The History of Sandford and Merton Part 19

Presently a dog of the largest size and most ferocious courage was let loose, who, as soon as he beheld the bull, uttered a savage yell, and rushed upon him with all the rage of inveterate animosity. The bull suffered him to approach with the coolness of deliberate courage, but just as the dog was springing up to seize him, he rushed forward to meet his foe, and putting his head to the ground, canted him into the air several yards; and had not the spectators run and caught him upon their backs and hands, he would have been crushed to pieces in the fall. The same fate attended another, and another dog, which were let loose successively; the one was killed upon the spot, while the other, who had a leg broken in the fall, crawled howling and limping away. The bull, in the meanwhile, behaved with all the calmness and intrepidity of an experienced warrior; without violence, without pa.s.sion, he waited every attack of his enemies, and then severely punished them for their rashness.

While this was transacting, to the diversion not only of the rude and illiterate populace, but to that of the little gentry with Master Merton, a poor, half-naked Black came up, and humbly implored their charity. He had served, he told them, on board an English vessel, and even showed them the scars of several wounds he had received; but now he was discharged, and without friends, and without a.s.sistance, he could scarcely find food to support his wretched life, or clothes to cover him from the wintry wind.

Some of the young gentry, who, from a bad education, had been little taught to feel or pity the distress of others, were base enough to attempt to jest upon his dusky colour and foreign accent; but Master Merton, who, though lately much corrupted and changed from what he had been with Mr Barlow, preserved a great degree of generosity, put his hand into his pocket in order to relieve him, but unfortunately found nothing to give. The foolish profusion which he had lately learned from the young gentlemen at his father's house, had made him waste in cards, in playthings, in trifles, all his stock of money, and now he found himself unable to relieve that distress which he pitied.

Thus repulsed on every side, and una.s.sisted, the unfortunate Black approached the place where Harry stood, holding out the tattered remains of his hat, and imploring charity. Harry had not much to give, but he took sixpence out of his pocket, which was all his riches, and gave it with the kindest look of compa.s.sion, saying, "Here, poor man, this is all I have; if I had more, it should be at your service." He had no time to add more, for at that instant three fierce dogs rushed upon the bull at once, and by their joint attacks rendered him almost mad. The calm deliberate courage which he had hitherto shown was now changed into rage and desperation: he roared with pain and fury; flashes of fire seemed to come from his angry eyes, and his mouth was covered with foam and blood. He hurried round the stake with incessant toil and rage, first aiming at one, then at another of the persecuting dogs that hara.s.sed him on every side, growling and baying incessantly, and biting him in every part. At length, with a furious effort that he made, he trampled one of his foes beneath his feet, and gored a second to that degree that his bowels came through the wound, and at the same moment the cord, which had hitherto confined him, snapped asunder, and let him loose upon the affrighted mult.i.tude.

It is impossible to conceive the terror and dismay which instantly seized the crowd of spectators. Those who before had been hallooing with joy, and encouraging the fury of the dogs with shouts and acclamations, were now scattered over the plain, and fled from the fury of the animal whom they had been so basely tormenting. The enraged bull meanwhile rushed like lightning over the plain, trampling some, goring others, and taking ample vengeance for the injuries he had received. Presently he rushed with headlong fury towards the spot where Master Merton and his a.s.sociates stood; all fled with wild affright, but with a speed that was not equal to that of the pursuer. Shrieks, and outcries, and lamentations were heard on every side; and those who, a few minutes before, had despised the good advice of Harry, would now have given the world to be safe in the houses of their parents. Harry alone seemed to preserve his presence of mind; he neither cried out nor ran, but, when the dreadful animal approached, leaped nimbly aside, and the bull pa.s.sed on, without embarra.s.sing himself about his escape.

Not so fortunate was Master Merton; he happened to be the last of the little troop of fliers, and full in the way which the bull had taken.

