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