Why, it was to this hope that I awakened, when
old Mon<c,>ada's letter to Gray, devoting me to perpetual
obscurity, first roused me to a sense of my
situation, and dispelled the dreams of my childhood. 
Do you think that I would ever have submitted to
the drudgery which I shared with you, but that, by
doing so, I kept in view the only traces of these
unnatural parents, by means of which I proposed
to introduce myself to their notice, and, if necessary,
enforce the rights of a legitimate child? The
silence and death of Mon<c,>ada broke my plans, and
it was then only I reconciled myself to the thoughts
of India.''

  ``You were very young to have known so much
of the Scottish law, at the time when we were first
acquainted,'' said Hartley. ``But I can guess your

  ``No less authority than Tom Hillary's,'' replied
Middlemas. ``His good counsel on that head is a
reason why I do not now prosecute him to the

  ``I judged as much,'' replied Hartley; ``for I
heard him, before I left Middlemas, debating the
point with Mr Lawford; and I recollect perfectly,
that he stated the law to be such as you now lay

  ``And what said Lawford in answer?'' demanded

  ``He admitted,'' replied Hartley, ``that in circumstances
where the case was doubtful, such presumptions
of legitimacy might be admitted. But
he said they were liable to be controlled by positive
and precise testimony, as, for instance, the evidence
of the mother declaring the illegitimacy of the

  ``But there can exist none such in my case,'' said
Middlemas hastily, and with marks of alarm.

  ``I will not deceive you, Mr Middlemas, though
I fear I cannot help giving you pain. I had yesterday
a long conference with your mother, Mrs
Witherington, in which she acknowledged you as
her son, but a son born before marriage. This
express declaration will, therefore, put an end to
the suppositions on which you ground your hopes. 
If you please, you may hear the contents of her declaration,
which I have in her own handwriting.''

  ``Confusion! is the cup to be for ever dashed
from my lips?'' muttered Richard; but recovering
his composure, by exertion of the self-command of
which he possessed so large a portion, he desired
Hartley to proceed with his communication. Hartley
accordingly proceeded to inform him of the
particulars preceding his birth, and those which
followed after it; while Middlemas, seated on a
sea-chest, listened with inimitable composure to a
tale which went to root up the flourishing hopes of
wealth which he had lately so fondly entertained.

  Zilia Mon<c,>ada was the only child of a Portuguese
Jew of great wealth, who had come to London,
in prosecution of his commerce. Among the
few Christians who frequented his house, and occasionally
his table, was Richard Tresham, a gentleman
of a high Northumbrian family, deeply engaged
in the service of Charles Edward during his short
invasion, and though holding a commission in the
Portuguese service, still an object of suspicion to
the British government, on account of his well-known
courage and Jacobitical principles. The
high-bred elegance of this gentleman, together
with his complete acquaintance with the Portuguese
language and manners, had won the intimacy
of old Mon<c,>ada, and, alas! the heart of the
inexperienced Zilia, who, beautiful as an angel,
had as little knowledge of the world and its wickedness
as the lamb that is but a week old.

  Tresham made his proposals to Mon<c,>ada, perhaps
in a manner which too evidently showed that
he conceived the high-born Christian was degrading
himself in asking an alliance with the wealthy
Jew. Mon<c,>ada rejected his proposals, forbade
him his  house, but could not prevent the lovers
from meeting in private. Tresham made a dishonourable
use of the opportunities which the poor
Zilia so incautiously afforded, and the consequence
was her ruin. The lover, however, had every
purpose of righting the injury which he had inflicted,
and, after various plans of secret marriage,
which were rendered abortive by the difference of
religion, and other circumstances, flight for Scotland
was determined on. The hurry of the journey,
the fear and anxiety to which Zilia was subject,
brought on her confinement several weeks before
the usual time, so that they were compelled to
accept of the assistance and accommodation offered
by Mr Gray. They had not been there many
hours ere Tresham heard, by the medium of some
sharp-sighted or keen-eared friend, that there were
warrants out against him for treasonable practices. 
His correspondence with Charles Edward had become
known to Mon<c,>ada during the period of
their friendship; he betrayed it in vengeance to
the British cabinet, and warrants were issued, in
which, at Mon<c,>ada's request, his daughter's name
was included. This might be of use, he apprehended,
to enable him to separate his daughter
from Tresham, should he find the fugitives actually
married. How far he succeeded, the reader already
knows, as well as the precautions which he
took to prevent the living evidence of his child's
frailty from being known to exist. His daughter
he carried with him, and subjected her to severe
restraint, which her own reflections rendered
doubly bitter. It would have completed his revenge,
had the author of Zilia's misfortunes been
brought to the scaffold for his political offences. 
But Tresham skulked among friends in the Highlands,
and escaped until the affair blew over.

  He afterwards entered into the East India Company's
service, under his mother's name of Witherington,
which concealed the Jacobite and rebel,
until these terms were forgotten. His skill in
military affairs soon raised him to riches and eminence.
When he returned to Britain, his first
enquiries were after the family of Mon<c,>ada. His
fame, his wealth, and the late conviction that his
daughter never would marry any but him who had
her first love, induced the old man to give that
encouragement to General Witherington, which
he had always denied to the poor and outlawed
Major Tresham; and the lovers, after having been
fourteen years separated, were at length united in

  General Witherington eagerly concurred in the
earnest wish of his father-in-law, that every remembrance
of former events should be buried, by
leaving the fruit of the early and unhappy intrigue
suitably provided for, but in a distant and obscure
situation. Zilia thought far otherwise. Her heart
longed, with a mother's longing, towards the object
of her first maternal tenderness, but she dared
not place herself in opposition at once to the will
of her father, and the decision of her husband. 
The former, his religious prejudices much effaced
by his long residence in England, had given consent
that she should conform to the established
religion of her husband and her country,---the
latter, haughty as we have described him, made it
his pride to introduce the beautiful convert among
his high-born kindred. The discovery of her former
frailty would have proved a blow to her respectability,
which he dreaded like death; and it
could not long remain a secret from his wife, that
in consequence of a severe illness in India, even
his reason became occasionally shaken by any thing
which violently agitated his feelings. She had,
therefore, acquiesced in patience and silence in
the course of policy which Mon<c,>ada had devised,
and which her husband anxiously and warmly approved.
Yet her thoughts, even when their marriage
was blessed with other offspring, anxiously
reverted to the banished and outcast child, who
had first been clasped to the maternal bosom.

  All these feelings, ``subdued and cherished
long,'' were set afloat in full tide by the unexpected
discovery of this son, redeemed from a lot of
extreme misery, and placed before his mother's
imagination in circumstances so disastrous.

  It was in vain that her husband had assured
her that he would secure the young man's prosperity,
by his purse and his interest. She could
not be satisfied, until she had herself done something
to alleviate the doom of banishment to which
her eldest-born was thus condemned. She was
the more eager to do so, as she felt the extreme
delicacy of her health, which was undermined by
so many years of secret suffering.

  Mrs Witherington was, in conferring her maternal
bounty, naturally led to employ the agency
of Hartley, the companion of her son, and to whom,
since the recovery of her younger children, she
almost looked up as to a tutelar deity. She placed
in his hands a sum of L.2000, which she had at
her own unchallenged disposal, with a request,
uttered in the fondest and most affectionate terms,
that it might be applied to the service of Richard
Middlemas in the way Hartley should think most
useful to him. She assured him of further support,
as it should be needed; and a note to the following
purport was also intrusted to him, to be delivered
when and where the prudence of Hartley
should judge it proper to confide to him the secret
of his birth.

  ``Oh, Benoni! Oh, child of my sorrow!'' said
this interesting document, ``why should the eyes of
thy unhappy mother be about to obtain permission
to look on thee, since her arms were denied the
right to fold thee to her bosom? May the God of
Jews and of Gentiles watch over thee, and guard
thee! May he remove, in his good time, the darkness
which rolls between me and the beloved of my
heart---the first fruit of my unhappy, nay, unhallowed
affection. Do not---do not, my beloved!---
think thyself a lonely exile, while thy mother's
prayers arise for thee at sunrise and at sunset, to
call down every blessing on thy head---to invoke
every power in thy protection and defence. Seek
not to see me---Oh, why must I say so!---But let
me humble myself in the dust, since it is my own
sin, my own folly, which I must blame;---but seek
not to see or speak with me---it might be the death
of both. Confide thy thoughts to the excellent
Hartley, who hath been the guardian angel of us
all---even as the tribes of Israel had each their
guardian angel. What thou shalt wish, and be
shall advise in thy behalf, shall be done, if in the
power of a mother---And the love of a mother! Is
it bounded by seas, or can deserts and distance
measure its limits? Oh, child of my sorrow! Oh,
Benoni! let thy spirit be with mine, as mine is
with thee.
                                   `` Z. M.''

  All these arrangements being completed, the
unfortunate lady next insisted with her husband
that the should be permitted to see her son in
that parting interview which terminated so fatally. 
Hartley, therefore, now discharged as her executor,
the duty intrusted to him as her confidential

  ``Surely,'' he thought, as, having finished his
communication, he was about to leave the apartment,
``surely the demons of Ambition and Avarice
will unclose the talons which they have fixed
upon this man, at a charm like this.''

  And indeed Richard's heart had been formed of
the nether millstone, had he not been duly affected
by these first and last tokens of his mother's affection.
He leant his head upon a table, and his tears
flowed painfully. Hartley left him undisturbed
for more than an hour, and on his return found
him in nearly the same attitude in which he had
left him.

  ``I regret to disturb you at this moment,'' he
said, ``but I have still a part of my duty to discharge.
I must place in your possession the deposit
which your mother made in my hands---and
I must also remind you that time flies fast, and
that you have scarce an hour or two to determine
whether you will prosecute your Indian voyage,
under the new view of circumstances which I have
opened to you.''

  Middlemas took the bills which his mother had
bequeathed him. As he raised his head, Hartley
could observe that his face was stained with tears.
Yet he I counted over the money with mercantile
accuracy; and though he assumed the pen for the
purpose of writing a discharge with an air of inconsolable
dejection, yet he drew it up in good set
terms, like one who had his senses much at his

  ``And now,'' he said, in a mournful voice, ``give
me my mother's narrative.''

  Hartley almost started, and answered hastily,
``You have the poor lady's letter, which was addressed
to yourself---the narrative is addressed to
me. It is my warrant for disposing of a large sum
of money---it concerns the rights of third parties,
and I cannot part with it.''

  ``Surely, surely it were better to deliver it into
my hands, were it but to weep over it,'' answered
Middlemas. ``My fortune, Hartley, has been very
cruel. You see that my parents purposed to have
made me their undoubted heir; yet their purpose
was disappointed by accident. And now my mother
comes with well-intended fondness, and while
she means to advance my fortune, furnishes evidence
to destroy it.---Come, come, Hartley---you
must be conscious that my mother wrote those details
entirely for my information. I am the rightful
owner, and insist on having them.''

  ``I am sorry I must insist on refusing your demand,''
answered Hartley, putting the papers in
his pocket. ``You ought to consider, that if this
communication has destroyed the idle and groundless
hopes which you have indulged in, it has, at
the same time, more than trebled your capital;
and that if there are some hundreds or thousands
in the world richer than yourself, there are many
millions not half so well provided. Set a brave
spirit, then, against your fortune, and do not
doubt your success in life.''

  His words seemed to sink into the gloomy mind
of Middlemas. He stood silent for a moment, and
then answered with a reluctant and insinuating

  ``My dear Hartley, we have long been companions---
you can have neither pleasure nor interest
in ruining my hopes---you may find some in forwarding
them. Mon<c,>ada's fortune will enable me
to allow five thousand pounds to the friend who
should aid me in my difficulties.''

  ``Good morning to you, Mr Middlemas,'' said
Hartley, endeavouring to withdraw.

  ``One moment---one moment,'' said Middlemas,
holding his friend by the button at the same time,
``I meant to say ten thousand---and---and---marry
whomsoever you like---I will not be your hinderance.''

  ``You are a villain!'' said Hartley, breaking
from him, ``and I always thought you so.''

  ``And you,'' answered Middlemas, ``are a fool,
and I never thought you better. Off he goes---
Let him---the game has been played and lost---I
must hedge my bets: India must be my back-play.''

  All was in readiness for his departure. A small
vessel and a favouring gale conveyed him and several
other military gentlemen to the Downs, where
the Indiaman which was to transport them from
Europe, lay ready for their reception.

  His first feelings were  sufficiently  disconsolate.
But accustomed from his infancy to conceal his
internal thoughts, he appeared in the course of a
week the gayest and best bred passenger who ever
dared the long and weary space betwixt Old England
and her Indian possessions. At Madras,
where the sociable feelings of the resident inhabitants
give ready way to enthusiasm in behalf of
any stranger of agreeable qualities, he experienced
that warm hospitality which distinguishes the British
character in the East.

  Middlemas was well received in company, and
in the way of becoming an indispensable guest at
every entertainment in the place, when the vessel,
on board of which Hartley acted as surgeon's mate,
arrived at the same settlement. The latter would
not, from his situation, have been entitled to expect
much civility and attention; but this disadvantage
was made up by his possessing the most
powerful introductions from General Witherington,
and from other persons of weight in Leadenhall
Street, the General's friends, to the principal
inhabitants in the settlement. He found himself
once more, therefore, moving in the same sphere
with Middlemas, and under the alternative of living
with him on decent and distant terms, or of breaking
of with him altogether.

  The first of these courses might perhaps have
been the wisest; but the other was most congenial
to the blunt and plain character of Hartley, who
saw neither propriety nor comfort in maintaining a
show of friendly intercourse, to conceal hate, contempt,
and mutual dislike.

  The circle at Fort Saint George was much more
restricted at that time than it has been since. The
coldness of the young men did not escape notice;
it transpired that they had been once intimates and
fellow-students; yet it was now found that they
hesitated at accepting invitations to the same parties.
Rumour assigned many different and incompatible
reasons for this deadly breach, to which
Hartley gave no attention whatever, while Lieutenant
Middlemas took care to countenance those
which represented the cause of the quarrel most
favourably to himself.

