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Title: The Vicar of Wakefield

Author: Oliver Goldsmith

Release date: June 1, 2001 [eBook #2667]
                Most recently updated: March 11, 2022

Language: English

Credits: Charles J. Griep and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD ***




The Vicar of Wakefield

A TALE

Supposed to be written by Himself

by Oliver Goldsmith

_Sperate miseri, cavete felices_


Contents

 ADVERTISEMENT
 CHAPTER I.
 CHAPTER II.
 CHAPTER III.
 CHAPTER IV.
 CHAPTER V.
 CHAPTER VI.
 CHAPTER VII.
 CHAPTER VIII.
 CHAPTER IX.
 CHAPTER X.
 CHAPTER XI.
 CHAPTER XII.
 CHAPTER XIII.
 CHAPTER XIV.
 CHAPTER XV.
 CHAPTER XVI.
 CHAPTER XVII.
 CHAPTER XVIII.
 CHAPTER XIX.
 CHAPTER XX.
 CHAPTER XXI.
 CHAPTER XXII.
 CHAPTER XXIII.
 CHAPTER XXIV.
 CHAPTER XXV.
 CHAPTER XXVI.
 CHAPTER XXVII.
 CHAPTER XXVIII.
 CHAPTER XXIX.
 CHAPTER XXX.
 CHAPTER XXXI.
 CHAPTER XXXII.




ADVERTISEMENT


There are an hundred faults in this Thing, and an hundred things might
be said to prove them beauties. But it is needless. A book may be
amusing with numerous errors, or it may be very dull without a single
absurdity. The hero of this piece unites in himself the three greatest
characters upon earth; he is a priest, an husbandman, and the father of
a family. He is drawn as ready to teach, and ready to obey, as simple
in affluence, and majestic in adversity. In this age of opulence and
refinement whom can such a character please? Such as are fond of high
life, will turn with disdain from the simplicity of his country
fire-side. Such as mistake ribaldry for humour, will find no wit in his
harmless conversation; and such as have been taught to deride religion,
will laugh at one whose chief stores of comfort are drawn from
futurity.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.




Detailed contents


Chapter I. The description of the family of Wakefield; in which a
kindred likeness prevails as well of minds as of persons

Chapter II. Family misfortunes. The loss of fortune only serves to
increase the pride of the worthy

Chapter III. A migration. The fortunate circumstances of our lives are
generally found at last to be of our own procuring

Chapter IV. A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant happiness,
which depends not on circumstance, but constitution

Chapter V. A new and great acquaintance introduced. What we place most
hopes upon generally proves most fatal

Chapter VI. The happiness of a country fire-side

Chapter VII. A town wit described. The dullest fellows may learn to be
comical for a night or two

Chapter VIII. An amour, which promises little good fortune, yet may be
productive of much

Chapter IX. Two ladies of great distinction introduced. Superior finery
ever seems to confer superior breeding

Chapter X. The family endeavours to cope with their betters. The
miseries of the poor when they attempt to appear above their
circumstances

Chapter XI. The family still resolve to hold up their heads

Chapter XII. Fortune seems resolved to humble the family of Wakefield.
Mortifications are often more painful than real calamities

Chapter XIII. Mr Burchell is found to be an enemy; for he has the
confidence to give disagreeable advice

Chapter XIV. Fresh mortifications, or a demonstration that seeming
calamities may be real blessings

Chapter XV. All Mr Burchell’s villainy at once detected. The folly of
being-over-wise

Chapter XVI. The Family use art, which is opposed with still greater

Chapter XVII. Scarce any virtue found to resist the power of long and
pleasing temptation

Chapter XVIII. The pursuit of a father to reclaim a lost child to virtue

Chapter XIX. The description of a Person discontented with the present
government, and apprehensive of the loss of our liberties

Chapter XX. The history of a philosophic vagabond, pursuing novelty,
but losing content

Chapter XXI. The short continuance of friendship among the vicious,
which is coeval only with mutual satisfaction

Chapter XXII. Offences are easily pardoned where there is love at bottom

Chapter XXIII. None but the guilty can be long and completely miserable

Chapter XXIV. Fresh calamities

Chapter XXV. No situation, however wretched it seems, but has some sort
of comfort attending it

Chapter XXVI. A reformation in the gaol. To make laws complete, they
should reward as well as punish

Chapter XXVII. The same subject continued

Chapter XXVIII. Happiness and misery rather the result of prudence than
of virtue in this life. Temporal evils or felicities being regarded by
heaven as things merely in themselves trifling and unworthy its care in
the distribution

Chapter XXIX. The equal dealings of providence demonstrated with regard
to the happy and the miserable here below. That from the nature of
pleasure and pain, the wretched must be repaid the balance of their
sufferings in the life hereafter

Chapter XXX. Happier prospects begin to appear. Let us be inflexible,
and fortune will at last change in our favour

Chapter XXXI. Former benevolence now repaid with unexpected interest

Chapter XXXII. The Conclusion




CHAPTER I.


The description of the family of Wakefield; in which a kindred likeness
prevails as well of minds as of persons.


I was ever of opinion, that the honest man who married and brought up a
large family, did more service than he who continued single, and only
talked of population. From this motive, I had scarce taken orders a
year before I began to think seriously of matrimony, and chose my wife
as she did her wedding gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but such
qualities as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a good-natured
notable woman; and as for breeding, there were few country ladies who
could shew more. She could read any English book without much spelling,
but for pickling, preserving, and cookery, none could excel her. She
prided herself also upon being an excellent contriver in house-keeping;
tho’ I could never find that we grew richer with all her contrivances.
However, we loved each other tenderly, and our fondness encreased as we
grew old. There was in fact nothing that could make us angry with the
world or each other. We had an elegant house, situated in a fine
country, and a good neighbourhood. The year was spent in moral or rural
amusements; in visiting our rich neighbours, and relieving such as were
poor. We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo; all our
adventures were by the fire-side, and all our migrations from the blue
bed to the brown.

As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or stranger visit
us to taste our gooseberry wine, for which we had great reputation; and
I profess with the veracity of an historian, that I never knew one of
them find fault with it. Our cousins too, even to the fortieth remove,
all remembered their affinity, without any help from the Herald’s
office, and came very frequently to see us. Some of them did us no
great honour by these claims of kindred; as we had the blind, the
maimed, and the halt amongst the number. However, my wife always
insisted that as they were the same _flesh and blood_, they should sit
with us at the same table. So that if we had not, very rich, we
generally had very happy friends about us; for this remark will hold
good thro’ life, that the poorer the guest, the better pleased he ever
is with being treated: and as some men gaze with admiration at the
colours of a tulip, or the wing of a butterfly, so I was by nature an
admirer of happy human faces. However, when any one of our relations
was found to be a person of very bad character, a troublesome guest, or
one we desired to get rid of, upon his leaving my house, I ever took
care to lend him a riding coat, or a pair of boots, or sometimes an
horse of small value, and I always had the satisfaction of finding he
never came back to return them. By this the house was cleared of such
as we did not like; but never was the family of Wakefield known to turn
the traveller or the poor dependent out of doors.

Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness, not but that
we sometimes had those little rubs which Providence sends to enhance
the value of its favours. My orchard was often robbed by school-boys,
and my wife’s custards plundered by the cats or the children. The
’Squire would sometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my
sermon, or his lady return my wife’s civilities at church with a
mutilated curtesy. But we soon got over the uneasiness caused by such
accidents, and usually in three or four days began to wonder how they
vext us.

My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were educated without
softness, so they were at once well formed and healthy; my sons hardy
and active, my daughters beautiful and blooming. When I stood in the
midst of the little circle, which promised to be the supports of my
declining age, I could not avoid repeating the famous story of Count
Abensberg, who, in Henry II’s progress through Germany, while other
courtiers came with their treasures, brought his thirty-two children,
and presented them to his sovereign as the most valuable offering he
had to bestow. In this manner, though I had but six, I considered them
as a very valuable present made to my country, and consequently looked
upon it as my debtor. Our eldest son was named George, after his uncle,
who left us ten thousand pounds. Our second child, a girl, I intended
to call after her aunt Grissel; but my wife, who during her pregnancy
had been reading romances, insisted upon her being called Olivia. In
less than another year we had another daughter, and now I was
determined that Grissel should be her name; but a rich relation taking
a fancy to stand godmother, the girl was, by her directions, called
Sophia; so that we had two romantic names in the family; but I solemnly
protest I had no hand in it. Moses was our next, and after an interval
of twelve years, we had two sons more.

It would be fruitless to deny my exultation when I saw my little ones
about me; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my wife were even
greater than mine. When our visitors would say, ‘Well, upon my word,
Mrs Primrose, you have the finest children in the whole country.’—‘Ay,
neighbour,’ she would answer, ‘they are as heaven made them, handsome
enough, if they be good enough; for handsome is that handsome does.’
And then she would bid the girls hold up their heads; who, to conceal
nothing, were certainly very handsome. Mere outside is so very trifling
a circumstance with me, that I should scarce have remembered to mention
it, had it not been a general topic of conversation in the country.
Olivia, now about eighteen, had that luxuriancy of beauty with which
painters generally draw Hebe; open, sprightly, and commanding. Sophia’s
features were not so striking at first; but often did more certain
execution; for they were soft, modest, and alluring. The one vanquished
by a single blow, the other by efforts successfully repeated.

The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of her
features, at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia wished for many
lovers, Sophia to secure one. Olivia was often affected from too great
a desire to please. Sophia even represt excellence from her fears to
offend. The one entertained me with her vivacity when I was gay, the
other with her sense when I was serious. But these qualities were never
carried to excess in either, and I have often seen them exchange
characters for a whole day together. A suit of mourning has transformed
my coquet into a prude, and a new set of ribbands has given her younger
sister more than natural vivacity. My eldest son George was bred at
Oxford, as I intended him for one of the learned professions. My second
boy Moses, whom I designed for business, received a sort of a
miscellaneous education at home. But it is needless to attempt
describing the particular characters of young people that had seen but
very little of the world. In short, a family likeness prevailed through
all, and properly speaking, they had but one character, that of being
all equally generous, credulous, simple, and inoffensive.




CHAPTER II.


Family misfortunes. The loss of fortune only serves to encrease the
pride of the worthy.


The temporal concerns of our family were chiefly committed to my wife’s
management, as to the spiritual I took them entirely under my own
direction. The profits of my living, which amounted to but thirty-five
pounds a year, I made over to the orphans and widows of the clergy of
our diocese; for having a sufficient fortune of my own, I was careless
of temporalities, and felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty without
reward. I also set a resolution of keeping no curate, and of being
acquainted with every man in the parish, exhorting the married men to
temperance and the bachelors to matrimony; so that in a few years it
was a common saying, that there were three strange wants at Wakefield,
a parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives, and ale-houses wanting
customers. Matrimony was always one of my favourite topics, and I wrote
several sermons to prove its happiness: but there was a peculiar tenet
which I made a point of supporting; for I maintained with Whiston, that
it was unlawful for a priest of the church of England, after the death
of his first wife, to take a second, or to express it in one word, I
valued myself upon being a strict monogamist. I was early innitiated
into this important dispute, on which so many laborious volumes have
been written. I published some tracts upon the subject myself, which,
as they never sold, I have the consolation of thinking are read only by
the happy Few. Some of my friends called this my weak side; but alas!
they had not like me made it the subject of long contemplation. The
more I reflected upon it, the more important it appeared. I even went a
step beyond Whiston in displaying my principles: as he had engraven
upon his wife’s tomb that she was the _only_ wife of William Whiston;
so I wrote a similar epitaph for my wife, though still living, in which
I extolled her prudence, oeconomy, and obedience till death; and having
got it copied fair, with an elegant frame, it was placed over the
chimney-piece, where it answered several very useful purposes. It
admonished my wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity to her; it
inspired her with a passion for fame, and constantly put her in mind of
her end.

It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often recommended, that
my eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed his affections upon the
daughter of a neighbouring clergyman, who was a dignitary in the
church, and in circumstances to give her a large fortune: but fortune
was her smallest accomplishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by
all, except my two daughters, to be completely pretty. Her youth,
health, and innocence, were still heightened by a complexion so
transparent, and such an happy sensibility of look, as even age could
not gaze on with indifference. As Mr Wilmot knew that I could make a
very handsome settlement on my son, he was not averse to the match; so
both families lived together in all that harmony which generally
precedes an expected alliance. Being convinced by experience that the
days of courtship are the most happy of our lives, I was willing enough
to lengthen the period; and the various amusements which the young
couple every day shared in each other’s company, seemed to encrease
their passion. We were generally awaked in the morning by music, and on
fine days rode a hunting. The hours between breakfast and dinner the
ladies devoted to dress and study: they usually read a page, and then
gazed at themselves in the glass, which even philosophers might own
often presented the page of greatest beauty. At dinner my wife took the
lead; for as she always insisted upon carving every thing herself, it
being her mother’s way, she gave us upon these occasions the history of
every dish. When we had dined, to prevent the ladies leaving us, I
generally ordered the table to be removed; and sometimes, with the
music master’s assistance, the girls would give us a very agreeable
concert. Walking out, drinking tea, country dances, and forfeits,
shortened the rest of the day, without the assistance of cards, as I
hated all manner of gaming, except backgammon, at which my old friend
and I sometimes took a two-penny hit. Nor can I here pass over an
ominous circumstance that happened the last time we played together: I
only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I threw deuce ace five times
running. Some months were elapsed in this manner, till at last it was
thought convenient to fix a day for the nuptials of the young couple,
who seemed earnestly to desire it. During the preparations for the
wedding, I need not describe the busy importance of my wife, nor the
sly looks of my daughters: in fact, my attention was fixed on another
object, the completing a tract which I intended shortly to publish in
defence of my favourite principle. As I looked upon this as a
master-piece both for argument and style, I could not in the pride of
my heart avoid shewing it to my old friend Mr Wilmot, as I made no
doubt of receiving his approbation; but not till too late I discovered
that he was most violently attached to the contrary opinion, and with
good reason; for he was at that time actually courting a fourth wife.
This, as may be expected, produced a dispute attended with some
acrimony, which threatened to interrupt our intended alliance: but on
the day before that appointed for the ceremony, we agreed to discuss
the subject at large. It was managed with proper spirit on both sides:
he asserted that I was heterodox, I retorted the charge: he replied,
and I rejoined. In the mean time, while the controversy was hottest, I
was called out by one of my relations, who, with a face of concern,
advised me to give up the dispute, at least till my son’s wedding was
over. ‘How,’ cried I, ‘relinquish the cause of truth, and let him be an
husband, already driven to the very verge of absurdity. You might as
well advise me to give up my fortune as my argument.’ ‘Your fortune,’
returned my friend, ‘I am now sorry to inform you, is almost nothing.
The merchant in town, in whose hands your money was lodged, has gone
off, to avoid a statute of bankruptcy, and is thought not to have left
a shilling in the pound. I was unwilling to shock you or the family
with the account till after the wedding: but now it may serve to
moderate your warmth in the argument; for, I suppose, your own prudence
will enforce the necessity of dissembling at least till your son has
the young lady’s fortune secure.’—‘Well,’ returned I, ‘if what you tell
me be true, and if I am to be a beggar, it shall never make me a
rascal, or induce me to disavow my principles. I’ll go this moment and
inform the company of my circumstances; and as for the argument, I even
here retract my former concessions in the old gentleman’s favour, nor
will I allow him now to be an husband in any sense of the expression.’

It would be endless to describe the different sensations of both
families when I divulged the news of our misfortune; but what others
felt was slight to what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr Wilmot, who
seemed before sufficiently inclined to break off the match, was by this
blow soon determined: one virtue he had in perfection, which was
prudence, too often the only one that is left us at seventy-two.




CHAPTER III.


A migration. The fortunate circumstances of our lives are generally
found at last to be of our own procuring.


The only hope of our family now was, that the report of our misfortunes
might be malicious or premature: but a letter from my agent in town
soon came with a confirmation of every particular. The loss of fortune
to myself alone would have been trifling; the only uneasiness I felt
was for my family, who were to be humble without an education to render
them callous to contempt.

Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to restrain their
affliction; for premature consolation is but the remembrancer of
sorrow. During this interval, my thoughts were employed on some future
means of supporting them; and at last a small Cure of fifteen pounds a
year was offered me in a distant neighbourhood, where I could still
enjoy my principles without molestation. With this proposal I joyfully
closed, having determined to encrease my salary by managing a little
farm.

Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get together the
wrecks of my fortune; and all debts collected and paid, out of fourteen
thousand pounds we had but four hundred remaining. My chief attention
therefore was now to bring down the pride of my family to their
circumstances; for I well knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness
itself. ‘You cannot be ignorant, my children,’ cried I, ‘that no
prudence of ours could have prevented our late misfortune; but prudence
may do much in disappointing its effects. We are now poor, my
fondlings, and wisdom bids us conform to our humble situation. Let us
then, without repining, give up those splendours with which numbers are
wretched, and seek in humbler circumstances that peace with which all
may be happy. The poor live pleasantly without our help, why then
should not we learn to live without theirs. No, my children, let us
from this moment give up all pretensions to gentility; we have still
enough left for happiness if we are wise, and let us draw upon content
for the deficiencies of fortune.’ As my eldest son was bred a scholar,
I determined to send him to town, where his abilities might contribute
to our support and his own. The separation of friends and families is,
perhaps, one of the most distressful circumstances attendant on penury.
The day soon arrived on which we were to disperse for the first time.
My son, after taking leave of his mother and the rest, who mingled
their tears with their kisses, came to ask a blessing from me. This I
gave him from my heart, and which, added to five guineas, was all the
patrimony I had now to bestow. ‘You are going, my boy,’ cried I, ‘to
London on foot, in the manner Hooker, your great ancestor, travelled
there before you. Take from me the same horse that was given him by the
good bishop Jewel, this staff, and take this book too, it will be your
comfort on the way: these two lines in it are worth a million, _I have
been young, and now am old; yet never saw I the righteous man forsaken,
or his seed begging their bread_. Let this be your consolation as you
travel on. Go, my boy, whatever be thy fortune let me see thee once a
year; still keep a good heart, and farewell.’ As he was possest of
integrity and honour, I was under no apprehensions from throwing him
naked into the amphitheatre of life; for I knew he would act a good
part whether vanquished or victorious. His departure only prepared the
way for our own, which arrived a few days afterwards. The leaving a
neighbourhood in which we had enjoyed so many hours of tranquility, was
not without a tear, which scarce fortitude itself could suppress.
Besides, a journey of seventy miles to a family that had hitherto never
been above ten from home, filled us with apprehension, and the cries of
the poor, who followed us for some miles, contributed to encrease it.
The first day’s journey brought us in safety within thirty miles of our
future retreat, and we put up for the night at an obscure inn in a
village by the way. When we were shewn a room, I desired the landlord,
in my usual way, to let us have his company, with which he complied, as
what he drank would encrease the bill next morning. He knew, however,
the whole neighbourhood to which I was removing, particularly ’Squire
Thornhill, who was to be my landlord, and who lived within a few miles
of the place. This gentleman he described as one who desired to know
little more of the world than its pleasures, being particularly
remarkable for his attachment to the fair sex. He observed that no
virtue was able to resist his arts and assiduity, and that scarce a
farmer’s daughter within ten miles round but what had found him
successful and faithless. Though this account gave me some pain, it had
a very different effect upon my daughters, whose features seemed to
brighten with the expectation of an approaching triumph, nor was my
wife less pleased and confident of their allurements and virtue. While
our thoughts were thus employed, the hostess entered the room to inform
her husband, that the strange gentleman, who had been two days in the
house, wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his reckoning.
‘Want money!’ replied the host, ‘that must be impossible; for it was no
later than yesterday he paid three guineas to our beadle to spare an
old broken soldier that was to be whipped through the town for
dog-stealing.’ The hostess, however, still persisting in her first
assertion, he was preparing to leave the room, swearing that he would
be satisfied one way or another, when I begged the landlord would
introduce me to a stranger of so much charity as he described. With
this he complied, shewing in a gentleman who seemed to be about thirty,
drest in cloaths that once were laced. His person was well formed, and
his face marked with the lines of thinking. He had something short and
dry in his address, and seemed not to understand ceremony, or to
despise it. Upon the landlord’s leaving the room, I could not avoid
expressing my concern to the stranger at seeing a gentleman in such
circumstances, and offered him my purse to satisfy the present demand.
‘I take it with all my heart, Sir,’ replied he, ‘and am glad that a
late oversight in giving what money I had about me, has shewn me that
there are still some men like you. I must, however, previously entreat
being informed of the name and residence of my benefactor, in order to
repay him as soon as possible.’ In this I satisfied him fully, not only
mentioning my name and late misfortunes, but the place to which I was
going to remove. ‘This,’ cried he, ‘happens still more luckily than I
hoped for, as I am going the same way myself, having been detained here
two days by the floods, which, I hope, by to-morrow will be found
passable.’ I testified the pleasure I should have in his company, and
my wife and daughters joining in entreaty, he was prevailed upon to
stay supper. The stranger’s conversation, which was at once pleasing
and instructive, induced me to wish for a continuance of it; but it was
now high time to retire and take refreshment against the fatigues of
the following day.

The next morning we all set forward together: my family on horseback,
while Mr Burchell, our new companion, walked along the foot-path by the
road-side, observing, with a smile, that as we were ill mounted, he
would be too generous to attempt leaving us behind. As the floods were
not yet subsided, we were obliged to hire a guide, who trotted on
before, Mr Burchell and I bringing up the rear. We lightened the
fatigues of the road with philosophical disputes, which he seemed to
understand perfectly. But what surprised me most was, that though he
was a money-borrower, he defended his opinions with as much obstinacy
as if he had been my patron. He now and then also informed me to whom
the different seats belonged that lay in our view as we travelled the
road. ‘That,’ cried he, pointing to a very magnificent house which
stood at some distance, ‘belongs to Mr Thornhill, a young gentleman who
enjoys a large fortune, though entirely dependent on the will of his
uncle, Sir William Thornhill, a gentleman, who content with a little
himself, permits his nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in
town.’ ‘What!’ cried I, ‘is my young landlord then the nephew of a man
whose virtues, generosity, and singularities are so universally known?
I have heard Sir William Thornhill represented as one of the most
generous, yet whimsical, men in the kingdom; a man of consumate
benevolence’—‘Something, perhaps, too much so,’ replied Mr Burchell,
‘at least he carried benevolence to an excess when young; for his
passions were then strong, and as they all were upon the side of
virtue, they led it up to a romantic extreme. He early began to aim at
the qualifications of the soldier and scholar; was soon distinguished
in the army and had some reputation among men of learning. Adulation
ever follows the ambitious; for such alone receive most pleasure from
flattery. He was surrounded with crowds, who shewed him only one side
of their character; so that he began to lose a regard for private
interest in universal sympathy. He loved all mankind; for fortune
prevented him from knowing that there were rascals. Physicians tell us
of a disorder in which the whole body is so exquisitely sensible, that
the slightest touch gives pain: what some have thus suffered in their
persons, this gentleman felt in his mind. The slightest distress,
whether real or fictitious, touched him to the quick, and his soul
laboured under a sickly sensibility of the miseries of others. Thus
disposed to relieve, it will be easily conjectured, he found numbers
disposed to solicit: his profusions began to impair his fortune, but
not his good-nature; that, indeed, was seen to encrease as the other
seemed to decay: he grew improvident as he grew poor; and though he
talked like a man of sense, his actions were those of a fool. Still,
however, being surrounded with importunity, and no longer able to
satisfy every request that was made him, instead of money he gave
promises. They were all he had to bestow, and he had not resolution
enough to give any man pain by a denial. By this he drew round him
crowds of dependants, whom he was sure to disappoint; yet wished to
relieve. These hung upon him for a time, and left him with merited
reproaches and contempt. But in proportion as he became contemptable to
others, he became despicable to himself. His mind had leaned upon their
adulation, and that support taken away, he could find no pleasure in
the applause of his heart, which he had never learnt to reverence. The
world now began to wear a different aspect; the flattery of his friends
began to dwindle into simple approbation. Approbation soon took the
more friendly form of advice, and advice when rejected produced their
reproaches. He now, therefore found that such friends as benefits had
gathered round him, were little estimable: he now found that a man’s
own heart must be ever given to gain that of another. I now found,
that—that—I forget what I was going to observe: in short, sir, he
resolved to respect himself, and laid down a plan of restoring his
falling fortune. For this purpose, in his own whimsical manner he
travelled through Europe on foot, and now, though he has scarce
attained the age of thirty, his circumstances are more affluent than
ever. At present, his bounties are more rational and moderate than
before; but still he preserves the character of an humourist, and finds
most pleasure in eccentric virtues.’

My attention was so much taken up by Mr Burchell’s account, that I
scarce looked forward as we went along, til we were alarmed by the
cries of my family, when turning, I perceived my youngest daughter in
the midst of a rapid stream, thrown from her horse, and struggling with
the torrent. She had sunk twice, nor was it in my power to disengage
myself in time to bring her relief. My sensations were even too violent
to permit my attempting her rescue: she must have certainly perished
had not my companion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to
her relief, and with some difficulty, brought her in safety to the
opposite shore. By taking the current a little farther up, the rest of
the family got safely over; where we had an opportunity of joining our
acknowledgments to her’s. Her gratitude may be more readily imagined
than described: she thanked her deliverer more with looks than words,
and continued to lean upon his arm, as if still willing to receive
assistance. My wife also hoped one day to have the pleasure of
returning his kindness at her own house. Thus, after we were refreshed
at the next inn, and had dined together, as Mr Burchell was going to a
different part of the country, he took leave; and we pursued our
journey. My wife observing as we went, that she liked him extremely,
and protesting, that if he had birth and fortune to entitle him to
match into such a family as our’s, she knew no man she would sooner fix
upon. I could not but smile to hear her talk in this lofty strain: but
I was never much displeased with those harmless delusions that tend to
make us more happy.




CHAPTER IV.


A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant happiness, which
depends not on circumstance, but constitution.


The place of our retreat was in a little neighbourhood, consisting of
farmers, who tilled their own grounds, and were equal strangers to
opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the conveniencies of life
within themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities in search of
superfluity. Remote from the polite, they still retained the primaeval
simplicity of manners, and frugal by habit, they scarce knew that
temperance was a virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of
labour; but observed festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure.
They kept up the Christmas carol, sent true love-knots on Valentine
morning, eat pancakes on Shrove-tide, shewed their wit on the first of
April, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. Being apprized
of our approach, the whole neighbourhood came out to meet their
minister, drest in their finest cloaths, and preceded by a pipe and
tabor: A feast also was provided for our reception, at which we sat
cheerfully down; and what the conversation wanted in wit, was made up
in laughter.

Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping hill,
sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a pratling river
before; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted
of about twenty acres of excellent land, having given an hundred pound
for my predecessor’s good-will. Nothing could exceed the neatness of my
little enclosures: the elms and hedge rows appearing with inexpressible
beauty. My house consisted of but one story, and was covered with
thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness; the walls on the inside
were nicely white-washed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them with
pictures of their own designing. Though the same room served us for
parlour and kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it was
kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers, being
well scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the eye
was agreeably relieved, and did not want richer furniture. There were
three other apartments, one for my wife and me, another for our two
daughters, within our own, and the third, with two beds, for the rest
of the children.

The little republic to which I gave laws, was regulated in the
following manner: by sun-rise we all assembled in our common
apartment; the fire being previously kindled by the servant. After we
had saluted each other with proper ceremony, for I always thought fit
to keep up some mechanical forms of good breeding, without which
freedom ever destroys friendship, we all bent in gratitude to that
Being who gave us another day. This duty being performed, my son and I
went to pursue our usual industry abroad, while my wife and daughters
employed themselves in providing breakfast, which was always ready at a
certain time. I allowed half an hour for this meal, and an hour for
dinner; which time was taken up in innocent mirth between my wife and
daughters, and in philosophical arguments between my son and me.

As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labours after it was
gone down, but returned home to the expecting family; where smiling
looks, a treat hearth, and pleasant fire, were prepared for our
reception. Nor were we without guests: sometimes farmer Flamborough,
our talkative neighbour, and often the blind piper, would pay us a
visit, and taste our gooseberry wine; for the making of which we had
lost neither the receipt nor the reputation. These harmless people had
several ways of being good company, while one played, the other would
sing some soothing ballad, Johnny Armstrong’s last good night, or the
cruelty of Barbara Allen. The night was concluded in the manner we
began the morning, my youngest boys being appointed to read the lessons
of the day, and he that read loudest, distinctest, and best, was to
have an half-penny on Sunday to put in the poor’s box.

When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, which all my sumptuary
edicts could not restrain. How well so ever I fancied my lectures
against pride had conquered the vanity of my daughters; yet I still
found them secretly attached to all their former finery: they still
loved laces, ribbands, bugles and catgut; my wife herself retained a
passion for her crimson paduasoy, because I formerly happened to say it
became her.

The first Sunday in particular their behaviour served to mortify me: I
had desired my girls the preceding night to be drest early the next
day; for I always loved to be at church a good while before the rest of
the congregation. They punctually obeyed my directions; but when we
were to assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and
daughters, drest out in all their former splendour: their hair
plaistered up with pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains
bundled up into an heap behind, and rustling at every motion. I could
not help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from
whom I expected more discretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only
resource was to order my son, with an important air, to call our coach.
The girls were amazed at the command; but I repeated it with more
solemnity than before.—‘Surely, my dear, you jest,’ cried my wife, ‘we
can walk it perfectly well: we want no coach to carry us now.’ ‘You
mistake, child,’ returned I, ‘we do want a coach; for if we walk to
church in this trim, the very children in the parish will hoot after
us.’—‘Indeed,’ replied my wife, ‘I always imagined that my Charles was
fond of seeing his children neat and handsome about him.’—‘You may be
as neat as you please,’ interrupted I, ‘and I shall love you the better
for it, but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These rufflings,
and pinkings, and patchings, will only make us hated by all the wives
of all our neighbours. No, my children,’ continued I, more gravely,
‘those gowns may be altered into something of a plainer cut; for finery
is very unbecoming in us, who want the means of decency. I do not know
whether such flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the rich, if
we consider, upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the
indigent world may be cloathed from the trimmings of the vain.’

This remonstrance had the proper effect; they went with great
composure, that very instant, to change their dress; and the next day I
had the satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own request
employed in cutting up their trains into Sunday waistcoats for Dick and
Bill, the two little ones, and what was still more satisfactory, the
gowns seemed improved by this curtailing.




CHAPTER V.


A new and great acquaintance introduced. What we place most hopes upon,
generally proves most fatal.


At a small distance from the house my predecessor had made a seat,
overshaded by an hedge of hawthorn and honeysuckle. Here, when the
weather was fine, and our labour soon finished, we usually sate
together, to enjoy an extensive landscape, in the calm of the evening.
Here too we drank tea, which now was become an occasional banquet; and
as we had it but seldom, it diffused a new joy, the preparations for it
being made with no small share of bustle and ceremony. On these
occasions, our two little ones always read for us, and they were
regularly served after we had done. Sometimes, to give a variety to our
amusements, the girls sung to the guitar; and while they thus formed a
little concert, my wife and I would stroll down the sloping field, that
was embellished with blue bells and centaury, talk of our children with
rapture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both health and harmony.

In this manner we began to find that every situation in life might
bring its own peculiar pleasures: every morning waked us to a
repetition of toil; but the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity.

It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holiday, for I kept such as
intervals of relaxation from labour, that I had drawn out my family to
our usual place of amusement, and our young musicians began their usual
concert. As we were thus engaged, we saw a stag bound nimbly by, within
about twenty paces of where we were sitting, and by its panting, it
seemed prest by the hunters. We had not much time to reflect upon the
poor animal’s distress, when we perceived the dogs and horsemen come
sweeping along at some distance behind, and making the very path it had
taken. I was instantly for returning in with my family; but either
curiosity or surprize, or some more hidden motive, held my wife and
daughters to their seats. The huntsman, who rode foremost, past us with
great swiftness, followed by four or five persons more, who seemed in
equal haste. At last, a young gentleman of a more genteel appearance
than the rest, came forward, and for a while regarding us, instead of
pursuing the chace, stopt short, and giving his horse to a servant who
attended, approached us with a careless superior air. He seemed to want
no introduction, but was going to salute my daughters as one certain of
a kind reception; but they had early learnt the lesson of looking
presumption out of countenance. Upon which he let us know that his name
was Thornhill, and that he was owner of the estate that lay for some
extent round us. He again, therefore, offered to salute the female part
of the family, and such was the power of fortune and fine cloaths, that
he found no second repulse. As his address, though confident, was easy,
we soon became more familiar; and perceiving musical instruments lying
near, he begged to be favoured with a song. As I did not approve of
such disproportioned acquaintances, I winked upon my daughters in order
to prevent their compliance; but my hint was counteracted by one from
their mother; so that with a chearful air they gave us, a favourite
song of Dryden’s. Mr Thornhill seemed highly delighted with their
performance and choice, and then took up the guitar himself. He played
but very indifferently; however, my eldest daughter repaid his former
applause with interest, and assured him that his tones were louder than
even those of her master. At this compliment he bowed, which she
returned with a curtesy. He praised her taste, and she commended his
understanding: an age could not have made them better acquainted. While
the fond mother too, equally happy, insisted upon her landlord’s
stepping in, and tasting a glass of her gooseberry. The whole family
seemed earnest to please him: my girls attempted to entertain him with
topics they thought most modern, while Moses, on the contrary, gave him
a question or two from the ancients, for which he had the satisfaction
of being laughed at: my little ones were no less busy, and fondly stuck
close to the stranger. All my endeavours could scarce keep their dirty
fingers from handling and tarnishing the lace on his cloaths, and
lifting up the flaps of his pocket holes, to see what was there. At the
approach of evening he took leave; but not till he had requested
permission to renew his visit, which, as he was our landlord, we most
readily agreed to.

As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council on the conduct of the
day. She was of opinion, that it was a most fortunate hit; for that
she had known even stranger things at last brought to bear. She hoped
again to see the day in which we might hold up our heads with the best
of them; and concluded, she protested she could see no reason why
the two Miss Wrinklers should marry great fortunes, and her children
get none. As this last argument was directed to me, I protested I
could see no reason for it neither, nor why Mr Simpkins got the ten
thousand pound prize in the lottery, and we sate down with a blank.
‘I protest, Charles,’ cried my wife, ‘this is the way you always damp
my girls and me when we are in Spirits. Tell me, Sophy, my dear, what
do you think of our new visitor? Don’t you think he seemed to be
good-natured?’—‘Immensely so, indeed, Mamma,’ replied she. ‘I think
he has a great deal to say upon every thing, and is never at a loss;
and the more trifling the subject, the more he has to say.’—‘Yes,’
cried Olivia, ‘he is well enough for a man; but for my part, I don’t
much like him, he is so extremely impudent and familiar; but on the
guitar he is shocking.’ These two last speeches I interpreted by
contraries. I found by this, that Sophia internally despised, as much
as Olivia secretly admired him.—‘Whatever may be your opinions of him,
my children,’ cried I, ‘to confess a truth, he has not prepossest me
in his favour. Disproportioned friendships ever terminate in disgust;
and I thought, notwithstanding all his ease, that he seemed perfectly
sensible of the distance between us. Let us keep to companions of our
own rank. There is no character more contemptible than a man that
is a fortune-hunter, and I can see no reason why fortune-hunting
women should not be contemptible too. Thus, at best, we shall be
contemptible if his views be honourable; but if they be otherwise! I
should shudder but to think of that! It is true I have no apprehensions
from the conduct of my children, but I think there are some from his
character.’—I would have proceeded, but for the interruption of a
servant from the ’Squire, who, with his compliments, sent us a side of
venison, and a promise to dine with us some days after. This well-timed
present pleaded more powerfully in his favour, than any thing I had to
say could obviate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied with just
having pointed out danger, and leaving it to their own discretion to
avoid it. That virtue which requires to be ever guarded, is scarce
worth the centinel.




CHAPTER VI.


The happiness of a country fire-side.


