kind enough to come forward, and Mr. Seagrave,[1] printer at Chichester; Mr. H. in £50, and Mr. S. in £50; and myself am bound in £100 for my appearance at the quarter-sessions, which is after Michaelmas. So I shall have the satisfaction to see my friends in town before this contemptible business comes on. I say contemptible, for it must be manifest to everyone that the whole accusation is a wilful perjury. Thus, you see, my dear friend, that I cannot leave this place without some adventure. It has struck a consternation through all the villages round. Every man is now afraid of speaking to, or looking at, a soldier; for the peaceable villagers have always been forward in expressing their kindness for us, and they express their sorrow at our departure as soon as they hear of it. Everyone here is my evidence for peace and good neighbourhood; and yet, such is the present state of things, this foolish accusation must be tried in public. Well, I am content, I murmur not, and doubt not that I shall receive justice, and am only sorry for the trouble and expense, I have heard that my accuser is a disgraced sergeant; his name is John Scholfield.[2] Perhaps it will be in your power to learn somewhat
