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<h2> CHAPTER 15 </h2>
<p>All, Mr Burchell's villainy at once detected. The folly of being over-wise</p>
<p>That evening and a part of the following day was employed in fruitless
attempts to discover our enemies: scarce a family in the neighbourhood but
incurred our suspicions, and each of us had reasons for our opinion best
known to ourselves. As we were in this perplexity, one of our little boys,
who had been playing abroad, brought in a letter-case, which he found on
the green. It was quickly known to belong to Mr Burchell, with whom it had
been seen, and, upon examination, contained some hints upon different
subjects; but what particularly engaged our attention was a sealed note,
superscribed, 'The copy of a letter to be sent to the two ladies at
Thornhill-castle.' It instantly occurred that he was the base informer,
and we deliberated whether the note should not be broke open. I was
against it; but Sophia, who said she was sure that of all men he would be
the last to be guilty of so much baseness, insisted upon its being read,
In this she was seconded by the rest of the family, and, at their joint
solicitation, I read as follows:—</p>
<p>'Ladies,—The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to the person
from whom this comes: one at least the friend of innocence, and ready to
prevent its being seduced. I am informed for a truth, that you have some
intention of bringing two young ladies to town, whom I have some knowledge
of, under the character of companions. As I would neither have simplicity
imposed upon, nor virtue contaminated, I must offer it as my opinion, that
the impropriety of such a step will be attended with dangerous
consequences. It has never been my way to treat the infamous or the lewd
with severity; nor should I now have taken this method of explaining
myself, or reproving folly, did it not aim at guilt. Take therefore the
admonition of a friend, and seriously reflect on the consequences of
introducing infamy and vice into retreats where peace and innocence have
hitherto resided.' Our doubts were now at an end. There seemed indeed
something applicable to both sides in this letter, and its censures might
as well be referred to those to whom it was written, as to us; but the
malicious meaning was obvious, and we went no farther. My wife had scarce
patience to hear me to the end, but railed at the writer with unrestrained
resentment. Olivia was equally severe, and Sophia seemed perfectly amazed
at his baseness. As for my part, it appeared to me one of the vilest
instances of unprovoked ingratitude I had met with. Nor could I account
for it in any other manner than by imputing it to his desire of detaining
my youngest daughter in the country, to have the more frequent
opportunities of an interview. In this manner we all sate ruminating upon
schemes of vengeance, when our other little boy came running in to tell us
that Mr Burchell was approaching at the other end of the field. It is
easier to conceive than describe the complicated sensations which are felt
from the pain of a recent injury, and the pleasure of approaching
vengeance. Tho' our intentions were only to upbraid him with his
ingratitude; yet it was resolved to do it in a manner that would be
perfectly cutting. For this purpose we agreed to meet him with our usual
smiles, to chat in the beginning with more than ordinary kindness, to
amuse him a little; and then in the midst of the flattering calm to burst
upon him like an earthquake, and overwhelm him with the sense of his own
baseness. This being resolved upon, my wife undertook to manage the
business herself, as she really had some talents for such an undertaking.
