"The Fortunes & Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders &c.\n\nWho was Born in Newgate, and during a Life of continu'd Variety for\nThreescore Years, besides her Childhood, was Twelve Year a Whore, five\ntimes a Wife (whereof once to her own Brother), Twelve Year a Thief,\nEight Year a Transported Felon in Virginia, at last grew Rich, liv'd\nHonest, and dies a Penitent.  Written from her own Memorandums . . .\n\nby Daniel Defoe\n\n\n\n\nTHE AUTHOR'S PREFACE\n\nThe world is so taken up of late with novels and romances, that it will\nbe hard for a private history to be taken for genuine, where the names\nand other circumstances of the person are concealed, and on this\naccount we must be content to leave the reader to pass his own opinion\nupon the ensuing sheet, and take it just as he pleases.\n\nThe author is here supposed to be writing her own history, and in the\nvery beginning of her account she gives the reasons why she thinks fit\nto conceal her true name, after which there is no occasion to say any\nmore about that.\n\nIt is true that the original of this story is put into new words, and\nthe style of the famous lady we here speak of is a little altered;\nparticularly she is made to tell her own tale in modester words that\nshe told it at first, the copy which came first to hand having been\nwritten in language more like one still in Newgate than one grown\npenitent and humble, as she afterwards pretends to be.\n\nThe pen employed in finishing her story, and making it what you now see\nit to be, has had no little difficulty to put it into a dress fit to be\nseen, and to make it speak language fit to be read.  When a woman\ndebauched from her youth, nay, even being the offspring of debauchery\nand vice, comes to give an account of all her vicious practices, and\neven to descend to the particular occasions and circumstances by which\nshe ran through in threescore years, an author must be hard put to it\nwrap it up so clean as not to give room, especially for vicious\nreaders, to turn it to his disadvantage.\n\nAll possible care, however, has been taken to give no lewd ideas, no\nimmodest turns in the new dressing up of this story; no, not to the\nworst parts of  her expressions.  To this purpose some of the vicious\npart of her life, which could not be modestly told, is quite left out,\nand several other parts are very much shortened.  What is left 'tis\nhoped will not offend the chastest reader or the modest hearer; and as\nthe best use is made even of the worst story, the moral 'tis hoped will\nkeep the reader serious, even where the story might incline him to be\notherwise.  To give the history of a wicked life repented of,\nnecessarily requires that the wicked part should be make as wicked as\nthe real history of it will bear, to illustrate and give a beauty to\nthe penitent part, which is certainly the best and brightest, if\nrelated with equal spirit and life.\n\nIt is suggested there cannot be the same life, the same brightness and\nbeauty, in relating the penitent part as is in the criminal part.  If\nthere is any truth in that suggestion, I must be allowed to say 'tis\nbecause there is not the same taste and relish in the reading, and\nindeed it is to true that the difference lies not in the real worth of\nthe subject so much as in the gust and palate of the reader.\n\nBut as this work is chiefly recommended to those who know how to read\nit, and how to make the good uses of it which the story all along\nrecommends to them, so it is to be hoped that such readers will be more\nleased with the moral than the fable, with the application than with\nthe relation, and with the end of the writer than with the life of the\nperson written of.\n\nThere is in this story abundance of delightful incidents, and all of\nthem usefully applied.  There is an agreeable turn artfully given them\nin the relating, that naturally instructs the reader, either one way or\nother.  The first part of her lewd life with the young gentleman at\nColchester has so many happy turns given it to expose the crime, and\nwarn all whose circumstances are adapted to it, of the ruinous end of\nsuch things, and the foolish, thoughtless, and abhorred conduct of both\nthe parties, that it abundantly atones for all the lively description\nshe gives of her folly and wickedness.\n\nThe repentance of her lover at the Bath, and how brought by the just\nalarm of his fit of sickness to abandon her; the just caution given\nthere against even the lawful intimacies of the dearest friends, and\nhow unable they are to preserve the most solemn resolutions of virtue\nwithout divine assistance; these are parts which, to a just\ndiscernment, will appear to have more real beauty in them all the\namorous chain of story which introduces it.\n\nIn a word, as the whole relation is carefully garbled of all the levity\nand looseness that was in it, so it all applied, and with the utmost\ncare, to virtuous and religious uses.  None can, without being guilty\nof manifest injustice, cast any reproach upon it, or upon our design in\npublishing it.\n\nThe advocates for the stage have, in all ages, made this the great\nargument to persuade people that their plays are useful, and that they\nought to be allowed in the most civilised and in the most religious\ngovernment; namely, that they are applied to virtuous purposes, and\nthat by the most lively representations, they fail not to recommend\nvirtue and generous principles, and to discourage and expose all sorts\nof vice and corruption of manners; and were it true that they did so,\nand that they constantly adhered to that rule, as the test of their\nacting on the theatre, much might be said in their favour.\n\nThroughout the infinite variety of this book, this fundamental is most\nstrictly adhered to; there is not a wicked action in any part of it,\nbut is first and last rendered unhappy and unfortunate; there is not a\nsuperlative villain brought upon the stage, but either he is brought to\nan unhappy end, or brought to be a penitent; there is not an ill thing\nmentioned but it is condemned, even in the relation, nor a virtuous,\njust thing but it carries its praise along with it.  What can more\nexactly answer the rule laid down, to recommend even those\nrepresentations of things which have so many other just objections\nleaving against them?  namely, of example, of bad company, obscene\nlanguage, and the like.\n\nUpon this foundation this book is recommended to the reader as a work\nfrom every part of which something may be learned, and some just and\nreligious inference is drawn, by which the reader will have something\nof instruction, if he pleases to make use of it.\n\nAll the exploits of this lady of fame, in her depredations upon\nmankind, stand as so many warnings to honest people to beware of them,\nintimating to them by what methods innocent people are drawn in,\nplundered and robbed, and by consequence how to avoid them.  Her\nrobbing a little innocent child, dressed fine by the vanity of the\nmother, to go to the dancing-school, is a good memento to such people\nhereafter, as is likewise her picking the gold watch from the young\nlady's side in the Park.\n\nHer getting a parcel from a hare-brained wench at the coaches in St.\nJohn Street; her booty made at the fire, and again at Harwich, all give\nus excellent warnings in such cases to be more present to ourselves in\nsudden surprises of every sort.\n\nHer application to a sober life and industrious management at last in\nVirginia, with her transported spouse, is a story fruitful of\ninstruction to all the unfortunate creatures who are obliged to seek\ntheir re-establishment abroad, whether by the misery of transportation\nor other disaster; letting them know that diligence and application\nhave their due encouragement, even in the remotest parts of the world,\nand that no case can be so low, so despicable, or so empty of prospect,\nbut that an unwearied industry will go a great way to deliver us from\nit, will in time raise the meanest creature to appear again the world,\nand give him a new case for his life.\n\nThere are a few of the serious inferences which we are led by the hand\nto in this book, and these are fully sufficient to justify any man in\nrecommending it to the world, and much more to justify the publication\nof it.\n\nThere are two of the most beautiful parts still behind, which this\nstory gives some idea of, and lets us into the parts of them, but they\nare either of them too long to be brought into the same volume, and\nindeed are, as I may call them, whole volumes of themselves, viz.: 1.\nThe life of her governess, as she calls her, who had run through, it\nseems, in a few years, all the eminent degrees of a gentlewoman, a\nwhore, and a bawd; a midwife and a midwife-keeper, as they are called;\na pawnbroker, a childtaker, a receiver of thieves, and of thieves'\npurchase, that is to say, of stolen goods; and in a word, herself a\nthief, a breeder up of thieves and the like, and yet at last a penitent.\n\nThe second is the life of her transported husband, a highwayman, who it\nseems, lived a twelve years' life of successful villainy upon the road,\nand even at last came off so well as to be a volunteer transport, not a\nconvict; and in whose life there is an incredible variety.\n\nBut, as I have said, these are things too long to bring in here, so\nneither can I make a promise of the coming out by themselves.\n\nWe cannot say, indeed, that this history is carried on quite to the end\nof the life of this famous Moll Flanders, as she calls herself, for\nnobody can write their own life to the full end of it, unless they can\nwrite it after they are dead.  But her husband's life, being written by\na third hand, gives a full account of them both, how long they lived\ntogether in that country, and how they both came to England again,\nafter about eight years, in which time they were grown very rich, and\nwhere she lived, it seems, to be very old, but was not so extraordinary\na penitent as she was at first; it seems only that indeed she always\nspoke with abhorrence of her former life, and of every part of it.\n\nIn her last scene, at Maryland and Virginia, many pleasant things\nhappened, which makes that part of her life very agreeable, but they\nare not told with the same elegancy as those accounted for by herself;\nso it is still to the more advantage that we break off here.\n\n\n\nMOLL FLANDERS\n\nMy true name is so well known in the records or registers at Newgate,\nand in the Old Bailey, and there are some things of such consequence\nstill depending there, relating to my particular conduct, that it is\nnot be expected I should set my name or the account of my family to\nthis work; perhaps, after my death, it may be better known; at present\nit would not be proper, no not though a general pardon should be\nissued, even without exceptions and reserve of persons or crimes.\n\nIt is enough to tell you, that as some of my worst comrades, who are\nout of the way of doing me harm (having gone out of the world by the\nsteps and the string, as I often expected to go ), knew me by the name\nof Moll Flanders, so you may give me leave to speak of myself under\nthat name till I dare own who I have been, as well as who I am.\n\nI have been told that in one of neighbour nations, whether it be in\nFrance or where else I know not, they have an order from the king, that\nwhen any criminal is condemned, either to die, or to the galleys, or to\nbe transported, if they leave any children, as such are generally\nunprovided for, by the poverty or forfeiture of their parents, so they\nare immediately taken into the care of the Government, and put into a\nhospital called the House of Orphans, where they are bred up, clothed,\nfed, taught, and when fit to go out, are placed out to trades or to\nservices, so as to be well able to provide for themselves by an honest,\nindustrious behaviour.\n\nHad this been the custom in our country, I had not been left a poor\ndesolate girl without friends, without clothes, without help or helper\nin the world, as was my fate; and by which I was not only exposed to\nvery great distresses, even before I was capable either of\nunderstanding my case or how to amend it, but brought into a course of\nlife which was not only scandalous in itself, but which in its ordinary\ncourse tended to the swift destruction both of soul and body.\n\nBut the case was otherwise here.  My mother was convicted of felony for\na certain petty theft scarce worth naming, viz.  having an opportunity\nof borrowing three pieces of fine holland of a certain draper in\nCheapside.  The circumstances are too long to repeat, and I have heard\nthem related so many ways, that I can scarce be certain which is the\nright account.\n\nHowever it was, this they all agree in, that my mother pleaded her\nbelly, and being found quick with child, she was respited for about\nseven months; in which time having brought me into the world, and being\nabout again, she was called down, as they term it, to her former\njudgment, but obtained the favour of being transported to the\nplantations, and left me about half a year old; and in bad hands, you\nmay be sure.\n\nThis is too near the first hours of my life for me to relate anything\nof myself but by hearsay; it is enough to mention, that as I was born\nin such an unhappy place, I had no parish to have recourse to for my\nnourishment in my infancy; nor can I give the least account how I was\nkept alive, other than that, as I have been told, some relation of my\nmother's took me away for a while as a nurse, but at whose expense, or\nby whose direction, I know nothing at all of it.\n\nThe first account that I can recollect, or could ever learn of myself,\nwas that I had wandered among a crew of those people they call gypsies,\nor Egyptians; but I believe it was but a very little while that I had\nbeen among them, for I had not had my skin discoloured or blackened, as\nthey do very young to all the children they carry about with them; nor\ncan I tell how I came among them, or how I got from them.\n\nIt was at Colchester, in Essex, that those people left me; and I have a\nnotion in my head that I left them there (that is, that I hid myself\nand would not go any farther with them), but I am not able to be\nparticular in that account; only this I remember, that being taken up\nby some of the parish officers of Colchester, I gave an account that I\ncame into the town with the gypsies, but that I would not go any\nfarther with them, and that so they had left me, but whither they were\ngone that I knew not, nor could they expect it of me; for though they\nsend round the country to inquire after them, it seems they could not\nbe found.\n\nI was now in a way to be provided for; for though I was not a parish\ncharge upon this or that part of the town by law, yet as my case came\nto be known, and that I was too young to do any work, being not above\nthree years old, compassion moved the magistrates of the town to order\nsome care to be taken of me, and I became one of their own as much as\nif I had been born in the place.\n\nIn the provision they made for me, it was my good hap to be put to\nnurse, as they call it, to a woman who was indeed poor but had been in\nbetter circumstances, and who got a little livelihood by taking such as\nI was supposed to be, and keeping them with all necessaries, till they\nwere at a certain age, in which it might be supposed they might go to\nservice or get their own bread.\n\nThis woman had also had a little school, which she kept to teach\nchildren to read and to work; and having, as I have said, lived before\nthat in good fashion, she bred up the children she took with a great\ndeal of art, as well as with a great deal of care.\n\nBut that which was worth all the rest, she bred them up very\nreligiously, being herself a very sober, pious woman, very house-wifely\nand clean, and very mannerly, and with good behaviour.  So that in a\nword, expecting a plain diet, coarse lodging, and mean clothes, we were\nbrought up as mannerly and as genteelly as if we had been at the\ndancing-school.\n\nI was continued here till I was eight years old, when I was terrified\nwith news that the magistrates (as I think they called them) had\nordered that I should go to service.  I was able to do but very little\nservice wherever I was to go, except it was to run of errands and be a\ndrudge to some cookmaid, and this they told me of often, which put me\ninto a great fright; for I had a thorough aversion to going to service,\nas they called it (that is, to be a servant), though I was so young;\nand I told my nurse, as we called her, that I believed I could get my\nliving without going to service, if she pleased to let me; for she had\ntaught me to work with my needle, and spin worsted, which is the chief\ntrade of that city, and I told her that if she would keep me, I would\nwork for her, and I would work very hard.\n\nI talked to her almost every day of working hard; and, in short, I did\nnothing but work and cry all day, which grieved the good, kind woman so\nmuch, that at last she began to be concerned for me, for she loved me\nvery well.\n\nOne day after this, as she came into the room where all we poor\nchildren were at work, she sat down just over against me, not in her\nusual place as mistress, but as if she set herself on purpose to\nobserve me and see me work.  I was doing something she had set me to;\nas I remember, it was marking some shirts which she had taken to make,\nand after a while she began to talk to me.  'Thou foolish child,' says\nshe, 'thou art always crying (for I was crying then); 'prithee, what\ndost cry for?' 'Because they will take me away,' says I, 'and put me to\nservice, and I can't work housework.'  'Well, child,' says she, 'but\nthough you can't work housework, as you call it, you will learn it in\ntime, and they won't put you to hard things at first.'  'Yes, they\nwill,' says I, 'and if I can't do it they will beat me, and the maids\nwill beat me to make me do great work, and I am but a little girl and I\ncan't do it'; and then I cried again, till I could not speak any more\nto her.\n\nThis moved my good motherly nurse, so that she from that time resolved\nI should not go to service yet; so she bid me not cry, and she would\nspeak to Mr. Mayor, and I should not go to service till I was bigger.\n\nWell, this did not satisfy me, for to think of going to service was\nsuch a frightful thing to me, that if she had assured me I should not\nhave gone till I was twenty years old, it would have been the same to\nme; I should have cried, I believe, all the time, with the very\napprehension of its being to be so at last.\n\nWhen she saw that I was not pacified yet, she began to be angry with\nme.  'And what would you have?' says she; 'don't I tell you that you\nshall not go to service till your are bigger?' 'Ay,' said I, 'but then\nI must go at last.'  'Why, what?' said she; 'is the girl mad?  What\nwould you be--a gentlewoman?' 'Yes,' says I, and cried heartily till I\nroared out again.\n\nThis set the old gentlewoman a-laughing at me, as you may be sure it\nwould.  'Well, madam, forsooth,' says she, gibing at me, 'you would be\na gentlewoman; and pray how will you come to be a gentlewoman?  What!\nwill you do it by your fingers' end?'\n\n'Yes,' says I again, very innocently.\n\n'Why, what can you earn?' says she; 'what can you get at your work?'\n\n'Threepence,' said I, 'when I spin, and fourpence when I work plain\nwork.'\n\n'Alas! poor gentlewoman,' said she again, laughing, 'what will that do\nfor thee?'\n\n'It will keep me,' says I, 'if you will let me live with you.'  And\nthis I said in such a poor petitioning tone, that it made the poor\nwoman's heart yearn to me, as she told me afterwards.\n\n'But,' says she, 'that will not keep you and buy you clothes too; and\nwho must buy the little gentlewoman clothes?' says she, and smiled all\nthe while at me.\n\n'I will work harder, then,' says I, 'and you shall have it all.'\n\n'Poor child! it won't keep you,' says she; 'it will hardly keep you in\nvictuals.'\n\n'Then I will have no victuals,' says I, again very innocently; 'let me\nbut live with you.'\n\n'Why, can you live without victuals?' says she.\n\n'Yes,' again says I, very much like a child, you may be sure, and still\nI cried heartily.\n\nI had no policy in all this; you may easily see it was all nature; but\nit was joined with so much innocence and so much passion that, in\nshort, it set the good motherly creature a-weeping too, and she cried\nat last as fast as I did, and then took me and led me out of the\nteaching-room.  'Come,' says she, 'you shan't go to service; you shall\nlive with me'; and this pacified me for the present.\n\nSome time after this, she going to wait on the Mayor, and talking of\nsuch things as belonged to her business, at last my story came up, and\nmy good nurse told Mr. Mayor the whole tale.  He was so pleased with\nit, that he would call his lady and his two daughters to hear it, and\nit made mirth enough among them, you may be sure.\n\nHowever, not a week had passed over, but on a sudden comes Mrs.\nMayoress and her two daughters to the house to see my old nurse, and to\nsee her school and the children.  When they had looked about them a\nlittle, 'Well, Mrs. ----,' says the Mayoress to my nurse, 'and pray\nwhich is the little lass that intends to be a gentlewoman?'  I heard\nher, and I was terribly frighted at first, though I did not know why\nneither; but Mrs. Mayoress comes up to me.  'Well, miss,' says she,\n'and what are you at work upon?'  The word miss was a language that had\nhardly been heard of in our school, and I wondered what sad name it was\nshe called me.  However, I stood up, made a curtsy, and she took my\nwork out of my hand, looked on it, and said it was very well; then she\ntook up one of the hands.  'Nay,' says she, 'the child may come to be a\ngentlewoman for aught anybody knows; she has a gentlewoman's hand,'\nsays she.  This pleased me mightily, you may be sure; but Mrs. Mayoress\ndid not stop there, but giving me my work again, she put her hand in\nher pocket, gave me a shilling, and bid me mind my work, and learn to\nwork well, and I might be a gentlewoman for aught she knew.\n\nNow all this while my good old nurse, Mrs. Mayoress, and all the rest\nof them did not understand me at all, for they meant one sort of thing\nby the word gentlewoman, and I meant quite another; for alas! all I\nunderstood by being a gentlewoman was to be able to work for myself,\nand get enough to keep me without that terrible bugbear going to\nservice, whereas they meant to live great, rich and high, and I know\nnot what.\n\nWell, after Mrs. Mayoress was gone, her two daughters came in, and they\ncalled for the gentlewoman too, and they talked a long while to me, and\nI answered them in my innocent way; but always, if they asked me\nwhether I resolved to be a gentlewoman, I answered Yes.  At last one of\nthem asked me what a gentlewoman was?  That puzzled me much; but,\nhowever, I explained myself negatively, that it was one that did not go\nto service, to do housework.  They were pleased to be familiar with me,\nand like my little prattle to them, which, it seems, was agreeable\nenough to them, and they gave me money too.\n\nAs for my money, I gave it all to my mistress-nurse, as I called her,\nand told her she should have all I got for myself when I was a\ngentlewoman, as well as now.  By this and some other of my talk, my old\ntutoress began to understand me about what I meant by being a\ngentlewoman, and that I understood by it no more than to be able to get\nmy bread by my own work; and at last she asked me whether it was not so.\n\nI told her, yes, and insisted on it, that to do so was to be a\ngentlewoman; 'for,' says I, 'there is such a one,' naming a woman that\nmended lace and washed the ladies' laced-heads; 'she,' says I, 'is a\ngentlewoman, and they call her madam.'\n\n'Poor child,' says my good old nurse, 'you may soon be such a\ngentlewoman as that, for she is a person of ill fame, and has had two\nor three bastards.'\n\nI did not understand anything of that; but I answered, 'I am sure they\ncall her madam, and she does not go to service nor do housework'; and\ntherefore I insisted that she was a gentlewoman, and I would be such a\ngentlewoman as that.\n\nThe ladies were told all this again, to be sure, and they made\nthemselves merry with it, and every now and then the young ladies, Mr.\nMayor's daughters, would come and see me, and ask where the little\ngentlewoman was, which made me not a little proud of myself.\n\nThis held a great while, and I was often visited by these young ladies,\nand sometimes they brought others with them; so that I was known by it\nalmost all over the town.\n\nI was now about ten years old, and began to look a little womanish, for\nI was mighty grave and humble, very mannerly, and as I had often heard\nthe ladies say I was pretty, and would be a very handsome woman, so you\nmay be sure that hearing them say so made me not a little proud.\nHowever, that pride had no ill effect upon me yet; only, as they often\ngave me money, and I gave it to my old nurse, she, honest woman, was so\njust to me as to lay it all out again for me, and gave me head-dresses,\nand linen, and gloves, and ribbons, and I went very neat, and always\nclean; for that I would do, and if I had rags on, I would always be\nclean, or else I would dabble them in water myself; but, I say, my good\nnurse, when I had money given me, very honestly laid it out for me, and\nwould always tell the ladies this or that was bought with their money;\nand this made them oftentimes give me more, till at last I was indeed\ncalled upon by the magistrates, as I understood it, to go out to\nservice; but then I was come to be so good a workwoman myself, and the\nladies were so kind to me, that it was plain I could maintain\nmyself--that is to say, I could earn as much for my nurse as she was\nable by it to keep me--so she told them that if they would give her\nleave, she would keep the gentlewoman, as she called me, to be her\nassistant and teach the children, which I was very well able to do; for\nI was very nimble at my work, and had a good hand with my needle,\nthough I was yet very young.\n\nBut the kindness of the ladies of the town did not end here, for when\nthey came to understand that I was no more maintained by the public\nallowance as before, they gave me money oftener than formerly; and as I\ngrew up they brought me work to do for them, such as linen to make, and\nlaces to mend, and heads to dress up, and not only paid me for doing\nthem, but even taught me how to do them; so that now I was a\ngentlewoman indeed, as I understood that word, I not only found myself\nclothes and paid my nurse for my keeping, but got money in my pocket\ntoo beforehand.\n\nThe ladies also gave me clothes frequently of their own or their\nchildren's; some stockings, some petticoats, some gowns, some one\nthing, some another, and these my old woman managed for me like a mere\nmother, and kept them for me, obliged me to mend them, and turn them\nand twist them to the best advantage, for she was a rare housewife.\n\nAt last one of the ladies took so much fancy to me that she would have\nme home to her house, for a month, she said, to be among her daughters.\n\nNow, though this was exceeding kind in her, yet, as my old good woman\nsaid to her, unless she resolved to keep me for good and all, she would\ndo the little gentlewoman more harm than good.  'Well,' says the lady,\n'that's true; and therefore I'll only take her home for a week, then,\nthat I may see how my daughters and she agree together, and how I like\nher temper, and then I'll tell you more; and in the meantime, if\nanybody comes to see her as they used to do, you may only tell them you\nhave sent her out to my house.'\n\nThis was prudently managed enough, and I went to the lady's house; but\nI was so pleased there with the young ladies, and they so pleased with\nme, that I had enough to do to come away, and they were as unwilling to\npart with me.\n\nHowever, I did come away, and lived almost a year more with my honest\nold woman, and began now to be very helpful to her; for I was almost\nfourteen years old, was tall of my age, and looked a little womanish;\nbut I had such a taste of genteel living at the lady's house that I was\nnot so easy in my old quarters as I used to be, and I thought it was\nfine to be a gentlewoman indeed, for I had quite other notions of a\ngentlewoman now than I had before; and as I thought, I say, that it was\nfine to be a gentlewoman, so I loved to be among gentlewomen, and\ntherefore I longed to be there again.\n\nAbout the time that I was fourteen years and a quarter old, my good\nnurse, mother I rather to call her, fell sick and died.  I was then in\na sad condition indeed, for as there is no great bustle in putting an\nend to a poor body's family when once they are carried to the grave, so\nthe poor good woman being buried, the parish children she kept were\nimmediately removed by the church-wardens; the school was at an end,\nand the children of it had no more to do but just stay at home till\nthey were sent somewhere else; and as for what she left, her daughter,\na married woman with six or seven children, came and swept it all away\nat once, and removing the goods, they had no more to say to me than to\njest with me, and tell me that the little gentlewoman might set up for\nherself if she pleased.\n\nI was frighted out of my wits almost, and knew not what to do, for I\nwas, as it were, turned out of doors to the wide world, and that which\nwas still worse, the old honest woman had two-and-twenty shillings of\nmine in her hand, which was all the estate the little gentlewoman had\nin the world; and when I asked the daughter for it, she huffed me and\nlaughed at me, and told me she had nothing to do with it.\n\nIt was true the good, poor woman had told her daughter of it, and that\nit lay in such a place, that it was the child's money, and  had called\nonce or twice for me to give it me, but I was, unhappily, out of the\nway somewhere or other, and when I came back she was past being in a\ncondition to speak of it.  However, the daughter was so honest\nafterwards as to give it me, though at first she used me cruelly about\nit.\n\nNow was I a poor gentlewoman indeed, and I was just that very night to\nbe turned into the wide world; for the daughter removed all the goods,\nand I had not so much as a lodging to go to, or a bit of bread to eat.\nBut it seems some of the neighbours, who had known my circumstances,\ntook so much compassion of me as to acquaint the lady in whose family I\nhad been a week, as I mentioned above; and immediately she sent her\nmaid to fetch me away, and two of her daughters came with the maid\nthough unsent.  So I went with them, bag and baggage, and with a glad\nheart, you may be sure.  The fright of my condition had made such an\nimpression upon me, that I did not want now to be a gentlewoman, but\nwas very willing to be a servant, and that any kind of servant they\nthought fit to have me be.\n\nBut my new generous mistress, for she exceeded the good woman I was\nwith before, in everything, as well as in the matter of estate; I say,\nin everything except honesty; and for that, though this was a lady most\nexactly just, yet I must not forget to say on all occasions, that the\nfirst, though poor, was as uprightly honest as it was possible for any\none to be.\n\nI was no sooner carried away, as I have said, by this good gentlewoman,\nbut the first lady, that is to say, the Mayoress that was, sent her two\ndaughters to take care of me; and another family which had taken notice\nof me when I was the little gentlewoman, and had given me work to do,\nsent for me after her, so that I was mightily made of, as we say; nay,\nand they were not a little angry, especially madam the Mayoress, that\nher friend had taken me away from her, as she called it; for, as she\nsaid, I was hers by right, she having been the first that took any\nnotice of me.  But they that had me would not part with me; and as for\nme, though I should have been very well treated with any of the others,\nyet I could not be better than where I was.\n\nHere I continued till I was between seventeen and eighteen years old,\nand here I had all the advantages for my education that could be\nimagined; the lady had masters home to the house to teach her daughters\nto dance, and to speak French, and to write, and other to teach them\nmusic; and I was always with them, I learned as fast as they; and\nthough the masters were not appointed to teach me, yet I learned by\nimitation and inquiry all that they learned by instruction and\ndirection; so that, in short, I learned to dance and speak French as\nwell as any of them, and to sing much better, for I had a better voice\nthan any of them.  I could not so readily come at playing on the\nharpsichord or spinet, because I had no instrument of my own to\npractice on, and could only come at theirs in the intervals when they\nleft it, which was uncertain; but yet I learned tolerably well too, and\nthe young ladies at length got two instruments, that is to say, a\nharpsichord and a spinet too, and then they taught me themselves.  But\nas to dancing, they could hardly help my learning country-dances,\nbecause they always wanted me to make up even number; and, on the other\nhand, they were as heartily willing to learn me everything that they\nhad been taught themselves, as I could be to take the learning.\n\nBy this means I had, as I have said above, all the advantages of\neducation that I could have had if I had been as much a gentlewoman as\nthey were with whom I lived; and in some things I had the advantage of\nmy ladies, though they were my superiors; but they were all the gifts\nof nature, and which all their fortunes could not furnish.  First, I\nwas apparently handsomer than any of them; secondly, I was better\nshaped; and, thirdly, I sang better, by which I mean I had a better\nvoice; in all which you will, I hope, allow me to say, I do not speak\nmy own conceit of myself, but the opinion of all that knew the family.\n\nI had with all these the common vanity of my sex, viz. that being\nreally taken for very handsome, or, if you please, for a great beauty,\nI very well knew it, and had as good an opinion of myself as anybody\nelse could have of me; and particularly I loved to hear anybody speak\nof it, which could not but happen to me sometimes, and was a great\nsatisfaction to me.\n\nThus far I have had a smooth story to tell of myself, and in all this\npart of my life I not only had the reputation of living in a very good\nfamily, and a family noted and respected everywhere for virtue and\nsobriety, and for every valuable thing; but I had the character too of\na very sober, modest, and virtuous young woman, and such I had always\nbeen; neither had I yet any occasion to think of anything else, or to\nknow what a temptation to wickedness meant.\n\nBut that which I was too vain of was my ruin, or rather my vanity was\nthe cause of it.  The lady in the house where I was had two sons, young\ngentlemen of very promising parts and of extraordinary behaviour, and\nit was my misfortune to be very well with them both, but they managed\nthemselves with me in a quite different manner.\n\nThe eldest, a gay gentleman that knew the town as well as the country,\nand though he had levity enough to do an ill-natured thing, yet had too\nmuch judgment of things to pay too dear for his pleasures; he began\nwith the unhappy snare to all women, viz. taking notice upon all\noccasions how pretty I was, as he called it, how agreeable, how\nwell-carriaged, and the like; and this he contrived so subtly, as if he\nhad known as well how to catch a woman in his net as a partridge when\nhe went a-setting; for he would contrive to be talking this to his\nsisters when, though I was not by, yet when he knew I was not far off\nbut that I should be sure to hear him.  