As we carried on the former dispute with some degree of warmth, in
order to accommodate matters, it was universally agreed, that we should
have a part of the venison for supper, and the girls undertook the task
with alacrity. ‘I am sorry,’ cried I, ‘that we have no neighbour or
stranger to take a part in this good cheer: feasts of this kind acquire
a double relish from hospitality.’—‘Bless me,’ cried my wife, ‘here
comes our good friend Mr Burchell, that saved our Sophia, and that run
you down fairly in the argument’—‘Confute me in argument, child!’ cried
I. ‘You mistake there, my dear. I believe there are but few that can do
that: I never dispute your abilities at making a goose-pye, and I beg
you’ll leave argument to me.’—As I spoke, poor Mr Burchell entered the
house, and was welcomed by the family, who shook him heartily by the
hand, while little Dick officiously reached him a chair.

I was pleased with the poor man’s friendship for two reasons; because I
knew that he wanted mine, and I knew him to be friendly as far as he
was able. He was known in our neighbourhood by the character of the
poor Gentleman that would do no good when he was young, though he was
not yet thirty. He would at intervals talk with great good sense; but
in general he was fondest of the company of children, whom he used to
call harmless little men. He was famous, I found, for singing them
ballads, and telling them stories; and seldom went out without
something in his pockets for them, a piece of gingerbread, or an
halfpenny whistle. He generally came for a few days into our
neighbourhood once a year, and lived upon the neighbours hospitality.
He sate down to supper among us, and my wife was not sparing of her
gooseberry wine. The tale went round; he sung us old songs, and gave
the children the story of the Buck of Beverland, with the history of
Patient Grissel, the adventures of Catskin, and then Fair Rosamond’s
bower. Our cock, which always crew at eleven, now told us it was time
for repose; but an unforeseen difficulty started about lodging the
stranger: all our beds were already taken up, and it was too late to
send him to the next alehouse. In this dilemma, little Dick offered him
his part of the bed, if his brother Moses would let him lie with him;
‘And I,’ cried Bill, ‘will give Mr Burchell my part, if my sisters will
take me to theirs.’—‘Well done, my good children,’ cried I,
‘hospitality is one of the first Christian duties. The beast retires to
its shelter, and the bird flies to its nest; but helpless man can only
find refuge from his fellow creature. The greatest stranger in this
world, was he that came to save it. He never had an house, as if
willing to see what hospitality was left remaining amongst us. Deborah,
my dear,’ cried I, to my wife, ‘give those boys a lump of sugar each,
and let Dick’s be the largest, because he spoke first.’

In the morning early I called out my whole family to help at saving an
after-growth of hay, and, our guest offering his assistance, he was
accepted among the number. Our labours went on lightly, we turned the
swath to the wind, I went foremost, and the rest followed in due
succession. I could not avoid, however, observing the assiduity of Mr
Burchell in assisting my daughter Sophia in her part of the task. When
he had finished his own, he would join in hers, and enter into a close
conversation: but I had too good an opinion of Sophia’s understanding,
and was too well convinced of her ambition, to be under any uneasiness
from a man of broken fortune. When we were finished for the day, Mr
Burchell was invited as on the night before; but he refused, as he was
to lie that night at a neighbour’s, to whose child he was carrying a
whistle. When gone, our conversation at supper turned upon our late
unfortunate guest. ‘What a strong instance,’ said I, ‘is that poor man
of the miseries attending a youth of levity and extravagance. He by no
means wants sense, which only serves to aggravate his former folly.
Poor forlorn creature, where are now the revellers, the flatterers,
that he could once inspire and command! Gone, perhaps, to attend the
bagnio pander, grown rich by his extravagance. They once praised him,
and now they applaud the pander: their former raptures at his wit, are
now converted into sarcasms at his folly: he is poor, and perhaps
deserves poverty; for he has neither the ambition to be independent,
nor the skill to be useful.’ Prompted, perhaps, by some secret reasons,
I delivered this observation with too much acrimony, which my Sophia
gently reproved. ‘Whatsoever his former conduct may be, pappa, his
circumstances should exempt him from censure now. His present indigence
is a sufficient punishment for former folly; and I have heard my pappa
himself say, that we should never strike our unnecessary blow at a
victim over whom providence holds the scourge of its resentment.’—‘You
are right, Sophy,’ cried my son Moses, ‘and one of the ancients finely
represents so malicious a conduct, by the attempts of a rustic to flay
Marsyas, whose skin, the fable tells us, had been wholly stript off by
another.’ Besides, I don’t know if this poor man’s situation be so bad
as my father would represent it. We are not to judge of the feelings of
others by what we might feel if in their place. However dark the
habitation of the mole to our eyes, yet the animal itself finds the
apartment sufficiently lightsome. And to confess a truth, this man’s
mind seems fitted to his station; for I never heard any one more
sprightly than he was to-day, when he conversed with you.’—This was
said without the least design, however it excited a blush, which she
strove to cover by an affected laugh, assuring him, that she scarce
took any notice of what he said to her; but that she believed he might
once have been a very fine gentleman. The readiness with which she
undertook to vindicate herself, and her blushing, were symptoms I did
not internally approve; but I represt my suspicions.

As we expected our landlord the next day, my wife went to make the
venison pasty; Moses sate reading, while I taught the little ones: my
daughters seemed equally busy with the rest; and I observed them for a
good while cooking something over the fire. I at first supposed they
were assisting their mother; but little Dick informed me in a whisper,
that they were making a wash for the face. Washes of all kinds I had a
natural antipathy to; for I knew that instead of mending the complexion
they spoiled it. I therefore approached my chair by sly degrees to the
fire, and grasping the poker, as if it wanted mending, seemingly by
accident, overturned the whole composition, and it was too late to
begin another.




CHAPTER VII.


A town wit described. The dullest fellows may learn to be comical for a
night or two.


When the morning arrived on which we were to entertain our young
landlord, it may be easily supposed what provisions were exhausted to
make an appearance. It may also be conjectured that my wife and
daughters expanded their gayest plumage upon this occasion. Mr
Thornhill came with a couple of friends, his chaplain, and feeder. The
servants, who were numerous, he politely ordered to the next ale-house:
but my wife, in the triumph of her heart, insisted on entertaining them
all; for which, by the bye, our family was pinched for three weeks
after. As Mr Burchell had hinted to us the day before, that he was
making some proposals of marriage, to Miss Wilmot, my son George’s
former mistress, this a good deal damped the heartiness of his
reception: but accident, in some measure, relieved our embarrasment;
for one of the company happening to mention her name, Mr Thornhill
observed with an oath, that he never knew any thing more absurd than
calling such a fright a beauty: ‘For strike me ugly,’ continued he, ‘if
I should not find as much pleasure in choosing my mistress by the
information of a lamp under the clock at St Dunstan’s.’ At this he
laughed, and so did we:—the jests of the rich are ever successful.
Olivia too could not avoid whispering, loud enough to be heard, that he
had an infinite fund of humour. After dinner, I began with my usual
toast, the Church; for this I was thanked by the chaplain, as he said
the church was the only mistress of his affections.—‘Come tell us
honestly, Frank,’ said the ’Squire, with his usual archness, ‘suppose
the church, your present mistress, drest in lawnsleeves, on one hand,
and Miss Sophia, with no lawn about her, on the other, which would you
be for?’ ‘For both, to be sure,’ cried the chaplain.—‘Right Frank,’
cried the ’Squire; ‘for may this glass suffocate me but a fine girl is
worth all the priestcraft in the creation. For what are tythes and
tricks but an imposition, all a confounded imposture, and I can prove
it.’—‘I wish you would,’ cried my son Moses, ‘and I think,’ continued
he, ‘that I should be able to answer you.’—‘Very well, Sir,’ cried the
’Squire, who immediately smoaked him,’ and winking on the rest of the
company, to prepare us for the sport, if you are for a cool argument
upon that subject, I am ready to accept the challenge. And first,
whether are you for managing it analogically, or dialogically?’ ‘I am
for managing it rationally,’ cried Moses, quite happy at being
permitted to dispute. ‘Good again,’ cried the ’Squire, ‘and firstly, of
the first. I hope you’ll not deny that whatever is, is. If you don’t
grant me that, I can go no further.’—‘Why,’ returned Moses, ‘I think I
may grant that, and make the best of it.’—‘I hope too,’ returned the
other, ‘you’ll grant that a part is less than the whole.’ ‘I grant that
too,’ cried Moses, ‘it is but just and reasonable.’—‘I hope,’ cried the
’Squire, ‘you will not deny, that the two angles of a triangle are
equal to two right ones.’—‘Nothing can be plainer,’ returned t’other,
and looked round with his usual importance.—‘Very well,’ cried the
’Squire, speaking very quick, ‘the premises being thus settled, I
proceed to observe, that the concatenation of self existences,
proceeding in a reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally produce a
problematical dialogism, which in some measure proves that the essence
of spirituality may be referred to the second predicable’—‘Hold, hold,’
cried the other, ‘I deny that: Do you think I can thus tamely submit to
such heterodox doctrines?’—‘What,’ replied the ’Squire, as if in a
passion, ‘not submit! Answer me one plain question: Do you think
Aristotle right when he says, that relatives are related?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ replied the other.—‘If so then,’ cried the ’Squire,
‘answer me directly to what I propose: Whether do you judge the
analytical investigation of the first part of my enthymem deficient
secundum quoad, or quoad minus, and give me your reasons: give me your
reasons, I say, directly.’—‘I protest,’ cried Moses, ‘I don’t rightly
comprehend the force of your reasoning; but if it be reduced to one
simple proposition, I fancy it may then have an answer.’—‘O sir,’ cried
the ’Squire, ‘I am your most humble servant, I find you want me to
furnish you with argument and intellects too. No, sir, there I protest
you are too hard for me.’ This effectually raised the laugh against
poor Moses, who sate the only dismal figure in a groupe of merry faces:
nor, did he offer a single syllable more during the whole
entertainment.

But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a very different effect
upon Olivia, who mistook it for humour, though but a mere act of the
memory. She thought him therefore a very fine gentleman; and such as
consider what powerful ingredients a good figure, fine cloaths, and
fortune, are in that character, will easily forgive her. Mr Thornhill,
notwithstanding his real ignorance, talked with ease, and could
expatiate upon the common topics of conversation with fluency. It is
not surprising then that such talents should win the affections of a
girl, who by education was taught to value an appearance in herself,
and consequently to set a value upon it in another.

Upon his departure, we again entered into a debate upon the merits of
our young landlord. As he directed his looks and conversation to
Olivia, it was no longer doubted but that she was the object that
induced him to be our visitor. Nor did she seem to be much displeased
at the innocent raillery of her brother and sister upon this occasion.
Even Deborah herself seemed to share the glory of the day, and exulted
in her daughter’s victory as if it were her own. ‘And now, my dear,’
cried she to me, ‘I’ll fairly own, that it was I that instructed my
girls to encourage our landlord’s addresses. I had always some
ambition, and you now see that I was right; for who knows how this may
end?’ ‘Ay, who knows that indeed,’ answered I, with a groan: ‘for my
part I don’t much like it; and I could have been better pleased with
one that was poor and honest, than this fine gentleman with his fortune
and infidelity; for depend on’t, if he be what I suspect him, no
free-thinker shall ever have a child of mine.’ ‘Sure, father,’ cried
Moses, ‘you are too severe in this; for heaven will never arraign him
for what he thinks, but for what he does. Every man has a thousand
vicious thoughts, which arise without his power to suppress. Thinking
freely of religion, may be involuntary with this gentleman: so that
allowing his sentiments to be wrong, yet as he is purely passive in his
assent, he is no more to be blamed for his errors than the governor of
a city without walls for the shelter he is obliged to afford an
invading enemy.’

‘True, my son,’ cried I; ‘but if the governor invites the enemy, there
he is justly culpable. And such is always the case with those who
embrace error. The vice does not lie in assenting to the proofs they
see; but in being blind to many of the proofs that offer. So that,
though our erroneous opinions be involuntary when formed, yet as we
have been wilfully corrupt, or very negligent in forming them, we
deserve punishment for our vice, or contempt for our folly.’ My wife
now kept up the conversation, though not the argument: she observed,
that several very prudent men of our acquaintance were free-thinkers,
and made very good husbands; and she knew some sensible girls that had
skill enough to make converts of their spouses: ‘And who knows, my
dear,’ continued she, ‘what Olivia may be able to do. The girl has a
great deal to say upon every subject, and to my knowledge is very well
skilled in controversy.’

‘Why, my dear, what controversy can she have read?’ cried I. ‘It does
not occur to me that I ever put such books into her hands: you
certainly over-rate her merit.’ ‘Indeed, pappa,’ replied Olivia, ‘she
does not: I have read a great deal of controversy. I have read the
disputes between Thwackum and Square; the controversy between Robinson
Crusoe and Friday the savage, and I am now employed in reading the
controversy in Religious courtship’—‘Very well,’ cried I, ‘that’s a
good girl, I find you are perfectly qualified for making converts, and
so go help your mother to make the gooseberry-pye.’




CHAPTER VIII.


An amour, which promises little good fortune, yet may be productive of
much.


The next morning we were again visited by Mr Burchell, though I began,
for certain reasons, to be displeased with the frequency of his return;
but I could not refuse him my company and fire-side. It is true his
labour more than requited his entertainment; for he wrought among us
with vigour, and either in the meadow or at the hay-rick put himself
foremost. Besides, he had always something amusing to say that lessened
our toil, and was at once so out of the way, and yet so sensible, that
I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dislike arose from an
attachment he discovered to my daughter: he would, in a jesting manner,
call her his little mistress, and when he bought each of the girls a
set of ribbands, hers was the finest. I knew not how, but he every day
seemed to become more amiable, his wit to improve, and his simplicity
to assume the superior airs of wisdom.

Our family dined in the field, and we sate, or rather reclined, round a
temperate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, while Mr Burchell gave
cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction two blackbirds
answered each other from opposite hedges, the familiar redbreast came
and pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every sound seemed but the
echo of tranquillity. ‘I never sit thus,’ says Sophia, ‘but I think of
the two lovers, so sweetly described by Mr Gay, who were struck dead in
each other’s arms. There is something so pathetic in the description,
that I have read it an hundred times with new rapture.’—‘In my
opinion,’ cried my son, ‘the finest strokes in that description are
much below those in the Acis and Galatea of Ovid. The Roman poet
understands the use of _contrast_ better, and upon that figure artfully
managed all strength in the pathetic depends.’—‘It is remarkable,’
cried Mr Burchell, ‘that both the poets you mention have equally
contributed to introduce a false taste into their respective countries,
by loading all their lines with epithet. Men of little genius found
them most easily imitated in their defects, and English poetry, like
that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing at present but a
combination of luxuriant images, without plot or connexion; a string of
epithets that improve the sound, without carrying on the sense. But
perhaps, madam, while I thus reprehend others, you’ll think it just
that I should give them an opportunity to retaliate, and indeed I have
made this remark only to have an opportunity of introducing to the
company a ballad, which, whatever be its other defects, is I think at
least free from those I have mentioned.’

A BALLAD.


‘Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,
    And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale,
    With hospitable ray.

‘For here forlorn and lost I tread,
    With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds immeasurably spread,
    Seem lengthening as I go.’

‘Forbear, my son,’ the hermit cries,
    ‘To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
    To lure thee to thy doom.

‘Here to the houseless child of want,
    My door is open still;
And tho’ my portion is but scant,
    I give it with good will.

‘Then turn to-night, and freely share
    Whate’er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch, and frugal fare,
    My blessing and repose.

‘No flocks that range the valley free,
    To slaughter I condemn:
Taught by that power that pities me,
    I learn to pity them.

‘But from the mountain’s grassy side,
    A guiltless feast I bring;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supply’d,
    And water from the spring.

‘Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
    All earth-born cares are wrong:
Man wants but little here below,
    Nor wants that little long.’

Soft as the dew from heav’n descends,
    His gentle accents fell:
The modest stranger lowly bends,
    And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure
    The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
    And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
    Requir’d a master’s care;
The wicket opening with a latch,
    Receiv’d the harmless pair.

And now when busy crowds retire
    To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimm’d his little fire,
    And cheer’d his pensive guest:

And spread his vegetable store,
    And gayly prest, and smil’d;
And skill’d in legendary lore,
    The lingering hours beguil’d.

Around in sympathetic mirth
    Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups in the hearth;
    The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart
    To sooth the stranger’s woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
    And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the hermit spy’d,
    With answering care opprest:
‘And whence, unhappy youth,’ he cry’d,
    ‘The sorrows of thy breast?

‘From better habitations spurn’d,
    Reluctant dost thou rove;
Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d,
    Or unregarded love?

‘Alas! the joys that fortune brings,
    Are trifling and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things,
    More trifling still than they.

‘And what is friendship but a name,
    A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
    But leaves the wretch to weep?

‘And love is still an emptier sound,
    The modern fair one’s jest:
On earth unseen, or only found
    To warm the turtle’s nest.

‘For shame fond youth thy sorrows hush
    And spurn the sex,’ he said:
But while he spoke a rising blush
    His love-lorn guest betray’d.

Surpriz’d he sees new beauties rise,
    Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o’er the morning skies,
    As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,
    Alternate spread alarms:
The lovely stranger stands confest
    A maid in all her charms.

‘And, ah, forgive a stranger rude,
    A wretch forlorn,’ she cry’d;
‘Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude
    Where heaven and you reside.

‘But let a maid thy pity share,
    Whom love has taught to stray;
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
    Companion of her way.

‘My father liv’d beside the Tyne,
    A wealthy Lord was he;
And all his wealth was mark’d as mine,
    He had but only me.

‘To win me from his tender arms,
    Unnumber’d suitors came;
Who prais’d me for imputed charms,
    And felt or feign’d a flame.

‘Each hour a mercenary crowd,
    With richest proffers strove:
Among the rest young Edwin bow’d,
    But never talk’d of love.

‘In humble simplest habit clad,
    No wealth nor power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
    But these were all to me.

‘The blossom opening to the day,
    The dews of heaven refin’d,
Could nought of purity display,
    To emulate his mind.

‘The dew, the blossom on the tree,
    With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his, but woe to me,
    Their constancy was mine.

‘For still I try’d each fickle art,
    Importunate and vain;
And while his passion touch’d my heart,
    I triumph’d in his pain.

‘Till quite dejected with my scorn,
    He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
    In secret where he died.

‘But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
    And well my life shall pay;
I’ll seek the solitude he sought,
    And stretch me where he lay.

‘And there forlorn despairing hid,
    I’ll lay me down and die:
‘Twas so for me that Edwin did,
    And so for him will I.’

‘Forbid it heaven!’ the hermit cry’d,
    And clasp’d her to his breast:
The wondering fair one turn’d to chide,
    ‘Twas Edwin’s self that prest.

‘Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
    My charmer, turn to see,
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
    Restor’d to love and thee.

‘Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
    And ev’ry care resign:
And shall we never, never part,
    My life,—my all that’s mine.

‘No, never, from this hour to part,
    We’ll live and love so true;
The sigh that tends thy constant heart,
    Shall break thy Edwin’s too.’


While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an air of
tenderness with her approbation. But our tranquillity was soon
disturbed by the report of a gun just by us, and immediately after a
man was seen bursting through the hedge, to take up the game he had
killed. This sportsman was the ’Squire’s chaplain, who had shot one of
the blackbirds that so agreeably entertained us. So loud a report, and
so near, startled my daughters; and I could perceive that Sophia in the
fright had thrown herself into Mr Burchell’s arms for protection. The
gentleman came up, and asked pardon for having disturbed us, affirming
that he was ignorant of our being so near. He therefore sate down by my
youngest daughter, and, sportsman like, offered her what he had killed
that morning. She was going to refuse, but a private look from her
mother soon induced her to correct the mistake, and accept his present,
though with some reluctance. My wife, as usual, discovered her pride in
a whisper, observing, that Sophy had made a conquest of the chaplain,
as well as her sister had of the ’Squire. I suspected, however, with
more probability, that her affections were placed upon a different
object. The chaplain’s errand was to inform us, that Mr Thornhill had
provided music and refreshments, and intended that night giving the
young ladies a ball by moon-light, on the grass-plot before our door.
‘Nor can I deny,’ continued he, ‘but I have an interest in being first
to deliver this message, as I expect for my reward to be honoured with
miss Sophy’s hand as a partner.’ To this my girl replied, that she
should have no objection, if she could do it with honour: ‘But here,’
continued she, ‘is a gentleman,’ looking at Mr Burchell, ‘who has been
my companion in the task for the day, and it is fit he should share in
its amusements.’ Mr Burchell returned her a compliment for her
intentions; but resigned her up to the chaplain, adding that he was to
go that night five miles, being invited to an harvest supper. His
refusal appeared to me a little extraordinary, nor could I conceive how
so sensible a girl as my youngest, could thus prefer a man of broken
fortunes to one whose expectations were much greater. But as men are
most capable of distinguishing merit in women, so the ladies often form
the truest judgments of us. The two sexes seem placed as spies upon
each other, and are furnished with different abilities, adapted for
mutual inspection.




CHAPTER IX.


Two ladies of great distinction introduced. Superior finery ever seems
to confer superior breeding.


Mr Burchell had scarce taken leave, and Sophia consented to dance with
the chaplain, when my little ones came running out to tell us that the
’Squire was come, with a crowd of company. Upon our return, we found
our landlord, with a couple of under gentlemen and two young ladies
richly drest, whom he introduced as women of very great distinction and
fashion from town. We happened not to have chairs enough for the whole
company; but Mr Thornhill immediately proposed that every gentleman
should sit in a lady’s lap. This I positively objected to,
notwithstanding a look of disapprobation from my wife. Moses was
therefore dispatched to borrow a couple of chairs; and as we were in
want of ladies to make up a set at country dances, the two gentlemen
went with him in quest of a couple of partners. Chairs and partners
were soon provided. The gentlemen returned with my neighbour
Flamborough’s rosy daughters, flaunting with red top-knots, but an
unlucky circumstance was not adverted to; though the Miss Flamboroughs
were reckoned the very best dancers in the parish, and understood the
jig and the round-about to perfection; yet they were totally
unacquainted with country dances. This at first discomposed us:
however, after a little shoving and dragging, they at last went merrily
on. Our music consisted of two fiddles, with a pipe and tabor. The moon
shone bright, Mr Thornhill and my eldest daughter led up the ball, to
the great delight of the spectators; for the neighbours hearing what
was going forward, came flocking about us. My girl moved with so much
grace and vivacity, that my wife could not avoid discovering the pride
of her heart, by assuring me, that though the little chit did it so
cleverly, all the steps were stolen from herself. The ladies of the
town strove hard to be equally easy, but without success. They swam,
sprawled, languished, and frisked; but all would not do: the gazers
indeed owned that it was fine; but neighbour Flamborough observed, that
Miss Livy’s feet seemed as pat to the music as its echo. After the
dance had continued about an hour, the two ladies, who were
apprehensive of catching cold, moved to break up the ball. One of them,
I thought, expressed her sentiments upon this occasion in a very coarse
manner, when she observed, that by the living jingo, she was all of a
muck of sweat. Upon our return to the house, we found a very elegant
cold supper, which Mr Thornhill had ordered to be brought with him. The
conversation at this time was more reserved than before. The two ladies
threw my girls quite into the shade; for they would talk of nothing but
high life, and high lived company; with other fashionable topics, such
as pictures, taste, Shakespear, and the musical glasses. ‘Tis true they
once or twice mortified us sensibly by slipping out an oath; but that
appeared to me as the surest symptom of their distinction, (tho’ I am
since informed that swearing is perfectly unfashionable.) Their finery,
however, threw a veil over any grossness in their conversation. My
daughters seemed to regard their superior accomplishments with envy;
and what appeared amiss was ascribed to tip-top quality breeding. But
the condescension of the ladies was still superior to their other
accomplishments. One of them observed, that had miss Olivia seen a
little more of the world, it would greatly improve her. To which the
other added, that a single winter in town would make her little Sophia
quite another thing. My wife warmly assented to both; adding, that
there was nothing she more ardently wished than to give her girls a
single winter’s polishing. To this I could not help replying, that
their breeding was already superior to their fortune; and that greater
refinement would only serve to make their poverty ridiculous, and give
them a taste for pleasures they had no right to possess.—‘And what
pleasures,’ cried Mr Thornhill, ‘do they not deserve to possess, who
have so much in their power to bestow? As for my part,’ continued he,
‘my fortune is pretty large, love, liberty, and pleasure, are my
maxims; but curse me if a settlement of half my estate could give my
charming Olivia pleasure, it should be hers; and the only favour I
would ask in return would be to add myself to the benefit.’ I was not
such a stranger to the world as to be ignorant that this was the
fashionable cant to disguise the insolence of the basest proposal; but
I made an effort to suppress my resentment. ‘Sir,’ cried I, ‘the family
which you now condescend to favour with your company, has been bred
with as nice a sense of honour as you. Any attempts to injure that, may
be attended with very dangerous consequences. Honour, Sir, is our only
possession at present, and of that last treasure we must be
particularly careful.’—I was soon sorry for the warmth with which I had
spoken this, when the young gentleman, grasping my hand, swore he
commended my spirit, though he disapproved my suspicions. ‘As to your
present hint,’ continued he, ‘I protest nothing was farther from my
heart than such a thought. No, by all that’s tempting, the virtue that
will stand a regular siege was never to my taste; for all my amours are
carried by a coup de main.’

The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of the rest, seemed highly
displeased with this last stroke of freedom, and began a very discreet
and serious dialogue upon virtue: in this my wife, the chaplain, and I,
soon joined; and the ’Squire himself was at last brought to confess a
sense of sorrow for his former excesses. We talked of the pleasures of
temperance, and of the sun-shine in the mind unpolluted with guilt. I
was so well pleased, that my little ones were kept up beyond the usual
time to be edified by so much good conversation. Mr Thornhill even went
beyond me, and demanded if I had any objection to giving prayers. I
joyfully embraced the proposal, and in this manner the night was passed
in a most comfortable way, till at last the company began to think of
returning. The ladies seemed very unwilling to part with my daughters;
for whom they had conceived a particular affection, and joined in a
request to have the pleasure of their company home. The ’Squire
seconded the proposal, and my wife added her entreaties: the girls too
looked upon me as if they wished to go. In this perplexity I made two
or three excuses, which my daughters as readily removed; so that at
last I was obliged to give a peremptory refusal; for which we had
nothing but sullen looks and short answers the whole day ensuing.




CHAPTER X.


The family endeavours to cope with their betters. The miseries of the
poor when they attempt to appear above their circumstances.


I now began to find that all my long and painful lectures upon
temperance, simplicity, and contentment, were entirely disregarded. The
distinctions lately paid us by our betters awaked that pride which I
had laid asleep, but not removed. Our windows again, as formerly, were
filled with washes for the neck and face. The sun was dreaded as an
enemy to the skin without doors, and the fire as a spoiler of the
complexion within. My wife observed, that rising too early would hurt
her daughters’ eyes, that working after dinner would redden their
noses, and she convinced me that the hands never looked so white as
when they did nothing. Instead therefore of finishing George’s shirts,
we now had them new modelling their old gauzes, or flourishing upon
catgut. The poor Miss Flamboroughs, their former gay companions, were
cast off as mean acquaintance, and the whole conversation ran upon high
life and high lived company, with pictures, taste, Shakespear, and the
musical glasses.

But we could have borne all this, had not a fortune-telling gypsey come
to raise us into perfect sublimity. The tawny sybil no sooner appeared,
than my girls came running to me for a shilling a piece to cross her
hand with silver. To say the truth, I was tired of being always wise,
and could not help gratifying their request, because I loved to see
them happy. I gave each of them a shilling; though, for the honour of
the family, it must be observed, that they never went without money
themselves, as my wife always generously let them have a guinea each,
to keep in their pockets; but with strict injunctions never to change
it. After they had been closetted up with the fortune-teller for some
time, I knew by their looks, upon their returning, that they had been
promised something great.—‘Well, my girls, how have you sped? Tell me,
Livy, has the fortune-teller given thee a pennyworth?’—‘I protest,
pappa,’ says the girl, ‘I believe she deals with some body that’s not
right; for she positively declared, that I am to be married to a
’Squire in less than a twelvemonth!’—‘Well now, Sophy, my child,’ said
I, ‘and what sort of a husband are you to have?’ ‘Sir,’ replied she, ‘I
am to have a Lord soon after my sister has married the ’Squire.’—‘How,’
cried I, ‘is that all you are to have for your two shillings! Only a
Lord and a ’Squire for two shillings! You fools, I could have promised
you a Prince and a Nabob for half the money.’ This curiosity of theirs,
however, was attended with very serious effects: we now began to think
ourselves designed by the stars for something exalted, and already
anticipated our future grandeur. It has been a thousand times observed,
and I must observe it once more, that the hours we pass with happy
prospects in view, are more pleasing than those crowned with fruition.
In the first case we cook the dish to our own appetite; in the latter
nature cooks it for us. It is impossible to repeat the train of
agreeable reveries we called up for our entertainment. We looked upon
our fortunes as once more rising; and as the whole parish asserted that
the ’Squire was in love with my daughter, she was actually so with him;
for they persuaded her into the passion. In this agreeable interval, my
wife had the most lucky dreams in the world, which she took care to
tell us every morning, with great solemnity and exactness. It was one
night a coffin and cross bones, the sign of an approaching wedding: at
another time she imagined her daughters’ pockets filled with farthings,
a certain sign of their being shortly stuffed with gold. The girls
themselves had their omens. They felt strange kisses on their lips;
they saw rings in the candle, purses bounced from the fire, and true
love-knots lurked in the bottom of every tea-cup.

Towards the end of the week we received a card from the town ladies; in
which, with their compliments, they hoped to see all our family at
church the Sunday following. All Saturday morning I could perceive, in
consequence of this, my wife and daughters in close conference
together, and now and then glancing at me with looks that betrayed a
latent plot. To be sincere, I had strong suspicions that some absurd
proposal was preparing for appearing with splendor the next day. In the
evening they began their operations in a very regular manner, and my
wife undertook to conduct the siege. After tea, when I seemed in
spirits, she began thus.—‘I fancy, Charles, my dear, we shall have a
great deal of good company at our church to-morrow,’—‘Perhaps we may,
my dear,’ returned I; ‘though you need be under no uneasiness about
that, you shall have a sermon whether there be or not.’—‘That is what I
expect,’ returned she; ‘but I think, my dear, we ought to appear there
as decently as possible, for who knows what may happen?’ ‘Your
precautions,’ replied I, ‘are highly commendable. A decent behaviour
and appearance in church is what charms me. We should be devout and
humble, chearful and serene.’—‘Yes,’ cried she, ‘I know that; but I
mean we should go there in as proper a manner as possible; not
altogether like the scrubs about us.’ ‘You are quite right, my dear,’
returned I, ‘and I was going to make the very same proposal. The proper
manner of going is, to go there as early as possible, to have time for
meditation before the service begins.’—‘Phoo, Charles,’ interrupted
she, ‘all that is very true; but not what I would be at. I mean, we
should go there genteelly. You know the church is two miles off, and I
protest I don’t like to see my daughters trudging up to their pew all
blowzed and red with walking, and, looking for all the world as if they
had been winners at a smock race. Now, my dear, my proposal is this:
there are our two plow horses, the Colt that has been in our family
these nine years, and his companion Blackberry, that have scarce done
an earthly thing for this month past. They are both grown fat and lazy.
Why should not they do something as well as we? And let me tell you,
when Moses has trimmed them a little, they will cut a very tolerable
figure.’ To this proposal I objected, that walking would be twenty
times more genteel than such a paltry conveyance, as Blackberry was
wall-eyed, and the Colt wanted a tail: that they had never been broke
to the rein; but had an hundred vicious tricks; and that we had but one
saddle and pillion in the whole house. All these objections, however,
were over-ruled; so that I was obliged to comply. The next morning I
perceived them not a little busy in collecting such materials as might
be necessary for the expedition; but as I found it would be a business
of time, I walked on to the church before, and they promised speedily
to follow. I waited near an hour in the reading desk for their arrival;
but not finding them come as expected, I was obliged to begin, and went
through the service, not without some uneasiness at finding them
absent. This was encreased when all was finished, and no appearance of
the family. I therefore walked back by the horse-way, which was five
miles round, tho’ the foot-way was but two, and when got about half way
home, perceived the procession marching slowly forward towards the
church; my son, my wife, and the two little ones exalted upon one
horse, and my two daughters upon the other. I demanded the cause of
their delay; but I soon found by their looks they had met with a
thousand misfortunes on the road. The horses had at first refused to
move from the door, till Mr Burchell was kind enough to beat them
forward for about two hundred yards with his cudgel. Next the straps of
my wife’s pillion broke down, and they were obliged to stop to repair
them before they could proceed. After that, one of the horses took it
into his head to stand still, and neither blows nor entreaties could
prevail with him to proceed. It was just recovering from this dismal
situation that I found them; but perceiving every thing safe, I own
their present mortification did not much displease me, as it would give
me many opportunities of future triumph, and teach my daughters more
humility.




CHAPTER XI.


The family still resolve to hold up their heads.


Michaelmas eve happening on the next day, we were invited to burn nuts
and play tricks at neighbour Flamborough’s. Our late mortifications had
humbled us a little, or it is probable we might have rejected such an
invitation with contempt: however, we suffered ourselves to be happy.
Our honest neighbour’s goose and dumplings were fine, and the
lamb’s-wool, even in the opinion of my wife, who was a connoiseur, was
excellent. It is true, his manner of telling stories was not quite so
well. They were very long, and very dull, and all about himself, and we
had laughed at them ten times before: however, we were kind enough to
laugh at them once more.

Mr Burchell, who was of the party, was always fond of seeing some
innocent amusement going forward, and set the boys and girls to blind
man’s buff. My wife too was persuaded to join in the diversion, and it
gave me pleasure to think she was not yet too old. In the mean time, my
neighbour and I looked on, laughed at every feat, and praised our own
dexterity when we were young. Hot cockles succeeded next, questions and
commands followed that, and last of all, they sate down to hunt the
slipper. As every person may not be acquainted with this primaeval
pastime, it may be necessary to observe, that the company at this play
themselves in a ring upon the ground, all, except one who stands in the
middle, whose business it is to catch a shoe, which the company shove
about under their hams from one to another, something like a weaver’s
shuttle. As it is impossible, in this case, for the lady who is up to
face all the company at once, the great beauty of the play lies in
hitting her a thump with the heel of the shoe on that side least
capable of making a defence. It was in this manner that my eldest
daughter was hemmed in, and thumped about, all blowzed, in spirits, and
bawling for fair play, fair play, with a voice that might deafen a
ballad singer, when confusion on confusion, who should enter the room
but our two great acquaintances from town, Lady Blarney and Miss
Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs! Description would but beggar,
therefore it is unnecessary to describe this new mortification. Death!
To be seen by ladies of such high breeding in such vulgar attitudes!
Nothing better could ensue from such a vulgar play of Mr Flamborough’s
proposing. We seemed stuck to the ground for some time, as if actually
petrified with amazement.

The two ladies had been at our house to see us, and finding us from
home, came after us hither, as they were uneasy to know what accident
could have kept us from church the day before. Olivia undertook to be
our prolocutor, and delivered the whole in a summary way, only saying,
‘We were thrown from our horses.’ At which account the ladies were
greatly concerned; but being told the family received no hurt, they
were extremely glad: but being informed that we were almost killed by
the fright, they were vastly sorry; but hearing that we had a very good
night, they were extremely glad again. Nothing could exceed their
complaisance to my daughters; their professions the last evening were
warm, but now they were ardent. They protested a desire of having a
more lasting acquaintance. Lady Blarney was particularly attached to
Olivia; Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs (I love to give the whole
name) took a greater fancy to her sister. They supported the
conversation between themselves, while my daughters sate silent,
admiring their exalted breeding. But as every reader, however beggarly
himself, is fond of high-lived dialogues, with anecdotes of Lords,
Ladies, and Knights of the Garter, I must beg leave to give him the
concluding part of the present conversation. ‘All that I know of the
matter,’ cried Miss Skeggs, ‘is this, that it may be true, or it may
not be true: but this I can assure your Ladyship, that the whole rout
was in amaze; his Lordship turned all manner of colours, my Lady fell
into a sound; but Sir Tomkyn, drawing his sword, swore he was her’s to
the last drop of his blood.’ ‘Well,’ replied our Peeress, ‘this I can
say, that the Dutchess never told me a syllable of the matter, and I
believe her Grace would keep nothing a secret from me. This you may
depend upon as fact, that the next morning my Lord Duke cried out three
times to his valet de chambre, Jernigan, Jernigan, Jernigan, bring me
my garters.’

