interesting. I am now come to see justice done a worthy man, for whom I have the most sincere esteem. I have long been a disguised spectator of thy father’s benevolence. I have at his little dwelling enjoyed respect uncontaminated by flattery, and have received that happiness that courts could not give, from the amusing simplicity around his fire-side. My nephew has been apprized of my intentions of coming here, and I find is arrived; it would be wronging him and you to condemn him without examination: if there be injury, there shall be redress; and this I may say without boasting, that none have ever taxed the injustice of Sir William Thornhill.’
We now found the personage whom we had so long entertained as an harmless amusing companion was no other than the celebrated Sir William Thornhill, to whose virtues and singularities scarce any were strangers. The poor Mr Burchell was in reality a man of large fortune and great interest, to whom senates listened with applause, and whom party heard with conviction; who was the friend of his country, but loyal to his king. My poor wife recollecting her former familiarity, seemed to shrink with apprehension; but Sophia, who a few moments before thought him her own, now perceiving the immense distance to which he was removed by fortune, was unable to conceal her tears.
‘Ah, Sir,’ cried my wife, with a piteous aspect, ‘how is it possible that I can ever have your forgiveness; the slights you received from me the last time I had the honour of seeing you at our house, and the jokes which I audaciously threw out, these jokes, Sir, I fear can never be forgiven.’
‘My dear good lady,’ returned he with a smile, ‘if you had your joke, I had my answer: I’ll leave it to all the company if mine were not as good as yours. To say the truth, I know no body whom I am disposed to be angry with at present but the fellow who so frighted my little girl here. I had not even time to examine the rascal’s person so as to describe him in an advertisement. Can you tell me, Sophia, my dear, whether you should know him again?’
‘Indeed, Sir,’ replied she, ‘I can’t be positive; yet now I recollect he had a large mark over one of his eye-brows.’ ‘I ask pardon, madam,’ interrupted Jenkinson, who was by, ‘but be so good as to inform me if the fellow wore his own red hair?’—‘Yes, I think so,’ cried Sophia.—‘And did your honour,’ continued he, turning to Sir William, ‘observe the length of his legs?’—‘I can’t be sure of their length,’ cried the Baronet, ‘but I am convinced of their swiftness; for he out-ran me, which is what I thought few men in