And now his destruction appeared certain; for as he ran, whether through fear or the inequality of the ground, his foot slipped, and down he tumbled in the very path of the enraged pursuing animal. All who saw imagined his fate inevitable; and it would certainly have proved so, had not Harry, with a courage and presence of mind above his years, suddenly seized a p.r.o.ng which one of the fugitives had dropped, and at the very moment when the bull was stooping to gore his defenceless friend, advanced and wounded him in the flank. The bull in an instant turned short, and with redoubled rage made at his new a.s.sailant; and it is probable that, notwithstanding his intrepidity, Harry would have paid the price of his a.s.sistance to his friend with his own life, had not an unexpected succour arrived; for in that instant the grateful Black rushed on like lightning to a.s.sist him, and a.s.sailing the bull with a weighty stick that he held in his hand, compelled him to turn his rage upon a new object. The bull, indeed, attacked him with all the impetuosity of revenge; but the Black jumped nimbly aside and eluded his fury. Not contented with this, he wheeled round his fierce antagonist, and seizing him by the tail, began to batter his sides with an unexpected storm of blows. In vain did the enraged animal bellow and writhe himself about in all the convulsions of madness; his intrepid foe, without ever quitting his hold, suffered himself to be dragged about the field, still continuing his discipline, till the creature was almost spent with the fatigue of his own violent agitations. And now some of the boldest of the spectators, taking courage, approached to his a.s.sistance, and throwing a well-twisted rope over his head, they at length, by the dint of superior numbers, completely mastered the furious animal, and bound him to a tree.

In the meanwhile, several of Mr Merton's servants, who had been sent out after the young gentlemen, approached and took up their young master, who, though without a wound, was almost dead with fear and agitation.

But Harry, after seeing that his friend was perfectly safe, and in the hands of his own family, invited the Black to accompany him, and instead of returning to Mr Merton's, took the way which led to his father's house.

While these scenes were pa.s.sing, Mrs Merton, though ignorant of the danger of her son, was not undisturbed at home. Some accounts had been brought of Harry's combat, which served to make her uneasy, and to influence her still more against him. Mrs Compton too, and Miss Matilda, who had conceived a violent dislike to Harry, were busy to inflame her by their malicious representations.

While she was in these dispositions, Mr Merton happened to enter, and was at once attacked by all the ladies upon the subject of this improper connection. He endeavoured for a long time to remove their prejudices by reason; but when he found that to be impossible, he contented himself with telling his wife, that a little time would perhaps decide which were the most proper companions for their son; and that till Harry had done something to render himself unworthy of their notice, he never could consent to their treating him with coldness or neglect.

At this moment, a female servant burst into the room, with all the wildness of affright, and cried out with a voice that was scarcely articulate, "Oh, madam, madam; such an accident! poor dear Master Tommy."

"What of him, for pity's sake?" cried out Mrs Merton, with an impatience and concern that sufficiently marked her feelings. "Nay, madam,"

answered the servant, "he is not much hurt, they say; but little Sandford has taken him to a bull-baiting, and the bull has gored him, and William and John are bringing him home in their arms."

These words were scarcely delivered when Mrs Merton uttered a violent shriek, and was instantly seized with an hysteric fit; and while the ladies were all employed in a.s.sisting her, and restoring her senses, Mr Merton, who, though much alarmed, was more composed, walked precipitately out to learn the truth of this imperfect narration.

He had not proceeded far before he met the crowd of children and servants, one of whom carried Tommy Merton in his arms. As soon as he was convinced that his son had received no other damage than a violent fright, he began to inquire into the circ.u.mstances of the affair; but before he had time to receive any information, Mrs Merton, who had recovered from her fainting, came running wildly from the house. When she saw that her son was safe, she caught him in her arms, and began to utter all the incoherent expressions of a mother's fondness. It was with difficulty that her husband could prevail upon her to moderate her transports till they were within. Then she gave a loose to her feelings in all their violence, and for a considerable time was incapable of attending to anything but the joy of his miraculous preservation.

At length, however, she became more composed, and observing that all the company were present, except Harry Sandford, she exclaimed, with sudden indignation, "So I see that little abominable wretch has not had the impudence to follow you in; and I almost wish that the bull had gored him, as he deserved." "What little wretch do you mean, mamma?" said Tommy. "Whom can I mean," cried Mrs Merton, "but that vile Harry Sandford, whom your father is so fond of, and who had nearly cost you your life, by leading you into danger?" "He! mamma," said Tommy; "he lead me into danger! He did all he could to persuade me not to go, and I was a very naughty boy, indeed, not to take his advice."

Mrs Merton stood amazed at this information, for her prejudices had operated so powerfully upon her mind, that she had implicitly believed the guilt of Harry upon the imperfect evidence of the maid. "Who was it, then," said Mr Merton, "could be so imprudent?" "Indeed, papa," answered Tommy, "we were all to blame, all but Harry, who advised and begged us not to go, and particularly me, because he said it would give you so much uneasiness when you knew it, and that it was so dangerous a diversion."