His sisters would return softly\nto him, 'Hush, brother, she will hear you; she is but in the next\nroom.'  Then he would put it off and talk softlier, as if he had not\nknow it, and begin to acknowledge he was wrong; and then, as if he had\nforgot himself, he would speak aloud again, and I, that was so well\npleased to hear it, was sure to listen for it upon all occasions.\n\nAfter he had thus baited his hook, and found easily enough the method\nhow to lay it in my way, he played an opener game; and one day, going\nby his sister's chamber when I was there, doing something about\ndressing her, he comes in with an air of gaiety.  'Oh, Mrs. Betty,'\nsaid he to me, 'how do you do, Mrs. Betty?  Don't your cheeks burn,\nMrs. Betty?'  I made a curtsy and blushed, but said nothing.  'What\nmakes you talk so, brother?' says the lady.  'Why,' says he, 'we have\nbeen talking of her below-stairs this half-hour.'  'Well,' says his\nsister, 'you can say no harm of her, that I am sure, so 'tis no matter\nwhat you have been talking about.' 'Nay,' says he, ''tis so far from\ntalking harm of her, that we have been talking a great deal of good,\nand a great many fine things have been said of Mrs. Betty, I assure\nyou; and particularly, that she is the handsomest young woman in\nColchester; and, in short, they begin to toast her health in the town.'\n\n'I wonder at you, brother,' says the sister.  'Betty wants but one\nthing, but she had as good want everything, for the market is against\nour sex just now; and if a young woman have beauty, birth, breeding,\nwit, sense, manners, modesty, and all these to an extreme, yet if she\nhave not money, she's nobody, she had as good want them all for nothing\nbut money now recommends a woman; the men play the game all into their\nown hands.'\n\nHer younger brother, who was by, cried, 'Hold, sister, you run too\nfast; I am an exception to your rule.  I assure you, if I find a woman\nso accomplished as you talk of, I say, I assure you, I would not\ntrouble myself about the money.'\n\n'Oh,' says the sister, 'but you will take care not to fancy one, then,\nwithout the money.'\n\n'You don't know that neither,' says the brother.\n\n'But why, sister,' says the elder brother, 'why do you exclaim so at\nthe men for aiming so much at the fortune?  You are none of them that\nwant a fortune, whatever else you want.'\n\n'I understand you, brother,' replies the lady very smartly; 'you\nsuppose I have the money, and want the beauty; but as times go now, the\nfirst will do without the last, so I have the better of my neighbours.'\n\n'Well,' says the younger brother, 'but your neighbours, as you call\nthem, may be even with you, for beauty will steal a husband sometimes\nin spite of money, and when the maid chances to be handsomer than the\nmistress, she oftentimes makes as good a market, and rides in a coach\nbefore her.'\n\nI thought it was time for me to withdraw and leave them, and I did so,\nbut not so far but that I heard all their discourse, in which I heard\nabundance of the fine things said of myself, which served to prompt my\nvanity, but, as I soon found, was not the way to increase my interest\nin the family, for the sister and the younger brother fell grievously\nout about it; and as he said some very disobliging things to her upon\nmy account, so I could easily see that she resented them by her future\nconduct to me, which indeed was very unjust to me, for I had never had\nthe least thought of what she suspected as to her younger brother;\nindeed, the elder brother, in his distant, remote way, had said a great\nmany things as in jest, which I had the folly to believe were in\nearnest, or to flatter myself with the hopes of what I ought to have\nsupposed he never intended, and perhaps never thought of.\n\nIt happened one day that he came running upstairs, towards the room\nwhere his sisters used to sit and work, as he often used to do; and\ncalling to them before he came in, as was his way too, I, being there\nalone, stepped to the door, and said, 'Sir, the ladies are not here,\nthey are walked down the garden.' As I stepped forward to say this,\ntowards the door, he was just got to the door, and clasping me in his\narms, as if it had been by chance, 'Oh, Mrs. Betty,' says he, 'are you\nhere?  That's better still; I want to speak with you more than I do\nwith them'; and then, having me in his arms, he kissed me three or four\ntimes.\n\nI struggled to get away, and yet did it but faintly neither, and he\nheld me fast, and still kissed me, till he was almost out of breath,\nand then, sitting down, says, 'Dear Betty, I am in love with you.'\n\nHis words, I must confess, fired my blood; all my spirits flew about my\nheart and put me into disorder enough, which he might easily have seen\nin my face.  He repeated it afterwards several times, that he was in\nlove with me, and my heart spoke as plain as a voice, that I liked it;\nnay, whenever he said, 'I am in love with you,' my blushes plainly\nreplied, 'Would you were, sir.'\n\nHowever, nothing else passed at that time; it was but a surprise, and\nwhen he was gone I soon recovered myself again.  He had stayed longer\nwith me, but he happened to look out at the window and see his sisters\ncoming up the garden, so he took his leave, kissed me again, told me he\nwas very serious, and I should hear more of him very quickly, and away\nhe went, leaving me infinitely pleased, though surprised; and had there\nnot been one misfortune in it, I had been in the right, but the mistake\nlay here, that Mrs. Betty was in earnest and the gentleman was not.\n\nFrom this time my head ran upon strange things, and I may truly say I\nwas not myself; to have such a gentleman talk to me of being in love\nwith me, and of my being such a charming creature, as he told me I was;\nthese were things I knew not how to bear, my vanity was elevated to the\nlast degree.  It is true I had my head full of pride, but, knowing\nnothing of the wickedness of the times, I had not one thought of my own\nsafety or of my virtue about me; and had my young master offered it at\nfirst sight, he might have taken any liberty he thought fit with me;\nbut he did not see his advantage, which was my happiness for that time.\n\nAfter this attack it was not long but he found an opportunity to catch\nme again, and almost in the same posture; indeed, it had more of design\nin it on his part, though not on my part.  It was thus:  the young\nladies were all gone a-visiting with their mother; his brother was out\nof town; and as for his father, he had been in London for a week\nbefore.  He had so well watched me that he knew where I was, though I\ndid not so much as know that he was in the house; and he briskly comes\nup the stairs and, seeing me at work, comes into the room to me\ndirectly, and began just as he did before, with taking me in his arms,\nand kissing me for almost a quarter of an hour together.\n\nIt was his younger sister's chamber that I was in, and as there was\nnobody in the house but the maids below-stairs, he was, it may be, the\nruder; in short, he began to be in earnest with me indeed.  Perhaps he\nfound me a little too easy, for God knows I made no resistance to him\nwhile he only held me in his arms and kissed me; indeed, I was too well\npleased with it to resist him much.\n\nHowever, as it were, tired with that kind of work, we sat down, and\nthere he talked with me a great while; he said he was charmed with me,\nand that he could not rest night or day till he had told me how he was\nin love with me, and, if I was able to love him again, and would make\nhim happy, I should be the saving of his life, and many such fine\nthings.  I said little to him again, but easily discovered that I was a\nfool, and that I did not in the least perceive what he meant.\n\nThen he walked about the room, and taking me by the hand, I walked with\nhim; and by and by, taking his advantage, he threw me down upon the\nbed, and kissed me there most violently; but, to give him his due,\noffered no manner of rudeness to me, only kissed a great while.  After\nthis he thought he had heard somebody come upstairs, so got off from\nthe bed, lifted me up, professing a great deal of love for me, but told\nme it was all an honest affection, and that he meant no ill to me; and\nwith that he put five guineas into my hand, and went away downstairs.\n\nI was more confounded with the money than I was before with the love,\nand began to be so elevated that I scarce knew the ground I stood on.\nI am the more particular in this part, that if my story comes to be\nread by any innocent young body, they may learn from it to guard\nthemselves against the mischiefs which attend an early knowledge of\ntheir own beauty.  If a young woman once thinks herself handsome, she\nnever doubts the truth of any man that tells her he is in love with\nher; for if she believes herself charming enough to captivate him, 'tis\nnatural to expect the effects of it.\n\nThis young gentleman had fired his inclination as much as he had my\nvanity, and, as if he had found that he had an opportunity and was\nsorry he did not take hold of it, he comes up again in half an hour or\nthereabouts, and falls to work with me again as before, only with a\nlittle less introduction.\n\nAnd first, when he entered the room, he turned about and shut the door.\n'Mrs. Betty,' said he, 'I fancied before somebody was coming upstairs,\nbut it was not so; however,' adds he, 'if they find me in the room with\nyou, they shan't catch me a-kissing of you.' I told him I did not know\nwho should be coming upstairs, for I believed there was nobody in the\nhouse but the cook and the other maid, and they never came up those\nstairs.  'Well, my dear,' says he, ''tis good to be sure, however'; and\nso he sits down, and we began to talk.  And now, though I was still all\non fire with his first visit, and said little, he did as it were put\nwords in my mouth, telling me how passionately he loved me, and that\nthough he could not mention such a thing till he came to this estate,\nyet he was resolved to make me happy then, and himself too; that is to\nsay, to marry me, and abundance of such fine things, which I, poor\nfool, did not understand the drift of, but acted as if there was no\nsuch thing as any kind of love but that which tended to matrimony; and\nif he had spoke of that, I had no room, as well as no power, to have\nsaid no; but we were not come that length yet.\n\nWe had not sat long, but he got up, and, stopping my very breath with\nkisses, threw me upon the bed again; but then being both well warmed,\nhe went farther with me than decency permits me to mention, nor had it\nbeen in my power to have denied him at that moment, had he offered much\nmore than he did.\n\nHowever, though he took these freedoms with me, it did not go to that\nwhich they call the last favour, which, to do him justice, he did not\nattempt; and he made that self-denial of his a plea for all his\nfreedoms with me upon other occasions after this.  When this was over,\nhe stayed but a little while, but he put almost a handful of gold in my\nhand, and left me, making a thousand protestations of his passion for\nme, and of his loving me above all the women in the world.\n\nIt will not be strange if I now began to think, but alas! it was but\nwith very little solid reflection.  I had a most unbounded stock of\nvanity and pride, and but a very little stock of virtue.  I did indeed\ncase sometimes with myself what young master aimed at, but thought of\nnothing but the fine words and the gold; whether he intended to marry\nme, or not to marry me, seemed a matter of no great consequence to me;\nnor did my thoughts so much as suggest to me the necessity of making\nany capitulation for myself, till he came to make a kind of formal\nproposal to me, as you shall hear presently.\n\nThus I gave up myself to a readiness of being ruined without the least\nconcern and am a fair memento to all young women whose vanity prevails\nover their virtue.  Nothing was ever so stupid on both sides.  Had I\nacted as became me, and resisted as virtue and honour require, this\ngentleman had either desisted his attacks, finding no room to expect\nthe accomplishment of his design, or had made fair and honourable\nproposals of marriage; in which case, whoever had blamed him, nobody\ncould have blamed me.  In short, if he had known me, and how easy the\ntrifle he aimed at was to be had, he would have troubled his head no\nfarther, but have given me four or five guineas, and have lain with me\nthe next time he had come at me.  And if I had known his thoughts, and\nhow hard he thought I would be to be gained, I might have made my own\nterms with him; and if I had not capitulated for an immediate marriage,\nI might for a maintenance till marriage, and might have had what I\nwould; for he was already rich to excess, besides what he had in\nexpectation; but I seemed wholly to have abandoned all such thoughts as\nthese, and was taken up only with the pride of my beauty, and of being\nbeloved by such a gentleman.  As for the gold, I spent whole hours in\nlooking upon it; I told the guineas over and over a thousand times a\nday.  Never poor vain creature was so wrapt up with every part of the\nstory as I was, not considering what was before me, and how near my\nruin was at the door; indeed, I think I rather wished for that ruin\nthan studied to avoid it.\n\nIn the meantime, however, I was cunning enough not to give the least\nroom to any in the family to suspect me, or to imagine that I had the\nleast correspondence with this young gentleman.  I scarce ever looked\ntowards him in public, or answered if he spoke to me when anybody was\nnear us; but for all that, we had every now and then a little\nencounter, where we had room for a word or two, an now and then a kiss,\nbut no fair opportunity for the mischief intended; and especially\nconsidering that he made more circumlocution than, if he had known by\nthoughts, he had occasion for; and the work appearing difficult to him,\nhe really made it so.\n\nBut as the devil is an unwearied tempter, so he never fails to find\nopportunity for that wickedness he invites to.  It was one evening that\nI was in the garden, with his two younger sisters and himself, and all\nvery innocently merry, when he found means to convey a note into my\nhand, by which he directed me to understand that he would to-morrow\ndesire me publicly to go of an errand for him into the town, and that I\nshould see him somewhere by the way.\n\nAccordingly, after dinner, he very gravely says to me, his sisters\nbeing all by, 'Mrs. Betty, I must ask a favour of you.' 'What's that?'\nsays his second sister.  'Nay, sister,' says he very gravely, 'if you\ncan't spare Mrs. Betty to-day, any other time will do.'  Yes, they\nsaid, they could spare her well enough, and the sister begged pardon\nfor asking, which they did but of mere course, without any meaning.\n'Well, but, brother,' says the eldest sister, 'you must tell Mrs. Betty\nwhat it is; if it be any private business that we must not hear, you\nmay call her out.  There she is.'  'Why, sister,' says the gentleman\nvery gravely, 'what do you mean?  I only desire her to go into the High\nStreet' (and then he pulls out a turnover), 'to such a shop'; and then\nhe tells them a long story of two fine neckcloths he had bid money for,\nand he wanted to have me go and make an errand to buy a neck to the\nturnover that he showed, to see if they would take my money for the\nneckcloths; to bid a shilling more, and haggle with them; and then he\nmade more errands, and so continued to have such petty business to do,\nthat I should be sure to stay a good while.\n\nWhen he had given me my errands, he told them a long story of a visit\nhe was going to make to a family they all knew, and where was to be\nsuch-and-such gentlemen, and how merry they were to be, and very\nformally asks his sisters to go with him, and they as formally excused\nthemselves, because of company that they had notice was to come and\nvisit them that afternoon; which, by the way, he had contrived on\npurpose.\n\nHe had scarce done speaking to them, and giving me my errand, but his\nman came up to tell him that Sir W---- H----'s coach stopped at the\ndoor; so he runs down, and comes up again immediately.  'Alas!' says he\naloud, 'there's all my mirth spoiled at once; sir W---- has sent his\ncoach for me, and desires to speak with me upon some earnest business.'\nIt seems this Sir W---- was a gentleman who lived about three miles out\nof town, to whom he had spoken on purpose the day before, to lend him\nhis chariot for a particular occasion, and had appointed it to call for\nhim, as it did, about three o'clock.\n\nImmediately he calls for his best wig, hat, and sword, and ordering his\nman to go to the other place to make his excuse-- that was to say, he\nmade an excuse to send his man away--he prepares to go into the coach.\nAs he was going, he stopped a while, and speaks mighty earnestly to me\nabout his business, and finds an opportunity to say very softly to me,\n'Come away, my dear, as soon as ever you can.'  I said nothing, but\nmade a curtsy, as if I had done so to what he said in public.  In about\na quarter of an hour I went out too; I had no dress other than before,\nexcept that I had a hood, a mask, a fan, and a pair of gloves in my\npocket; so that there was not the least suspicion in the house.  He\nwaited for me in the coach in a back-lane, which he knew I must pass\nby, and had directed the coachman whither to go, which was to a certain\nplace, called Mile End, where lived a confidant of his, where we went\nin, and where was all the convenience in the world to be as wicked as\nwe pleased.\n\nWhen we were together he began to talk very gravely to me, and to tell\nme he did not bring me there to betray me; that his passion for me\nwould not suffer him to abuse me; that he resolved to marry me as soon\nas he came to his estate; that in the meantime, if I would grant his\nrequest, he would maintain me very honourably; and made me a thousand\nprotestations of his sincerity and of his affection to me; and that he\nwould never abandon me, and as I may say, made a thousand more\npreambles than he need to have done.\n\nHowever, as he pressed me to speak, I told him I had no reason to\nquestion the sincerity of his love to me after so many protestations,\nbut--and there I stopped, as if I left him to guess the rest.  'But\nwhat, my dear?' says he.  'I guess what you mean:  what if you should\nbe with child?  Is not that it?  Why, then,' says he, 'I'll take care\nof you and provide for you, and the child too; and that you may see I\nam not in jest,' says he, 'here's an earnest for you,' and with that he\npulls out a silk purse, with an hundred guineas in it, and gave it me.\n'And I'll give you such another,' says he, 'every year till I marry\nyou.'\n\nMy colour came and went, at the sight of the purse and with the fire of\nhis proposal together, so that I could not say a word, and he easily\nperceived it; so putting the purse into my bosom, I made no more\nresistance to him, but let him do just what he pleased, and as often as\nhe pleased; and thus I finished my own destruction at once, for from\nthis day, being forsaken of my virtue and my modesty, I had nothing of\nvalue left to recommend me, either to God's blessing or man's\nassistance.\n\nBut things did not end here.  I went back to the town, did the business\nhe publicly directed me to, and was at home before anybody thought me\nlong.  As for my gentleman, he stayed out, as he told me he would, till\nlate at night, and there was not the least suspicion in the family\neither on his account or on mine.\n\nWe had, after this, frequent opportunities to repeat our crime\n--chiefly by his contrivance--especially at home, when his mother and\nthe young ladies went abroad a-visiting, which he watched so narrowly\nas never to miss; knowing always beforehand when they went out, and\nthen failed not to catch me all alone, and securely enough; so that we\ntook our fill of our wicked pleasure for near half a year; and yet,\nwhich was the most to my satisfaction, I was not with child.\n\nBut before this half-year was expired, his younger brother, of whom I\nhave made some mention in the beginning of the story, falls to work\nwith me; and he, finding me alone in the garden one evening, begins a\nstory of the same kind to me, made good honest professions of being in\nlove with me, and in short, proposes fairly and honourably to marry me,\nand that before he made any other offer to me at all.\n\nI was now confounded, and driven to such an extremity as the like was\nnever known; at least not to me.  I resisted the proposal with\nobstinacy; and now I began to arm myself with arguments.  I laid before\nhim the inequality of the match; the treatment I should meet with in\nthe family; the ingratitude it would be to his good father and mother,\nwho had taken me into their house upon such generous principles, and\nwhen I was in such a low condition; and, in short, I said everything to\ndissuade him from his design that I could imagine, except telling him\nthe truth, which would indeed have put an end to it all, but that I\ndurst not think of mentioning.\n\nBut here happened a circumstance that I did not expect indeed, which\nput me to my shifts; for this young gentleman, as he was plain and\nhonest, so he pretended to nothing with me but what was so too; and,\nknowing his own innocence, he was not so careful to make his having a\nkindness for Mrs. Betty a secret I the house, as his brother was.  And\nthough he did not let them know that he had talked to me about it, yet\nhe said enough to let his sisters perceive he loved me, and his mother\nsaw it too, which, though they took no notice of it to me, yet they did\nto him, an immediately I found their carriage to me altered, more than\never before.\n\nI saw the cloud, though I did not foresee the storm.  It was easy, I\nsay, to see that their carriage to me was altered, and that it grew\nworse and worse every day; till at last I got information among the\nservants that I should, in a very little while, be desired to remove.\n\nI was not alarmed at the news, having a full satisfaction that I should\nbe otherwise provided for; and especially considering that I had reason\nevery day to expect I should be with child, and that then I should be\nobliged to remove without any pretences for it.\n\nAfter some time the younger gentleman took an opportunity to tell me\nthat the kindness he had for me had got vent in the family.  He did not\ncharge me with it, he said, for he know well enough which way it came\nout.  He told me his plain way of  talking had been the occasion of it,\nfor that he did not make his respect for me so much a secret as he\nmight have done, and the reason was, that he was at a point, that if I\nwould consent to have him, he would tell them all openly that he loved\nme, and that he intended to marry me; that it was true his father and\nmother might resent it, and be unkind, but that he was now in a way to\nlive, being bred to the law, and he did not fear maintaining me\nagreeable to what I should expect; and that, in short, as he believed I\nwould not be ashamed of him, so he was resolved not to be ashamed of\nme, and that he scorned to be afraid to own me now, whom he resolved to\nown after I was his wife, and therefore I had nothing to do but to give\nhim my hand, and he would answer for all the rest.\n\nI was now in a dreadful condition indeed, and now I repented heartily\nmy easiness with the eldest brother; not from any reflection of\nconscience, but from a view of the happiness I might have enjoyed, and\nhad now made impossible; for though I had no great scruples of\nconscience, as I have said, to struggle with, yet I could not think of\nbeing a whore to one brother and a wife to the other.  But then it came\ninto my thoughts that the first brother had promised to made me his\nwife when he came to his estate; but I presently remembered what I had\noften thought of, that he had never spoken a word of having me for a\nwife after he had conquered me for a mistress; and indeed, till now,\nthough I said I thought of it often, yet it gave me no disturbance at\nall, for as he did not seem in the least to lessen his affection to me,\nso neither did he lessen his bounty, though he had the discretion\nhimself to desire me not to lay out a penny of what he gave me in\nclothes, or to make the least show extraordinary, because it would\nnecessarily give jealousy in the family, since everybody know I could\ncome at such things no manner of ordinary way, but by some private\nfriendship, which they would presently have suspected.\n\nBut I was now in a great strait, and knew not what to do.  The main\ndifficulty was this:  the younger brother not only laid close siege to\nme, but suffered it to be seen.  He would come into his sister's room,\nand his mother's room, and sit down, and talk a thousand kind things of\nme, and to me, even before their faces, and when they were all there.\nThis grew so public that the whole house talked of it, and his mother\nreproved him for it, and their carriage to me appeared quite altered.\nIn short, his mother had let fall some speeches, as if she intended to\nput me out of the family; that is, in English, to turn me out of doors.\nNow I was sure this could not be a secret to his brother, only that he\nmight not think, as indeed nobody else yet did, that the youngest\nbrother had made any proposal to me about it; but as I easily could see\nthat it would go farther, so I saw likewise there was an absolute\nnecessity to speak of it to him, or that he would speak of it to me,\nand which to do first I knew not; that is, whether I should break it to\nhim or let it alone till he should break it to me.\n\nUpon serious consideration, for indeed now I began to consider things\nvery seriously, and never till now; I say, upon serious consideration,\nI resolved to tell him of it first; and it was not long before I had an\nopportunity, for the very next day his brother went to London upon some\nbusiness, and the family being out a-visiting, just as it had happened\nbefore, and as indeed was often the case, he came according to his\ncustom, to spend an hour or two with Mrs. Betty.\n\nWhen he came had had sat down a while, he easily perceived there was an\nalteration in my countenance, that I was not so free and pleasant with\nhim as I used to be, and particularly, that I had been a-crying; he was\nnot long before he took notice of it, and asked me in very kind terms\nwhat was the matter, and if  anything troubled me.  I would have put it\noff if I could, but it was not to be concealed; so after suffering many\nimportunities to draw that out of me which I longed as much as possible\nto disclose, I told him that it was true something did trouble me, and\nsomething of such a nature that I could not conceal from him, and yet\nthat I could not tell how to tell him of it neither; that it was a\nthing that not only surprised me, but greatly perplexed me, and that I\nknew not what course to take, unless he would direct me.  He told me\nwith great tenderness, that let it be what it would, I should not let\nit trouble me, for he would protect me from all the world.\n\nI then began at a distance, and told him I was afraid the ladies had\ngot some secret information of our correspondence; for that it was easy\nto see that their conduct was very much changed towards me for a great\nwhile, and that now it was come to that pass that they frequently found\nfault with me, and sometimes fell quite out with me, though I never\ngave them the least occasion; that whereas I used always to lie with\nthe eldest sister, I was lately put to lie by myself, or with one of\nthe maids; and that I had overheard them several times talking very\nunkindly about me; but that which confirmed it all was, that one of the\nservants had told me that she had heard I  was to be turned out, and\nthat it was not safe for the family that I should be any longer in the\nhouse.\n\nHe smiled when he herd all this, and I asked him how he could make so\nlight of it, when he must needs know that if there was any discovery I\nwas undone for ever, and that even it would hurt him, though not ruin\nhim as it would me.  I upbraided him, that he was like all the rest of\nthe sex, that, when they had the character and honour of a woman at\ntheir mercy, oftentimes made it their jest, and at least looked upon it\nas a trifle, and counted the ruin of those they had had their will of\nas a thing of no value.\n\nHe saw me warm and serious, and he changed his style immediately; he\ntold me he was sorry I should have such a thought of him; that he had\nnever given me the least occasion for it, but had been as tender of my\nreputation as he could be of his own; that he was sure our\ncorrespondence had been managed with so much address, that not one\ncreature in the family had so much as a suspicion of it; that if he\nsmiled when I told him my thoughts, it was at the assurance he lately\nreceived, that our understanding one another was not so much as known\nor guessed at; and that when he had told me how much reason he had to\nbe easy, I should smile as he did, for he was very certain it would\ngive me a full satisfaction.\n\n'This is a mystery I cannot understand,' says I, 'or how it should be\nto my satisfaction that I am to be turned out of doors; for if our\ncorrespondence is not discovered, I know not what else I have done to\nchange the countenances of the whole family to me, or to have them\ntreat me as they do now, who formerly used me with so much tenderness,\nas if I had been one of their own children.'\n\n'Why, look you, child,' says he, 'that they are uneasy about you, that\nis true; but that they have the least suspicion of the case as it is,\nand as it respects you and I, is so far from being true, that they\nsuspect my brother Robin; and, in short, they are fully persuaded he\nmakes love to you; nay, the fool has put it into their heads too\nhimself, for he is continually bantering them about it, and making a\njest of himself.  I confess I think he is wrong to do so, because he\ncannot but see it vexes them, and makes them unkind to you; but 'tis a\nsatisfaction to me, because of the assurance it gives me, that they do\nnot suspect me in the least, and I hope this will be to your\nsatisfaction too.'\n\n'So it is,' says I, 'one way; but this does not reach my case at all,\nnor is this the chief thing that troubles me, though I have been\nconcerned about that too.'  'What is it, then?' says he.  With which I\nfell to tears, and could say nothing to him at all.  He strove to\npacify me all he could, but began at last to be very pressing upon me\nto tell what it was.  At last I answered that I thought I ought to tell\nhim too, and that he had some right to know it; besides, that I wanted\nhis direction in the case, for I was in such perplexity that I knew not\nwhat course to take, and then I related the whole affair to him.  I\ntold him how imprudently his brother had managed himself, in making\nhimself so public; for that if he had kept it a secret, as such a thing\nout to have been, I could but have denied him positively, without\ngiving any reason for it, and he would in time have ceased his\nsolicitations; but that he had the vanity, first, to depend upon it\nthat I would not deny him, and then had taken the freedom to tell his\nresolution of having me to the whole house.\n\nI told him how far I had resisted him, and told him how sincere and\nhonourable his offers were.  'But,' says I, 'my case will be doubly\nhard; for as they carry it ill to me now, because he desires to have\nme, they'll carry it worse when they shall find I have denied him; and\nthey will presently say, there's something else in it, and then out it\ncomes that I am married already to somebody else, or that I would never\nrefuse a match so much above me as this was.'\n\nThis discourse surprised him indeed very much.  He told me that it was\na critical point indeed for me to manage, and he did not see which way\nI should get out of it; but he would consider it, and let me know next\ntime we met, what resolution he was come to about it; and in the\nmeantime desired I would not give my consent to his brother, nor yet\ngive him a flat denial, but that I would hold him in suspense a while.\n\nI seemed to start at his saying I should not give him my consent.  I\ntold him he knew very well I had no consent to give; that he had\nengaged himself to marry me, and that my consent was the same time\nengaged to him; that he had all along told me I was his wife, and I\nlooked upon myself as effectually so as if the ceremony had passed; and\nthat it was from his own mouth that I did so, he having all along\npersuaded me to call myself his wife.\n\n'Well, my dear,' says he, 'don't be concerned at that now; if I am not\nyour husband, I'll be as good as a husband to you; and do not let those\nthings trouble you now, but let me look a little farther into this\naffair, and I shall be able to say more next time we meet.'\n\nHe pacified me as well as he could with this, but I found he was very\nthoughtful, and that though he was very kind to me and  kissed me a\nthousand times, and more I believe, and gave me money too, yet he\noffered no more all the while we were together, which was above two\nhours, and which I much wondered at indeed at that time, considering\nhow it used to be, and what opportunity we had.\n\nHis brother did not come from London for five or six days, and it was\ntwo days more before he got an opportunity to talk with him; but then\ngetting him by himself he began to talk very close to him about it, and\nthe same evening got an opportunity (for we had a long conference\ntogether) to repeat all their discourse to me, which, as near as I can\nremember, was to the purpose following.  He told him he heard strange\nnews of him since he went, viz. that he made love to Mrs. Betty.\n'Well, says his brother a little angrily, 'and so I do.  And what then?\nWhat has anybody to do with that?'  'Nay,' says his brother, 'don't be\nangry, Robin; I don't pretend to have anything to do with it; nor do I\npretend to be angry with you about it.  But I find they do concern\nthemselves about it, and that they have used the poor girl ill about\nit, which I should take as done to myself.'  'Whom do you mean by\nTHEY?' says Robin.  'I mean my mother and the girls,' says the elder\nbrother.  'But hark ye,' says his brother, 'are you in earnest?  Do you\nreally love this girl?  You may be free with me, you know.'  'Why,\nthen,' says Robin, 'I will be free with you; I do love her above all\nthe women in the world, and I will have her, let them say and do what\nthey will.  I believe the girl will not deny me.'\n\nIt struck me to the heart when he told me this, for though it was most\nrational to think I would not deny him, yet I knew in my own conscience\nI must deny him, and I saw my ruin in my being obliged to do so; but I\nknew it was my business to talk otherwise then, so I interrupted him in\nhis story thus.\n\n'Ay!' said I, 'does he think I cannot deny him?  But he shall find I\ncan deny him, for all that.'\n\n'Well, my dear,' says he, 'but let me give you the whole story as it\nwent on between us, and then say what you will.'\n\nThen he went on and told me that he replied thus:  'But, brother, you\nknow she has nothing, and you may have several ladies with good\nfortunes.'\n\n''Tis no matter for that,' said Robin; 'I love the girl, and I will\nnever please my pocket in marrying, and not please my fancy.' 