



Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by the
Web Archive (University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign)











Transcriber's Notes:
   1. Page scans provided by the Internet Archive,
      https://archive.org/details/delawareorruined01jame
     (University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign)

   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].




EDINBURGH
PRINTED BY M. AITKEN, 1, ST JAMES's SQUARE.






DELAWARE;

OR

THE RUINED FAMILY.

A TALE.



IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.



EDINBURGH:
PRINTED FOR ROBERT CADELL, EDINBURGH;
AND WHITTAKER & CO., LONDON.
MDCCCXXXIII.






PREFACE.


Not many years ago, as the writer of this work was returning on
horseback to Castellamare, from a visit to the Lactarian Hills, he
overtook, just under the chestnut trees on the <DW72>, which every one
who has visited that part of Italy must remember, two gentlemen with
their guide, who were on their way home after some expedition of a
kind similar to his own.

As the indefinable something told him at once that they were
Englishmen, he turned, as usual under such circumstances, to examine
them more critically in passing, and in one of them recollected a
person whom he had met more than once in London. He hesitated whether
he should claim the acquaintance; as, when he had before seen him, the
traveller had appeared to great disadvantage. A man of rank and
fortune, flattered, caressed, single, and set at, he had borne a sort
of sneering indifference on his countenance, which certainly did not
recommend him to a person who neither sought his friendship nor feared
his contempt. A few traits, indeed, had casually appeared, which
seemed to betray a better spirit beneath this kind of supercilious
exterior; but still the impression was unfavourable.

All hesitation, however, was put an end to by a bow and friendly
recognition on the part of the other; and either because the
annoyances of the society in which he had formerly been met, were now
removed, or because a general improvement had worked itself in his
demeanour and character, his tone was so different, and his aspect so
prepossessing, that all feelings of dislike were soon done away. He
instantly made his "dear, new-found friend" acquainted with his
companion; and informing him that he had left his wife and sister at
the Albergo Reale, invited him to join their party for the evening.

This was accordingly done, and now--having ridden the third person
long enough, as it is the roughest going horse in the stable--I will,
with the reader's permission, do the next ten miles on the first
person singular.

The acquaintance which was there renewed soon went on to intimacy; and
as I found that the party which I had met with, consisted of an odd
number, the unfortunate fifth being an old gentleman, who required
some one more of his own age than his four relations to converse with,
I ventured to propose myself as their companion in a visit to some
places in the neighbourhood, and as their cicerone to Pæstum. The
proposal was accepted; and, strange enough to say, our companionship,
which had commenced so suddenly, did not end till those I may now
boldly call my friends returned to England, nearly a year after,
leaving me to stupify at Lauzanne.

Amongst the many pleasures which I derived from their society in
Italy, none was greater than that which some account of their
preceding adventures gave me. This was first obtained in a casual
manner, by hearing continual reference made amongst themselves to
particular circumstances. "Do you remember, Henry, such and such an
event? Does not that put you in mind of this, that, or the other?" was
continually ringing in my ears; and thus I gathered part ere the whole
was continuously related to me. At length, I obtained a complete
narrative; and though it was told with many a gay and happy jest, and
many a reference to details which would not amuse the world in
general, I could not help thinking that the public might find it
nearly as interesting as it proved to me.

In the same sort of gossiping anecdotical style in which I received
it, I have here, with full permission, put down the whole story. In
what tongue under the sun I have written it, I do not very well know,
though the language I intended to employ is a sort of jargon, based
upon Anglo-Saxon, with a superstructure of the Norman corruption of
French, propped up by bad Latin, and having the vacancies supplied by
Greek. Taking it for granted, that into this refuge for destitute
tongues, any houseless stranger would be welcome, whenever I was not
able to find readily a word or expression to my purpose, I have either
made one for myself, or stolen one from the first language at hand;
and as this has been done in all ages, I make no apology for it here.

I have reason, however, to believe that I have more sins to answer for
amongst the technical terms, and other more important matters. My
worthy lawyer, Mr. W----, tells me that my law is not sound; that,
instead of _indicted_ I should have said _arraigned_; instead of
_action_ I should have used the word _process_--or the reverse, I
forget which. My gallant friend, Captain D----, has taken much pains
to explain to me the difference between a _yawl_ and a _Peter boat_,
and has utterly confounded me with a definition of _clinker built_;
and my noble friend. Lord A----, declares that I have certainly
painted both his foibles and his adventures in somewhat strong
colours; but if, by so doing, I make a better book of it--why, let it
pass.

For all this I apologize to the public in general, acknowledging that
I am neither lawyer nor physician, soldier nor sailor, scholar nor
philosopher, nor what the cant of a former day denominated a man of
wit about town. Whoever reads the book, will see all this at a glance;
but I trust they will also see that I have not drawn from things of
marble, but from flesh and blood.

To one portion of his Britannic Majesty's subjects I have particularly
to apologize. Since this book went to the press, I have discovered,
from Cary's Road-Book, that there is a real village, or hamlet, or
town, called Emberton; and I hereby most solemnly declare, that, in
fixing upon that name as the scene of my chief adventures, I believed
I was employing an entirely fictitious title, and did so for the sole
purpose of concealing the real place at which some of the events
occurred. Let it be remembered, therefore, by all persons who have
seen, heard, or known any thing of the village, town, or hamlet of
Emberton, that, in writing this book, I did not know that such a place
did truly exist, and that nothing herein contained, is in any way to
be understood or construed to apply to the real place called Emberton
or its inhabitants, referring solely to a different spot in a
different county, which shall, by the reader's good leave, be
nameless.

Innerleithen,
25_th May_, 1833.






DELAWARE;
OR,
THE RUINED FAMILY.




CHAPTER I.


Most cities are hateful; and, without any disposition to "babble about
green fields," it must be owned that each is more or less detestable.
Nevertheless, amongst them all, there is none to be compared as a
whole to London;--none which comprehends within itself, from various
causes, so much of the sublime in every sort. Whether we consider its
giant immensity of expanse--the wonderful intricacy of its internal
structure--the miraculous harmony of its discrepant parts--the grand
amalgamation of its different orders, classes, states, pursuits,
professions--the mighty aggregate of hopes, wishes, endeavours, joys,
successes, fears, pangs, disappointments, crimes, and punishments,
that it contains--its relative influence on the world at large--or the
vehement pulse with which that "mighty heart" sends the flood of
circulation through this beautiful land--we shall find that that most
wonderful microcosm well deserves the epithet _sublime_.

To view it rightly--if we wish to view it with the eye of a
philosopher--we should choose perhaps the hour which is chosen by the
most magnificent and extraordinary of modern poets, and gaze upon it
when the sun is just beginning to pour his first red beams through the
dim and loaded air, when that vast desert of brick and mortar, that
interminable wilderness of spires and chimneys, looks more wide, and
endless, and solemn, than when the eye is distracted by the myriads of
mites that creep about it in the risen day.

It may be asked, perhaps, who is there that ever saw it at that hour,
except the red-armed housemaid, washing the morning step, and letting
in the industrious thief, to steal the greatcoats from the hall; or
the dull muffin-man, who goes tinkling his early bell through the
misty streets of the wintry morning? Granted, that neither of
these--nor the sellers of early purl--nor the venders of saloop and
cocoa--nor Covent Garden market-women--nor the late returners from the
_finish_--nor he who starts up from the doorway, where he has passed
the wretched