Part 10 (1/2)

”I have not, under these grey hairs, forgotten that I was once a young man, warm in the pursuit of pleasure, but meaning to be honest as well as happy. I had ideas of virtue, of honour, of benevolence, which I had never been at the pains to define; but I felt my bosom heave at the thoughts of them, and I made the most delightful soliloquies. It is impossible, said I, that there can be half so many rogues as are imagined.

”I travelled, because it is the fas.h.i.+on for young men of my fortune to travel. I had a travelling tutor, which is the fas.h.i.+on too; but my tutor was a gentleman, which it is not always the fas.h.i.+on for tutors to be. His gentility, indeed, was all he had from his father, whose prodigality had not left him a s.h.i.+lling to support it.

”'I have a favour to ask of you, my dear Mountford,' said my father, 'which I will not be refused. You have travelled as became a man; neither France nor Italy have made anything of Mountford, which Mountford, before he left England, would have been ashamed of. My son Edward goes abroad, would you take him under your protection?'

”He blushed; my father's face was scarlet. He pressed his hand to his bosom, as if he had said, my heart does not mean to offend you.

Mountford sighed twice.

”'I am a proud fool,' said he, 'and you will pardon it. There! (he sighed again) I can hear of dependance, since it is dependance on my Sedley.'

”'Dependance!' answered my father; 'there can be no such word between us. What is there in 9,000 pounds a year that should make me unworthy of Mountford's friends.h.i.+p?'

”They embraced; and soon after I set out on my travels, with Mountford for my guardian.

”We were at Milan, where my father happened to have an Italian friend, to whom he had been of some service in England. The count, for he was of quality, was solicitous to return the obligation by a particular attention to his son. We lived in his palace, visited with his family, were caressed by his friends, and I began to be so well pleased with my entertainment, that I thought of England as of some foreign country.

”The count had a son not much older than myself. At that age a friend is an easy acquisition; we were friends the first night of our acquaintance.

”He introduced me into the company of a set of young gentlemen, whose fortunes gave them the command of pleasure, and whose inclinations incited them to the purchase. After having spent some joyous evenings in their society, it became a sort of habit which I could not miss without uneasiness, and our meetings, which before were frequent, were now stated and regular.

”Sometimes, in the pauses of our mirth, gaming was introduced as an amus.e.m.e.nt. It was an art in which I was a novice. I received instruction, as other novices do, by losing pretty largely to my teachers. Nor was this the only evil which Mountford foresaw would arise from the connection I had formed; but a lecture of sour injunctions was not his method of reclaiming. He sometimes asked me questions about the company, but they were such as the curiosity of any indifferent man might have prompted. I told him of their wit, their eloquence, their warmth of friends.h.i.+p, and their sensibility of heart. 'And their honour,' said I, laying my hand on my breast, 'is unquestionable.' Mountford seemed to rejoice at my good fortune, and begged that I would introduce him to their acquaintance. At the next meeting I introduced him accordingly.

”The conversation was as animated as usual. They displayed all that sprightliness and good-humour which my praises had led Mountford to expect; subjects, too, of sentiment occurred, and their speeches, particularly those of our friend the son of Count Respino, glowed with the warmth of honour, and softened into the tenderness of feeling. Mountford was charmed with his companions. When we parted, he made the highest eulogiums upon them. 'When shall we see them again?' said he. I was delighted with the demand, and promised to reconduct him on the morrow.

”In going to their place of rendezvous, he took me a little out of the road, to see, as he told me, the performances of a young statuary. When we were near the house in which Mountford said he lived, a boy of about seven years old crossed us in the street. At sight of Mountford he stopped, and grasping his hand,

”'My dearest sir,' said he, 'my father is likely to do well. He will live to pray for you, and to bless you. Yes, he will bless you, though you are an Englishman, and some other hard word that the monk talked of this morning, which I have forgot, but it meant that you should not go to heaven; but he shall go to heaven, said I, for he has saved my father. Come and see him, sir, that we may be happy.'

”'My dear, I am engaged at present with this gentleman.'

”'But he shall come along with you; he is an Englishman, too, I fancy. He shall come and learn how an Englishman may go to heaven.'

”Mountford smiled, and we followed the boy together.

”After crossing the next street, we arrived at the gate of a prison.

I seemed surprised at the sight; our little conductor observed it.

”'Are you afraid, sir?' said he. 'I was afraid once too, but my father and mother are here, and I am never afraid when I am with them.'

”He took my hand, and led me through a dark pa.s.sage that fronted the gate. When we came to a little door at the end, he tapped. A boy, still younger than himself, opened it to receive us. Mountford entered with a look in which was pictured the benign a.s.surance of a superior being. I followed in silence and amazement.

”On something like a bed, lay a man, with a face seemingly emaciated with sickness, and a look of patient dejection. A bundle of dirty shreds served him for a pillow, but he had a better support--the arm of a female who kneeled beside him, beautiful as an angel, but with a fading languor in her countenance, the still life of melancholy, that seemed to borrow its shade from the object on which she gazed.

There was a tear in her eye--the sick man kissed it off in its bud, smiling through the dimness of his own--when she saw Mountford, she crawled forward on the ground, and clasped his knees. He raised her from the floor; she threw her arms round his neck, and sobbed out a speech of thankfulness, eloquent beyond the power of language.

”'Compose yourself, my love,' said the man on the bed; 'but he, whose goodness has caused that emotion, will pardon its effects.'

”'How is this, Mountford?' said I; 'what do I see? What must I do?'