  ``A little bit of rivalry had taken place,'' he said,
when pressed by gentlemen for an explanation;
``he had only had the good luck to get further in
the good graces of a fair lady than his friend Hartley,
who had made a quarrel of it, as they saw. 
He thought it very silly to keep up spleen, at such
a distance of time and space. He was sorry, more
for the sake of the strangeness of the appearance
of the thing than any thing else, although his friend
had really some very good points about him.''

  While these whispers were working their effect
in society, they did not prevent Hartley from receiving
the most flattering assurances of encouragement
and official promotion from the Madras government
as opportunity should arise. Soon after,
it was intimated to him that a medical appointment
of a lucrative nature in a remote settlement was
conferred on him, which removed him for some time
from Madras and its neighbourhood.

  Hartley accordingly sailed on his distant expedition;
and it was observed, that after his departure,
the character of Middlemas, as if some check had
been removed, began to display itself in disagreeable
colours. It was noticed that this young man,
whose manners were so agreeable and so courteous
during the first months after his arrival in India,
began now to show symptoms of a haughty and
overbearing spirit. He had adopted, for reasons
which the reader may conjecture, but which appeared
to be mere whim at Fort St George, the
name of Tresham, in addition to that by which he
had hitherto been distinguished, and in this be
persisted with an obstinacy, which belonged more
to the pride than the craft of his character. The
Lieutenant-Colonel of the regiment, an old cross-tempered
martinet, did not choose to indulge the
Captain (such was now the rank of Middlemas) in
this humour.

  ``He knew no officer,'' he said, ``by any name
save that which he bore in his commission,'' and
he Middlemass'd the Captain on all occasions.

  One fatal evening, the Captain was so much provoked,
as to intimate peremptorily, ``that he knew
his own name best.''

  ``Why, Captain Middlemas,'' replied the Colonel,
``it is not every child that knows its own father,
so how can every man be so sure of his own name?''

  The bow was drawn at a venture, but the shaft
found the rent in the armour, and stung deeply. 
In spite of all the interposition which could be attempted,
Middlemas insisted on challenging the
Colonel, who could be persuaded to no apology.

  ``If Captain Middlemas,'' he said, ``thought the
cap fitted, he was welcome to wear it.''

  The result was a meeting, in which, after the
parties had exchanged shots, the seconds tendered
their mediation. It was rejected by Middlemas,
who, at the second fire, had the misfortune to kill
his commanding officer. In consequence, he was
obliged to fly from the British settlements; for,
being universally blamed for having pushed the
quarrel to extremity, there was little doubt that
the whole severity of military discipline would be
exercised upon the delinquent. Middlemas, therefore,
vanished from Fort St George, and, though
the affair had made much noise at the time, was soon
no longer talked of. It was understood, in general,
that he had gone to seek that fortune at the court
of some native prince, which he could no longer
hope for in the British settlements.

                 CHAPTER X.

Three years passed away after the fatal rencounter
mentioned in the last Chapter, and Doctor
Hartley returned from his appointed mission, which
was only temporary, received encouragement to
settle in Madras in a medical capacity; and, upon
having done so, soon had reason to think he had
chosen a line in which he might rise to wealth and
reputation. His practice was not confined to his
countrymen, but much sought after among the natives,
who, whatever may be their prejudices against
the Europeans in other respects, universally esteem
their superior powers in the medical profession. 
This lucrative branch of practice rendered it necessary
that Hartley should make the Oriental languages
his study, in order to hold communication
with his patients without the intervention of an
interpreter. He had enough of opportunities to
practise as a linguist, for, in acknowledgment, as he
used jocularly to say, of the large fees of the wealthy
Moslemah and Hindoos, he attended the poor of all
nations gratis, whenever he was called upon.

  It so chanced, that one evening he was hastily
summoned by a message from the Secretary of the
Government, to attend a patient of consequence. 
``Yet he is, after all, only a Fakir,'' said the message.
``You will find him at the tomb of Cara Razi,
the Mahomedan saint and doctor, about one coss
from the fort. Enquire for him by the name of
Barak El Hadgi. Such a patient promises no fees;
but we know how little you care about the pagodas;
and, besides, the Government is your paymaster
on this occasion.''

  ``That is the last matter to be thought on,'' said
Hartley, and instantly repaired in his palanquin to
the place pointed out to him.

  The tomb of the Owliah, or Mahomedan Saint,
Cara Razi, was a place held  in much reverence by
every good Mussulman. It was situated in the
centre of a grove of manges and tamarind-trees,
and was built of red stone, having three domes,
and minarets at every corner. There was a court
in front, as usual, around which were cells constructed
for the accommodation of the Fakirs who
visited the tomb from motives of devotion, and
made a longer or shorter residence there as they
thought proper, subsisting upon the alms which the
Faithful never fail to bestow on them in exchange
for the benefit of their prayers. These devotees
were engaged day and night in reading verses of
the Koran before the tomb, which was constructed
of white marble, inscribed with sentences from the
book of the Prophet, and with the various titles
conferred by the Koran upon the Supreme Being. 
Such a sepulchre, of which there are many, is, with
its appendages and attendants, respected during
wars and revolutions, and no less by Feringis,
(Franks, that is,) and Hindoos, than by Mahomedans
themselves. The Fakirs, in return act as spies for
all parties, and are often employed in secret missions
of importance.

  Complying with the Mahomedan custom, our
friend Hartley laid aside his shoes at the gates of
the holy precincts, and avoiding to give offence by
approaching near to the tomb, he went up to the
principal Moullah, or priest, who was distinguishable
by the length of his beard, and the size of the
large wooden beads, with which the Mahomedans,
like the Catholics, keep register of their prayers. 
Such a person, venerable by his age, sanctity of
character, and his real or supposed contempt of
worldly pursuits and enjoyments, is regarded as
the head of an establishment of this kind.

  The Moullah is permitted by his situation to be
more communicative with strangers than his younger
brethren, who in the present instance remained
with their eyes fixed on the Koran, muttering their
recitations without noticing the European, or attending
to what he said, as he enquired at their
superior for Barak el Hadgi.

  The Moullah was seated on the earth, from which
he did not arise, or show any mark of reverence;
nor did he interrupt the tale of his beads, which he
continued to count assiduously while Hartley was
speaking. When he finished, the old man raised his
eyes, and looking at him with an air of distraction,
as if he was endeavouring to recollect what he had
been saying, he at length pointed to one of the
cells, and resumed his devotions like one who felt
impatient of whatever withdrew his attention from
his sacred duties, were it but for an instant.

  Hartley entered the cell indicated, with the usual
salutation of Salam Alaikum. His patient lay on
a little carpet in a corner of the small white-washed
cell. He was a man of about forty, dressed in the
black robe of his order, very much torn and patched.
He wore a high conical cap of Tartarian felt,
and had round his neck the string of black beads
belonging to his order. His eyes and posture indicated
suffering, which he was enduring with stoical

  ``Salam Alaikum,'' said Hartley; ``you are in
pain, my father?''---a title which he gave rather to
the profession than to the years of the person be

  ``_Salam Alaikum bema sebastem_,'' answered the
Fakir; ``Well is it for you that you have suffered
patiently. The Book saith, such shall be the greeting
of the angels to those who enter paradise.''

  The conversation being thus opened, the physician
proceeded to enquire into the complaints of the
patient, and to prescribe what he thought advisable. 
Having done this, he was about to retire, when, to
his great surprise, the Fakir tendered him a ring of
some value.

  ``The wise,'' said Hartley, declining the present,
and at the same time paying a suitable compliment
to the Fakir's cap and robe,---``the wise of every
country are brethren. My left hand takes no guerdon
of my right.''

  ``A Feringi can then refuse gold!'' said the Fakir.
``I thought they took it from every hand,
whether pure as that of an Houri, or leprous like
Gehazi's---even as the hungry dog recketh not whether
the flesh he eateth be of the camel of the prophet
Saleth, or of the ass of Degial---on whose
head be curses!''

  ``The Book says,'' replied Hartley, ``that it is
Allah who closes and who enlarges the heart. 
Frank and Mussulman are all alike moulded by his

  ``My brother hath spoken wisely,'' answered
the patient. ``Welcome the disease, if it bring thee
acquainted with a wise physician. For what saith
the poet---`It is well to have fallen to the earth,
if while grovelling there thou shalt discover a
diamond.' ''

  The physician made repeated visits to his patient,
and continued to do so even after the health of El
Hadgi was entirely restored. He had no difficulty
in discerning in him one of those secret agents frequently
employed by Asiatic Sovereigns. His intelligence,
his learning, above all, his versatility
and freedom from prejudices of every kind, left no
doubt of Barak's possessing the necessary qualifications
for conducting such delicate negotiations;
while his gravity of habit and profession could not
prevent his features from expressing occasionally
a perception of humour, not usually seen in devotees
of his class.

  Barak El Hadgi talked often, amidst their private
conversations, of the power and dignity of the
Nawaub of Mysore; and Hartley had little doubt
that he came from the Court of Hyder Ali, on some
secret mission, perhaps for achieving a more solid
peace betwixt that able and sagacious Prince and
the East India Company's Government,---that which
existed for the time being regarded on both parts
as little more than a hollow and insincere truce. 
He told many stories to the advantage of this Prince,
who certainly was one of the wisest that Hindostan
could boast; and amidst great crimes, perpetrated
to gratify his ambition, displayed many instances
of princely generosity, and, what was a
little more surprising, of even-handed justice.

  On one occasion, shortly before Barak El Hadgi
left Madras, he visited the Doctor, and partook of
his sherbet, which he preferred to his own, perhaps
because a few glasses of rum or brandy were usually
added to enrich the compound. It might be owing
to repeated applications to the jar which contained
this generous fluid, that the pilgrim became more
than usually frank in his communications, and not
contented with praising his Nawaub with the most
hyperbolic eloquence, he began to insinuate the influence
which he himself enjoyed with the Invincible,
the Lord and Shield of the Faith of the

  ``Brother of my soul,'' he said, ``do but think
if thou needest aught that the all-powerful Hyder
Ali Khan Bahauder can give; and then use not the
intercession of those who dwell in palaces, and wear
jewels in their turbans, but seek the cell of thy
brother at the Great City, which is Seringapatam. 
And the poor Fakir, in his torn cloak, shall better
advance thy suit with the Nawaub [for Hyder did
not assume the title of Sultaun] than they who sit
upon seats of honour in the Divan.''

  With these and sundry other expressions of regard,
he exhorted Hartley to come into the Mysore,
and look upon the face of the Great Prince, whose
glance inspired wisdom, and whose nod conferred
wealth, so that Folly or Poverty could not appear
before him. He offered at the same time to requite
the kindness which Hartley had evinced to him, by
showing him whatever was worth the attention of
a sage in the land of Mysore.

  Hartley was not reluctant to promise to undertake
the proposed journey, if the continuance of
good understanding betwixt their governments
should render it practicable, and in reality looked
forward to the possibility of such an event with a
good deal of interest. The friends parted with
mutual good wishes, after  exchanging, in the Oriental
fashion, such gifts as became sages, to whom
knowledge was to be supposed dearer than wealth. 
Barak el Hadgi presented Hartley with a small
quantity of the balsam of Mecca, very hard to be
procured in an unadulterated form, and gave him at
the same time a passport in a peculiar character,
which he assured him would be respected by every
officer of the Nawaub, should his friend be disposed
to accomplish his visit to the Mysore. ``The head
of him who should disrespect this safe-conduct,''
he said, ``shall not be more safe than that of the
barley-stalk which the reaper has grasped in his

  Hartley requited these civilities by the present
of a few medicines little used in the East, but such
as he thought might, with suitable directions, be
safely intrusted to a man so intelligent as his Moslem

  It was several months after Barak had returned
to the interior of India, that Hartley was astonished
by an unexpected rencounter.

  The ships from Europe had but lately arrived,
and had brought over their usual cargo of boys
longing to be commanders, and young women without
any purpose of being married, but whom a
pious duty to some brother, or some uncle, or other
male relative, brought to India to keep his house,
until they should find themselves unexpectedly in
one of their own. Doctor Hartley happened to
attend a public breakfast given on this occasion by
a gentleman high in the service. The roof of his
friend had been recently enriched by a consignment
of three nieces, whom the old gentleman,
justly attached to his quiet hookah, and, it was
said, to a pretty girl of colour, desired to offer to
the public, that he might have the fairest chance to
get rid of his new guests as soon as possible. Hartley
who was thought a fish worth casting a fly for,
was contemplating this fair investment with very
little interest, when he heard one of the company
say to another in a low voice,---

  ``Angels and ministers! there is our old acquaintance,
the Queen of Sheba, returned upon
our hands like unsaleable goods.''

  Hartley looked in the same direction with the
two who were speaking, and his eye was caught
by a Semiramis-looking person, of unusual stature
and amplitude, arrayed in a sort of riding habit,
but so formed, and so looped and gallooned with
lace, as made it resemble the upper tunic of a native
chief. Her robe was composed of crimson silk,
rich with flowers of gold. She wore wide trowsers
of light blue silk, a fine scarlet shawl around her
waist, in which was stuck a creeze, with a richly
ornamented handle. Her throat and arms were
loaded with chains and bracelets, and her turban,
formed of a shawl similar to that worn around
her waist, was decorated by a magnificent aigrette,
from which a blue ostrich plume flowed in one direction,
and a red one in another. The brow, of
European complexion, on which this tiara rested,
was too lofty for beauty, but seemed made for
command; the aquiline nose retained its form, but
the cheeks were a little sunken, and the complexion
so very brilliant, as to give strong evidence that
the whole countenance had undergone a thorough
repair since the lady had left her couch. A black
female slave, richly dressed, stood behind her with
a chowry, or cow's tail, having a silver handle,
which she used to keep off the flies. From the
mode in which she was addressed by those who
spoke to her, this lady appeared a person of too
much importance to be affronted or neglected, and
yet one with whom none desired further communication
than the occasion seemed in propriety to

  She did not, however, stand in need of attention. 
The well-known captain of an East Indian vessel
lately arrived from Britain was sedulously polite
to her; and two or three gentlemen, whom Hartley
knew to be engaged in trade, tended upon her
as they would have done upon the safety of a rich

  ``For Heaven's sake, what is that for a Zenobia?''
said Hartley, to the gentleman whose whisper
had first attracted his attention to this lofty

  ``Is it possible you do not know the Queen of
Sheba?'' said the person of whom he enquired, no
way loath to communicate the information demanded.
``You must know, then, that she is the
daughter of a Scotch emigrant, who lived and died
at Pondicherry, a sergeant in Lally's regiment. 
She managed to marry a partisan officer named
Montreville, a Swiss or Frenchman, I cannot tell
which. After the surrender of Pondicherry, this
hero and heroine---But hey---what the devil are
you thinking of?---If you stare at her that way,
you will make a scene; for she will think nothing
of scolding you across the table.''