Mrs Merton looked confused at her mistake, but Mrs Compton observed, that she supposed "Harry was afraid of the danger, and therefore, had wisely kept out of the way." "Oh, no, indeed, madam," answered one of the little boys, "Harry is no coward, though we thought him so at first, when he let Master Tommy strike him, but he fought Master Mash in the bravest manner I ever saw; and though Master Mash fought very well, yet Harry had the advantage; and I saw him follow us at a little distance, and keep his eye upon Master Merton all the time, till the bull broke loose, and then I was so frightened that I do not know what became of him." "So this is the little boy," said Mr Merton, "whom you were for driving from the society of your children. But let us hear more of this story, for as yet I know neither the particulars of his danger nor his escape." Upon this one of the servants, who, from some little distance, had seen the whole affair, was called in and examined. He gave them an exact account of all of Tommy's misfortune; of Harry's bravery; of the unexpected succour of the poor Black; and filled the whole room with admiration, that such an action, so n.o.ble, so intrepid, so fortunate, should have been achieved by such a child.

Mrs Merton was now silent with shame at reflecting upon her own unjust prejudices, and the ease with which she had become the enemy of a boy who had saved the life of her darling son, and who appeared as much superior in character to all the young gentlemen at her house as they exceeded him in rank and fortune. The young ladies now forgot their former objections to his person and manners, and--such is the effect of genuine virtue--all the company conspired to extol the conduct of Harry to the skies.

But Mr Merton, who had appeared more delighted than all the rest with the relations of Harry's intrepidity, now cast his eyes round the room and seemed to be looking for his little friend; but when he could not find him, he said, with some concern, "Where can be our little deliverer? Sure he can have met with no accident, that he has not returned with the rest!" "No," said one of the servants; "as to that, Harry Sandford is safe enough, for I saw him go towards his own home in company with the Black." "Alas!" answered Mr Merton, "surely he must have received some unworthy treatment, that could make him thus abruptly desert us all. And now I recollect I heard one of the young gentlemen mention a blow that Harry had received. Surely, Tommy, you could not have been so basely ungrateful as to strike the best and n.o.blest of your friends!" Tommy, at this, hung down his head, his face was covered with a burning blush, and the tears began silently to trickle down his cheeks.

Mrs Merton remarked the anguish and confusion of her child, and catching him in her arms, was going to clasp him to her bosom, with the most endearing expressions, but Mr Merton, hastily interrupting her, said, "It is not now a time to give way to fondness for a child, who, I fear, has acted the basest and vilest part that can disgrace a human being, and who, if what I suspect be true, can be only a dishonour to his parents." At this, Tommy could no longer contain himself, but burst into such a violent transport of crying, that Mrs Merton, who seemed to feel the severity of Mr Merton's conduct with still more poignancy than her son, caught her darling up in her arms and carried him abruptly out of the room, accompanied by most of the ladies, who pitied Tommy's abas.e.m.e.nt, and agreed that there was no crime he could have been guilty of which was not amply atoned for by such charming sensibility.

But Mr Merton, who now felt all the painful interest of a tender father, and considered this as the critical moment which was to give his son the impression of worth or baseness for life, was determined to examine this affair to the utmost. He, therefore, took the first opportunity of drawing the little boy aside who had mentioned Master Merton's striking Harry, and questioned him upon the subject. But he, who had no particular interest in disguising the truth, related the circ.u.mstances nearly as they had happened; and though he a little softened the matter in Tommy's favour, yet, without intending it, he held up such a picture of his violence and injustice, as wounded his father to the soul.

CHAPTER VIII.

Arrival of Mr Barlow--Story of Polemo--Tommy's repentance--Story of Sophron and Tigranes--Tommy as an Arabian Horseman--His Mishap--Tommy's intrepidity--The Poor Highlander's story--Tommy's Sorrow for his conduct to Harry--Conclusion of the Story of Sophron and Tigranes--Tommy's resolution to study nothing but "reason and philosophy"--Visits Harry and begs his forgiveness--The Grateful Black's Story--Tommy takes up his abode at Farmer Sandford's--The Grateful Black's account of himself--Mr Merton's visit to the Farm--The unexpected present--Conclusion.

