Zounds, Sir, don’t talk to me of breaking it; I shall go mad:—­you did not know her.—­Oh! she was the most lovely, gentle creature!—­What an old blockhead have I been!—­Why did I not give her my fortune?—­then Darcey would have married her;—­then she would not have gone abroad;—­then we should have sav’d her.  Oh, she was a sweet, dear soul!—­What good will my curst estates do me now?—­You shall have them, Sir;—­any body shall have them—­I don’t care what becomes of me.—­Do order my horse, Sir—­I say again, do order my horse.  I’ll never see this place more.—­Oh! my dear, sweet, smiling girl, why would you go to France?

Here I interrupted him.

Think not, talk not, Sir, of leaving the family in such a melancholy situation.—­Pray recollect yourself.—­You ought not to run from your friends;—­you ought to redouble your affection at this hour of trial.—­Who can be call’d friends, but those who press forward, when all the satisfactions of life draw back.—­You are not;—­your feeling heart tells me you are not one of the many that retire with such visionary enjoyments.—­Come, Sir, for the present forget the part you bear in this disaster:—­consider,—­pray, consider her poor parents; consider what will be their sufferings:—­let it be our task to prepare them.

What you say is very right, Sir, return’d he.—­I believe you are a good christian;—­God direct us,—­God direct us.—­I wish I had a dram:—­faith, I shall be choak’d.—­Sweet creature!—­what will become of Lord Darcey!—­I never wanted a dram so much before.—­Your name, Sir, if you please.—­I perceive we shall make matters worse by staying out so long.

I told him my name; and that I had the honour of being intimately acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Powis.

He continued,—­You will go in with me, Sir.—­How am I to act!—­I’ll follow your advice—­We must expect it will be a dreadful piece of work.—­

Caution and tenderness, Mr. Morgan, will be absolutely necessary.

But where is my hat?—­where is my wig?—­have I thrown them into the pond?

It is well the poor distress’d man recollected he had them not; or, bare-headed as he was, I should have gone with him to the house.—­I pick’d them up, all over dirt; and, well as I could, clean’d them with my handkerchief.

Now, Sir, said I, if you will wipe your face,—­for the sweat was standing on it in large drops,—­I am ready to attend you.

So I must really go in, captain.—­I don’t think I can stand it;—­you had better go without me.—­Upon my soul, I had sooner face the mouth of a cannon—­If you would blow my brains out, it would be the kindest thing you ever did in your life.

Poh! don’t talk at this rate, Sir.—­Do we live only for ourselves?—­

But will you not leave us, captain;—­will you not run from us, when all is out?

Rather, Sir, suspect me of cowardice.—­I should receive greater satisfaction from administering the smallest consolation to people in distress, than from whole nations govern’d by my nod.