'And so,\nmy dear,' adds he, 'there is no opposing him.'\n\n'Yes, yes,' says I, 'you shall see I can oppose him; I have learnt to\nsay No, now though I had not learnt it before; if the best lord in the\nland offered me marriage now, I could very cheerfully say No to him.'\n\n'Well, but, my dear,' says he, 'what can you say to him?  You know, as\nyou said when we talked of it before, he well ask you many questions\nabout it, and all the house will wonder what the meaning of it should\nbe.'\n\n'Why,' says I, smiling, 'I can stop all their mouths at one clap by\ntelling him, and them too, that I am married already to his elder\nbrother.'\n\nHe smiled a little too at the word, but I could see it startled him,\nand he could not hide the disorder it put him into.  However, he\nreturned, 'Why, though that may be true in some sense, yet I suppose\nyou are but in jest when you talk of giving such an answer as that; it\nmay not be convenient on many accounts.'\n\n'No, no,' says I pleasantly, 'I am not so fond of letting the secret\ncome out without your consent.'\n\n'But what, then, can you say to him, or to them,' says he, 'when they\nfind you positive against a match which would be apparently so much to\nyour advantage?'\n\n'Why,' says I, 'should I be at a loss?  First of all, I am not obliged\nto give me any reason at all; on the other hand, I may tell them I am\nmarried already, and stop there, and that will be a full stop too to\nhim, for he can have no reason to ask one question after it.'\n\n'Ay,' says he; 'but the whole house will tease you about that, even to\nfather and mother, and if you deny them positively, they will be\ndisobliged at you, and suspicious besides.'\n\n'Why,' says I, 'what can I do?  What would have me do?  I was in\nstraight enough before, and as I told you, I was in perplexity before,\nand acquainted you with the circumstances, that I might have your\nadvice.'\n\n'My dear,' says he, 'I have been considering very much upon it, you may\nbe sure, and though it is a piece of advice that has a great many\nmortifications in it to me, and may at first seem strange to you, yet,\nall things considered, I see no better way for you than to let him go\non; and if you find him hearty and in earnest, marry him.'\n\nI gave him a look full of horror at those words, and, turning pale as\ndeath, was at the very point of sinking down out of the chair I sat in;\nwhen, giving a start, 'My dear,' says he aloud, 'what's the matter with\nyou?  Where are you a-going?' and a great many such things; and with\njogging and called to me, fetched me a little to myself, though it was\na good while before I fully recovered my senses, and was not able to\nspeak for several minutes more.\n\nWhen I was fully recovered he began again.  'My dear,' says he, 'what\nmade you so surprised at what I said?  I would have you consider\nseriously of it?  You may see plainly how the family stand in this\ncase, and they would be stark mad if it was my case, as it is my\nbrother's; and for aught I see, it would be my ruin and yours too.'\n\n'Ay!' says I, still speaking angrily; 'are all your protestations and\nvows to be shaken by the dislike of the family?  Did I not always\nobject that to you, and you made light thing of it, as what you were\nabove, and would value; and is it come to this now?' said I.  'Is this\nyour faith and honour, your love, and the solidity of your promises?'\n\nHe continued perfectly calm, notwithstanding all my reproaches, and I\nwas not sparing of them at all; but he replied at last, 'My dear, I\nhave not broken one promise with you yet; I did tell you I would marry\nyou when I was come to my estate; but you see my father is a hale,\nhealthy man, and may live these thirty years still, and not be older\nthan several are round us in town; and you never proposed my marrying\nyou sooner, because you knew it might be my ruin; and as to all the\nrest, I have not failed you in anything, you have wanted for nothing.'\n\nI could not deny a word of this, and had nothing to say to it in\ngeneral.  'But why, then,' says I, 'can you persuade me to such a\nhorrid step as leaving you, since you have not left me?  Will you allow\nno affection, no love on my side, where there has been so much on your\nside?  Have I made you no returns?  Have I given no testimony of my\nsincerity and of my passion?  Are the sacrifices I have made of honour\nand modesty to you no proof of my being tied to you in bonds too strong\nto be broken?'\n\n'But here, my dear,' says he, 'you may come into a safe station, and\nappear with honour and with splendour at once, and the remembrance of\nwhat we have done may be wrapt up in an eternal silence, as if it had\nnever happened; you shall always have my respect, and my sincere\naffection, only then it shall be honest, and perfectly just to my\nbrother; you shall be my dear sister, as now you are my dear----' and\nthere he stopped.\n\n'Your dear whore,' says I, 'you would have said if you had gone on, and\nyou might as well have said it; but I understand you.  However, I\ndesire you to remember the long discourses you have had with me, and\nthe many hours' pains you have taken to persuade me to believe myself\nan honest woman; that I was your wife intentionally, though not in the\neyes of the world, and that it was as effectual a marriage that had\npassed between us as is we had been publicly wedded by the parson of\nthe parish.  You know and cannot but remember that these have been your\nown words to me.'\n\nI found this was a little too close upon him, but I made it up in what\nfollows.  He stood stock-still for a while and said nothing, and I went\non thus:  'You cannot,' says I, 'without the highest injustice, believe\nthat I yielded upon all these persuasions without a love not to be\nquestioned, not to be shaken again by anything that could happen\nafterward.  If you have such dishonourable thoughts of me, I must ask\nyou what foundation in any of my behaviour have I given for such a\nsuggestion?\n\n'If, then, I have yielded to the importunities of my affection, and if\nI have been persuaded to believe that I am really, and in the essence\nof the thing, your wife, shall I now give the lie to all those\narguments and call myself your whore, or mistress, which is the same\nthing?  And will you transfer me to your brother?  Can you transfer my\naffection?  Can you bid me cease loving you, and bid me love him?  It\nis in my power, think you, to make such a change at demand?  No, sir,'\nsaid I, 'depend upon it 'tis impossible, and whatever the change of\nyour side may be, I will ever be true; and I had much rather, since it\nis come that unhappy length, be your whore than your brother's wife.'\n\nHe appeared pleased and touched with the impression of this last\ndiscourse, and told me that he stood where he did before; that he had\nnot been unfaithful to me in any one promise he had ever made yet, but\nthat there were so many terrible things presented themselves to his\nview in the affair before me, and that on my account in particular,\nthat he had thought of the other as a remedy so effectual as nothing\ncould come up to it.  That he thought this would not be entire parting\nus, but we might love as friends all our days, and perhaps with more\nsatisfaction than we should in the station we were now in, as things\nmight happen; that he durst say, I could not apprehend anything from\nhim as to betraying a secret, which could not but be the destruction of\nus both, if it came out; that he had but one question to ask of me that\ncould lie in the way of it, and if that question was answered in the\nnegative, he could not but think still it was the only step I could\ntake.\n\nI guessed at his question presently, namely, whether I was sure I was\nnot with child?  As to that, I told him he need not be concerned about\nit, for I was not with child.  'Why, then, my dear,' says he, 'we have\nno time to talk further now.  Consider of it, and think closely about\nit; I cannot but be of the opinion still, that it will be the best\ncourse you can take.' And with this he took his leave, and the more\nhastily too, his mother and sisters ringing at the gate, just at the\nmoment that he had risen up to go.\n\nHe left me in the utmost confusion of  thought; and he easily perceived\nit the next day, and all the rest of the week, for it was but Tuesday\nevening when we talked; but he had no opportunity to come at me all\nthat week, till the Sunday after, when I, being indisposed, did not go\nto church, and he, making some excuse for the like, stayed at home.\n\nAnd now he had me an hour and a half again by myself, and we fell into\nthe same arguments all over again, or at least so near the same, as it\nwould be to no purpose to repeat them.  At last I asked him warmly,\nwhat opinion he must have of my modesty, that he could suppose I should\nso much as entertain a thought of lying with two brothers, and assured\nhim it could never be.  I added, if he was to tell me that he would\nnever see me more, than which nothing but death could be more terrible,\nyet I could never entertain a thought so dishonourable to myself, and\nso base to him; and therefore, I entreated him, if he had one grain of\nrespect or affection left for me, that he would speak no more of it to\nme, or that he would pull his sword out and kill me.  He appeared\nsurprised at my obstinacy, as he called it; told me I was unkind to\nmyself, and unkind to him in it; that it was a crisis unlooked for upon\nus both, and impossible for either of us to foresee, but that he did\nnot see any other way to save us both from ruin, and therefore he\nthought it the more unkind; but that if he must say no more of it to\nme, he added with an unusual coldness, that he did not know anything\nelse we had to talk of; and so he rose up to take his leave.  I rose up\ntoo, as if with the same indifference; but when he came to give me as\nit were a parting kiss, I burst out into such a passion of crying, that\nthough I would have spoke, I could not, and only pressing his hand,\nseemed to give him the adieu, but cried vehemently.\n\nHe was sensibly moved with this; so he sat down again, and said a great\nmany kind things to me, to abate the excess of my passion, but still\nurged the necessity of what he had proposed; all the while insisting,\nthat if I did refuse, he would notwithstanding provide for me; but\nletting me plainly see that he would decline me in the main point--nay,\neven as a mistress; making it a point of honour not to lie with the\nwoman that, for aught he knew, might come to be his brother's wife.\n\nThe bare loss of him as a gallant was not so much my affliction as the\nloss of his person, whom indeed I loved to distraction; and the loss of\nall the expectations I had, and which I always had built my hopes upon,\nof having him one day for my husband.  These things oppressed my mind\nso much, that, in short, I fell very ill; the agonies of my mind, in a\nword, threw me into a high fever, and long it was, that none in the\nfamily expected my life.\n\nI was reduced very low indeed, and was often delirious and\nlight-headed; but nothing lay so near me as the fear that, when I was\nlight-headed, I should say something or other to his prejudice.  I was\ndistressed in my mind also to see him, and so he was to see me, for he\nreally loved me most passionately; but it could not be; there was not\nthe least room to desire it on one side or other, or so much as to make\nit decent.\n\nIt was near five weeks that I kept my bed and though the violence of my\nfever abated in three weeks, yet it several times returned; and the\nphysicians said two or three times, they could do no more for me, but\nthat they must leave nature and the distemper to fight it out, only\nstrengthening the first with cordials to maintain the struggle.  After\nthe end of five weeks I grew better, but was so weak, so altered, so\nmelancholy, and recovered so slowly, that they physicians apprehended I\nshould go into a consumption; and which vexed me most, they gave it as\ntheir opinion that my mind was oppressed, that something troubled me,\nand, in short, that I was in love.  Upon this, the whole house was set\nupon me to examine me, and to press me to tell whether I was in love or\nnot, and with whom; but as I well might, I denied my being in love at\nall.\n\nThey had on this occasion a squabble one day about me at table, that\nhad like to have put the whole family in an uproar, and for some time\ndid so.  They happened to be all at table but the father; as for me, I\nwas ill, and in my chamber.  At the beginning of the talk, which was\njust as they had finished their dinner, the old gentlewoman, who had\nsent me somewhat to eat, called her maid to go up and ask me if I would\nhave any more; but the maid brought down word I had not eaten half what\nshe had sent me already.\n\n'Alas, says the old lady, 'that poor girl!  I am afraid she will never\nbe well.'\n\n'Well!' says the elder brother, 'how should Mrs. Betty be well?  They\nsay she is in love.'\n\n'I believe nothing of it,' says the old gentlewoman.\n\n'I don't know,' says the eldest sister, 'what to say to it; they have\nmade such a rout about her being so handsome, and so charming, and I\nknow not what, and that in her hearing too, that has turned the\ncreature's head, I believe, and who knows what possessions may follow\nsuch doings?  For my part, I don't know what to make of it.'\n\n'Why, sister, you must acknowledge she is very handsome,' says the\nelder brother.\n\n'Ay, and a great deal handsomer than you, sister,' says Robin, 'and\nthat's your mortification.'\n\n'Well, well, that is not the question,' says his sister; 'that girl is\nwell enough, and she knows it well enough; she need not be told of it\nto make her vain.'\n\n'We are not talking of her being vain,' says the elder brother, 'but of\nher being in love; it may be she is in love with herself; it seems my\nsisters think so.'\n\n'I would she was in love with me,' says Robin; 'I'd quickly put her out\nof her pain.'\n\n'What d'ye mean by that, son,' says the old lady; 'how can you talk so?'\n\n'Why, madam,' says Robin, again, very honestly, 'do you think I'd let\nthe poor girl die for love, and of one that is near at hand to be had,\ntoo?'\n\n'Fie, brother!', says the second sister, 'how can you talk so?  Would\nyou take a creature that has not a groat in the world?'\n\n'Prithee, child,' says Robin, 'beauty's a portion, and good-humour with\nit is a double portion; I wish thou hadst half her stock of both for\nthy portion.'  So there was her mouth stopped.\n\n'I find,' says the eldest sister, 'if Betty is not in love, my brother\nis.  I wonder he has not broke his mind to Betty; I warrant she won't\nsay No.'\n\n'They that yield when they're asked,' says Robin, 'are one step before\nthem that were never asked to yield, sister, and two steps before them\nthat yield before they are asked; and that's an answer to you, sister.'\n\nThis fired the sister, and she flew into a passion, and said, things\nwere come to that pass that it was time the wench, meaning me, was out\nof the family; and but that she was not fit to be turned out, she hoped\nher father and mother would consider of it as soon as she could be\nremoved.\n\nRobin replied, that was business for the master and mistress of the\nfamily, who where not to be taught by one that had so little judgment\nas his eldest sister.\n\nIt ran up a great deal farther; the sister scolded, Robin rallied and\nbantered, but poor Betty lost ground by it extremely in the family.  I\nheard of it, and I cried heartily, and the old lady came up to me,\nsomebody having told her that I was so much concerned about it.  I\ncomplained to her, that it was very hard the doctors should pass such a\ncensure upon me, for which they had no ground; and that it was still\nharder, considering the circumstances I was under in the family; that I\nhoped I had done nothing to lessen her esteem for me, or given any\noccasion for the bickering between her sons and daughters, and I had\nmore need to think of a coffin than of being in love, and begged she\nwould not let me suffer in her opinion for anybody's mistakes but my\nown.\n\nShe was sensible of the justice of what I said, but told me, since\nthere had been such a clamour among them, and that her younger son\ntalked after such a rattling way as he did, she desired I would be so\nfaithful to her as to answer her but one question sincerely.  I told\nher I would, with all my heart, and with the utmost plainness and\nsincerity.  Why, then, the question was, whether there way anything\nbetween her son Robert and me.  I told her with all the protestations\nof sincerity that I was able to make, and as I might well, do, that\nthere was not, nor every had been; I told her that Mr. Robert had\nrattled and jested, as she knew it was his way, and that I took it\nalways, as I supposed he meant it, to be a wild airy way of discourse\nthat had no signification in it; and again assured her, that there was\nnot the least tittle of what she understood by it between us; and that\nthose who had suggested it had done me a great deal of wrong, and Mr.\nRobert no service at all.\n\nThe old lady was fully satisfied, and kissed me, spoke cheerfully to\nme, and bid me take care of my health and want for nothing, and so took\nher leave.  But when she came down she found the brother and all his\nsisters together by the ears; they were angry, even to passion, at his\nupbraiding them with their being homely, and having never had any\nsweethearts, never having been asked the question, and their being so\nforward as almost to ask first.  He rallied them upon the subject of\nMrs. Betty; how pretty, how good-humoured, how she sung better then\nthey did, and danced better, and how much handsomer she was; and in\ndoing this he omitted no ill-natured thing that could vex them, and\nindeed, pushed too hard upon them.  The old lady came down in the\nheight of it, and to put a stop it to, told them all the discourse she\nhad had with me, and how I answered, that there was nothing between Mr.\nRobert and I.\n\n'She's wrong there,' says Robin, 'for if there was not a great deal\nbetween us, we should be closer together than we are.  I told her I\nloved her hugely,' says he, 'but I could never make the jade believe I\nwas in earnest.'  'I do not know how you should,' says his mother;\n'nobody in their senses could believe you were in earnest, to talk so\nto a poor girl, whose circumstances you know so well.\n\n'But prithee, son,' adds she, 'since you tell me that you could not\nmake her believe you were in earnest, what must we believe about it?\nFor you ramble so in your discourse, that nobody knows whether you are\nin earnest or in jest; but as I find the girl, by your own confession,\nhas answered truly, I wish you would do so too, and tell me seriously,\nso that I may depend upon it.  Is there anything in it or no?  Are you\nin earnest or no?  Are you distracted, indeed, or are you not?  'Tis a\nweighty question, and I wish you would make us easy about it.'\n\n'By my faith, madam,' says Robin, ''tis in vain to mince the matter or\ntell any more lies about it; I am in earnest, as much as a man is\nthat's going to be hanged.  If Mrs. Betty would say she loved me, and\nthat she would marry me, I'd have her tomorrow morning fasting, and\nsay, 'To have and to hold,' instead of eating my breakfast.'\n\n'Well,' says the mother, 'then there's one son lost'; and she said it\nin a very mournful tone, as one greatly concerned at it.\n\n'I hope not, madam,' says Robin; 'no man is lost when a good wife has\nfound him.'\n\n'Why, but, child,' says the old lady, 'she is a beggar.'\n\n'Why, then, madam, she has the more need of charity,' says Robin; 'I'll\ntake her off the hands of the parish, and she and I'll beg together.'\n\n'It's bad jesting with such things,' says the mother.\n\n'I don't jest, madam,' says Robin.  'We'll come and beg your pardon,\nmadam; and your blessing, madam, and my father's.'\n\n'This is all out of the way, son,' says the mother.  'If you are in\nearnest you are undone.'\n\n'I am afraid not,' says he, 'for I am really afraid she won't have me;\nafter all my sister's huffing and blustering, I believe I shall never\nbe able to persuade her to it.'\n\n'That's a fine tale, indeed; she is not so far out of her senses\nneither.  Mrs. Betty is no fool,' says the younger sister.  'Do you\nthink she has learnt to say No, any more than other people?'\n\n'No, Mrs. Mirth-wit,' says Robin, 'Mrs. Betty's no fool; but Mrs. Betty\nmay be engaged some other way, and what then?'\n\n'Nay,' says the eldest sister, 'we can say nothing to that.  Who must\nit be to, then?  She is never out of the doors; it must be between you.'\n\n'I have nothing to say to that,' says Robin.  'I have been examined\nenough; there's my brother.  If it must be between us, go to work with\nhim.'\n\nThis stung the elder brother to the quick, and he concluded that Robin\nhad discovered something.  However, he kept himself from appearing\ndisturbed.  'Prithee,' says he, 'don't go to shame your stories off\nupon me; I tell you, I deal in no such ware; I have nothing to say to\nMrs. Betty, nor to any of the Mrs. Bettys in the parish'; and with that\nhe rose up and brushed off.\n\n'No,' says the eldest sister, 'I dare answer for my brother; he knows\nthe world better.'\n\nThus the discourse ended, but it left the elder brother quite\nconfounded.  He concluded his brother had made a full discovery, and he\nbegan to doubt whether I had been concerned in it or not; but with all\nhis management he could not bring it about to get at me.  At last he\nwas so perplexed that he was quite desperate, and resolved he would\ncome into my chamber and see me, whatever came of it.  In order to do\nthis, he contrived it so, that one day after dinner, watching his\neldest sister till he could see her go upstairs, he runs after her.\n'Hark ye, sister,' says he, 'where is this sick woman?  May not a body\nsee her?'  'Yes,' says the sister, 'I believe you may; but let me go\nfirst a little, and I'll tell you.'  So she ran up to the door and gave\nme notice, and presently called to him again.  'Brother,' says she,\n'you may come if you please.'  So in he came, just in the same kind of\nrant.  'Well,' says he at the door as he came in, 'where is this sick\nbody that's in love?  How do ye do, Mrs. Betty?'  I would have got up\nout of my chair, but was so weak I could not for a good while; and he\nsaw it, and his sister to, and she said, 'Come, do not strive to stand\nup; my brother desires no ceremony, especially now you are so weak.'\n'No, no, Mrs. Betty, pray sit still,' says he, and so sits himself down\nin a chair over against me, and appeared as if he was mighty merry.\n\nHe talked a lot of rambling stuff to his sister and to me, sometimes of\none thing, sometimes of another, on purpose to amuse his sister, and\nevery now and then would turn it upon the old story, directing it to\nme.  'Poor Mrs. Betty,' says he, 'it is a sad thing to be in love; why,\nit has reduced you sadly.'  At last I spoke a little.  'I am glad to\nsee you so merry, sir,' says I; 'but I think the doctor might have\nfound something better to do than to make his game at his patients.  If\nI had been ill of no other distemper, I know the proverb too well to\nhave let him come to me.'  'What proverb?' says he, 'Oh!  I remember it\nnow.  What--\n\n     \"Where love is the case,\n      The doctor's an ass.\"\n\nIs not that it, Mrs. Betty?'  I smiled and said nothing.  'Nay,' says\nhe, 'I think the effect has proved it to be love, for it seems the\ndoctor has been able to do you but little service; you mend very\nslowly, they say.  I doubt there's somewhat in it, Mrs. Betty; I doubt\nyou are sick of the incurables, and that is love.'  I smiled and said,\n'No, indeed, sir, that's none of my distemper.'\n\nWe had a deal of such discourse, and sometimes others that signified as\nlittle.  By and by he asked me to sing them a song, at which I smiled,\nand said my singing days were over.  At last he asked me if he should\nplay upon his flute to me; his sister said she believe it would hurt\nme, and that my head could not bear it.  I bowed, and said, No, it\nwould not hurt me.  'And, pray, madam.' said I, 'do not hinder it; I\nlove the music of the flute very much.'  Then his sister said, 'Well,\ndo, then, brother.'  With that he pulled out the key of his closet.\n'Dear sister,' says he, 'I am very lazy; do step to my closet and fetch\nmy flute; it lies in such a drawer,' naming a place where he was sure\nit was not, that she might be a little while a-looking for it.\n\nAs soon as she was gone, he related the whole story to me of the\ndiscourse his brother had about me, and of his pushing it at him, and\nhis concern about it, which was the reason of his contriving this visit\nto me.  I assured him I had never opened my mouth either to his brother\nor to anybody else.  I told him the dreadful exigence I was in; that my\nlove to him, and his offering to have me forget that affection and\nremove it to another, had thrown me down; and that I had a thousand\ntimes wished I might die rather than recover, and to have the same\ncircumstances to struggle with as I had before, and that his\nbackwardness to life had been the great reason of the slowness of my\nrecovering.  I added that I foresaw that as soon as I was well, I must\nquit the family, and that as for marrying his brother, I abhorred the\nthoughts of it after what had been my case with him, and that he might\ndepend upon it I would never see his brother again upon that subject;\nthat if he would break all his vows and oaths and engagements with me,\nbe that between his conscience and his honour and himself; but he\nshould never be able to say that I, whom he had persuaded to call\nmyself his wife, and who had given him the liberty to use me as a wife,\nwas not as faithful to him as a wife ought to be, whatever he might be\nto me.\n\nHe was going to reply, and had said that he was sorry I could not be\npersuaded, and was a-going to say more, but he heard his sister\na-coming, and so did I; and yet I forced out these few words as a\nreply, that I could never be persuaded to love one brother and marry\nanother.  He shook his head and said, 'Then I am ruined,' meaning\nhimself; and that moment his sister entered the room and told him she\ncould not find the flute. 'Well,' says he merrily, 'this laziness won't\ndo'; so he gets up and goes himself to go to look for it, but comes\nback without it too; not but that he could have found it, but because\nhis mind was a little disturbed, and he had no mind to play; and,\nbesides, the errand he sent his sister on was answered another way; for\nhe only wanted an opportunity to speak to me, which he gained, though\nnot much to his satisfaction.\n\nI had, however, a great deal of satisfaction in having spoken my mind\nto him with freedom, and with such an honest plainness, as I have\nrelated; and though it did not at all work the way I desired, that is\nto say, to oblige the person to me the more, yet it took from him all\npossibility of quitting me but by a downright breach of honour, and\ngiving up all the faith of a gentleman to me, which he had so often\nengaged by, never to abandon me, but to make me his wife as soon as he\ncame to his estate.\n\nIt was not many weeks after this before I was about the house again,\nand began to grow well; but I continued melancholy, silent, dull, and\nretired, which amazed the whole family, except he that knew the reason\nof it; yet it was a great while before he took any notice of it, and I,\nas backward to speak as he, carried respectfully to him, but never\noffered to speak a word to him that was particular of any kind\nwhatsoever; and this continued for sixteen or seventeen weeks; so that,\nas I expected every day to be dismissed the family, on account of what\ndistaste they had taken another way, in which I had no guilt, so I\nexpected to hear no more of this gentleman, after all his solemn vows\nand protestations, but to be ruined and abandoned.\n\nAt last I broke the way myself in the family for my removing; for being\ntalking seriously with the old lady one day, about my own circumstances\nin the world, and how my distemper had left a heaviness upon my\nspirits, that I was not the same thing I was before, the old lady said,\n'I am afraid, Betty, what I have said to you about my son has had some\ninfluence upon you, and that you are melancholy on his account; pray,\nwill you let me know how the matter stands with you both, if it may not\nbe improper?  For, as for Robin, he does nothing but rally and banter\nwhen I speak of it to him.'  'Why, truly, madam,' said I 'that matter\nstands as I wish it did not, and I shall be very sincere with you in\nit, whatever befalls me for it.  Mr. Robert has several times proposed\nmarriage to me, which is what I had no reason to expect, my poor\ncircumstances considered; but I have always resisted him, and that\nperhaps in terms more positive than became me, considering the regard\nthat I ought to have for every branch of your family; but,' said I,\n'madam, I could never so far forget my obligation to you and all your\nhouse, to offer to consent to a thing which I know must needs be\ndisobliging to you, and this I have made my argument to him, and have\npositively told him that I would never entertain a thought of that kind\nunless I had your consent, and his father's also, to whom I was bound\nby so many invincible obligations.'\n\n'And is this possible, Mrs. Betty?' says the old lady.  'Then you have\nbeen much juster to us than we have been to you; for we have all looked\nupon you as a kind of snare to my son, and I had a proposal to make to\nyou for your removing, for fear of it; but I had not yet mentioned it\nto you, because I thought you were not thorough well, and I was afraid\nof grieving you too much, lest it should throw you down again; for we\nhave all a respect for you still, though not so much as to have it be\nthe ruin of my son; but if it be as you say, we have all wronged you\nvery much.'\n\n'As to the truth of what I say, madam,' said I, 'refer you to your son\nhimself; if he will do me any justice, he must tell you the story just\nas I have told it.'\n\nAway goes the old lady to her daughters and tells them the whole story,\njust as I had told it her; and they were surprised at it, you may be\nsure, as I believed they would be.  One said she could never have\nthought it; another said Robin was a fool; a third said she would not\nbelieve a word of it, and she would warrant that Robin would tell the\nstory another way.  But the old gentlewoman, who was resolved to go to\nthe bottom of it before I could have the least opportunity of\nacquainting her son with what had passed, resolved too that she would\ntalk with her son immediately, and to that purpose sent for him, for he\nwas gone but to a lawyer's house in the town, upon some petty business\nof his own, and upon her sending he returned immediately.\n\nUpon his coming up to them, for they were all still together, 'Sit\ndown, Robin,' says the old lady, 'I must have some talk with you.'\n'With all my heart, madam,' says Robin, looking very merry.  'I hope it\nis about a good wife, for I am at a great loss in that affair.'  'How\ncan that be?' says his mother; 'did not you say you resolved to have\nMrs. Betty?'  'Ay, madam,' says Robin, 'but there is one has forbid the\nbanns.'  'Forbid, the banns!' says his mother; 'who can that be?' 'Even\nMrs. Betty herself,' says Robin.  'How so?' says his mother.  'Have you\nasked her the question, then?'  'Yes, indeed, madam,' says Robin.  'I\nhave attacked her in form five times since she was sick, and am beaten\noff; the jade is so stout she won't capitulate nor yield upon any\nterms, except such as I cannot effectually grant.' 'Explain yourself,'\nsays the mother, 'for I am surprised; I do not understand you.  I hope\nyou are not in earnest.'\n\n'Why, madam,' says he, 'the case is plain enough upon me, it explains\nitself; she won't have me, she says; is not that plain enough?  I think\n'tis plain, and pretty rough too.'  'Well, but,' says the mother, 'you\ntalk of conditions that you cannot grant; what does she want--a\nsettlement?  Her jointure ought to be according to her portion; but\nwhat fortune does she bring you?' 'Nay, as to fortune,' says Robin,\n'she is rich enough; I am satisfied in that point; but 'tis I that am\nnot able to come up to her terms, and she is positive she will not have\nme without.'\n\nHere the sisters put in.  'Madam,' says the second sister, ''tis\nimpossible to be serious with him; he will never give a direct answer\nto anything; you had better let him alone, and talk no more of it to\nhim; you know how to dispose of her out of his way if you thought there\nwas anything in it.'  Robin was a little warmed with his sister's\nrudeness, but he was even with her, and yet with good manners too.\n'There are two sorts of people, madam,' says he, turning to his mother,\n'that there is no contending with; that is, a wise body and a fool;\n'tis a little hard I should engage with both of them together.'\n\nThe younger sister then put in.  'We must be fools indeed,' says she,\n'in my brother's opinion, that he should think we can believe he has\nseriously asked Mrs. Betty to marry him, and that she has refused him.'\n\n'Answer, and answer not, say Solomon,' replied her brother.  'When your\nbrother had said to your mother that he had asked her no less than five\ntimes, and that it was so, that she positively denied him, methinks a\nyounger sister need not question the truth of it when her mother did\nnot.'  'My mother, you see, did not understand it,' says the second\nsister.  'There's some difference,' says Robin, 'between desiring me to\nexplain it, and telling me she did not believe it.'\n\n'Well, but, son,' says the old lady, 'if you are disposed to let us\ninto the mystery of it, what were these hard conditions?' 'Yes, madam,'\nsays Robin, 'I had done it before now, if the teasers here had not\nworried my by way of interruption.  The conditions are, that I bring my\nfather and you to consent to it, and without that she protests she will\nnever see me more upon that head; and to these conditions, as I said, I\nsuppose I shall never be able to grant.  I hope my warm sisters will be\nanswered now, and blush a little; if not, I have no more to say till I\nhear further.'\n\nThis answer was surprising to them all, though less to the mother,\nbecause of what I had said to her.  As to the daughters, they stood\nmute a great while; but the mother said with some passion, 'Well, I had\nheard this before, but I could not believe it; but if it is so, they we\nhave all done Betty wrong, and she has behaved better than I ever\nexpected.'  'Nay,' says the eldest sister, 'if it be so, she has acted\nhandsomely indeed.'  'I confess,' says the mother, 'it was none of her\nfault, if he was fool enough to take a fancy to her; but to give such\nan answer to him, shows more respect to your father and me than I can\ntell how to express; I shall value the girl the better for it as long\nas I know her.'  'But I shall not,' says Robin, 'unless you will give\nyour consent.' 'I'll consider of that a while,' says the mother; 'I\nassure you, if there were not some other objections in the way, this\nconduct of hers would go a great way to bring me to consent.'  'I wish\nit would go quite through it,' says Robin; 'if you had a much thought\nabout making me easy as you have about making me rich, you would soon\nconsent to it.'\n\n'Why, Robin,' says the mother again, 'are you really in earnest?  Would\nyou so fain have her as you pretend?'  'Really, madam,' says Robin, 'I\nthink 'tis hard you should question me upon that head after all I have\nsaid.  