But previously I should have mentioned the very impolite behaviour of
Mr Burchell, who, during this discourse, sate with his face turned to
the fire, and at the conclusion of every sentence would cry out
_fudge!_ an expression which displeased us all, and in some measure
damped the rising spirit of the conversation.

‘Besides, my dear Skeggs,’ continued our Peeress, ‘there is nothing of
this in the copy of verses that Dr Burdock made upon the occasion.’
_Fudge!_

‘I am surprised at that,’ cried Miss Skeggs; ‘for he seldom leaves any
thing out, as he writes only for his own amusement. But can your
Ladyship favour me with a sight of them?’ _Fudge!_

‘My dear creature,’ replied our Peeress, ‘do you think I carry such
things about me? Though they are very fine to be sure, and I think
myself something of a judge; at least I know what pleases myself.
Indeed I was ever an admirer of all Doctor Burdock’s little pieces; for
except what he does, and our dear Countess at Hanover-Square, there’s
nothing comes out but the most lowest stuff in nature; not a bit of
high life among them.’ _Fudge!_

‘Your Ladyship should except,’ says t’other, ‘your own things in the
Lady’s Magazine. I hope you’ll say there’s nothing low lived there? But
I suppose we are to have no more from that quarter?’ _Fudge!_;

‘Why, my dear,’ says the Lady, ‘you know my reader and companion has
left me, to be married to Captain Roach, and as my poor eyes won’t
suffer me to write myself, I have been for some time looking out for
another. A proper person is no easy matter to find, and to be sure
thirty pounds a year is a small stipend for a well-bred girl of
character, that can read, write, and behave in company; as for the
chits about town, there is no bearing them about one.’ _Fudge!_;

‘That I know,’ cried Miss Skeggs, ‘by experience. For of the three
companions I had this last half year, one of them refused to do
plain-work an hour in the day, another thought twenty-five guineas a
year too small a salary, and I was obliged to send away the third,
because I suspected an intrigue with the chaplain. Virtue, my dear Lady
Blarney, virtue is worth any price; but where is that to be found?’
_Fudge!_

My wife had been for a long time all attention to this discourse; but
was particularly struck with the latter part of it. Thirty pounds and
twenty-five guineas a year made fifty-six pounds five shillings English
money, all which was in a manner going a-begging, and might easily be
secured in the family. She for a moment studied my looks for
approbation; and, to own a truth, I was of opinion, that two such
places would fit our two daughters exactly. Besides, if the ’Squire had
any real affection for my eldest daughter, this would be the way to
make her every way qualified for her fortune. My wife therefore was
resolved that we should not be deprived of such advantages for want of
assurance, and undertook to harangue for the family. ‘I hope,’ cried
she, ‘your Ladyships will pardon my present presumption. It is true, we
have no right to pretend to such favours; but yet it is natural for me
to wish putting my children forward in the world. And I will be bold to
say my two girls have had a pretty good education, and capacity, at
least the country can’t shew better. They can read, write, and cast
accompts; they understand their needle, breadstitch, cross and change,
and all manner of plain-work; they can pink, point, and frill; and know
something of music; they can do up small cloaths, work upon catgut; my
eldest can cut paper, and my youngest has a very pretty manner of
telling fortunes upon the cards.’ _Fudge!_

When she had delivered this pretty piece of eloquence, the two ladies
looked at each other a few minutes in silence, with an air of doubt and
importance. At last, Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs condescended
to observe, that the young ladies, from the opinion she could form of
them from so slight an acquaintance, seemed very fit for such
employments: ‘But a thing of this kind, Madam,’ cried she, addressing
my spouse, requires a thorough examination into characters, and a more
perfect knowledge of each other. Not, Madam,’ continued she, ‘that I in
the least suspect the young ladies virtue, prudence and discretion; but
there is a form in these things, Madam, there is a form.’

My wife approved her suspicions very much, observing, that she was very
apt to be suspicious herself; but referred her to all the neighbours
for a character: but this our Peeress declined as unnecessary,
alledging that her cousin Thornhill’s recommendation would be
sufficient, and upon this we rested our petition.




CHAPTER XII.


Fortune seems resolved to humble the family of Wakefield.
Mortifications are often more painful than real calamities.


When we were returned home, the night was dedicated to schemes of
future conquest. Deborah exerted much sagacity in conjecturing which of
the two girls was likely to have the best place, and most opportunities
of seeing good company. The only obstacle to our preferment was in
obtaining the ’Squire’s recommendation; but he had already shewn us too
many instances of his friendship to doubt of it now. Even in bed my
wife kept up the usual theme: ‘Well, faith, my dear Charles, between
ourselves, I think we have made an excellent day’s work of it.’—‘Pretty
well,’ cried I, not knowing what to say.—‘What only pretty well!’
returned she. ‘I think it is very well. Suppose the girls should come
to make acquaintances of taste in town! This I am assured of, that
London is the only place in the world for all manner of husbands.
Besides, my dear, stranger things happen every day: and as ladies of
quality are so taken with my daughters, what will not men of quality
be! Entre nous, I protest I like my Lady Blarney vastly, so very
obliging. However, Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs has my warm
heart. But yet, when they came to talk of places in town, you saw at
once how I nailed them. Tell me, my dear, don’t you think I did for my
children there?’—‘Ay,’ returned I, not knowing well what to think of
the matter, ‘heaven grant they may be both the better for it this day
three months!’ This was one of those observations I usually made to
impress my wife with an opinion of my sagacity; for if the girls
succeeded, then it was a pious wish fulfilled; but if any thing
unfortunate ensued, then it might be looked upon as a prophecy. All
this conversation, however, was only preparatory to another scheme, and
indeed I dreaded as much. This was nothing less than, that as we were
now to hold up our heads a little higher in the world, it would be
proper to sell the Colt, which was grown old, at a neighbouring fair,
and buy us an horse that would carry single or double upon an occasion,
and make a pretty appearance at church or upon a visit. This at first I
opposed stoutly; but it was as stoutly defended. However, as I
weakened, my antagonist gained strength, till at last it was resolved
to part with him.

As the fair happened on the following day, I had intentions of going
myself, but my wife persuaded me that I had got a cold, and nothing
could prevail upon her to permit me from home. ‘No, my dear,’ said she,
‘our son Moses is a discreet boy, and can buy and sell to very good
advantage; you know all our great bargains are of his purchasing. He
always stands out and higgles, and actually tires them till he gets a
bargain.’

As I had some opinion of my son’s prudence, I was willing enough to
entrust him with this commission; and the next morning I perceived his
sisters mighty busy in fitting out Moses for the fair; trimming his
hair, brushing his buckles, and cocking his hat with pins. The business
of the toilet being over, we had at last the satisfaction of seeing him
mounted upon the Colt, with a deal box before him to bring home
groceries in. He had on a coat made of that cloth they call thunder and
lightning, which, though grown too short, was much too good to be
thrown away. His waistcoat was of gosling green, and his sisters had
tied his hair with a broad black ribband. We all followed him several
paces, from the door, bawling after him good luck, good luck, till we
could see him no longer.

He was scarce gone, when Mr Thornhill’s butler came to congratulate us
upon our good fortune, saying, that he overheard his young master
mention our names with great commendation.

Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. Another footman from
the same family followed, with a card for my daughters, importing, that
the two ladies had received such pleasing accounts from Mr Thornhill of
us all, that, after a few previous enquiries, they hoped to be
perfectly satisfied. ‘Ay,’ cried my wife, I now see it is no easy
matter to get into the families of the great; but when one once gets
in, then, as Moses says, one may go sleep.’ To this piece of humour,
for she intended it for wit, my daughters assented with a loud laugh of
pleasure. In short, such was her satisfaction at this message, that she
actually put her hand in her pocket, and gave the messenger seven-pence
halfpenny.

This was to be our visiting-day. The next that came was Mr Burchell,
who had been at the fair. He brought my little ones a pennyworth of
gingerbread each, which my wife undertook to keep for them, and give
them by letters at a time. He brought my daughters also a couple of
boxes, in which they might keep wafers, snuff, patches, or even money,
when they got it. My wife was usually fond of a weasel-skin purse, as
being the most lucky; but this by the bye. We had still a regard for Mr
Burchell, though his late rude behaviour was in some measure
displeasing; nor could we now avoid communicating our happiness to him,
and asking his advice: although we seldom followed advice, we were all
ready enough to ask it. When he read the note from the two ladies, he
shook his head, and observed, that an affair of this sort demanded the
utmost circumspection.—This air of diffidence highly displeased my
wife. ‘I never doubted, Sir,’ cried she, ‘your readiness to be against
my daughters and me. You have more circumspection than is wanted.
However, I fancy when we come to ask advice, we will apply to persons
who seem to have made use of it themselves.’—‘Whatever my own conduct
may have been, madam,’ replied he, ‘is not the present question; tho’
as I have made no use of advice myself, I should in conscience give it
to those that will.’—As I was apprehensive this answer might draw on a
repartee, making up by abuse what it wanted in wit, I changed the
subject, by seeming to wonder what could keep our son so long at the
fair, as it was now almost nightfall.—‘Never mind our son,’ cried my
wife, ‘depend upon it he knows what he is about. I’ll warrant we’ll
never see him sell his hen of a rainy day. I have seen him buy such
bargains as would amaze one. I’ll tell you a good story about that,
that will make you split your sides with laughing—But as I live, yonder
comes Moses, without an horse, and the box at his back.’

As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating under the deal
box, which he had strapt round his shoulders like a pedlar.—‘Welcome,
welcome, Moses; well, my boy, what have you brought us from the
fair?’—‘I have brought you myself,’ cried Moses, with a sly look, and
resting the box on the dresser.—‘Ay, Moses,’ cried my wife, ‘that we
know, but where is the horse?’ ‘I have sold him,’ cried Moses, ‘for
three pounds five shillings and two-pence.’—‘Well done, my good boy,’
returned she, ‘I knew you would touch them off. Between ourselves,
three pounds five shillings and two-pence is no bad day’s work. Come,
let us have it then.’—‘I have brought back no money,’ cried Moses
again. ‘I have laid it all out in a bargain, and here it is,’ pulling
out a bundle from his breast: ‘here they are; a groce of green
spectacles, with silver rims and shagreen cases.’—‘A groce of green
spectacles!’ repeated my wife in a faint voice. ‘And you have parted
with the Colt, and brought us back nothing but a groce of green paltry
spectacles!’—‘Dear mother,’ cried the boy, ‘why won’t you listen to
reason? I had them a dead bargain, or I should not have bought them.
The silver rims alone will sell for double money.’—‘A fig for the
silver rims,’ cried my wife, in a passion: ‘I dare swear they won’t
sell for above half the money at the rate of broken silver, five
shillings an ounce.’—‘You need be under no uneasiness,’ cried I, ‘about
selling the rims; for they are not worth six-pence, for I perceive they
are only copper varnished over.’—‘What,’ cried my wife, ‘not silver,
the rims not silver!’ ‘No,’ cried I, ‘no more silver than your
saucepan,’—‘And so,’ returned she, ‘we have parted with the Colt, and
have only got a groce of green spectacles, with copper rims and
shagreen cases! A murrain take such trumpery. The blockhead has been
imposed upon, and should have known his company better.’—‘There, my
dear,’ cried I, ‘you are wrong, he should not have known them at
all.’—‘Marry, hang the ideot,’ returned she, ‘to bring me such stuff,
if I had them, I would throw them in the fire.’ ‘There again you are
wrong, my dear,’ cried I; ‘for though they be copper, we will keep them
by us, as copper spectacles, you know, are better than nothing.’

By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He now saw that he
had indeed been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing his
figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I therefore asked the
circumstances of his deception. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked
the fair in search of another. A reverend looking man brought him to a
tent, under pretence of having one to sell. ‘Here,’ continued Moses,
‘we met another man, very well drest, who desired to borrow twenty
pounds upon these, saying, that he wanted money, and would dispose of
them for a third of the value. The first gentleman, who pretended to be
my friend, whispered me to buy them, and cautioned me not to let so
good an offer pass. I sent for Mr Flamborough, and they talked him up
as finely as they did me, and so at last we were persuaded to buy the
two groce between us.’




CHAPTER XIII.


Mr Burchell is found to be an enemy; for he has the confidence to give
disagreeable advice.


Our family had now made several attempts to be fine; but some
unforeseen disaster demolished each as soon as projected. I endeavoured
to take the advantage of every disappointment, to improve their good
sense in proportion as they were frustrated in ambition. ‘You see, my
children,’ cried I, ‘how little is to be got by attempts to impose upon
the world, in coping with our betters. Such as are poor and will
associate with none but the rich, are hated by those they avoid, and
despised by these they follow. Unequal combinations are always
disadvantageous to the weaker side: the rich having the pleasure, and
the poor the inconveniencies that result from them. But come, Dick, my
boy, and repeat the fable that you were reading to-day, for the good of
the company.’.

‘Once upon a time,’ cried the child, ‘a Giant and a Dwarf were friends,
and kept together. They made a bargain that they would never forsake
each other, but go seek adventures. The first battle they fought was
with two Saracens, and the Dwarf, who was very courageous, dealt one of
the champions a most angry blow. It did the Saracen but very little
injury, who lifting up his sword, fairly struck off the poor Dwarf’s
arm. He was now in a woeful plight; but the Giant coming to his
assistance, in a short time left the two Saracens dead on the plain,
and the Dwarf cut off the dead man’s head out of spite. They then
travelled on to another adventure. This was against three bloody-minded
Satyrs, who were carrying away a damsel in distress. The Dwarf was not
quite so fierce now as before; but for all that, struck the first blow,
which was returned by another, that knocked out his eye: but the Giant
was soon up with them, and had they not fled, would certainly have
killed them every one. They were all very joyful for this victory, and
the damsel who was relieved fell in love with the Giant, and married
him. They now travelled far, and farther than I can tell, till they met
with a company of robbers. The Giant, for the first time, was foremost
now; but the Dwarf was not far behind. The battle was stout and long.
Wherever the Giant came all fell before him; but the Dwarf had like to
have been killed more than once. At last the victory declared for the
two adventurers; but the Dwarf lost his leg. The Dwarf was now without
an arm, a leg, and an eye, while the Giant was without a single wound.
Upon which he cried out to his little companion, My little heroe, this
is glorious sport; let us get one victory more, and then we shall have
honour for ever. No, cries the Dwarf who was by this time grown wiser,
no, I declare off; I’ll fight no more; for I find in every battle that
you get all the honour and rewards, but all the blows fall upon me.’

I was going to moralize this fable, when our attention was called off
to a warm dispute between my wife and Mr Burchell, upon my daughters
intended expedition to town. My wife very strenuously insisted upon the
advantages that would result from it. Mr Burchell, on the contrary,
dissuaded her with great ardor, and I stood neuter. His present
dissuasions seemed but the second part of those which were received
with so ill a grace in the morning. The dispute grew high while poor
Deborah, instead of reasoning stronger, talked louder, and at last was
obliged to take shelter from a defeat in clamour. The conclusion of her
harangue, however, was highly displeasing to us all: she knew, she
said, of some who had their own secret reasons for what they advised;
but, for her part, she wished such to stay away from her house for the
future.—‘Madam,’ cried Burchell, with looks of great composure, which
tended to enflame her the more, ‘as for secret reasons, you are right:
I have secret reasons, which I forbear to mention, because you are not
able to answer those of which I make no secret: but I find my visits
here are become troublesome; I’ll take my leave therefore now, and
perhaps come once more to take a final farewell when I am quitting the
country.’ Thus saying, he took up his hat, nor could the attempts of
Sophia, whose looks seemed to upbraid his precipitancy, prevent his
going.

When gone, we all regarded each other for some minutes with confusion.
My wife, who knew herself to be the cause, strove to hide her concern
with a forced smile, and an air of assurance, which I was willing to
reprove: ‘How, woman,’ cried I to her, ‘is it thus we treat strangers?
Is it thus we return their kindness? Be assured, my dear, that these
were the harshest words, and to me the most unpleasing that ever
escaped your lips!’—‘Why would he provoke me then,’ replied she; ‘but I
know the motives of his advice perfectly well. He would prevent my
girls from going to town, that he may have the pleasure of my youngest
daughter’s company here at home. But whatever happens, she shall chuse
better company than such low-lived fellows as he.’—‘Low-lived, my dear,
do you call him,’ cried I, ‘it is very possible we may mistake this
man’s character: for he seems upon some occasions the most finished
gentleman I ever knew.—Tell me, Sophia, my girl, has he ever given you
any secret instances of his attachment?’—‘His conversation with me,
sir,’ replied my daughter, ‘has ever been sensible, modest, and
pleasing. As to aught else, no, never. Once, indeed, I remember to have
heard him say he never knew a woman who could find merit in a man that
seemed poor.’ ‘Such, my dear,’ cried I, ‘is the common cant of all the
unfortunate or idle. But I hope you have been taught to judge properly
of such men, and that it would be even madness to expect happiness from
one who has been so very bad an oeconomist of his own. Your mother and
I have now better prospects for you. The next winter, which you will
probably spend in town, will give you opportunities of making a more
prudent choice.’ What Sophia’s reflections were upon this occasion, I
can’t pretend to determine; but I was not displeased at the bottom that
we were rid of a guest from whom I had much to fear. Our breach of
hospitality went to my conscience a little: but I quickly silenced that
monitor by two or three specious reasons, which served to satisfy and
reconcile me to myself. The pain which conscience gives the man who has
already done wrong, is soon got over. Conscience is a coward, and those
faults it has not strength enough to prevent, it seldom has justice
enough to accuse.




CHAPTER XIV.


Fresh mortifications, or a demonstration that seeming calamities may be
real blessings.


The journey of my daughters to town was now resolved upon, Mr Thornhill
having kindly promised to inspect their conduct himself, and inform us
by letter of their behaviour. But it was thought indispensably
necessary that their appearance should equal the greatness of their
expectations, which could not be done without expence. We debated
therefore in full council what were the easiest methods of raising
money, or, more properly speaking, what we could most conveniently
sell. The deliberation was soon finished, it was found that our
remaining horse was utterly useless for the plow, without his
companion, and equally unfit for the road, as wanting an eye, it was
therefore determined that we should dispose of him for the purposes
above-mentioned, at the neighbouring fair, and, to prevent imposition,
that I should go with him myself. Though this was one of the first
mercantile transactions of my life, yet I had no doubt about acquitting
myself with reputation. The opinion a man forms of his own prudence is
measured by that of the company he keeps, and as mine was mostly in the
family way, I had conceived no unfavourable sentiments of my worldly
wisdom. My wife, however, next morning, at parting, after I had got
some paces from the door, called me back, to advise me, in a whisper,
to have all my eyes about me.

I had, in the usual forms, when I came to the fair, put my horse
through all his paces; but for some time had no bidders. At last a
chapman approached, and, after he had for a good while examined the
horse round, finding him blind of one eye, he would have nothing to say
to him: a second came up; but observing he had a spavin, declared he
would not take him for the driving home: a third perceived he had a
windgall, and would bid no money: a fourth knew by his eye that he had
the botts: a fifth, wondered what a plague I could do at the fair with
a blind, spavined, galled hack, that was only fit to be cut up for a
dog kennel. By this time I began to have a most hearty contempt for the
poor animal myself, and was almost ashamed at the approach of every
customer; for though I did not entirely believe all the fellows told
me; yet I reflected that the number of witnesses was a strong
presumption they were right, and St Gregory, upon good works, professes
himself to be of the same opinion.

I was in this mortifying situation, when a brother clergyman, an old
acquaintance, who had also business to the fair, came up, and shaking
me by the hand, proposed adjourning to a public-house and taking a
glass of whatever we could get. I readily closed with the offer, and
entering an ale-house, we were shewn into a little back room, where
there was only a venerable old man, who sat wholly intent over a large
book, which he was reading. I never in my life saw a figure that
prepossessed me more favourably. His locks of silver grey venerably
shaded his temples, and his green old age seemed to be the result of
health and benevolence. However, his presence did not interrupt our
conversation; my friend and I discoursed on the various turns of
fortune we had met: the Whistonean controversy, my last pamphlet, the
archdeacon’s reply, and the hard measure that was dealt me. But our
attention was in a short time taken off by the appearance of a youth,
who, entering the room, respectfully said something softly to the old
stranger. ‘Make no apologies, my child,’ said the old man, ‘to do good
is a duty we owe to all our fellow creatures: take this, I wish it were
more; but five pounds will relieve your distress, and you are welcome.’
The modest youth shed tears of gratitude, and yet his gratitude was
scarce equal to mine. I could have hugged the good old man in my arms,
his benevolence pleased me so. He continued to read, and we resumed our
conversation, until my companion, after some time, recollecting that he
had business to transact in the fair, promised to be soon back; adding,
that he always desired to have as much of Dr Primrose’s company as
possible. The old gentleman, hearing my name mentioned, seemed to look
at me with attention, for some time, and when my friend was gone, most
respectfully demanded if I was any way related to the great Primrose,
that courageous monogamist, who had been the bulwark of the church.
Never did my heart feel sincerer rapture than at that moment. ‘Sir,’
cried I, ‘the applause of so good a man, as I am sure you are, adds to
that happiness in my breast which your benevolence has already excited.
You behold before you, Sir, that Doctor Primrose, the monogamist, whom
you have been pleased to call great. You here see that unfortunate
Divine, who has so long, and it would ill become me to say,
successfully, fought against the deuterogamy of the age.’ ‘Sir,’ cried
the stranger, struck with awe, ‘I fear I have been too familiar; but
you’ll forgive my curiosity, Sir: I beg pardon.’ ‘Sir,’ cried I,
grasping his hand, ‘you are so far from displeasing me by your
familiarity, that I must beg you’ll accept my friendship, as you
already have my esteem.’—‘Then with gratitude I accept the offer,’
cried he, squeezing me by the hand, ‘thou glorious pillar of unshaken
orthodoxy; and do I behold—’ I here interrupted what he was going to
say; for tho’, as an author, I could digest no small share of flattery,
yet now my modesty would permit no more. However, no lovers in romance
ever cemented a more instantaneous friendship. We talked upon several
subjects: at first I thought he seemed rather devout than learned, and
began to think he despised all human doctrines as dross. Yet this no
way lessened him in my esteem; for I had for some time begun privately
to harbour such an opinion myself. I therefore took occasion to
observe, that the world in general began to be blameably indifferent as
to doctrinal matters, and followed human speculations too much—‘Ay,
Sir,’ replied he, as if he had reserved all his learning to that
moment, ‘Ay, Sir, the world is in its dotage, and yet the cosmogony or
creation of the world has puzzled philosophers of all ages. What a
medly of opinions have they not broached upon the creation of the
world? Sanconiathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus, have all
attempted it in vain. The latter has these words, _Anarchon ara kai
atelutaion to pan_, which imply that all things have neither beginning
nor end. Manetho also, who lived about the time of Nebuchadon-Asser,
Asser being a Syriac word usually applied as a sirname to the kings of
that country, as Teglat Phael-Asser, Nabon-Asser, he, I say, formed a
conjecture equally absurd; for as we usually say _ek to biblion
kubernetes_, which implies that books will never teach the world; so he
attempted to investigate—But, Sir, I ask pardon, I am straying from the
question.’—That he actually was; nor could I for my life see how the
creation of the world had any thing to do with the business I was
talking of; but it was sufficient to shew me that he was a man of
letters, and I now reverenced him the more. I was resolved therefore to
bring him to the touch-stone; but he was too mild and too gentle to
contend for victory. Whenever I made any observation that looked like a
challenge to controversy, he would smile, shake his head, and say
nothing; by which I understood he could say much, if he thought proper.
The subject therefore insensibly changed from the business of antiquity
to that which brought us both to the fair; mine I told him was to sell
an horse, and very luckily, indeed, his was to buy one for one of his
tenants. My horse was soon produced, and in fine we struck a bargain.
Nothing now remained but to pay me, and he accordingly pulled out a
thirty pound note, and bid me change it. Not being in a capacity of
complying with his demand, he ordered his footman to be called up, who
made his appearance in a very genteel livery. ‘Here, Abraham,’ cried
he, ‘go and get gold for this; you’ll do it at neighbour Jackson’s, or
any where.’ While the fellow was gone, he entertained me with a
pathetic harangue on the great scarcity of silver, which I undertook to
improve, by deploring also the great scarcity of gold; so that by the
time Abraham returned, we had both agreed that money was never so hard
to be come at as now. Abraham returned to inform us, that he had been
over the whole fair and could not get change, tho’ he had offered half
a crown for doing it. This was a very great disappointment to us all;
but the old gentleman having paused a little, asked me if I knew one
Solomon Flamborough in my part of the country: upon replying that he
was my next door neighbour, ‘if that be the case then,’ returned he, ‘I
believe we shall deal. You shall have a draught upon him, payable at
sight; and let me tell you he is as warm a man as any within five miles
round him. Honest Solomon and I have been acquainted for many years
together. I remember I always beat him at threejumps; but he could hop
upon one leg farther than I.’ A draught upon my neighbour was to me the
same as money; for I was sufficiently convinced of his ability: the
draught was signed and put into my hands, and Mr Jenkinson, the old
gentleman, his man Abraham, and my horse, old Blackberry, trotted off
very well pleased with each other.

After a short interval being left to reflection, I began to recollect
that I had done wrong in taking a draught from a stranger, and so
prudently resolved upon following the purchaser, and having back my
horse. But this was now too late: I therefore made directly homewards,
resolving to get the draught changed into money at my friend’s as fast
as possible. I found my honest neighbour smoking his pipe at his own
door, and informing him that I had a small bill upon him, he read it
twice over. ‘You can read the name, I suppose,’ cried I, ‘Ephraim
Jenkinson.’ ‘Yes,’ returned he, ‘the name is written plain enough, and
I know the gentleman too, the greatest rascal under the canopy of
heaven. This is the very same rogue who sold us the spectacles. Was he
not a venerable looking man, with grey hair, and no flaps to his
pocket-holes? And did he not talk a long string of learning about Greek
and cosmogony, and the world?’ To this I replied with a groan. ‘Aye,’
continued he, ‘he has but that one piece of learning in the world, and
he always talks it away whenever he finds a scholar in company; but I
know the rogue, and will catch him yet.’ Though I was already
sufficiently mortified, my greatest struggle was to come, in facing my
wife and daughters. No truant was ever more afraid of returning to
school, there to behold the master’s visage, than I was of going home.
I was determined, however, to anticipate their fury, by first falling
into a passion myself.

But, alas! upon entering, I found the family no way disposed for
battle. My wife and girls were all in tears, Mr Thornhill having been
there that day to inform them, that their journey to town was entirely
over. The two ladies having heard reports of us from some malicious
person about us, were that day set out for London. He could neither
discover the tendency, nor the author of these, but whatever they might
be, or whoever might have broached them, he continued to assure our
family of his friendship and protection. I found, therefore, that they
bore my disappointment with great resignation, as it was eclipsed in
the greatness of their own. But what perplexed us most was to think who
could be so base as to asperse the character of a family so harmless as
ours, too humble to excite envy, and too inoffensive to create disgust.




CHAPTER XV.


All, Mr Burchell’s villainy at once detected. The folly of being
over-wise.


That evening and a part of the following day was employed in fruitless
attempts to discover our enemies: scarce a family in the neighbourhood
but incurred our suspicions, and each of us had reasons for our opinion
best known to ourselves. As we were in this perplexity, one of our
little boys, who had been playing abroad, brought in a letter-case,
which he found on the green. It was quickly known to belong to Mr
Burchell, with whom it had been seen, and, upon examination, contained
some hints upon different subjects; but what particularly engaged our
attention was a sealed note, superscribed, _the copy of a letter to be
sent to the ladies at Thornhill-castle._ It instantly occurred that he
was the base informer, and we deliberated whether the note should not
be broke open. I was against it; but Sophia, who said she was sure that
of all men he would be the last to be guilty of so much baseness,
insisted upon its being read, In this she was seconded by the rest of
the family, and, at their joint solicitation, I read as follows:—

‘LADIES,—The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to the person from
whom this comes: one at least the friend of innocence, and ready to
prevent its being seduced. I am informed for a truth, that you have
some intention of bringing two young ladies to town, whom I have some
knowledge of, under the character of companions. As I would neither
have simplicity imposed upon, nor virtue contaminated, I must offer it
as my opinion, that the impropriety of such a step will be attended
with dangerous consequences. It has never been my way to treat the
infamous or the lewd with severity; nor should I now have taken this
method of explaining myself, or reproving folly, did it not aim at
guilt. Take therefore the admonition of a friend, and seriously reflect
on the consequences of introducing infamy and vice into retreats where
peace and innocence have hitherto resided.’


Our doubts were now at an end. There seemed indeed something applicable
to both sides in this letter, and its censures might as well be
referred to those to whom it was written, as to us; but the malicious
meaning was obvious, and we went no farther. My wife had scarce
patience to hear me to the end, but railed at the writer with
unrestrained resentment. Olivia was equally severe, and Sophia seemed
perfectly amazed at his baseness. As for my part, it appeared to me one
of the vilest instances of unprovoked ingratitude I had met with. Nor
could I account for it in any other manner than by imputing it to his
desire of detaining my youngest daughter in the country, to have the
more frequent opportunities of an interview. In this manner we all sate
ruminating upon schemes of vengeance, when our other little boy came
running in to tell us that Mr Burchell was approaching at the other end
of the field. It is easier to conceive than describe the complicated
sensations which are felt from the pain of a recent injury, and the
pleasure of approaching vengeance. Tho’ our intentions were only to
upbraid him with his ingratitude; yet it was resolved to do it in a
manner that would be perfectly cutting. For this purpose we agreed to
meet him with our usual smiles, to chat in the beginning with more than
ordinary kindness, to amuse him a little; and then in the midst of the
flattering calm to burst upon him like an earthquake, and overwhelm him
with the sense of his own baseness. This being resolved upon, my wife
undertook to manage the business herself, as she really had some
talents for such an undertaking. We saw him approach, he entered, drew
a chair, and sate down.—‘A fine day, Mr Burchell.’—‘A very fine day,
Doctor; though I fancy we shall have some rain by the shooting of my
corns.’—‘The shooting of your horns,’ cried my wife, in a loud fit of
laughter, and then asked pardon for being fond of a joke.—‘Dear madam,’
replied he, ‘I pardon you with all my heart; for I protest I should not
have thought it a joke had you not told me.’—‘Perhaps not, Sir,’ cried
my wife, winking at us, ‘and yet I dare say you can tell us how many
jokes go to an ounce.’—‘I fancy, madam,’ returned Burchell, ‘you have
been reading a jest book this morning, that ounce of jokes is so very
good a conceit; and yet, madam, I had rather see half an ounce of
understanding.’—‘I believe you might,’ cried my wife, still smiling at
us, though the laugh was against her; ‘and yet I have seen some men
pretend to understanding that have very little.’—‘And no doubt,’
replied her antagonist, ‘you have known ladies set up for wit that had
none.’—I quickly began to find that my wife was likely to gain but
little at this business; so I resolved to treat him in a stile of more
severity myself. ‘Both wit and understanding,’ cried I, ‘are trifles,
without integrity: it is that which gives value to every character. The
ignorant peasant, without fault, is greater than the philosopher with
many; for what is genius or courage without an heart? _An honest man is
the noblest work of God._

‘I always held that hackney’d maxim of Pope,’ returned Mr Burchell, ‘as
very unworthy a man of genius, and a base desertion of his own
superiority. As the reputation of books is raised not by their freedom
from defect, but the greatness of their beauties; so should that of men
be prized not for their exemption from fault, but the size of those
virtues they are possessed of. The scholar may want prudence, the
statesman may have pride, and the champion ferocity; but shall we
prefer to these the low mechanic, who laboriously plods on through
life, without censure or applause? We might as well prefer the tame
correct paintings of the Flemish school to the erroneous, but sublime
animations of the Roman pencil.’

‘Sir,’ replied I, ‘your present observation is just, when there are
shining virtues and minute defects; but when it appears that great
vices are opposed in the same mind to as extraordinary virtues, such a
character deserves contempt.’ ‘Perhaps,’ cried he, ‘there may be some
such monsters as you describe, of great vices joined to great virtues;
yet in my progress through life, I never yet found one instance of
their existence: on the contrary, I have ever perceived, that where the
mind was capacious, the affections were good. And indeed Providence
seems kindly our friend in this particular, thus to debilitate the
understanding where the heart is corrupt, and diminish the power where
there is the will to do mischief. This rule seems to extend even to
other animals: the little vermin race are ever treacherous, cruel, and
cowardly, whilst those endowed with strength and power are generous,
brave, and gentle.’

‘These observations sound well,’ returned I, ‘and yet it would be easy
this moment to point out a man,’ and I fixed my eye stedfastly upon
him, ‘whose head and heart form a most detestable contrast. Ay, Sir,’
continued I, raising my voice, ‘and I am glad to have this opportunity
of detecting him in the midst of his fancied security. Do you know
this, Sir, this pocket-book?’—‘Yes, Sir,’ returned he, with a face of
impenetrable assurance, ‘that pocket-book is mine, and I am glad you
have found it.’—‘And do you know,’ cried I, ‘this letter? Nay, never
falter man; but look me full in the face: I say, do you know this
letter?’—‘That letter,’ returned he, ‘yes, it was I that wrote that
letter.’—‘And how could you,’ said I, ‘so basely, so ungratefully
presume to write this letter?’—‘And how came you,’ replied he, with
looks of unparallelled effrontery, ‘so basely to presume to break open
this letter? Don’t you know, now, I could hang you all for this? All
that I have to do, is to swear at the next justice’s, that you have
been guilty of breaking open the lock of my pocket-book, and so hang
you all up at his door.’ This piece of unexpected insolence raised me
to such a pitch, that I could scare govern my passion. ‘Ungrateful
wretch, begone, and no longer pollute my dwelling with thy baseness.
Begone, and never let me see thee again: go from my doors, and the only
punishment I wish thee is an alarmed conscience, which will be a
sufficient tormentor!’ So saying, I threw him his pocket-book, which he
took up with a smile, and shutting the clasps with the utmost
composure, left us, quite astonished at the serenity of his assurance.
My wife was particularly enraged that nothing could make him angry, or
make him seem ashamed of his villainies. ‘My dear,’ cried I, willing to
calm those passions that had been raised too high among us, ‘we are not
to be surprised that bad men want shame; they only blush at being
detected in doing good, but glory in their vices.

‘Guilt and shame, says the allegory, were at first companions, and in
the beginning of their journey inseparably kept together. But their
union was soon found to be disagreeable and inconvenient to both; guilt
gave shame frequent uneasiness, and shame often betrayed the secret
conspiracies of guilt. After long disagreeement, therefore, they at
length consented to part for ever. Guilt boldly walked forward alone,
to overtake fate, that went before in the shape of an executioner: but
shame being naturally timorous, returned back to keep company with
virtue, which, in the beginning of their journey, they had left behind.
Thus, my children, after men have travelled through a few stages in
vice, shame forsakes them, and returns back to wait upon the few
virtues they have still remaining.’




CHAPTER XVI.


The family use art, which is opposed with, still greater.