While Mr Merton was occupied by these uneasy feelings, he was agreeably surprised by a visit from Mr Barlow, who came accidentally to see him, with a perfect ignorance of all the great events which had so recently happened.

Mr Merton received this worthy man with the sincerest cordiality; but there was such a gloom diffused over all his manners that Mr Barlow began to suspect that all was not right with Tommy, and therefore purposely inquired after him, to give his father an opportunity of speaking. This Mr Merton did not fail to do; and taking Mr Barlow affectionately by the hand, he said, "Oh, my dear Sir, I begin to fear that all my hopes are at an end in that boy, and all your kind endeavours thrown away. He has just behaved in such a manner as shows him to be radically corrupted, and insensible of every principle but pride." He then related to Mr Barlow every incident of Tommy's behaviour; making the severest reflections upon his insolence and ingrat.i.tude, and blaming his own supineness, that had not earlier checked these boisterous pa.s.sions, that now burst forth with such a degree of fury that threatened ruin to his hopes.

"Indeed," answered Mr Barlow, "I am very sorry to hear this account of my little friend; yet I do not see it in quite so serious a light as yourself; and though I cannot deny the dangers that may arise from a character so susceptible of false impressions, and so violent, at the same time, yet I do not think the corruption either so great or so general as you seem to suspect. Do we not see, even in the most trifling habits of body or speech, that a long and continual attention is required, if we would wish to change them, and yet our perseverance is, in the end, generally successful; why, then, should we imagine that those of the mind are less obstinate, or subject to different laws? Or why should we rashly abandon ourselves to despair, from the first experiments that do not succeed according to our wishes?"

"Indeed," answered Mr Merton, "what you say is perfectly consistent with the general benevolence of your character, and most consolatory to the tenderness of a father. Yet I know too well the general weakness of parents in respect to the faults of their children not to be upon my guard against the delusions of my own mind. And when I consider the abrupt transition of my son into everything that is most inconsistent with goodness,--how lightly, how instantaneously he seems to have forgotten everything he had learned with you,--I cannot help forming the most painful and melancholy presages of the future."

"Alas, sir," answered Mr Barlow, "what is the general malady of human nature but this very instability which now appears in your son? Do you imagine that half the vices of men arise from real depravity of heart?

On the contrary, I am convinced that human nature is infinitely more weak than wicked, and that the greater part of all bad conduct springs rather from want of firmness than from any settled propensity to evil."

"Indeed," replied Mr Merton, "what you say is highly reasonable; nor did I ever expect that a boy so long indulged and spoiled should be exempt from failings. But what particularly hurts me is to see him proceed to such disagreeable extremities without any adequate temptation--extremities that, I fear, imply a defect of goodness and generosity--virtues which I always thought he had possessed in a very great degree."

"Neither," answered Mr Barlow, "am I at all convinced that your son is deficient in either. But you are to consider the prevalence of example, and the circle to which you have lately introduced him. If it is so difficult even for persons of a more mature age and experience to resist the impressions of those with whom they constantly a.s.sociate, how can you expect it from your son? To be armed against the prejudices of the world, and to distinguish real merit from the splendid vices which pa.s.s current in what is called society, is one of the most difficult of human sciences. Nor do I know a single character, however excellent, that would not candidly confess he has often made a wrong election, and paid that homage to a brilliant outside which is only due to real merit."

"You comfort me very much," said Mr Merton, "but such ungovernable pa.s.sion, such violence and impetuosity----"

"Are indeed very formidable," replied Mr Barlow, "yet, when they are properly directed, frequently produce the n.o.blest effects. You have, I doubt not, read the story of Polemo, who, from a debauched young man, became a celebrated philosopher, and a model of virtue, only by attending a single moral lecture."

"Indeed," said Mr Merton, "I am ashamed to confess that the various employments and amus.e.m.e.nts in which I have pa.s.sed the greater part of my life have not afforded me as much leisure for reading as I could wish.

You will therefore oblige me very much by repeating the story you allude to."

"THE STORY OF POLEMO."

"Polemo (said Mr Barlow) was a young man of Athens, and although he was brought up with the most tender solicitude and care by his mother, and at one time promised fair to be of a studious and virtuous turn of mind, as he appeared very fond of reading, and much attached to literary pursuits, and would frequently retire into the fields, and for hours sit upon the stump of a tree, with his book before him,--still, after a few years, he became so distinguished by his excesses, that he was the aversion of all the discreeter part of the city. He led a life of intemperance and dissipation, and was constantly surrounded by a set of loose young men who imitated and encouraged his vices; and when they had totally drowned the little reason they possessed in copious draughts of wine, they were accustomed to sally out, and practise every species of absurd and licentious frolic.