  But without attending to his friend's remonstrances,
Hartley bolted from the table at which he sat,
and made his way, with something less than the
decorum which the rules of society enjoin, towards
the place where the lady in question was seated.

  ``The Doctor is surely mad this morning---''
said his friend Major Mercer to old Quartermaster

  Indeed Hartley was not perhaps strictly in his
senses; for looking at the Queen of Sheba as he
listened to Major Mercer, his eye fell on a light
female form beside her, so placed as if she desired
to be eclipsed by the bulky form and flowing robes
we have described, and to his extreme astonishment,
he recognised the friend of his childhood, the
love of his youth---Menie Gray herself!

  To see her in India was in itself astonishing. To
see her apparently under such strange patronage,
greatly increased his surprise. To make his way
to her, and address her, seemed the natural and
direct mode of satisfying the feelings which her
appearance excited.

  His impetuosity was however checked, when,
advancing close upon Miss Gray and her companion,
he observed that the former, though she
looked at him, exhibited not the slightest token of
recognition, unless he could interpret as such, that
she slightly touched her upper-lip with her forefinger,
which, if it happened otherwise than by
mere accident, might be construed to mean, ``Do
not speak to me just now.'' Hartley, adopting such
an interpretation, stood stock still, blushing deeply;
for he was aware that he made for the moment
but a silly figure.

  He was the rather convinced of this, when, with
a voice which in the force of its accents corresponded
with her commanding air, Mrs Montreville
addressed him in English, which savoured slightly
of a Swiss patois,---``You have come to us very
fast, sir, to say nothing at all. Are you sure you
did not get your tongue stolen by de way?''

  ``I thought I had seen an old friend in that lady,
madam,'' stammered Hartley, ``but it seems I am

  ``The good people do tell me that you are one
Doctors Hartley, sir. Now, my friend and I do
not know Doctors Hartley at all.''

  ``I have not the presumption to pretend to your
acquaintance, madam, but him------''

  Here Menie repeated the sign in such a manner,
that though it was only momentary, Hartley could
not misunderstand its purpose; he therefore
changed the end of his sentence, and added, ``But
I have only to make my bow, and ask pardon for
my mistake.''

  He retired back accordingly among the company,
unable to quit the room, and enquiring at those
whom he considered as the best newsmongers for
such information as---``Who is that stately-looking
woman, Mr Butler?''

  ``Oh, the Queen of Sheba, to be sure.''

  ``And who is that pretty girl, who sits beside

  ``Or rather behind her,'' answered Butler, a
military chaplain; ``faith, I cannot say---Pretty did
you call her?'' turning his opera-glass that way---
``Yes, faith, she is pretty---very pretty---Gad, she
shoots her glances as smartly from behind the old
pile yonder, as Teucer from behind Ajax Telamon's

  ``But who is she, can you tell me?''

  ``Some fair-skinned speculation of old Montreville's,
I suppose, that she has got either to toady
herself, or take in some of her black friends with.
---Is it possible you have never heard of old Mother

  ``You know I have been so long absent from

  ``Well,'' continued Butler, ``this lady is the
widow of a Swiss officer in the French service, who,
after the surrender of Pondicherry, went off into
the interior, and commenced soldier on his own
account. He got possession of a fort, under pretence
of keeping it for some simple Rajah or other;
assembled around him a parcel of desperate vagabonds,
of every colour in the rainbow; occupied a
considerable territory, of which he raised the duties
in his own name, and declared for independence.
But Hyder Naig understood no such interloping
proceedings, and down he came, besieged
the fort and took it, though some pretend it was
betrayed to him by this very woman. Be that as
it may, the poor Swiss was found dead on the ramparts.
Certain it is, she received large sums of
money,  under pretence of paying of her troops,
surrendering of hill-forts, and Heaven knows what
besides. She was permitted also to retain some
insignia of royalty; and, as she was wont to talk
of Hyder as the Eastern Solomon, she generally
became known by the title of Queen of Sheba. She
leaves her court when she pleases, and has been as
far as Fort St George before now. In a word, she
does pretty much as she likes. The great folks here
are civil to her, though they look on her as little
better than a spy. As to Hyder, it is supposed he
has ensured her fidelity by borrowing the greater
part of her treasures, which prevents her from
daring to break with him,---besides other causes
that smack of scandal of another sort.''

  ``A singular story,'' replied Hartley to his companion,
while his heart dwelt on the question, How
it was possible that the gentle and simple Menie
Grey should be in the train of such a character as
this adventuress?

  ``But Butler has not told you the best of it,''
said Major Mercer, who by this time came round
to finish his own story. ``Your old acquaintance,
Mr Tresham, or Mr Middlemas, or whatever else
he chooses to be called, has been complimented by
a report, that he stood very high in the good graces
of this same Boadicea. He certainly commanded
some troops which she still keeps on foot, and
acted at their head in the Nawaub's service, who
craftily employed him in whatever could render
him odious to his countrymen. The British prisoners
were intrusted to his charge, and, to judge
by what I felt myself, the devil might take a lesson
from him in severity.''

  ``And was he attached to, or connected with,
this woman?''

  ``So Mrs Rumour told us in our dungeon. Poor
Jack Ward had the bastinado for celebrating their
merits in a parody on the playhouse song,

    `Sure such a pair were never seen,
     So aptly formed to meet by nature.' ''

  Hartley could listen no longer. The fate of
Menie Gray, connected with such a man and such
a woman, rushed on his fancy in the most horrid
colours, and he was struggling through the throng
to get to some place where he might collect his
ideas, and consider what could be done for her protection,
when a black attendant touched his arm,
and at the same time slipt a card into his hand. 
It bore, ``Miss Gray, Mrs Montreville's, at the
house of Ram Sing Cottah, in the Black Town.''
On the reverse was written with a pencil, ``Eight
in the morning.''

  This intimation of her residence implied, of
course, a permission, nay, an invitation, to wait
upon her at the hour specified. Hartley's heart
beat at the idea of seeing her once more, and still
more highly at the thought of being able to serve
her. At least, he thought, if there is danger near
her, as is much to be suspected, she shall not want
a counsellor, or, if necessary, a protecter. Yet, at
the same time, he felt the necessity of making himself
better acquainted with the circumstances of
her case, and the persons with whom she seemed
connected. Butler and Mercer had both spoke to
their disparagement; but Butler was a little of a
coxcomb, and Mercer a great deal of a gossip. While
he was considering what credit was due to their
testimony, he was unexpectedly encountered by a
gentleman of his own profession, a military surgeon,
who had had the misfortune to have been in
Hyder's prison, till set at freedom by the late pacification.
Mr Esdale, for so he was called, was
generally esteemed a rising man, calm, steady, and
deliberate in forming his opinions. Hartley found
it easy to turn the subject on the Queen of Sheba,
by asking whether her Majesty was not somewhat
of an adventuress.

  ``On my word, I cannot say,'' answered Esdale,
smiling; ``we are all upon the adventure in India,
more or less; but I do not see that the Begum
Montreville is more so than the rest.''

  ``Why, that Amazonian dress and manner,''
said Hartley, ``savour a little of the _picaresca_.''

  ``You must not,'' said Esdale, ``expect a woman
who has commanded soldiers, and may again, to
dress and look entirely like an ordinary person;
but I assure you, that even at this time of day, if
she wished to marry, she might easily find a
respectable match.''

  ``Why, I heard that she had betrayed her husband's
fort to Hyder.''

  ``Ay, that is a specimen of Madras gossip. The
fact is, that she defended the place long after her
husband fell, and afterwards surrendered it by capitulation.
Hyder who piques himself on observing
the rules of justice, would not otherwise have admitted
her to such intimacy.''

  ``Yes, I have heard,'' replied Hartley, ``that
their intimacy was rather of the closest.''

  ``Another calumny, if you mean any scandal,''
answered Esdale. ``Hyder is too zealous a Mahomedan
to entertain a Christian mistress: and besides,
to enjoy the sort of rank which is yielded to
a woman in her condition, she must refrain, in appearance
at least, from all correspondence in the
way of gallantry. Just so they said that the poor
woman had a connexion with poor Middlemas of
the ------- regiment.''

  ``And was that also a false report?'' said Hartley,
in breathless anxiety.

  ``On my soul, I believe it was,'' answered Mr
Esdale. ``They were friends, Europeans in an
Indian court, and therefore intimate; but I believe
nothing more. By the by, though, I believe there
was some quarrel between Middlemas, poor fellow,
and you; yet I am sure that you will be glad to
bear there is a chance of his affair being made up?''

  ``Indeed!'' was again, the only word which
Hartley could utter.

  ``Ay, indeed,'' answered Esdale. ``The duel
is an old story now; and it must be allowed that
poor Middlemas, though he was rash in that business,
had provocation.''

  ``But his desertion---his accepting of command
under Hyder---his treatment of our prisoners---
How can all these be passed over?'' replied Hartley.

  ``Why, it is possible---I speak to you as a cautious
man, and in confidence---that he may do us
better service in Hyder's capital, or Tippoo's camp,
than he could have done if serving with his own
regiment. And then, for his treatment of prisoners,
I am sure I can speak nothing but good of him, in
that particular. He was obliged to take the office,
because those that serve Hyder Naig, must do or
die. But he told me himself---and I believe him---
that he accepted the office chiefly because, while he
made a great bullying at us before the black
fellows, he could privately be of assistance to us. 
Some fools could not understand this, and answered
him with abuse and lampoons; and he was obliged
to punish them, to avoid suspicion. Yes, yes,
I and others can prove he was willing to be kind,
if men would give him leave. I hope to thank him
at Madras one day soon.---All this in confidence---
Good morrow to you.'

  Distracted by the contradictory intelligence he
had received, Hartley went next to question old
Captain Capstern, the Captain of the Indiaman,
whom he had observed in attendance upon the Begum
Montreville. On enquiring after that commander's
female passengers, he heard a pretty long
catalogue of names, in which that he was so much
interested in did not occur. On closer enquiry,
Capstern recollected that Menie Gray, a young
Scotchwoman, had come out under charge of Mrs
Duffer, the master's wife. ``A good decent girl,''
Capstern said, ``and kept the mates and guinea-pigs
at a respectable distance. She came out,'' he believed,
``to be a sort of female companion, or upper-servant,
in Madame Montreville's family. Snug
birth enough,'' he concluded, ``if she can find the
length of the old girl's foot.''

  This was all that could be made of Capstern; so
Hartley was compelled to remain in a state of uncertainty
until the next morning, when an explanation
might be expected with Menie Gray in

                  CHAPTER XI.

  The exact hour assigned found Hartley at the
door of the rich native merchant, who, having some
reasons for wishing to oblige the Begum Montreville,
had relinquished, for her accommodation and
that of her numerous retinue, almost the whole of
his large and sumptuous residence in the Black
Town of Madras, as that district of the city is called
which the natives occupy.

  A domestic, at the first summons, ushered the
visitor into an apartment, where he expected to be
joined by Miss Gray. The room opened on one
side into a small garden or parterre, filled with the
brilliant-coloured flowers of eastern climates; in
the midst of which the waters of a fountain rose
upwards in a sparkling jet, and fell back again into
a white marble cistern.

  A thousand dizzy recollections thronged on the
mind of Hartley, whose early feelings towards the
companion of his youth, if they had slumbered
during distance and the various casualties of a busy
life, were revived when he found himself placed so
near her, and in circumstances which interested
from their unexpected occurrence and mysterious
character. A step was heard---the door opened---
a female appeared-but it was the portly form of
Madame de Montreville.

  ``What you do please to want, sir?'' said the
lady; ``that is, if you have found your tongue this
morning, which you had lost yesterday.''

  ``I proposed myself the honour of waiting upon
the young person, whom I saw in your excellency's
company yesterday morning,'' answered Hartley,
with assumed respect. ``I have had long the honour
of being known to her in Europe, and I desire
to offer my services to her in India.''

  ``Much obliged---much obliged; but Miss Gray
is gone out, and does not return for one or two
days. You may leave your commands with me.''

  ``Pardon me, madam,'' replied Hartley; ``but
have some reason to hope you may be mistaken
in this matter---And here comes the lady herself.''

  ``How is this, my dear?'' said Mrs Montreville,
with unruffled front, to Menie, as she entered;
``are you not gone out for two or three days, as I
tell this gentleman?---_mais c'est <e'>gal_---it is all one
thing. You will say, How d'ye do, and good-by,
to Monsieur, who is so polite as to come to ask
after our healths, and as he sees us both very well,
he will go away home again.''

  ``I believe, madam,'' said Miss Gray, with appearance
of effort, ``that I must speak with this
gentleman for a few minutes in private, if you will
permit us.''

  ``That is to say, get you gone? but I do not
allow that---I do not like private conversation between
young man and pretty young woman; _cela
n'est pas honne<e^>te_. It cannot be in my house.''