Whatever might have been Sophia’s sensations, the rest of the family
was easily consoled, for Mr Burchell’s absence by the company of our
landlord, whose visits now became more frequent and longer. Though he
had been disappointed in procuring my daughters the amusements of the
town, as he designed, he took every opportunity of supplying them with
those little recreations which our retirement would admit of. He
usually came in the morning, and while my son and I followed our
occupations abroad, he sat with the family at home, and amused them by
describing the town, with every part of which he was particularly
acquainted. He could repeat all the observations that were retailed in
the atmosphere of the playhouses, and had all the good things of the
high wits by rote long before they made way into the jest-books. The
intervals between conversation were employed in teaching my daughters
piquet, or sometimes in setting my two little ones to box to make them
_sharp_, as he called it: but the hopes of having him for a son-in-law,
in some measure blinded us to all his imperfections. It must be owned
that my wife laid a thousand schemes to entrap him, or, to speak it
more tenderly, used every art to magnify the merit of her daughter. If
the cakes at tea eat short and crisp, they were made by Olivia: if the
gooseberry wine was well knit, the gooseberries were of her gathering:
it was her fingers which gave the pickles their peculiar green; and in
the composition of a pudding, it was her judgment that mix’d the
ingredients. Then the poor woman would sometimes tell the ’Squire, that
she thought him and Olivia extremely of a size, and would bid both
stand up to see which was tallest. These instances of cunning, which
she thought impenetrable, yet which every body saw through, were very
pleasing to our benefactor, who gave every day some new proofs of his
passion, which though they had not arisen to proposals of marriage, yet
we thought fell but little short of it; and his slowness was attributed
sometimes to native bashfulness, and sometimes to his fear of offending
his uncle. An occurrence, however, which happened soon after, put it
beyond a doubt that he designed to become one of our family, my wife
even regarded it as an absolute promise.

My wife and daughters happening to return a visit to neighbour
Flamborough’s, found that family had lately got their pictures drawn by
a limner, who travelled the country, and took likenesses for fifteen
shillings a head. As this family and ours had long a sort of rivalry in
point of taste, our spirit took the alarm at this stolen march upon us,
and notwithstanding all I could say, and I said much, it was resolved
that we should have our pictures done too. Having, therefore, engaged
the limner, for what could I do? our next deliberation was to shew the
superiority of our taste in the attitudes. As for our neighbour’s
family, there were seven of them, and they were drawn with seven
oranges, a thing quite out of taste, no variety in life, no composition
in the world. We desired to have something in a brighter style, and,
after many debates, at length came to an unanimous resolution of being
drawn together, in one large historical family piece. This would be
cheaper, since one frame would serve for all, and it would be
infinitely more genteel; for all families of any taste were now drawn
in the same manner. As we did not immediately recollect an historical
subject to hit us, we were contented each with being drawn as
independent historical figures. My wife desired to be represented as
Venus, and the painter was desired not to be too frugal of his diamonds
in her stomacher and hair. Her two little ones were to be as Cupids by
her side, while I, in my gown and band, was to present her with my
books on the Whistonian controversy. Olivia would be drawn as an
Amazon, sitting upon a bank of flowers, drest in a green joseph, richly
laced with gold, and a whip in her hand. Sophia was to be a
shepherdess, with as many sheep as the painter could put in for
nothing; and Moses was to be drest out with an hat and white feather.
Our taste so much pleased the ’Squire, that he insisted on being put in
as one of the family in the character of Alexander the great, at
Olivia’s feet. This was considered by us all as an indication of his
desire to be introduced into the family, nor could we refuse his
request. The painter was therefore set to work, and as he wrought with
assiduity and expedition, in less than four days the whole was
compleated. The piece was large, and it must be owned he did not spare
his colours; for which my wife gave him great encomiums. We were all
perfectly satisfied with his performance; but an unfortunate
circumstance had not occurred till the picture was finished, which now
struck us with dismay. It was so very large that we had no place in the
house to fix it. How we all came to disregard so material a point is
inconceivable; but certain it is, we had been all greatly remiss. The
picture, therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we hoped,
leaned, in a most mortifying manner, against the kitchen wall, where
the canvas was stretched and painted, much too large to be got through
any of the doors, and the jest of all our neighhours. One compared it
to Robinson Crusoe’s long-boat, too large to be removed; another
thought it more resembled a reel in a bottle; some wondered how it
could be got out, but still more were amazed how it ever got in.

But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effectually raised more
malicious suggestions in many. The ’Squire’s portrait being found
united with ours, was an honour too great to escape envy. Scandalous
whispers began to circulate at our expence, and our tranquility was
continually disturbed by persons who came as friends to tell us what
was said of us by enemies. These reports we always resented with
becoming spirit; but scandal ever improves by opposition.

We once again therefore entered into a consultation upon obviating the
malice of our enemies, and at last came to a resolution which had too
much cunning to give me entire satisfaction. It was this: as our
principal object was to discover the honour of Mr Thornhill’s
addresses, my wife undertook to sound him, by pretending to ask his
advice in the choice of an husband for her eldest daughter. If this was
not found sufficient to induce him to a declaration, it was then
resolved to terrify him with a rival. To this last step, however, I
would by no means give my consent, till Olivia gave me the most solemn
assurances that she would marry the person provided to rival him upon
this occasion, if he did not prevent it, by taking her himself. Such
was the scheme laid, which though I did not strenuously oppose, I did
not entirely approve.

The next time, therefore, that Mr Thornhill came to see us, my girls
took care to be out of the way, in order to give their mamma an
opportunity of putting her scheme in execution; but they only retired
to the next room, from whence they could over-hear the whole
conversation: My wife artfully introduced it, by observing, that one of
the Miss Flamboroughs was like to have a very good match of it in Mr
Spanker. To this the ’Squire assenting, she proceeded to remark, that
they who had warm fortunes were always sure of getting good husbands:
‘But heaven help,’ continued she, ‘the girls that have none. What
signifies beauty, Mr Thornhill? or what signifies all the virtue, and
all the qualifications in the world, in this age of self-interest? It
is not, what is she? but what has she? is all the cry.’

‘Madam,’ returned he, ‘I highly approve the justice, as well as the
novelty, of your remarks, and if I were a king, it should be otherwise.
It should then, indeed, be fine times with the girls without fortunes:
our two young ladies should be the first for whom I would provide.’
‘Ah, Sir!’ returned my wife, ‘you are pleased to be facetious: but I
wish I were a queen, and then I know where my eldest daughter should
look for an husband. But now, that you have put it into my head,
seriously Mr Thornhill, can’t you recommend me a proper husband for
her? She is now nineteen years old, well grown and well educated, and,
in my humble opinion, does not want for parts.’ ‘Madam,’ replied he,
‘if I were to chuse, I would find out a person possessed of every
accomplishment that can make an angel happy. One with prudence,
fortune, taste, and sincerity, such, madam, would be, in my opinion,
the proper husband.’ ‘Ay, Sir,’ said she, ‘but do you know of any such
person?’—‘No, madam,’ returned he, ‘it is impossible to know any person
that deserves to be her husband: she’s too great a treasure for one
man’s possession: she’s a goddess. Upon my soul, I speak what I think,
she’s an angel.’—‘Ah, Mr Thornhill, you only flatter my poor girl: but
we have been thinking of marrying her to one of your tenants, whose
mother is lately dead, and who wants a manager: you know whom I mean,
farmer Williams; a warm man, Mr Thornhill, able to give her good bread;
and who has several times made her proposals: (which was actually the
case) but, Sir,’ concluded she, ‘I should be glad to have your
approbation of our choice.’—‘How, madam,’ replied he, ‘my approbation!
My approbation of such a choice! Never. What! Sacrifice so much beauty,
and sense, and goodness, to a creature insensible of the blessing!
Excuse me, I can never approve of such a piece of injustice And I have
my reasons!’—‘Indeed, Sir,’ cried Deborah, ‘if you have your reasons,
that’s another affair; but I should be glad to know those
reasons.’—‘Excuse me, madam,’ returned he, ‘they lie too deep for
discovery: (laying his hand upon his bosom) they remain buried,
rivetted here.’

After he was gone, upon general consultation, we could not tell what to
make of these fine sentiments. Olivia considered them as instances of
the most exalted passion; but I was not quite so sanguine: it seemed to
me pretty plain, that they had more of love than matrimony in them:
yet, whatever they might portend, it was resolved to prosecute the
scheme of farmer Williams, who, from my daughter’s first appearance in
the country, had paid her his addresses.




CHAPTER XVII.


Scarce any virtue found to resist the power of long and pleasing
temptation.


As I only studied my child’s real happiness, the assiduity of Mr
Williams pleased me, as he was in easy circumstances, prudent, and
sincere. It required but very little encouragement to revive his former
passion; so that in an evening or two he and Mr Thornhill met at our
house, and surveyed each other for some time with looks of anger: but
Williams owed his landlord no rent, and little regarded his
indignation. Olivia, on her side, acted the coquet to perfection, if
that might be called acting which was her real character, pretending to
lavish all her tenderness on her new lover. Mr Thornhill appeared quite
dejected at this preference, and with a pensive air took leave, though
I own it puzzled me to find him so much in pain as he appeared to be,
when he had it in his power so easily to remove the cause, by declaring
an honourable passion. But whatever uneasiness he seemed to endure, it
could easily be perceived that Olivia’s anguish was still greater.
After any of these interviews between her lovers, of which there were
several, she usually retired to solitude, and there indulged her grief.
It was in such a situation I found her one evening, after she had been
for some time supporting a fictitious gayety.—‘You now see, my child,’
said I, ‘that your confidence in Mr Thornhill’s passion was all a
dream: he permits the rivalry of another, every way his inferior,
though he knows it lies in his power to secure you to himself by a
candid declaration.’—‘Yes, pappa,’ returned she, ‘but he has his
reasons for this delay: I know he has. The sincerity of his looks and
words convince me of his real esteem. A short time, I hope, will
discover the generosity of his sentiments, and convince you that my
opinion of him has been more just than yours.’—‘Olivia, my darling,’
returned I, ‘every scheme that has been hitherto pursued to compel him
to a declaration, has been proposed and planned by yourself, nor can
you in the least say that I have constrained you. But you must not
suppose, my dear, that I will ever be instrumental in suffering his
honest rival to be the dupe of your ill-placed passion. Whatever time
you require to bring your fancied admirer to an explanation shall be
granted; but at the expiration of that term, if he is still regardless,
I must absolutely insist that honest Mr Williams shall be rewarded for
his fidelity. The character which I have hitherto supported in life
demands this from me, and my tenderness, as a parent, shall never
influence my integrity as a man. Name then your day, let it be as
distant as you think proper, and in the mean time take care to let Mr
Thornhill know the exact time on which I design delivering you up to
another. If he really loves you, his own good sense will readily
suggest that there is but one method alone to prevent his losing you
forever.’—This proposal, which she could not avoid considering as
perfectly just, was readily agreed to. She again renewed her most
positive promise of marrying Mr Williams, in case of the other’s
insensibility; and at the next opportunity, in Mr Thornhill’s presence,
that day month was fixed upon for her nuptials with his rival.

Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble Mr Thornhill’s anxiety:
but what Olivia really felt gave me some uneasiness. In this struggle
between prudence and passion, her vivacity quite forsook her, and every
opportunity of solitude was sought, and spent in tears. One week passed
away; but Mr Thornhill made no efforts to restrain her nuptials. The
succeeding week he was still assiduous; but not more open. On the third
he discontinued his visits entirely, and instead of my daughter
testifying any impatience, as I expected, she seemed to retain a
pensive tranquillity, which I looked upon as resignation. For my own
part, I was now sincerely pleased with thinking that my child was going
to be secured in a continuance of competence and peace, and frequently
applauded her resolution, in preferring happiness to ostentation.

It was within about four days of her intended nuptials, that my little
family at night were gathered round a charming fire, telling stories of
the past, and laying schemes for the future. Busied in forming a
thousand projects, and laughing at whatever folly came uppermost,
‘Well, Moses,’ cried I, ‘we shall soon, my boy, have a wedding in the
family, what is your opinion of matters and things in general?’—‘My
opinion, father, is, that all things go on very well; and I was just
now thinking, that when sister Livy is married to farmer Williams, we
shall then have the loan of his cyder-press and brewing tubs for
nothing.’—‘That we shall, Moses,’ cried I, ‘and he will sing us Death
and the Lady, to raise our spirits into the bargain.’—‘He has taught
that song to our Dick,’ cried Moses; ‘and I think he goes thro’ it very
prettily.’—‘Does he so,’ cried I, then let us have it: where’s little
Dick? let him up with it boldly.’—‘My brother Dick,’ cried Bill my
youngest, ‘is just gone out with sister Livy; but Mr Williams has
taught me two songs, and I’ll sing them for you, pappa. Which song do
you chuse, the Dying Swan, or the Elegy on the death of a mad dog?’
‘The elegy, child, by all means,’ said I, ‘I never heard that yet; and
Deborah, my life, grief you know is dry, let us have a bottle of the
best gooseberry wine, to keep up our spirits. I have wept so much at
all sorts of elegies of late, that without an enlivening glass I am
sure this will overcome me; and Sophy, love, take your guitar, and
thrum in with the boy a little.’

An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog.


Good people all, of every sort,
    Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wond’rous short,
    It cannot hold you long.

In Isling town there was a man,
    Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
    Whene’er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
    To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
    When he put on his cloaths.

And in that town a dog was found,
    As many dogs there be,
Both mungrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
    And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
    But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
    Went mad and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets,
    The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
    To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem’d both sore and sad,
    To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
    They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
    That shew’d the rogues they lied,
The man recovered of the bite,
    The dog it was that dy’d.


‘A very good boy, Bill, upon my word, and an elegy that may truly be
called tragical. Come, my children, here’s Bill’s health, and may he
one day be a bishop.’

‘With all my heart,’ cried my wife; ‘and if he but preaches as well as
he sings, I make no doubt of him. The most of his family, by the
mother’s side, could sing a good song: it was a common saying in our
country, that the family of the Blenkinsops could never look strait
before them, nor the Huginsons blow out a candle; that there were none
of the Grograms but could sing a song, or of the Marjorams but could
tell a story.’—‘However that be,’ cried I, ‘the most vulgar ballad of
them all generally pleases me better than the fine modern odes, and
things that petrify us in a single stanza; productions that we at once
detest and praise. Put the glass to your brother, Moses.—The great
fault of these elegiasts is, that they are in despair for griefs that
give the sensible part of mankind very little pain. A lady loses her
muff, her fan, or her lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs home to
versify the disaster.’

‘That may be the mode,’ cried Moses, ‘in sublimer compositions; but the
Ranelagh songs that come down to us are perfectly familiar, and all
cast in the same mold: Colin meets Dolly, and they hold a dialogue
together; he gives her a fairing to put in her hair, and she presents
him with a nosegay; and then they go together to church, where they
give good advice to young nymphs and swains to get married as fast as
they can.’

‘And very good advice too,’ cried I, ‘and I am told there is not a
place in the world where advice can be given with so much propriety as
there; for, as it persuades us to marry, it also furnishes us with a
wife; and surely that must be an excellent market, my boy, where we are
told what we want, and supplied with it when wanting.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ returned Moses, ‘and I know but of two such markets for
wives in Europe, Ranelagh in England, and Fontarabia in Spain. The
Spanish market is open once a year, but our English wives are saleable
every night.’

‘You are right, my boy,’ cried his mother, ‘Old England is the only
place in the world for husbands to get wives.’—‘And for wives to manage
their husbands,’ interrupted I. ‘It is a proverb abroad, that if a
bridge were built across the sea, all the ladies of the Continent would
come over to take pattern from ours; for there are no such wives in
Europe as our own. But let us have one bottle more, Deborah, my life,
and Moses give us a good song. What thanks do we not owe to heaven for
thus bestowing tranquillity, health, and competence. I think myself
happier now than the greatest monarch upon earth. He has no such
fire-side, nor such pleasant faces about it. Yes, Deborah, we are now
growing old; but the evening of our life is likely to be happy. We are
descended from ancestors that knew no stain, and we shall leave a good
and virtuous race of children behind us. While we live they will be our
support and our pleasure here, and when we die they will transmit our
honour untainted to posterity. Come, my son, we wait for a song: let us
have a chorus. But where is my darling Olivia? That little cherub’s
voice is always sweetest in the concert.’—Just as I spoke Dick came
running in. ‘O pappa, pappa, she is gone from us, she is gone from us,
my sister Livy is gone from us for ever’—‘Gone, child’—‘Yes, she is
gone off with two gentlemen in a post chaise, and one of them kissed
her, and said he would die for her; and she cried very much, and was
for coming back; but he persuaded her again, and she went into the
chaise, and said, O what will my poor pappa do when he knows I am
undone!’—‘Now then,’ cried I, ‘my children, go and be miserable; for we
shall never enjoy one hour more. And O may heaven’s everlasting fury
light upon him and his! Thus to rob me of my child! And sure it will,
for taking back my sweet innocent that I was leading up to heaven. Such
sincerity as my child was possest of. But all our earthly happiness is
now over! Go, my children, go, and be miserable and infamous; for my
heart is broken within me!’—‘Father,’ cried my son, “is this your
fortitude?’—‘Fortitude, child! Yes, he shall see I have fortitude!
Bring me my pistols. I’ll pursue the traitor. While he is on earth I’ll
pursue him. Old as I am, he shall find I can sting him yet. The
villain! The perfidious villain!’—I had by this time reached down my
pistols, when my poor wife, whose passions were not so strong as mine,
caught me in her arms. ‘My dearest, dearest husband,’ cried she, ‘the
Bible is the only weapon that is fit for your old hands now. Open that,
my love, and read our anguish into patience, for she has vilely
deceived us.’—‘Indeed, Sir,’ resumed my son, after a pause, ‘your rage
is too violent and unbecoming. You should be my mother’s comforter, and
you encrease her pain. It ill suited you and your reverend character
thus to curse your greatest enemy: you should not have curst him,
villian as he is.’—‘I did not curse him, child, did I?’—‘Indeed, Sir,
you did; you curst him twice.’—‘Then may heaven forgive me and him if I
did. And now, my son, I see it was more than human benevolence that
first taught us to bless our enemies! Blest be his holy name for all
the good he hath given, and for all that he hath taken away. But it is
not, it is not, a small distress that can wring tears from these old
eyes, that have not wept for so many years. My Child!—To undo my
darling! May confusion seize! Heaven forgive me, what am I about to
say! You may remember, my love, how good she was, and how charming;
till this vile moment all her care was to make us happy. Had she but
died! But she is gone, the honour of our family contaminated, and I
must look out for happiness in other worlds than here. But my child,
you saw them go off: perhaps he forced her away? If he forced her, she
may ‘yet be innocent.’—‘Ah no, Sir!’ cried the child; ‘he only kissed
her, and called her his angel, and she wept very much, and leaned upon
his arm, and they drove off very fast.’—‘She’s an ungrateful creature,’
cried my wife, who could scarce speak for weeping, ‘to use us thus. She
never had the least constraint put upon her affections. The vile
strumpet has basely deserted her parents without any provocation, thus
to bring your grey hairs to the grave, and I must shortly follow.’

In this manner that night, the first of our real misfortunes, was spent
in the bitterness of complaint, and ill supported sallies of
enthusiasm. I determined, however, to find out our betrayer, wherever
he was, and reproach his baseness. The next morning we missed our
wretched child at breakfast, where she used to give life and
cheerfulness to us all. My wife, as before, attempted to ease her heart
by reproaches. ‘Never,’ cried she, ‘shall that vilest stain of our
family again darken those harmless doors. I will never call her
daughter more. No, let the strumpet live with her vile seducer: she may
bring us to shame but she shall never more deceive us.’

‘Wife,’ said I, ‘do not talk thus hardly: my detestation of her guilt
is as great as yours; but ever shall this house and this heart be open
to a poor returning repentant sinner. The sooner she returns from her
transgression, the more welcome shall she be to me. For the first time
the very best may err; art may persuade, and novelty spread out its
charm. The first fault is the child of simplicity; but every other the
offspring of guilt. Yes, the wretched creature shall be welcome to this
heart and this house, tho’ stained with ten thousand vices. I will
again hearken to the music of her voice, again will I hang fondly on
her bosom, if I find but repentance there. My son, bring hither my
Bible and my staff, I will pursue her, wherever she is, and tho’ I
cannot save her from shame, I may prevent the continuance of iniquity.’




CHAPTER XVIII.


The pursuit of a father to reclaim a lost child to virtue.


Tho’ the child could not describe the gentleman’s person who handed his
sister into the post-chaise, yet my suspicions fell entirely upon our
young landlord, whose character for such intrigues was but too well
known. I therefore directed my steps towards Thornhill-castle,
resolving to upbraid him, and, if possible, to bring back my daughter:
but before I had reached his seat, I was met by one of my parishioners,
who said he saw a young lady resembling my daughter in a post-chaise
with a gentleman, whom, by the description, I could only guess to be Mr
Burchell, and that they drove very fast. This information, however, did
by no means satisfy me. I therefore went to the young ’Squire’s, and
though it was yet early, insisted upon seeing him immediately: he soon
appeared with the most open familiar air, and seemed perfectly amazed
at my daughter’s elopement, protesting upon his honour that he was
quite a stranger to it. I now therefore condemned my former suspicions,
and could turn them only on Mr Burchell, who I recollected had of late
several private conferences with her: but the appearance of another
witness left me no room to doubt of his villainy, who averred, that he
and my daughter were actually gone towards the wells, about thirty
miles off, where there was a great deal of company. Being driven to
that state of mind in which we are more ready to act precipitately than
to reason right, I never debated with myself, whether these accounts
might not have been given by persons purposely placed in my way, to
mislead me, but resolved to pursue my daughter and her fancied deluder
thither. I walked along with earnestness, and enquired of several by
the way; but received no accounts, till entering the town, I was met by
a person on horseback, whom I remembered to have seen at the ’Squire’s,
and he assured me that if I followed them to the races, which were but
thirty miles farther, I might depend upon overtaking them; for he had
seen them dance there the night before, and the whole assembly seemed
charmed with my daughter’s performance. Early the next day I walked
forward to the races, and about four in the afternoon I came upon the
course. The company made a very brilliant appearance, all earnestly
employed in one pursuit, that of pleasure; how different from mine,
that of reclaiming a lost child to virtue! I thought I perceived Mr
Burchell at some distance from me; but, as if he dreaded an interview,
upon my approaching him, he mixed among a crowd, and I saw him no more.
I now reflected that it would be to no purpose to continue my pursuit
farther, and resolved to return home to an innocent family, who wanted
my assistance. But the agitations of my mind, and the fatigues I had
undergone, threw me into a fever, the symptoms of which I perceived
before I came off the course. This was another unexpected stroke, as I
was more than seventy miles distant from home: however, I retired to a
little ale-house by the road-side, and in this place, the usual retreat
of indigence and frugality, I laid me down patiently to wait the issue
of my disorder. I languished here for near three weeks; but at last my
constitution prevailed, though I was unprovided with money to defray
the expences of my entertainment. It is possible the anxiety from this
last circumstance alone might have brought on a relapse, had I not been
supplied by a traveller, who stopt to take a cursory refreshment. This
person was no other than the philanthropic bookseller in St Paul’s
church-yard, who has written so many little books for children: he
called himself their friend; but he was the friend of all mankind. He
was no sooner alighted, but he was in haste to be gone; for he was ever
on business of the utmost importance, and was at that time actually
compiling materials for the history of one Mr Thomas Trip. I
immediately recollected this good-natured man’s red pimpled face; for
he had published for me against the Deuterogamists of the age, and from
him I borrowed a few pieces, to be paid at my return. Leaving the inn,
therefore, as I was yet but weak, I resolved to return home by easy
journies of ten miles a day. My health and usual tranquillity were
almost restored, and I now condemned that pride which had made me
refractory to the hand of correction. Man little knows what calamities
are beyond his patience to bear till he tries them; as in ascending the
heights of ambition, which look bright from below, every step we rise
shews us some new and gloomy prospect of hidden disappointment; so in
our descent from the summits of pleasure, though the vale of misery
below may appear at first dark and gloomy, yet the busy mind, still
attentive to its own amusement, finds as we descend something to
flatter and to please. Still as we approach, the darkest objects appear
to brighten, and the mental eye becomes adapted to its gloomy
situation.

I now proceeded forward, and had walked about two hours, when I
perceived what appeared at a distance like a waggon, which I was
resolved to overtake; but when I came up with it, found it to be a
strolling company’s cart, that was carrying their scenes and other
theatrical furniture to the next village, where they were to exhibit.
The cart was attended only by the person who drove it, and one of the
company, as the rest of the players were to follow the ensuing day.
Good company upon the road, says the proverb, is the shortest cut, I
therefore entered into conversation with the poor player; and as I once
had some theatrical powers myself, I disserted on such topics with my
usual freedom: but as I was pretty much unacquainted with the present
state of the stage, I demanded who were the present theatrical writers
in vogue, who the Drydens and Otways of the day.—‘I fancy, Sir,’ cried
the player, ‘few of our modern dramatists would think themselves much
honoured by being compared to the writers you mention. Dryden and Row’s
manner, Sir, are quite out of fashion; our taste has gone back a whole
century, Fletcher, Ben Johnson, and all the plays of Shakespear, are
the only things that go down.’—‘How,’ cried I, ‘is it possible the
present age can be pleased with that antiquated dialect, that obsolete
humour, those overcharged characters, which abound in the works you
mention?’—‘Sir,’ returned my companion, ‘the public think nothing about
dialect, or humour, or character; for that is none of their business,
they only go to be amused, and find themselves happy when they can
enjoy a pantomime, under the sanction of Johnson’s or Shakespear’s
name.’—‘So then, I suppose,’ cried I, ‘that our modern dramatists are
rather imitators of Shakespear than of nature.’—‘To say the truth,’
returned my companion, ‘I don’t know that they imitate any thing at
all; nor, indeed does the public require it of them: it is not the
composition of the piece, but the number of starts and attitudes that
may be introduced into it that elicits applause. I have known a piece,
with not one jest in the whole, shrugged into popularity, and another
saved by the poet’s throwing in a fit of the gripes. No, Sir, the works
of Congreve and Farquhar have too much wit in them for the present
taste; our modern dialect is much more natural.’

By this time the equipage of the strolling company was arrived at the
village, which, it seems, had been apprised of our approach, and was
come out to gaze at us; for my companion observed, that strollers
always have more spectators without doors than within. I did not
consider the impropriety of my being in such company till I saw a mob
gather about me. I therefore took shelter, as fast as possible, in the
first ale-house that offered, and being shewn into the common room, was
accosted by a very well-drest gentleman, who demanded whether I was the
real chaplain of the company, or whether it was only to be my
masquerade character in the play. Upon informing him of the truth, and
that I did not belong in any sort to the company, he was condescending
enough to desire me and the player to partake in a bowl of punch, over
which he discussed modern politics with great earnestness and interest.
I set him down in my mind for nothing less than a parliament-man at
least; but was almost confirmed in my conjectures, when upon my asking
what there was in the house for supper, he insisted that the Player and
I should sup with him at his house, with which request, after some
entreaties, we were prevailed on to comply.




CHAPTER XIX.


The description of a person discontented with the present government,
and apprehensive of the loss of our liberties.


The house where we were to be entertained, lying at a small distance
from the village, our inviter observed, that as the coach was not
ready, he would conduct us on foot, and we soon arrived at one of the
most magnificent mansions I had seen in that part of the country. The
apartment into which we were shewn was perfectly elegant and modern; he
went to give orders for supper, while the player, with a wink, observed
that we were perfectly in luck. Our entertainer soon returned, an
elegant supper was brought in, two or three ladies, in an easy
deshabille, were introduced, and the conversation began with some
sprightliness. Politics, however, was the subject on which our
entertainer chiefly expatiated; for he asserted that liberty was at
once his boast and his terror. After the cloth was removed, he asked me
if I had seen the last Monitor, to which replying in the negative,
‘What, nor the Auditor, I suppose?’ cried he. ‘Neither, Sir,’ returned
I. ‘That’s strange, very strange,’ replied my entertainer. ‘Now, I read
all the politics that come out. The Daily, the Public, the Ledger, the
Chronicle, the London Evening, the Whitehall Evening, the seventeen
magazines, and the two reviews; and though they hate each other, I love
them all. Liberty, Sir, liberty is the Briton’s boast, and by all my
coal mines in Cornwall, I reverence its guardians.’ ‘Then it is to be
hoped,’ cried I, ‘you reverence the king.’ ‘Yes,’ returned my
entertainer, ‘when he does what we would have him; but if he goes on as
he has done of late, I’ll never trouble myself more with his matters. I
say nothing. I think only. I could have directed some things better. I
don’t think there has been a sufficient number of advisers: he should
advise with every person willing to give him advice, and then we should
have things done in anotherguess manner.’

‘I wish,’ cried I, ‘that such intruding advisers were fixed in the
pillory. It should be the duty of honest men to assist the weaker side
of our constitution, that sacred power that has for some years been
every day declining, and losing its due share of influence in the
state. But these ignorants still continue the cry of liberty, and if
they have any weight basely throw it into the subsiding scale.’

‘How,’ cried one of the ladies, ‘do I live to see one so base, so
sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, and a defender of tyrants?
Liberty, that sacred gift of heaven, that glorious privilege of
Britons!’

‘Can it be possible,’ cried our entertainer, ‘that there should be any
found at present advocates for slavery? Any who are for meanly giving
up the privileges of Britons? Can any, Sir, be so abject?’

‘No, Sir,’ replied I, ‘I am for liberty, that attribute of Gods!
Glorious liberty! that theme of modern declamation. I would have all
men kings. I would be a king myself. We have all naturally an equal
right to the throne: we are all originally equal. This is my opinion,
and was once the opinion of a set of honest men who were called
Levellers. They tried to erect themselves into a community, where all
should be equally free. But, alas! it would never answer; for there
were some among them stronger, and some more cunning than others, and
these became masters of the rest; for as sure as your groom rides your
horses, because he is a cunninger animal than they, so surely will the
animal that is cunninger or stronger than he, sit upon his shoulders in
turn. Since then it is entailed upon humanity to submit, and some are
born to command, and others to obey, the question is, as there must be
tyrants, whether it is better to have them in the same house with us,
or in the same village, or still farther off, in the metropolis. Now,
Sir, for my own part, as I naturally hate the face of a tyrant, the
farther off he is removed from me, the better pleased am I. The
generality of mankind also are of my way of thinking, and have
unanimously created one king, whose election at once diminishes the
number of tyrants, and puts tyranny at the greatest distance from the
greatest number of people. Now the great who were tyrants themselves
before the election of one tyrant, are naturally averse to a power
raised over them, and whose weight must ever lean heaviest on the
subordinate orders. It is the interest of the great, therefore, to
diminish kingly power as much as possible; because whatever they take
from that is naturally restored to themselves; and all they have to do
in the state, is to undermine the single tyrant, by which they resume
their primaeval authority. Now, the state may be so circumstanced, or
its laws may be so disposed, or its men of opulence so minded, as all
to conspire in carrying on this business of undermining monarchy. For,
in the first place, if the circumstances of our state be such, as to
favour the accumulation of wealth, and make the opulent still more
rich, this will encrease their ambition. An accumulation of wealth,
however, must necessarily be the consequence, when as at present more
riches flow in from external commerce, than arise from internal
industry: for external commerce can only be managed to advantage by the
rich, and they have also at the same time all the emoluments arising
from internal industry: so that the rich, with us, have two sources of
wealth, whereas the poor have but one. For this reason, wealth in all
commercial states is found to accumulate, and all such have hitherto in
time become aristocratical. Again, the very laws also of this country
may contribute to the accumulation of wealth; as when by their means
the natural ties that bind the rich and poor together are broken, and
it is ordained that the rich shall only marry with the rich; or when
the learned are held unqualified to serve their country as counsellors
merely from a defect of opulence, and wealth is thus made the object of
a wise man’s ambition; by these means I say, and such means as these,
riches will accumulate. Now the possessor of accumulated wealth, when
furnished with the necessaries and pleasures of life, has no other
method to employ the superfluity of his fortune but in purchasing
power. That is, differently speaking, in making dependents, by
purchasing the liberty of the needy or the venal, of men who are
willing to bear the mortification of contiguous tyranny for bread. Thus
each very opulent man generally gathers round him a circle of the
poorest of the people; and the polity abounding in accumulated wealth,
may be compared to a Cartesian system, each orb with a vortex of its
own. Those, however, who are willing to move in a great man’s vortex,
are only such as must be slaves, the rabble of mankind, whose souls and
whose education are adapted to servitude, and who know nothing of
liberty except the name. But there must still be a large number of the
people without the sphere of the opulent man’s influence, namely, that
order of men which subsists between the very rich and the very rabble;
those men who are possest of too large fortunes to submit to the
neighbouring man in power, and yet are too poor to set up for tyranny
themselves. In this middle order of mankind are generally to be found
all the arts, wisdom, and virtues of society. This order alone is known
to be the true preserver of freedom, and may be called the People. Now
it may happen that this middle order of mankind may lose all its
influence in a state, and its voice be in a manner drowned in that of
the rabble: for if the fortune sufficient for qualifying a person at
present to give his voice in state affairs, be ten times less than was
judged sufficient upon forming the constitution, it is evident that
greater numbers of the rabble will thus be introduced into the
political system, and they ever moving in the vortex of the great, will
follow where greatness shall direct. In such a state, therefore, all
that the middle order has left, is to preserve the prerogative and
privileges of the one principal governor with the most sacred
circumspection. For he divides the power of the rich, and calls off the
great from falling with tenfold weight on the middle order placed
beneath them. The middle order may be compared to a town of which the
opulent are forming the siege, and which the governor from without is
hastening the relief. While the besiegers are in dread of an enemy over
them, it is but natural to offer the townsmen the most specious terms;
to flatter them with sounds, and amuse them with privileges: but if
they once defeat the governor from behind, the walls of the town will
be but a small defence to its inhabitants. What they may then expect,
may be seen by turning our eyes to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, where the
laws govern the poor, and the rich govern the law. I am then for, and
would die for, monarchy, sacred monarchy; for if there be any thing
sacred amongst men, it must be the anointed sovereign of his people,
and every diminution of his power in war, or in peace, is an
infringement upon the real liberties of the subject. The sounds of
liberty, patriotism, and Britons, have already done much, it is to be
hoped that the true sons of freedom will prevent their ever doing more.
I have known many of those pretended champions for liberty in my time,
yet do I not remember one that was not in his heart and in his family a
tyrant.’

My warmth I found had lengthened this harangue beyond the rules of good
breeding: but the impatience of my entertainer, who often strove to
interrupt it, could be restrained no longer. ‘What,’ cried he, ‘then I
have been all this while entertaining a Jesuit in parson’s cloaths; but
by all the coal mines of Cornwall, out he shall pack, if my name be
Wilkinson.’ I now found I had gone too far, and asked pardon for the
warmth with which I had spoken. ‘Pardon,’ returned he in a fury: ‘I
think such principles demand ten thousand pardons. What, give up
liberty, property, and, as the Gazetteer says, lie down to be saddled
with wooden shoes! Sir, I insist upon your marching out of this house
immediately, to prevent worse consequences, Sir, I insist upon it.’ I
was going to repeat my rernonstrances; but just then we heard a
footman’s rap at the door, and the two ladies cried out, ‘As sure as
death there is our master and mistress come home.’ It seems my
entertainer was all this while only the butler, who, in his master’s
absence, had a mind to cut a figure, and be for a while the gentleman
himself; and, to say the truth, he talked politics as well as most
country gentlemen do. But nothing could now exceed my confusion upon
seeing the gentleman, and his lady, enter, nor was their surprize, at
finding such company and good cheer, less than ours. ‘Gentlemen,’ cried
the real master of the house, to me and my companion, ‘my wife and I
are your most humble servants; but I protest this is so unexpected a
favour, that we almost sink under the obligation.’ However unexpected
our company might be to them, theirs, I am sure, was still more so to
us, and I was struck dumb with the apprehensions of my own absurdity,
when whom should I next see enter the room but my dear miss Arabella
Wilmot, who was formerly designed to be married to my son George; but
whose match was broken off, as already related. As soon as she saw me,
she flew to my arms with the utmost joy. ‘My dear sir,’ cried she, ‘to
what happy accident is it that we owe so unexpected a visit? I am sure
my uncle and aunt will be in raptures when they find they have the good
Dr Primrose for their guest.’ Upon hearing my name, the old gentleman
and lady very politely stept up, and welcomed me with most cordial
hospitality. Nor could they forbear smiling upon being informed of the
nature of my present visit: but the unfortunate butler, whom they at
first seemed disposed to turn away, was, at my intercession, forgiven.