I won't say that I will have her; how can I resolve that point,\nwhen you see I cannot have her without your consent?  Besides, I am not\nbound to marry at all.  But this I will say, I am in earnest in, that I\nwill never have anybody else if I can help it; so you may determine for\nme.  Betty or nobody is the word, and the question which of the two\nshall be in your breast to decide, madam, provided only, that my\ngood-humoured sisters here may have no vote in it.'\n\nAll this was dreadful to me, for the mother began to yield, and Robin\npressed her home on it.  On the other hand, she advised with the eldest\nson, and he used all the arguments in the world to persuade her to\nconsent; alleging his brother's passionate love for me, and my generous\nregard to the family, in refusing my own advantages upon such a nice\npoint of honour, and a thousand such things.  And as to the father, he\nwas a man in a hurry of public affairs and getting money, seldom at\nhome, thoughtful of the main chance, but left all those things to his\nwife.\n\nYou may easily believe, that when the plot was thus, as they thought,\nbroke out, and that every one thought they knew how things were\ncarried, it was not so difficult or so dangerous for the elder brother,\nwhom nobody suspected of anything, to have a freer access to me than\nbefore; nay, the mother, which was just as he wished, proposed it to\nhim to talk with Mrs. Betty.  'For it may be, son,' said she, 'you may\nsee farther into the thing than I, and see if you think she has been so\npositive as Robin says she has been, or no.'  This was as well as he\ncould wish, and he, as it were, yielding to talk with me at his\nmother's request, she brought me to him into her own chamber, told me\nher son had some business with me at her request, and desired me to be\nvery sincere with him, and then she left us together, and he went and\nshut the door after her.\n\nHe came back to me and took me in his arms, and kissed me very\ntenderly; but told me he had a long discourse to hold with me, and it\nwas not come to that crisis, that I should make myself happy or\nmiserable as long as I lived; that the thing was now gone so far, that\nif I could not comply with his desire, we would both be ruined.  Then\nhe told the whole story between Robin, as he called him, and his mother\nand sisters and himself, as it is above.  'And now, dear child,' says\nhe, 'consider what it will be to marry a gentleman of a good family, in\ngood circumstances, and with the consent of the whole house, and to\nenjoy all that he world can give you; and what, on the other hand, to\nbe sunk into the dark circumstances of a woman that has lost her\nreputation; and that though I shall be a private friend to you while I\nlive, yet as I shall be suspected always, so you will be afraid to see\nme, and I shall be afraid to own you.'\n\nHe gave me no time to reply, but went on with me thus:  'What has\nhappened between us, child, so long as we both agree to do so, may be\nburied and forgotten.  I shall always be your sincere friend, without\nany inclination to nearer intimacy, when you become my sister; and we\nshall have all the honest part of conversation without any reproaches\nbetween us of having done amiss.  I beg of you to consider it, and to\nnot stand in the way of your own safety and prosperity; and to satisfy\nyou that I am sincere,' added he, 'I here offer you #500 in money, to\nmake you some amends for the freedoms I have taken with you, which we\nshall look upon as some of the follies of our lives,  which 'tis hoped\nwe may repent of.'\n\nHe spoke this in so much more moving terms than it is possible for me\nto express, and with so much greater force of argument than I can\nrepeat, that I only recommend it to those who read the story, to\nsuppose, that as he held me above an hour and a half in that discourse,\nso he answered all my objections, and fortified his discourse with all\nthe arguments that human wit and art could devise.\n\nI cannot say, however, that anything he said made impression enough\nupon me so as to give me any thought of the matter, till he told me at\nlast very plainly, that if I refused, he was sorry to add that he could\nnever go on with me in that station as we stood before; that though he\nloved me as well as ever, and that I was as agreeable to him as ever,\nyet sense of virtue had not so far forsaken him as to suffer him to lie\nwith a woman that his brother courted to make his wife; and if he took\nhis leave of me, with a denial in this affair, whatever he might do for\nme in the point of support, grounded on his first engagement of\nmaintaining me, yet he would not have me be surprised that he was\nobliged to tell me he could not allow himself to see me any more; and\nthat, indeed, I could not expect it of him.\n\nI received this last part with some token of surprise and disorder, and\nhad much ado to avoid sinking down, for indeed I loved him to an\nextravagance not easy to imagine; but he perceived my disorder.  He\nentreated me to consider seriously of it; assured me that it was the\nonly way to preserve our mutual affection; that in this station we\nmight love as friends, with the utmost passion, and with a love of\nrelation untainted, free from our just reproaches, and free from other\npeople's suspicions; that he should ever acknowledge his happiness\nowing to me; that he would be debtor to me as long as he lived, and\nwould be paying that debt as long as he had breath.  Thus he wrought me\nup, in short, to a kind of hesitation in the matter; having the dangers\non one side represented in lively figures, and indeed, heightened by my\nimagination of being turned out to the wide world a mere cast-off\nwhore, for it was no less, and perhaps exposed as such, with little to\nprovide for myself, with no friend, no acquaintance in the whole world,\nout of that town, and there I could not pretend to stay.  All this\nterrified me to the last degree, and he took care upon all occasions to\nlay it home to me in the worst colours that it could be possible to be\ndrawn in.  On the other hand, he failed not to set forth the easy,\nprosperous life which I was going to live.\n\nHe answered all that I could object from affection, and from former\nengagements, with telling me the necessity that was before us of taking\nother measures now; and as to his promises of marriage, the nature of\nthings, he said, had put an end to that, by the probability of my being\nhis brother's wife, before the time to which his promises all referred.\n\nThus, in a word, I may say, he reasoned me out of my reason; he\nconquered all my arguments, and I began to see a danger that I was in,\nwhich I had not considered of before, and that was, of being dropped by\nboth of them and left alone in the world to shift for myself.\n\nThis, and his persuasion, at length prevailed with me to consent,\nthough with so much reluctance, that it was easy to see I should go to\nchurch like a bear to the stake.  I had some little apprehensions about\nme, too, lest my new spouse, who, by the way, I had not the least\naffection for, should be skillful enough to challenge me on another\naccount, upon our first coming to bed together.  But whether he did it\nwith design or not, I know not, but his elder brother took care to make\nhim very much fuddled before he went to bed, so that I had the\nsatisfaction of a drunken bedfellow the first night.  How he did it I\nknow not, but I concluded that he certainly contrived it, that his\nbrother might be able to make no judgment of the difference between a\nmaid and a married woman; nor did he ever entertain any notions of it,\nor disturb his thoughts about it.\n\nI should go back a little here to where I left off.  The elder brother\nhaving thus managed me, his next business was to manage his mother, and\nhe never left till he had brought her to acquiesce and be passive in\nthe thing, even without acquainting the father, other than by post\nletters; so that she consented to our marrying privately, and leaving\nher to mange the father afterwards.\n\nThen he cajoled with his brother, and persuaded him what service he had\ndone him, and how he had brought his mother to consent, which, though\ntrue, was not indeed done to serve him, but to serve himself; but thus\ndiligently did he cheat him, and had the thanks of a faithful friend\nfor shifting off his whore into his brother's arms for a wife.  So\ncertainly does interest banish all manner of affection, and so\nnaturally do men give up honour and justice, humanity, and even\nChristianity, to secure themselves.\n\nI must now come back to brother Robin, as we always called him, who\nhaving got his mother's consent, as above, came big with the news to\nme, and told me the whole story of it, with a sincerity so visible,\nthat I must confess it grieved me that I must be the instrument to\nabuse so honest a gentleman.  But there was no remedy; he would have\nme, and I was not obliged to tell him that I was his brother's whore,\nthough I had no other way to put him off; so I came gradually into it,\nto his satisfaction, and behold we were married.\n\nModesty forbids me to reveal the secrets of the marriage-bed, but\nnothing could have happened more suitable to my circumstances than\nthat, as above, my husband was so fuddled when he came to bed, that he\ncould not remember in the morning whether he had had any conversation\nwith me or no, and I was obliged to tell him he had, though in reality\nhe had not, that I might be sure he could make to inquiry about\nanything else.\n\nIt concerns the story in hand very little to enter into the further\nparticulars of the family, or of myself, for the five years that I\nlived with this husband, only to observe that I had two children by\nhim, and that at the end of five years he died.  He had been really a\nvery good husband to me, and we lived very agreeably together; but as\nhe had not received much from them, and had in the little time he lived\nacquired no great matters, so my circumstances were not great, nor was\nI much mended by the match.  Indeed, I had preserved the elder\nbrother's bonds to me, to pay #500, which he offered me for my consent\nto marry his brother; and this, with what I had saved of the money he\nformerly gave me, about as much more by my husband, left me a widow\nwith about #1200 in my pocket.\n\nMy two children were, indeed, taken happily off my hands by my\nhusband's father and mother, and that, by the way, was all they got by\nMrs. Betty.\n\nI confess I was not suitably affected with the loss of my husband, nor\nindeed can I say that I ever loved him as I ought to have done, or as\nwas proportionable to the good usage I had from him, for he was a\ntender, kind, good-humoured man as any woman could desire; but his\nbrother being so always in my sight, at least while we were in the\ncountry, was a continual snare to me, and I never was in bed with my\nhusband but I wished myself in the arms of his brother; and though his\nbrother never offered me the least kindness that way after our\nmarriage, but carried it just as a brother out to do, yet it was\nimpossible for me to do so to him; in short, I committed adultery and\nincest with him every day in my desires, which, without doubt, was as\neffectually criminal in the nature of the guilt as if I had actually\ndone it.\n\nBefore my husband died his elder brother was married, and we, being\nthen removed to London, were written to by the old lady to come and be\nat the wedding.  My husband went, but I pretended indisposition, and\nthat I could not possibly travel, so I stayed behind; for, in short, I\ncould not bear the sight of his being given to another woman, though I\nknew I was never to have him myself.\n\nI was now, as above, left loose to the world, and being still young and\nhandsome, as everybody said of me, and I assure you I thought myself\nso, and with a tolerable fortune in my pocket, I put no small value\nupon myself.  I was courted by several very considerable tradesmen, and\nparticularly very warmly by one, a linen-draper, at whose house, after\nmy husband's death, I took a lodging, his sister being my acquaintance.\nHere I had all the liberty and all the opportunity to be gay and appear\nin company that I could desire, my landlord's sister being one of the\nmaddest, gayest things alive, and not so much mistress of her virtue as\nI thought as first she had been.  She brought me into a world of  wild\ncompany, and even brought home several persons, such as she liked well\nenough to gratify, to see her pretty widow, so she was pleased to call\nme, and that name I got in a little time in public.  Now, as fame and\nfools make an assembly, I was here wonderfully caressed, had abundance\nof admirers, and such as called themselves lovers; but I found not one\nfair proposal among them all.  As for their common design, that I\nunderstood too well to be drawn into any more snares of that kind.  The\ncase was altered with me: I had money in my pocket, and had nothing to\nsay to them.  I had been tricked once by that cheat called love, but\nthe game was over;  I was resolved now to be married or nothing, and to\nbe well married or not at all.\n\nI loved the company, indeed, of men of mirth and wit, men of gallantry\nand figure, and was often entertained with such, as I was also with\nothers; but I found by just observation, that the brightest men came\nupon the dullest errand--that is to say, the dullest as to what I aimed\nat.  On the other hand, those who came with the best proposals were the\ndullest and most disagreeable part of the world.  I was not averse to a\ntradesman, but then I would have a tradesman, forsooth, that was\nsomething of a gentleman too; that when my husband had a mind to carry\nme to the court, or to the play, he might become a sword, and look as\nlike a gentleman as another man; and not be one that had the mark of\nhis apron-strings upon his coat, or the mark of his hat upon his\nperiwig; that should look as if he was set on to his sword, when his\nsword was put on to him, and that carried his trade in his countenance.\n\nWell, at last I found this amphibious creature, this land-water thing\ncalled a gentleman-tradesman; and as a just plague upon my folly, I was\ncatched in the very snare which, as I might say, I laid for myself.  I\nsaid for myself, for I was not trepanned, I confess, but I betrayed\nmyself.\n\nThis was a draper, too, for though my comrade would have brought me to\na bargain with her brother, yet when it came to the point, it was, it\nseems, for a mistress, not a wife; and I kept true to this notion, that\na woman should never be kept for a mistress that had money to keep\nherself.\n\nThus my pride, not my principle, my money, not my virtue, kept me\nhonest; though, as it proved, I found I had much better have been sold\nby my she-comrade to her brother, than have sold myself as I did to a\ntradesman that was rake, gentleman, shopkeeper, and beggar, all\ntogether.\n\nBut I was hurried on (by my fancy to a gentleman) to ruin myself in the\ngrossest manner that every woman did; for my new husband coming to a\nlump of money at once, fell into such a profusion of expense, that all\nI had, and all he had before, if he had anything worth mentioning,\nwould not have held it out above one year.\n\nHe was very fond of me for about a quarter of a year, and what I got by\nthat was, that I had the pleasure of seeing a great deal of my money\nspent upon myself, and, as I may say, had some of the spending it too.\n'Come, my dear,' says he to me one day, 'shall we go and take a turn\ninto the country for about a week?' 'Ay, my dear,' says I, 'whither\nwould you go?'  'I care not whither,' says he, 'but I have a mind to\nlook like quality for a week.  We'll go to Oxford,' says he.  'How,'\nsays I, 'shall we go? I am no horsewoman, and 'tis too far for a\ncoach.' 'Too far!' says he; 'no place is too far for a coach-and-six.\nIf I carry you out, you shall travel like a duchess.'  'Hum,' says I,\n'my dear, 'tis a frolic; but if you have a mind to it, I don't care.'\nWell, the time was appointed, we had a rich coach, very good horses, a\ncoachman, postillion, and two footmen in very good liveries; a\ngentleman on horseback, and a page with a feather in his hat upon\nanother horse.  The servants all called him my lord, and the\ninn-keepers, you may be sure, did the like, and I was her honour the\nCountess, and thus we traveled to Oxford, and a very pleasant journey\nwe had; for, give him his due, not a beggar alive knew better how to be\na lord than my husband.  We saw all the rarities at Oxford, talked with\ntwo or three Fellows of colleges about putting out a young nephew, that\nwas left to his lordship's care, to the University, and of their being\nhis tutors.  We diverted ourselves with bantering several other poor\nscholars, with hopes of being at least his lordship's chaplains and\nputting on a scarf; and thus having lived like quality indeed, as to\nexpense, we went away for Northampton, and, in a word, in about twelve\ndays' ramble came home again, to the tune of about #93 expense.\n\nVanity is the perfection of a fop.  My husband had this excellence,\nthat he valued nothing of expense; and as his history, you may be sure,\nhas very little weight in it, 'tis enough to tell you that in about two\nyears and a quarter he broke, and was not so happy to get over into the\nMint, but got into a sponging-house, being arrested in an action too\nheavy from him to give bail to, so he sent for me to come to him.\n\nIt was no surprise to me, for I had foreseen some time that all was\ngoing to wreck, and had been taking care to reserve something if I\ncould, though it was not much, for myself.  But when he sent for me, he\nbehaved much better than I expected, and told me plainly he had played\nthe fool, and suffered himself to be surprised, which he might have\nprevented; that now he foresaw he could not stand it, and therefore he\nwould have me go home, and in the night take away everything I had in\nthe house of any value, and secure it; and after that, he told me that\nif I could get away one hundred or two hundred pounds in goods out of\nthe shop, I should do it; 'only,' says he, 'let me know nothing of it,\nneither what you take nor whither you carry it; for as for me,' says\nhe, 'I am resolved to get out of this house and be gone; and if you\nnever hear of me more, my dear,' says he, 'I wish you well; I am only\nsorry for the injury I have done you.'  He said some very handsome\nthings to me indeed at parting; for I told you he was a gentleman, and\nthat was all the benefit  I had of his being so; that he used me very\nhandsomely and with good manners upon all occasions, even to the last,\nonly spent all I had, and left me to rob the creditors for something to\nsubsist on.\n\nHowever, I did as he bade me, that you may be sure; and having thus\ntaken my leave of him, I never saw him more, for he found means to\nbreak out of the bailiff's house that night or the next, and go over\ninto France, and for the rest of the creditors scrambled for it as well\nas they could.  How, I knew not, for I could come at no knowledge of\nanything, more than this, that he came home about three o'clock in the\nmorning, caused the rest of his goods to be removed into the Mint, and\nthe shop to be shut up; and having raised what money he could get\ntogether, he got over, as I said, to France, from whence I had one or\ntwo letters from him, and no more.  I did not see him when he came\nhome, for he having given me such instructions as above, and I having\nmade the best of my time, I had no more business back again at the\nhouse, not knowing but I might have been stopped there by the\ncreditors; for a commission of bankrupt being soon after issued, they\nmight have stopped me by orders from the commissioners.  But my\nhusband, having so dexterously got out of the bailiff's house by\nletting himself down in a most desperate manner from almost the top of\nthe house to the top of another building, and leaping from thence,\nwhich was almost two storeys, and which was enough indeed to have\nbroken his neck, he came home and got away his goods before the\ncreditors could come to seize; that is to say, before they could get\nout the commission, and be ready to send their officers to take\npossession.\n\nMy husband was so civil to me, for still I say he was much of a\ngentleman, that in the first letter he wrote me from France, he let me\nknow where he had pawned twenty pieces of fine holland for #30, which\nwere really worth #90, and enclosed me the token and an order for the\ntaking them up, paying the money, which I did, and made in time above\n#100 of them, having leisure to cut them and sell them, some and some,\nto private families, as opportunity offered.\n\nHowever, with all this, and all that I had secured before, I found,\nupon casting things up, my case was very much altered, any my fortune\nmuch lessened; for, including the hollands and a parcel of fine\nmuslins, which I carried off before, and some plate, and other things,\nI found I could hardly muster up #500; and my condition was very odd,\nfor though I had no child (I had had one by my gentleman draper, but it\nwas buried), yet I was a widow bewitched; I had a husband and no\nhusband, and I could not pretend to marry again, though I knew well\nenough my husband would never see England any more, if he lived fifty\nyears.  Thus, I say, I was limited from marriage, what offer might\nsoever be made me; and I had not one friend to advise with in the\ncondition I was in, least not one I durst trust the secret of my\ncircumstances to, for if the commissioners were to have been informed\nwhere I was, I should have been fetched up and examined upon oath, and\nall I have saved be taken away from me.\n\nUpon these apprehensions, the first thing I did was to go quite out of\nmy knowledge, and go by another name.  This I did effectually, for I\nwent into the Mint too, took lodgings in a very private place, dressed\nup in the habit of a widow, and called myself Mrs. Flanders.\n\nHere, however, I concealed myself, and though my new acquaintances knew\nnothing of me, yet I soon got a great deal of company about me; and\nwhether it be that women are scarce among the sorts of people that\ngenerally are to be found there, or that some consolations in the\nmiseries of the place are more requisite than on other occasions, I\nsoon found an agreeable woman was exceedingly valuable among the sons\nof affliction there, and that those that wanted money to pay half a\ncrown on the pound to their creditors, and that run in debt at the sign\nof the Bull for their dinners, would yet find money for a supper, if\nthey liked the woman.\n\nHowever, I kept myself safe yet, though I began, like my Lord\nRochester's mistress, that loved his company, but would not admit him\nfarther, to have the scandal of a whore, without the joy; and upon this\nscore, tired with the place, and indeed with the company too, I began\nto think of removing.\n\nIt was indeed a subject of strange reflection to me to see men who were\noverwhelmed in perplexed circumstances, who were reduced some degrees\nbelow being ruined, whose families were objects of their own terror and\nother people's charity, yet while a penny lasted, nay, even beyond it,\nendeavouring to drown themselves, labouring to forget former things,\nwhich now it was the proper time to remember, making more work for\nrepentance, and sinning on, as a remedy for sin past.\n\nBut it is none of my talent to preach; these men were too wicked, even\nfor me.  There was something horrid and absurd in their way of sinning,\nfor it was all a force even upon themselves; they did not only act\nagainst conscience, but against nature; they put a rape upon their\ntemper to drown the reflections, which their circumstances continually\ngave them; and nothing was more easy than to see how sighs would\ninterrupt their songs, and paleness and anguish sit upon their brows,\nin spite of the forced smiles they put on; nay, sometimes it would\nbreak out at their very mouths when they had parted with their money\nfor a lewd treat or a wicked embrace.  I have heard them, turning\nabout, fetch a deep sigh, and cry, 'What a dog am I!  Well, Betty, my\ndear, I'll drink thy health, though'; meaning the honest wife, that\nperhaps had not a half-crown for herself and three or four children.\nThe next morning they are at their penitentials again; and perhaps the\npoor weeping wife comes over to him, either brings him some account of\nwhat his creditors are doing, and how she and the children are turned\nout of doors, or some other dreadful news; and this adds to his\nself-reproaches; but when he has thought and pored on it till he is\nalmost mad, having no principles to support him, nothing within him or\nabove him to comfort him, but finding it all darkness on every side, he\nflies to the same relief again, viz. to drink it away, debauch it away,\nand falling into company of men in just the same condition with\nhimself, he repeats the crime, and thus he goes every day one step\nonward of his way to destruction.\n\nI was not wicked enough for such fellows as these yet.  On the\ncontrary, I began to consider here very seriously what I had to do; how\nthings stood with me, and what course I ought to take.  I knew I had no\nfriends, no, not one friend or relation in the world; and that little I\nhad left apparently wasted, which when it was gone, I saw nothing but\nmisery and starving was before me.  Upon these considerations, I say,\nand filled with horror at the place I was in, and the dreadful objects\nwhich I had always before me, I resolved to be gone.\n\nI had made an acquaintance with a very sober, good sort of a woman, who\nwas a widow too, like me, but in better circumstances.  Her husband had\nbeen a captain of a merchant ship, and having had the misfortune to be\ncast away coming home on a voyage from the West Indies, which would\nhave been very profitable if he had come safe, was so reduced by the\nloss, that though he had saved his life then, it broke his heart, and\nkilled him afterwards; and his widow, being pursued by the creditors,\nwas forced to take shelter in the Mint.  She soon made things up with\nthe help of friends, and was at liberty again; and finding that I\nrather was there to be concealed, than by any particular prosecutions\nand finding also that I agreed with her, or rather she with me, in a\njust abhorrence of the place and of the company, she invited to go home\nwith her till I could put myself in some posture of settling in the\nworld to my mind; withal telling me, that it was ten to one but some\ngood captain of a ship might take a fancy to me, and court me, in that\npart of the town where she lived.\n\nI accepted her offer, and was with her half a year, and should have\nbeen longer, but in that interval what she proposed to me happened to\nherself, and she married very much to her advantage.  But whose fortune\nsoever was upon the increase, mine seemed to be upon the wane, and I\nfound nothing present, except two or three boatswains, or such fellows,\nbut as for the commanders, they were generally of two sorts:  1. Such\nas, having good business, that is to say, a good ship, resolved not to\nmarry but with advantage, that is, with a good fortune; 2. Such as,\nbeing out of employ, wanted a wife to help them to a ship; I mean (1) a\nwife who, having some money, could enable them to hold, as they call\nit, a good part of a ship themselves, so to encourage owners to come\nin; or (2) a wife who, if she had not money, had friends who were\nconcerned in shipping, and so could help to put the young man into a\ngood ship, which to them is as good as a portion; and neither of these\nwas my case, so I looked like one that was to lie on hand.\n\nThis knowledge I soon learned by experience, viz. that the state of\nthings was altered as to  matrimony, and that I was not to expect at\nLondon what I had found in the country:  that marriages were here the\nconsequences of politic schemes for forming interests, and carrying on\nbusiness, and that Love had no share, or but very little, in the matter.\n\nThat as my sister-in-law at Colchester had said, beauty, wit, manners,\nsense, good humour, good behaviour, education, virtue, piety, or any\nother qualification, whether of body or mind, had no power to\nrecommend; that money only made a woman agreeable; that men chose\nmistresses indeed by the gust of their affection, and it was requisite\nto a whore to be handsome, well-shaped, have a good mien and a graceful\nbehaviour; but that for a wife, no deformity would shock the fancy, no\nill qualities the judgment; the money was the thing; the portion was\nneither crooked nor monstrous, but the money was always agreeable,\nwhatever the wife was.\n\nOn the other hand, as the market ran very unhappily on the men's side,\nI found the women had lost the privilege of saying No; that it was a\nfavour now for a woman to have the Question asked, and if any young\nlady had so much arrogance as to counterfeit a negative, she never had\nthe opportunity given her of denying twice, much less of recovering\nthat false step, and accepting what she had but seemed to decline.  The\nmen had such choice everywhere, that the case of the women was very\nunhappy; for they seemed to ply at every door, and if the man was by\ngreat chance refused at one house, he was sure to be received at the\nnext.\n\nBesides this, I observed that the men made no scruple to set themselves\nout, and to go a-fortunehunting, as they call it, when they had really\nno fortune themselves to demand it, or merit to deserve it; and that\nthey carried it so high, that a woman was scarce allowed to inquire\nafter the character or estate of the person that pretended to her.\nThis I had an example of, in a young lady in the next house to me, and\nwith whom I had contracted an intimacy; she was courted by a young\ncaptain, and though she had near #2000 to her fortune, she did but\ninquire of some of his neighbours about his character, his morals, or\nsubstance, and he took occasion at the next visit to let her know,\ntruly, that he took it very ill, and that he should not give her the\ntrouble of his visits any more.  I heard of it, and I had begun my\nacquaintance with her, I went to see her upon it.  She entered into a\nclose conversation with me about it, and unbosomed herself very freely.\nI perceived presently that though she thought herself very ill used,\nyet she had no power to resent it, and was exceedingly piqued that she\nhad lost him, and particularly that another of  less fortune had gained\nhim.\n\nI fortified her mind against such a meanness, as I called it; I told\nher, that as low as I was in the world, I would have despised a man\nthat should think I ought to take him upon his own recommendation only,\nwithout having the liberty to inform myself of his fortune and of his\ncharacter; also I told her, that as she had a good fortune, she had no\nneed to stoop to the disaster of the time; that it was enough that the\nmen could insult us that had but little money to recommend us, but if\nshe suffered such an affront to pass upon her without resenting it, she\nwould be rendered low-prized upon all occasions, and would be the\ncontempt of all the women in that part of the town; that a woman can\nnever want an opportunity to be revenged of a man that has used her\nill, and that there were ways enough to humble such a fellow as that,\nor else certainly women were the most unhappy creatures in the world.\n\nI found she was very well pleased with the discourse, and she told me\nseriously that she would be very glad to make him sensible of her just\nresentment, and either to bring him on again, or have the satisfaction\nof her revenge being as public as possible.\n\nI told her, that if she would take my advice, I would tell her how she\nshould obtain her wishes in both those things, and that I would engage\nI would bring the man to her door again, and make him beg to be let in.\nShe smiled at that, and soon let me see, that if he came to her door,\nher resentment was not so great as to give her leave to let him stand\nlong there.\n\nHowever, she listened very willingly to my offer of advice; so I told\nher that the first thing she ought to do was a piece of justice to\nherself, namely, that whereas she had been told by several people that\nhe had reported among the ladies that he had left her, and pretended to\ngive the advantage of the negative to himself, she should take care to\nhave it well spread among the women--which she could not fail of an\nopportunity to do in a neighbourhood so addicted to family news as that\nshe live in was--that she had inquired into his circumstances, and\nfound he was not the man as to estate he pretended to be.  'Let them be\ntold, madam,' said I, 'that you had been well informed that he was not\nthe man that you expected, and that you thought it was not safe to\nmeddle with him; that you heard he was of an ill temper, and that he\nboasted how he had used the women ill upon many occasions, and that\nparticularly he was debauched in his morals', etc.  The last of which,\nindeed, had some truth in it; but at the same time I did not find that\nshe seemed to like him much the worse for that part.\n\nAs I had put this into her head, she came most readily into it.\nImmediately she went to work to find instruments, and she had very\nlittle difficulty in the search, for telling her story in general to a\ncouple of gossips in the neighbourhood, it was the chat of the\ntea-table all over that part of the town, and I met with it wherever I\nvisited; also, as it was known that I was acquainted with the young\nlady herself, my opinion was asked very often, and I confirmed it with\nall the necessary aggravations, and set out his character in the\nblackest colours; but then as a piece of secret intelligence, I added,\nas what the other gossips knew nothing of, viz. that I had heard he was\nin very bad circumstances; that he was under a necessity of a fortune\nto support his interest with the owners of the ship he commanded; that\nhis own part was not paid for, and if it was not paid quickly, his\nowners would put him out of the ship, and his chief mate was likely to\ncommand it, who offered to buy that part which the captain had promised\nto take.\n\nI added, for I confess I was heartily piqued at the rogue, as I called\nhim, that I had heard a rumour, too, that he had a wife alive at\nPlymouth, and another in the West Indies, a thing which they all knew\nwas not very uncommon for such kind of gentlemen.\n\nThis worked as we both desire it, for presently the young lady next\ndoor, who had a father and mother that governed both her and her\nfortune, was shut up, and her father forbid him the house.  Also in one\nplace more where he went, the woman had the courage, however strange it\nwas, to say No; and he could try nowhere but he was reproached with his\npride, and that he pretended not to give the women leave to inquire\ninto his character, and the like.\n\nWell, by this time he began to be sensible of his mistake; and having\nalarmed all the women on that side of the water, he went over to\nRatcliff, and got access to some of the ladies there; but though the\nyoung women there too were, according to the fate of the day, pretty\nwilling to be asked, yet such was his ill-luck, that his character\nfollowed him over the water and his good name was much the same there\nas it was on our side; so that though he might have had wives enough,\nyet it did not happen among the women that had good fortunes, which was\nwhat he wanted.