ssisting him, who,
by his presence to-day, has only fulfilled one of the painful duties
that society imposes upon us.'

The surgeon gave an unfavourable report of the wound, which he dressed
on the field. Lord Monteagle was then borne to his carriage, which was
at hand, and Lord Scrope, the moment he had seen the equipage move
slowly off, returned to his friend.

'Well Cadurcis,' he exclaimed in an anxious voice, 'I hope you have
not killed him. What will you do now?'

'I shall go home, and await the result, my dear Scrope. I am sorry for
you, for this may get you into trouble. For myself, I care nothing.'

'You bleed!' said Lord Scrope.

'A scratch. I almost wish our lots had been the reverse. Come, Scrope,
help me on with my coat. Yesterday I lost my heart, last night I lost
my money, and perhaps to-morrow I shall lose my arm. It seems we are
not in luck.

CHAPTER XVIII.

It has been well observed, that no spectacle is so ridiculous as the
British public in one of its periodical fits of morality. In general,
elopements, divorces, and family quarrels pass with little notice. We
read the scandal, talk about it for a day, and forget it. But, once in
six or seven years, our virtue becomes outrageous. We cannot suffer
the laws of religion and decency to be violated. We must make a
stand against vice. We must teach libertines that the English people
appreciate the importance of domestic ties. Accordingly, some
unfortunate man, in no respect more depraved than hundreds whose
offences have been treated with lenity, is singled out as an expiatory
sacrifice. If he has children, they are to be taken from him. If he
has a profession, he is to be driven from it. He is cut by the higher
orders, and hissed by the lower. He is, in truth, a sort of whipping
boy, by whose vicarious agonies all the other transgressors of the
same class are, it is supposed, sufficiently chastised. We reflect
very complacently on our own severity, and compare, with great pride,
the high standard of morals established in England, with the Parisian
laxity. At length, our anger is satiated, our victim is ruined and
heart-broken, and our virtue goes quietly to sleep for seven years
more.

These observations of a celebrated writer apply to the instance of
Lord Cadurcis; he was the periodical victim, the scapegoat of English
morality, sent into the wilderness with all the crimes and curses of
the multitude on his head. Lord Cadurcis had certa