Mr Arnold and his lady, to whom the house belonged, now insisted upon
having the pleasure of my stay for some days, and as their niece, my
charming pupil, whose mind, in some measure, had been formed under my
own instructions, joined in their entreaties, I complied. That night I
was shewn to a magnificent chamber, and the next morning early Miss
Wilmot desired to walk with me in the garden, which was decorated in
the modern manner. After some time spent in pointing out the beauties
of the place, she enquired with seeming unconcern, when last I had
heard from my son George. ‘Alas! Madam,’ cried I, ‘he has now been near
three years absent, without ever writing to his friends or me. Where he
is I know not; perhaps I shall never see him or happiness more. No, my
dear Madam, we shall never more see such pleasing hours as were once
spent by our fire-side at Wakefield. My little family are now
dispersing very fast, and poverty has brought not only want, but infamy
upon us.’ The good-natured girl let fall a tear at this account; but as
I saw her possessed of too much sensibility, I forbore a more minute
detail of our sufferings. It was, however, some consolation to me to
find that time had made no alteration in her affections, and that she
had rejected several matches that had been made her since our leaving
her part of the country. She led me round all the extensive
improvements of the place, pointing to the several walks and arbours,
and at the same time catching from every object a hint for some new
question relative to my son. In this manner we spent the forenoon, till
the bell summoned us in to dinner, where we found the manager of the
strolling company that I mentioned before, who was come to dispose of
tickets for the Fair Penitent, which was to be acted that evening, the
part of Horatio by a young gentleman who had never appeared on any
stage. He seemed to be very warm in the praises of the new performer,
and averred, that he never saw any who bid so fair for excellence.
Acting, he observed, was not learned in a day; ‘But this gentleman,’
continued he, ‘seems born to tread the stage. His voice, his figure,
and attitudes, are all admirable. We caught him up accidentally in our
journey down.’ This account, in some measure, excited our curiosity,
and, at the entreaty of the ladies, I was prevailed upon to accompany
them to the play-house, which was no other than a barn. As the company
with which I went was incontestably the chief of the place, we were
received with the greatest respect, and placed in the front seat of the
theatre; where we sate for some time with no small impatience to see
Horatio make his appearance. The new performer advanced at last, and
let parents think of my sensations by their own, when I found it was my
unfortunate son. He was going to begin, when, turning his eyes upon the
audience, he perceived Miss Wilmot and me, and stood at once speechless
and immoveable. The actors behind the scene, who ascribed this pause to
his natural timidity, attempted to encourage him; but instead of going
on, he burst into a flood of tears, and retired off the stage. I don’t
know what were my feelings on this occasion; for they succeeded with
too much rapidity for description: but I was soon awaked from this
disagreeable reverie by Miss Wilmot, who, pale and with a trembling
voice, desired me to conduct her back to her uncle’s. When got home, Mr
Arnold, who was as yet a stranger to our extraordinary behaviour, being
informed that the new performer was my son, sent his coach, and an
invitation, for him; and as he persisted in his refusal to appear again
upon the stage, the players put another in his place, and we soon had
him with us. Mr Arnold gave him the kindest reception, and I received
him with my usual transport; for I could never counterfeit false
resentment. Miss Wilmot’s reception was mixed with seeming neglect, and
yet I could perceive she acted a studied part. The tumult in her mind
seemed not yet abated; she said twenty giddy things that looked like
joy, and then laughed loud at her own want of meaning. At intervals she
would take a sly peep at the glass, as if happy in the consciousness of
unresisting beauty, and often would ask questions, without giving any
manner of attention to the answers.




CHAPTER XX.


The history of a philosophic vagabond, pursuing novelty, but losing
content.


After we had supped, Mrs Arnold politely offered to send a couple of
her footmen for my son’s baggage, which he at first seemed to decline;
but upon her pressing the request, he was obliged to inform her, that a
stick and a wallet were all the moveable things upon this earth that he
could boast of. ‘Why, aye my son,’ cried I, ‘you left me but poor, and
poor I find you are come back; and yet I make no doubt you have seen a
great deal of the world.’—‘Yes, Sir,’ replied my son, ‘but travelling
after fortune, is not the way to secure her; and, indeed, of late, I
have desisted from the pursuit.’—‘I fancy, Sir,’ cried Mrs Arnold,
‘that the account of your adventures would be amusing: the first part
of them I have often heard from my niece; but could the company prevail
for the rest, it would be an additional obligation.’—‘Madam,’ replied
my son, ‘I promise you the pleasure you have in hearing, will not be
half so great as my vanity in repeating them; and yet in the whole
narrative I can scarce promise you one adventure, as my account is
rather of what I saw than what I did. The first misfortune of my life,
which you all know, was great; but tho’ it distrest, it could not sink
me. No person ever had a better knack at hoping than I. The less kind I
found fortune at one time, the more I expected from her another, and
being now at the bottom of her wheel, every new revolution might lift,
but could not depress me. I proceeded, therefore, towards London in a
fine morning, no way uneasy about tomorrow, but chearful as the birds
that caroll’d by the road, and comforted myself with reflecting that
London was the mart where abilities of every kind were sure of meeting
distinction and reward.

‘Upon my arrival in town, Sir, my first care was to deliver your letter
of recommendation to our cousin, who was himself in little better
circumstances than I. My first scheme, you know, Sir, was to be usher
at an academy, and I asked his advice on the affair. Our cousin
received the proposal with a true Sardonic grin. Aye, cried he, this is
indeed a very pretty career, that has been chalked out for you. I have
been an usher at a boarding school myself; and may I die by an anodyne
necklace, but I had rather be an under turnkey in Newgate. I was up
early and late: I was brow-beat by the master, hated for my ugly face
by the mistress, worried by the boys within, and never permitted to
stir out to meet civility abroad. But are you sure you are fit for a
school? Let me examine you a little. Have you been bred apprentice to
the business? No. Then you won’t do for a school. Can you dress the
boys hair? No. Then you won’t do for a school. Have you had the
small-pox? No. Then you won’t do for a school. Can you lie three in a
bed? No. Then you will never do for a school. Have you got a good
stomach? Yes. Then you will by no means do for a school. No, Sir, if
you are for a genteel easy profession, bind yourself seven years as an
apprentice to turn a cutler’s wheel; but avoid a school by any means.
Yet come, continued he, I see you are a lad of spirit and some
learning, what do you think of commencing author, like me? You have
read in books, no doubt, of men of genius starving at the trade: At
present I’ll shew you forty very dull fellows about town that live by
it in opulence. All honest joggtrot men, who go on smoothly and dully,
and write history and politics, and are praised; men, Sir, who, had
they been bred coblers, would all their lives have only mended shoes,
but never made them.

‘Finding that there was no great degree of gentility affixed to the
character of an usher, I resolved to accept his proposal; and having
the highest respect for literature, hailed the antiqua mater of
Grub-street with reverence. I thought it my glory to pursue a track
which Dryden and Otway trod before me. I considered the goddess of this
region as the parent of excellence; and however an intercourse with the
world might give us good sense, the poverty she granted I supposed to
be the nurse of genius! Big with these reflections, I sate down, and
finding that the best things remained to be said on the wrong side, I
resolved to write a book that should be wholly new. I therefore drest
up three paradoxes with some ingenuity. They were false, indeed, but
they were new. The jewels of truth have been so often imported by
others, that nothing was left for me to import but some splendid things
that at a distance looked every bit as well. Witness you powers what
fancied importance sate perched upon my quill while I was writing. The
whole learned world, I made no doubt, would rise to oppose my systems;
but then I was prepared to oppose the whole learned world. Like the
porcupine I sate self collected, with a quill pointed against every
opposer.’

‘Well said, my boy,’ cried I, ‘and what subject did you treat upon? I
hope you did not pass over the importance of Monogamy. But I interrupt,
go on; you published your paradoxes; well, and what did the learned
world say to your paradoxes?’

‘Sir,’ replied my son, ‘the learned world said nothing to my paradoxes;
nothing at all, Sir. Every man of them was employed in praising his
friends and himself, or condemning his enemies; and unfortunately, as I
had neither, I suffered the cruellest mortification, neglect.

‘As I was meditating one day in a coffee-house on the fate of my
paradoxes, a little man happening to enter the room, placed himself in
the box before me, and after some preliminary discourse, finding me to
be a scholar, drew out a bundle of proposals, begging me to subscribe
to a new edition he was going to give the world of Propertius, with
notes. This demand necessarily produced a reply that I had no money;
and that concession led him to enquire into the nature of my
expectations. Finding that my expectations were just as great as my
purse, I see, cried he, you are unacquainted with the town, I’ll teach
you a part of it. Look at these proposals, upon these very proposals I
have subsisted very comfortably for twelve years. The moment a nobleman
returns from his travels, a Creolian arrives from Jamaica, or a dowager
from her country seat, I strike for a subscription. I first besiege
their hearts with flattery, and then pour in my proposals at the
breach. If they subscribe readily the first time, I renew my request to
beg a dedication fee. If they let me have that, I smite them once more
for engraving their coat of arms at the top. Thus, continued he, I live
by vanity, and laugh at it. But between ourselves, I am now too well
known, I should be glad to borrow your face a bit: a nobleman of
distinction has just returned from Italy; my face is familiar to his
porter; but if you bring this copy of verses, my life for it you
succeed, and we divide the spoil.’

‘Bless us, George,’ cried I, ‘and is this the employment of poets now!
Do men of their exalted talents thus stoop to beggary! Can they so far
disgrace their calling, as to make a vile traffic of praise for bread?’

‘O no, Sir,’ returned he, ‘a true poet can never be so base; for
wherever there is genius there is pride. The creatures I now describe
are only beggars in rhyme. The real poet, as he braves every hardship
for fame, so he is equally a coward to contempt, and none but those who
are unworthy protection condescend to solicit it.

‘Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indignities, and yet a
fortune too humble to hazard a second attempt for fame, I was now,
obliged to take a middle course, and write for bread. But I was
unqualified for a profession where mere industry alone was to ensure
success. I could not suppress my lurking passion for applause; but
usually consumed that time in efforts after excellence which takes up
but little room, when it should have been more advantageously employed
in the diffusive productions of fruitful mediocrity. My little piece
would therefore come forth in the mist of periodical publication,
unnoticed and unknown. The public were more importantly employed, than
to observe the easy simplicity of my style, of the harmony of my
periods. Sheet after sheet was thrown off to oblivion. My essays were
buried among the essays upon liberty, eastern tales, and cures for the
bite of a mad dog; while Philautos, Philalethes, Philelutheros, and
Philanthropos, all wrote better, because they wrote faster, than I.

‘Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but disappointed
authors, like myself, who praised, deplored, and despised each other.
The satisfaction we found in every celebrated writer’s attempts, was
inversely as their merits. I found that no genius in another could
please me. My unfortunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that source
of comfort. I could neither read nor write with satisfaction; for
excellence in another was my aversion, and writing was my trade.

‘In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was one day sitting on
a bench in St James’s park, a young gentleman of distinction, who had
been my intimate acquaintance at the university, approached me. We
saluted each other with some hesitation, he almost ashamed of being
known to one who made so shabby an appearance, and I afraid of a
repulse. But my suspicions soon vanished; for Ned Thornhill was at the
bottom a very good-natured fellow.

‘What did you say, George?’ interrupted I. ‘Thornhill, was not that his
name? It can certainly be no other than my landlord.’—‘Bless me,’ cried
Mrs Arnold, ‘is Mr Thornhill so near a neighbour of yours? He has long
been a friend in our family, and we expect a visit from him shortly.’

‘My friend’s first care,’ continued my son, ‘was to alter my appearance
by a very fine suit of his own cloaths, and then I was admitted to his
table upon the footing of half-friend, half-underling. My business was
to attend him at auctions, to put him in spirits when he sate for his
picture, to take the left hand in his chariot when not filled by
another, and to assist at tattering a kip, as the phrase was, when we
had a mind for a frolic. Beside this, I had twenty other little
employments in the family. I was to do many small things without
bidding; to carry the cork screw; to stand godfather to all the
butler’s children; to sing when I was bid; to be never out of humour;
always to be humble, and, if I could, to be very happy.

‘In this honourable post, however, I was not without a rival. A captain
of marines, who was formed for the place by nature, opposed me in my
patron’s affections. His mother had been laundress to a man of quality,
and thus he early acquired a taste for pimping and pedigree. As this
gentleman made it the study of his life to be acquainted with lords,
though he was dismissed from several for his stupidity; yet he found
many of them who were as dull as himself, that permitted his
assiduities. As flattery was his trade, he practised it with the
easiest address imaginable; but it came aukward and stiff from me; and
as every day my patron’s desire of flattery encreased, so every hour
being better acquainted with his defects, I became more unwilling to
give it. Thus I was once more fairly going to give up the field to the
captain, when my friend found occasion for my assistance. This was
nothing less than to fight a duel for him, with a gentleman whose
sister it was pretended he had used ill. I readily complied with his
request, and tho’ I see you are displeased at my conduct, yet as it was
a debt indispensably due to friendship, I could not refuse. I undertook
the affair, disarmed my antagonist, and soon after had the pleasure of
finding that the lady was only a woman of the town, and the fellow her
bully and a sharper. This piece of service was repaid with the warmest
professions of gratitude; but as my friend was to leave town in a few
days, he knew no other method of serving me, but by recommending me to
his uncle Sir William Thornhill, and another nobleman of great
distinction, who enjoyed a post under the government. When he was gone,
my first care was to carry his recommendatory letter to his uncle, a
man whose character for every virtue was universal, yet just. I was
received by his servants with the most hospitable smiles; for the looks
of the domestics ever transmit their master’s benevolence. Being shewn
into a grand apartment, where Sir William soon came to me, I delivered
my message and letter, which he read, and after pausing some minutes,
Pray, Sir, cried he, inform me what you have done for my kinsman, to
deserve this warm recommendation? But I suppose, Sir, I guess your
merits, you have fought for him; and so you would expect a reward from
me, for being the instrument of his vices. I wish, sincerely wish, that
my present refusal may be some punishment for your guilt; but still
more, that it may be some inducement to your repentance.—The severity
of this rebuke I bore patiently, because I knew it was just. My whole
expectations now, therefore, lay in my letter to the great man. As the
doors of the nobility are almost ever beset with beggars, all ready to
thrust in some sly petition, I found it no easy matter to gain
admittance. However, after bribing the servants with half my worldly
fortune, I was at last shewn into a spacious apartment, my letter being
previously sent up for his lordship’s inspection. During this anxious
interval I had full time to look round me. Every thing was grand, and
of happy contrivance: the paintings, the furniture, the gildings,
petrified me with awe, and raised my idea of the owner. Ah, thought I
to myself, how very great must the possessor of all these things be,
who carries in his head the business of the state, and whose house
displays half the wealth of a kingdom: sure his genius must be
unfathomable! During these awful reflections I heard a step come
heavily forward. Ah, this is the great man himself! No, it was only a
chambermaid. Another foot was heard soon after. This must be He! No, it
was only the great man’s valet de chambre. At last his lordship
actually made his appearance. Are you, cried he, the bearer of this
here letter? I answered with a bow. I learn by this, continued he, as
how that—But just at that instant a servant delivered him a card, and
without taking farther notice, he went out of the room, and left me to
digest my own happiness at leisure. I saw no more of him, till told by
a footman that his lordship was going to his coach at the door. Down I
immediately followed, and joined my voice to that of three or four
more, who came, like me, to petition for favours. His lordship,
however, went too fast for us, and was gaining his Chariot door with
large strides, when I hallowed out to know if I was to have any reply.
He was by this time got in, and muttered an answer, half of which only
I heard, the other half was lost in the rattling of his chariot wheels.
I stood for some time with my neck stretched out, in the posture of one
that was listening to catch the glorious sounds, till looking round me,
I found myself alone at his lordship’s gate.

‘My patience,’ continued my son, ‘was now quite exhausted: stung with
the thousand indignities I had met with, I was willing to cast myself
away, and only wanted the gulph to receive me. I regarded myself as one
of those vile things that nature designed should be thrown by into her
lumber room, there to perish in obscurity. I had still, however, half a
guinea left, and of that I thought fortune herself should not deprive
me: but in order to be sure of this, I was resolved to go instantly and
spend it while I had it, and then trust to occurrences for the rest. As
I was going along with this resolution, it happened that Mr Cripse’s
office seemed invitingly open to give me a welcome reception. In this
office Mr Cripse kindly offers all his majesty’s subjects a generous
promise of 30 pounds a year, for which promise all they give in return
is their liberty for life, and permission to let him transport them to
America as slaves. I was happy at finding a place where I could lose my
fears in desperation, and entered this cell, for it had the appearance
of one, with the devotion of a monastic. Here I found a number of poor
creatures, all in circumstances like myself, expecting the arrival of
Mr Cripse, presenting a true epitome of English impatience. Each
untractable soul at variance with fortune, wreaked her injuries on
their own hearts: but Mr Cripse at last came down, and all our murmurs
were hushed. He deigned to regard me with an air of peculiar
approbation, and indeed he was the first man who for a month past
talked to me with smiles. After a few questions, he found I was fit for
every thing in the world. He paused a while upon the properest means of
providing for me, and slapping his forehead, as if he had found it,
assured me, that there was at that time an embassy talked of from the
synod of Pensylvania to the Chickasaw Indians, and that he would use
his interest to get me made secretary. I knew in my own heart that the
fellow lied, and yet his promise gave me pleasure, there was something
so magnificent in the sound. I fairly, therefore, divided my half
guinea, one half of which went to be added to his thirty thousand
pound, and with the other half I resolved to go to the next tavern, to
be there more happy than he.

‘As I was going out with that resolution, I was met at the door by the
captain of a ship, with whom I had formerly some little acquaintance,
and he agreed to be my companion over a bowl of punch. As I never chose
to make a secret of my circumstances, he assured me that I was upon the
very point of ruin, in listening to the office-keeper’s promises; for
that he only designed to sell me to the plantations. But, continued he,
I fancy you might, by a much shorter voyage, be very easily put into a
genteel way of bread. Take my advice. My ship sails to-morrow for
Amsterdam; What if you go in her as a passenger? The moment you land
all you have to do is to teach the Dutchmen English, and I’ll warrant
you’ll get pupils and money enough. I suppose you understand English,
added he, by this time, or the deuce is in it. I confidently assured
him of that; but expressed a doubt whether the Dutch would be willing
to learn English. He affirmed with an oath that they were fond of it to
distraction; and upon that affirmation I agreed with his proposal, and
embarked the next day to teach the Dutch English in Holland. The wind
was fair, our voyage short, and after having paid my passage with half
my moveables, I found myself, fallen as from the skies, a stranger in
one of the principal streets of Amsterdam. In this situation I was
unwilling to let any time pass unemployed in teaching. I addressed
myself therefore to two or three of those I met whose appearance seemed
most promising; but it was impossible to make ourselves mutually
understood. It was not till this very moment I recollected, that in
order to teach Dutchmen English, it was necessary that they should
first teach me Dutch. How I came to overlook so obvious an objection,
is to me amazing; but certain it is I overlooked it.

‘This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts of fairly shipping back
to England again; but happening into company with an Irish student, who
was returning from Louvain, our conversation turning upon topics of
literature, (for by the way it may be observed that I always forgot the
meanness of my circumstances when I could converse upon such subjects)
from him I learned that there were not two men in his whole university
who understood Greek. This amazed me. I instantly resolved to travel to
Louvain, and there live by teaching Greek; and in this design I was
heartened by my brother student, who threw out some hints that a
fortune might be got by it.

‘I set boldly forward the next morning. Every day lessened the burthen
of my moveables, like Æsop and his basket of bread; for I paid them for
my lodgings to the Dutch as I travelled on. When I came to Louvain, I
was resolved not to go sneaking to the lower professors, but openly
tendered my talents to the principal himself. I went, had admittance,
and offered him my service as a master of the Greek language, which I
had been told was a desideratum in his university. The principal seemed
at first to doubt of my abilities; but of these I offered to convince
him, by turning a part of any Greek author he should fix upon into
Latin. Finding me perfectly earnest in my proposal, he addressed me
thus: You see me, young man, continued he, I never learned Greek, and I
don’t find that I have ever missed it. I have had a doctor’s cap and
gown without Greek: I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek; I
eat heartily without Greek, and in short, continued he, as I don’t know
Greek, I do not believe there is any good in it.

‘I was now too far from home to think of returning; so I resolved to go
forward. I had some knowledge of music, with a tolerable voice, and now
turned what was once my amusement into a present means of subsistence.
I passed among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and among such of the
French as were poor enough to be very merry; for I ever found them
sprightly in proportion to their wants. Whenever I approached a
peasant’s house towards night-fall, I played one of my most merry
tunes, and that procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the
next day. I once or twice attempted to play for people of fashion; but
they always thought my performance odious, and never rewarded me even
with a trifle. This was to me the more extraordinary, as whenever I
used in better days to play for company, when playing was my amusement,
my music never failed to throw them into raptures, and the ladies
especially; but as it was now my only means, it was received with
contempt: a proof how ready the world is to under rate those talents by
which a man is supported.

‘In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no design but just to look
about me, and then to go forward. The people of Paris are much fonder
of strangers that have money, than of those that have wit. As I could
not boast much of either, I was no great favourite. After walking about
the town four or five days, and seeing the outsides of the best houses,
I was preparing to leave this retreat of venal hospitality, when
passing through one of the principal streets, whom should I meet but
our cousin, to whom you first recommended me. This meeting was very
agreeable to me, and I believe not displeasing to him. He enquired into
the nature of my journey to Paris, and informed me of his own business
there, which was to collect pictures, medals, intaglios, and antiques
of all kinds, for a gentleman in London, who had just stept into taste
and a large fortune. I was the more surprised at seeing our cousin
pitched upon for this office, as he himself had often assured me he
knew nothing of the matter. Upon my asking how he had been taught the
art of a connoscento so very suddenly, he assured me that nothing was
more easy. The whole secret consisted in a strict adherence to two
rules: the one always to observe, that the picture might have been
better if the painter had taken more pains; and the other, to praise
the works of Pietro Perugino. But, says he, as I once taught you how to
be an author in London, I’ll now undertake to instruct you in the art
of picture buying at Paris.

‘With this proposal I very readily closed, as it was a living, and now
all my ambition was to live. I went therefore to his lodgings, improved
my dress by his assistance, and after some time, accompanied him to
auctions of pictures, where the English gentry were expected to be
purchasers. I was not a little surprised at his intimacy with people of
the best fashion, who referred themselves to his judgment upon every
picture or medal, as to an unerring standard of taste. He made very
good use of my assistance upon these occasions; for when asked his
opinion, he would gravely take me aside, and ask mine, shrug, look
wise, return, and assure the company, that he could give no opinion
upon an affair of so much importance. Yet there was sometimes an
occasion for a more supported assurance. I remember to have seen him,
after giving his opinion that the colouring of a picture was not mellow
enough, very deliberately take a brush with brown varnish, that was
accidentally lying by, and rub it over the piece with great composure
before all the company, and then ask if he had not improved the tints.

‘When he had finished his commission in Paris, he left me strongly
recommended to several men of distinction, as a person very proper for
a travelling tutor; and after some time I was employed in that capacity
by a gentleman who brought his ward to Paris, in order to set him
forward on his tour through Europe. I was to be the young gentleman’s
governor, but with a proviso that he should always be permitted to
govern himself. My pupil in fact understood the art of guiding in money
concerns much better than I. He was heir to a fortune of about two
hundred thousand pounds, left him by an uncle in the West Indies; and
his guardians, to qualify him for the management of it, had bound him
apprentice to an attorney. Thus avarice was his prevailing passion: all
his questions on the road were how money might be saved, which was the
least expensive course of travel; whether any thing could be bought
that would turn to account when disposed of again in London. Such
curiosities on the way as could be seen for nothing he was ready enough
to look at; but if the sight of them was to be paid for, he usually
asserted that he had been told they were not worth seeing. He never
paid a bill, that he would not observe, how amazingly expensive
travelling was, and all this though he was not yet twenty-one. When
arrived at Leghorn, as we took a walk to look at the port and shipping,
he enquired the expence of the passage by sea home to England. This he
was informed was but a trifle, compared to his returning by land, he
was therefore unable to withstand the temptation; so paying me the
small part of my salary that was due, he took leave, and embarked with
only one attendant for London.

‘I now therefore was left once more upon the world at large, but then
it was a thing I was used to. However my skill in music could avail me
nothing in a country where every peasant was a better musician than I;
but by this time I had acquired another talent, which answered my
purpose as well, and this was a skill in disputation. In all the
foreign universities and convents, there are upon certain days
philosophical theses maintained against every adventitious disputant;
for which, if the champion opposes with any dexterity, he can claim a
gratuity in money, a dinner, and a bed, for one night. In this manner
therefore I fought my way towards England, walked along from city to
city, examined mankind more nearly, and, if I may so express it, saw
both sides of the picture. My remarks, however, are but few: I found
that monarchy was the best government for the poor to live in, and
commonwealths for the rich. I found that riches in general were in
every country another name for freedom; and that no man is so fond of
liberty himself as not to be desirous of subjecting the will of some
individuals in society to his own.

‘Upon my arrival in England, I resolved to pay my respects first to
you, and then to enlist as a volunteer in the first expedition that was
going forward; but on my journey down my resolutions were changed, by
meeting an old acquaintance, who I found belonged to a company of
comedians, that were going to make a summer campaign in the country.
The company seemed not much to disapprove of me for an associate. They
all, however, apprized me of the importance of the task at which I
aimed; that the public was a many headed monster, and that only such as
had very good heads could please it: that acting was not to be learnt
in a day; and that without some traditional shrugs, which had been on
the stage, and only on the stage, these hundred years, I could never
pretend to please. The next difficulty was in fitting me with parts, as
almost every character was in keeping. I was driven for some time from
one character to another, till at last Horatio was fixed upon, which
the presence of the present company has happily hindered me from
acting.’




CHAPTER XXI.


The short continuance of friendship amongst the vicious, which is
coeval only with mutual satisfaction.


My son’s account was too long to be delivered at once, the first part
of it was begun that night, and he was concluding the rest after dinner
the next day, when the appearance of Mr Thornhill’s equipage at the
door seemed to make a pause in the general satisfaction. The butler,
who was now become my friend in the family, informed me with a whisper,
that the ’Squire had already made some overtures to Miss Wilmot, and
that her aunt and uncle seemed highly to approve the match. Upon Mr
Thornhill’s entering, he seemed, at seeing my son and me, to start
back; but I readily imputed that to surprize, and not displeasure.
However, upon our advancing to salute him, he returned our greeting
with the most apparent candour; and after a short time, his presence
served only to encrease the general good humour.

After tea he called me aside, to enquire after my daughter; but upon my
informing him that my enquiry was unsuccessful, he seemed greatly
surprised; adding, that he had been since frequently at my house, in
order to comfort the rest of my family, whom he left perfectly well. He
then asked if I had communicated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot, or my
son; and upon my replying that I had not told them as yet, he greatly
approved my prudence and precaution, desiring me by all means to keep
it a secret: ‘For at best,’ cried he, ‘it is but divulging one’s own
infamy; and perhaps Miss Livy may not be so guilty as we all imagine.’
We were here interrupted by a servant, who came to ask the ’Squire in,
to stand up at country dances; so that he left me quite pleased with
the interest he seemed to take in my concerns. His addresses, however,
to Miss Wilmot, were too obvious to be mistaken; and yet she seemed not
perfectly pleased, but bore them rather in compliance to the will of
her aunt, than from real inclination. I had even the satisfaction to
see her lavish some kind looks upon my unfortunate son, which the other
could neither extort by his fortune nor assiduity. Mr Thornhill’s
seeming composure, however, not a little surprised me: we had now
continued here a week, at the pressing instances of Mr Arnold; but each
day the more tenderness Miss Wilmot shewed my son, Mr Thomhill’s
friendship seemed proportionably to encrease for him.

He had formerly made us the most kind assurances of using his interest
to serve the family; but now his generosity was not confined to
promises alone: the morning I designed for my departure, Mr Thornhill
came to me with looks of real pleasure to inform me of a piece of
service he had done for his friend George. This was nothing less than
his having procured him an ensign’s commission in one of the regiments
that was going to the West Indies, for which he had promised but one
hundred pounds, his interest having been sufficient to get an abatement
of the other two. ‘As for this trifling piece of service,’ continued
the young gentleman, ‘I desire no other reward but the pleasure of
having served my friend; and as for the hundred pound to be paid, if
you are unable to raise it yourselves, I will advance it, and you shall
repay me at your leisure.’ This was a favour we wanted words to express
our sense of. I readily therefore gave my bond for the money, and
testified as much gratitude as if I never intended to pay.

George was to depart for town the next day to secure his commission, in
pursuance of his generous patron’s directions, who judged it highly
expedient to use dispatch, lest in the mean time another should step in
with more advantageous proposals. The next morning, therefore, our
young soldier was early prepared for his departure, and seemed the only
person among us that was not affected by it. Neither the fatigues and
dangers he was going to encounter, nor the friends and mistress, for
Miss Wilmot actually loved him, he was leaving behind, any way damped
his spirits. After he had taken leave of the rest of the company, I
gave him all I had, my blessing. ‘And now, my boy,’ cried I, ‘thou art
going to fight for thy country, remember how thy brave grandfather
fought for his sacred king, when loyalty among Britons was a virtue.
Go, my boy, and imitate him in all but his misfortunes, if it was a
misfortune to die with Lord Falkland. Go, my boy, and if you fall, tho’
distant, exposed and unwept by those that love you, the most precious
tears are those with which heaven bedews the unburied head of a
soldier.’

The next morning I took leave of the good family, that had been kind
enough to entertain me so long, not without several expressions of
gratitude to Mr Thornhill for his late bounty. I left them in the
enjoyment of all that happiness which affluence and good breeding
procure, and returned towards home, despairing of ever finding my
daughter more, but sending a sigh to heaven to spare and to forgive
her. I was now come within about twenty miles of home, having hired an
horse to carry me, as I was yet but weak, and comforted myself with the
hopes of soon seeing all I held dearest upon earth. But the night
coming on, I put up at a little public-house by the roadside, and asked
for the landlord’s company over a pint of wine. We sate beside his
kitchen fire, which was the best room in the house, and chatted on
politics and the news of the country. We happened, among other topics,
to talk of young ’Squire Thornhill, who the host assured me was hated
as much as his uncle Sir William, who sometimes came down to the
country, was loved. He went on to observe, that he made it his whole
study to betray the daughters of such as received him to their houses,
and after a fortnight or three weeks possession, turned them out
unrewarded and abandoned to the world. As we continued our discourse in
this manner, his wife, who had been out to get change, returned, and
perceiving that her husband was enjoying a pleasure in which she was
not a sharer, she asked him, in an angry tone, what he did there, to
which he only replied in an ironical way, by drinking her health. ‘Mr
Symmonds,’ cried she, ‘you use me very ill, and I’ll bear it no longer.
Here three parts of the business is left for me to do, and the fourth
left unfinished; while you do nothing but soak with the guests all day
long, whereas if a spoonful of liquor were to cure me of a fever, I
never touch a drop.’ I now found what she would be at, and immediately
poured her out a glass, which she received with a curtesy, and drinking
towards my good health, ‘Sir,’ resumed she, ‘it is not so much for the
value of the liquor I am angry, but one cannot help it, when the house
is going out of the windows. If the customers or guests are to be
dunned, all the burthen lies upon my back, he’d as lief eat that glass
as budge after them himself.’ There now above stairs, we have a young
woman who has come to take up her lodgings here, and I don’t believe
she has got any money by her over-civility. I am certain she is very
slow of payment, and I wish she were put in mind of it.’—‘What
signifies minding her,’ cried the host, ‘if she be slow, she is
sure.’—‘I don’t know that,’ replied the wife; ‘but I know that I am
sure she has been here a fortnight, and we have not yet seen the cross
of her money.’—‘I suppose, my dear,’ cried he, ‘we shall have it all in
a, lump.’—‘In a lump!’ cried the other, ‘I hope we may get it any way;
and that I am resolved we will this very night, or out she tramps, bag
and baggage.’—‘Consider, my dear,’ cried the husband, ‘she is a
gentlewoman, and deserves more respect.’—‘As for the matter of that,’
returned the hostess, ‘gentle or simple, out she shall pack with a
sassarara. Gentry may be good things where they take; but for my part I
never saw much good of them at the sign of the Harrow.’—Thus saying,
she ran up a narrow flight of stairs, that went from the kitchen to a
room over-head, and I soon perceived by the loudness of her voice, and
the bitterness of her reproaches, that no money was to be had from her
lodger. I could hear her remonstrances very distinctly: ‘Out I say,
pack out this moment, tramp thou infamous strumpet, or I’ll give thee a
mark thou won’t be the better for this three months. What! you
trumpery, to come and take up an honest house, without cross or coin to
bless yourself with; come along I say.’—‘O dear madam,’ cried the
stranger, ‘pity me, pity a poor abandoned creature for one night, and
death will soon do the rest.’ I instantly knew the voice of my poor
ruined child Olivia. I flew to her rescue, while the woman was dragging
her along by the hair, and I caught the dear forlorn wretch in my
arms.—‘Welcome, any way welcome, my dearest lost one, my treasure, to
your poor old father’s bosom. Tho’ the vicious forsake thee, there is
yet one in the world that will never forsake thee; tho’ thou hadst ten
thousand crimes to answer for, he will forget them all.’—‘O my own
dear’—for minutes she could no more—‘my own dearest good papa! Could
angels be kinder! How do I deserve so much! The villain, I hate him and
myself, to be a reproach to such goodness. You can’t forgive me. I know
you cannot.’—‘Yes, my child, from my heart I do forgive thee! Only
repent, and we both shall yet be happy. We shall see many pleasant days
yet, my Olivia!’—‘Ah! never, sir, never. The rest of my wretched life
must be infamy abroad and shame at home. But, alas! papa, you look much
paler than you used to do. Could such a thing as I am give you so much
uneasiness? Sure you have too much wisdom to take the miseries of my
guilt upon yourself.’—‘Our wisdom, young woman,’ replied I.—‘Ah, why so
cold a name papa?’ cried she. ‘This is the first time you ever called
me by so cold a name.’—‘I ask pardon, my darling,’ returned I; ‘but I
was going to observe, that wisdom makes but a slow defence against
trouble, though at last a sure one.’

The landlady now returned to know if we did not chuse a more genteel
apartment, to which assenting, we were shewn a room, where we could
converse more freely. After we had talked ourselves into some degree of
tranquillity, I could not avoid desiring some account of the gradations
that led to her present wretched situation. ‘That villain, sir,’ said
she, ‘from the first day of our meeting made me honourable, though
private, proposals.’

‘Villain indeed,’ cried I; ‘and yet it in some measure surprizes me,
how a person of Mr Burchell’s good sense and seeming honour could be
guilty of such deliberate baseness, and thus step into a family to undo
it.’

‘My dear papa,’ returned my daughter, ‘you labour under a strange
mistake, Mr Burchell never attempted to deceive me. Instead of that he
took every opportunity of privately admonishing me against the
artifices of Mr Thornhill, who I now find was even worse than he
represented him.’—‘Mr Thornhill,’ interrupted I, ‘can it be?’—‘Yes,
Sir,’ returned she, ‘it was Mr Thornhill who seduced me, who employed
the two ladies, as he called them, but who, in fact, were abandoned
women of the town, without breeding or pity, to decoy us up to London.
Their artifices, you may remember would have certainly succeeded, but
for Mr Burchell’s letter, who directed those reproaches at them, which
we all applied to ourselves. How he came to have so much influence as
to defeat their intentions, still remains a secret to me; but I am
convinced he was ever our warmest sincerest friend.’

‘You amaze me, my dear,’ cried I; ‘but now I find my first suspicions
of Mr Thornhill’s baseness were too well grounded: but he can triumph
in security; for he is rich and we are poor. But tell me, my child,
sure it was no small temptation that could thus obliterate all the
impressions of such an education, and so virtuous a disposition as
thine.’

