TOM RAFFLES. 435 



his curate. I found the object of my search lodged in the parlour of 

 a small farm-house a low whitewashed room, floored with brick, 

 and adorned with the bright daubs, vended some twenty years ago 

 by rascal Italians, of the " Four Seasons," the " Four Quarters of 

 the World/' and the " History of Joseph and his Brethren." The 

 blunt " Come in," as I knocked at the door, bespoke the Cambridge 

 man ; but no one, on entering, would have taken the forlorn inmate 

 for the dashing student which I have depicted him in the foregoing 

 pages. He was sitting over a handful of fire, without his cravat, and 

 attired in the remnant of an old reading coat, watching a little saucepan 

 of broth, which, as sundry peelings of onions and turnips under the 

 grate bore evidence, was abandoned to his own cookery. The mani- 

 fest destitution of his condition struck me most painfully ; but this 

 feeling was quickly absorbed in a more serious concern for the man 

 himself. The features were the same ; but the expression had left 

 them, and, except by transient and uncertain snatches, for ever ! A 

 constitution ungenial to the climate, and never very well used, had 

 fallen an easy prey to ruin and remorse. At times he would forget 

 the present in some ludicrous recollection of the past ; but his anima- 

 tion soon expired, and the exertion only deepened his dejection. On 

 remarking to him that he would catch cold without his neck-handker- 

 chief, " Ay, Sir," said he, " you know I am apt to forget my cravat," 

 smiling for a moment with all the wickedness of former days ; and 

 then the heavy sigh, as he " wondered how the old doctor was," 

 told wofully how much the effort had cost him. He had, through- 

 out, known of my being settled in the neighbourhood ; but it re- 

 quired no acuteness to enter into his feelings for not desiring the re- 

 newal of our acquaintance. " I had long wished, before seeing you," 

 he said one day, as he was relating his sufferings, " like a bird con- 

 scious of dissolution, to hide myself in some secret place and die." 

 I took him home with me, and engaged a neighbouring clergyman 

 to officiate in his place. All that skill or kindness could do for him, 

 was done ; but his heart as well as his health was broken. He died 

 in the following spring without regret, but not without hope ; and 

 now lies in peace a few yards from the spot where I am writing his 

 memoir. 



The history of this young man, from the time of his leaving Cam- 

 bridge, is a melancholy, but by no means are extraordinary one. 



Poor Raffles told me that he had lost two curacies in succession, by 

 having been taken in execution upon cognovits, which he had given, 

 for a temporary respite, although he knew .one-half of the charges 

 against him to be absolute robbery. He was, subsequently, nine 

 months without an engagement. I should infer, that it must have 

 been during this period that he availed himself of a merciful law, as 

 the only chance of liberation ; but I never inquired minutely into 

 that event, as, up to his last moment, it produced upon his sensitive 

 and honourable mind more painful impressions than all the follies and 

 misfortunes of his life. He afterwards endured many severe priva- 

 tions and bitter disappointments, until accident threw him into the 



hands of the good Dean of B . On the nomination of that worthy 



pluralist, he was licensed to the curacy of , with a stipend of 