  ``It may be out of it, then, madam,'' answered
Miss Gray, not pettishly nor pertly, but with the
utmost simplicity.---``Mr Hartley, will you step
into that garden?---and you, madam, may observe
us from the window, if it be the fashion of the
country to watch so closely.''

  As she spoke this she stepped through a lattice-door
into the garden, and with an air so simple,
that she seemed as if she wished to comply with
her patroness's ideas of decorum, though they appeared
strange to her. The Queen of Sheba,
notwithstanding her natural assurance, was disconcerted
by the composure of Miss Gray's manner,
and left the room, apparently in displeasure. 
Menie turned back to the door which opened into
the garden, and said, in the same manner as
before, but with less nonchalance,---

  ``I am sure I would not willingly break through
the rules of a foreign country; but I cannot refuse
myself the pleasure of speaking to so old a
friend,---if, indeed,'' she added, pausing and looking
at Hartley, who was much embarrassed, ``it
be as much pleasure to Mr Hartley as it is to me.''

  ``It would have been,'' said Hartley, scarce knowing
what he said---``it must be, a pleasure to me,
in every circumstance---But, this extraordinary
meeting---But your father------''

  Menie Gray's handkerchief was at her eyes.---
``He is gone, Mr Hartley. After he was left
unassisted, his toilsome business became too much
for him---he caught a cold, which hung about him,
as you know he was the last to attend to his own
complaints, till it assumed a dangerous, and, finally,
a fatal character. I distress you, Mr Hartley,
but it becomes you well to be affected. My father
loved you dearly.''

  ``Oh, Miss Gray!'' said Hartley, ``it should
not have been thus with my excellent friend at
the close of his useful and virtuous life---Alas,
wherefore---the question bursts from me involuntarily---
wherefore could you not have complied
with his wishes? wherefore------''

  ``Do not ask me,'' said she, stopping the question
which was on his lips; ``we are not the formers
of our own destiny. It is painful to talk on such
a subject; but for once, and for ever, let me tell
you that I should have done Mr Hartley wrong,
if, even to secure his assistance to my father, I
had accepted his hand, while my wayward affecations
did not accompany the act.''

  ``But wherefore do I see you here, Menie?
---Forgive me, Miss Gray, my tongue as well as
my heart turns back to long-forgotten scenes---
But why here?---why with this woman?''

  ``She is not, indeed, every thing that I expected,''
answered Menie; ``but I must not be prejudiced
by foreign manners, after the step I have
taken---She is, besides, attentive, and generous
in her way, and I shall soon''---she paused a
moment, and then added, ``be under better protection.''

  ``That of Richard Middlemas?'' said Hartley,
with a faltering voice.

  ``I ought not, perhaps, to answer the question,''
said Menie; ``but I am a bad dissembler, and those
whom I trust, I trust entirely. You have guessed
right, Mr Hartley,'' she added, colouring a good
deal, ``I have come hither to unite my fate to
that of your old comrade.''

  ``It is, then, just as I feared!'' exclaimed

  ``And why should Mr Hartley fear?'' said
Menie Gray. ``I used to think you too generous
---surely the quarrel which occurred long since
ought not to perpetuate suspicion and resentment.''

  ``At least, if the feeling of resentment remained
in my own bosom, it would be the last I should
intrude upon you, Miss Gray,'' answered Hartley. 
``But it is for you, and for you alone, that I am
watchful.---This person---this gentleman whom you
mean to intrust with your happiness---do you know
where he is---and in what service?''

  ``I know both, more distinctly perhaps than Mr
Hartley can do. Mr Middlemas has erred greatly,
and has been severely punished. But it was not in
the time of his exile and sorrow, that she who has
plighted her faith to him should, with the flattering
world, turn her back upon him. Besides, you have,
doubtless, not heard of his hopes of being restored
to his country and his rank?''

  ``I have,'' answered Hartley, thrown off his
guard; ``but I see not how he can deserve it, otherwise
than by becoming a traitor to his new master,
and thus rendering himself even more unworthy of
confidence than I hold him to be at this moment.''

  ``It is well that he hears you not,'' answered
Menie Gray, resenting, with natural feeling, the
imputation on her lover. Then instantly softening
her tone, she added, ``My voice ought not to
aggravate, but to soothe your quarrel . Mr Hartley,
I plight my word to you that you do Richard

  She said these words with affecting calmness,
suppressing all appearance of that displeasure, of
which she was evidently sensible, upon this depreciation
of a beloved object.

  Hartley compelled himself to answer in the same

  ``Miss Gray,'' he said, ``your actions and
motives will always be those of an angel; but let
me entreat you to view this most important matter
with the eyes of worldly wisdom and prudence.
Have you well weighed the risks attending
the course which you are taking in favour of
a man, who,---nay, I will not again offend you---
who may, I hope, deserve your favour?''

  ``When I wished to see you in this manner, Mr
Hartley, and declined a communication in public,
where we could have had less freedom of conversation,
it was with the view of telling you every
thing. Some pain I thought old recollections
might  give, but I trusted it would be momentary;
and, as I desire to retain your friendship, it is proper
I should show that I still deserve it. I must
then first tell you my situation after my  father's
death. In the world's opinion, we were always
poor, you know; but in the proper sense I had not
known what real poverty was, until I was placed
in dependence upon a distant relation of my poor
father, who made our relationship a reason for
casting upon me all the drudgery of her household,
while she would not allow that it gave me a claim
to countenance, kindness, or any thing but the relief
of my most pressing wants. In these circumstances
I received from Mr Middlemas a letter, in
which he related his fatal duel, and its consequence.
He had not dared to write to me to share his
misery---Now, when he was in a lucrative situation,
under the patronage of a powerful prince,
whose wisdom knew how to prize and protect such
Europeans as entered his service---now, when he
had every prospect of rendering our government
such essential service by his interest with Hyder
Ali, and might eventually nourish hopes of being
permitted to return and stand his trial for the death
of his commanding officer---now he pressed me to
come to India, and share his reviving fortunes, by
accomplishing the engagement into which we had
long ago entered. A considerable sum of money
accompanied this letter. Mrs Duffer was pointed
out as a respectable woman, who would protect me
during the passage. Mrs Montreville, a lady of
rank, having large possessions and high interest in
the Mysore, would receive me on my arrival at
Fort St George, and conduct me safely to the dominions
of Hyder. It was further recommended,
that, considering the peculiar situation of Mr Middlemas,
his name should be concealed in the transaction,
and that the ostensible cause of my voyage
should be to fill an office in that lady's family.
---What was I to do?---My duty to my poor father
was ended, and my other friends considered the
proposal as too advantageous to be rejected. The
references given, the sum of money lodged, were
considered as putting all scruples out of the question,
and my immediate protectress and kinswoman
was so earnest that I should accept of the offer
made me, as to intimate that she would not encourage
me to stand in my own light, by continuing
to give me shelter and food, (she gave me little
more,) if I was foolish enough to refuse compliance.

  ``Sordid wretch!'' said Hartley, ``how little
did she deserve such a charge!''

  ``Let me speak a proud word, Mr Hartley, and
then you will not perhaps blame my relations so
much. All their persuasions, and even their threats,
would have failed in inducing me to take a step,
which has an appearance, at least, to which I found
it difficult to reconcile myself. But I had loved
Middlemas---I love him still---why should I deny
it?---and I have not hesitated to trust him. Had
it not been for the small still voice which reminded
me of my engagements, I had maintained
more stubbornly the pride of womanhood, and, as
you would perhaps have recommended, I might
have expected, at least, that my lover should have
come to Britain in person, and might have had the
vanity to think,'' she added, smiling faintly, ``that
if I were worth having, I was worth fetching.''

  ``Yet now---even now,'' answered Hartley, ``be
just to yourself while you are generous to your,
lover.---Nay, do not look angrily, but hear me. I
doubt the propriety of your being under the charge
of this unsexed woman, who can no longer be
termed a European. I have interest enough with
females of the highest rank in the settlement---this
climate is that of generosity and hospitality---there
is not one of them, who, knowing your character
and history, will not desire to have you in her society,
and under her protection, until your lover
shall be able to vindicate his title to your hand in
the face of the world.---I myself will be no cause
of suspicion to him, or of inconvenience to you,
Menie. Let me but have your consent to the arrangement
I propose, and the same moment that
sees you under honourable and unsuspected protection,
I will leave Madras, not to return till your
destiny is in one way or other permanently fixed.''

  ``No, Hartley,'' said Miss Gray. ``It may, it
must be, friendly in you thus to advise me; but it
would be most base in me to advance my own affairs
at the expense of your prospects. Besides, what
would this be but taking the chance of contingencies,
with the view of sharing poor Middlemas's
fortunes should they prove prosperous, and casting
him off, should they be otherwise? Tell me only,
do you, of your own positive knowledge, aver that
you consider this woman as an unworthy and unfit
protectress for so young a person as I am?''

  ``Of my own knowledge I can say nothing; nay,
I must own, that reports differ even concerning
Mrs Montreville's character. But surely the mere

  ``The mere suspicion; Mr Hartley, can have no
weight with me, considering that I can oppose to
it the testimony of the man with whom I am willing
to share my future fortunes. You acknowledge
the question is but doubtful, and should not the assertion
of him of whom I think so highly decide my
belief in a doubtful matter? What, indeed, must
he be, should this Madam Montreville be other than
he represented her?''

  ``What must he be, indeed!'' thought Hartley
internally, but his lips uttered not the words. He
looked down in a deep reverie, and at length started
from it at the words of Miss Gray.

  ``It is time to remind you, Mr Hartley, that we
must needs part. God bless and preserve you.''

  ``And you, dearest Menie,'' exclaimed Hartley,
as he sunk on one knee, and pressed to his lips the
hand which she held out to him, ``God bless you!
---you must deserve blessing. God protect you!
---you must need protection.---Oh, should things
prove different from what you hope, send for me
instantly, and if man can aid you, Adam Hartley

  He placed in her band a card containing his address.
He then rushed from the apartment. In
the hall he met the lady of the mansion, who made
him a haughty reverence in token of adieu, while
a native servant of the upper class, by whom she
was attended, made a low and reverential salam.

  Hartley hastened from the Black Town, more
satisfied than before that some deceit was about to
be practised towards Menie Gray---more determined
than ever to exert himself for her preservation;
yet more completely perplexed, when he began
to consider the doubtful character of the danger
to which she might be exposed, and the scanty
means of protection which he had to oppose to it.

                CHAPTER XII.

  As Hartley left the apartment in the house of
Ram Sing Cottah by one mode of exit, Miss Gray
retired by another, to an apartment destined for
her private use. She, too, had reason for secret
and anxious reflection, since all her love for Middlemas,
and her full confidence in his honour, could
not entirely conquer her doubts concerning the character
of the person whom he had chosen for her
temporary protectress. And yet she could not rest
these doubts upon any thing distinctly conclusive;
it was rather a dislike of her patroness's general
manners, and a disgust at her masculine notions
and expressions, that displeased her, than any
thing else.

  Meantime, Madam Montreville, followed by her
black domestic, entered the apartment where Hartley
and Menie had just parted. It appeared from
the conversation which follows, that they had from
some place of concealment overheard the dialogue
we have narrated in the former chapter.

  ``It is good luck, Sadoc,'' said the lady, ``that
there is in this world the great fool.''

  ``And the great villain,'' answered Sadoc, in
good English, but in a most sullen tone.

  ``This woman, now,'' continued the lady, ``is
what in Frangistan you call an angel.''

  ``Ay, and I have seen those in Hindostan you
may well call devil.''

  ``I am sure that this---how you call him---Hartley,
is a meddling devil. For what has he to do?
She will not have any of him. What is his business
who has her? I wish we were well up the
Ghauts again, my dear Sadoc.''

  ``For my part,'' answered the slave, ``I am half
determined never to ascend the Ghauts more. Hark
you, Adela, I begin to sicken of the plan we have
laid. This creature's confiding purity---call her
angel or woman, as you will---makes my practices
appear too vile, even in my own eyes. I feel myself
unfit to be your companion farther in the daring
paths which you pursue. Let us part, and part

  ``Amen, coward. But the woman remains with
me,'' answered the Queen of Sheba.*

*    In order to maintain uninjured the tone of passion
     throughout this dialogue, it has been judged expedient to discard,
     in the language of the Begum, the patois of Madame

  ``With thee!'' replied the seeming black---
``never. No, Adela. She is under the shadow
of the British flag, and she shall experience its

  ``Yes---and what protection will it afford to you
yourself?'' retorted the Amazon. ``What if I
should clap my hands, and command a score of my
black servants to bind you like a sheep, and then
send word to the Governor of the Presidency that
one Richard Middlemas, who had been guilty of
mutiny, murder, desertion, and serving of the enemy
against his countrymen, is here, at Ram Sing Cottah's
house, in the disguise of a black servant?''
Middlemas covered his face with his hands, while
Madam Montreville proceeded to load him with
reproaches.---``Yes''; she said, ``slave, and son of
a slave! Since you wear the dress of my household,
you shall obey me as fully as the rest of them,
otherwise,---whips, fetters---the scaffold, renegade,
---the gallows, murderer! Dost thou dare to reflect
on the abyss of misery from which I raised
thee, to share my wealth and my affections? Dost
thou not remember that the picture of this pale,
cold, unimpassioned girl was then so indifferent to
thee, that thou didst sacrifice it as a tribute due to
the benevolence of her who relieved thee, to the affection
of her who, wretch as thou art, condescended
to love thee?''

  ``Yes, fell woman,'' answered Middlemas, ``but
was it I who encouraged the young tyrant's outrageous
passion for a portrait, or who formed the
abominable plan of placing the original within his

  ``No---for to do so required brain and wit. But
it was thine, flimsy villain, to execute the device
which a bolder genius planned; it was thine to entice
the woman to this foreign shore, under pretence
of a love, which, on thy part, cold-blooded
miscreant, never had existed."

  ``Peace, screech-owl!'' answered Middlemas,
``nor drive me to such madness as may lead me to
forget thou art a woman.''