"One morning they were thus wandering about, after having spent the night as usual, when they beheld a great concourse of people that were listening to the discourse of a celebrated philosopher named Xenocrates.

The greater part of the young men, who still retained some sense of shame, were so struck with this spectacle, that they turned out of the way; but Polemo, who was more daring and abandoned than the rest, pressed forward into the midst of the audience. His figure was too remarkable not to attract universal notice; for his head was crowned with flowers, his robe hung negligently about him, and his whole body was reeking with perfumes; besides, his look and manner were such as very little qualified him for such a company. Many of the audience were so displeased at this interruption, that they were ready to treat the young man with great severity; but the venerable philosopher prevailed upon them not to molest the intruder, and calmly continued his discourse, which happened to be upon the dignity and advantages of temperance.

"As the sage proceeded in his oration, he descanted upon this subject, with so much force and eloquence that the young man became more composed and attentive, as it were in spite of himself. Presently the philosopher grew still more animated in his representation of the shameful slavery which attends the giving way to our pa.s.sions, and the sublime happiness of reducing them all to order; and then the countenance of Polemo began to change, and the expression of it to be softened; he cast his eyes in mournful silence upon the ground, as if in deep repentance for his own contemptible conduct. Still the aged speaker increased in vehemence; he seemed to be animated with the sacred genius of the art which he professed, and to exercise an irresistible power over the minds of his hearers. He drew the portrait of an ingenious and modest young man who had been bred up to virtuous toils and manly hardiness; he painted him triumphant over all his pa.s.sions, and trampling upon human fears and weakness: 'Should his country be invaded, you see him fly to its defence, and ready to pour forth all his blood; calm and composed he appears, with a terrible beauty, in the front of danger; the ornament and bulwark of his country; the thickest squadrons are penetrated by his resistless valour, and he points the path of victory to his admiring followers. Should he fall in battle, how glorious is his lot; to be cut off in the honourable discharge of his duty; to be wept by all the brave and virtuous, and to survive in the eternal records of fame?'

"While Xenocrates was thus discoursing, Polemo seemed to be transported with a sacred enthusiasm; his eyes flashed fire, his countenance glowed with martial indignation, and the whole expression of his person was changed. Presently the philosopher, who had remarked the effect of his discourse, painted in no less glowing colours the life and manners of an effeminate young man; 'Unhappy youth,' said he, 'what word shall I find equal to thy abas.e.m.e.nt? Thou art the reproach of thy parents, the disgrace of thy country, the scorn or pity of every generous mind. How is nature dishonoured in thy person, and all her choicest gifts abortive! That strength which would have rendered thee the glory of thy city and the terror of her foes, is basely thrown away on luxury and intemperance; thy youth and beauty are wasted in riot, and prematurely blasted by disease. Instead of the eye of fire, the port of intrepidity, the step of modest firmness, a squalid paleness sits upon thy face, a bloated corpulency enfeebles thy limbs, and presents a picture of human nature in its most abject state. But hark! the trumpet sounds; a savage band of unrelenting enemies has surrounded the city, and are preparing to scatter flames and ruin through the whole! The virtuous youth, that have been educated to n.o.bler cares, arm with generous emulation, and fly to its defence. How lovely do they appear, dressed in resplendent arms, and moving slowly on in close impenetrable phalanx! They are animated by every motive which can give energy to a human breast, and lift it up to the sublimest achievements. Their h.o.a.ry sires, their venerable magistrates, the beauteous forms of trembling virgins, attend them to the war, with prayers and acclamations. Go forth, ye generous bands, secure to meet the rewards of victory or the repose of honourable death!

Go forth, ye generous bands, but unaccompanied by the wretch I have described! His feeble arm refuses to bear the ponderous shield; the pointed spear sinks feebly from his grasp; he trembles at the noise and tumult of the war, and flies like the hunted hart to lurk in shades and darkness. Behold him roused from his midnight orgies, reeking with wine and odours, and crowned with flowers, the only trophies of his warfare; he hurries with trembling steps across the city; his voice, his gait, his whole deportment, proclaim the abject slave of intemperance, and stamp indelible infamy upon his name.'

