THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE,

(TO THE FIRST EDITION,)

ADDRESSED TO THE

RIGHT HONOURABLE

WILLIAM STURGES BOURNE, M. P.

&c. &c. &c.

OF TESTWOOD PARK, HAMPSHIRE.

If it should be asked why I have recorded the series of retired scenes, and sometimes abstruse conversations, which compose the following narrative, my answer is a very simple one: in the present state of the world, they may possibly do good, and cannot do harm. Not that I think the world worse now than it has been for perhaps the last hundred years. The upper and lower classes I should say are certainly not so; I am not so sure of the middle. The wide spread of that luxury which is consequent to wealth, by extinguishing the modest style of living which once belonged to us, has undermined our independence, and left our virtue defenceless. All would be Statesmen, Philosophers, or people of fashion. All, too, run to London. The woods and fields are unpeopled; the plain mansions and plain manners of our

fathers deserted and changed; everything is swallowed up by a devouring dissipation; and the simplicities of life are only to be found in books.

Yet it is the proper blending of the simplicities of life with its elegancies, the wholesome union of public and private duty, the golden moderation recommended by Horace (all which you, Sir, understand and practise so well), that can alone enable us, whether we are politicians or private gentlemen, to act up to the real design of our nature, and be happy with dignity, or prosperous (if prosperous) without losing our virtue.

Ambition is, indeed, a great, and, under due regulation, a noble passion; but, for the most part, it is interminable. Few, like you, after showing how fitted they are for the administration of public affairs, think of retiring from them in time; or, if they do retire, they are pursued into their retreat by the spectres of what they have left, and know not how to use the leisure which, perhaps, they have courted.

Yet ambition is at least as full as ever of falsehood and treachery; of the cajoleries of honest men by confidants in office; of the sacrifice of friends, and the prevalency of upstarts.

To fly from such evils is the obvious immediate remedy; but often the remedy is so little understood, as to be worse than the disease. Hence the very dangerous mistakes about solitude, which are noticed in this work.

Again, there is in the world a spread of instruction, as well as of luxury; and also, I think, more zeal, more lively attention to duty, in our religious instructors. Yet I question if there is, either in the higher or middle

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ranks, that regard for the religious, or even the moral feelings and principles of one another, which would check either man or woman in the choice of friends, or in forming the nearest and dearest of connexions.

How sweet is the passion of Love! But I question, as now felt (if indeed it is felt, or an indiscriminating luxury have not demanded it a sacrifice to its ravenous selfishness), whether it ever found difficulty from opposing opinions on the points I have mentioned. The truth is, most women, of whatever rank, are, or would be, fine ladies; and a fine lady has on these points (thanks to her education !) no opinion at all.

In duller days, now long gone by, we both of us may indeed remember a tale, which was thought pathetic, of a certain Clementina, who really sacrificed her love to her religion. But her religion was not pure; it was founded in superstition; and her firmness was not her own, but supported by the craftiness of priests. And besides, she was not an English fine lady.

With these convictions, perhaps no apology is necessary for relating a story which, though it is simple and domestic even (I fear) to tameness, displays, in practical colouring, the evils I have imagined; while, at the same time, it endeavours to supply an antidote to them. To be sure, this antidote is offered under a dress which may appear extraordinary, and little suited to the gravity of many of the subjects discussed. I can only say, it was the dress in which the subjects were presented to me; and I was not willing to separate them from the narrative, from a feeling that the lighter and more tender parts might enliven or interest the mind, while they would not derogate from the deeper points brought forward for

investigation. How I came by the story itself, is of no

consequence.

It remains to explain why I have been ambitious to address this work to you, Sir. Simply because I believe you agree with me on almost every one of the subjects discussed; for it is my pride as well as pleasure to think I may apply to you a sentiment uttered, on a very different occasion, to very different persons,-" tibi eadem quæ mihi, bona malaque esse intellexi." In a word, without glancing at your high public character, which might well deem itself above the patronage of a mere private story, no name I might have fixed upon could be more appropriate to a work, the object of which is to recommend good sense, proper moderation, and sound Theology, in opposition to all extremes, whether of ambition, refinement, or dangerous scepticism.

To return to the work itself,-if it detach but one man, or one woman, from the headlong career which most are pursuing, and induce them to look for a while into themselves, as God and nature intended them to do, its end will be answered.

I am, Sir,

With unfeigned esteem,

Your very faithful servant,

THE AUTHOR.

TREMAINE,

OR,

THE MAN OF REFINEMENT.

CHAPTER I.

AN ARRIVAL IN SOLITUDE.

Oh! Jupiter! how weary are my spirits

3HAKSPEARE.

It was the middle of August; the great gates of Belmont were thrown open by the obsequious porter at the lodge; a barouche and four, well appointed, drove in at a gallop, and rapidly neared the hall, the steps of which were lined with servants; and everything denoted the arrival of a man of consequence, at his seat in the country.

It was TREMAINE; a name known in the political world for talents and integrity; in the fashionable, as an ornament of the higher circles; and in the female, as belonging to a man whom all prudent mothers wished to obtain for their daughters, and many a daughter for herself. He was in truth a person of great polish, refined taste, and high reputation.

He was alone, and alighted from his carriage with a jaded look, and the air of a person little pleased with himself; yet he had come the whole way from London without stop or accident, through a fine country, and in delightful weather.

To the salutations of his servants of the upper class, he replied as if he received their attentions kindly, but

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