‘Indeed, Sir,’ replied she, ‘he owes all his triumph to the desire I
had of making him, and not myself, happy. I knew that the ceremony of
our marriage, which was privately performed by a popish priest, was no
way binding, and that I had nothing to trust to but his honour.’
‘What,’ interrupted I, ‘and were you indeed married by a priest, and in
orders?’—‘Indeed, Sir, we were,’ replied she, ‘though we were both
sworn to conceal his name.’—‘Why then, my child, come to my arms again,
and now you are a thousand times more welcome than before; for you are
now his wife to all intents and purposes; nor can all the laws of man,
tho’ written upon tables of adamant, lessen the force of that sacred
connexion.’

‘Alas, Papa,’ replied she, ‘you are but little acquainted with his
villainies: he has been married already, by the same priest, to six or
eight wives more, whom, like me, he has deceived and abandoned.’

‘Has he so?’ cried I, ‘then we must hang the priest, and you shall
inform against him to-morrow.’—‘But Sir,’ returned she, ‘will that be
right, when I am sworn to secrecy?’—‘My dear,’ I replied, ‘if you have
made such a promise, I cannot, nor will I tempt you to break it. Even
tho’ it may benefit the public, you must not inform against him. In all
human institutions a smaller evil is allowed to procure a greater good;
as in politics, a province may be given away to secure a kingdom; in
medicine, a limb may be lopt off, to preserve the body. But in religion
the law is written, and inflexible, never to do evil. And this law, my
child, is right: for otherwise, if we commit a smaller evil, to procure
a greater good, certain guilt would be thus incurred, in expectation of
contingent advantage. And though the advantage should certainly follow,
yet the interval between commission and advantage, which is allowed to
be guilty, may be that in which we are called away to answer for the
things we have done, and the volume of human actions is closed for
ever. But I interrupt you, my dear, go on.’

‘The very next morning,’ continued she, ‘I found what little
expectations I was to have from his sincerity. That very morning he
introduced me to two unhappy women more, whom, like me, he had
deceived, but who lived in contented prostitution. I loved him too
tenderly to bear such rivals in his affections, and strove to forget my
infamy in a tumult of pleasures. With this view, I danced, dressed, and
talked; but still was unhappy. The gentlemen who visited there told me
every moment of the power of my charms, and this only contributed to
encrease my melancholy, as I had thrown all their power quite away.
Thus each day I grew more pensive, and he more insolent, till at last
the monster had the assurance to offer me to a young Baronet of his
acquaintance. Need I describe, Sir, how his ingratitude stung me. My
answer to this proposal was almost madness. I desired to part. As I was
going he offered me a purse; but I flung it at him with indignation,
and burst from him in a rage, that for a while kept me insensible of
the miseries of my situation. But I soon looked round me, and saw
myself a vile, abject, guilty thing, without one friend in the world to
apply to. Just in that interval, a stage-coach happening to pass by, I
took a place, it being my only aim to be driven at a distance from a
wretch I despised and detested. I was set down here, where, since my
arrival, my own anxiety, and this woman’s unkindness, have been my only
companions. The hours of pleasure that I have passed with my mamma and
sister, now grow painful to me. Their sorrows are much; but mine is
greater than theirs; for mine are mixed with guilt and infamy.’

‘Have patience, my child,’ cried I, ‘and I hope things will yet be
better. Take some repose to-night, and to-morrow I’ll carry you home to
your mother and the rest of the family, from whom you will receive a
kind reception. Poor woman, this has gone to her heart: but she loves
you still, Olivia, and will forget it.




CHAPTER XXII.


Offences are easily pardoned where there is love at bottom.


The next morning I took my daughter behind me, and set out on my return
home. As we travelled along, I strove, by every persuasion, to calm her
sorrows and fears, and to arm her with resolution to bear the presence
of her offended mother. I took every opportunity, from the prospect of
a fine country, through which we passed, to observe how much kinder
heaven was to us, than we to each other, and that the misfortunes of
nature’s making were very few. I assured her, that she should never
perceive any change in my affections, and that during my life, which
yet might be long, she might depend upon a guardian and an instructor.
I armed her against the censures of the world, shewed her that books
were sweet unreproaching companions to the miserable, and that if they
could not bring us to enjoy life, they would at least teach us to
endure it.

The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that night at an inn by
the way, within about five miles from my house, and as I was willing to
prepare my family for my daughter’s reception, I determined to leave
her that night at the inn, and to return for her, accompanied by my
daughter Sophia, early the next morning. It was night before we reached
our appointed stage: however, after seeing her provided with a decent
apartment, and having ordered the hostess to prepare proper
refreshments, I kissed her, and proceeded towards home. And now my
heart caught new sensations of pleasure the nearer I approached that
peaceful mansion. As a bird that had been frighted from its nest, my
affections out-went my haste, and hovered round my little fire-side,
with all the rapture of expectation. I called up the many fond things I
had to say, and anticipated the welcome I was to receive. I already
felt my wife’s tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones.
As I walked but slowly, the night wained apace. The labourers of the
day were all retired to rest; the lights were out in every cottage; no
sounds were heard but of the shrilling cock, and the deep-mouthed
watch-dog, at hollow distance. I approached my little abode of
pleasure, and before I was within a furlong of the place, our honest
mastiff came running to welcome me.

It was now near mid-night that I came to knock at my door: all was
still and silent: my heart dilated with unutterable happiness, when, to
my amazement, I saw the house bursting out in a blaze of fire, and
every apperture red with conflagration! I gave a loud convulsive
outcry, and fell upon the pavement insensible. This alarmed my son, who
had till this been asleep, and he perceiving the flames, instantly
waked my wife and daughter, and all running out, naked, and wild with
apprehension, recalled me to life with their anguish. But it was only
to objects of new terror; for the flames had, by this time, caught the
roof of our dwelling, part after part continuing to fall in, while the
family stood, with silent agony, looking on, as if they enjoyed the
blaze. I gazed upon them and upon it by turns, and then looked round me
for my two little ones; but they were not to be seen. O misery!
‘Where,’ cried I, ‘where are my little ones?’—‘They are burnt to death
in the flames,’ says my wife calmly, ‘and I will die with them.’—That
moment I heard the cry of the babes within, who were just awaked by the
fire, and nothing could have stopped me. ‘Where, where, are my
children?’ cried I, rushing through the flames, and bursting the door
of the chamber in which they were confined, ‘Where are my little
ones?’—‘Here, dear papa, here we are,’ cried they together, while the
flames were just catching the bed where they lay. I caught them both in
my arms, and snatched them through the fire as fast as possible, while
just as I was got out, the roof sunk in. ‘Now,’ cried I, holding up my
children, ‘now let the flames burn on, and all my possessions perish.
Here they are, I have saved my treasure. Here, my dearest, here are our
treasures, and we shall yet be happy.’ We kissed our little darlings a
thousand times, they clasped us round the neck, and seemed to share our
transports, while their mother laughed and wept by turns.

I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and after some time, began
to perceive that my arm to the shoulder was scorched in a terrible
manner. It was therefore out of my power to give my son any assistance,
either in attempting to save our goods, or preventing the flames
spreading to our corn. By this time, the neighbours were alarmed, and
came running to our assistance; but all they could do was to stand,
like us, spectators of the calamity. My goods, among which were the
notes I had reserved for my daughters’ fortunes, were entirely
consumed, except a box, with some papers that stood in the kitchen, and
two or three things more of little consequence, which my son brought
away in the beginning. The neighbours contributed, however, what they
could to lighten our distress. They brought us cloaths, and furnished
one of our out-houses with kitchen utensils; so that by day-light we
had another, tho’ a wretched, dwelling to retire to. My honest next
neighbour, and his children, were not the least assiduous in providing
us with every thing necessary, and offering what ever consolation
untutored benevolence could suggest.

When the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity to know the cause
of my long stay began to take place; having therefore informed them of
every particular, I proceeded to prepare them for the reception of our
lost one, and tho’ we had nothing but wretchedness now to impart, I was
willing to procure her a welcome to what we had. This task would have
been more difficult but for our recent calamity, which had humbled my
wife’s pride, and blunted it by more poignant afflictions. Being unable
to go for my poor child myself, as my arm grew very painful, I sent my
son and daughter, who soon returned, supporting the wretched
delinquent, who had not the courage to look up at her mother, whom no
instructions of mine could persuade to a perfect reconciliation; for
women have a much stronger sense of female error than men. ‘Ah, madam,’
cried her mother, ‘this is but a poor place you are come to after so
much finery. My daughter Sophy and I can afford but little
entertainment to persons who have kept company only with people of
distinction. Yes, Miss Livy, your poor father and I have suffered very
much of late; but I hope heaven will forgive you.’—During this
reception, the unhappy victim stood pale and trembling, unable to weep
or to reply; but I could not continue a silent spectator of her
distress, wherefore assuming a degree of severity in my voice and
manner, which was ever followed with instant submission, ‘I entreat,
woman, that my words may be now marked once for all: I have here
brought you back a poor deluded wanderer; her return to duty demands
the revival of our tenderness. The real hardships of life are now
coming fast upon us, let us not therefore encrease them by dissention
among each other. If we live harmoniously together, we may yet be
contented, as there are enough of us to shut out the censuring world,
and keep each other in countenance. The kindness of heaven is promised
to the penitent, and let ours be directed by the example. Heaven, we
are assured, is much more pleased to view a repentant sinner, than
ninety nine persons who have supported a course of undeviating
rectitude. And this is right; for that single effort by which we stop
short in the downhill path to perdition, is itself a greater exertion
of virtue, than an hundred acts of justice.’




CHAPTER XXIII.


None but the guilty can be long and completely miserable.


Some assiduity was now required to make our present abode as convenient
as possible, and we were soon again qualified to enjoy our former
serenity. Being disabled myself from assisting my son in our usual
occupations, I read to my family from the few books that were saved,
and particularly from such, as, by amusing the imagination, contributed
to ease the heart. Our good neighbours too came every day with the
kindest condolence, and fixed a time in which they were all to assist
at repairing my former dwelling. Honest farmer Williams was not last
among these visitors; but heartily offered his friendship. He would
even have renewed his addresses to my daughter; but she rejected them
in such a manner as totally represt his future solicitations. Her grief
seemed formed for continuing, and she was the only person of our little
society that a week did not restore to cheerfulness. She now lost that
unblushing innocence which once taught her to respect herself, and to
seek pleasure by pleasing. Anxiety now had taken strong possession of
her mind, her beauty began to be impaired with her constitution, and
neglect still more contributed to diminish it. Every tender epithet
bestowed on her sister brought a pang to her heart and a tear to her
eye; and as one vice, tho’ cured, ever plants others where it has been,
so her former guilt, tho’ driven out by repentance, left jealousy and
envy behind. I strove a thousand ways to lessen her care, and even
forgot my own pain in a concern for her’s, collecting such amusing
passages of history, as a strong memory and some reading could suggest.
‘Our happiness, my dear,’ I would say, ‘is in the power of one who can
bring it about a thousand unforeseen ways, that mock our foresight. If
example be necessary to prove this, I’ll give you a story, my child,
told us by a grave, tho’ sometimes a romancing, historian.

‘Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan nobleman of the first
quality, and found herself a widow and a mother at the age of fifteen.
As she stood one day caressing her infant son in the open window of an
apartment, which hung over the river Volturna, the child, with a sudden
spring, leaped from her arms into the flood below, and disappeared in a
moment. The mother, struck with instant surprize, and making all effort
to save him, plunged in after; but, far from being able to assist the
infant, she herself with great difficulty escaped to the opposite
shore, just when some French soldiers were plundering the country on
that side, who immediately made her their prisoner.

‘As the war was then carried on between the French and Italians with
the utmost inhumanity, they were going at once to perpetrate those two
extremes, suggested by appetite and cruelty. This base resolution,
however, was opposed by a young officer, who, tho’ their retreat
required the utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and brought her
in safety to his native city. Her beauty at first caught his eye, her
merit soon after his heart. They were married; he rose to the highest
posts; they lived long together, and were happy. But the felicity of a
soldier can never be called permanent: after an interval of several
years, the troops which he commanded having met with a repulse, he was
obliged to take shelter in the city where he had lived with his wife.
Here they suffered a siege, and the city at length was taken. Few
histories can produce more various instances of cruelty, than those
which the French and Italians at that time exercised upon each other.
It was resolved by the victors, upon this occasion, to put all the
French prisoners to death; but particularly the husband of the
unfortunate Matilda, as he was principally instrumental in protracting
the siege. Their determinations were, in general, executed almost as
soon as resolved upon. The captive soldier was led forth, and the
executioner, with his sword, stood ready, while the spectators in
gloomy silence awaited the fatal blow, which was only suspended till
the general, who presided as judge, should give the signal. It was in
this interval of anguish and expectation, that Matilda came to take her
last farewell of her husband and deliverer, deploring her wretched
situation, and the cruelty of fate, that had saved her from perishing
by a premature death in the river Volturna, to be the spectator of
still greater calamities. The general, who was a young man, was struck
with surprize at her beauty, and pity at her distress; but with still
stronger emotions when he heard her mention her former dangers. He was
her son, the infant for whom she had encounter’d so much danger. He
acknowledged her at once as his mother, and fell at her feet. The rest
may be easily supposed: the captive was set free, and all the happiness
that love, friendship, and duty could confer on each, were united.’

In this manner I would attempt to amuse my daughter; but she listened
with divided attention; for her own misfortunes engrossed all the pity
she once had for those of another, and nothing gave her ease. In
company she dreaded contempt; and in solitude she only found anxiety.
Such was the colour of her wretchedness, when we received certain
information, that Mr Thornhill was going to be married to Miss Wilmot,
for whom I always suspected he had a real passion, tho’ he took every
opportunity before me to express his contempt both of her person and
fortune. This news only served to encrease poor Olivia’s affliction;
such a flagrant breach of fidelity, was more than her courage could
support. I was resolved, however, to get more certain information, and
to defeat, if possible, the completion of his designs, by sending my
son to old Mr Wilmot’s, with instructions to know the truth of the
report, and to deliver Miss Wilmot a letter, intimating Mr Thornhill’s
conduct in my family. My son went, in pursuance of my directions, and
in three days returned, assuring us of the truth of the account; but
that he had found it impossible to deliver the letter, which he was
therefore obliged to leave, as Mr Thornhill and Miss Wilmot were
visiting round the country. They were to be married, he said, in a few
days, having appeared together at church the Sunday before he was
there, in great splendour, the bride attended by six young ladies, and
he by as many gentlemen. Their approaching nuptials filled the whole
country with rejoicing, and they usually rode out together in the
grandest equipage that had been seen in the country for many years. All
the friends of both families, he said, were there, particularly the
’Squire’s uncle, Sir William Thornhill, who bore so good a character.
He added, that nothing but mirth and feasting were going forward; that
all the country praised the young bride’s beauty, and the bridegroom’s
fine person, and that they were immensely fond of each other;
concluding, that he could not help thinking Mr Thornhill one of the
most happy men in the world.

‘Why let him if he can,’ returned I: ‘but, my son, observe this bed of
straw, and unsheltering roof; those mouldering walls, and humid floor;
my wretched body thus disabled by fire, and my children weeping round
me for bread; you have come home, my child, to all this, yet here, even
here, you see a man that would not for a thousand worlds exchange
situations. O, my children, if you could but learn to commune with your
own hearts, and know what noble company you can make them, you would
little regard the elegance and splendours of the worthless. Almost all
men have been taught to call life a passage, and themselves the
travellers. The similitude still may be improved when we observe that
the good are joyful and serene, like travellers that are going towards
home; the wicked but by intervals happy, like travellers that are going
into exile.’

My compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered by this new disaster,
interrupted what I had farther to observe. I bade her mother support
her, and after a short time she recovered. She appeared from that time
more calm, and I imagined had gained a new degree of resolution; but
appearances deceived me; for her tranquility was the langour of
over-wrought resentment. A supply of provisions, charitably sent us by
my kind parishioners, seemed to diffuse new cheerfulness amongst the
rest of the family, nor was I displeased at seeing them once more
sprightly and at ease. It would have been unjust to damp their
satisfactions, merely to condole with resolute melancholy, or to
burthen them with a sadness they did not feel. Thus, once more, the
tale went round and the song was demanded, and cheerfulness
condescended to hover round our little habitation.




CHAPTER XXIV.


Fresh calamities.


The next morning the sun rose with peculiar warmth for the season; so
that we agreed to breakfast together on the honeysuckle bank: where,
while we sate, my youngest daughter, at my request, joined her voice to
the concert on the trees about us. It was in this place my poor Olivia
first met her seducer, and every object served to recall her sadness.
But that melancholy, which is excited by objects of pleasure, or
inspired by sounds of harmony, sooths the heart instead of corroding
it. Her mother too, upon this occasion, felt a pleasing distress, and
wept, and loved her daughter as before. ‘Do, my pretty Olivia,’ cried
she, ‘let us have that little melancholy air your pappa was so fond of,
your sister Sophy has already obliged us. Do child, it will please your
old father.’ She complied in a manner so exquisitely pathetic as moved
me.

When lovely woman stoops to folly,
    And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can sooth her melancholy,
    What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,
    To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
    And wring his bosom—is to die.


As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an interruption in her
voice from sorrow gave peculiar softness, the appearance of Mr
Thornhill’s equipage at a distance alarmed us all, but particularly
encreased the uneasiness of my eldest daughter, who, desirous of
shunning her betrayer, returned to the house with her sister. In a few
minutes he was alighted from his chariot, and making up to the place
where I was still sitting, enquired after my health with his usual air
of familiarity. ‘Sir,’ replied I, ‘your present assurance only serves
to aggravate the baseness of your character; and there was a time when
I would have chastised your insolence, for presuming thus to appear
before me. But now you are safe; for age has cooled my passions, and my
calling restrains them.’

‘I vow, my dear sir,’ returned he, ‘I am amazed at all this; nor can I
understand what it means! I hope you don’t think your daughter’s late
excursion with me had any thing criminal in it.’

‘Go,’ cried I, ‘thou art a wretch, a poor pitiful wretch, and every way
a lyar; but your meanness secures you from my anger! Yet sir, I am
descended from a family that would not have borne this! And so, thou
vile thing, to gratify a momentary passion, thou hast made one poor
creature wretched for life, and polluted a family that had nothing but
honour for their portion.’

‘If she or you,’ returned he, ‘are resolved to be miserable, I cannot
help it. But you may still be happy; and whatever opinion you may have
formed of me, you shall ever find me ready to contribute to it. We can
marry her to another in a short time, and what is more, she may keep
her lover beside; for I protest I shall ever continue to have a true
regard for her.’

I found all my passions alarmed at this new degrading proposal; for
though the mind may often be calm under great injuries, little villainy
can at any time get within the soul, and sting it into rage.—‘Avoid my
sight, thou reptile,’ cried I, ‘nor continue to insult me with thy
presence. Were my brave son at home, he would not suffer this; but I am
old, and disabled, and every way undone.’

‘I find,’ cried he, ‘you are bent upon obliging me to talk in an
harsher manner than I intended. But as I have shewn you what may be
hoped from my friendship, it may not be improper to represent what may
be the consequences of my resentment. My attorney, to whom your late
bond has been transferred, threatens hard, nor do I know how to prevent
the course of justice, except by paying the money myself, which, as I
have been at some expences lately, previous to my intended marriage, is
not so easy to be done. And then my steward talks of driving for the
rent: it is certain he knows his duty; for I never trouble myself with
affairs of that nature. Yet still I could wish to serve you, and even
to have you and your daughter present at my marriage, which is shortly
to be solemnized with Miss Wilmot; it is even the request of my
charming Arabella herself, whom I hope you will not refuse.’

‘Mr Thornhill,’ replied I, ‘hear me once for all: as to your marriage
with any but my daughter, that I never will consent to; and though your
friendship could raise me to a throne, or your resentment sink me to
the grave, yet would I despise both. Thou hast once wofully,
irreparably, deceived me. I reposed my heart upon thine honour, and
have found its baseness. Never more, therefore, expect friendship from
me. Go, and possess what fortune has given thee, beauty, riches,
health, and pleasure. Go, and leave me to want, infamy, disease, and
sorrow. Yet humbled as I am, shall my heart still vindicate its
dignity, and though thou hast my forgiveness, thou shalt ever have my
contempt.’

‘If so,’ returned he, ‘depend upon it you shall feel the effects of
this insolence, and we shall shortly see which is the fittest object of
scorn, you or me.’—Upon which he departed abruptly.

My wife and son, who were present at this interview, seemed terrified
with the apprehension. My daughters also, finding that he was gone,
came out to be informed of the result of our conference, which, when
known, alarmed them not less than the rest. But as to myself, I
disregarded the utmost stretch of his malevolence: he had already
struck the blow, and now I stood prepared to repel every new effort.
Like one of those instruments used in the art of war, which, however
thrown, still presents a point to receive the enemy.

We soon, however, found that he had not threatened in vain; for the
very next morning his steward came to demand my annual rent, which, by
the train of accidents already related, I was unable to pay. The
consequence of my incapacity was his driving my cattle that evening,
and their being appraised and sold the next day for less than half
their value. My wife and children now therefore entreated me to comply
upon any terms, rather than incur certain destruction. They even begged
of me to admit his visits once more, and used all their little
eloquence to paint the calamities I was going to endure. The terrors of
a prison, in so rigorous a season as the present, with the danger, that
threatened my health from the late accident that happened by the fire.
But I continued inflexible.

‘Why, my treasures,’ cried I, ‘why will you thus attempt to persuade me
to the thing that is not right! My duty has taught me to forgive him;
but my conscience will not permit me to approve. Would you have me
applaud to the world what my heart must internally condemn? Would you
have me tamely sit down and flatter our infamous betrayer; and to avoid
a prison continually suffer the more galling bonds of mental
confinement! No, never. If we are to be taken from this abode, only let
us hold to the right, and wherever we are thrown, we can still retire
to a charming apartment, when we can look round our own hearts with
intrepidity and with pleasure!’

In this manner we spent that evening. Early the next morning, as the
snow had fallen in great abundance in the night, my son was employed in
clearing it away, and opening a passage before the door. He had not
been thus engaged long, when he came running in, with looks all pale,
to tell us that two strangers, whom he knew to be officers of justice,
were making towards the house.

Just as he spoke they came in, and approaching the bed where I lay,
after previously informing me of their employment and business, made me
their prisoner, bidding me prepare to go with them to the county gaol,
which was eleven miles off.

‘My friends,’ said I, ‘this is severe weather on which you have come to
take me to a prison; and it is particularly unfortunate at this time,
as one of my arms has lately been burnt in a terrible manner, and it
has thrown me into a slight fever, and I want cloaths to cover me, and
I am now too weak and old to walk far in such deep snow: but if it must
be so—’

I then turned to my wife and children, and directed them to get
together what few things were left us, and to prepare immediately for
leaving this place. I entreated them to be expeditious, and desired my
son to assist his elder sister, who, from a consciousness that she was
the cause of all our calamities, was fallen, and had lost anguish in
insensibility. I encouraged my wife, who, pale and trembling, clasped
our affrighted little ones in her arms, that clung to her bosom in
silence, dreading to look round at the strangers. In the mean time my
youngest daughter prepared for our departure, and as she received
several hints to use dispatch, in about an hour we were ready to
depart.




CHAPTER XXV.


No situation, however wretched it seems, but has some sort of comfort
attending it.


We set forward from this peaceful neighbourhood, and walked on slowly.
My eldest daughter being enfeebled by a slow fever, which had begun for
some days to undermine her constitution, one of the officers, who had
an horse, kindly took her behind him; for even these men cannot
entirely divest themselves of humanity. My son led one of the little
ones by the hand, and my wife the other, while I leaned upon my
youngest girl, whose tears fell not for her own but my distresses.

We were now got from my late dwelling about two miles, when we saw a
crowd running and shouting behind us, consisting of about fifty of my
poorest parishioners. These, with dreadful imprecations, soon seized
upon the two officers of justice, and swearing they would never see
their minister go to gaol while they had a drop of blood to shed in his
defence, were going to use them with great severity. The consequence
might have been fatal, had I not immediately interposed, and with some
difficulty rescued the officers from the hands of the enraged
multitude. My children, who looked upon my delivery now as certain,
appeared transported with joy, and were incapable of containing their
raptures. But they were soon undeceived, upon hearing me address the
poor deluded people, who came, as they imagined, to do me service.

‘What! my friends,’ cried I, ‘and is this the way you love me! Is this
the manner you obey the instructions I have given you from the pulpit!
Thus to fly in the face of justice, and bring down ruin on yourselves
and me! Which is your ringleader? Shew me the man that has thus seduced
you. As sure as he lives he shall feel my resentment. Alas! my dear
deluded flock, return back to the duty you owe to God, to your country,
and to me. I shall yet perhaps one day see you in greater felicity
here, and contribute to make your lives more happy. But let it at least
be my comfort when I pen my fold for immortality, that not one here
shall be wanting.’

They now seemed all repentance, and melting into tears, came one after
the other to bid me farewell. I shook each tenderly by the hand, and
leaving them my blessing, proceeded forward without meeting any farther
interruption. Some hours before night we reached the town, or rather
village; for it consisted but of a few mean houses, having lost all its
former opulence, and retaining no marks of its ancient superiority but
the gaol.

Upon entering, we put up at an inn, where we had such refreshments as
could most readily be procured, and I supped with my family with my
usual cheerfulness. After seeing them properly accommodated for that
night, I next attended the sheriff’s officers to the prison, which had
formerly been built for the purposes of war, and consisted of one large
apartment, strongly grated, and paved with stone, common to both felons
and debtors at certain hours in the four and twenty. Besides this,
every prisoner had a separate cell, where he was locked in for the
night.

I expected upon my entrance to find nothing but lamentations, and
various sounds of misery; but it was very different. The prisoners
seemed all employed in one common design, that of forgetting thought in
merriment or clamour. I was apprized of the usual perquisite required
upon these occasions, and immediately complied with the demand, though
the little money I had was very near being all exhausted. This was
immediately sent away for liquor, and the whole prison soon was filled
with riot, laughter, and prophaneness.

‘How,’ cried I to myself, ‘shall men so very wicked be chearful, and
shall I be melancholy! I feel only the same confinement with them, and
I think I have more reason to be happy.’

With such reflections I laboured to become chearful; but chearfulness
was never yet produced by effort, which is itself painful. As I was
sitting therefore in a corner of the gaol, in a pensive posture, one of
my fellow prisoners came up, and sitting by me, entered into
conversation. It was my constant rule in life never to avoid the
conversation of any man who seemed to desire it: for if good, I might
profit by his instruction; if bad, he might be assisted by mine. I
found this to be a knowing man, of strong unlettered sense; but a
thorough knowledge of the world, as it is called, or, more properly
speaking, of human nature on the wrong side. He asked me if I had taken
care to provide myself with a bed, which was a circumstance I had never
once attended to.

‘That’s unfortunate,’ cried he, ‘as you are allowed here nothing but
straw, and your apartment is very large and cold. However you seem to
be something of a gentleman, and as I have been one myself in my time,
part of my bed-cloaths are heartily at your service.’

I thanked him, professing my surprize at finding such humanity in a
gaol in misfortunes; adding, to let him see that I was a scholar, ‘That
the sage ancient seemed to understand the value of company in
affliction, when he said, Ton kosman aire, ei dos ton etairon; and in
fact,’ continued I, ‘what is the World if it affords only solitude?’

‘You talk of the world, Sir,’ returned my fellow prisoner; ‘_the world
is in its dotage, and yet the cosmogony or creation of the world has
puzzled the philosophers of every age. What a medly of opinions have
they not broached upon the creation of the world. Sanconiathon,
Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus have all attempted it in vain.
The latter has these words. Anarchon ara kai atelutaion to pan, which
implies_’—‘I ask pardon, Sir,’ cried I, ‘for interrupting so much
learning; but I think I have heard all this before. Have I not had the
pleasure of once seeing you at Welbridge fair, and is not your name
Ephraim Jenkinson?’ At this demand he only sighed. ‘I suppose you must
recollect,’ resumed I, ‘one Doctor Primrose, from whom you bought a
horse.’

He now at once recollected me; for the gloominess of the place and the
approaching night had prevented his distinguishing my features
before.—‘Yes, Sir,’ returned Mr Jenkinson, ‘I remember you perfectly
well; I bought an horse, but forgot to pay for him. Your neighbour
Flamborough is the only prosecutor I am any way afraid of at the next
assizes: for he intends to swear positively against me as a coiner. I
am heartily sorry, Sir, I ever deceived you, or indeed any man; for you
see,’ continued he, shewing his shackles, ‘what my tricks have brought
me to.’

‘Well, sir,’ replied I, ‘your kindness in offering me assistance, when
you could expect no return, shall be repaid with my endeavours to
soften or totally suppress Mr Flamborough’s evidence, and I will send
my son to him for that purpose the first opportunity; nor do I in the
least doubt but he will comply with my request, and as to my evidence,
you need be under no uneasiness about that.’

‘Well, sir,’ cried he, ‘all the return I can make shall be yours. You
shall have more than half my bed-cloaths to night, and I’ll take care
to stand your friend in the prison, where I think I have some
influence.’

I thanked him, and could not avoid being surprised at the present
youthful change in his aspect; for at the time I had seen him before he
appeared at least sixty.—‘Sir,’ answered he, you are little acquainted
with the world; I had at that time false hair, and have learnt the art
of counterfeiting every age from seventeen to seventy. Ah sir, had I
but bestowed half the pains in learning a trade, that I have in
learning to be a scoundrel, I might have been a rich man at this day.
But rogue as I am, still I may be your friend, and that perhaps when
you least expect it.’

We were now prevented from further conversation, by the arrival of the
gaoler’s servants, who came to call over the prisoners names, and lock
up for the night. A fellow also, with a bundle of straw for my bed
attended, who led me along a dark narrow passage into a room paved like
the common prison, and in one corner of this I spread my bed, and the
cloaths given me by my fellow prisoner; which done, my conductor, who
was civil enough, bade me a good-night. After my usual meditations, and
having praised my heavenly corrector, I laid myself down and slept with
the utmost tranquility till morning.




CHAPTER XXVI.


A reformation in the gaol. To make laws complete, they should reward as
well as punish.


The next morning early I was awakened by my family, whom I found in
tears at my bed-side. The gloomy strength of every thing about us, it
seems, had daunted them. I gently rebuked their sorrow, assuring them I
had never slept with greater tranquility, and next enquired after my
eldest daughter, who was not among them. They informed me that
yesterday’s uneasiness and fatigue had encreased her fever, and it was
judged proper to leave her behind. My next care was to send my son to
procure a room or two to lodge the family in, as near the prison as
conveniently could be found. He obeyed; but could only find one
apartment, which was hired at a small expence, for his mother and
sisters, the gaoler with humanity consenting to let him and his two
little brothers lie in the prison with me. A bed was therefore prepared
for them in a corner of the room, which I thought answered very
conveniently. I was willing however previously to know whether my
little children chose to lie in a place which seemed to fright them
upon entrance.

‘Well,’ cried I, ‘my good boys, how do you like your bed? I hope you
are not afraid to lie in this room, dark as it appears.’

‘No, papa,’ says Dick, ‘I am not afraid to lie any where where you
are.’

‘And I,’ says Bill, who was yet but four years old, ‘love every place
best that my papa is in.’

After this, I allotted to each of the family what they were to do. My
daughter was particularly directed to watch her declining sister’s
health; my wife was to attend me; my little boys were to read to me:
‘And as for you, my son,’ continued I, ‘it is by the labour of your
hands we must all hope to be supported. Your wages, as a day-labourer,
will be full sufficient, with proper frugality, to maintain us all, and
comfortably too. Thou art now sixteen years old, and hast strength, and
it was given thee, my son, for very useful purposes; for it must save
from famine your helpless parents and family. Prepare then this evening
to look out for work against to-morrow, and bring home every night what
money you earn, for our support.’

Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest, I walked down to the
common prison, where I could enjoy more air and room. But I was not
long there when the execrations, lewdness, and brutality that invaded
me on every side, drove me back to my apartment again. Here I sate for
some time, pondering upon the strange infatuation of wretches, who
finding all mankind in open arms against them, were labouring to make
themselves a future and a tremendous enemy.

Their insensibility excited my highest compassion, and blotted my own
uneasiness from my mind. It even appeared a duty incumbent upon me to
attempt to reclaim them. I resolved therefore once more to return, and
in spite of their contempt to give them my advice, and conquer them by
perseverance. Going therefore among them again, I informed Mr Jenkinson
of my design, at which he laughed heartily, but communicated it to the
rest. The proposal was received with the greatest good-humour, as it
promised to afford a new fund of entertainment to persons who had now
no other resource for mirth, but what could be derived from ridicule or
debauchery.

I therefore read them a portion of the service with a loud unaffected
voice, and found my audience perfectly merry upon the occasion. Lewd
whispers, groans of contrition burlesqued, winking and coughing,
alternately excited laughter. However, I continued with my natural
solemnity to read on, sensible that what I did might amend some, but
could itself receive no contamination from any.

After reading, I entered upon my exhortation, which was rather
calculated at first to amuse them than to reprove. I previously
observed, that no other motive but their welfare could induce me to
this; that I was their fellow prisoner, and now got nothing by
preaching. I was sorry, I said, to hear them so very prophane; because
they got nothing by it, but might lose a great deal: ‘For be assured,
my friends,’ cried I, ‘for you are my friends, however the world may
disclaim your friendship, though you swore twelve thousand oaths in a
day, it would not put one penny in your purse. Then what signifies
calling every moment upon the devil, and courting his friendship, since
you find how scurvily he uses you. He has given you nothing here, you
find, but a mouthful of oaths and an empty belly; and by the best
accounts I have of him, he will give you nothing that’s good hereafter.

‘If used ill in our dealings with one man, we naturally go elsewhere.
Were it not worth your while then, just to try how you may like the
usage of another master, who gives you fair promises at least to come
to him. Surely, my Friends, of all stupidity in the world, his must be
greatest, who, after robbing an house, runs to the thieftakers for
protection. And yet how are you more wise? You are all seeking comfort
from one that has already betrayed you, applying to a more malicious
being than any thieftaker of them all; for they only decoy, and then
hang you; but he decoys and hangs, and what is worst of all, will not
let you loose after the hangman has done.’

When I had concluded, I received the compliments of my audience, some
of whom came and shook me by the hand, swearing that I was a very
honest fellow, and that they desired my further acquaintance. I
therefore promised to repeat my lecture next day, and actually
conceived some hopes of making a reformation here; for it had ever been
my opinion, that no man was past the hour of amendment, every heart
lying open to the shafts of reproof, if the archer could but take a
proper aim. When I had thus satisfied my mind, I went back to my
apartment, where my wife had prepared a frugal meal, while Mr Jenkinson
begged leave to add his dinner to ours, and partake of the pleasure, as
he was kind enough to express it of my conversation. He had not yet
seen my family, for as they came to my apartment by a door in the
narrow passage, already described, by this means they avoided the
common prison. Jenkinson at the first interview therefore seemed not a
little struck with the beauty of my youngest daughter, which her
pensive air contributed to heighten, and my little ones did not pass
unnoticed.

‘Alas, Doctor,’ cried he, ‘these children are too handsome and too good
for such a place as this!’

‘Why, Mr Jenkinson’, replied I, ‘thank heaven my children are pretty
tolerable in morals, and if they be good, it matters little for the
rest.’

‘I fancy, sir,’ returned my fellow prisoner, ‘that it must give you
great comfort to have this little family about you.’

‘A comfort, Mr Jenkinson,’ replied I, ‘yes it is indeed a comfort, and
I would not be without them for all the world; for they can make a
dungeon seem a palace. There is but one way in this life of wounding my
happiness, and that is by injuring them.’

‘I am afraid then, sir,’ cried he, ‘that I am in some measure culpable;
for I think I see here (looking at my son Moses) one that I have
injured, and by whom I wish to be forgiven.’