\n\nBut this was not all; she very ingeniously managed another thing\nherself, for she got a young gentleman, who as a relation, and was\nindeed a married man, to come and visit her two or three times a week\nin a very fine chariot and good liveries, and her two agents, and I\nalso, presently spread a report all over, that this gentleman came to\ncourt her; that he was a gentleman of a #1000 a year, and that he was\nfallen in love with her, and that she was going to her aunt's in the\ncity, because it was inconvenient for the gentleman to come to her with\nhis coach in Redriff, the streets being so narrow and difficult.\n\nThis took immediately.  The captain was laughed at in all companies,\nand was ready to hang himself.  He tried all the ways possible to come\nat her again, and wrote the most passionate letters to her in the\nworld, excusing his former rashness; and in short, by great\napplication, obtained leave to wait on her again, as he said, to clear\nhis reputation.\n\n\nAt this meeting she had her full revenge of him; for she told him she\nwondered what he took her to be, that she should admit any man to a\ntreaty of so much consequence as that to marriage, without inquiring\nvery well into his circumstances; that if he thought she was to be\nhuffed into wedlock, and that she was in the same circumstances which\nher neighbours might be in, viz. to take up with the first good\nChristian that came, he was mistaken; that, in a word, his character\nwas really bad, or he was very ill beholden to his neighbours; and that\nunless he could clear up some points, in which she had justly been\nprejudiced, she had no more to say to him, but to do herself justice,\nand give him the satisfaction of knowing that she was not afraid to say\nNo, either to him or any man else.\n\nWith that she told him what she had heard, or rather raised herself by\nmy means, of his character; his not having paid for the part he\npretended to own of the ship he commanded; of the resolution of his\nowners to put him out of the command, and to put his mate in his stead;\nand of the scandal raised on his morals; his having been reproached\nwith such-and-such women, and having a wife at Plymouth and in the West\nIndies, and the like; and she asked him whether he could deny that she\nhad good reason, if these things were not cleared up, to refuse him,\nand in the meantime to insist upon having satisfaction in points to\nsignificant as they were.\n\nHe was so confounded at her discourse that he could not answer a word,\nand she almost began to believe that all was true, by his disorder,\nthough at the same time she knew that she had been the raiser of all\nthose reports herself.\n\nAfter some time he recovered himself a little, and from that time\nbecame the most humble, the most modest, and most importunate man alive\nin his courtship.\n\nShe carried her jest on a great way.  She asked him, if he thought she\nwas so at her last shift that she could or ought to bear such\ntreatment, and if he did not see that she did not want those who\nthought it worth their while to come farther to her than he did;\nmeaning the gentleman whom she had brought to visit her by way of sham.\n\nShe brought him by these tricks to submit to all possible measures to\nsatisfy her, as well of his circumstances as of his behaviour.  He\nbrought her undeniable evidence of his having paid for his part of the\nship; he brought her certificates from his owners, that the report of\ntheir intending to remove him from the command of the ship and put his\nchief mate in was false and groundless; in short, he was quite the\nreverse of what he was before.\n\nThus I convinced her, that if the men made their advantage of our sex\nin the affair of marriage, upon the supposition of there being such\nchoice to be had, and of the women being so easy, it was only owing to\nthis, that the women wanted courage to maintain their ground and to\nplay their part; and that, according to my Lord Rochester,\n\n     'A woman's ne'er so ruined but she can\n     Revenge herself on her undoer, Man.'\n\nAfter these things this young lady played her part so well, that though\nshe resolved to have him, and that indeed having him was the main bent\nof her design, yet she made his obtaining her be to him the most\ndifficult thing in the world; and this she did, not by a haughty\nreserved carriage, but by a just policy, turning the tables upon him,\nand playing back upon him his own game; for as he pretended, by a kind\nof lofty carriage, to place himself above the occasion of a character,\nand to make inquiring into his character a kind of an affront to him,\nshe broke with him upon that subject, and at the same time that she\nmake him submit to all possible inquiry after his affairs, she\napparently shut the door against his looking into her own.\n\nIt was enough to him to obtain her for a wife.  As to what she had, she\ntold him plainly, that as he knew her circumstances, it was but just\nshe should know his; and though at the same time he had only known her\ncircumstances by common fame, yet he had made so many protestations of\nhis passion for her, that he could ask no more but her hand to his\ngrand request, and the like ramble according to the custom of lovers.\nIn short, he left himself no room to ask any more questions about her\nestate, and she took the advantage of it like a prudent woman, for she\nplaced part of her fortune so in trustees, without letting him know\nanything of it, that it was quite out of his reach, and made him be\nvery well content with the rest.\n\nIt is true she was pretty well besides, that is to say, she had about\n#1400 in money, which she gave him; and the other, after some time, she\nbrought to light as a perquisite to herself, which he was to accept as\na mighty favour, seeing though it was not to be his, it might ease him\nin the article of her particular expenses; and I must add, that by this\nconduct the gentleman himself became not only the more humble in his\napplications to her to obtain her, but also was much the more an\nobliging husband to her when he had her.  I cannot but remind the\nladies here how much they place themselves below the common station of\na wife, which, if I may be allowed not to be partial, is low enough\nalready; I say, they place themselves below their common station, and\nprepare their own mortifications, by their submitting so to be insulted\nby the men beforehand, which I confess I see no necessity of.\n\nThis relation may serve, therefore, to let the ladies see that the\nadvantage is not so much on the other side as the men think it is; and\nthough it may be true that the men have but too much choice among us,\nand that some women may be found who will dishonour themselves, be\ncheap, and easy to come at, and will scarce wait to be asked, yet if\nthey will have women, as I may say, worth having, they may find them as\nuncomeatable as ever and that those that are otherwise are a sort of\npeople that have such deficiencies, when had, as rather recommend the\nladies that are difficult than encourage the men to go on with their\neasy courtship, and expect wives equally valuable that will come at\nfirst call.\n\nNothing is more certain than that the ladies always gain of the men by\nkeeping their ground, and letting their pretended lovers see they can\nresent being slighted, and that they are not afraid of saying No.\nThey, I observe, insult us mightily with telling us of the number of\nwomen; that the wars, and the sea, and trade, and other incidents have\ncarried the men so much away, that there is no proportion between the\nnumbers of the sexes, and therefore the women have the disadvantage;\nbut I am far from granting that the number of women is so great, or the\nnumber of men so small; but if they will have me tell the truth, the\ndisadvantage of the women is a terrible scandal upon the men, and it\nlies here, and here only; namely, that the age is so wicked, and the\nsex so debauched, that, in short, the number of such men as an honest\nwoman ought to meddle with is small indeed, and it is but here and\nthere that a man is to be found who is fit for a woman to venture upon.\n\nBut the consequence even of that too amounts to no more than this, that\nwomen ought to be the more nice; for how do we know the just character\nof the man that makes the offer?  To say that the woman should be the\nmore easy on this occasion, is to say we should be the forwarder to\nventure because of the greatness of the danger, which, in my way of\nreasoning, is very absurd.\n\nOn the contrary, the women have ten thousand times the more reason to\nbe wary and backward, by how much the hazard of being betrayed is the\ngreater; and would the ladies consider this, and act the wary part,\nthey would discover every cheat that offered; for, in short, the lives\nof very few men nowadays will bear a character; and if the ladies do\nbut make a little inquiry, they will soon be able to distinguish the\nmen and deliver themselves.  As for women that do not think their own\nsafety worth their thought, that, impatient of their perfect state,\nresolve, as they call it, to take the first good Christian that comes,\nthat run into matrimony as a horse rushes into the battle, I can say\nnothing to them but this, that they are a sort of ladies that are to be\nprayed for among the rest of distempered people, and to me they look\nlike people that venture their whole estates in a lottery where there\nis a hundred thousand blanks to one prize.\n\nNo man of common-sense will value a woman the less for not giving up\nherself at the first attack, or for accepting his proposal without\ninquiring into his person or character; on the contrary, he must think\nher the weakest of all creatures in the world, as the rate of men now\ngoes.  In short, he must have a very contemptible opinion of her\ncapacities, nay, every of her understanding, that, having but one case\nof her life, shall call that life away at once, and make matrimony,\nlike death, be a leap in the dark.\n\nI would fain have the conduct of my sex a little regulated in this\nparticular, which is the thing in which, of all the parts of life, I\nthink at this time we suffer most in; 'tis nothing but lack of courage,\nthe fear of not being married at all, and of that frightful state of\nlife called an old maid, of which I have a story to tell by itself.\nThis, I say, is the woman's snare; but would the ladies once but get\nabove that fear and manage rightly, they would more certainly avoid it\nby standing their ground, in a case so absolutely necessary to their\nfelicity, that by exposing themselves as they do; and if they did not\nmarry so soon as they may do otherwise, they would make themselves\namends by marrying safer.  She is always married too soon who gets a\nbad husband, and she is never married too late who gets a good one; in\na word, there is no woman, deformity or lost reputation excepted, but\nif she manages well, may be married safely one time or other; but if\nshe precipitates herself, it is ten thousand to one but she is undone.\n\nBut I come now to my own case, in which there was at this time no\nlittle nicety.  The circumstances I was in made the offer of a good\nhusband the most necessary thing in the world to me, but I found soon\nthat to be made cheap and easy was not the way.  It soon began to be\nfound that the widow had no fortune, and to say this was to say all\nthat was ill of me, for I began to be dropped in all the discourses of\nmatrimony.  Being well-bred, handsome, witty, modest, and agreeable;\nall which I had allowed to my character--whether justly or no is not\nthe purpose--I say, all these would not do without the dross, which way\nnow become more valuable than virtue itself.  In short, the widow, they\nsaid, had no money.\n\nI resolved, therefore, as to the state of my present circumstances,\nthat it was absolutely necessary to change my station, and make a new\nappearance in some other place where I was not known, and even to pass\nby another name if I found occasion.\n\nI communicated my thoughts to my intimate friend, the captain's lady,\nwhom I had so faithfully served in her case with the captain, and who\nwas as ready to serve me in the same kind as I could desire.  I made no\nscruple to lay my circumstances open to her; my stock was but low, for\nI had made but about #540 at the close of my last affair, and I had\nwasted some of that; however, I had about #460 left, a great many very\nrich clothes, a gold watch, and some jewels, though of no extraordinary\nvalue, and about #30 or #40 left in linen not disposed of.\n\nMy dear and faithful friend, the captain's wife, was so sensible of the\nservice I had done her in the affair above, that she was not only a\nsteady friend to me, but, knowing my circumstances, she frequently made\nme presents as money came into her hands, such as fully amounted to a\nmaintenance, so that I spent none of my own; and at last she made this\nunhappy proposal to me, viz. that as we had observed, as above, how the\nmen made no scruple to set themselves out as persons meriting a woman\nof fortune, when they had really no fortune of their own, it was but\njust to deal with them in their own way and, if it was possible, to\ndeceive the deceiver.\n\nThe captain's lady, in short, put this project into my head, and told\nme if I would be ruled by her I should certainly get a husband of\nfortune, without leaving him any room to reproach me with want of my\nown.  I told her, as I had reason to do, that I would give up myself\nwholly to her directions, and that I would have neither tongue to speak\nnor feet to step in that affair but as she should direct me, depending\nthat she would extricate me out of every difficulty she brought me\ninto, which she said she would answer for.\n\nThe first step she put me upon was to call her cousin, and to to a\nrelation's house of hers in the country, where she directed me, and\nwhere she brought her husband to visit me; and calling me cousin, she\nworked matters so about, that her husband and she together invited me\nmost passionately to come to town and be with them, for they now live\nin a quite different place from where they were before.  In the next\nplace, she tells her husband that I had at least #1500 fortune, and\nthat after some of my relations I was like to have a great deal more.\n\nIt was enough to tell her husband this; there needed nothing on my\nside.  I was but to sit still and wait the event, for it presently went\nall over the neighbourhood that the young widow at Captain ----'s was a\nfortune, that she had at least #1500, and perhaps a great deal more,\nand that the captain said so; and if the captain was asked at any time\nabout me, he made no scruple to affirm it, though he knew not one word\nof the matter, other  than that his wife had told him so; and in this\nhe thought no harm, for he really believed it to be so, because he had\nit from his wife:  so slender a foundation will those fellows build\nupon, if they do but think there is a fortune in the game.  With the\nreputation of this fortune, I presently found myself blessed with\nadmirers enough, and that I had my choice of men, as scarce as they\nsaid they were, which, by the way, confirms what I was saying before.\nThis being my case, I, who had a subtle game to play, had nothing now\nto do but to single out from them all the properest man that might be\nfor my purpose; that is to say, the man who was most likely to depend\nupon the hearsay of a fortune, and not inquire too far into the\nparticulars; and unless I did this I did nothing, for my case would not\nbear much inquiry.\n\nI picked out my man without much difficulty, by the judgment I made of\nhis way of courting me.  I had let him run on with his protestations\nand oaths that he loved me above all the world; that if I would make\nhim happy, that was enough; all which I knew was upon supposition, nay,\nit was upon a full satisfaction, that I was very rich, though I never\ntold him a word of it myself.\n\nThis was my man; but I was to try him to the bottom, and indeed in that\nconsisted my safety; for if he baulked, I knew I was undone, as surely\nas he was undone if he took me; and if I did not make some scruple\nabout his fortune, it was the way to lead him to raise some about mine;\nand first, therefore, I pretended on all occasions to doubt his\nsincerity, and told him, perhaps he only courted me for my fortune.  He\nstopped my mouth in that part with the thunder of his protestations, as\nabove,  but still I pretended to doubt.\n\nOne morning he pulls off his diamond ring, and writes upon the glass of\nthe sash in my chamber this line--\n\n     'You I love, and you alone.'\n\nI read it, and asked him to lend me his ring, with which I wrote under\nit, thus--\n\n    'And so in love says every one.'\n\nHe takes his ring again, and writes another line thus--\n\n     'Virtue alone is an estate.'\n\nI borrowed it again, and I wrote under it--\n\n     'But money's virtue, gold is fate.'\n\nHe coloured as red as fire to see me turn so quick upon him, and in a\nkind of a rage told me he would conquer me, and writes again thus--\n\n     'I scorn your gold, and yet I love.'\n\nI ventured all upon the last cast of poetry, as you'll see, for I wrote\nboldly under his last--\n\n     'I'm poor:  let's see how kind you'll prove.'\n\nThis was a sad truth to me; whether he believed me or no, I could not\ntell; I supposed then that he did not.  However, he flew to me, took me\nin his arms, and, kissing me very eagerly, and with the greatest\npassion imaginable, he held me fast till he called for a pen and ink,\nand then told me he could not wait the tedious writing on the glass,\nbut, pulling out a piece of paper, he began and wrote again--\n\n     'Be mine, with all your poverty.'\n\nI took his pen, and followed him immediately, thus--\n\n     'Yet secretly you hope I lie.'\n\nHe told me that was unkind, because it was not just, and that I put him\nupon contradicting me, which did not consist with good manners, any\nmore than with his affection; and therefore, since I had insensibly\ndrawn him into this poetical scribble, he begged I would not oblige him\nto break it off; so he writes again--\n\n     'Let love alone be our debate.'\n\nI wrote again--\n\n     'She loves enough that does not hate.'\n\n\nThis he took for a favour, and so laid down the cudgels, that is to\nsay, the pen; I say, he took if for a favour, and a mighty one it was,\nif he had known all.  However, he took it as I meant it, that is, to\nlet him think I was inclined to go on with him, as indeed I had all the\nreason in the world to do, for he was the best-humoured, merry sort of\na fellow that I ever met with, and I often reflected on myself how\ndoubly criminal it was to deceive such a man; but that necessity, which\npressed me to a settlement suitable to my condition, was my authority\nfor it; and certainly his affection to me, and the goodness of his\ntemper, however they might argue against using him ill, yet they\nstrongly argued to me that he would better take the disappointment than\nsome fiery-tempered wretch, who might have nothing to recommend him but\nthose passions which would serve only to make a woman miserable all her\ndays.\n\nBesides, though I jested with him (as he supposed it) so often about my\npoverty, yet, when he found it to be true, he had foreclosed all manner\nof objection, seeing, whether he was in jest or in earnest, he had\ndeclared he took me without any regard to my portion, and, whether I\nwas in jest or in earnest, I had declared myself to be very poor; so\nthat, in a word, I had him fast both ways; and though he might say\nafterwards he was cheated, yet he could never say that I had cheated\nhim.\n\nHe pursued me close after this, and as I saw there was no need to fear\nlosing him, I played the indifferent part with him longer than prudence\nmight otherwise have dictated to me.  But I considered how much this\ncaution and indifference would give me the advantage over him, when I\nshould come to be under the necessity of owning my own circumstances to\nhim; and I managed it the more warily, because I found he inferred from\nthence, as indeed he ought to do, that I either had the more money or\nthe more judgment, and would not venture at all.\n\nI took the freedom one day, after we had talked pretty close to the\nsubject, to tell him that it was true I had received the compliment of\na lover from him, namely, that he would take me without inquiring into\nmy fortune, and I would make him a suitable return in this, viz. that I\nwould make as little inquiry into his as consisted with reason, but I\nhoped he would allow me to ask a few questions, which he would answer\nor not as he thought fit; and that I would not be offended if he did\nnot answer me at all; one of these questions related to our manner of\nliving, and the place where, because I had heard he had a great\nplantation in Virginia, and that he had talked of going to live there,\nand I told him I did not care to be transported.\n\nHe began from this discourse to let me voluntarily into all his\naffairs, and to tell me in a frank, open way all his circumstances, by\nwhich I found he was very well to pass in the world; but that great\npart of his estate consisted of three plantations, which he had in\nVirginia, which brought him in a very good income, generally speaking,\nto the tune of #300, a year, but that if he was to live upon them,\nwould bring him in four times as much.  'Very well,' thought I; 'you\nshall carry me thither as soon as you please, though I won't tell you\nso beforehand.'\n\nI jested with him extremely about the figure he would make in Virginia;\nbut I found he would do anything I desired, though he did not seem glad\nto have me undervalue his plantations, so I turned my tale.  I told him\nI had good reason not to go there to live, because if his plantations\nwere worth so much there, I had not a fortune suitable to a gentleman\nof #1200 a year, as he said his estate would be.\n\nHe replied generously, he did not ask what my fortune was; he had told\nme from the beginning he would not, and he would be as good as his\nword; but whatever it was, he assured me he would never desire me to go\nto Virginia with him, or go thither himself without me, unless I was\nperfectly willing, and made it my choice.\n\nAll this, you may be sure, was as I wished, and indeed nothing could\nhave happened more perfectly agreeable.  I carried it on as far as this\nwith a sort of indifferency that he often wondered at, more than at\nfirst, but which was the only support of his courtship; and I mention\nit the rather to intimate again to the ladies that nothing but want of\ncourage for such an indifferency makes our sex so cheap, and prepares\nthem to be ill-used as they are; would they venture the loss of a\npretending fop now and then, who carries it high upon the point of his\nown merit, they would certainly be less slighted, and courted more.\nHad I discovered really and truly what my great fortune was, and that\nin all I had not full #500 when he expected #1500, yet I had hooked him\nso fast, and played him so long, that I was satisfied he would have had\nme in my worst circumstances; and indeed it was less a surprise to him\nwhen he learned the truth than it would have been, because having not\nthe least blame to lay on me, who had carried it with an air of\nindifference to the last, he would not say one word, except that indeed\nhe thought it had been more, but that if it had been less he did not\nrepent his bargain; only that he should not be able to maintain me so\nwell as he intended.\n\nIn short, we were married, and very happily married on my side, I\nassure you, as to the man; for he was the best-humoured man that every\nwoman had, but his circumstances were not so good as I imagined, as, on\nthe other hand, he had not bettered himself by marrying so much as he\nexpected.\n\nWhen we were married, I was shrewdly put to it to bring him that little\nstock I had, and to let him see it was no more; but there was a\nnecessity for it, so I took my opportunity one day when we were alone,\nto enter into a short dialogue with him about it.  'My dear,' said I,\n'we have been married a fortnight; is it not time to let you know\nwhether you have got a wife with something or with nothing?'  'Your own\ntime for that, my dear,' says he; 'I am satisfied that I have got the\nwife I love; I have not troubled you much,' says he, 'with my inquiry\nafter it.'\n\n'That's true,' says I, 'but I have a great difficulty upon me about it,\nwhich I scarce know how to manage.'\n\n'What's that, m' dear?' says he.\n\n'Why,' says I, ''tis a little hard upon me, and 'tis harder upon you.\nI am told that Captain ----' (meaning my friend's husband) 'has told\nyou I had a great deal more money than I ever pretended to have, and I\nam sure I never employed him to do so.'\n\n'Well,' says he, 'Captain ---- may have told me so, but what then?  If\nyou have not so much, that may lie at his door, but you never told me\nwhat you had, so I have no reason to blame you if you have nothing at\nall.'\n\n'That's is so just,' said I, 'and so generous, that it makes my having\nbut a little a double affliction to me.'\n\n'The less you have, my dear,' says he, 'the worse for us both; but I\nhope your affliction you speak of is not caused for fear I should be\nunkind to you, for want of a portion.  No, no, if you have nothing,\ntell me plainly, and at once; I may perhaps tell the captain he has\ncheated me, but I can never say you have cheated me, for did you not\ngive it under your hand that you were poor?  and so I ought to expect\nyou to be.'\n\n'Well,' said I, 'my dear, I am glad I have not been concerned in\ndeceiving you before marriage.  If I deceive you since, 'tis ne'er the\nworse; that I am poor is too true, but not so poor as to have nothing\nneither'; so I pulled out some bank bills, and gave him about #160.\n'There's something, my dear,' said I, 'and not quite all neither.'\n\nI had brought him so near to expecting nothing, by what I had said\nbefore, that the money, though the sum was small in itself, was doubly\nwelcome to him; he owned it was more than he looked for, and that he\ndid not question by my discourse to him, but that my fine clothes, gold\nwatch, and a diamond ring or two, had been all my fortune.\n\nI let him please himself with that #160 two or three days, and then,\nhaving been abroad that day, and as if I had  been to fetch it, I\nbrought him #100 more home in gold, and told him there was a little\nmore portion for him; and, in short, in about a week more I brought him\n#180 more, and about #60 in linen, which I made him believe I had been\nobliged to take with the #100 which I gave him in gold, as a\ncomposition for a debt of #600, being little more than five shillings\nin the pound, and overvalued too.\n\n'And now, my dear,' says I to him, 'I am very sorry to tell you, that\nthere is all, and that I have given you my whole fortune.' I added,\nthat if the person who had my #600 had not abused me, I had been worth\n#1000 to him, but that as it was, I had been faithful to him, and\nreserved nothing to myself, but if it had been more he should have had\nit.\n\nHe was so obliged by the manner, and so pleased with the sum, for he\nhad been in a terrible fright lest it had been nothing at all, that he\naccepted it very thankfully.  And thus I got over the fraud of passing\nfor a fortune without money, and cheating a man into marrying me on\npretence of a fortune; which, by the way, I take to be one of the most\ndangerous steps a woman can take, and in which she runs the most hazard\nof being ill-used afterwards.\n\nMy husband, to give him his due, was a man of infinite good nature, but\nhe was no fool; and finding his income not suited to the manner of\nliving which he had intended, if I had brought him what he expected,\nand being under a disappointment in his return of his plantations in\nVirginia, he discovered many times his inclination of going over to\nVirginia, to live upon his own; and often would be magnifying the way\nof living there, how cheap, how plentiful, how pleasant, and the like.\n\nI began presently to understand this meaning, and I took him up very\nplainly one morning, and told him that I did so; that I found his\nestate turned to no account at this distance, compared to what it would\ndo if he lived upon the spot, and that I found he had a mind to go and\nlive there; and I added, that I was sensible he had been disappointed\nin a wife, and that finding his expectations not answered that way, I\ncould do no less, to make him amends, than tell him that I was very\nwilling to go over to Virginia with him and live there.\n\nHe said a thousand kind things to me upon the subject of my making such\na proposal to him.  He told me, that however he was disappointed in his\nexpectations of a fortune, he was not disappointed in a wife, and that\nI was all to him that a wife could be, and he was more than satisfied\non the whole when the particulars were put together, but that this\noffer was so kind, that it was more than he could express.\n\nTo bring the story short, we agreed to go.  He told me that he had a\nvery good house there, that it was well furnished, that his mother was\nalive and lived in it, and one sister, which was all the relations he\nhad; that as soon as he came there, his mother would remove to another\nhouse, which was her own for life, and his after her decease; so that I\nshould have all the house to myself; and I found all this to be exactly\nas he had said.\n\nTo make this part of the story short, we put on board the ship which we\nwent in, a large quantity of good furniture for our house, with stores\nof linen and other necessaries, and a good cargo for sale, and away we\nwent.\n\nTo give an account of the manner of our voyage, which was long and full\nof dangers, is out of my way; I kept no journal, neither did my\nhusband.  All that I can say is, that after a terrible passage,\nfrighted twice with dreadful storms, and once with what was still more\nterrible, I mean a pirate who came on board and took away almost all\nour provisions; and which would have been beyond all to me, they had\nonce taken my husband to go along with them, but by entreaties were\nprevailed with to leave him;--I say, after all these terrible things,\nwe arrived in York River in Virginia, and coming to our plantation, we\nwere received with all the demonstrations of tenderness and affection,\nby my husband's mother, that were possible to be expressed.\n\nWe lived here all together, my mother-in-law, at my entreaty,\ncontinuing in the house, for she was too kind a mother to be parted\nwith; my husband likewise continued the same as at first, and I thought\nmyself the happiest creature alive, when an odd and surprising event\nput an end to all that felicity in a moment, and rendered my condition\nthe most uncomfortable, if not the most miserable, in the world.\n\nMy mother was a mighty cheerful, good-humoured old woman --I may call\nher old woman, for her son was above thirty; I say she was very\npleasant, good company, and used to entertain me, in particular, with\nabundance of stories to divert me, as well of  the country we were in\nas of the people.\n\nAmong the rest, she often told me how the greatest part of the\ninhabitants of the colony came thither in very indifferent\ncircumstances from England; that, generally speaking, they were of two\nsorts; either, first, such as were brought over by masters of ships to\nbe sold as servants.  'Such as we call them, my dear,' says she, 'but\nthey are more properly called slaves.' Or, secondly, such as are\ntransported from Newgate and other prisons, after having been found\nguilty of felony and other crimes punishable with death.\n\n'When they come here,' says she, 'we make no difference; the planters\nbuy them, and they work together in the field till their time is out.\nWhen 'tis expired,' said she, 'they have encouragement given them to\nplant for themselves; for they have a certain number of acres of land\nallotted them by the country, and they go to work to clear and cure the\nland, and then to plant it with tobacco and corn for their own use; and\nas the tradesmen and merchants will trust them with tools and clothes\nand other necessaries, upon the credit of their crop before it is\ngrown, so they again plant every year a little more than the year\nbefore, and so buy whatever they want with the crop that is before them.\n\n'Hence, child,' says she, 'man a Newgate-bird becomes a great man, and\nwe have,' continued she, 'several justices of the peace, officers of\nthe trained bands, and magistrates of the towns they live in, that have\nbeen burnt in the hand.'\n\nShe was going on with that part of the story, when her own part in it\ninterrupted her, and with a great deal of good-humoured confidence she\ntold me she was one of the second sort of inhabitants herself; that she\ncame away openly, having ventured too far in a particular case, so that\nshe was become a criminal.  'And here's the mark of it, child,' says\nshe; and, pulling off her glove, 'look ye here,' says she, turning up\nthe palm of her hand, and showed me a very fine white arm and hand, but\nbranded in the inside of the hand, as in such cases it must be.\n\nThis story was very moving to me, but my mother, smiling, said, 'You\nneed not think a thing strange, daughter, for as I told you, some of\nthe best men in this country are burnt in the hand, and they are not\nashamed to own it.  There's Major ----,' says she, 'he was an eminent\npickpocket; there's Justice Ba----r, was a shoplifter, and both of them\nwere burnt in the hand; and I could name you several such as they are.'\n\nWe had frequent discourses of this kind, and abundance of instances she\ngave me of the like.  After some time, as she was telling some stories\nof one that was transported but a few weeks ago, I began in an intimate\nkind of way to ask her to tell me something of her own story, which she\ndid with the utmost plainness and sincerity; how she had fallen into\nvery ill company in London in her young days, occasioned by her mother\nsending her frequently to carry victuals and other relief to a\nkinswoman of hers who was a prisoner in Newgate, and who lay in a\nmiserable starving condition, was afterwards condemned to be hanged,\nbut having got respite by pleading her belly, dies afterwards in the\nprison.\n\nHere my mother-in-law ran out in a long account of the wicked practices\nin that dreadful place, and how it ruined more young people that all\nthe town besides.  'And child,' says my mother, 'perhaps you may know\nlittle of it, or, it may be, have heard nothing about it; but depend\nupon it,' says she, 'we all know here that there are more thieves and\nrogues made by that one prison of Newgate than by all the clubs and\nsocieties of villains in the nation; 'tis that cursed place,' says my\nmother, 'that half peopled this colony.'\n\nHere she went on with her own story so long, and in so particular a\nmanner, that I began to be very uneasy; but coming to one particular\nthat required telling her name, I thought I should have sunk down in\nthe place.  She perceived I was out of order, and asked me if I was not\nwell, and what ailed me.  I told her I was so affected with the\nmelancholy story she had told, and the terrible things she had gone\nthrough, that it had overcome me, and I begged of her to talk no more\nof it.  'Why, my dear,' says she very kindly, 'what need these things\ntrouble you?  These passages were long before your time, and they give\nme no trouble at all now; nay, I look back on them with a particular\nsatisfaction, as they have been a means to bring me to this place.'\nThen she went on to tell me how she very luckily fell into a good\nfamily, where, behaving herself well, and her mistress dying, her\nmaster married her, by whom she had my husband and his sister, and that\nby her diligence and good management after her husband's death, she had\nimproved the plantations to such a degree as they then were, so that\nmost of the estate was of her getting, not her husband's, for she had\nbeen a widow upwards of sixteen years.