"While Xenocrates was thus discoursing, Polemo listened with fixed attention. The former animation of his countenance gave way to a visible dejection; presently his lips trembled and his cheeks grew pale; he was lost in melancholy recollection, and a silent tear was observed to trickle down. But when the philosopher described a character so like his own, shame seemed to take entire possession of his soul; and, rousing as from a long and painful lethargy, he softly raised his hand to his head, and tore away the chaplets of flowers, the monuments of his effeminacy and disgrace; he seemed intent to compose his dress into a more decent form, and wrapped his robe about him, which before hung loosely waving with an air of studied effeminacy. But when Xenocrates had finished his discourse, Polemo approached him with all the humility of conscious guilt, and begged to become his disciple, telling him that he had that day gained the most glorious conquest that had ever been achieved by reason and philosophy, by inspiring with the love of virtue a mind that had been hitherto plunged in folly and sensuality. Xenocrates embraced the young man, and admitted him among his disciples. Nor had he ever reason to repent of his facility; for Polemo, from that hour, abandoned all his former companions and vices, and by his uncommon ardour for improvement, very soon became celebrated for virtue and wisdom, as he had before been for every contrary quality."

"Thus," added Mr Barlow, "you see how little reason there is to despair of youth, even in the most disadvantageous circ.u.mstances. It has been justly observed, that few know all they are capable of: the seeds of different qualities frequently lie concealed in the character, and only wait for an opportunity of exerting themselves; and it is the great business of education to apply such motives to the imagination as may stimulate it to laudable exertions. For thus the same activity of mind, the same impetuosity of temper, which, by being improperly applied, would only form a wild, ungovernable character, may produce the steadiest virtues, and prove a blessing both to the individual and his country."

"I am infinitely obliged to you for this story," said Mr Merton; "and as my son will certainly find a _Xenocrates_ in you, I wish that you may have reason to think him in some degree a _Polemo_. But since you are so kind as to present me these agreeable hopes, do not leave the work unfinished, but tell me what you think the best method of treating him in his present critical situation." "That," said Mr Barlow, "must depend, I think, upon the workings of his own mind. He has always appeared to me generous and humane, and to have a fund of natural goodness amid all the faults which spring up too luxuriantly in his character. It is impossible that he should not be at present possessed with the keenest shame for his own behaviour. It will be your first part to take advantage of these sentiments, and instead of a fleeting and transitory sensation, to change them into fixed and active principles.

Do not at present say much to him upon the subject. Let us both be attentive to the silent workings of his mind, and regulate our behaviour accordingly."

This conversation being finished, Mr Merton introduced Mr Barlow to the company in the other room. Mrs Merton, who now began to be a little staggered in some of the opinions she had been most fond of, received him with uncommon civility, and all the rest of the company treated him with the greatest respect. But Tommy, who had lately been the oracle and admiration of all this brilliant circle, appeared to have lost all his vivacity; he, indeed, advanced to meet Mr Barlow with a look of tenderness and grat.i.tude, and made the most respectful answers to all his inquiries; but his eyes were involuntarily turned to the ground, and silent melancholy and dejection were visible in his face.

Mr Barlow remarked, with the greatest pleasure, these signs of humility and contrition, and pointed them out to Mr Merton the first time he had an opportunity of speaking to him without being overheard; adding, "that, unless he was much deceived, Tommy would soon give ample proofs of the natural goodness of his character, and reconcile himself to all his friends." Mr Merton heard this observation with the greatest pleasure, and now began to entertain some hopes of seeing it accomplished.

After the dinner was over most of the young gentlemen went away to their respective homes. Tommy seemed to have lost much of the enthusiasm which he had lately felt for his polite and accomplished friends; he even appeared to feel a secret joy at their departure, and answered with a visible coldness at professions of regard and repeated invitations. Even Mrs Compton herself, and Miss Matilda, who were also departing, found him as insensible as the rest; though they did not spare the most extravagant praises and the warmest professions of regard.

And now, the ceremonies of taking leave being over, and most of the visitors departed, a sudden solitude seemed to have taken possession of the house, which was lately the seat of noise, and bustle, and festivity. Mr and Mrs Merton and Mr Barlow were left alone with Miss Simmons and Tommy, and one or two others of the smaller gentry who had not yet returned to their friends.