My son immediately recollected his voice and features, though he had
before seen him in disguise, and taking him by the hand, with a smile
forgave him. ‘Yet,’ continued he, ‘I can’t help wondering at what you
could see in my face, to think me a proper mark for deception.’

‘My dear sir,’ returned the other, ‘it was not your face, but your
white stockings and the black ribband in your hair, that allured me.
But no disparagement to your parts, I have deceived wiser men than you
in my time; and yet, with all my tricks, the blockheads have been too
many for me at last.’

‘I suppose,’ cried my son, ‘that the narrative of such a life as yours
must be extremely instructive and amusing.’

‘Not much of either,’ returned Mr Jenkinson. ‘Those relations which
describe the tricks and vices only of mankind, by increasing our
suspicion in life, retard our success. The traveller that distrusts
every person he meets, and turns back upon the appearance of every man
that looks like a robber, seldom arrives in time at his journey’s end.

‘Indeed I think from my own experience, that the knowing one is the
silliest fellow under the sun. I was thought cunning from my very
childhood; when but seven years old the ladies would say that I was a
perfect little man; at fourteen I knew the world, cocked my hat, and
loved the ladies; at twenty, though I was perfectly honest, yet every
one thought me so cunning, that not one would trust me. Thus I was at
last obliged to turn sharper in my own defence, and have lived ever
since, my head throbbing with schemes to deceive, and my heart
palpitating with fears of detection.

‘I used often to laugh at your honest simple neighbour Flamborough, and
one way or another generally cheated him once a year. Yet still the
honest man went forward without suspicion, and grew rich, while I still
continued tricksy and cunning, and was poor, without the consolation of
being honest.

‘However,’ continued he, ‘let me know your case, and what has brought
you here; perhaps though I have not skill to avoid a gaol myself, I may
extricate my friends.’

In compliance with his curiosity, I informed him of the whole train of
accidents and follies that had plunged me into my present troubles, and
my utter inability to get free.

After hearing my story, and pausing some minutes, he slapt his
forehead, as if he had hit upon something material, and took his leave,
saying he would try what could be done.




CHAPTER XXVII.


The same subject continued.


The next morning I communicated to my wife and children the scheme I
had planned of reforming the prisoners, which they received with
universal disapprobation, alledging the impossibility and impropriety
of it; adding, that my endeavours would no way contribute to their
amendment, but might probably disgrace my calling.

‘Excuse me,’ returned I, ‘these people, however fallen, are still men,
and that is a very good title to my affections. Good council rejected
returns to enrich the giver’s bosom; and though the instruction I
communicate may not mend them, yet it will assuredly mend myself. If
these wretches, my children, were princes, there would be thousands
ready to offer their ministry; but, in my opinion, the heart that is
buried in a dungeon is as precious as that seated upon a throne. Yes,
my treasures, if I can mend them I will; perhaps they will not all
despise me. Perhaps I may catch up even one from the gulph, and, that
will be great gain; for is there upon earth a gem so precious as the
human soul?’

Thus saying, I left them, and descended to the common prison, where I
found the prisoners very merry, expecting my arrival; and each prepared
with some gaol trick to play upon the doctor. Thus, as I was going to
begin, one turned my wig awry, as if by accident, and then asked my
pardon. A second, who stood at some distance, had a knack of spitting
through his teeth, which fell in showers upon my book. A third would
cry amen in such an affected tone as gave the rest great delight. A
fourth had slily picked my pocket of my spectacles. But there was one
whose trick gave more universal pleasure than all the rest; for
observing the manner in which I had disposed my books on the table
before me, he very dextrously displaced one of them, and put an obscene
jest-book of his own in the place. However I took no notice of all that
this mischievous groupe of little beings could do; but went on,
perfectly sensible that what was ridiculous in my attempt, would excite
mirth only the first or second time, while what was serious would be
permanent. My design succeeded, and in less than six days some were
penitent, and all attentive.

It was now that I applauded my perseverance and address, at thus giving
sensibility to wretches divested of every moral feeling, and now began
to think of doing them temporal services also, by rendering their
situation somewhat more comfortable. Their time had hitherto been
divided between famine and excess, tumultous riot and bitter repining.
Their only employment was quarrelling among each other, playing at
cribbage, and cutting tobacco stoppers. From this last mode of idle
industry I took the hint of setting such as chose to work at cutting
pegs for tobacconists and shoemakers, the proper wood being bought by a
general subscription, and when manufactured, sold by my appointment; so
that each earned something every day: a trifle indeed, but sufficient
to maintain him.

I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the punishment of
immorality, and rewards for peculiar industry. Thus in less than a
fortnight I had formed them into something social and humane, and had
the pleasure of regarding myself as a legislator, who had brought men
from their native ferocity into friendship and obedience.

And it were highly to be wished, that legislative power would thus
direct the law rather to reformation than severity. That it would seem
convinced that the work of eradicating crimes is not by making
punishments familiar, but formidable. Then instead of our present
prisons, which find or make men guilty, which enclose wretches for the
commission of one crime, and return them, if returned alive, fitted for
the perpetration of thousands; we should see, as in other parts of
Europe, places of penitence and solitude, where the accused might be
attended by such as could give them repentance if guilty, or new
motives to virtue if innocent. And this, but not the increasing
punishments, is the way to mend a state: nor can I avoid even
questioning the validity of that right which social combinations have
assumed of capitally punishing offences of a slight nature. In cases of
murder their right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the
law of self-defence, to cut off that man who has shewn a disregard for
the life of another. Against such, all nature arises in arms; but it is
not so against him who steals my property. Natural law gives me no
right to take away his life, as by that the horse he steals is as much
his property as mine. If then I have any right, it must be from a
compact made between us, that he who deprives the other of his horse
shall die. But this is a false compact; because no man has a right to
barter his life, no more than to take it away, as it is not his own.
And beside, the compact is inadequate, and would be set aside even in a
court of modern equity, as there is a great penalty for a very trifling
convenience, since it is far better that two men should live, than that
one man should ride. But a compact that is false between two men, is
equally so between an hundred, or an hundred thousand; for as ten
millions of circles can never make a square, so the united voice of
myriads cannot lend the smallest foundation to falsehood. It is thus
that reason speaks, and untutored nature says the same thing. Savages
that are directed by natural law alone are very tender of the lives of
each other; they seldom shed blood but to retaliate former cruelty.

Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, had but few executions
in times of peace; and in all commencing governments that have the
print of nature still strong upon them, scarce any crime is held
capital.

It is among the citizens of a refined community that penal laws, which
are in the hands of the rich, are laid upon the poor. Government, while
it grows older, seems to acquire the moroseness of age; and as if our
property were become dearer in proportion as it increased, as if the
more enormous our wealth, the more extensive our fears, all our
possessions are paled up with new edicts every day, and hung round with
gibbets to scare every invader.

I cannot tell whether it is from the number of our penal laws, or the
licentiousness of our people, that this country should shew more
convicts in a year, than half the dominions of Europe united. Perhaps
it is owing to both; for they mutually produce each other. When by
indiscriminate penal laws a nation beholds the same punishment affixed
to dissimilar degrees of guilt, from perceiving no distinction in the
penalty, the people are led to lose all sense of distinction in the
crime, and this distinction is the bulwark of all morality: thus the
multitude of laws produce new vices, and new vices call for fresh
restraints.

It were to be wished then that power, instead of contriving new laws to
punish vice, instead of drawing hard the cords of society till a
convulsion come to burst them, instead of cutting away wretches as
useless, before we have tried their utility, instead of converting
correction into vengeance, it were to be wished that we tried the
restrictive arts of government, and made law the protector, but not the
tyrant of the people. We should then find that creatures, whose souls
are held as dross, only wanted the hand of a refiner; we should then
find that wretches, now stuck up for long tortures, lest luxury should
feel a momentary pang, might, if properly treated, serve to sinew the
state in times of danger; that, as their faces are like ours, their
hearts are so too; that few minds are so base as that perseverance
cannot amend; that a man may see his last crime without dying for it;
and that very little blood will serve to cement our security.




CHAPTER XXVIII.


Happiness and misery rather the result of prudence than of virtue in
this life. Temporal evils or felicities being regarded by heaven as
things merely in themselves trifling and unworthy its care in the
distribution.


I had now been confined more than a fortnight, but had not since my
arrival been visited by my dear Olivia, and I greatly longed to see
her. Having communicated my wishes to my wife, the next morning the
poor girl entered my apartment, leaning on her sister’s arm. The change
which I saw in her countenance struck me. The numberless graces that
once resided there were now fled, and the hand of death seemed to have
molded every feature to alarm me. Her temples were sunk, her forehead
was tense, and a fatal paleness sate upon her cheek.

‘I am glad to see thee, my dear,’ cried I; ‘but why this dejection
Livy? I hope, my love, you have too great a regard for me, to permit
disappointment thus to undermine a life which I prize as my own. Be
chearful child, and we yet may see happier days.’

‘You have ever, sir,’ replied she, ‘been kind to me, and it adds to my
pain that I shall never have an opportunity of sharing that happiness
you promise. Happiness, I fear, is no longer reserved for me here; and
I long to be rid of a place where I have only found distress. Indeed,
sir, I wish you would make a proper submission to Mr Thornhill; it may,
in some measure, induce him to pity you, and it will give me relief in
dying.’

‘Never, child,’ replied I, ‘never will I be brought to acknowledge my
daughter a prostitute; for tho’ the world may look upon your offence
with scorn, let it be mine to regard it as a mark of credulity, not of
guilt. My dear, I am no way miserable in this place, however dismal it
may seem, and be assured that while you continue to bless me by living,
he shall never have my consent to make you more wretched by marrying
another.’

After the departure of my daughter, my fellow prisoner, who was by at
this interview, sensibly enough expostulated upon my obstinacy, in
refusing a submission, which promised to give me freedom. He observed,
that the rest of my family was not to be sacrificed to the peace of one
child alone, and she the only one who had offended me. ‘Beside,’ added
he, ‘I don’t know if it be just thus to obstruct the union of man and
wife, which you do at present, by refusing to consent to a match which
you cannot hinder, but may render unhappy.’

‘Sir,’ replied I, ‘you are unacquainted with the man that oppresses us.
I am very sensible that no submission I can make could procure me
liberty even for an hour. I am told that even in this very room a
debtor of his, no later than last year, died for want. But though my
submission and approbation could transfer me from hence, to the most
beautiful apartment he is possessed of; yet I would grant neither, as
something whispers me that it would be giving a sanction to adultery.
While my daughter lives, no other marriage of his shall ever be legal
in my eye. Were she removed, indeed, I should be the basest of men,
from any resentment of my own, to attempt putting asunder those who
wish for an union. No, villain as he is, I should then wish him
married, to prevent the consequences of his future debaucheries. But
now should I not be the most cruel of all fathers, to sign an
Instrument which must send my child to the grave, merely to avoid a
prison myself; and thus to escape one pang, break my child’s heart with
a thousand?’

He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but could not avoid
observing, that he feared my daughter’s life was already too much
wasted to keep me long a prisoner. ‘However,’ continued he, ‘though you
refuse to submit to the nephew, I hope you have no objections to laying
your case before the uncle, who has the first character in the kingdom
for every thing that is just and good. I would advise you to send him a
letter by the post, intimating all his nephew’s ill usage, and my life
for it that in three days you shall have an answer.’ I thank’d him for
the hint, and instantly set about complying; but I wanted paper, and
unluckily all our money had been laid out that morning in provisions;
however he supplied me.

For the three ensuing days I was in a state of anxiety, to know what
reception my letter might meet with; but in the mean time was
frequently solicited by my wife to submit to any conditions rather than
remain here, and every hour received repeated accounts of the decline
of my daughter’s health. The third day and the fourth arrived, but I
received no answer to my letter: the complaints of a stranger against a
favourite nephew, were no way likely to succeed; so that these hopes
soon vanished like all my former. My mind, however, still supported
itself though confinement and bad air began to make a visible
alteration in my health, and my arm that had suffered in the fire, grew
worse. My children however sate by me, and while I was stretched on my
straw, read to me by turns, or listened and wept at my instructions.
But my daughter’s health declined faster than mine; every message from
her contributed to encrease my apprehensions and pain. The fifth
morning after I had written the letter which was sent to Sir William
Thornhill, I was alarmed with an account that she was speechless. Now
it was, that confinement was truly painful to me; my soul was bursting
from its prison to be near the pillow of my child, to comfort, to
strengthen her, to receive her last wishes, and teach her soul the way
to heaven! Another account came. She was expiring, and yet I was
debarred the small comfort of weeping by her. My fellow prisoner, some
time after, came with the last account. He bade me be patient. She was
dead!—The next morning he returned, and found me with my two little
ones, now my only companions, who were using all their innocent efforts
to comfort me. They entreated to read to me, and bade me not to cry,
for I was now too old to weep. ‘And is not my sister an angel, now,
pappa,’ cried the eldest, ‘and why then are you sorry for her? I wish I
were an angel out of this frightful place, if my pappa were with me.’
‘Yes,’ added my youngest darling, ‘Heaven, where my sister is, is a
finer place than this, and there are none but good people there, and
the people here are very bad.’

Mr Jenkinson interupted their harmless prattle, by observing that now
my daughter was no more, I should seriously think of the rest of my
family, and attempt to save my own life, which was every day declining,
for want of necessaries and wholesome air. He added, that it was now
incumbent on me to sacrifice any pride or resentment of my own, to the
welfare of those who depended on me for support; and that I was now,
both by reason and justice, obliged to try to reconcile my landlord.

‘Heaven be praised,’ replied I, ‘there is no pride left me now, I
should detest my own heart if I saw either pride or resentment lurking
there. On the contrary, as my oppressor has been once my parishioner, I
hope one day to present him up an unpolluted soul at the eternal
tribunal. No, sir, I have no resentment now, and though he has taken
from me what I held dearer than all his treasures, though he has wrung
my heart, for I am sick almost to fainting, very sick, my fellow
prisoner, yet that shall never inspire me with vengeance. I am now
willing to approve his marriage, and if this submission can do him any
pleasure, let him know, that if I have done him any injury, I am sorry
for it.’ Mr Jenkinson took pen and ink, and wrote down my submission
nearly as I have exprest it, to which I signed my name. My son was
employed to carry the letter to Mr Thornhill, who was then at his seat
in the country. He went, and in about six hours returned with a verbal
answer. He had some difficulty, he said, to get a sight of his
landlord, as the servants were insolent and suspicious; but he
accidentally saw him as he was going out upon business, preparing for
his marriage, which was to be in three days. He continued to inform us,
that he stept up in the humblest manner, and delivered the letter,
which, when Mr Thornhill had read, he said that all submission was now
too late and unnecessary; that he had heard of our application to his
uncle, which met with the contempt it deserved; and as for the rest,
that all future applications should be directed to his attorney, not to
him. He observed, however, that as he had a very good opinion of the
discretion of the two young ladies, they might have been the most
agreeable intercessors.

‘Well, sir,’ said I to my fellow prisoner, ‘you now discover the temper
of the man that oppresses me. He can at once be facetious and cruel;
but let him use me as he will, I shall soon be free, in spite of all
his bolts to restrain me. I am now drawing towards an abode that looks
brighter as I approach it: this expectation cheers my afflictions, and
though I leave an helpless family of orphans behind me, yet they will
not be utterly forsaken; some friend, perhaps, will be found to assist
them for the sake of their poor father, and some may charitably relieve
them for the sake of their heavenly father.’

Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen that day before, appeared
with looks of terror, and making efforts, but unable to speak. ‘Why, my
love,’ cried I, ‘why will you thus encrease my afflictions by your own,
what though no submissions can turn our severe master, tho’ he has
doomed me to die in this place of wretchedness, and though we have lost
a darling child, yet still you will find comfort in your other children
when I shall be no more.’ ‘We have indeed lost,’ returned she, ‘a
darling child. My Sophia, my dearest, is gone, snatched from us,
carried off by ruffians!’

‘How madam,’ cried my fellow prisoner, ‘Miss Sophia carried off by
villains, sure it cannot be?’

She could only answer with a fixed look and a flood of tears. But one
of the prisoners’ wives, who was present, and came in with her, gave us
a more distinct account: she informed us that as my wife, my daughter,
and herself, were taking a walk together on the great road a little way
out of the village, a post-chaise and pair drove up to them and
instantly stopt. Upon which, a well drest man, but not Mr Thornhill,
stepping out, clasped my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in,
bid the postillion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a
moment.

‘Now,’ cried I, ‘the sum of my misery is made up, nor is it in the
power of any thing on earth to give me another pang. What! not one
left! not to leave me one! the monster! the child that was next my
heart! she had the beauty of an angel, and almost the wisdom of an
angel. But support that woman, nor let her fall. Not to leave me
one!’—‘Alas! my husband,’ said my wife, ‘you seem to want comfort even
more than I. Our distresses are great; but I could bear this and more,
if I saw you but easy. They may take away my children and all the
world, if they leave me but you.’

My son, who was present, endeavoured to moderate our grief; he bade us
take comfort, for he hoped that we might still have reason to be
thankful.—‘My child,’ cried I, ‘look round the world, and see if there
be any happiness left me now. Is not every ray of comfort shut out;
while all our bright prospects only lie beyond the grave!’—‘My dear
father,’ returned he, ‘I hope there is still something that will give
you an interval of satisfaction; for I have a letter from my brother
George’—‘What of him, child,’ interrupted I, ‘does he know our misery.
I hope my boy is exempt from any part of what his wretched family
suffers?’—‘Yes, sir,’ returned he, ‘he is perfectly gay, chearful, and
happy. His letter brings nothing but good news; he is the favourite of
his colonel, who promises to procure him the very next lieutenancy that
becomes vacant!’

‘And are you sure of all this,’ cried my wife, ‘are you sure that
nothing ill has befallen my boy?’—‘Nothing indeed, madam,’ returned my
son, ‘you shall see the letter, which will give you the highest
pleasure; and if any thing can procure you comfort, I am sure that
will.’ ‘But are you sure,’ still repeated she, ‘that the letter is from
himself, and that he is really so happy?’—‘Yes, Madam,’ replied he, ‘it
is certainly his, and he will one day be the credit and the support of
our family!’—‘Then I thank providence,’ cried she, ‘that my last letter
to him has miscarried.’ ‘Yes, my dear,’ continued she, turning to me,
‘I will now confess that though the hand of heaven is sore upon us in
other instances, it has been favourable here. By the last letter I
wrote my son, which was in the bitterness of anger, I desired him, upon
his mother’s blessing, and if he had the heart of a man, to see justice
done his father and sister, and avenge our cause. But thanks be to him
that directs all things, it has miscarried, and I am at rest.’ ‘Woman,’
cried I, ‘thou hast done very ill, and at another time my reproaches
might have been more severe. Oh! what a tremendous gulph hast thou
escaped, that would have buried both thee and him in endless ruin.
Providence, indeed, has here been kinder to us than we to ourselves. It
has reserved that son to be the father and protector of my children
when I shall be away. How unjustly did I complain of being stript of
every comfort, when still I hear that he is happy and insensible of our
afflictions; still kept in reserve to support his widowed mother, and
to protect his brothers and sisters. But what sisters has he left, he
has no sisters now, they are all gone, robbed from me, and I am
undone.’—‘Father,’ interrupted my son, ‘I beg you will give me leave to
read this letter, I know it will please you.’ Upon which, with my
permission, he read as follows:—

Honoured Sir,
    I have called off my imagination a few moments from the pleasures
    that surround me, to fix it upon objects that are still more
    pleasing, the dear little fire-side at home. My fancy draws that
    harmless groupe as listening to every line of this with great
    composure. I view those faces with delight which never felt the
    deforming hand of ambition or distress! But whatever your happiness
    may be at home, I am sure it will be some addition to it, to hear
    that I am perfectly pleased with my situation, and every way happy
    here.
    Our regiment is countermanded and is not to leave the kingdom; the
    colonel, who professes himself my friend, takes me with him to all
    companies where he is acquainted, and after my first visit I
    generally find myself received with encreased respect upon
    repeating it. I danced last night with Lady G-, and could I forget
    you know whom, I might be perhaps successful. But it is my fate
    still to remember others, while I am myself forgotten by most of my
    absent friends, and in this number, I fear, Sir, that I must
    consider you; for I have long expected the pleasure of a letter
    from home to no purpose. Olivia and Sophia too, promised to write,
    but seem to have forgotten me. Tell them they are two arrant little
    baggages, and that I am this moment in a most violent passion with
    them: yet still, I know not how, tho’ I want to bluster a little,
    my heart is respondent only to softer emotions. Then tell them,
    sir, that after all, I love them affectionately, and be assured of
    my ever remaining


Your dutiful son.


‘In all our miseries,’ cried I, ‘what thanks have we not to return,
that one at least of our family is exempted from what we suffer. Heaven
be his guard, and keep my boy thus happy to be the supporter of his
widowed mother, and the father of these two babes, which is all the
patrimony I can now bequeath him. May he keep their innocence from the
temptations of want, and be their conductor in the paths of honour.’ I
had scarce said these words, when a noise, like that of a tumult,
seemed to proceed from the prison below; it died away soon after, and a
clanking of fetters was heard along the passage that led to my
apartment. The keeper of the prison entered, holding a man all bloody,
wounded and fettered with the heaviest irons. I looked with compassion
on the wretch as he approached me, but with horror when I found it was
my own son.—‘My George! My George! and do I find thee thus. Wounded!
Fettered! Is this thy happiness! Is this the manner you return to me! O
that this sight could break my heart at once and let me die!’

‘Where, Sir, is your fortitude,’ returned my son with an intrepid
voice. ‘I must suffer, my life is forfeited, and let them take it.’

I tried to restrain my passions for a few minutes in silence, but I
thought I should have died with the effort—‘O my boy, my heart weeps to
behold thee thus, and I cannot, cannot help it. In the moment that I
thought thee blest, and prayed for thy safety, to behold thee thus
again! Chained, wounded. And yet the death of the youthful is happy.
But I am old, a very old man, and have lived to see this day. To see my
children all untimely falling about me, while I continue a wretched
survivor in the midst of ruin! May all the curses that ever sunk a soul
fall heavy upon the murderer of my children. May he live, like me, to
see—’

‘Hold, Sir,’ replied my son, ‘or I shall blush for thee. How, Sir,
forgetful of your age, your holy calling, thus to arrogate the justice
of heaven, and fling those curses upward that must soon descend to
crush thy own grey head with destruction! No, Sir, let it be your care
now to fit me for that vile death I must shortly suffer, to arm me with
hope and resolution, to give me courage to drink of that bitterness
which must shortly be my portion.’

‘My child, you must not die: I am sure no offence of thine can deserve
so vile a punishment. My George could never be guilty of any crime to
make his ancestors ashamed of him.’

‘Mine, Sir,’ returned my son, ‘is, I fear, an unpardonable one. When I
received my mother’s letter from home, I immediately came down,
determined to punish the betrayer of our honour, and sent him an order
to meet me, which he answered, not in person, but by his dispatching
four of his domestics to seize me. I wounded one who first assaulted
me, and I fear desperately, but the rest made me their prisoner. The
coward is determined to put the law in execution against me, the proofs
are undeniable, I have sent a challenge, and as I am the first
transgressor upon the statute, I see no hopes of pardon. But you have
often charmed me with your lessons of fortitude, let me now, Sir, find
them in your example.’

‘And, my son, you shall find them. I am now raised above this world,
and all the pleasures it can produce. From this moment I break from my
heart all the ties that held it down to earth, and will prepare to fit
us both for eternity. Yes, my son, I will point out the way, and my
soul shall guide yours in the ascent, for we will take our flight
together. I now see and am convinced you can expect no pardon here, and
I can only exhort you to seek it at that greatest tribunal where we
both shall shortly answer. But let us not be niggardly in our
exhortation, but let all our fellow prisoners have a share: good gaoler
let them be permitted to stand here, while I attempt to improve them.’
Thus saying, I made an effort to rise from my straw, but wanted
strength, and was able only to recline against the wall. The prisoners
assembled according to my direction, for they loved to hear my council,
my son and his mother supported me on either side, I looked and saw
that none were wanting, and then addressed them with the following
exhortation.




CHAPTER XXIX.


The equal dealings of providence demonstrated with regard to the happy
and the miserable here below. That from the nature of pleasure and
pain, the wretched must be repaid the balance of their sufferings in
the life hereafter.


My friends, my children, and fellow sufferers, when I reflect on the
distribution of good and evil here below, I find that much has been
given man to enjoy, yet still more to suffer. Though we should examine
the whole world, we shall not find one man so happy as to have nothing
left to wish for; but we daily see thousands who by suicide shew us
they have nothing left to hope. In this life then it appears that we
cannot be entirely blest; but yet we may be completely miserable!

Why man should thus feel pain, why our wretchedness should be requisite
in the formation of universal felicity, why, when all other systems are
made perfect by the perfection of their subordinate parts, the great
system should require for its perfection, parts that are not only
subordinate to others, but imperfect in themselves? These are questions
that never can be explained, and might be useless if known. On this
subject providence has thought fit to elude our curiosity, satisfied
with granting us motives to consolation.

In this situation, man has called in the friendly assistance of
philosophy, and heaven seeing the incapacity of that to console him,
has given him the aid of religion. The consolations of philosophy are
very amusing, but often fallacious. It tells us that life is filled
with comforts, if we will but enjoy them; and on the other hand, that
though we unavoidably have miseries here, life is short, and they will
soon be over. Thus do these consolations destroy each other; for if
life is a place of comfort, its shortness must be misery, and if it be
long, our griefs are protracted. Thus philosophy is weak; but religion
comforts in an higher strain. Man is here, it tells us, fitting up his
mind, and preparing it for another abode. When the good man leaves the
body and is all a glorious mind, he will find he has been making
himself a heaven of happiness here, while the wretch that has been
maimed and contaminated by his vices, shrinks from his body with
terror, and finds that he has anticipated the vengeance of heaven. To
religion then we must hold in every circumstance of life for our truest
comfort; for if already we are happy, it is a pleasure to think that we
can make that happiness unending, and if we are miserable, it is very
consoling to think that there is a place of rest. Thus to the fortunate
religion holds out a continuance of bliss, to the wretched a change
from pain.

But though religion is very kind to all men, it has promised peculiar
rewards to the unhappy; the sick, the naked, the houseless, the
heavy-laden, and the prisoner, have ever most frequent promises in our
sacred law. The author of our religion every where professes himself
the wretch’s friend, and unlike the false ones of this world, bestows
all his caresses upon the forlorn. The unthinking have censured this as
partiality, as a preference without merit to deserve it. But they never
reflect that it is not in the power even of heaven itself to make the
offer of unceasing felicity as great a gift to the happy as to the
miserable. To the first eternity is but a single blessing, since at
most it but encreases what they already possess. To the latter it is a
double advantage; for it diminishes their pain here, and rewards them
with heavenly bliss hereafter.

But providence is in another respect kinder to the poor than the rich;
for as it thus makes the life after death more desirable, so it smooths
the passage there. The wretched have had a long familiarity with every
face of terror. The man of sorrow lays himself quietly down, without
possessions to regret, and but few ties to stop his departure: he feels
only nature’s pang in the final separation, and this is no way greater
than he has often fainted under before; for after a certain degree of
pain, every new breach that death opens in the constitution, nature
kindly covers with insensibility.

Thus providence has given the wretched two advantages over the happy,
in this life, greater felicity in dying, and in heaven all that
superiority of pleasure which arises from contrasted enjoyment. And
this superiority, my friends, is no small advantage, and seems to be
one of the pleasures of the poor man in the parable; for though he was
already in heaven, and felt all the raptures it could give, yet it was
mentioned as an addition to his happiness, that he had once been
wretched and now was comforted, that he had known what it was to be
miserable, and now felt what it was to be happy.

Thus, my friends, you see religion does what philosophy could never do:
it shews the equal dealings of heaven to the happy and the unhappy, and
levels all human enjoyments to nearly the same standard. It gives to
both rich and poor the same happiness hereafter, and equal hopes to
aspire after it; but if the rich have the advantage of enjoying
pleasure here, the poor have the endless satisfaction of knowing what
it was once to be miserable, when crowned with endless felicity
hereafter; and even though this should be called a small advantage, yet
being an eternal one, it must make up by duration what the temporal
happiness of the great may have exceeded by intenseness.

These are therefore the consolations which the wretched have peculiar
to themselves, and in which they are above the rest of mankind; in
other respects they are below them. They who would know the miseries of
the poor must see life and endure it. To declaim on the temporal
advantages they enjoy, is only repeating what none either believe or
practise. The men who have the necessaries of living are not poor, and
they who want them must be miserable. Yes, my friends, we must be
miserable. No vain efforts of a refined imagination can sooth the wants
of nature, can give elastic sweetness to the dank vapour of a dungeon,
or ease to the throbbings of a broken heart. Let the philosopher from
his couch of softness tell us that we can resist all these. Alas! the
effort by which we resist them is still the greatest pain! Death is
slight, and any man may sustain it; but torments are dreadful, and
these no man can endure.

To us then, my friends, the promises of happiness in heaven should be
peculiarly dear; for if our reward be in this life alone, we are then
indeed of all men the most miserable. When I look round these gloomy
walls, made to terrify, as well as to confine us; this light that only
serves to shew the horrors of the place, those shackles that tyranny
has imposed, or crime made necessary; when I survey these emaciated
looks, and hear those groans, O my friends, what a glorious exchange
would heaven be for these. To fly through regions unconfined as air, to
bask in the sunshine of eternal bliss, to carrol over endless hymns of
praise, to have no master to threaten or insult us, but the form of
goodness himself for ever in our eyes, when I think of these things,
death becomes the messenger of very glad tidings; when I think of these
things, his sharpest arrow becomes the staff of my support; when I
think of these things, what is there in life worth having; when I think
of these things, what is there that should not be spurned away: kings
in their palaces should groan for such advantages; but we, humbled as
we are, should yearn for them.

And shall these things be ours? Ours they will certainly be if we but
try for them; and what is a comfort, we are shut out from many
temptations that would retard our pursuit. Only let us try for them,
and they will certainly be ours, and what is still a comfort, shortly
too; for if we look back on past life, it appears but a very short
span, and whatever we may think of the rest of life, it will yet be
found of less duration; as we grow older, the days seem to grow
shorter, and our intimacy with time, ever lessens the perception of his
stay. Then let us take comfort now, for we shall soon be at our
journey’s end; we shall soon lay down the heavy burthen laid by heaven
upon us, and though death, the only friend of the wretched, for a
little while mocks the weary traveller with the view, and like his
horizon, still flies before him; yet the time will certainly and
shortly come, when we shall cease from our toil; when the luxurious
great ones of the world shall no more tread us to the earth; when we
shall think with pleasure on our sufferings below; when we shall be
surrounded with all our friends, or such as deserved our friendship;
when our bliss shall be unutterable, and still, to crown all, unending.




CHAPTER XXX.


Happier prospects begin to appear. Let us be inflexible, and fortune
will at last change in our favour.


When I had thus finished and my audience was retired, the gaoler, who
was one of the most humane of his profession, hoped I would not be
displeased, as what he did was but his duty, observing that he must be
obliged to remove my son into a stronger cell, but that he should be
permitted to revisit me every morning. I thanked him for his clemency,
and grasping my boy’s hand, bade him farewell, and be mindful of the
great duty that was before him.

I again, therefore laid me down, and one of my little ones sate by my
bedside reading, when Mr Jenkinson entering, informed me that there was
news of my daughter; for that she was seen by a person about two hours
before in a strange gentleman’s company, and that they had stopt at a
neighbouring village for refreshment, and seemed as if returning to
town. He had scarce delivered this news, when the gaoler came with
looks of haste and pleasure, to inform me, that my daughter was found.
Moses came running in a moment after, crying out that his sister Sophy
was below and coming up with our old friend Mr Burchell.

Just as he delivered this news my dearest girl entered, and with looks
almost wild with pleasure, ran to kiss me in a transport of affection.
Her mother’s tears and silence also shewed her pleasure.—‘Here, pappa,’
cried the charming girl, ‘here is the brave man to whom I owe my
delivery; to this gentleman’s intrepidity I am indebted for my
happiness and safety—’ A kiss from Mr Burchell, whose pleasure seemed
even greater than hers, interrupted what she was going to add.

‘Ah, Mr Burchell,’ cried I, ‘this is but a wretched habitation you now
find us in; and we are now very different from what you last saw us.
You were ever our friend: we have long discovered our errors with
regard to you, and repented of our ingratitude. After the vile usage
you then received at my hands I am almost ashamed to behold your face;
yet I hope you’ll forgive me, as I was deceived by a base ungenerous
wretch, who, under the mask of friendship, has undone me.’

‘It is impossible,’ replied Mr Burchell, ‘that I should forgive you, as
you never deserved my resentment. I partly saw your delusion then, and
as it was out of my power to restrain, I could only pity it!’

‘It was ever my conjecture,’ cried I, ‘that your mind was noble; but
now I find it so. But tell me, my dear child, how hast thou been
relieved, or who the ruffians were who carried thee away?’

‘Indeed, Sir,’ replied she, ‘as to the villain who carried me off, I am
yet ignorant. For as my mamma and I were walking out, he came behind
us, and almost before I could call for help, forced me into the
post-chaise, and in an instant the horses drove away. I met several on
the road, to whom I cried out for assistance; but they disregarded my
entreaties. In the mean time the ruffian himself used every art to
hinder me from crying out: he flattered and threatened by turns, and
swore that if I continued but silent, he intended no harm. In the mean
time I had broken the canvas that he had drawn up, and whom should I
perceive at some distance but your old friend Mr Burchell, walking
along with his usual swiftness, with the great stick for which we used
so much to ridicule him. As soon as we came within hearing, I called
out to him by name, and entreated his help. I repeated my exclamations
several times, upon which, with a very loud voice, he bid the
postillion stop; but the boy took no notice, but drove on with still
greater speed. I now thought he could never overtake us, when in less
than a minute I saw Mr Burchell come running up by the side of the
horses, and with one blow knock the postillion to the ground. The
horses when he was fallen soon stopt of themselves, and the ruffian
stepping out, with oaths and menaces drew his sword, and ordered him at
his peril to retire; but Mr Burchell running up, shivered his sword to
pieces, and then pursued him for near a quarter of a mile; but he made
his escape. I was at this time come out myself, willing to assist my
deliverer; but he soon returned to me in triumph. The postillion, who
was recovered, was going to make his escape too; but Mr Burchell
ordered him at his peril to mount again, and drive back to town.
Finding it impossible to resist, he reluctantly complied, though the
wound he had received seemed, to me at least, to be dangerous. He
continued to complain of the pain as we drove along, so that he at last
excited Mr Burchell’s compassion, who, at my request, exchanged him for
another at an inn where we called on our return.’

‘Welcome then,’ cried I, ‘my child, and thou her gallant deliverer, a
thousand welcomes. Though our chear is but wretched, yet our hearts are
ready to receive you. And now, Mr Burchell, as you have delivered my
girl, if you think her a recompence she is yours, if you can stoop to
an alliance with a family so poor as mine, take her, obtain her
consent, as I know you have her heart, and you have mine. And let me
tell you, Sir, that I give you no small treasure, she has been
celebrated for beauty it is true, but that is not my meaning, I give
you up a treasure in her mind.’

‘But I suppose, Sir,’ cried Mr Burchell, ‘that you are apprized of my
circumstances, and of my incapacity to support her as she deserves?’

‘If your present objection,’ replied I, ‘be meant as an evasion of my
offer, I desist: but I know no man so worthy to deserve her as you; and
if I could give her thousands, and thousands sought her from me, yet my
honest brave Burchell should be my dearest choice.’

To all this his silence alone seemed to give a mortifying refusal, and
without the least reply to my offer, he demanded if we could not be
furnished with refreshments from the next inn, to which being answered
in the affirmative, he ordered them to send in the best dinner that
could be provided upon such short notice. He bespoke also a dozen of
their best wine; and some cordials for me. Adding, with a smile, that
he would stretch a little for once, and tho’ in a prison, asserted he
was never better disposed to be merry. The waiter soon made his
appearance with preparations for dinner, a table was lent us by the
gaoler, who seemed remarkably assiduous, the wine was disposed in
order, and two very well-drest dishes were brought in.