  ``A woman, dastard! Is this thy pretext for
sparing me?---what, then, art thou, who tremblest
at a woman's looks, a woman's words?---I am a
woman, renegade, but one who wears a dagger,
and despises alike thy strength and thy courage. I
am a woman who has looked on more dying men
than thou hast killed deer and antelopes. Thou
must traffic for greatness?---thou hast thrust thyself
like a five-years' child, into the rough sports of
men, and wilt only be borne down and crushed for
thy pains. Thou wilt be a double traitor, forsooth
---betray thy betrothed to the Prince, in order to
obtain the  means of betraying the Prince to the
English, and thus gain thy pardon from thy countrymen.
But me thou shalt not betray. I will not
be made the tool of thy ambition---I will not give
thee the aid of my treasures and my soldiers, to be
sacrificed at last to this northern icicle. No, I will
watch thee as the fiend watches the wizard. Show
but a symptom of betraying me while we are here,
and I denounce thee to the English, who might
pardon the successful villain, but not him who can
only offer prayers for his life, in place of useful
services. Let me see thee flinch when we are beyond
the Ghauts, and the Nawaub shall know thy
intrigues with the Nizam and the Mahrattas, and
thy resolution to deliver up Bangalore to the English,
when the imprudence of Tippoo shall have
made thee Killedar. Go where thou wilt, slave,
thou shalt find me thy mistress.''

  ``And a fair, though an unkind one,'' said the
counterfeit Sadoc, suddenly changing his tone to
an affectation of tenderness. ``It is true I pity this
unhappy woman; true I would save her if I could
---but most unjust to suppose I would in any circumstances
prefer her to my Nourjehan, my light
of the world, my Mootee Mahul, my pearl of the

  ``All false coin and empty compliment,'' said the
Begum. ``Let me hear, in two brief words, that
you leave this woman to my disposal.''

  ``But not to be interred alive under your seat,
like the Circassian of whom you were jealous,'' said
Middlemas, shuddering.

  ``No, fool; her lot shall not be worse than that
of being the favourite of a prince. Hast thou, fugitive
and criminal as thou art, a better fate to offer

  ``But,'' replied Middlemas, blushing even through
his base disguise at the consciousness of his abject
conduct, ``I will have no force on her inclinations.''

  ``Such truce she shall have as the laws of the
Zenana allow,'' replied the female tyrant. ``A
week is long enough for her to determine whether
she will be the willing mistress of a princely and
generous lover.''

  ``Ay,'' said Richard, ``and before that week
expires------'' He stopped short.

  ``What will happen before the week expires?''
said the Begum Montreville.

  ``No matter---nothing of consequence. I leave
the woman's fate with you.''

  ``'Tis well---we march to-night on our return,
so soon as the moon rises. Give orders to our

  ``To hear is to obey,''  replied  the  seeming  slave,
and left the apartment.   

  The eyes of the Begum remained   fixed   on   the
door through which he had passed.  ``Villain---
double-dyed villain!'' she said, ``I see thy drift;
thou wouldst betray Tippoo, in policy alike and in
love. But me thou canst not betray.---Ho, there,
who waits? Let a trusty messenger be ready to set
off instantly with letters, which I will presently make
ready. His departure must be a secret to every
one.---And now shall this pale phantom soon know
her destiny, and learn what it is to have rivalled
Adela Montreville.''

  While the Amazonian Princess meditated plans
of vengeance against her innocent rival and the
guilty lover, the latter plotted as deeply for his own
purposes. He had waited until such brief twilight
as India enjoys rendered his disguise complete,
then set out in haste for the part of Madras inhabited
by the Europeans, or, as it is termed, Fort
St George.

  ``I will save her yet,'' he said; ``ere Tippoo can
seize his prize, we will raise around his ears a storm
which would drive the God of War from the arms
of the Goddess of Beauty. The trap shall close
its fangs upon this Indian tiger, ere he has time to
devour the bait which enticed him into the snare.''

  While Middlemas cherished these hopes, he
approached the Residency. The sentinel on duty
stopped him, as of course, but he was in possession
of the counter-sign, and entered without opposition.
He rounded the building in which the President
of the Council resided, an able and active, but
unconscientious man, who, neither in his own
affairs, nor in those of the Company, was supposed
to embarrass himself much about the means which
he used to attain his object. A tap at a small postern-gate
was answered by a black slave, who admitted
Middlemas to that necessary appurtenance
of every government, a back stair, which, in its
turn, conducted him to the office of the Brahmin
Paupiah, the Dubash, or steward of the great man,
and by whose means chiefly he communicated with
the native courts, and carried on many mysterious
intrigues, which he did not communicate to his
brethren at the council-board.

  It is perhaps justice to the guilty and unhappy
Middlemas to suppose, that if the agency of a British
officer had been employed, he might have been
induced to throw himself on his mercy, might have
explained the whole of his nefarious bargain with
Tippoo, and, renouncing his guilty projects of
ambition, might have turned his whole thoughts
upon saving Menie Gray, ere she was transported
beyond the reach of British protection. But the
thin dusky form which stood before him, wrapped
in robes of muslin embroidered with gold, was that
of Paupiah, known as a master-counsellor of dark
projects, an oriental Machiavel, whose premature
wrinkles were the result of many an intrigue, in
which the existence of the poor, the happiness of
the rich, the honour of men, and the chastity of
women, had been sacrificed without scruple, to
attain some private or political advantage. He did
not even enquire by what means the renegade
Briton proposed to acquire that influence with
Tippoo which might enable him to betray him---
he only desired to be assured that the fact was real.

  ``You speak at the risk of your head, if you
deceive Paupiah, or make Paupiah the means of
deceiving his master. I know, so does all Madras,
that the Nawaub has placed his young son, Tippoo,
as Vice-Regent of his newly-conquered territory
of Bangalore, which Hyder hath lately added to his
dominions. But that Tippoo should bestow the
government of that important place on an apostate
Feringi, seems more doubtful.''

  ``Tippoo is young,'' answered Middlemas, ``and
to youth the temptation of the passions is what a
lily on the surface of the lake is to childhood---they
will risk life to reach it though, when obtained, it
is of little value. Tippoo has the cunning of his
father and his military talents, but he lacks his cautious

  ``Thou speakest truth---but when thou art Governor
of Bangalore, hast thou forces to hold the
place till thou art relieved by the Mahrattas, or by
the British?''

  ``Doubt it not---the soldiers of the Begum
Mootee Mahul, whom the Europeans call Montreville,
are less hers than mine. I am myself her
Bukshee, [General,] and her Sirdars are at my
devotion. With these I could keep Bangalore for
two months, and the British army may be before
it in a week. What do you risk by advancing General
Smith's army nearer to the frontier?''

  ``We risk a settled peace with Hyder,'' answered
Paupiah, ``for which he has made advantageous
offers. Yet I say not but thy plan may be most
advantageous. Thou sayest Tippoo's treasures are
in the fort?''

  ``His treasures and his Zenana; I may even be
able to secure his person.''

  ``That were a goodly pledge---'' answered the
Hindoo minister.

  ``And you consent that the treasures shall be
divided to the last rupee, as in this scroll?''

  ``The share of Paupiah's master is too small,''
said the Bramin; ``and the name of Paupiah is

  ``The share of the Begum may be divided between
Paupiah and his master.'' answered Middlemas.

  ``But the Begum will expect her proportion,''
replied Paupiah.

  ``Let me alone to deal with her,'' said Middlemas.
``Before the blow is struck, she shall not
know of our private treaty, and afterwards her disappointment
will be of little consequence. And
now, remember my stipulations---my rank to be
restored---my full pardon to be granted.''

  ``Ay,'' replied Paupiah, cautiously, ``should you
succeed. But were you to betray what has here
passed, I will find the dagger of a Lootie which
shall reach thee, wert thou sheltered under the
folds of the Nawaub's garment. In the meantime,
take this missive, and when you are in possession
of Bangalore, dispatch it to General Smith, whose
division shall have orders to approach as near the
frontiers of Mysore as may be, without causing

  Thus parted this worthy pair; Paupiah to report
to his principal the progress of these dark machinations,
Middlemas to join the Begum on her return
to the Mysore. The gold and diamonds of
Tippoo, the importance which he was about to
acquire, the ridding himself at once of the capricious
authority of the irritable Tippoo, and the troublesome
claims of the Begum, were such agreeable
subjects of contemplation, that he scarcely thought
of the fate of his European victim unless to salve
his conscience with the hope that the sole injury
she could sustain might be the alarm of a few days,
during the course of which he would acquire the
means of delivering her from the tyrant, in whose
Zenana she was to remain a temporary prisoner. 
He resolved, at the same time, to abstain from seeing
her till the moment he could afford her protection,
justly considering the danger which his whole
plan might incur, if he again awakened the jealousy
of the Begum. This he trusted was now
asleep; and, in the course of their return to Tippoo's
camp, near Bangalore, it was his study to
sooth this ambitious and crafty female by blandishments,
intermingled with the more splendid
prospects of wealth and power to be opened to
them both, as he pretended, by the success of his
present enterprise.*

*  It is scarce necessary to say, that such things could only be
   acted in the earlier period of our Indian settlements, when the
   cheek of the Directors was imperfect, and that of the Crown
   did not exist. My friend Mr Fairscribe is of opinion, that
   there is an anachronism in the introduction of Paupiah, the
   Bramin Dubash of the English governor.---C. C.

               CHAPTER XIII.

  It appears that the jealous and tyrannical Begum
did not long suspend her purpose of agonizing
her rival by acquainting her with her intended
fate. By prayers or rewards, Menie Gray prevailed
on a servant of Ram Sing Cottah, to deliver
to Hartley the following distracted note:---

  ``All is true your fears foretold---He has delivered
me up to a cruel woman, who threatens to
sell me to the tyrant Tippoo.---Save me if you can
---if you have not pity, or cannot give me aid, there
is none left upon earth.---M. G.''

  The haste with which Dr Hartley sped to the
Fort, and demanded an audience of the Governor,
was defeated by the delays interposed by Paupiah.

  It did not suit the plans of this artful Hindhu,
that any interruption should be opposed to the departure
of the Begum and her favourite, considering
how much the plans of the last corresponded
with his own. He affected incredulity on the
charge, when Hartley complained of an Englishwoman
being detained in the train of the Begum
against her consent, treated the complaint of Miss
Gray as the result of some female quarrel unworthy
of particular attention, and when at length he took
some steps for examining further into the matter,
he contrived they should be so tardy, that the Begum
and her retinue were far beyond the reach of

  Hartley let his indignation betray him into reproaches
against Paupiah, in which his principal
was not spared. This only served to give the impassible
Bramin a pretext for excluding him from
the Residency, with a hint, that if his language
continued to be of such an imprudent character, he
might expect to be removed from Madras, and
stationed at some hill-fort or village among the
mountains, where his medical knowledge would
find full exercise in protecting himself and others
from the unhealthiness of the climate.

  As he retired, bursting with ineffectual indignation,
Esdale was the first person whom Hartley
chanced to meet with, and to him, stung with impatience
he communicated what he termed the infamous
conduct of the Governor's Dubash, connived at,
as he had but too much reason to suppose, by the
Governor himself; exclaiming against the want of
spirit which they betrayed, in abandoning a British
subject to the fraud of renegades, and the force
of a tyrant.

  Esdale listened with that sort of anxiety which
prudent men betray when they feel themselves
like to be drawn into trouble by the discourse of
an imprudent friend.

  ``If you desire to be personally righted in this
matter,'' said he at length, ``you must apply to
Leadenhall Street, where, I suspect---betwixt ourselves---
complaints are accumulating fast, both
against Paupiah and his master.''

  ``I care for neither of them,'' said Hartley; ``I
need no personal redress---I desire none---l only
want succour for Menie Gray.''

  ``In that case,'' said Esdale, ``you have only
one resource---you must apply to Hyder himself------''

  ``To Hyder---to the usurper---the tyrant?''

  ``Yes, to this usurper and tyrant,'' answered
Esdale, `` you must be contented to apply. His
pride is, to be thought a strict administrator of
justice; and perhaps he may on this, as on other
occasions, choose to display himself in the light of
an impartial magistrate.''

  ``Then I go to demand justice at his footstool.''
said Hartley.

  ``Not so fast, my dear Hartley,'' answered his
friend; ``first consider the risk. Hyder is just
by reflection, and perhaps from political consideration;
but by temperament, his blood is as unruly
as ever beat under a black skin, and if you do not
find him in the vein of judging, he is likely enough
to be in that of killing. Stakes and bowstrings
are as frequently in his head as the adjustment of
the scales of justice.''

  ``No matter---I will instantly present myself at
his Durbar. The Governor cannot for very shame
refuse me letters of credence.''

  ``Never think of asking them,;; said his more
experienced friend; ``it would cost Paupiah little
to have them so worded as to induce Hyder to rid
our sable Dubash at once and for ever, of the
sturdy free-spoken Dr Adam Hartley. A Vakeel,
or messenger of government, sets out to-morrow
for Seringapatam; contrive to join him on the road,
his passport will protect you both. Do you know
none of the chiefs about Hyder's person?''

  ``None, excepting his late emissary to this
place, Barak el Hadgi,'' answered Hartley.

  ``His support,'' said Esdale, ``although only a
Fakir, may be as effectual as that of persons of
more essential consequence. And, to say the truth,
where the caprice of a despot is the question in
debate, there is no knowing upon what it is best to
reckon.---Take my advice, my dear Hartley, leave
this poor girl to her fate. After all, by placing
yourself in an attitude of endeavouring to save her,
it is a hundred to one that you only ensure your
own destruction.''

  Hartley shook his head, and bade Esdale hastily
farewell; leaving him in the happy and self-applauding
state of mind proper to one who has
given the best advice possible to a friend, and
may conscientiously wash his hands of all consequences.