We saw him approach, he entered, drew a chair, and sate down.—'A
fine day, Mr Burchell.'—'A very fine day, Doctor; though I fancy we
shall have some rain by the shooting of my corns.'—'The shooting of
your horns,' cried my wife, in a loud fit of laughter, and then asked
pardon for being fond of a joke.—'Dear madam,' replied he, 'I pardon
you with all my heart; for I protest I should not have thought it a joke
had you not told me.'—'Perhaps not, Sir,' cried my wife, winking at
us, 'and yet I dare say you can tell us how many jokes go to an ounce.'—'I
fancy, madam,' returned Burchell, 'you have been reading a jest book this
morning, that ounce of jokes is so very good a conceit; and yet, madam, I
had rather see half an ounce of understanding.'—'I believe you
might,' cried my wife, still smiling at us, though the laugh was against
her; 'and yet I have seen some men pretend to understanding that have very
little.'—'And no doubt,' replied her antagonist, 'you have known
ladies set up for wit that had none.'—I quickly began to find that
my wife was likely to gain but little at this business; so I resolved to
treat him in a stile of more severity myself. 'Both wit and
understanding,' cried I, 'are trifles, without integrity: it is that which
gives value to every character. The ignorant peasant, without fault, is
greater than the philosopher with many; for what is genius or courage
without an heart? An honest man is the noblest work of God.</p>
<p>'I always held that hackney'd maxim of Pope,' returned Mr Burchell, 'as
very unworthy a man of genius, and a base desertion of his own
superiority. As the reputation of books is raised not by their freedom
from defect, but the greatness of their beauties; so should that of men be
prized not for their exemption from fault, but the size of those virtues
they are possessed of. The scholar may want prudence, the statesman may
have pride, and the champion ferocity; but shall we prefer to these the
low mechanic, who laboriously plods on through life, without censure or
applause? We might as well prefer the tame correct paintings of the
Flemish school to the erroneous, but sublime animations of the Roman
pencil.'</p>
<p>'Sir,' replied I, 'your present observation is just, when there are
shining virtues and minute defects; but when it appears that great vices
are opposed in the same mind to as extraordinary virtues, such a character
deserves contempt.' 'Perhaps,' cried he, 'there may be some such monsters
as you describe, of great vices joined to great virtues; yet in my
progress through life, I never yet found one instance of their existence:
on the contrary, I have ever perceived, that where the mind was capacious,
the affections were good. And indeed Providence seems kindly our friend in
this particular, thus to debilitate the understanding where the heart is
corrupt, and diminish the power where there is the will to do mischief.
This rule seems to extend even to other animals: the little vermin race
are ever treacherous, cruel, and cowardly, whilst those endowed with
strength and power are generous, brave, and gentle.'</p>
<p>'These observations sound well,' returned I, 'and yet it would be easy
this moment to point out a man,' and I fixed my eye stedfastly upon him,
'whose head and heart form a most detestable contrast. Ay, Sir,' continued
I, raising my voice, 'and I am glad to have this opportunity of detecting
him in the midst of his fancied security. Do you know this, Sir, this
pocket-book?'—'Yes, Sir,' returned he, with a face of impenetrable
assurance, 'that pocket-book is mine, and I am glad you have found it.'—'And
do you know,' cried I, 'this letter? Nay, never falter man; but look me
full in the face: I say, do you know this letter?'—'That letter,'
returned he, 'yes, it was I that wrote that letter.'—'And how could
you,' said I, 'so basely, so ungratefully presume to write this letter?'—'And
how came you,' replied he, with looks of unparallelled effrontery, 'so
basely to presume to break open this letter? Don't you know, now, I could
hang you all for this? All that I have to do, is to swear at the next
justice's, that you have been guilty of breaking open the lock of my
pocket-book, and so hang you all up at his door.' This piece of unexpected
insolence raised me to such a pitch, that I could scare govern my passion.
'Ungrateful wretch, begone, and no longer pollute my dwelling with thy
baseness. Begone, and never let me see thee again: go from my doors, and
the only punishment I wish thee is an allarmed conscience, which will be a
sufficient tormentor!' So saying, I threw him his pocket-book, which he
took up with a smile, and shutting the clasps with the utmost composure,
left us, quite astonished at the serenity of his assurance. My wife was
particularly enraged that nothing could make him angry, or make him seem
ashamed of his villainies. 'My dear,' cried I, willing to calm those
passions that had been raised too high among us, 'we are not to be
surprised that bad men want shame; they only blush at being detected in
doing good, but glory in their vices.</p>
<p>'Guilt and shame, says the allegory, were at first companions, and in the
beginning of their journey inseparably kept together. But their union was
soon found to be disagreeable and inconvenient to both; guilt gave shame
frequent uneasiness, and shame often betrayed the secret conspiracies of
guilt. After long disagreeement, therefore, they at length consented to
part for ever. Guilt boldly walked forward alone, to overtake fate, that
went before in the shape of an executioner: but shame being naturally
timorous, returned back to keep company with virtue, which, in the
beginning of their journey, they had left behind. Thus, my children, after
men have travelled through a few stages in vice, shame forsakes them, and
returns back to wait upon the few virtues they have still remaining.'</p>
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