My daughter had not yet heard of her poor brother’s melancholy
situation, and we all seemed unwilling to damp her cheerfulness by the
relation. But it was in vain that I attempted to appear chearful, the
circumstances of my unfortunate son broke through all efforts to
dissemble; so that I was at last obliged to damp our mirth by relating
his misfortunes, and wishing that he might be permitted to share with
us in this little interval of satisfaction. After my guests were
recovered, from the consternation my account had produced, I requested
also that Mr Jenkinson, a fellow prisoner, might be admitted, and the
gaoler granted my request with an air of unusual submission. The
clanking of my son’s irons was no sooner heard along the passage, than
his sister ran impatiently to meet him; while Mr Burchell, in the mean
time, asked me if my son’s name were George, to which replying in the
affirmative, he still continued silent. As soon as my boy entered the
room, I could perceive he regarded Mr Burchell with a look of
astonishment and reverence. ‘Come on,’ cried I, ‘my son, though we are
fallen very low, yet providence has been pleased to grant us some small
relaxation from pain. Thy sister is restored to us, and there is her
deliverer: to that brave man it is that I am indebted for yet having a
daughter, give him, my boy, the hand of friendship, he deserves our
warmest gratitude.’

My son seemed all this while regardless of what I said, and still
continued fixed at respectful distance.—‘My dear brother,’ cried his
sister, ‘why don’t you thank my good deliverer; the brave should ever
love each other.’

He still continued his silence and astonishment, till our guest at last
perceived himself to be known, and assuming all his native dignity,
desired my son to come forward. Never before had I seen any thing so
truly majestic as the air he assumed upon this occasion. The greatest
object in the universe, says a certain philosopher, is a good man
struggling with adversity; yet there is still a greater, which is the
good man that comes to relieve it. After he had regarded my son for
some time with a superior air, ‘I again find,’ said he, ‘unthinking
boy, that the same crime—’ But here he was interrupted by one of the
gaoler’s servants, who came to inform us that a person of distinction,
who had driven into town with a chariot and several attendants, sent
his respects to the gentleman that was with us, and begged to know when
he should think proper to be waited upon.—‘Bid the fellow wait,’ cried
our guest, ‘till I shall have leisure to receive him;’ and then turning
to my son, ‘I again find, Sir,’ proceeded he, ‘that you are guilty of
the same offence for which you once had my reproof, and for which the
law is now preparing its justest punishments. You imagine, perhaps,
that a contempt for your own life, gives you a right to take that of
another: but where, Sir, is the difference between a duelist who
hazards a life of no value, and the murderer who acts with greater
security? Is it any diminution of the gamester’s fraud when he alledges
that he has staked a counter?’

‘Alas, Sir,’ cried I, ‘whoever you are, pity the poor misguided
creature; for what he has done was in obedience to a deluded mother,
who in the bitterness of her resentment required him upon her blessing
to avenge her quarrel. Here, Sir, is the letter, which will serve to
convince you of her imprudence and diminish his guilt.’

He took the letter, and hastily read it over. ‘This,’ says he, ‘though
not a perfect excuse, is such a palliation of his fault, as induces me
to forgive him. And now, Sir,’ continued he, kindly taking my son by
the hand, ‘I see you are surprised at finding me here; but I have often
visited prisons upon occasions less interesting. I am now come to see
justice done a worthy man, for whom I have the most sincere esteem. I
have long been a disguised spectator of thy father’s benevolence. I
have at his little dwelling enjoyed respect uncontaminated by flattery,
and have received that happiness that courts could not give, from the
amusing simplicity around his fire-side. My nephew has been apprized of
my intentions of coming here, and I find is arrived; it would be
wronging him and you to condemn him without examination: if there be
injury, there shall be redress; and this I may say without boasting,
that none have ever taxed the injustice of Sir William Thornhill.’

We now found the personage whom we had so long entertained as an
harmless amusing companion was no other than the celebrated Sir William
Thornhill, to whose virtues and singularities scarce any were
strangers. The poor Mr Burchell was in reality a man of large fortune
and great interest, to whom senates listened with applause, and whom
party heard with conviction; who was the friend of his country, but
loyal to his king. My poor wife recollecting her former familiarity,
seemed to shrink with apprehension; but Sophia, who a few moments
before thought him her own, now perceiving the immense distance to
which he was removed by fortune, was unable to conceal her tears.

‘Ah, Sir,’ cried my wife, with a piteous aspect, ‘how is it possible
that I can ever have your forgiveness; the slights you received from me
the last time I had the honour of seeing you at our house, and the
jokes which I audaciously threw out, these jokes, Sir, I fear can never
be forgiven.’

‘My dear good lady,’ returned he with a smile, ‘if you had your joke, I
had my answer: I’ll leave it to all the company if mine were not as
good as yours. To say the truth, I know no body whom I am disposed to
be angry with at present but the fellow who so frighted my little girl
here. I had not even time to examine the rascal’s person so as to
describe him in an advertisement. Can you tell me, Sophia, my dear,
whether you should know him again?’

‘Indeed, Sir,’ replied she, ‘I can’t be positive; yet now I recollect
he had a large mark over one of his eye-brows.’ ‘I ask pardon, madam,’
interrupted Jenkinson, who was by, ‘but be so good as to inform me if
the fellow wore his own red hair?’—‘Yes, I think so,’ cried
Sophia.—‘And did your honour,’ continued he, turning to Sir William,
‘observe the length of his legs?’—‘I can’t be sure of their length,’
cried the Baronet, ‘but I am convinced of their swiftness; for he
out-ran me, which is what I thought few men in the kingdom could have
done.’—‘Please your honour,’ cried Jenkinson, ‘I know the man: it is
certainly the same; the best runner in England; he has beaten Pinwire
of Newcastle, Timothy Baxter is his name, I know him perfectly, and the
very place of his retreat this moment. If your honour will bid Mr
Gaoler let two of his men go with me, I’ll engage to produce him to you
in an hour at farthest.’ Upon this the gaoler was called, who instantly
appearing, Sir William demanded if he knew him. ‘Yes, please your
honour,’ reply’d the gaoler, ‘I know Sir William Thornhill well, and
every body that knows any thing of him, will desire to know more of
him.’—‘Well then,’ said the Baronet, ‘my request is, that you will
permit this man and two of your servants to go upon a message by my
authority, and as I am in the commission of the peace, I undertake to
secure you.’—‘Your promise is sufficient,’ replied the other, ‘and you
may at a minute’s warning send them over England whenever your honour
thinks fit.’

In pursuance of the gaoler’s compliance, Jenkinson was dispatched in
search of Timothy Baxter, while we were amused with the assiduity of
our youngest boy Bill, who had just come in and climbed up to Sir
William’s neck in order to kiss him. His mother was immediately going
to chastise his familiarity, but the worthy man prevented her; and
taking the child, all ragged as he was, upon his knee, ‘What, Bill, you
chubby rogue,’ cried he, ‘do you remember your old friend Burchell; and
Dick too, my honest veteran, are you here, you shall find I have not
forgot you.’ So saying, he gave each a large piece of gingerbread,
which the poor fellows eat very heartily, as they had got that morning
but a very scanty breakfast.

We now sate down to dinner, which was almost cold; but previously, my
arm still continuing painful, Sir William wrote a prescription, for he
had made the study of physic his amusement, and was more than
moderately skilled in the profession: this being sent to an apothecary
who lived in the place, my arm was dressed, and I found almost
instantaneous relief. We were waited upon at dinner by the gaoler
himself, who was willing to do our guest all the honour in his power.
But before we had well dined, another message was brought from his
nephew, desiring permission to appear, in order to vindicate his
innocence and honour, with which request the Baronet complied, and
desired Mr Thornhill to be introduced.




CHAPTER XXXI.


Former benevolence now repaid with unexpected interest.


Mr Thornhill made his entrance with a smile, which he seldom wanted,
and was going to embrace his uncle, which the other repulsed with an
air of disdain. ‘No fawning, Sir, at present,’ cried the Baronet, with
a look of severity, ‘the only way to my heart is by the road of honour;
but here I only see complicated instances of falsehood, cowardice, and
oppression. How is it, Sir, that this poor man, for whom I know you
professed a friendship, is used thus hardly? His daughter vilely
seduced, as a recompence for his hospitality, and he himself thrown
into a prison perhaps but for resenting the insult? His son too, whom
you feared to face as a man—’

‘Is it possible, Sir,’ interrupted his nephew, ‘that my uncle could
object that as a crime which his repeated instructions alone have
persuaded me to avoid.’

‘Your rebuke,’ cried Sir William, ‘is just; you have acted in this
instance prudently and well, though not quite as your father would have
done: my brother indeed was the soul of honour; but thou—yes you have
acted in this instance perfectly right, and it has my warmest
approbation.’

‘And I hope,’ said his nephew, ‘that the rest of my conduct will not be
found to deserve censure. I appeared, Sir, with this gentleman’s
daughter at some places of public amusement; thus what was levity,
scandal called by a harsher name, and it was reported that I had
debauched her. I waited on her father in person, willing to clear the
thing to his satisfaction, and he received me only with insult and
abuse. As for the rest, with regard to his being here, my attorney and
steward can best inform you, as I commit the management of business
entirely to them. If he has contracted debts and is unwilling or even
unable to pay them, it is their business to proceed in this manner, and
I see no hardship or injustice in pursuing the most legal means of
redress.’

‘If this,’ cried Sir William, ‘be as you have stated it, there is
nothing unpardonable in your offence, and though your conduct might
have been more generous in not suffering this gentleman to be oppressed
by subordinate tyranny, yet it has been at least equitable.’

‘He cannot contradict a single particular,’ replied the ’Squire, ‘I
defy him to do so, and several of my servants are ready to attest what
I say. Thus, Sir,’ continued he, finding that I was silent, for in fact
I could not contradict him, ‘thus, Sir, my own innocence is vindicated;
but though at your entreaty I am ready to forgive this gentleman every
other offence, yet his attempts to lessen me in your esteem, excite a
resentment that I cannot govern. And this too at a time when his son
was actually preparing to take away my life; this, I say, was such
guilt, that I am determined to let the law take its course. I have here
the challenge that was sent me and two witnesses to prove it; one of my
servants has been wounded dangerously, and even though my uncle himself
should dissuade me, which I know he will not, yet I will see public
justice done, and he shall suffer for it.’

‘Thou monster,’ cried my wife, ‘hast thou not had vengeance enough
already, but must my poor boy feel thy cruelty. I hope that good Sir
William will protect us, for my son is as innocent as a child; I am
sure he is, and never did harm to man.’

‘Madam,’ replied the good man, ‘your wishes for his safety are not
greater than mine; but I am sorry to find his guilt too plain; and if
my nephew persists—’ But the appearance of Jenkinson and the gaoler’s
two servants now called off our attention, who entered, haling in a
tall man, very genteelly drest, and answering the description already
given of the ruffian who had carried off my daughter—‘Here,’ cried
Jenkinson, pulling him in, ‘here we have him, and if ever there was a
candidate for Tyburn, this is one.’

The moment Mr Thornhill perceived the prisoner, and Jenkinson, who had
him in custody, he seemed to shrink back with terror. His face became
pale with conscious guilt, and he would have withdrawn; but Jenkinson,
who perceived his design, stopt him—‘What, ’Squire,’ cried he, ‘are you
ashamed of your two old acquaintances, Jenkinson and Baxter: but this
is the way that all great men forget their friends, though I am
resolved we will not forget you. Our prisoner, please your honour,’
continued he, turning to Sir William, ‘has already confessed all. This
is the gentleman reported to be so dangerously wounded: He declares
that it was Mr Thornhill who first put him upon this affair, that he
gave him the cloaths he now wears to appear like a gentleman, and
furnished him with the post-chaise. The plan was laid between them that
he should carry off the young lady to a place of safety, and that there
he should threaten and terrify her; but Mr Thornhill was to come in in
the mean time, as if by accident, to her rescue, and that they should
fight awhile and then he was to run off, by which Mr Thornhill would
have the better opportunity of gaining her affections himself under the
character of her defender.’

Sir William remembered the coat to have been frequently worn by his
nephew, and all the rest the prisoner himself confirmed by a more
circumstantial account; concluding, that Mr Thornhill had often
declared to him that he was in love with both sisters at the same time.

‘Heavens,’ cried Sir William, ‘what a viper have I been fostering in my
bosom! And so fond of public justice too as he seemed to be. But he
shall have it; secure him, Mr Gaoler—yet hold, I fear there is not
legal evidence to detain him.’

Upon this, Mr Thornhill, with the utmost humility, entreated that two
such abandoned wretches might not be admitted as evidences against him,
but that his servants should be examined.—‘Your servants’ replied Sir
William, ‘wretch, call them yours no longer: but come let us hear what
those fellows have to say, let his butler be called.’

When the butler was introduced, he soon perceived by his former
master’s looks that all his power was now over. ‘Tell me,’ cried Sir
William sternly, ‘have you ever seen your master and that fellow drest
up in his cloaths in company together?’ ‘Yes, please your honour,’
cried the butler, ‘a thousand times: he was the man that always brought
him his ladies.’—‘How,’ interrupted young Mr Thornhill, ‘this to my
face!’—‘Yes,’ replied the butler, ‘or to any man’s face. To tell you a
truth, Master Thornhill, I never either loved you or liked you, and I
don’t care if I tell you now a piece of my mind.’—‘Now then,’ cried
Jenkinson, ‘tell his honour whether you know any thing of me.’—‘I can’t
say,’ replied the butler, ‘that I know much good of you. The night that
gentleman’s daughter was deluded to our house, you were one of
them.’—‘So then,’ cried Sir William, ‘I find you have brought a very
fine witness to prove your innocence: thou stain to humanity! to
associate with such wretches!’ (But continuing his examination) ‘You
tell me, Mr Butler, that this was the person who brought him this old
gentleman’s daughter.’—‘No, please your honour,’ replied the butler,
‘he did not bring her, for the ’Squire himself undertook that business;
but he brought the priest that pretended to marry them.’—‘It is but too
true,’ cried Jenkinson, ‘I cannot deny it, that was the employment
assigned me, and I confess it to my confusion.’

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed the Baronet, ‘how every new discovery of his
villainy alarms me. All his guilt is now too plain, and I find his
present prosecution was dictated by tyranny, cowardice and revenge; at
my request, Mr Gaoler, set this young officer, now your prisoner, free,
and trust to me for the consequences. I’ll make it my business to set
the affair in a proper light to my friend the magistrate who has
committed him. But where is the unfortunate young lady herself: let her
appear to confront this wretch, I long to know by what arts he has
seduced her. Entreat her to come in. Where is she?’

‘Ah, Sir,’ said I, ‘that question stings me to the heart: I was once
indeed happy in a daughter, but her miseries—’ Another interruption
here prevented me; for who should make her appearance but Miss Arabella
Wilmot, who was next day to have been married to Mr Thornhill. Nothing
could equal her surprize at seeing Sir William and his nephew here
before her; for her arrival was quite accidental. It happened that she
and the old gentleman her father were passing through the town, on
their way to her aunt’s, who had insisted that her nuptials with Mr
Thornhill should be consummated at her house; but stopping for
refreshment, they put up at an inn at the other end of the town. It was
there from the window that the young lady happened to observe one of my
little boys playing in the street, and instantly sending a footman to
bring the child to her, she learnt from him some account of our
misfortunes; but was still kept ignorant of young Mr Thornhill’s being
the cause. Though her father made several remonstrances on the
impropriety of going to a prison to visit us, yet they were
ineffectual; she desired the child to conduct her, which he did, and it
was thus she surprised us at a juncture so unexpected.

Nor can I go on, without a reflection on those accidental meetings,
which, though they happen every day, seldom excite our surprize but
upon some extraordinary occasion. To what a fortuitous concurrence do
we not owe every pleasure and convenience of our lives. How many
seeming accidents must unite before we can be cloathed or fed. The
peasant must be disposed to labour, the shower must fall, the wind fill
the merchant’s sail, or numbers must want the usual supply.

We all continued silent for some moments, while my charming pupil,
which was the name I generally gave this young lady, united in her
looks compassion and astonishment, which gave new finishings to her
beauty. ‘Indeed, my dear Mr Thornhill,’ cried she to the ’Squire, who
she supposed was come here to succour and not to oppress us, ‘I take it
a little unkindly that you should come here without me, or never inform
me of the situation of a family so dear to us both: you know I should
take as much pleasure in contributing to the relief of my reverend old
master here, whom I shall ever esteem, as you can. But I find that,
like your uncle, you take a pleasure in doing good in secret.’

‘He find pleasure in doing good!’ cried Sir William, interrupting her.
‘No, my dear, his pleasures are as base as he is. You see in him,
madam, as complete a villain as ever disgraced humanity. A wretch, who
after having deluded this poor man’s daughter, after plotting against
the innocence of her sister, has thrown the father into prison, and the
eldest son into fetters, because he had courage to face his betrayer.
And give me leave, madam, now to congratulate you upon an escape from
the embraces of such a monster.’

‘O goodness,’ cried the lovely girl, ‘how have I been deceived! Mr
Thornhill informed me for certain that this gentleman’s eldest son,
Captain Primrose, was gone off to America with his new married lady.’

‘My sweetest miss,’ cried my wife, ‘he has told you nothing but
falsehoods. My son George never left the kingdom, nor was married. Tho’
you have forsaken him, he has always loved you too well to think of any
body else; and I have heard him say he would die a batchellor for your
sake.’ She then proceeded to expatiate upon the sincerity of her son’s
passion, she set his duel with Mr Thornhill in a proper light, from
thence she made a rapid digression to the ’Squire’s debaucheries, his
pretended marriages, and ended with a most insulting picture of his
cowardice.

‘Good heavens!’ cried Miss Wilmot, ‘how very near have I been to the
brink of ruin! But how great is my pleasure to have escaped it! Ten
thousand falsehoods has this gentleman told me! He had at last art
enough to persuade me that my promise to the only man I esteemed was no
longer binding, since he had been unfaithful. By his falsehoods I was
taught to detest one equally brave and generous!’

But by this time my son was freed from the encumbrances of justice as
the person supposed to be wounded was detected to be an impostor. Mr
Jenkinson also, who had acted as his valet de chambre, had dressed up
his hair, and furnished him with whatever was necessary to make a
genteel appearance. He now therefore entered, handsomely drest in his
regimentals, and, without vanity, (for I am above it) he appeared as
handsome a fellow as ever wore a military dress. As he entered, he made
Miss Wilmot a modest and distant bow, for he was not as yet acquainted
with the change which the eloquence of his mother had wrought in his
favour. But no decorums could restrain the impatience of his blushing
mistress to be forgiven. Her tears, her looks, all contributed to
discover the real sensations of her heart for having forgotten her
former promise and having suffered herself to be deluded by an
impostor. My son appeared amazed at her condescension, and could scarce
believe it real.—‘Sure, madam,’ cried he, ‘this is but delusion! I can
never have merited this! To be, blest thus is to be too happy.’—‘No,
Sir,’ replied she, ‘I have been deceived, basely deceived, else nothing
could have ever made me unjust to my promise. You know my friendship,
you have long known it; but forget what I have done, and as you once
had my warmest vows of constancy, you shall now have them repeated; and
be assured that if your Arabella cannot be yours, she shall never be
another’s.’—‘And no other’s you shall be,’ cried Sir William, ‘if I
have any influence with your father.’

This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who immediately flew to the
inn where the old gentleman was, to inform him of every circumstance
that had happened. But in the mean time the ’Squire perceiving that he
was on every side undone, now finding that no hopes were left from
flattery or dissimulation, concluded that his wisest way would be to
turn and face his pursuers. Thus laying aside all shame, he appeared
the open hardy villain. ‘I find then,’ cried he, ‘that I am to expect
no justice here; but I am resolved it shall be done me. You shall know,
Sir,’ turning to Sir William, ‘I am no longer a poor dependent upon
your favours. I scorn them. Nothing can keep Miss Wilmot’s fortune from
me, which, I thank her father’s assiduity, is pretty large. The
articles, and a bond for her fortune, are signed, and safe in my
possession. It was her fortune, not her person, that induced me to wish
for this match, and possessed of the one, let who will take the other.’

This was an alarming blow, Sir William was sensible of the justice of
his claims, for he had been instrumental in drawing up the marriage
articles himself. Miss Wilmot therefore perceiving that her fortune was
irretrievably lost, turning to my son, she asked if the loss of fortune
could lessen her value to him. ‘Though fortune,’ said she, ‘is out of
my power, at least I have my hand to give.’

‘And that, madam,’ cried her real lover, ‘was indeed all that you ever
had to give; at least all that I ever thought worth the acceptance. And
now I protest, my Arabella, by all that’s happy, your want of fortune
this moment encreases my pleasure, as it serves to convince my sweet
girl of my sincerity.’

Mr Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little pleased at the danger
his daughter had just escaped, and readily consented to a dissolution
of the match. But finding that her fortune, which was secured to Mr
Thornhill by bond, would not be given up, nothing could exceed his
disappointment. He now saw that his money must all go to enrich one who
had no fortune of his own. He could bear his being a rascal; but to
want an equivalent to his daughter’s fortune was wormwood. He sate
therefore for some minutes employed in the most mortifying
speculations, till Sir William attempted to lessen his anxiety.—‘I must
confess, Sir’ cried he, ‘that your present disappointment does not
entirely displease me. Your immoderate passion for wealth is now justly
punished. But tho’ the young lady cannot be rich, she has still a
competence sufficient to give content. Here you see an honest young
soldier, who is willing to take her without fortune; they have long
loved each other, and for the friendship I bear his father, my interest
shall not be wanting in his promotion. Leave then that ambition which
disappoints you, and for once admit that happiness which courts your
acceptance.’

‘Sir William,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘be assured I never yet
forced her inclinations, nor will I now. If she still continues to love
this young gentleman, let her have him with all my heart. There is
still, thank heaven, some fortune left, and your promise will make it
something more. Only let my old friend here (meaning me) give me a
promise of settling six thousand pounds upon my girl, if ever he should
come to his fortune, and I am ready this night to be the first to join
them together.’

As it now remained with me to make the young couple happy, I readily
gave a promise of making the settlement he required, which, to one who
had such little expectations as I, was no great favour. We had now
therefore the satisfaction of seeing them fly into each other’s arms in
a transport. ‘After all my misfortunes,’ cried my son George, ‘to be
thus rewarded! Sure this is more than I could ever have presumed to
hope for. To be possessed of all that’s good, and after such an
interval of pain! My warmest wishes could never rise so high!’—‘Yes, my
George,’ returned his lovely bride, ‘now let the wretch take my
fortune; since you are happy without it so am I. O what an exchange
have I made from the basest of men to the dearest best!—Let him enjoy
our fortune, I now can be happy even in indigence.’—‘And I promise
you,’ cried the ’Squire, with a malicious grin, ‘that I shall be very
happy with what you despise.’—‘Hold, hold, Sir,’ cried Jenkinson,
‘there are two words to that bargain. As for that lady’s fortune, Sir,
you shall never touch a single stiver of it. Pray your honour,’
continued he to Sir William, ‘can the ’Squire have this lady’s fortune
if he be married to another?’—‘How can you make such a simple demand,’
replied the Baronet, ‘undoubtedly he cannot.’—‘I am sorry for that,’
cried Jenkinson; ‘for as this gentleman and I have been old fellow
spotters, I have a friendship for him. But I must declare, well as I
love him, that his contract is not worth a tobacco stopper, for he is
married already.’—‘You lie, like a rascal,’ returned the ’Squire, who
seemed rouzed by this insult, ‘I never was legally married to any
woman.’—‘Indeed, begging your honour’s pardon,’ replied the other, ‘you
were; and I hope you will shew a proper return of friendship to your
own honest Jenkinson, who brings you a wife, and if the company
restrains their curiosity a few minutes, they shall see her.’—So saying
he went off with his usual celerity, and left us all unable to form any
probable conjecture as to his design.—‘Ay let him go,’ cried the
’Squire, ‘whatever else I may have done I defy him there. I am too old
now to be frightened with squibs.’

‘I am surprised,’ said the Baronet, ‘what the fellow can intend by
this. Some low piece of humour I suppose!’—‘Perhaps, Sir,’ replied I,
‘he may have a more serious meaning. For when we reflect on the various
schemes this gentleman has laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one
more artful than the rest has been found able to deceive him. When we
consider what numbers he has ruined, how many parents now feel with
anguish the infamy and the contamination which he has brought into
their families, it would not surprise me if some one of them—Amazement!
Do I see my lost daughter! Do I hold her! It is, it is my life, my
happiness. I thought thee lost, my Olivia, yet still I hold thee—and
still thou shalt live to bless me.’—The warmest transports of the
fondest lover were not greater than mine when I saw him introduce my
child, and held my daughter in my arms, whose silence only spoke her
raptures. ‘And art thou returned to me, my darling,’ cried I, ‘to be my
comfort in age!’—‘That she is,’ cried Jenkinson, ‘and make much of her,
for she is your own honourable child, and as honest a woman as any in
the whole room, let the other be who she will. And as for you ’Squire,
as sure as you stand there this young lady is your lawful wedded wife.
And to convince you that I speak nothing but truth, here is the licence
by which you were married together.’—So saying, he put the licence into
the Baronet’s hands, who read it, and found it perfect in every
respect. ‘And now, gentlemen,’ continued he, I find you are surprised
at all this; but a few words will explain the difficulty. That there
’Squire of renown, for whom I have a great friendship, but that’s
between ourselves, as often employed me in doing odd little things for
him. Among the rest, he commissioned me to procure him a false licence
and a false priest, in order to deceive this young lady. But as I was
very much his friend, what did I do but went and got a true licence and
a true priest, and married them both as fast as the cloth could make
them. Perhaps you’ll think it was generosity that made me do all this.
But no. To my shame I confess it, my only design was to keep the
licence and let the ’Squire know that I could prove it upon him
whenever I thought proper, and so make him come down whenever I wanted
money.’ A burst of pleasure now seemed to fill the whole apartment; our
joy reached even to the common room, where the prisoners themselves
sympathized,

—And shook their chains
In transport and rude harmony.


Happiness was expanded upon every face, and even Olivia’s cheek seemed
flushed with pleasure. To be thus restored to reputation, to friends
and fortune at once, was a rapture sufficient to stop the progress of
decay and restore former health and vivacity. But perhaps among all
there was not one who felt sincerer pleasure than I. Still holding the
dear-loved child in my arms, I asked my heart if these transports were
not delusion. ‘How could you,’ cried I, turning to Mr Jenkinson, ‘how
could you add to my miseries by the story of her death! But it matters
not, my pleasure at finding her again, is more than a recompence for
the pain.’

‘As to your question,’ replied Jenkinson, ‘that is easily answered. I
thought the only probable means of freeing you from prison, was by
submitting to the ’Squire, and consenting to his marriage with the
other young lady. But these you had vowed never to grant while your
daughter was living, there was therefore no other method to bring
things to bear but by persuading you that she was dead. I prevailed on
your wife to join in the deceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity
of undeceiving you till now.’

In the whole assembly now there only appeared two faces that did not
glow with transport. Mr Thornhill’s assurance had entirely forsaken
him: he now saw the gulph of infamy and want before him, and trembled
to take the plunge. He therefore fell on his knees before his uncle,
and in a voice of piercing misery implored compassion. Sir William was
going to spurn him away, but at my request he raised him, and after
pausing a few moments, ‘Thy vices, crimes, and ingratitude,’ cried he,
‘deserve no tenderness; yet thou shalt not be entirely forsaken, a bare
competence shall be supplied, to support the wants of life, but not its
follies. This young lady, thy wife, shall be put in possession of a
third part of that fortune which once was thine, and from her
tenderness alone thou art to expect any extraordinary supplies for the
future.’ He was going to express his gratitude for such kindness in a
set speech; but the Baronet prevented him by bidding him not aggravate
his meanness, which was already but too apparent. He ordered him at the
same time to be gone, and from all his former domestics to chuse one
such as he should think proper, which was all that should be granted to
attend him.

As soon as he left us, Sir William very politely stept up to his new
niece with a smile, and wished her joy. His example was followed by
Miss Wilmot and her father; my wife too kissed her daughter with much
affection, as, to use her own expression, she was now made an honest
woman of. Sophia and Moses followed in turn, and even our benefactor
Jenkinson desired to be admitted to that honour. Our satisfaction
seemed scarce capable of increase. Sir William, whose greatest pleasure
was in doing good, now looked round with a countenance open as the sun,
and saw nothing but joy in the looks of all except that of my daughter
Sophia, who, for some reasons we could not comprehend, did not seem
perfectly satisfied. ‘I think now,’ cried he, with a smile, ‘that all
the company, except one or two, seem perfectly happy. There only
remains an act of justice for me to do. You are sensible, Sir,’
continued he, turning to me, ‘of the obligations we both owe Mr
Jenkinson. And it is but just we should both reward him for it. Miss
Sophia will, I am sure, make him very happy, and he shall have from me
five hundred pounds as her fortune, and upon this I am sure they can
live very comfortably together. Come, Miss Sophia, what say you to this
match of my making? Will you have him?’—My poor girl seemed almost
sinking into her mother’s arms at the hideous proposal.—‘Have him,
Sir!’ cried she faintly. ‘No, Sir, never.’—‘What,’ cried he again, ‘not
have Mr Jenkinson, your benefactor, a handsome young fellow, with five
hundred pounds and good expectations!’—‘I beg, Sir,’ returned she,
scarce able to speak, ‘that you’ll desist, and not make me so very
wretched.’—‘Was ever such obstinacy known,’ cried he again, ‘to refuse
a man whom the family has such infinite obligations to, who has
preserved your sister, and who has five hundred pounds! What not have
him!’—‘No, Sir, never,’ replied she, angrily, ‘I’d sooner die
first.’—‘If that be the case then,’ cried he, ‘if you will not have
him—I think I must have you myself.’ And so saying, he caught her to
his breast with ardour. ‘My loveliest, my most sensible of girls,’
cried he, ‘how could you ever think your own Burchell could deceive
you, or that Sir William Thornhill could ever cease to admire a
mistress that loved him for himself alone? I have for some years sought
for a woman, who a stranger to my fortune could think that I had merit
as a man. After having tried in vain, even amongst the pert and the
ugly, how great at last must be my rapture to have made a conquest over
such sense and such heavenly beauty.’ Then turning to Jenkinson, ‘As I
cannot, Sir, part with this young lady myself, for she has taken a
fancy to the cut of my face, all the recompence I can make is to give
you her fortune, and you may call upon my steward to-morrow for five
hundred pounds.’ Thus we had all our compliments to repeat, and Lady
Thornhill underwent the same round of ceremony that her sister had done
before. In the mean time Sir William’s gentleman appeared to tell us
that the equipages were ready to carry us to the inn, where every thing
was prepared for our reception. My wife and I led the van, and left
those gloomy mansions of sorrow. The generous Baronet ordered forty
pounds to be distributed among the prisoners, and Mr Wilmot, induced by
his example, gave half that sum. We were received below by the shouts
of the villagers, and I saw and shook by the hand two or three of my
honest parishioners, who were among the number. They attended us to our
inn, where a sumptuous entertainment was provided, and coarser
provisions distributed in great quantities among the populace.

After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the alternation of
pleasure and pain which they had sustained during the day, I asked
permission to withdraw, and leaving the company in the midst of their
mirth, as soon as I found myself alone, I poured out my heart in
gratitude to the giver of joy as well as of sorrow, and then slept
undisturbed till morning.




CHAPTER XXXII.


The Conclusion.


The next morning as soon as I awaked I found my eldest son sitting by
my bedside, who came to encrease my joy with another turn of fortune in
my favour. First having released me from the settlement that I had made
the day before in his favour, he let me know that my merchant who had
failed in town was arrested at Antwerp, and there had given up effects
to a much greater amount than what was due to his creditors. My boy’s
generosity pleased me almost as much as this unlooked for good fortune.
But I had some doubts whether I ought in justice to accept his offer.
While I was pondering upon this, Sir William entered the room, to whom
I communicated my doubts. His opinion was, that as my son was already
possessed of a very affluent fortune by his marriage, I might accept
his offer without any hesitation. His business, however, was to inform
me that as he had the night before sent for the licences, and expected
them every hour, he hoped that I would not refuse my assistance in
making all the company happy that morning. A footman entered while we
were speaking, to tell us that the messenger was returned, and as I was
by this time ready, I went down, where I found the whole company as
merry as affluence and innocence could make them. However, as they were
now preparing for a very solemn ceremony, their laughter entirely
displeased me. I told them of the grave, becoming and sublime
deportment they should assume upon this Mystical occasion, and read
them two homilies and a thesis of my own composing, in order to prepare
them. Yet they still seemed perfectly refractory and ungovernable. Even
as we were going along to church, to which I led the way, all gravity
had quite forsaken them, and I was often tempted to turn back in
indignation. In church a new dilemma arose, which promised no easy
solution. This was, which couple should be married first; my son’s
bride warmly insisted, that Lady Thornhill, (that was to be) should
take the lead; but this the other refused with equal ardour, protesting
she would not be guilty of such rudeness for the world. The argument
was supported for some time between both with equal obstinacy and good
breeding. But as I stood all this time with my book ready, I was at
last quite tired of the contest, and shutting it, ‘I perceive,’ cried
I, ‘that none of you have a mind to be married, and I think we had as
good go back again; for I suppose there will be no business done here
to-day.’—This at once reduced them to reason. The Baronet and his Lady
were first married, and then my son and his lovely partner.

I had previously that morning given orders that a coach should be sent
for my honest neighbour Flamborough and his family, by which means,
upon our return to the inn, we had the pleasure of finding the two Miss
Flamboroughs alighted before us. Mr Jenkinson gave his hand to the
eldest, and my son Moses led up the other; (and I have since found that
he has taken a real liking to the girl, and my consent and bounty he
shall have whenever he thinks proper to demand them.) We were no sooner
returned to the inn, but numbers of my parishioners, hearing of my
success, came to congratulate me, but among the rest were those who
rose to rescue me, and whom I formerly rebuked with such sharpness. I
told the story to Sir William, my son-in-law, who went out and reprove
them with great severity; but finding them quite disheartened by his
harsh reproof, he gave them half a guinea a piece to drink his health
and raise their dejected spirits.

Soon after this we were called to a very genteel entertainment, which
was drest by Mr Thornhill’s cook. And it may not be improper to observe
with respect to that gentleman, that he now resides in quality of
companion at a relation’s house, being very well liked and seldom
sitting at the side-table, except when there is no room at the other;
for they make no stranger of him. His time is pretty much taken up in
keeping his relation, who is a little melancholy, in spirits, and in
learning to blow the French-horn. My eldest daughter, however, still
remembers him with regret; and she has even told me, though I make a
great secret of it, that when he reforms she may be brought to relent.
But to return, for I am not apt to digress thus, when we were to sit
down to dinner our ceremonies were going to be renewed. The question
was whether my eldest daughter, as being a matron, should not sit above
the two young brides, but the debate was cut short by my son George,
who proposed, that the company should sit indiscriminately, every
gentleman by his lady. This was received with great approbation by all,
excepting my wife, who I could perceive was not perfectly satisfied, as
she expected to have had the pleasure of sitting at the head of the
table and carving all the meat for all the company. But notwithstanding
this, it is impossible to describe our good humour. I can’t say whether
we had more wit amongst us now than usual; but I am certain we had more
laughing, which answered the end as well. One jest I particularly
remember, old Mr Wilmot drinking to Moses, whose head was turned
another way, my son replied, ‘Madam, I thank you.’ Upon which the old
gentleman, winking upon the rest of the company, observed that he was
thinking of his mistress. At which jest I thought the two miss
Flamboroughs would have died with laughing. As soon as dinner was over,
according to my old custom, I requested that the table might be taken
away, to have the pleasure of seeing all my family assembled once more
by a chearful fireside. My two little ones sat upon each knee, the rest
of the company by their partners. I had nothing now on this side of the
grave to wish for, all my cares were over, my pleasure was unspeakable.
It now only remained that my gratitude in good fortune should exceed my
former submission in adversity.






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