nt his way,
immersed in deep thought. When the Captain returned at night, she did
not speak to him; and when he swore at her for being sulky, she only
said she had a headache, and was dreadfully ill; with which excuse
Gustavus Adolphus seemed satisfied, and left her to herself.

He saw her the next morning for a moment: he was going a-shooting.

Catherine had no friend, as is usual in tragedies and romances,--no
mysterious sorceress of her acquaintance to whom she could apply for
poison,--so she went simply to the apothecaries, pretending at each that
she had a dreadful toothache, and procuring from them as much laudanum
as she thought would suit her purpose.

When she went home again she seemed almost gay. Mr. Brock complimented
her upon the alteration in her appearance; and she was enabled to
receive the Captain at his return from shooting in such a manner as made
him remark that she had got rid of her sulks of the morning, and might
sup with them, if she chose to keep her good-humour. The supper was
got ready, and the gentlemen had the punch-bowl when the cloth was
cleared,--Mrs. Catherine, with her delicate hands, preparing the liquor.

It is useless to describe the conversation that took place, or to reckon
the number of bowls that were emptied; or to tell how Mr. Trippet, who
was one of the guests, and declined to play at cards when some of the
others began, chose to remain by Mrs. Catherine's side, and make violent
love to her. All this might be told, and the account, however faithful,
would not be very pleasing. No, indeed! And here, though we are only in
the third chapter of this history, we feel almost sick of the characters
that appear in it, and the adventures which they are called upon to go
through. But how can we help ourselves? The public will hear of nothing
but rogues; and the only way in which poor authors, who must live, can
act honestly by the public and themselves, is to paint such thieves as
they are: not, dandy, poetical, rose-water thieves; but real downright
scoundrels, leading scoundrelly lives, drunken, profligate, dissolute,
low; as scoundrels will be. They don't quote Plato, like Eugene Aram; or
live like gentlemen, and sing the pleasantest ballads in the world, like
jolly Dick Turpin; or prate eternally about "to kalon,"[*] like that
precious canting Maltravers, whom we all of us have read about and
pitied; or die whitewashed saints, like poor "Biss Dadsy" in "Oliver
Twist." No, my dear