\n\nI heard this part of they story with very little attention, because I\nwanted much to retire and give vent to my passions, which I did soon\nafter; and let any one judge what must be the anguish of my mind, when\nI came to reflect that this was certainly no more or less than my own\nmother, and I had now had two children, and was big with another by my\nown brother, and lay with him still every night.\n\nI was now the most unhappy of all women in the world.  Oh!  had the\nstory never been told me, all had been well; it had been no crime to\nhave lain with my husband, since as to his being my relation I had\nknown nothing of it.\n\nI had now such a load on my mind that it kept me perpetually waking; to\nreveal it, which would have been some ease to me, I could not find\nwould be to any purpose, and yet to conceal it would be next to\nimpossible; nay, I did not doubt but I should talk of it in my sleep,\nand tell my husband of it whether I would or no.  If I discovered it,\nthe least thing I could expect was to lose my husband, for he was too\nnice and too honest a man to have continued my husband after he had\nknown I had been his sister; so that I was perplexed to the last degree.\n\nI leave it to any man to judge what difficulties presented to my view.\nI was away from my native country, at a distance prodigious, and the\nreturn to me unpassable.  I lived very well, but in a circumstance\ninsufferable in itself.  If I had discovered myself to my mother, it\nmight be difficult to convince her of the particulars, and I had no way\nto prove them.  On the other hand, if she had questioned or doubted me,\nI had been undone, for the bare suggestion would have immediately\nseparated me from my husband, without gaining my mother or him, who\nwould have been neither a husband nor a brother; so that between the\nsurprise on one hand, and the uncertainty on the other, I had been sure\nto be undone.\n\nIn the meantime, as I was but too sure of the fact, I lived therefore\nin open avowed incest and whoredom, and all under the appearance of an\nhonest wife; and though I was not much touched with the crime of it,\nyet the action had something in it shocking to nature, and made my\nhusband, as he thought himself, even nauseous to me.\n\nHowever, upon the most sedate consideration, I resolved that it was\nabsolutely necessary to conceal it all and not make the least discovery\nof it either to mother or husband; and thus I lived with the greatest\npressure imaginable for three years more, but had no more children.\n\nDuring this time my mother used to be frequently telling me old stories\nof her former adventures, which, however, were no ways pleasant to me;\nfor by it, though she did not tell it me in plain terms, yet I could\neasily understand, joined with what I had heard myself, of my first\ntutors, that in her younger days she had been both whore and thief; but\nI verily believed she had lived to repent sincerely of both, and that\nshe was then a very pious, sober, and religious woman.\n\nWell, let her life have been what it would then, it was certain that my\nlife was very uneasy to me; for I lived, as I have said, but in the\nworst sort of whoredom, and as I could expect no good of it, so really\nno good issue came of it, and all my seeming prosperity wore off, and\nended in misery and destruction.  It was some time, indeed, before it\ncame to this, for, but I know not by what ill fate guided, everything\nwent wrong with us afterwards, and that which was worse, my husband\ngrew strangely altered, forward, jealous, and unkind, and I was as\nimpatient of bearing his carriage, as the carriage was unreasonable and\nunjust.  These things proceeded so far, that we came at last to be in\nsuch ill terms with one another, that I claimed a promise of him, which\nhe entered willingly into with me when I consented to come from England\nwith him, viz. that if I found the country not to agree with me, or\nthat I did not like to live there, I should come away to England again\nwhen I pleased, giving him a year's warning to settle his affairs.\n\nI say, I now claimed this promise of him, and I must confess I did it\nnot in the most obliging terms that could be in the world neither; but\nI insisted that he treated me ill, that I was remote from my friends,\nand could do myself no justice, and that he was jealous without cause,\nmy conversation having been unblamable, and he having no pretense for\nit, and that to remove to England would take away all occasion from him.\n\nI insisted so peremptorily upon it, that he could not avoid coming to a\npoint, either to keep his word with me or to break it; and this,\nnotwithstanding he used all the skill he was master of, and employed\nhis mother and other agents to prevail with me to alter my resolutions;\nindeed, the bottom of the thing lay at my heart, and that made all his\nendeavours fruitless, for my heart was alienated from him as a husband.\nI loathed the thoughts of bedding with him, and used a thousand\npretenses of illness and humour to prevent his touching me, fearing\nnothing more than to be with child by him, which to be sure would have\nprevented, or at least delayed, my going over to England.\n\nHowever, at last I put him so out of humour, that he took up a rash and\nfatal resolution; in short, I should not go to England; and though he\nhad promised me, yet it was an unreasonable thing for me to desire it;\nthat it would be ruinous to his affairs, would unhinge his whole\nfamily, and be next to an undoing him in the world; that therefore I\nought not to desire it of him, and that no wife in the world that\nvalued her family and her husband's prosperity would insist upon such a\nthing.\n\nThis plunged me again, for when I considered the thing calmly, and took\nmy husband as he really was, a diligent, careful man in the main work\nof laying up an estate for his children, and that he knew nothing of\nthe dreadful circumstances that he was in, I could not but confess to\nmyself that my proposal was very unreasonable, and what no wife that\nhad the good of her family at heart would have desired.\n\nBut my discontents were of another nature; I looked upon him no longer\nas a husband, but as a near relation, the son of my own mother, and I\nresolved somehow or other to be clear of him, but which way I did not\nknow, nor did it seem possible.\n\nIt is said by the ill-natured world, of our sex, that if we are set on\na thing, it is impossible to turn us from our resolutions; in short, I\nnever ceased poring upon the means to bring to pass my voyage, and came\nthat length with my husband at last, as to propose going without him.\nThis provoked him to the last degree, and he called me not only an\nunkind wife, but an unnatural mother, and asked me how I could\nentertain such a thought without horror, as that of leaving my two\nchildren (for one was dead) without a mother, and to be brought up by\nstrangers, and never to see them more.  It was true, had things been\nright, I should not have done it, but now it was my real desire never\nto see them, or him either, any more; and as to the charge of\nunnatural, I could easily answer it to myself, while I knew that the\nwhole relation was unnatural in the highest degree in the world.\n\nHowever, it was plain there was no bringing my husband to anything; he\nwould neither go with me nor let me go without him, and it was quite\nout of my power to stir without his consent, as any one that knows the\nconstitution of the country I was in, knows very well.\n\nWe had many family quarrels about it, and they began in time to grow up\nto a dangerous height; for as I was quite estranged form my husband (as\nhe was called) in affection, so I took no heed to my words, but\nsometimes gave him language that was provoking; and, in short, strove\nall I could to bring him to a parting with me, which was what above all\nthings in the world I desired most.\n\nHe took my carriage very ill, and indeed he might well do so, for at\nlast I refused to bed with him, and carrying on the breach upon all\noccasions to extremity, he told me once he thought I was mad, and if I\ndid not alter my conduct, he would put me under cure; that is to say,\ninto a madhouse.  I told him he should find I was far enough from mad,\nand that it was not in his power, or any other villain's, to murder me.\nI confess at the same time I was heartily frighted at his thoughts of\nputting me into a madhouse, which would at once have destroyed all the\npossibility of breaking the truth out, whatever the occasion might be;\nfor that then no one would have given credit to a word of it.\n\nThis therefore brought me to a resolution, whatever came of it, to lay\nopen my whole case; but which way to do it, or to whom, was an\ninextricable difficulty, and took me many months to resolve.  In the\nmeantime, another quarrel with my husband happened, which came up to\nsuch a mad extreme as almost pushed me on to tell it him all to his\nface; but though I kept it in so as not to come to the particulars, I\nspoke so much as put him into the utmost confusion, and in the end\nbrought out the whole story.\n\nHe began with a calm expostulation upon my being so resolute to go to\nEngland; I defended it, and one hard word bringing on another, as is\nusual in all family strife, he told me I did not treat him as if he was\nmy husband, or talk of my children as if I was a mother; and, in short,\nthat I did not deserve to be used as a wife; that he had used all the\nfair means possible with me; that he had argued with all the kindness\nand calmness that a husband or a Christian ought to do, and that I made\nhim such a vile return, that I treated him rather like a dog than a\nman, and rather like the most contemptible stranger than a husband;\nthat he was very loth to use violence with me, but that, in short, he\nsaw a necessity of it now, and that for the future he should be obliged\nto take such measures as should reduce me to my duty.\n\nMy blood was now fired to the utmost, though I knew what he had said\nwas very true, and nothing could appear more provoked.  I told him, for\nhis fair means and his foul, they were equally contemned by me; that\nfor my going to England, I was resolved on it, come what would; and\nthat as to treating him not like a husband, and not showing myself a\nmother to my children, there might be something more in it than he\nunderstood at present; but, for his further consideration, I thought\nfit to tell him thus much, that he neither was my lawful husband, nor\nthey lawful children, and that I had reason to regard neither of them\nmore than I did.\n\nI confess I was moved to pity him when I spoke it, for he turned pale\nas death, and stood mute as one thunderstruck, and once or twice I\nthought he would have fainted; in short, it put him in a fit something\nlike an apoplex; he trembled, a sweat or dew ran off his face, and yet\nhe was cold as a clod, so that I was forced to run and fetch something\nfor him to keep life in him.  When he recovered of that, he grew sick\nand vomited, and in a little after was put to bed, and the next morning\nwas, as he had been indeed all night, in a violent fever.\n\nHowever, it went off again, and he recovered, though but slowly, and\nwhen he came to be a little better, he told me I had given him a mortal\nwound with my tongue, and he had only one thing to ask before he\ndesired an explanation.  I interrupted him, and told him I was sorry I\nhad gone so far, since I saw what disorder it put him into, but I\ndesired him not to talk to me of explanations, for that would but make\nthings worse.\n\nThis heightened his impatience, and, indeed, perplexed him beyond all\nbearing; for now he began to suspect that there was some mystery yet\nunfolded, but could not make the least guess at the real particulars of\nit; all that ran in his brain was, that I had another husband alive,\nwhich I could not say in fact might not be true, but I assured him,\nhowever, there was not the least of that in it; and indeed, as to my\nother husband, he was effectually dead in law to me, and had told me I\nshould look on him as such, so I had not the least uneasiness on that\nscore.\n\nBut now I found the thing too far gone to conceal it much longer, and\nmy husband himself gave me an opportunity to ease myself of the secret,\nmuch to my satisfaction.  He had laboured with me three or four weeks,\nbut to no purpose, only to tell him whether I had spoken these words\nonly as the effect of my passion, to put him in a passion, or whether\nthere was anything of  truth in the bottom of them.  But I continued\ninflexible, and would explain nothing, unless he would first consent to\nmy going to England, which he would never do, he said, while he lived;\non the other hand, I said it was in my power to make him willing when I\npleased--nay, to make him entreat me to go; and this increased his\ncuriosity, and made him importunate to the highest degree, but it was\nall to no purpose.\n\nAt length he tells all this story to his mother, and sets her upon me\nto get the main secret out of me, and she used her utmost skill with me\nindeed; but I put her to a full stop at once by telling her that the\nreason and mystery of the whole matter lay in herself, and that it was\nmy respect to her that had made me conceal it; and that, in short, I\ncould go no farther, and therefore conjured her not to insist upon it.\n\nShe was struck dumb at this suggestion, and could not tell what to say\nor to think; but, laying aside the supposition as a policy of mine,\ncontinued her importunity on account of her son, and, if possible, to\nmake up the breach between us two.  As to that, I told her that it was\nindeed a good design in her, but that it was impossible to be done; and\nthat if I should reveal to her the truth of what she desired, she would\ngrant it to be impossible, and cease to desire it.  At last I seemed to\nbe prevailed on by her importunity, and told her I dared trust her with\na secret of the greatest importance, and she would soon see that this\nwas so, and that I would consent to lodge it in her breast, if she\nwould engage solemnly not to acquaint her son with it without my\nconsent.\n\nShe was long in promising this part, but rather than not come at the\nmain secret, she agreed to that too, and after a great many other\npreliminaries, I began, and told her the whole story.  First I told her\nhow much she was concerned in all the unhappy breach which had happened\nbetween her son and me, by telling me her own story and her London\nname; and that the surprise she saw I was in was upon that occasion.\nThe I told her my own story, and my name, and assured her, by such\nother tokens as she could not deny, that I was no other, nor more or\nless, than her own child, her daughter, born of her body in Newgate;\nthe same that had saved her from the gallows by being in her belly, and\nthe same that she left in such-and-such hands when she was transported.\n\nIt is impossible to express the astonishment she was in; she was not\ninclined to believe the story, or to remember the particulars, for she\nimmediately foresaw the confusion that must follow in the family upon\nit.  But everything concurred so exactly with the stories she had told\nme of herself, and which, if she had not told me, she would perhaps\nhave been content to have denied, that she had stopped her own mouth,\nand she had nothing to do but to take me about the neck and kiss me,\nand cry most vehemently over me, without speaking one word for a long\ntime together.  At last she broke out:  'Unhappy child!' says she,\n'what miserable chance could bring thee hither? and in the arms of my\nown son, too!  Dreadful girl,' says she, 'why, we are all undone!\nMarried to thy own brother!  Three children, and two alive, all of the\nsame flesh and blood!  My son and my daughter lying together as husband\nand wife!  All confusion and distraction for ever!  Miserable family!\nwhat will become of us?  What is to be said?  What is to be done?'  And\nthus she ran on for a great while; nor had I any power to speak, or if\nI had, did I know what to say, for every word wounded me to the soul.\nWith this kind of amazement on our thoughts we parted for the first\ntime, though my mother was more surprised than I was, because it was\nmore news to her than to me.  However, she promised again to me at\nparting, that she would say nothing of it to her son, till we had\ntalked of it again.\n\nIt was not long, you may be sure, before we had a second conference\nupon the same subject; when, as if she had been willing to forget the\nstory she had told me of herself, or to suppose that I had forgot some\nof the particulars, she began to tell them with alterations and\nomissions; but I refreshed her memory and set her to rights in many\nthings which I supposed she had forgot, and then came in so opportunely\nwith the whole history, that it was impossible for her to go from it;\nand then she fell into her rhapsodies again, and exclamations at the\nseverity of her misfortunes.  When these things were a little over with\nher, we fell into a close debate about what should be first done before\nwe gave an account of the matter to my husband.  But to what purpose\ncould be all our consultations?  We could neither of us see our way\nthrough it, nor see how it could be safe to open such a scene to him.\nIt was impossible to make any judgment, or give any guess at what\ntemper he would receive it in, or what measures he would take upon it;\nand if he should have so little government of himself as to make it\npublic, we easily foresaw that it would be the ruin of the whole\nfamily, and expose my mother and me to the last degree; and if at last\nhe should take the advantage the law would give him, he might put me\naway with disdain and leave me to sue for the little portion that I\nhad, and perhaps waste it all in the suit, and then be a beggar; the\nchildren would be ruined too, having no legal claim to any of his\neffects; and thus I should see him, perhaps, in the arms of another\nwife in a few months, and be myself the most miserable creature alive.\n\nMy mother was as sensible of this as I; and, upon the whole, we knew\nnot what to do.  After some time we came to more sober resolutions, but\nthen it was with this misfortune too, that my mother's opinion and mine\nwere quite different from one another, and indeed inconsistent with one\nanother; for my mother's opinion was, that I should bury the whole\nthing entirely, and continue to live with him as my husband till some\nother event should make the discovery of it more convenient; and that\nin the meantime she would endeavour to reconcile us together again, and\nrestore our mutual comfort and family peace; that we might lie as we\nused to do together, and so let the whole matter remain a secret as\nclose as death.  'For, child,' says she, 'we are both undone if it\ncomes out.'\n\nTo encourage me to this, she promised to make me easy in my\ncircumstances, as far as she was able, and to leave me what she could\nat her death, secured for me separately from my husband; so that if it\nshould come out afterwards, I should not be left destitute, but be able\nto stand on my own feet and procure justice from him.\n\nThis proposal did not agree at all with my judgment of the thing,\nthough it was very fair and kind in my mother; but my thoughts ran\nquite another way.\n\nAs to keeping the thing in our own breasts, and letting it all remain\nas it was, I told her it was impossible; and I asked her how she could\nthink I could bear the thoughts of lying with my own brother.  In the\nnext place, I told her that her being alive was the only support of the\ndiscovery, and that while she owned me for her child, and saw reason to\nbe satisfied that I was so, nobody else would doubt it; but that if she\nshould die before the discovery, I should be taken for an impudent\ncreature that had forged such a thing to go away from my husband, or\nshould be counted crazed and distracted.  Then I told her how he had\nthreatened already to put me into a madhouse, and what concern I had\nbeen in about it, and how that was the thing that drove me to the\nnecessity of discovering it to her as I had done.\n\nFrom all which I told her, that I had, on the most serious reflections\nI was able to make in the case, come to this resolution, which I hoped\nshe would like, as a medium between both, viz.  that she should use her\nendeavours with her son to give me leave to go to England, as I had\ndesired, and to furnish me with a sufficient sum of money, either in\ngoods along with me, or in bills for my support there, all along\nsuggesting that he might one time or other think it proper to come over\nto me.\n\nThat when I was gone, she should then, in cold blood, and after first\nobliging him in the solemnest manner possible to secrecy, discover the\ncase to him, doing it gradually, and as her own discretion should guide\nher, so that he might not be surprised with it, and fly out into any\npassions and excesses on my account, or on hers; and that she should\nconcern herself to prevent his slighting the children, or marrying\nagain, unless he had a certain account of my being dead.\n\nThis was my scheme, and my reasons were good; I was really alienated\nfrom him in the consequences of these things; indeed, I mortally hated\nhim as a husband, and it was impossible to remove that riveted aversion\nI had to him.  At the same time, it being an unlawful, incestuous\nliving, added to that aversion, and though I had no great concern about\nit in point of conscience, yet everything added to make cohabiting with\nhim the most nauseous thing to me in the world; and I think verily it\nwas come to such a height, that I could almost as willingly have\nembraced a dog as have let him offer anything of that kind to me, for\nwhich reason I could not bear the thoughts of coming between the sheets\nwith him.  I cannot say that I was right in point of policy in carrying\nit such a length, while at the same time I did not resolve to discover\nthe thing to him; but I am giving an account of what was, not of what\nought or ought not to be.\n\nIn their directly opposite opinion to one another my mother and I\ncontinued a long time, and it was impossible to reconcile our\njudgments; many disputes we had about it, but we could never either of\nus yield our own, or bring over the other.\n\nI insisted on my aversion to lying with my own brother, and she\ninsisted upon its being impossible to bring him to consent to my going\nfrom him to England; and in this uncertainty we continued, not\ndiffering so as to quarrel, or anything like it, but so as not to be\nable to resolve what we should do to make up that terrible breach that\nwas before us.\n\nAt last I resolved on a desperate course, and told my mother my\nresolution, viz. that, in short, I would tell him of it myself.  My\nmother was frighted to the last degree at the very thoughts of it; but\nI bid her be easy, told her I would do it gradually and softly, and\nwith all the art and good-humour I was mistress of, and time it also as\nwell as I could, taking him in good-humour too.  I told her I did not\nquestion but, if I could be hypocrite enough to feign more affection to\nhim than I really had, I should succeed in all my design, and we might\npart by consent, and with a good agreement, for I might live him well\nenough for a brother, though I could not for a husband.\n\nAll this while he lay at my mother to find out, if possible, what was\nthe meaning of that dreadful expression of mine, as he called it, which\nI mentioned before:  namely, that I was not his lawful wife, nor my\nchildren his legal children.  My mother put him off, told him she could\nbring me to no explanations, but found there was something that\ndisturbed me very much, and she hoped she should get it out of me in\ntime, and in the meantime recommended to him earnestly to use me more\ntenderly, and win me with his usual good carriage; told him of his\nterrifying and affrighting me with his threats of sending me to a\nmadhouse, and the like, and advised him not to make a woman desperate\non any account whatever.\n\nHe promised her to soften his behaviour, and bid her assure me that he\nloved me as well as ever, and that he had so such design as that of\nsending me to a madhouse, whatever he might say in his passion; also he\ndesired my mother to use the same persuasions to me too, that our\naffections might be renewed, and we might lie together in a good\nunderstanding as we used to do.\n\nI found the effects of this treaty presently.  My husband's conduct was\nimmediately altered, and he was quite another man to me; nothing could\nbe kinder and more obliging than he was to me upon all occasions; and I\ncould do no less than make some return to it, which I did as well as I\ncould, but it was but in an awkward manner at best, for nothing was\nmore frightful to me than his caresses, and the apprehensions of being\nwith child again by him was ready to throw me into fits; and this made\nme see that there was an absolute necessity of breaking the case to him\nwithout any more delay, which, however, I did with all the caution and\nreserve imaginable.\n\nHe had continued his altered carriage to me near a month, and we began\nto live a new kind of life with one another; and could I have satisfied\nmyself to have gone on with it, I believe it might have continued as\nlong as we had continued alive together.  One evening, as we were\nsitting and talking very friendly together under a little awning, which\nserved as an arbour at the entrance from our house into the garden, he\nwas in a very pleasant, agreeable humour, and said abundance of kind\nthings to me relating to the pleasure of our present good agreement,\nand the disorders of our past breach, and what a satisfaction it was to\nhim that we had room to hope we should never have any more of it.\n\nI fetched a deep sigh, and told him there was nobody in the world could\nbe more delighted than I was in the good agreement we had always kept\nup, or more afflicted with the breach of it, and should be so still;\nbut I was sorry to tell him that there was an unhappy circumstance in\nour case, which lay too close to my heart, and which I knew not how to\nbreak to him, that rendered my part of it very miserable, and took from\nme all the comfort of the rest.\n\nHe importuned me to tell him what it was.  I told him I could not tell\nhow to do it; that while it was concealed from him I alone was unhappy,\nbut if he knew it also, we should be both so; and that, therefore, to\nkeep him in the dark about it was the kindest thing that I could do,\nand it was on that account alone that I kept a secret from him, the\nvery keeping of which, I thought, would first or last be my destruction.\n\nIt is impossible to express his surprise at this relation, and the\ndouble importunity which he used with me to discover it to him.  He\ntold me I could not be called kind to him, nay, I could not be faithful\nto him if I concealed it from him.  I told him I thought so too, and\nyet I could not do it.  He went back to what I had said before to him,\nand told me he hoped it did not relate to what I had said in my\npassion, and that he had resolved to forget all that as the effect of a\nrash, provoked spirit.  I told him I wished I could forget it all too,\nbut that it was not to be done, the impression was too deep, and I\ncould not do it:  it was impossible.\n\nHe then told me he was resolved not to differ with me in anything, and\nthat therefore he would importune me no more about it, resolving to\nacquiesce in whatever I did or said; only begged I should then agree,\nthat whatever it was, it should no more interrupt our quiet and our\nmutual kindness.\n\nThis was the most provoking thing he could have said to me, for I\nreally wanted his further importunities, that I might be prevailed with\nto bring out that which indeed it was like death to me to conceal; so I\nanswered him plainly that I could not say I was glad not to be\nimportuned, thought I could not tell how to comply.  'But come, my\ndear,' said I, 'what conditions will you make with me upon the opening\nthis affair to you?'\n\n'Any conditions in the world,' said he, 'that you can in reason desire\nof me.'  'Well,' said I, 'come, give it me under your hand, that if you\ndo not find I am in any fault, or that I am willingly concerned in the\ncauses of the misfortune that is to follow, you will not blame me, use\nme the worse, do my any injury, or make me be the sufferer for that\nwhich is not my fault.'\n\n'That,' says he, 'is the most reasonable demand in the world: not to\nblame you for that which is not your fault.  Give me a pen and ink,'\nsays he; so I ran in and fetched a pen, ink, and paper, and he wrote\nthe condition down in the very words I had proposed it, and signed it\nwith his name.  'Well,' says  he, 'what is next, my dear?'\n\n'Why,' says I, 'the next is, that you will not blame me for not\ndiscovering the secret of it to you before I knew it.'\n\n'Very just again,' says he; 'with all my heart'; so he wrote down that\nalso, and signed it.\n\n'Well, my dear,' says I, 'then I have but one condition more to make\nwith you, and that is, that as there is nobody concerned in it but you\nand I, you shall not discover it to any person in the world, except\nyour own mother; and that in all the measures you shall take upon the\ndiscovery, as I am equally concerned in it with you, though as innocent\nas yourself, you shall do nothing in a passion, nothing to my prejudice\nor to your mother's prejudice, without my knowledge and consent.'\n\nThis a little amazed him, and he wrote down the words distinctly, but\nread them over and over before he signed them, hesitating at them\nseveral times, and repeating them:  'My mother's prejudice! and your\nprejudice!  What mysterious thing can this be?'  However, at last he\nsigned it.\n\n'Well, says I, 'my dear, I'll ask you no more under your hand; but as\nyou are to hear the most unexpected and surprising thing that perhaps\never befell any family in the world, I beg you to promise me you will\nreceive it with composure and a presence of mind suitable to a man of\nsense.'\n\n'I'll do my utmost,' says he, 'upon condition you will keep me no\nlonger in suspense, for you terrify me with all these preliminaries.'\n\n'Well, then,' says I, 'it is this: as I told you before in a heat, that\nI was not your lawful wife, and that our children were not legal\nchildren, so I must let you know now in calmness and in kindness, but\nwith affliction enough, that I am your own sister, and you my own\nbrother, and that we are both the children of our mother now alive, and\nin the house, who is convinced of the truth of it, in a manner not to\nbe denied or contradicted.'\n\nI saw him turn pale and look wild; and I said, 'Now remember your\npromise, and receive it with presence of mind; for who could have said\nmore to prepare you for it than I have done?' However, I called a\nservant, and got him a little glass of rum (which is the usual dram of\nthat country), for he was just fainting away.  When he was a little\nrecovered, I said to him, 'This story, you may be sure, requires a long\nexplanation, and therefore, have patience and compose your mind to hear\nit out, and I'll make it as short as I can'; and with this, I told him\nwhat I thought was needful of the fact, and particularly how my mother\ncame to discover it to me, as above.  'And now, my dear,' says I, 'you\nwill see reason for my capitulations, and that I neither have been the\ncause of this matter, nor could be so, and that I could know nothing of\nit before now.'\n\n'I am fully satisfied of that,' says he, 'but 'tis a dreadful surprise\nto me; however, I know a remedy for it all, and a remedy that shall put\nan end to your difficulties, without your going to England.'  'That\nwould be strange,' said I, 'as all the rest.' 'No, no,' says he, 'I'll\nmake it easy; there's nobody in the way of it but myself.'  He looked a\nlittle disordered when he said this, but I did not apprehend anything\nfrom it at that time, believing, as it used to be said, that they who\ndo those things never talk of them, or that they who talk of such\nthings never do them.\n\nBut things were not come to their height with him, and I observed he\nbecame pensive and melancholy; and in a word, as I thought, a little\ndistempered in his head.  I endeavoured to talk him into temper, and to\nreason him into a kind of scheme for our government in the affair, and\nsometimes he would be well, and talk with some courage about it; but\nthe weight of it lay too heavy upon his thoughts, and, in short, it\nwent so far that he made attempts upon himself, and in one of them had\nactually strangled himself and had not his mother come into the room in\nthe very moment, he had died; but with the help of a Negro servant she\ncut him down and recovered him.\n\nThings were now come to a lamentable height in the family.  My pity for\nhim now began to revive that affection which at first I really had for\nhim, and I endeavoured sincerely, by all the kind carriage I could, to\nmake up the breach; but, in short, it had gotten too great a head, it\npreyed upon his spirits, and it threw him into a long, lingering\nconsumption, though it happened not to be mortal.  In this distress I\ndid not know what to do, as his life was apparently declining, and I\nmight perhaps have married again there, very much to my advantage; it\nhad been certainly my business to have stayed in the country, but my\nmind was restless too, and uneasy; I hankered after coming to England,\nand nothing would satisfy me without it.\n\nIn short, by an unwearied importunity, my husband, who was apparently\ndecaying, as I observed, was at last prevailed with; and so my own fate\npushing me on, the way was made clear for me, and my mother concurring,\nI obtained a very good cargo for my coming to England.\n\nWhen I parted with my brother (for such I am now to call him), we\nagreed that after I arrived he should pretend to have an account that I\nwas dead in England, and so might marry again when he would.  He\npromised, and engaged to me to correspond with me as a sister, and to\nassist and support me as long as I lived; and that if he died before\nme, he would leave sufficient to his mother to take care of me still,\nin the name of a sister, and he was in some respects careful of me,\nwhen he heard of me; but it was so oddly managed that I felt the\ndisappointments very sensibly afterwards, as you shall hear in its time.\n\nI came away for England in the month of August, after I had been eight\nyears in that country; and now a new scene of misfortunes attended me,\nwhich perhaps few women have gone through the life of.\n\nWe had an indifferent good voyage till we came just upon the coast of\nEngland, and where we arrived in two-and-thirty days, but were then\nruffled with two or three storms, one of which drove us away to the\ncoast of Ireland, and we put in at Kinsdale.  We remained there about\nthirteen days, got some refreshment on shore, and put to sea again,\nthough we met with very bad weather again, in which the ship sprung her\nmainmast, as they called it, for I knew not what they meant.  But we\ngot at last into Milford Haven, in Wales, where, though it was remote\nfrom our port, yet having my foot safe upon the firm ground of my\nnative country, the isle of Britain, I resolved to venture it no more\nupon the waters, which had been so terrible to me; so getting my\nclothes and money on shore, with my bills of loading and other papers,\nI resolved to come for London, and leave the ship to get to her port as\nshe could; the port whither she was bound was to Bristol, where my\nbrother's chief correspondent lived.