John Halifax, Gentleman

ut the neighbourhood buying bark. I was amused when the coach stopped at an inn, which bore the ominous sign of the “Fleece,” to see how well accustomed he seemed to be to the ways of the place. H

in the inn parlour, and watched him giving his orders and walking about. Sometimes

ting a meeting at Coffee-house

ons more easy; “they should build a new one, now Coltham is growing up into such a fashionable town. I wish

being indeed

g now, Mr. Charles says, but magnificent still. She first came out in this same theatre

uld not enter a play

ha

u know he did not bring me up in the Society,

o be a lawful pleasure I have a right to enjoy; or, if not, being yet a lad and under a master—well, I will bear the consequen

ich was, indeed, my belief; entreated him to be merry and enjoy himself, and succeeded so well,

is lane was almost blocked up with play-goers of all ranks and in all sorts of equipages, from the coach-and-six to the sedan-

care!” and I c

oved, he could not have been more tender over my weakness. The physical weakness—which, however humiliating to myself, and dou

hills that rose in various directions round the town; how green and quiet they wer

. There was a scuffle, one of the bearers was knocked down and hurt. Some cried “shame!” others seemed to think this incident

d in outline, an aquiline nose—full, passionate, yet sensitive lips—and very dark eyes. She spoke

must have rang through all the town. There was a minute’s pause, whil

ter him. In another second he had caught up the pole dropped by the man who was hurt; and b

could not bring her to the level of common humanity. The tall, cloaked, and hooded figure, and the tones that issued thence, made h

apparently, from his thankfulnes

u should have had so much tro

ed from it one silver coi

e, as a memento that I once had the ho

l dark eyes, then curtsied with grave dignity

found us out and brought us, “by Mrs. Siddons’ d

ime, when I look back upon it my old blood lea

and spangled turbans and Prince-of-Wales’ plumes. Such an odd mingling of costume, which was then in a transition state, the old ladies clinging tenaciously to the stately silken petticoats and long bodices, surmounted by the prim and decent bouffantes, while the younger belles had begun to flaunt in the

e Channel; now, unhappy nation! sunk to zero in politics, religion, and morals—where high-bred ladies went about dressed as heathen goddesses, with

who, I believe, were, in our ignorance, expecting to behold in every woman an Imogen, a Juliet, or a Desde

e play

in her first scene, “reading a letter”—that wondrous woman, who, in spite of her modern black velvet and point lace, did not act, but WAS, Lady Macbeth: still I hear the awe-struck, questioning, weird-like tone, that sent an involuntary shu

ey have whirled on—whirled her away with them into the infinite, and into earthly oblivion! People tell me that a new generation on

esistibly associated his idea with that of turnip munching and hay-cart oratory. And when, during the first colloquy of Banquo with the witches, Macbeth took the opportunity of winking privately at us over the foot-lights, all the parapherna

led, both in eyes and brain, out into the dark streets, John almost carrying me. Then we paused, and leaning against a pos

his brow he bared it to the fresh night-air, and

oh

d on my shoulder. “What d

o as to shield the win

pleasure, and it is over. Now we must go back to

riking, heard clearly over the silen

mp. Until this minute we had taken no note of time. Eleven

ver, I turned sick and faint;

st we do

d drive home. I have enough money—all my month’s wages—see!” He felt in his pocket

when we were so wedged in the crowd—there could be no manner of doubt. A

ebody trust us

—and for a horse and gig—they’d laugh at me.

immediately, and took my

m not so respectable as I t

pockets, and ten miles away from home. How to get there, and at midnight too,

nt is precious. Your father will think we have fall

or two along the high-road leading to Norton Bury. There was a cool fresh breeze: and I often think one can walk so much further by night than by day. For some time, listening to Jo

ted air of the midsummer-night imparted no freshness. John wound his young ar

you in my coat, and you shall rest there: an hour or

For a short way more, I dragged myself—or rather, was dragged—along; then the stars, the shado

dside, my head resting on John’s knees. He was bathing my fo

ind. I shall be

neas; I thought

of the night he yielded to what his manhood migh

treak in the east. “Why, it is daybr

n’t stir a step.

ossi

already. Come, mount! I am not going to ha

m I cannot tell, but he certainly carried me—with many rests between, and pause

ched my father’s door, haggard and miserable,

he set me down at the foot of t

come in-you would

moment—then

sed, as if the whole peaceful establishment were taking its sleep, prior to the early stirri

five awful minutes seemed interminable. I could n

have committed no absolute sin, and ha

s dressed as usual, looked as usual. Whether he had sat u

tham had taken pains to tell Abel Fletcher where he had seen his son—at the very last place a Friend’s son ought to be seen—the play-house. We knew that it was by no means to learn

where hast

atre at Coltham. It was my fault.

re didst the

hard to find. “Oh! Mr Fletcher,

no reply; John

nk now that it was—but the temptation was hard. My life here is

hall ha

d quiet as it was,

t thee planned th

!—Abel Fletcher—did I ever tell you a lie? If you will not believe me, believe your own son. Ask Phineas—No, no, ask h

being past speaking—but

hee shalt not lead him into harm’s way a

ormed at us with all the ill-language that men of the world use! but that q

ute look, from which a

trusted thee. This day, by my son’s wish, I meant to have bound thee ‘pre

roken-hearted voice, “I deserve it all. I can go awa

ore him (oh, David! how unlike to thee), then said,

ief of my heart. John came ove

ou will

racter with your father. Be conte

ust,” said my fath

ut

akly yielding, and selfishly causing another to yield, to the temptation of

“never” was

to wrestle with it; I might as well h

d perfect

Your father is right—at least so far as he sees. Let m

t I was saying. My father took no notice of

came, I had strength

on’t forget

live we shall be friends again.

hough from time to time I heard of him—always accidentally,—after that day f