  Having furnished himself with money, and with
the attendance of three trusty native servants,
mounted like himself on Arab horses, and carrying
with them no tent, and very little baggage, the
anxious Hartley lost not a moment in taking the
road to Mysore, endeavouring, in the meantime,
by recollecting every story he had ever heard of
Hyder's justice and forbearance, to assure himself
that he should find the Nawaub disposed to protect
a helpless female, even against the future heir of
his empire.

  Before he crossed the Madras territory, he
overtook the Vakeel, or messenger of the British
Government, of whom Esdale had spoken. This
man, accustomed for a sum of money to permit
adventurous European traders who desired to visit
Hyder's capital, to share his protection, passport,
and escort, was not disposed to refuse the same
good office to a gentleman of credit at Madras;
and, propitiated by an additional gratuity, undertook
to travel as speedily as possible. It was a
journey which was not prosecuted without much
fatigue and considerable danger, as they had to
traverse a country frequently exposed to all the
evils of war, more especially when they approached
the Ghauts, those tremendous mountain-passes
which descend from the table-land of Mysore, and
through which the mighty streams that arise in the
centre of the Indian peninsula, find their way to
the ocean.

  The sun had set ere the party reached the foot
of one of these perilous passes, up which lay the
road to Seringapatam. A narrow path, which in
summer resembled an empty water-course, winding
upwards among immense rocks and precipices,
was at one time completely overshadowed by dark
groves of teak-trees, and at another, found its way
beside impenetrable jungles, the habitation of jackals
and tigers.

  By means of this unsocial path the travellers
threaded their way in silence,---Hartley, whose
impatience kept him before the Vakeel, eagerly
enquiring when the moon would enlighten the
darkness, which, after the sun's disappearance,
closed fast around them. He was answered by the
natives according to their usual mode of expression,
that the moon was in her dark side, and that he
was not to hope to behold her bursting through a
cloud to illuminate the thickets and strata of black
and slaty rocks, amongst which they were winding. 
Hartley had therefore no resource, save to keep
his eye steadily fixed on the lighted match of the
Sowar, or horseman, who rode before him, which,
for sufficient reasons, was always kept in readiness
to be applied to the priming of the matchlock. 
The vidette, on his part, kept a watchful eye on
the Dowrah, a guide supplied at the last village,
who, having got more than half way from his own
house, was much to be suspected of meditating how
to escape the trouble of going further.* The Dowrah,

* In every village the Dowrah, or Guide, is an official person,
  upon the public establishment, and receives a portion of
  the harvest or other revenue, along with the Smith, the Sweeper,
  and the Barber. As he gets nothing from the travellers
  whom it is his office to conduct, he never scruples to shorten
  his own journey and prolong theirs by taking them to the
  nearest village, without reference to the most direct line of
  route, and sometimes deserts them entirely. If the regular
  Dowrah is sick or absent, no wealth can procure a substitute.

on the other hand, conscious of the lighted
match and loaded gun behind him, hollowed from
time to time to show that he was on his duty, and
to accelerate the march of the travellers. His cries
were answered by an occasional ejaculation of Ulla
from the black soldiers, who closed the rear, and
who were meditating on former adventures, the
plundering of a _Kaffila_, (party of travelling merchants,)
or some such exploit, or perhaps reflecting
that a tiger, in the neighbouring jungle, might be
watching patiently for the last of the party, in order
to spring upon him, according to his usual practice.

  The sun, which appeared almost as suddenly as
it had left them, served to light the travellers in
the remainder of the ascent, and called forth
from the Mahomedans belonging to the party the
morning prayer of Alla Akber, which resounded in
long notes among the rocks and ravines, and they
continued with better advantage their forced march
until the pass opened upon a boundless extent of
jungle, with a single high mud fort rising through
the midst of it. Upon this plain rapine and war
had suspended the labours of industry, and the rich
vegetation of the soil had in a few years converted
a fertile champaign country into an almost impenetrable
thicket. Accordingly, the banks of a small
nullah, or brook, were covered with the footmarks
of tigers and other animals of prey.

  Here the travellers stopped to drink, and to refresh
themselves and their horses; and it was near
this spot that Hartley saw a sight which forced him
to compare the subject which engrossed his own
thoughts, with the distress that had afflicted another.

  At a spot not far distant from the brook, the
guide called their attention to a most wretched-looking
man, overgrown with hair, who was seated
on the skin of a tiger. His body was covered with
mud and ashes, his skin sun-burnt, his dress a few
wretched tatters. He appeared not to observe the
approach of the strangers, neither moving nor speaking
a word, but remaining with his eyes fixed on a
small and rude tomb, formed of the black slate-stones
which lay around, and exhibiting a small recess
for a lamp. As they approached the man, and
placed before him a rupee or two, and some rice,
they observed that a tiger's skull and bones lay beside
him, with a sabre almost consumed by rust.

  While they gazed on this miserable object, the
guide acquainted them with his tragical history. 
Sadhu Sing had been a Sipahee, or soldier, and
freebooter of course, the native and the pride of a
half-ruined village which they had passed on the
preceding day. He was betrothed to the daughter
of a Sipahee, who served in the mud fort which
they saw at a distance rising above the jungle. In
due time, Sadhu, with his friends, came for the
purpose of the marriage, and to bring home the
bride. She was mounted on a Tatoo, a small
horse belonging to the country, and Sadhu and his
friends preceded her on foot, in all their joy and
pride. As they approached the mullah near which
the travellers were resting, there was heard a dreadful
roar, accompanied by a shriek of agony. Sadhu
Sing, who instantly turned, saw no trace of his
bride, save that her horse ran wild in one direction,
whilst in the other the long grass and reeds of the
jungle were moving like the ripple of the  ocean,
when distorted by the course of a shark holding
its way near the surface. Sadhu drew his sabre
and rushed forward in that direction; the rest of
the party remained motionless until roused by a
short roar of agony. They then plunged into the
jungle with their drawn weapons, where they
speedily found Sadhu Sing holding in his arms the
lifeless corpse of his bride, where a little farther
lay the body of the tiger, slain by such a blow
over the neck as desperation itself could alone have
discharged.---The brideless bridegroom would permit
none to interfere with his sorrow. He dug a
grave for his Mora, and erected over it the rude
tomb they saw, and never afterwards left the spot. 
The beasts of prey themselves seemed to respect
or dread the extremity of his sorrow. His friends
brought him food and water from the nullah, but
he neither smiled nor showed any mark of acknowledgment
unless when they brought him flowers
to deck the grave of Mora. Four or five years,
according to the guide, had passed away, and there
Sadhu Sing still remained among the trophies of
his grief and his vengeance, exhibiting all the
symptoms of advanced age, though still in the
prime of youth. The tale hastened the travellers
from their resting-place; the Vakeel because it
reminded him of the dangers of the jungle, and
Hartley because it coincided too well with the
probable fate of his beloved, almost within the
grasp of a more formidable tiger than that whose
skeleton lay beside Sadhu Sing.

  It was at the mud fort already mentioned that
the travellers received the first accounts of the
progress of the Begum and her party, by a Peon
(or foot-soldier) who had been in their company,
but was now on his return to the coast. They had
travelled, he said, with great speed, until they ascended
the Ghauts, where they were joined by a
party of the Begum's own forces; and he and
others, who had been brought from Madras as a
temporary escort, were paid and dismissed to their
homes. After this, he understood it was the purpose
of the Begum Mootee Mahul, to proceed by
slow marches and frequent halts, to Bangalore,
the vicinity of which place she did not desire to
reach until Prince Tippoo, with whom she desired
an interview, should have returned from an expedition
towards Vandicotta, in which he had lately
been engaged.

  From the result of his anxious enquiries, Hartley
had reason to hope, that though Seringapatam
was seventy-five miles more to the eastward than
Bangalore, yet by using diligence, he might have
time to throw himself at the feet of Hyder, and
beseech his interposition, before the meeting betwixt
Tippoo and the Begum should decide the
fate of Menie Gray. On the other hand, he trembled
as the Peon told him that the Begum's Bukshee,
or General, who had travelled to Madras with her
in disguise, had now assumed the dress and character
belonging to his rank, and it was expected
he was to be honoured by the Mahomedan Prince
with some high office of dignity. With still deeper
anxiety, he learned that a palanquin, watched with
sedulous care by the slaves of Oriental jealousy,
contained, it was whispered, a Feringi, or Frankish
woman, beautiful as a Houri, who had been
brought from England by the Begum, as a present
to Tippoo. The deed of villainy was therefore in
full train to be accomplished; it remained to see
whether, by diligence on Hartley's side, its course
could be interrupted.

  When this eager vindicator of betrayed innocence
arrived in the capital of Hyder, it may be believed
that he consumed no time in viewing the
temple of the celebrated Vishnoo, or in surveying
the splendid Gardens called Loll-baug, which were
the monument of Hyder's magnificence, and now
hold his mortal remains. On the contrary, he was
no sooner arrived in the city, than he hastened to
the principal Mosque, having no doubt that he was
there most likely to learn some tidings of Barak
el Hadgi. He approached accordingly the sacred
spot, and as to enter it would have cost a Feringi
his life, he employed the agency of a devout Mussulman
to obtain information concerning the person
whom he sought. He was not long in learning
that the Fakir Barak was within the Mosque, as
he had anticipated, busied with his holy office of
reading passages from the Koran, and its most approved
commentators. To interrupt him in his
devout task was impossible, and it was only by a
high bribe that he could prevail on the same Moslem
whom he had before employed, to slip into the
sleeve of the holy man's robe a paper containing
his name, and that of the Khan in which the Vakeel
had taken up his residence. The agent brought
back for answer, that the Fakir, immersed, as was
to be expected, in the holy service which he was
in the act of discharging, had paid no visible attention
to the symbol of intimation which the Feringi
Sahib (European gentleman) had sent to him. Distracted
with the loss of time, of which each moment
was precious, Hartley next endeavoured to
prevail on the Mussulman to interrupt the Fakir's
devotions with a verbal message; but the man was
indignant at the very proposal.

  ``Dog of a Christian!'' he said, ``what art thou
and thy whole generation, that Barak el Hadgi
should lose a divine thought for the sake of an infidel
like thee?''

  Exasperated beyond self-possession, the unfortunate
Hartley was now about to intrude upon the
precincts of the Mosque in person, in hopes of interrupting
the formal prolonged recitation which
issued from its recesses, when an old man laid his
hand on his shoulder, and prevented him from a
rashness which might have cost him his life, saying,
at the same time, ``You are a Sahib Angrezie,
[English gentleman;] I have been a Telinga,
[a private soldier,] in the Company's service, and
have eaten their salt. I will do your errand for
you to the Fakir Barak el Hadgi.''

  So saying, he entered the Mosque, and presently
returned with the Fakir's answer, in these enigmatical
words:---``He who would see the sun rise
must watch till the dawn.''

  With this poor subject of consolation, Hartley
retired to his inn, to meditate on the futility of the
professions of the natives, and to devise some other
mode of finding access to Hyder than that which
he had hitherto trusted to. On this point, however,
he lost all hope, being informed by his late
fellow-traveller, whom he found at the Khan, that
the Nawaub wass absent from the city on a secret
expedition, which might detain him for two or three
days. This was the answer which the Vakeel himself
had received from the Dewan, with a farther
intimation, that he must hold himself ready, when
he was required, to deliver his credentials to Prince
Tippoo, instead of the Nawaub; his business being
referred to the former, in a way not very promising
for the success of his mission.

  Hartley was now nearly thrown into despair. 
He applied to more than one officer supposed to
have credit with the Nawaub, but the slightest
hint of the nature of his business seemed to strike
all with terror. Not one of the persons he applied
to would engage in the affair, or even consent to
give it a hearing; and the Dewan plainly told him,
that to engage in opposition to Prince Tippoo's
wishes, was the ready way to destruction, and exhorted
him to return to the coast. Driven almost
to distraction by his various failures, Hartley betook
himself in the evening to the Khan. The
call of the Muezzins thundering from the minarets,
had invited the faithful to prayers, when a black
servant, about fifteen years old, stood before Hartley,
and pronounced these words, deliberately, and
twice  over,---``Thus says Barak el Hadgi, the
watcher in the Mosque. He that would see the
sunrise, let him turn towards the east.''  He then
left the caravanserai; and it maybe well supposed
that Hartley, starting from the carpet on which he
had lain down to repose him self, followed his youthful
guide with renewed vigour and palpitating hope.

               CHAPTER XIV.

       'Twas the hour when rites unholy
       Call'd each Paynim voice to prayer.
       And the star that faded slowly,
       Left to dews the freshen'd air.

       Day his sultry fires had wasted,
       Calm and cool the moonbeams shone;
       To the Vizier's lofty palace
       One bold Christian came alone.
               Thomas Campbell. _Quoted from memory_.

  The twilight darkened into night so fast, that it
was only by his white dress that Hartley could discern
his guide, as he tripped along the splendid
Bazaar of the city. But the obscurity was so far
favourable, that it prevented the inconvenient attention
which the natives might otherwise have bestowed
upon the European in his native dress, a
sight at that time very rare in Seringapatam.

  The various turnings and windings through which
he was conducted, ended at a small door in a wall,
which, from the branches that hung over it, seemed
to surround a garden or grove.

  The postern opened on a tap from his guide, and
the slave having entered, Hartley prepared to follow,
but stepped back as a gigantic African brandished
at his head a scimitar three fingers broad. 
The young slave touched his countryman with a
rod which he held in his hand, and it seemed as if
the touch disabled the giant, whose arm and weapon
sunk instantly. Hartley entered without farther
opposition, and was now in a grove of mango-trees,
through which an infant moon was twinkling faintly
amid the murmur of waters, the sweet song of the
nightingale, and the odours of the rose, yellow
jasmine, orange and citron flowers, and Persian
Narcissus. Huge domes and arches, which were
seen imperfectly in the quivering light, seemed to
intimate the neighbourhood of some sacred edifice,
where the Fakir had doubtless taken up his residence.