\n\nI got to London in about three weeks, where I heard a little while\nafter that the ship was arrived in Bristol, but at the same time had\nthe misfortune to know that by the violent weather she had been in, and\nthe breaking of her mainmast, she had great damage on board, and that a\ngreat part of her cargo was spoiled.\n\nI had now a new scene of life upon my hands, and a dreadful appearance\nit had.  I was come away with a kind of final farewell.  What I brought\nwith me was indeed considerable, had it come safe, and by the help of\nit, I might have married again tolerably well; but as it was, I was\nreduced to between two or three hundred pounds in the whole, and this\nwithout any hope of recruit.  I was entirely without friends, nay, even\nso much as without acquaintance, for I found it was absolutely\nnecessary not to revive former acquaintances; and as for my subtle\nfriend that set me up formerly for a fortune, she was dead, and her\nhusband also; as I was informed, upon sending a person unknown to\ninquire.\n\nThe looking after my cargo of goods soon after obliged me to take a\njourney to Bristol, and during my attendance upon that affair I took\nthe diversion of going to the Bath, for as I was still far from being\nold, so my humour, which was always gay, continued so to an extreme;\nand being now, as it were, a woman of fortune though I was a woman\nwithout a fortune, I expected something or other might happen in my way\nthat might mend my circumstances, as had been my case before.\n\nThe Bath is a place of gallantry enough; expensive, and full of snares.\nI went thither, indeed, in the view of taking anything that might\noffer, but I must do myself justice, as to protest I knew nothing\namiss; I meant nothing but in an honest way, nor had I any thoughts\nabout me at first that looked the way which afterwards I suffered them\nto be guided.\n\nHere I stayed the whole latter season, as it is called there, and\ncontracted some unhappy acquaintances, which rather prompted the\nfollies I fell afterwards into than fortified me against them.  I lived\npleasantly enough, kept good company, that is to say, gay, fine\ncompany; but had the discouragement to find this way of living sunk me\nexceedingly, and that as I had no settled income, so spending upon the\nmain stock was but a certain kind of bleeding to death; and this gave\nme many sad reflections in the interval of my other thoughts.  However,\nI shook them off, and still flattered myself that something or other\nmight offer for my advantage.\n\nBut I was in the wrong place for it.  I was not now at Redriff, where,\nif I had set myself tolerably up, some honest sea captain or other\nmight have talked with me upon the honourable terms of matrimony; but I\nwas at the Bath, where men find a mistress sometimes, but very rarely\nlook for a wife; and consequently all the particular acquaintances a\nwoman can expect to make there must have some tendency that way.\n\nI had spent the first season well enough; for though I had contracted\nsome acquaintance with a gentleman who came to the Bath for his\ndiversion, yet I had entered into no felonious treaty, as it might be\ncalled.  I had resisted some casual offers of gallantry, and had\nmanaged that way well enough.  I was not wicked enough to come into the\ncrime for the mere vice of it, and I had no extraordinary offers made\nme that tempted me with the main thing which I wanted.\n\nHowever, I went this length the first season, viz. I contracted an\nacquaintance with a woman in whose house I lodged, who, though she did\nnot keep an ill house, as we call it, yet had none of the best\nprinciples in herself.  I had on all occasions behaved myself so well\nas not to get the least slur upon my reputation on any account\nwhatever, and all the men that I had conversed with were of so good\nreputation that I had not given the least reflection by conversing with\nthem; nor did any of them seem to think there was room for a wicked\ncorrespondence, if they had any of them offered it; yet there was one\ngentleman, as above, who always singled me out for the diversion of my\ncompany, as he called it, which, as he was pleased to say, was very\nagreeable to him, but at that time there was no more in it.\n\nI had many melancholy hours at the Bath after the company was gone; for\nthough I went to Bristol sometime for the disposing my effects, and for\nrecruits of money, yet I chose to come back to Bath for my residence,\nbecause being on good terms with the woman in whose house I lodged in\nthe summer, I found that during the winter I lived rather cheaper there\nthan I could do anywhere else.  Here, I say, I passed the winter as\nheavily as I had passed the autumn cheerfully; but having contracted a\nnearer intimacy with the said woman in whose house I lodged, I could\nnot avoid communicating to her something of what lay hardest upon my\nmind and particularly the narrowness of my circumstances, and the loss\nof my fortune by the damage of my goods at sea.  I told her also, that\nI had a mother and a brother in Virginia in good circumstances; and as\nI had really written back to my mother in particular to represent my\ncondition, and the great loss I had received, which indeed came to\nalmost #500, so I did not fail to let my new friend know that I\nexpected a supply from thence, and so indeed I did; and as the ships\nwent from Bristol to York River, in Virginia, and back again generally\nin less time from London, and that my brother corresponded chiefly at\nBristol, I thought it was much better for me to wait here for my\nreturns than to go to London, where also I had not the least\nacquaintance.\n\nMy new friend appeared sensibly affected with my condition, and indeed\nwas so very kind as to reduce the rate of my living with her to so low\na price during the winter, that she convinced me she got nothing by me;\nand as for lodging, during the winter I paid nothing at all.\n\nWhen the spring season came on, she continued to be as kind to me as\nshe could, and I lodged with her for a time, till it was found\nnecessary to do otherwise.  She had some persons of character that\nfrequently lodged in her house, and in particular the gentleman who, as\nI said, singled me out for his companion the winter before; and he came\ndown again with another gentleman in his company and two servants, and\nlodged in the same house.  I suspected that my landlady had invited him\nthither, letting him know that I was still with her; but she denied it,\nand protested to me that she did not, and he said the same.\n\nIn a word, this gentleman came down and continued to single me out for\nhis peculiar confidence as well as conversation.  He was a complete\ngentleman, that must be confessed, and his company was very agreeable\nto me, as mine, if I might believe him, was to him.  He made no\nprofessions to be but of an extraordinary respect, and he had such an\nopinion of my virtue, that, as he often professed, he believed if he\nshould offer anything else, I should reject him with contempt.  He soon\nunderstood from me that I was a widow; that I had arrived at Bristol\nfrom Virginia by the last ships; and that I waited at Bath till the\nnext Virginia fleet should arrive, by which I expected considerable\neffects.  I understood by him, and by others of him, that he had a\nwife, but that the lady was distempered in her head, and was under the\nconduct of her own relations, which he consented to, to avoid any\nreflections that might (as was not unusual in such cases) be cast on\nhim for mismanaging her cure; and in the meantime he came to the Bath\nto divert his thoughts from the disturbance of such a melancholy\ncircumstance as that was.\n\nMy landlady, who of her own accord encouraged the correspondence on all\noccasions, gave me an advantageous character of him, as a man of honour\nand of virtue, as well as of great estate.  And indeed I had a great\ndeal of reason to say so of him too; for though we lodged both on a\nfloor, and he had frequently come into my chamber, even when I was in\nbed, and I also into his when he was in bed, yet he never offered\nanything to me further than a kiss, or so much as solicited me to\nanything till long after, as you shall hear.\n\nI frequently took notice to my landlady of his exceeding modesty, and\nshe again used to tell me, she believed it was so from the beginning;\nhowever, she used to tell me that she thought I ought to expect some\ngratification from him for my company, for indeed he did, as it were,\nengross me, and I was seldom from him.  I told her I had not given him\nthe least occasion to think I wanted it, or that I would accept of it\nfrom him.  She told me she would take that part upon her, and she did\nso, and managed it so dexterously, that the first time we were together\nalone, after she had talked with him, he began to inquire a little into\nmy circumstances, as how I had subsisted myself since I came on shore,\nand whether I did not want money.  I stood off very boldly.  I told him\nthat though my cargo of tobacco was damaged, yet that it was not quite\nlost; that the merchant I had been consigned to had so honestly managed\nfor me that I had not wanted, and that I hoped, with frugal management,\nI should make it hold out till more would come, which I expected by the\nnext fleet; that in the meantime I had retrenched my expenses, and\nwhereas I kept a maid last season, now I lived without; and whereas I\nhad a chamber and a dining-room then on the first floor, as he knew, I\nnow had but one room, two pair of stairs, and the like.  'But I live,'\nsaid I, 'as well satisfied now as I did then'; adding, that his company\nhad been a means to make me live much more cheerfully than otherwise I\nshould have done, for which I was much obliged to him; and so I put off\nall room for any offer for the present.  However, it was not long\nbefore he attacked me again, and told me he found that I was backward\nto trust him with the secret of my circumstances, which he was sorry\nfor; assuring me that he inquired into it with no design to satisfy his\nown curiosity, but merely to assist me, if there was any occasion; but\nsince I would not own myself to stand in need of any assistance, he had\nbut one thing more to desire of me, and that was, that I would promise\nhim that when I was any way straitened, or like to be so, I would\nfrankly tell him of it, and that I would make use of him with the same\nfreedom that he made the offer; adding, that I should always find I had\na true friend, though perhaps I was afraid to trust him.\n\nI omitted nothing that was fit to be said by one infinitely obliged, to\nlet him know that I had a due sense of his kindness; and indeed from\nthat time I did not appear so much reserved to him as I had done\nbefore, though still within the bounds of the strictest virtue on both\nsides; but how free soever our conversation was, I could not arrive to\nthat sort of freedom which he desired, viz. to tell him I wanted money,\nthough I was secretly very glad of his offer.\n\nSome weeks passed after this, and still I never asked him for money;\nwhen my landlady, a cunning creature, who had often pressed me to it,\nbut found that I could not do it, makes a story of her own inventing,\nand comes in bluntly to me when we were together.  'Oh, widow!' says\nshe, 'I have bad news to tell you this morning.'  'What is that?' said\nI; 'are the Virginia ships taken by the French?'--for that was my fear.\n'No, no,' says she, 'but the man you sent to Bristol yesterday for\nmoney is come back, and says he has brought none.'\n\nNow I could by no means like her project; I though it looked too much\nlike prompting him, which indeed he did not want, and I clearly saw\nthat I should lose nothing by being backward to ask, so I took her up\nshort.  'I can't image why he should say so to you,' said I, 'for I\nassure you he brought me all the money I sent him for, and here it is,'\nsaid I (pulling out my purse with about twelve guineas in it); and\nadded, 'I intend you shall have most of it by and by.'\n\nHe seemed distasted a little at her talking as she did at first, as\nwell as I, taking it, as I fancied he would, as something forward of\nher; but when he saw me give such an answer, he came immediately to\nhimself again.  The next morning we talked of it again, when I found he\nwas fully satisfied, and, smiling, said he hoped I would not want money\nand not tell him of it, and that I had promised him otherwise.  I told\nhim I had been very much dissatisfied at my landlady's talking so\npublicly the day before of  what she had nothing to do with; but I\nsupposed she wanted what I owed her, which was about eight guineas,\nwhich I had resolved to give her, and had accordingly given it her the\nsame night she talked so foolishly.\n\nHe was in a might good humour when he heard me say I had paid her, and\nit went off into some other discourse at that time.  But the next\nmorning, he having heard me up about my room before him, he called to\nme, and I answering, he asked me to come into his chamber.  He was in\nbed when I came in, and he made me come and sit down on his bedside,\nfor he said he had something to say to me which was of some moment.\nAfter some very kind expressions, he asked me if I would be very honest\nto him, and give a sincere answer to one thing he would desire of me.\nAfter some little cavil at the word 'sincere,' and asking him if I had\never given him any answers which were not sincere, I promised him I\nwould.  Why, then, his request was, he said, to let him see my purse.\nI immediately put my hand into my pocket, and, laughing to him, pulled\nit out, and there was in it three guineas and a half.  Then he asked me\nif there was all the money I had.  I told him No, laughing again, not\nby a great deal.\n\nWell, then, he said, he would have me promise to go and fetch him all\nthe money I had, every farthing.  I told him I would, and I went into\nmy chamber and fetched him a little private drawer, where I had about\nsix guineas more, and some silver, and threw it all down upon the bed,\nand told him there was all my wealth, honestly to a shilling.  He\nlooked a little at it, but did not tell it, and huddled it all into the\ndrawer again, and then reaching his pocket, pulled out a key, and bade\nme open a little walnut-tree box he had upon the table, and bring him\nsuch a drawer, which I did.  In which drawer there was a great deal of\nmoney in gold, I believe near two hundred guineas, but I knew not how\nmuch.  He took the drawer, and taking my hand, made me put it in and\ntake a whole handful.  I was backward at that, but he held my hand hard\nin his hand, and put it into the drawer, and made me take out as many\nguineas almost as I could well take up at once.\n\nWhen I had done so, he made me put them into my lap, and took my little\ndrawer, and poured out all my money among his, and bade me get me gone,\nand carry it all home into my own chamber.\n\nI relate this story the more particularly because of the good-humour\nthere was in it, and to show the temper with which we conversed.  It\nwas not long after this but he began every day to find fault with my\nclothes, with my laces and headdresses, and, in a word, pressed me to\nbuy better; which, by the way, I was willing enough to do, though I did\nnot seem to be so, for I loved nothing in the world better than fine\nclothes.  I told him I must housewife the money he had lent me, or else\nI should not be able to pay him again.  He then told me, in a few\nwords, that as he had a sincere respect for me, and knew my\ncircumstances, he had not lent me that money, but given it me, and that\nhe thought I had merited it from him by giving him my company so\nentirely as I had done.  After this he made me take a maid, and keep\nhouse, and his friend that come with him to Bath being gone, he obliged\nme to diet him, which I did very willingly, believing, as it appeared,\nthat I should lose nothing by it, nor did the woman of the house fail\nto find her account in it too.\n\nWe had lived thus near three months, when the company beginning to wear\naway at the Bath, he talked of going away, and fain he would have me to\ngo to London with him.  I was not very easy in that proposal, not\nknowing what posture I was to live in there, or how he might use me.\nBut while this was in debate he fell very sick; he had gone out to a\nplace in Somersetshire, called Shepton, where he had some business and\nwas there taken very ill, and so ill that he could not travel; so he\nsent his man back to Bath, to beg me that I would hire a coach and come\nover to him.  Before he went, he had left all his money and other\nthings of value with me, and what to do with them I did not know, but I\nsecured them as well as I could, and locked up the lodgings and went to\nhim, where I found him very ill indeed; however, I persuaded him to be\ncarried in a litter to the Bath, where there was more help and better\nadvice to be had.\n\nHe consented, and I brought him to the Bath, which was about fifteen\nmiles, as I remember.  Here he continued very ill of a fever, and kept\nhis bed five weeks, all which time I nursed him and tended him myself,\nas much and as carefully as if I had been his wife; indeed, if I had\nbeen his wife I could not have done more.  I sat up with him so much\nand so often, that at last, indeed, he would not let me sit up any\nlonger, and then I got a pallet-bed into his room, and lay in it just\nat his bed's feet.\n\nI was indeed sensibly affected with his condition, and with the\napprehension of losing such a friend as he was, and was like to be to\nme, and I used to sit and cry by him many hours together.  However, at\nlast he grew better, and gave hopes that he would recover, as indeed he\ndid, though very slowly.\n\nWere it otherwise than what I am going to say, I should not be backward\nto disclose it, as it is apparent I have done in other cases in this\naccount; but I affirm, that through all this conversation, abating the\nfreedom of coming into the chamber when I or he was in bed, and abating\nthe necessary offices of attending him night and day when he was sick,\nthere had not passed the least immodest word or action between us.  Oh\nthat it had been so to the last!\n\nAfter some time he gathered strength and grew well apace, and I would\nhave removed my pallet-bed, but he would not let me, till he was able\nto venture himself without anybody to sit up with him, and then I\nremoved to my own chamber.\n\nHe took many occasions to express his sense of my tenderness and\nconcern for him; and when he grew quite well, he made me a present of\nfifty guineas for my care and, as he called it, for hazarding my life\nto save his.\n\nAnd now he made deep protestations of a sincere inviolable affection\nfor me, but all along attested it to be with the utmost reserve for my\nvirtue and his own.  I told him I was fully satisfied of it.  He\ncarried it that length that he protested to me, that if he was naked in\nbed with me, he would as sacredly preserve my virtue as he would defend\nit if I was assaulted by a ravisher.  I believed him, and told him I\ndid so; but this did not satisfy him, he would, he said, wait for some\nopportunity to give me an undoubted testimony of it.\n\nIt was a great while after this that I had occasion, on my own\nbusiness, to go to Bristol, upon which he hired me a coach, and would\ngo with me, and did so; and now indeed our intimacy increased.  From\nBristol he carried me to Gloucester, which was merely a journey of\npleasure, to take the air; and here it was our hap to have no lodging\nin the inn but in one large chamber with two beds in it.  The master of\nthe house going up with us to show his rooms, and coming into that\nroom, said very frankly to him, 'Sir, it is none of my business to\ninquire whether the lady be your spouse or no, but if not, you may lie\nas honestly in these two beds as if you were in two chambers,' and with\nthat he pulls a great curtain which drew quite across the room and\neffectually divided the beds.  'Well,' says my friend, very readily,\n'these beds will do, and as for the rest, we are too near akin to lie\ntogether, though we may lodge near one another'; and this put an honest\nface on the thing too.  When we came to go to bed, he decently went out\nof the room till I was in bed, and then went to bed in the bed on his\nown side of the room, but lay there talking to me a great while.\n\nAt last, repeating his usual saying, that he could lie naked in the bed\nwith me and not offer me the least injury, he starts out of his bed.\n'And now, my dear,' says he, 'you shall see how just I will be to you,\nand that I can keep my word,' and away he comes to my bed.\n\nI resisted a little, but I must confess I should not have resisted him\nmuch if he had not made those promises at all; so after a little\nstruggle, as I said, I lay still and let him come to bed.  When he was\nthere he took me in his arms, and so I lay all night with him, but he\nhad no more to do with me, or offered anything to me, other than\nembracing me, as I say, in his arms, no, not the whole night, but rose\nup and dressed him in the morning, and left me as innocent for him as I\nwas the day I was born.\n\nThis was a surprising thing to me, and perhaps may be so to others, who\nknow how the laws of nature work; for he was a strong, vigorous, brisk\nperson; nor did he act thus on a principle of religion at all, but of\nmere affection; insisting on it, that though I was to him to most\nagreeable woman in the world, yet, because he loved me, he could not\ninjure me.\n\nI own it was a noble principle, but as it was what I never understood\nbefore, so it was to me perfectly amazing.  We traveled the rest of the\njourney as we did before, and came back to the Bath, where, as he had\nopportunity to come to me when he would, he often repeated the\nmoderation, and I frequently lay with him, and he with me, and although\nall the familiarities between man and wife were common to us, yet he\nnever once offered to go any farther, and he valued himself much upon\nit.  I do not say that I was so wholly pleased with it as he thought I\nwas, for I own much wickeder than he, as you shall hear presently.\n\nWe lived thus near two years, only with this exception, that he went\nthree times to London in that time, and once he continued there four\nmonths; but, to do him justice, he always supplied me with money to\nsubsist me very handsomely.\n\nHad we continued thus, I confess we had had much to boast of; but as\nwise men say, it is ill venturing too near the brink of a command, so\nwe found it; and here again I must do him the justice to own that the\nfirst breach was not on his part.  It was one night that we were in bed\ntogether warm and merry, and having drunk, I think, a little more wine\nthat night, both of us, than usual, although not in the least to\ndisorder either of us, when, after some other follies which I cannot\nname, and being clasped close in his arms, I told him (I repeat it with\nshame and horror of soul) that I could find in my heart to discharge\nhim of his engagement for one night and no more.\n\nHe took me at my word immediately, and after that there was no\nresisting him; neither indeed had I any mind to resist him any more,\nlet what would come of it.\n\nThus the government of our virtue was broken, and I exchanged the place\nof friend for that unmusical, harsh-sounding title of whore.  In the\nmorning we were both at our penitentials; I cried very heartily, he\nexpressed himself very sorry; but that was all either of us could do at\nthat time, and the way being thus cleared, and the bars of virtue and\nconscience thus removed, we had the less difficult afterwards to\nstruggle with.\n\nIt was but a dull kind of conversation that we had together for all the\nrest of that week; I looked on him with blushes, and every now and then\nstarted that melancholy objection, 'What if I should be with child now?\nWhat will become of me then?' He encouraged me by telling me, that as\nlong as I was true to him, he would be so to me; and since it was gone\nsuch a length (which indeed he never intended), yet if I was with\nchild, he would take care of that, and of me too.  This hardened us\nboth.  I assured him if I was with child, I would die for want of a\nmidwife rather than name him as the father of it; and he assured me I\nshould never want if I should be with child.  These mutual assurances\nhardened us in the thing, and after this we repeated the crime as often\nas we pleased, till at length, as I had feared, so it came to pass, and\nI was indeed with child.\n\nAfter I was sure it was so, and I had satisfied him of it too, we began\nto think of taking measures for the managing it, and I proposed\ntrusting the secret to my landlady, and asking her advice, which he\nagreed to.  My landlady, a woman (as I found) used to such things, made\nlight of it; she said she knew it would come to that at last, and made\nus very merry about it.  As I said above, we found her an experienced\nold lady at such work; she undertook everything, engaged to procure a\nmidwife and a nurse, to satisfy all inquiries, and bring us off with\nreputation, and she did so very dexterously indeed.\n\nWhen I grew near my time she desired my gentleman to go away to London,\nor make as if he did so.  When he was gone, she acquainted the parish\nofficers that there was a lady ready to lie in at her house, but that\nshe knew her husband very well, and gave them, as she pretended, an\naccount of his name, which she called Sir Walter Cleve; telling them he\nwas a very worthy gentleman, and that she would answer for all\ninquiries, and the like.  This satisfied the parish officers presently,\nand I lay in with as much credit as I could have done if I had really\nbeen my Lady Cleve, and was assisted in my travail by three or four of\nthe best citizens' wives of Bath who lived in the neighbourhood, which,\nhowever, made me a little the more expensive to him.  I often expressed\nmy concern to him about it, but he bid me not be concerned at it.\n\nAs he had furnished me very sufficiently with money for the\nextraordinary expenses of my lying in, I had everything very handsome\nabout me, but did not affect to be gay or extravagant neither; besides,\nknowing my own circumstances, and knowing the world as I had done, and\nthat such kind of things do not often last long, I took care to lay up\nas much money as I could for a wet day, as I called it; making him\nbelieve it was all spent upon the extraordinary appearance of things in\nmy lying in.\n\nBy this means, and including what he had given me as above, I had at\nthe end of my lying in about two hundred guineas by me, including also\nwhat was left of my own.\n\nI was brought to bed of a fine boy indeed, and a charming child it was;\nand when he heard of it he wrote me a very kind, obliging letter about\nit, and then told me, he thought it would look better for me to come\naway for London as soon as I was up and well; that he had provided\napartments for me at Hammersmith, as if I came thither only from\nLondon; and that after a little while I should go back to the Bath, and\nhe would go with me.\n\nI liked this offer very well, and accordingly hired a coach on purpose,\nand taking my child, and a wet-nurse to tend and suckle it, and a\nmaid-servant with me, away I went for London.\n\nHe met me at Reading in his own chariot, and taking me into that, left\nthe servant and the child in the hired coach, and so he brought me to\nmy new lodgings at Hammersmith; with which I had abundance of reason to\nbe very well pleased, for they were very handsome rooms, and I was very\nwell accommodated.\n\nAnd now I was indeed in the height of what I might call my prosperity,\nand I wanted nothing but to be a wife, which, however, could not be in\nthis case, there was no room for it; and therefore on all occasions I\nstudied to save what I could, as I have said above, against a time of\nscarcity, knowing well enough that such things as these do not always\ncontinue; that men that keep mistresses often change them, grow weary\nof them, or jealous of them, or something or other happens to make them\nwithdraw their bounty; and sometimes the ladies that are thus well used\nare not careful by a prudent conduct to preserve the esteem of their\npersons, or the nice article of their fidelity, and then they are\njustly cast off with contempt.\n\nBut I was secured in this point, for as I had no inclination to change,\nso I had no manner of acquaintance in the whole house, and so no\ntemptation to look any farther.  I kept no company but in the family\nwhen I lodged, and with the clergyman's lady at next door; so that when\nhe was absent I visited nobody, nor did he ever find me out of my\nchamber or parlour whenever he came down; if I went anywhere to take\nthe air, it was always with him.\n\nThe living in this manner with him, and his with me, was certainly the\nmost undesigned thing in the world; he often protested to me, that when\nhe became first acquainted with me, and even to the very night when we\nfirst broke in upon our rules, he never had the least design of lying\nwith me; that he always had a sincere affection for me, but not the\nleast real inclination to do what he had done.  I assured him I never\nsuspected him; that if I had I should not so easily have yielded to the\nfreedom which brought it on, but that it was all a surprise, and was\nowing to the accident of our having yielded too far to our mutual\ninclinations that night; and indeed I have often observed since, and\nleave it as a caution to the readers of this story, that we ought to be\ncautious of gratifying our inclinations in loose and lewd freedoms,\nlest we find our resolutions of virtue fail us in the junction when\ntheir assistance should be most necessary.\n\nIt is true, and I have confessed it before, that from the first hour I\nbegan to converse with him, I resolved to let him lie with me, if he\noffered it; but it was because I wanted his help and assistance, and I\nknew no other way of securing him than that.  But when were that night\ntogether, and, as I have said, had gone such a length, I found my\nweakness; the inclination was not to be resisted, but I was obliged to\nyield up all even before he asked it.\n\nHowever, he was so just to me that he never upbraided me with that; nor\ndid he ever express the least dislike of my conduct on any other\noccasion, but always protested he was as much delighted with my company\nas he was the first hour we came together:  I mean, came together as\nbedfellows.\n\nIt is true that he had no wife, that is to say, she was as no wife to\nhim, and so I was in no danger that way, but the just reflections of\nconscience oftentimes snatch a man, especially a man of sense, from the\narms of a mistress, as it did him at last, though on another occasion.\n\nOn the other hand, though I was not without secret reproaches of my own\nconscience for the life I led, and that even in the greatest height of\nthe satisfaction I ever took, yet I  had the terrible prospect of\npoverty and starving, which lay on me as a frightful spectre, so that\nthere was no looking behind me.  But as poverty brought me into it, so\nfear of poverty kept me in it, and I frequently resolved to leave it\nquite off, if I could but come to lay up money enough to maintain me.\nBut these were thoughts of no weight, and whenever he came to me they\nvanished; for his company was so delightful, that there was no being\nmelancholy when he was there; the reflections were all the subject of\nthose hours when I was alone.\n\nI lived six years in this happy but unhappy condition, in which time I\nbrought him three children, but only the first of them lived; and\nthough I removed twice in those six years, yet I came back the sixth\nyear to my first lodgings at Hammersmith.  Here it was that I was one\nmorning surprised with a kind but melancholy letter from my gentleman,\nintimating that he was very ill, and was afraid he should have another\nfit of sickness, but that his wife's relations being in the house with\nhim, it would not be practicable to have me with him, which, however,\nhe expressed his great dissatisfaction in, and that he wished I could\nbe allowed to tend and nurse him as I did before.\n\nI was very much concerned at this account, and was very impatient to\nknow how it was with him.  I waited a fortnight or thereabouts, and\nheard nothing, which surprised me, and I began to be very uneasy\nindeed.  I think, I may say, that for the next fortnight I was near to\ndistracted.  It was my particular difficulty that I did not know\ndirectly where he was; for I understood at first he was in the lodgings\nof his wife's mother; but having removed myself to London, I soon\nfound, by the help of the direction I had for writing my letters to\nhim, how to inquire after him, and there I found that he was at a house\nin Bloomsbury, whither he had, a little before he fell sick, removed\nhis whole family; and that his wife and wife's mother were in the same\nhouse, though the wife was not suffered to know that she was in the\nsame house with her husband.\n\nHere I also soon understood that he was at the last extremity, which\nmade me almost at the last extremity too, to have a true account.  One\nnight I had the curiosity to disguise myself like a servant-maid, in a\nround cap and straw hat, and went to the door, as sent by a lady of his\nneighbourhood, where he lived before, and giving master and mistress's\nservice, I said I was sent to know how Mr. ---- did, and how he had\nrested that night.  In delivering this message I got the opportunity I\ndesired; for, speaking with one of the maids, I held a long gossip's\ntale with her, and had all the particulars of his illness, which I\nfound was a pleurisy, attended with a cough and a fever.  She told me\nalso who was in the house, and how his wife was, who, by her relation,\nthey were in some hopes might recover her understanding; but as to the\ngentleman himself, in short she told me the doctors said there was very\nlittle hopes of him, that in the morning they thought he had been\ndying, and that he was but little better then, for they did not expect\nthat he could live over the next night.\n\nThis was heavy news for me, and I began now to see an end of my\nprosperity, and to see also that it was very well I had played to good\nhousewife, and secured or saved something while he was alive, for that\nnow I had no view of my own living before me.\n\nIt lay very heavy upon my mind, too, that I had a son, a fine lovely\nboy, about five years old, and no provision made for it, at least that\nI knew of.  With these considerations, and a sad heart, I went home\nthat evening, and began to cast with myself how I should live, and in\nwhat manner to bestow myself, for the residue of my life.\n\nYou may be sure I could not rest without inquiring again very quickly\nwhat was become of him; and not venturing to go myself, I sent several\nsham messengers, till after a fortnight's waiting longer, I found that\nthere was hopes of his life, though he was still very ill; then I\nabated my sending any more to the house, and in some time after I\nlearned in the neighbourhood that he was about house, and then that he\nwas abroad again.\n\nI made no doubt then but that I should soon hear of him, and began to\ncomfort myself with my circumstances being, as I thought, recovered. I\nwaited a week, and two weeks, and with much surprise and amazement I\nwaited near two months and heard nothing, but that, being recovered, he\nwas gone into the country for the air, and for the better recovery\nafter his distemper.  