  Hartley pressed on with as much haste as he
could, and entered a side-door and narrow vaulted
passage, at the end of which was another door. 
Here his guide stopped, but pointed and made indications
that the European should enter. Hartley
did so, and found himself in a small cell, such
as we have formerly described, wherein sate Barak
el Hadgi, with another Fakir, who, to judge from
the extreme dignity of a white beard, which ascended
up to his eyes on each side, must be a man
of great sanctity, as well as importance.

  Hartley pronounced the usual salutation of Salam
Alaikum in the most modest and deferential
tone; but his former friend was so far from responding
in their former strain of intimacy, that
having consulted the eye of his older companion,
he barely pointed to a third carpet, upon which the
stranger seated himself cross-legged after the country
fashion, and a profound silence prevailed for
the space of several minutes. Hartley knew the
Oriental customs too well to endanger the success
of his suit by precipitation. He waited an intimation
to speak. At length it came, and from Barak.

  ``When the pilgrim Barak,'' he said, ``dwelt at
Madras, he had eyes and a tongue; but now he is
guided by those of his father, the holy Scheik Hali
ben Khaledoun, the superior of his convent.''

  This extreme humility Hartley thought inconsistent
with the affectation of possessing superior
influence, which Barak had shown while at the
Presidency; but exaggeration of their own consequence
is a foible common to all who find themselves
in a land of strangers. Addressing the senior
Fakir, therefore, he told him in as few words
as possible the villainous plot which was laid to
betray Menie Gray into the hands of the Prince
Tippoo. He made his suit for the reverend father's
intercession with the Prince himself, and with his
father the Nawaub, in the most persuasive terms. 
The Fakir listened to him with an inflexible and
immovable aspect, similar to that with which a
wooden saint regards his eager supplicants. There
was a second pause, when, after resuming his
pleading more than once, Hartley was at length
compelled to end it for want of matter.

  The silence was broken by the elder Fakir, who,
after shooting a glance at his younger companion
by a turn of the eye, without the least alteration
of the position of the bead and body, said, ``The
unbeliever has spoken like a poet. But does be
think that the Nawaub Khan Hyder Ali Behauder
will contest with his son Tippoo the Victorious,
the possession of an infidel slave?''

  Hartley received at the same time a side glance
from Barak, as if encouraging him to plead his own
cause. He suffered a minute to elapse, and then

  ``The Nawaub is in the place of the Prophet, a
judge over the low as well as high. It is written,
that when the Prophet decided a controversy between
the two sparrows concerning a grain of rice,
his wife Fatima said to him, `Doth the Missionary
of Allah well to bestow his time in distributing
justice on a matter so slight, and between such
despicable litigants?'---`Know, woman,' answered
the Prophet, ` that the sparrows and the grain of
Rice are the creation of Allah. They are not worth
more than thou hast spoken; but justice is a treasure
of inestimable price, and it must be imparted
by him who holdeth power to all to require it at
his hand. The Prince doth the will of Allah, who
gives it alike in small matters as in great, and to
the poor as well as the powerful. To the hungry
bird, a grain of rice is as a chaplet of pearls to a
sovereign.'---l have spoken.''

  ``Bismallah!---Praised be God! he hath spoken
like a Moullah,'' said the elder Fakir, with a little
more emotion, and some inclination of his head
towards Barak, for on Hartley he scarcely deigned
even to look.

  ``The lips have spoken it which cannot lie,''
replied Barak, and there was again a pause.

  It was once more broken by Scheik Hali, who,
addressing himself directly to Hartley, demanded
of him, ``Hast thou heard, Feringi, of aught of
treason meditated by this Kafr [infidel] against
the Nawaub Behauder?''

  ``Out of a traitor cometh treason,'' said Hartley,
``but, to speak after my knowledge, I am not conscious
of such design.''

  ``There is truth in the words of him,'' said the
Fakir, ``who accuseth not his enemy save on his
knowledge. The things thou hast spoken shall
be laid before the Nawaub; and as Allah and he
will, so shall the issue be. Meantime, return to
thy Khan, and prepare to attend the Vakeel of
thy government, who is to travel with dawn to
Bangalore, the strong, the happy, the holy city. 
Peace be with thee!---Is it not so, my son?''

  Barak, to whom this appeal was made, replied,
``Even as my father hath spoken.''

  Hartley had no alternative but to arise and take
his leave with the usual phrase, ``Salam---God's
peace be with you!''

  His youthful guide, who waited his return
without conducted him once more to his Khan,
through by-paths which he could not have found out
without pilotage. His thoughts were in the meantime
strongly engaged on his late interview. He
knew the Moslem men of religion were not implicitly
to be trusted. The whole scene might be a
scheme of Barak, to get rid of the trouble of patronising
a European in a delicate affair; and he
determined to be guided by what should seem to
confirm or discredit the intimation which he had

  On his arrival at the Khan, be found the Vakeel
of the British government in a great bustle, preparing
to obey directions transmitted to him by
the Nawaub's Dewan, or treasurer, directing him
to depart the next morning with break of day for

  He expressed great discontent at the order, and
when Hartley intimated his purpose of accompanying
him, seemed to think him a fool for his pains,
hinting the probability that Hyder meant to get rid
of them both by means of the freebooters, through
whose countries they were to pass with such a feeble
escort. This fear gave way to another, when
the time of departure came, at which moment there
rode up about two hundred of the Nawaub's native
cavalry. The Sirdar who commanded these troops
behaved with civility, and stated that he was directed
to attend upon the travellers, and to provide
for their safety and convenience on the journey;
but his manner was reserved and distant, and the
Vakeel insisted that the force was intended to prevent
their escape, rather than for their protection. 
Under such unpleasant auspices, the journey between
Seringapatam and Bangalore was accomplished
in two days and part of a third, the distance
being nearly eighty miles.

  On arriving in view of this fine and populous
city, they found an encampment already established
within a mile of its walls. It occupied a tope or
knoll, covered with trees, and looked full on the
gardens which Tippoo had created in one quarter
of the city. The rich pavilions of the principal
persons flamed with silk and gold; and spears
with gilded points, or poles supporting gold knobs,
displayed numerous little banners, inscribed with
the name of the Prophet. This was the camp of
the Begum Mootee Mahul, who, with a small body
of her troops, about two hundred men, was waiting
the return of Tippoo under the walls of Bangalore. 
Their private motives for desiring a meeting the
reader is acquainted with; to the public the visit
of the Begum had only the appearance of an act of
deference, frequently paid by inferior and subordinate
princes to the patrons whom they depend

  These facts ascertained, the Sirdar of the Nawaub
took up his own encampment within sight of that
of the Begum, but at about half a mile's distance,
dispatching to the city a messenger to announce
to the Prince Tippoo, so soon as he should arrive,
that he had come hither with the English Vakeel.

  The bustle of pitching a few tents was soon over,
and Hartley, solitary and sad, was left to walk under
the shade of two or three mango-trees, and
looking to the displayed streamers of the Begum's
encampment, to reflect that amid these insignia of
Mahomedanism Menie Gray remained, destined by
a profligate and treacherous lover to the fate of
slavery to a heathen tyrant. The consciousness of
being in her vicinity added to the bitter pangs with
which Hartley contemplated her situation, and reflected
how little chance there appeared of his
being able to rescue her from it by the mere force
of reason and justice, which was all he could oppose
to the selfish passions of a voluptuous tyrant. A
lover of romance might have meditated some means
of effecting her release by force or address; but
Hartley, though a man of courage, had no spirit of
adventure, and would have regarded as desperate
any attempt of the kind.

  His sole gleam of comfort arose from the impression
which he had apparently made upon the elder
Fakir, which he could not help hoping might be of
some avail to him. But on one thing he was firmly
resolved, and that was, not to relinquish the cause
he had engaged in whilst a grain of hope remained. 
He had seen in his own profession a quickening
and a revival of life in the patient's eye, even when
glazed apparently by the hand of Death; and he
was taught confidence amidst moral evil by his success
in relieving that which was physical only.

  While Hartley was thus meditating, he was roused
to attention by a heavy firing of artillery from
the high bastions of the town; and turning his eyes
in that direction, he could see advancing on the
northern side of Bangalore, a tide of cavalry, riding
tumultuously forward, brandishing their spears
in all different attitudes, and pressing their horses
to a gallop. The clouds of dust which attended
this vanguard, for such it was, combined with the
smoke of the guns, did not permit Hartley to see
distinctly the main body which followed; but the
appearance of howdahed elephants and royal banners
dimly seen through the haze, plainly intimated
the return of Tippoo to Bangalore; while shouts,
and irregular discharges of musketry, announced
the real or pretended rejoicing of the inhabitants. 
The city gates received the living torrent, which
rolled towards them; the clouds of smoke and dust
were soon dispersed, and the horizon was restored
to serenity and silence.

  The meeting between persons of importance,
more especially of royal rank, is a matter of very
great consequence in India, and generally much address
is employed to induce the person receiving the
visit, to come as far as possible to meet the visitor. 
From merely rising up, or going to the edge of the
carpet, to advancing to the gate of the palace, to
that of the city, or, finally, to a mile or two on the
road, is all subject to negotiation. But Tippoo's
impatience to possess the fair European induced
him to grant on this occasion a much greater degree
of courtesy than the Begum had dared to expect,
and he appointed his garden, adjacent to the city
walls, and indeed included within the precincts of
the fortifications, as the place of their meeting; the
hour noon, on the day succeeding his arrival; for
the natives seldom move early in the morning, or
before having broken their fast. This was intimated
to the Begum's messenger by the Prince in person,
as, kneeling before him, he presented the _nuzzur_,
(a tribute consisting of three, five, or seven gold
Mohurs, always an odd number,) and received in
exchange a Khelaut, or dress of honour. The
messenger, in return, was eloquent in describing
the importance of his mistress, her devoted veneration
for the Prince, the pleasure which she experienced
on the prospect of their motakul, or meeting,
and concluded with a more modest compliment to
his own extraordinary talents, and the confidence
which the Begum reposed in him. He then departed;
and orders were given that on the next
day all should be in readiness for the _Sowarree_, a
grand procession, when the Prince was to receive
the Begum as his honoured guest at his pleasure-house
in the gardens.

  Long before the appointed hour, the rendezvous
of Fakirs, beggars, and idlers, before the gate of
the palace, intimated the excited expectations of
those who usually attend processions; while a more
urgent set of mendicants, the courtiers, were hastening
thither, on horses or elephants, as their means
afforded, always in a hurry to show their zeal,
and with a speed proportioned to what they hoped
or feared.

  At noon precisely, a discharge of cannon, placed
in the outer courts, as also of matchlocks and of
small swivels, carried by camels, (the poor animals
shaking their long ears at every discharge,) announced
that Tippoo had mounted his elephant. 
The solemn and deep sound of the naggra, or state
drum, borne upon an elephant, was then heard
like the distant discharge of artillery, followed by
a long roll of musketry, and was instantly answered
by that of numerous trumpets and tom-toms, (or
common drums,) making a discordant, but yet a
martial din. The noise increased as the procession
traversed the outer courts of the palace in succession,
and at length issued from the gates, having
at their head the Chobdars, bearing silver sticks
and clubs, and shouting, at the pitch of their voices,
the titles and the virtues of Tippoo, the great, the
generous, the invincible---strong as Rustan, just as
Noushirvan---with a short prayer for his continued

  After these came a confused body of men on foot,
bearing spears, matchlocks, and banners, and intermixed
with horsemen, some in complete shirts of
mail, with caps of steel under their turbans, some
in a sort of defensive armour, consisting of rich silk
dresses, rendered sabre-proof by being stuffed with
cotton. These champions preceded the Prince, as
whose body-guards they acted. It was not till after
this time that Tippoo raised his celebrated Tiger-regiment,
disciplined and armed according to the
European fashion. Immediately before the Prince
came, on a small elephant, a hard-faced, severe-looking
man, by office the distributor of alms, which
be flung in showers of small copper money among
the Fakirs and beggars, whose scrambles to collect
them seemed to augment their amount; while the
grim-looking agent of Mahomedan charity, together
with his elephant, which marched with half
angry eyes, and its trunk curled upwards, seemed
both alike ready to chastise those whom poverty
should render too importunate.

  Tippoo himself next appeared, richly apparelled,
and seated on an elephant, which, carrying its head
above all the others in the procession, seemed
proudly conscious of superior dignity. The howdah,
or seat, which the Prince occupied, was of
silver, embossed and gilt, having behind a place for
a confidential servant, who waved the great chowry,
or cow-tail, to keep off the flies; but who could
also occasionally perform the task of spokesman,
being well versed in all terms of flattery and compliment.
The caparisons of the royal elephant were
of scarlet cloth, richly embroidered with gold. Behind
Tippoo came the various courtiers and officers
of the household, mounted chiefly on elephants, all
arrayed in their most splendid attire, and exhibiting
the greatest pomp.

  In this manner the procession advanced down
the principal street of the town, to the gate of the
royal gardens. The houses were ornamented by
broad-cloth, silk shawls, and embroidered carpets
of the richest colours, displayed from the verandahs
and windows; even the meanest hut was adorned
with some piece of cloth, so that the whole street
had a singularly rich and gorgeous appearance.

  This splendid procession having entered the royal
gardens, approached, through a long avenue of
lofty trees, a chabootra, or platform of white marble,
canopied by arches of the same material, which
occupied the centre. It was raised four or five feet
from the ground, covered with white cloth and
Persian carpets. In the centre of the platform was
the musnud, or state cushion of the Prince, six feet
square, composed of crimson velvet, richly embroidered.
By especial grace, a small low cushion
was placed on the right of the Prince, for the occupation
of the Begum. In front of this platform
was a square tank, or pond of marble, four feet
deep, and filled to the brim with water as clear as
crystal, having a large jet or fountain in the middle,
which threw up a column of it to the height of
twenty feet.

  The Prince Tippoo had scarcely dismounted from
his elephant, and occupied the musnud, or throne
of cushions, when the stately form of the Begum
was seen advancing to the Place of rendezvous. 
The elephant being left at the gate of the gardens
opening into the country, opposite to that by which
the procession of Tippoo had entered, she was carried
in an open litter, richly ornamented with silver,
and borne on the shoulders of six black slaves. 
Her person was as richly attired as silks and gems
could accomplish.

  Richard Middlemas, as the Begum's general or
Bukshee, walked nearest to her litter, in a dress
as magnificent in itself as it was remote from all
European costume, being that of a Banka, or Indian
courtier. His turban was of rich silk and
gold, twisted very hard, and placed on one side
of his head, its ends hanging down on the shoulder.
His mustaches were turned and curled, and his
eyelids stained with antimony. The vest was of
gold brocade, with a cummerband or sash, around
his waist, corresponding to his turban. He carried
in his hand a large sword, sheathed in a scabbard
of crimson velvet, and wore around his middle a
broad embroidered sword-belt. What thoughts
he had under this gay attire, and the bold bearing
which corresponded to it, it would be fearful to unfold.
His least detestable hopes were perhaps
those which tended to save Menie Gray, by betraying
the Prince who was about to confide in
him, and the Begum, at whose intercession Tippoo's
confidence was to be reposed.

  The litter stopped as it approached the tank,
on the opposite side of which the Prince was seated
on his musnud. Middlemas assisted the Begum
to descend, and led her, deeply veiled with silver
muslin, towards the platform of marble. The rest
of the retinue of the Begum followed in their
richest and most gaudy attire, all males, however;
nor was there a symptom of woman being in her
train, expect that a close litter, guarded by twenty
black slaves, having their sabres drawn, remained
at some distance in a thicket of flowering shrubs.

  When Tippoo Saib, through the dim haze which
hung over the Waterfall, discerned the splendid
train of the Begum advancing, he arose from his
musnud, so as to receive her near the foot of his
throne, and exchanged greetings with her upon
the pleasure of meeting, and enquiries after their
mutual health. He then conducted her to the
cushion placed near to his own, while his courtiers
anxiously showed their politeness in accommodating
those of the Begum with places upon the carpets
around, where they all sat down cross-legged
---Richard Middlemas occupying a conspicuous

  The people of inferior note stood behind, and
amongst them was the Sirdar of Hyder Ali, with
Hartley and the Madras Vakeel. It would be
impossible to describe the feelings with which Hartley
recognised the apostate Middlemas, and the
Amazonian Mrs Montreville. The sight of them
worked up his resolution to make an appeal against
them in full Durbar, to the justice which Tippoo
was obliged to render to all who should complain
of injuries. In the meanwhile, the Prince, who
had hitherto spoken in a low voice, while acknowledging,
it is to be supposed, the services
and the fidelity of the Begum, now gave the sign
to his attendant, who said, in an elevated tone,
``Wherefore, and to requite these services, the
mighty Prince, at the request of the mighty Begum,
Mootee Mahul, beautiful as the moon, and
wise as the daughter of Giamschid, had decreed to
take into his service the Bukshee of her armies, and
to invest him, as one worthy of all confidence, with
the keeping of his beloved capital of Bangalore.''

  The voice of the crier had scarce ceased, when
it was answered by one as loud, which sounded
from the crowd of bystanders, ``Cursed is he who
maketh the robber Leik his treasurer, or trusteth
the lives of Moslemah to the command of an apostate!''

  With unutterable satisfaction, yet with trembling
doubt and anxiety, Hartley traced the speech
to the elder Fakir, the companion of Barak. Tippoo
seemed not to notice the interruption, which
passed for that of some mad devotee, to whom the
Moslem princes permit great freedoms. The Durbar,
therefore, recovered from their surprise; and,
in answer to the proclamation, united in the shout
of applause which is expected to attend every annunciation
of the royal pleasure.

  Their acclamation had no sooner ceased than
Middlemas arose, bent himself before the musnud,
and, in a set speech, declared his unworthiness of
such high honour as had now been conferred, and
his zeal for the Prince's service. Something remained
to be added, but his speech faltered, his
limbs shook, and his tongue seemed to refuse its

  The Begum started from her seat, though contrary
to etiquette, and said, as if to supply the deficiency
in the speech of her officer, ``My slave
would say, that in acknowledgment of so great
an honour conferred on my Bukshee, I am so
void of means, that I can only pray your Highness
will deign to accept a lily from Frangistan,
to plant within the recesses of the secret garden
of thy pleasures. Let my Lord's guards carry
yonder litter to the Zenana.''

  A female scream was heard, as, at a signal from
Tippoo, the guards of his Seraglio advanced to
receive the closed litter from the attendants of the
Begum. The voice of the old Fakir was heard
louder and sterner than before.---``Cursed is the
prince who barters justice for lust! He shall die
in the gate by the sword of the stranger.''

  ``This is too insolent!'' said Tippoo. `Drag
forward that Fakir, and cut his robe into tatters
on his back with your chabouks.''*

*  Long Whips.

  But a scene ensued like that in the hall of Seyd.
All who attempted to obey the command of the,
incensed despot fell back from the Fakir, as they
would from the Angel of Death. He flung his
cap and fictitious beard on the ground, and the
incensed countenance of Tippoo was subdued in
an instant, when he encountered the stern and
awful eye of his father. A sign dismissed him
from the throne, which Hyder himself ascended,
while the officious menials hastily disrobed him of
his tattered cloak, and flung on him a robe of regal
splendour, and placed on his head a jewelled
turban. The Durbar rung with acclamations to
Hyder Ali Khan Behauder, ``the good, the wise,
the discoverer of hidden things, who cometh into
the Divan like the sun bursting from the clouds.''

  The Nawaub at length signed for silence, and
was promptly obeyed. He looked majestically
around him, and at length bent his look upon Tippoo,
whose downcast eyes, as he stood before the
throne with his arms folded on his bosom, were
strongly contrasted with the haughty air of authority
which he had worn but a moment before. 
``Thou hast been willing,'' said the Nawaub, ``to
barter the safety of thy capital for the possession
of a white slave. But the beauty of a fair woman
caused Solomon ben David to stumble in his path;
how much more, then, should the son. of Hyder
Naig remain firm under temptation!---That men
may see clearly, we must remove the light which
dazzles them. Yonder Feringi woman must be
placed at my disposal.''

  ``To hear is to obey,'' replied Tippoo, while the
deep gloom on his brow showed what his forced
submission cost his proud and passionate spirit. 
In the hearts of the courtiers present reigned the
most eager curiosity to see the _d<e'>nouement_ of the
scene, but not a trace of that wish was suffered to
manifest itself on features accustomed to conceal
all internal sensations. The feelings of the Begum
were hidden under her veil; while, in spite of a
bold attempt to conceal his alarm, the perspiration
stood in large drops on the brow of Richard Middlemas.
The next words of the Nawaub sounded
like music in the ear of Hartley.

  ``Carry the Feringi woman to the tent of the
Sirdar Belash Cassim, [the chief to whom Hartley
had been committed.] Let her be tended in all
honour, and let him prepare to escort her, with the
Vakeel and the Hakim Hartley, to the Payeen-Ghaut,
[the country beneath the passes,] answering
for their safety with his head.'' The litter was
on its road to the Sirdar's tents ere the Nawaub
had done speaking. ``For thee, Tippoo,'' continued
Hyder, ``I am not come hither to deprive
thee of authority, or to disgrace thee before the
Durbar. Such things as thou hast promised to this
Feringi, proceed to make them good. The sun
calleth not back the splendour which he lends to
the moon; and the father obscures not the dignity
which he has conferred on the son. What thou
hast promised, that do thou proceed to make good.''

  The ceremony of investiture was therefore recommenced,
by which the Prince Tippoo conferred
on Middlemas the important government of the city
of Bangalore, probably with the internal resolution,
that since he was himself deprived of the fair
European, he would take an early opportunity to
remove the new Killedar from his charge; while
Middlemas accepted it with the throbbing hope
that he might yet outwit both father and son. The
deed of investiture was read aloud---the robe of
honour was put upon the newly-created Killedar,
and a hundred voices, while they blessed the prudent
choice of Tippoo, wished the governor good
fortune, and victory over his enemies.

  A horse was led forward, as the Prince's gift. 
It was a fine steed of the Cuttyawar breed, high-crested,
with broad hind-quarters; he was of a
white colour, but had the extremity of his tail and
mane stained red. His saddle was red velvet, the
bridle and crupper studded with gilded knobs. 
Two attendants on lesser horses led this prancing
animal, one holding the lance, and the other the
long spear of their patron. The horse was shown
to the applauding courtiers, and withdrawn, in
order to be led in state through the streets, while
the new Killedar should follow on the elephant,
another present usual on such an occasion, which
was next made to advance, that the world might
admire the munificence of the Prince.

  The huge animal approached the platform, shaking
his large wrinkled head, which be raised and
sunk, as if impatient, and curling upwards his
trunk from time to time, as if to show the gulf
of his tongueless mouth. Gracefully retiring with
the deepest obeisance, the Killedar, well pleased
the audience was finished, stood by the neck of the
elephant, expecting the conductor of the animal
would make him kneel down, that he might ascend
the gilded howdah, which awaited his occupancy.

  ``Hold, Feringi,'' said Hyder. ``Thou hast
received all that was promised thee by the bounty
of Tippoo. Accept now what is the fruit of the
justice of Hyder.''

  As he spoke, he signed with his finger, and the
driver of the elephant instantly conveyed to the
animal the pleasure of the Nawaub. Curling his
long trunk around the neck of the ill-fated European,
the monster suddenly threw the wretch prostrate
before him, and stamping his huge shapeless
foot upon his breast, put an end at once to his life
and to his crimes. The cry which the victim uttered
was mimicked by the roar of the monster, and a
sound like an hysterical laugh mingling with a
scream, which rung from under the veil of the Begum.
The elephant once more raised his trunk
aloft, and gaped fearfully.

  The courtiers preserved a profound silence; but
Tippoo, upon whose muslin robe a part of the victim's
blood had spirted, held it up to the Nawaub,
exclaiming, in a sorrowful, yet resentful tone,---
``Father---father---was it thus my promise should
have been kept?''

  ``Know, foolish boy,'' said Hyder Ali, ``that
the carrion which lies there was in a plot to deliver
Bangalore to the Feringis and the Mahrattas. This
Begum [she started when she heard herself named]
has given us warning of the plot, and has so merited
her pardon for having originally concurred in it,---
whether altogether out of love to us we will not
too curiously enquire.---Hence with that lump of
bloody clay, and let the Hakim Hartley and the
English Vakeel come before me.''

  They were brought forward, while some of the
attendants flung sand upon the bloody traces, and
others removed the crushed corpse.

  ``Hakim,'' said Hyder, ``thou shalt return with
the Feringi woman, and with gold to compensate
her injuries, wherein the Begum, as is fitting, shall
contribute a share. Do thou say to thy nation,
Hyder Ali acts justly.'' The Nawaub then inclined
himself graciously to Hartley, and then turning to
the Vakeel, who appeared much discomposed, ``You
have brought to me,'' he said, ``words of peace,
while your masters meditated a treacherous war. 
It is not upon such as you that my vengeance ought
to alight. But tell the Kafr [or infidel] Paupiah
and his unworthy master, that Hyder Ali sees too
clearly to suffer to be lost by treason the advantages
he has gained by war. Hitherto I have been in
the Carnatic as a mild prince---in future I will be a
destroying tempest! Hitherto I have made inroads
as a compassionate and merciful conqueror---hereafter
I will be the messenger whom Allah sends to
the kingdoms which he visits in judgment! ''

  It is well known how dreadfully the Nawaub
kept this promise, and how he and his son afterwards
sunk before the discipline and bravery of the
Europeans. The scene of just punishment which
he so faithfully exhibited might be owing to his
policy, his internal sense of right, and to the ostentation
of displaying it before an Englishman of
sense and intelligence, or to all of these motives
mingled together---but in what proportions it is
not for us to distinguish.

  Hartley reached the coast in safety with his precious
charge, rescued from a dreadful fate when
she was almost beyond hope. But the nerves and
constitution of Menie Gray had received a shock
from which she long suffered severely, and never
entirely recovered. The principal ladies of the
settlement, moved by the singular tale of her distress,
received her with the utmost kindness, and
exercised towards her the most attentive and affectionate
hospitality. The Nawaub, faithful to
his promise, remitted to her a sum of no less than
ten thousand gold Mohurs, extorted, as was surmised,
almost entirely from the hoards of the Begum
Mootee Mahul, or Montreville. Of the fate
of that adventuress nothing was known for certainty;
but her forts and government were taken
into Hyder's custody, and report said, that, her
power being abolished and her consequence lost,
she died by poison, either taken by herself, or administered
by some other person.

  It might be thought a natural conclusion of the
history of Menie Gray, that she should have married
Hartley, to whom she stood much indebted
for his heroic interference in her behalf. But her
feelings were too much and too painfully agitated,
her health too much shattered, to permit her to entertain
thoughts of a matrimonial connexion, even
with the acquaintance of her youth, and the champion
of her freedom. Time might have removed
these obstacles, but not two years after their adventures
in Mysore, the gallant and disinterested
Hartley fell a victim to his professional courage, in
withstanding the progress of a contagious distemper,
which he at length caught, and under which
he sunk. He left a considerable part of the moderate
fortune which he had acquired to Menie Gray,
who, of course, did not want many advantageous
offers of a matrimonial character. But she respected
the memory of Hartley too much, to subdue
in behalf of another the reasons which induced her
to refuse the hand which he had so well deserved
---nay, it may be thought, had so fairly won.

  She returned to Britain---what seldom occurs---
unmarried though wealthy; and, settling in her
native village, appeared to find her only pleasure
in acts of benevolence which seemed to exceed the
extent of her fortune, had not her very retired
life been taken into consideration. Two or three
persons with whom she was intimate, could trace
in her character that generous and disinterested
simplicity and affection, which were the groundwork
of her character. To the world at large her
habits seemed those of the ancient Roman matron,
which is recorded on her tomb in these four words,

          Domum mansit---Lanam fecit.