After this it was yet two months more, and then I\nunderstood he was come to his city house again, but still I heard\nnothing from him.\n\nI had written several letters for him, and directed them as usual, and\nfound two or three of them had been called for, but not the rest.  I\nwrote again in a more pressing manner than ever, and in one of them let\nhim know, that I must be forced to wait on him myself, representing my\ncircumstances, the rent of lodgings to pay, and the provision for the\nchild wanting, and my own deplorable condition, destitute of\nsubsistence for his most solemn engagement to take care of and provide\nfor me.  I took a copy of this letter, and finding it lay at the house\nnear a month and was not called for, I found means to have the copy of\nit put into his own hands at a coffee-house, where I had by inquiry\nfound he used to go.\n\nThis letter forced an answer from him, by which, though I found I was\nto be abandoned, yet I found he had sent a letter to me some time\nbefore, desiring me to go down to the Bath again.  Its contents I shall\ncome to presently.\n\nIt is true that sick-beds are the time when such correspondences as\nthis are looked on with different countenances, and seen with other\neyes than we saw them with, or than they appeared with before.  My\nlover had been at the gates of death, and at the very brink of\neternity; and, it seems, had been struck with a due remorse, and with\nsad reflections upon his past life of gallantry and levity; and among\nthe rest, criminal correspondence with me, which was neither more nor\nless than a long-continued life of adultery, and represented itself as\nit really was, not as it had been formerly thought by him to be, and he\nlooked upon it now with a just and religious abhorrence.\n\nI cannot but observe also, and leave it for the direction of my sex in\nsuch cases of pleasure, that whenever sincere repentance succeeds such\na crime as this, there never fails to attend a hatred of the object;\nand the more the affection might seem to be before, the hatred will be\nthe more in proportion.  It will always be so, indeed it can be no\notherwise; for there cannot be a true and sincere abhorrence of the\noffence, and the love to the cause of it remain; there will, with an\nabhorrence of the sin, be found a detestation of the fellow-sinner; you\ncan expect no other.\n\nI found it so here, though good manners and justice in this gentleman\nkept him from carrying it on to any extreme but the short history of\nhis part in this affair was thus:  he perceived by my last letter, and\nby all the rest, which he went for after, that I was not gone to Bath,\nthat his first letter had not come to my hand; upon which he write me\nthis following:--\n\n\n'MADAM,--I am surprised that my letter, dated the 8th of last month,\ndid not come to your hand; I give you my word it was delivered at your\nlodgings, and to the hands of your maid.\n\n'I need not acquaint you with what has been my condition for some time\npast; and how, having been at the edge of the grave, I am, by the\nunexpected and undeserved mercy of Heaven, restored again.  In the\ncondition I have been in, it cannot be strange to you that our unhappy\ncorrespondence had not been the least of the burthens which lay upon my\nconscience.  I need say no more; those things that must be repented of,\nmust be also reformed.\n\nI wish you would think of going back to the Bath.  I enclose you here a\nbill for #50 for clearing yourself at your lodgings, and carrying you\ndown, and hope it will be no surprise to you to add, that on this\naccount only, and not for any offence given me on your side, I can see\nyou no more.  I will take due care of the child; leave him where he is,\nor take him with you, as you please.  I wish you the like reflections,\nand that they may be to your advantage.--I am,' etc.\n\n\nI was struck with this letter as with a thousand wounds, such as I\ncannot describe; the reproaches of my own conscience were such as I\ncannot express, for I was not blind to my own crime; and I reflected\nthat I might with less offence have continued with my brother, and\nlived with him as a wife, since there was no crime in our marriage on\nthat score, neither of us knowing it.\n\nBut I never once reflected that I was all this while a married woman, a\nwife to Mr. ---- the linen-draper, who, though he had left me by the\nnecessity of his circumstances, had no power to discharge me from the\nmarriage contract which was between us, or to give me a legal liberty\nto marry again; so that I had been no less than a whore and an\nadulteress all this while.  I then reproached myself with the liberties\nI had taken, and how I had been a snare to this gentleman, and that\nindeed I was principal in the crime; that now he was mercifully\nsnatched out of the gulf by a convincing work upon his mind, but that I\nwas left as if I was forsaken of God's grace, and abandoned by Heaven\nto a continuing in my wickedness.\n\nUnder these reflections I continued very pensive and sad for near\nmonth, and did not go down to the Bath, having no inclination to be\nwith the woman whom I was with before; lest, as I thought, she should\nprompt me to some wicked course of life again, as she had done; and\nbesides, I was very loth she should know I was cast off as above.\n\nAnd now I was greatly perplexed about my little boy.  It was death to\nme to part with the child, and yet when I considered the danger of\nbeing one time or other left with him to keep without a maintenance to\nsupport him, I then resolved to leave him where he was; but then I\nconcluded also to be near him myself too, that I then might have the\nsatisfaction of seeing him, without the care of providing for him.\n\nI sent my gentleman a short letter, therefore, that I had obeyed his\norders in all things but that of going back to the Bath, which I could\nnot think of for many reasons; that however parting from him was a\nwound to me that I could never recover, yet that I was fully satisfied\nhis reflections were just, and would be very far from desiring to\nobstruct his reformation or repentance.\n\nThen I represented my own circumstances to him in the most moving terms\nthat I was able.  I told him that those unhappy distresses which first\nmoved him to a generous and an honest friendship for me, would, I hope,\nmove him to a little concern for me now, though the criminal part of\nour correspondence, which I believed neither of us intended to fall\ninto at the time, was broken off; that I desired to repent as sincerely\nas he had done, but entreated him to put me in some condition that I\nmight not be exposed to the temptations which the devil never fails to\nexcite us to from the frightful prospect of poverty and distress; and\nif he had the least apprehensions of my being troublesome to him, I\nbegged he would put me in a posture to go back to my mother in\nVirginia, from when he knew I came, and that would put an end to all\nhis fears on that account.  I concluded, that if he would send me #50\nmore to facilitate my going away, I would send him back a general\nrelease, and would promise never to disturb him more with any\nimportunities; unless it was to hear of the well-doing of the child,\nwhom, if I found my mother living and my circumstances able, I would\nsend for to come over to me, and take him also effectually off his\nhands.\n\nThis was indeed all a cheat thus far, viz. that I had no intention to\ngo to Virginia, as the account of my former affairs there may convince\nanybody of; but the business was to get this last #50 of him, if\npossible, knowing well enough it would be the last penny I was ever to\nexpect.\n\nHowever, the argument I used, namely, of giving him a general release,\nand never troubling him any more, prevailed effectually with him, and\nhe sent me a bill for the money by a person who brought with him a\ngeneral release for me to sign, and which I frankly signed, and\nreceived the money; and thus, though full sore against my will, a final\nend was put to this affair.\n\nAnd here I cannot but reflect upon the unhappy consequence of too great\nfreedoms between persons stated as we were, upon the pretence of\ninnocent intentions, love of friendship, and the like; for the flesh\nhas generally so great a share in those friendships, that is great odds\nbut inclination prevails at last over the most solemn resolutions; and\nthat vice breaks in at the breaches of decency, which really innocent\nfriendship ought to preserve with the greatest strictness.  But I leave\nthe readers of these things to their own just reflections, which they\nwill be more able to make effectual than I, who so soon forgot myself,\nand am therefore but a very indifferent monitor.\n\nI was now a single person again, as I may call myself; I was loosed\nfrom all the obligations either of wedlock or mistress-ship in the\nworld, except my husband the linen-draper, whom, I having not now heard\nfrom in almost fifteen years, nobody could blame me for thinking myself\nentirely freed from; seeing also he had at his going away told me, that\nif I did not hear frequently from him, I should conclude he was dead,\nand I might freely marry again to whom I pleased.\n\nI now began to cast up my accounts.  I had by many letters and much\nimportunity, and with the intercession of my mother too, had a second\nreturn of some goods from my brother (as I now call him) in Virginia,\nto make up the damage of the cargo I brought away with me, and this too\nwas upon the condition of my sealing a general release to him, and to\nsend it him by his correspondent at Bristol, which, though I thought\nhard of, yet I was obliged to promise to do.  However, I managed so\nwell in this case, that I got my goods away before the release was\nsigned, and then I always found something or other to say to evade the\nthing, and to put off the signing it at all; till at length I pretended\nI must write to my brother, and have his answer, before I could do it.\n\nIncluding this recruit, and before I got the last #50, I found my\nstrength to amount, put all together, to about #400, so that with that\nI had about #450.  I had saved above #100 more, but I met with a\ndisaster with that, which was this--that a goldsmith in whose hands I\nhad trusted it, broke, so I lost #70 of my money, the man's composition\nnot making above #30 out of his #100.  I had a little plate, but not\nmuch, and was well enough stocked with clothes and linen.\n\nWith this stock I had the world to begin again; but you are to consider\nthat I was not now the same woman as when I lived at Redriff; for,\nfirst of all, I was near twenty years older, and did not look the\nbetter for my age, nor for my rambles to Virginia and back again; and\nthough I omitted nothing that might set me out to advantage, except\npainting, for that I never stooped to, and had pride enough to think I\ndid not want it, yet there would always be some difference seen between\nfive-and-twenty and two-and-forty.\n\nI cast about innumerable ways for my future state of life, and began to\nconsider very seriously what I should do, but nothing offered.  I took\ncare to make the world take me for something more than I was, and had\nit given out that I was a fortune, and that my estate was in my own\nhands; the last of which was very true, the first of it was as above.\nI had no acquaintance, which was one of my worst misfortunes, and the\nconsequence of that was, I had no adviser, at least who could assist\nand advise together; and above all, I had nobody to whom I could in\nconfidence commit the secret of my circumstances to, and could depend\nupon for their secrecy and fidelity; and I found by experience, that to\nbe friendless is the worst condition, next to being in want that a\nwoman can be reduced to:  I say a woman, because 'tis evident men can\nbe their own advisers, and their own directors, and know how to work\nthemselves out of difficulties and into business better than women; but\nif a woman has no friend to communicate her affairs to, and to advise\nand assist her, 'tis ten to one but she is undone; nay, and the more\nmoney she has, the more danger she is in of being wronged and deceived;\nand this was my case in the affair of the #100 which I left in the\nhands of the goldsmith, as above, whose credit, it seems, was upon the\nebb before, but I, that had no knowledge of things and nobody to\nconsult with, knew nothing of it, and so lost my money.\n\nIn the next place, when a woman is thus left desolate and void of\ncounsel, she is just like a bag of money or a jewel dropped on the\nhighway, which is a prey to the next comer; if a man of virtue and\nupright principles happens to find it, he will have it cried, and the\nowner may come to hear of it again; but how many times shall such a\nthing fall into hands that will make no scruple of seizing it for their\nown, to once that it shall come into good hands?\n\nThis was evidently my case, for I was now a loose, unguided creature,\nand had no help, no assistance, no guide for my conduct; I knew what I\naimed at and what I wanted, but knew nothing how to pursue the end by\ndirect means.  I wanted to be placed in a settle state of living, and\nhad I happened to meet with a sober, good husband, I should have been\nas faithful and true a wife to him as virtue itself could have formed.\nIf I had been otherwise, the vice came in always at the door of\nnecessity, not at the door of inclination; and I understood too well,\nby the want of it, what the value of a settled life was, to do anything\nto forfeit the felicity of it; nay, I should have made the better wife\nfor all the difficulties I had passed through, by a great deal; nor did\nI in any of the time that I had been a wife give my husbands the least\nuneasiness on account of my behaviour.\n\nBut all this was nothing; I found no encouraging prospect.  I waited; I\nlived regularly, and with as much frugality as became my circumstances,\nbut nothing offered, nothing presented, and the main stock wasted\napace.  What to do I knew not; the terror of approaching poverty lay\nhard upon my spirits.  I had some money, but where to place it I knew\nnot, nor would the interest of it maintain me, at least not in London.\n\nAt length a new scene opened.  There was in the house where I lodged a\nnorth-country woman that went for a gentlewoman, and nothing was more\nfrequent in her discourse than her account of the cheapness of\nprovisions, and the easy way of living in her country; how plentiful\nand how cheap everything was, what good company they kept, and the\nlike; till at last I told her she almost tempted me to go and live in\nher country; for I that was a widow, though I had sufficient to live\non, yet had no way of increasing it; and that I found I could not live\nhere under #100 a year, unless I kept no company, no servant, made no\nappearance, and buried myself in privacy, as if I was obliged to it by\nnecessity.\n\nI should have observed, that she was always made to believe, as\neverybody else was, that I was a great fortune, or at least that I had\nthree or four thousand pounds, if not more, and all in my own hands;\nand she was mighty sweet upon me when she thought me inclined in the\nleast to go into her country.  She said she had a sister lived near\nLiverpool, that her brother was a considerable gentleman there, and had\na great estate also in Ireland; that she would go down there in about\ntwo months, and if I would give her my company thither, I should be as\nwelcome as herself for a month or more as I pleased, till I should see\nhow I liked the country; and if I thought fit to live there, she would\nundertake they would take care, though they did not entertain lodgers\nthemselves, they would recommend me to some agreeable family, where I\nshould be placed to my content.\n\nIf this woman had known my real circumstances, she would never have\nlaid so many snares, and taken so many weary steps to catch a poor\ndesolate creature that was good for little when it was caught; and\nindeed I, whose case was almost desperate, and thought I could not be\nmuch worse, was not very anxious about what might befall me, provided\nthey did me no personal injury; so I suffered myself, though not\nwithout a great deal of invitation and great professions of sincere\nfriendship and real kindness--I say, I suffered myself to be prevailed\nupon to go with her, and accordingly I packed up my baggage, and put\nmyself in a posture for a journey, though I did not absolutely know\nwhither I was to go.\n\nAnd now I found myself in great distress; what little I had in the\nworld was all in money, except as before, a little plate, some linen,\nand my clothes; as for my household stuff, I had little or none, for I\nhad lived always in lodgings; but I had not one friend in the world\nwith whom to trust that little I had, or to direct me how to dispose of\nit, and this perplexed me night and day.  I thought of the bank, and of\nthe other companies in London, but I had no friend to commit the\nmanagement of it to, and keep and carry about with me bank bills,\ntallies, orders, and such things, I looked upon at as unsafe; that if\nthey were lost, my money was lost, and then I was undone; and, on the\nother hand, I might be robbed and perhaps murdered in a strange place\nfor them.  This perplexed me strangely, and what to do I knew not.\n\nIt came in my thoughts one morning that I would go to the bank myself,\nwhere I had often been to receive the interest of some bills I had,\nwhich had interest payable on them, and where I had found a clerk, to\nwhom I applied myself, very honest and just to me, and particularly so\nfair one time that when I had mistold my money, and taken less than my\ndue, and was coming away, he set me to rights and gave me the rest,\nwhich he might have put into his own pocket.\n\nI went to him and represented my case very plainly, and asked if he\nwould trouble himself to be my adviser, who was a poor friendless\nwidow, and knew not what to do.  He told me, if I desired his opinion\nof anything within the reach of his business, he would do his endeavour\nthat I should not be wronged, but that he would also help me to a good\nsober person who was a grave man of his acquaintance, who was a clerk\nin such business too, though not in their house, whose judgment was\ngood, and whose honesty I might depend upon.  'For,' added he, 'I will\nanswer for him, and for every step he takes; if he wrongs you, madam,\nof one farthing, it shall lie at my door, I will make it good; and he\ndelights to assist people in such cases--he does it as an act of\ncharity.'\n\nI was a little at a stand in this discourse; but after some pause I\ntold him I had rather have depended upon him, because I had found him\nhonest, but if that could not be, I would take his recommendation\nsooner than any one's else.  'I dare say, madam,' says he, 'that you\nwill be as well satisfied with my friend as with me, and he is\nthoroughly able to assist you, which I am not.'  It seems he had his\nhands full of the business of the bank, and had engaged to meddle with\nno other business that that of his office, which I heard afterwards,\nbut did not understand then.  He added, that his friend should take\nnothing of me for his advice or assistance, and this indeed encouraged\nme very much.\n\nHe appointed the same evening, after the bank was shut and business\nover, for me to meet him and his friend.  And indeed as soon as I saw\nhis friend, and he began but to talk of the affair, I was fully\nsatisfied that I had a very honest man to deal with; his countenance\nspoke it, and his character, as I heard afterwards, was everywhere so\ngood, that I had no room for any more  doubts upon me.\n\nAfter the first meeting, in which I only said what I had said before,\nwe parted, and he appointed me to come the next day to him, telling me\nI might in the meantime satisfy myself of him by inquiry, which,\nhowever, I knew not how well to do, having no acquaintance myself.\n\nAccordingly I met him the next day, when I entered more freely with him\ninto my case.  I told him my circumstances at large:  that I was a\nwidow come over from America, perfectly desolate and friendless; that\nI had a little money, and but a little, and was almost distracted for\nfear of losing it, having no friend in the world to trust with the\nmanagement of it; that I was going into the north of England to live\ncheap, that my stock might not waste; that I would willingly lodge my\nmoney in the bank, but that I durst not carry the bills about me, and\nthe like, as above; and how to correspond about it, or with whom, I\nknew not.\n\nHe told me I might lodge the money in the bank as an account, and its\nbeing entered into the books would entitle me to the money at any time,\nand if I was in the north I might draw bills on the cashier and receive\nit when I would; but that then it would be esteemed as running cash,\nand the bank would give no interest for it; that I might buy stock with\nit, and so it would lie in store for me, but that then if I wanted to\ndispose if it, I must come up to town on purpose to transfer it, and\neven it would be with some difficulty I should receive the half-yearly\ndividend, unless I was here in person, or had some friend I could trust\nwith having the stock in his name to do it for me, and that would have\nthe same difficulty in it as before; and with that he looked hard at me\nand smiled a little.  At last, says he, 'Why do you not get a head\nsteward, madam, that may take you and your money together into keeping,\nand then you would have the trouble taken off your hands?'  'Ay, sir,\nand the money too, it may be,' said I; 'for truly I find the hazard\nthat way is as much as 'tis t'other way'; but I remember I said\nsecretly to myself, 'I wish you would ask me the question fairly, I\nwould consider very seriously on it before I said No.'\n\nHe went on a good way with me, and I thought once or twice he was in\nearnest, but to my real affliction, I found at last he had a wife; but\nwhen he owned he had a wife he shook his head, and said with some\nconcern, that indeed he had a wife, and no wife.  I began to think he\nhad been in the condition of my late lover, and that his wife had been\ndistempered or lunatic, or some such thing.  However, we had not much\nmore discourse at that time, but he told me he was in too much hurry of\nbusiness then, but that if I would come home to his house after their\nbusiness was over, he would by that time consider what might be done\nfor me, to put my affairs in a posture of security.  I told him I would\ncome, and desired to know where he lived.  He gave me a direction in\nwriting, and when he gave it me he read it to me, and said, 'There\n'tis, madam, if you dare trust yourself with me.'  'Yes, sir,' said I,\n'I believe I may venture to trust you with myself, for you have a wife,\nyou say, and I don't want a husband; besides, I dare trust you with my\nmoney, which is all I have in the world, and if that were gone, I may\ntrust myself anywhere.'\n\nHe said some things in jest that were very handsome and mannerly, and\nwould have pleased me very well if they had been in earnest; but that\npassed over, I took the directions, and appointed to attend him at his\nhouse at seven o'clock the same evening.\n\nWhen I came he made several proposals for my placing my money in the\nbank, in order to my having interest for it; but still some difficulty\nor other came in the way, which he objected as not safe; and I found\nsuch a sincere disinterested honesty in him, that I began to muse with\nmyself, that I had certainly found the honest man I wanted, and that I\ncould never put myself into better hands; so I told him with a great\ndeal of frankness that I had never met with a man or woman yet that I\ncould trust, or in whom I could think myself safe, but that I saw he\nwas so disinterestedly concerned for my safety, that I said I would\nfreely trust him with the management of that little I had, if he would\naccept to be steward for a poor widow that could give him no salary.\n\nHe smiled and, standing up, with great respect saluted me.  He told me\nhe could not but take it very kindly that I had so good an opinion of\nhim; that he would not deceive me, that he would do anything in his\npower to serve me, and expect no salary; but that he could not by any\nmeans accept of a trust, that it might bring him to be suspected of\nself-interest, and that if I should die he might have disputes with my\nexecutors, which he should be very loth to encumber himself with.\n\nI told him if those were all his objections I would soon remove them,\nand convince him that there was not the least room for any difficulty;\nfor that, first, as for suspecting him, if ever I should do it, now is\nthe time to suspect him, and not put the trust into his hands, and\nwhenever I did suspect him, he could but throw it up then and refuse to\ngo any further.  Then, as to executors, I assured him I had no heirs,\nnor any relations in England, and I should alter my condition before I\ndied, and then his trust and trouble should cease together, which,\nhowever, I had no prospect of yet; but I told him if I died as I was,\nit should be all his own, and he would deserve it by being so faithful\nto me as I was satisfied he would be.\n\nHe changed his countenance at this discourse, and asked me how I came\nto have so much good-will for him; and, looking very much pleased, said\nhe might very lawfully wish he was a single man for my sake.  I smiled,\nand told him as he was not, my offer could have no design upon him in\nit, and to wish, as he did, was not to be allowed, 'twas criminal to\nhis wife.\n\nHe told me I was wrong.  'For,' says he, 'madam, as I said before, I\nhave a wife and no wife, and 'twould be no sin to me to wish her\nhanged, if that were all.'  'I know nothing of your circumstances that\nway, sir,' said I; 'but it cannot be innocent to wish your wife dead.'\n'I tell you,' says he again, 'she is a wife and no wife; you don't know\nwhat I am, or what she is.'\n\n'That's true,' said I; 'sir, I do not know what you are, but I believe\nyou to be an honest man, and that's the cause of all my confidence in\nyou.'\n\n'Well, well,' says he, 'and so I am, I hope, too.  But I am something\nelse too, madam; for,' says he, 'to be plain with you, I am a cuckold,\nand she is a whore.'  He spoke it in a kind of jest, but it was with\nsuch an awkward smile, that I perceived it was what struck very close\nto him, and he looked dismally when he said it.\n\n'That alters the case indeed, sir,' said I, 'as to that part you were\nspeaking of; but a cuckold, you know, may be an honest man; it does not\nalter that case at all.  Besides, I think,' said I, 'since your wife is\nso dishonest to you, you are too honest to her to own her for your\nwife; but that,' said I, 'is what I have nothing to do with.'\n\n'Nay,' says he, 'I do not think to clear my hands of her; for, to be\nplain with you, madam,' added he, 'I am no contended cuckold neither:\non the other hand, I assure you it provokes me the highest degree, but\nI can't help myself; she that will be a whore, will be a whore.'\n\nI waived the discourse and began to talk of my business; but I found he\ncould not have done with it, so I let him alone, and he went on to tell\nme all the circumstances of his case, too long to relate here;\nparticularly, that having been out of England some time before he came\nto the post he was in, she had had two children in the meantime by an\nofficer of the army; and that when he came to England and, upon her\nsubmission, took her again, and maintained her very well, yet she ran\naway from him with a linen-draper's apprentice, robbed him of what she\ncould come at, and continued to live from him still.  'So that, madam,'\nsays he, 'she is a whore not by necessity, which is the common bait of\nyour sex, but by inclination, and for the sake of the vice.'\n\nWell, I pitied him, and wished him well rid of her, and still would\nhave talked of my business, but it would not do.  At last he looks\nsteadily at me.  'Look you, madam,' says he, 'you came to ask advice of\nme, and I will serve you as faithfully as if you were my own sister;\nbut I must turn the tables, since you oblige me to do it, and are so\nfriendly to me, and I think I must ask advice of you.  Tell me, what\nmust a poor abused fellow do with a whore?  What can I do to do myself\njustice upon her?'\n\n'Alas! sir,' says I, ''tis a case too nice for me to advise in, but it\nseems she has run away from you, so you are rid of her fairly; what can\nyou desire more?'  'Ay, she is gone indeed,' said he, 'but I am not\nclear of her for all that.'\n\n'That's true,' says I; 'she may indeed run you into debt, but the law\nhas furnished you with methods to prevent that also; you may cry her\ndown, as they call it.'\n\n'No, no,' says he, 'that is not the case neither; I have taken care of\nall that; 'tis not that part that I speak of, but I would be rid of her\nso that I might marry again.'\n\n'Well, sir,' says I, 'then you must divorce her.  If you can prove what\nyou say, you may certainly get that done, and then, I suppose, you are\nfree.'\n\n'That's very tedious and expensive,' says he.\n\n'Why,' says I, 'if you can get any woman you like to take your word, I\nsuppose your wife would not dispute the liberty with you that she takes\nherself.'\n\n'Ay,' says he, 'but 'twould be hard to bring an honest woman to do\nthat; and for the other sort,' says he, 'I have had enough of her to\nmeddle with any more whores.'\n\nIt occurred to me presently, 'I would have taken your word with all my\nheart, if you had but asked me the question'; but that was to myself.\nTo him I replied, 'Why, you shut the door against any honest woman\naccepting you, for you condemn all that should venture upon you at\nonce, and conclude, that really a woman that takes you now can't be\nhonest.'\n\n'Why,' says he, 'I wish you would satisfy me that an honest woman would\ntake me; I'd venture it'; and then turns short upon me, 'Will you take\nme, madam?'\n\n'That's not a fair question,' says I, 'after what you have said;\nhowever, lest you should think I wait only for a recantation of it, I\nshall answer you plainly, No, not I; my business is of another kind\nwith you, and I did not expect you would have turned my serious\napplication to you, in my own distracted case, into a comedy.'\n\n'Why, madam,' says he, 'my case is as distracted as yours can be, and I\nstand in as much need of advice as you do, for I think if I have not\nrelief somewhere, I shall be made myself, and I know not what course to\ntake, I protest to you.'\n\n'Why, sir,' says I, ''tis easy to give advice in your case, much easier\nthan it is in mine.'  'Speak then,' says he, 'I beg of you, for now you\nencourage me.'\n\n'Why,' says I, 'if your case is so plain as you say it is, you may be\nlegally divorced, and then you may find honest women enough to ask the\nquestion of fairly; the sex is not so scarce that you can want a wife.'\n\n'Well, then,' said he, 'I am in earnest; I'll take your advice; but\nshall I ask you one question seriously beforehand?'\n\n'Any question,' said I, 'but that you did before.'\n\n'No, that answer will not do,' said he, 'for, in short, that is the\nquestion I shall ask.'\n\n'You may ask what questions you please, but you have my answer to that\nalready,' said I.  'Besides, sir,' said I, 'can you think so ill of me\nas that I would give any answer to such a question beforehand?  Can any\nwoman alive believe you in earnest, or think you design anything but to\nbanter her?'\n\n'Well, well,' says he, 'I do not banter you, I am in earnest; consider\nof it.'\n\n'But, sir,' says I, a little gravely, 'I came to you about my own\nbusiness; I beg of you to let me know, what you will advise me to do?'\n\n'I will be prepared,' says he, 'against you come again.'\n\n'Nay,' says I, 'you have forbid my coming any more.'\n\n'Why so?' said he, and looked a little surprised.\n\n'Because,' said I, 'you can't expect I should visit you on the account\nyou talk of.'\n\n'Well,' says he, 'you shall promise me to come again, however, and I\nwill not say any more of it till I have gotten the divorce, but I\ndesire you will prepare to be better conditioned when that's done, for\nyou shall be the woman, or I will not be divorced at all; why, I owe it\nto your unlooked-for kindness, if it were to nothing else, but I have\nother reasons too.'\n\nHe could not have said anything in the world that pleased me better;\nhowever, I knew that the way to secure him was to stand off while the\nthing was so remote, as it appeared to be, and that it was time enough\nto accept of it when he was able to perform it; so I said very\nrespectfully to him, it was time enough to consider of these things\nwhen he was in a condition to talk of them; in the meantime, I told\nhim, I was going a great way from him, and he would find objects enough\nto please him better.  We broke off here for the present, and he made\nme promise him to come again the next day, for his resolutions upon my\nown business, which after some pressing I did; though had he seen\nfarther into me, I wanted no pressing on that account.\n\nI came the next evening, accordingly, and brought my maid with me, to\nlet him see that I kept a maid, but I sent her away as soon as I was\ngone in.  He would have had me let the maid have stayed, but I would\nnot, but ordered her aloud to come for me again about nine o'clock.\nBut he forbade that, and told me he would see me safe home, which, by\nthe way, I was not very well please with, supposing he might do that to\nknow where I lived and inquire into my character and circumstances.\nHowever, I ventured that, for all that the people there or thereabout\nknew of me, was to my advantage; and all the character he had of me,\nafter he had inquired, was that I was a woman of fortune, and that I\nwas a very modest, sober body; which, whether true or not in the main,\nyet you may see how necessary it is for all women who expect anything\nin the world, to preserve the character of their virtue, even when\nperhaps they may have sacrificed the thing itself.\n\nI found, and was not a little please with it, that he had provided a\nsupper for me.  I found also he lived very handsomely, and had a house\nvery handsomely furnished; all of which I was rejoiced at indeed, for I\nlooked upon it as all my own.\n\nWe had now a second conference upon the subject-matter of the last\nconference.  He laid his business very home indeed; he protested his\naffection to me, and indeed I had no room to doubt it; he declared that\nit began from the first moment I talked with him, and long before I had\nmentioned leaving my effects with him.  ''Tis no matter when it began,'\nthought I; 'if it will but hold, 'twill be well enough.'  He then told\nme how much the offer I had made of trusting him with my effects, and\nleaving them to him, had engaged him.  'So I intended it should,'\nthought I, 'but then I thought you had been a single man too.'  After\nwe had supped, I observed he pressed me very hard to drink two or three\nglasses of wine, which, however, I declined, but drank one glass or\ntwo.  He then told me he had a proposal to make to me, which I should\npromise him I would not take ill if I should not grant it.  I told him\nI hoped he would make no dishonourable proposal to me, especially in\nhis own house, and that if it was such, I desired he would not propose\nit, that I might not be obliged to offer any resentment to him that did\nnot become the respect I professed for him, and the trust I had placed\nin him in coming to his house; and begged of him he would give me leave\nto go away, and accordingly began to put on my gloves and prepare to be\ngone, though at the same time I no more intended it than he intended to\nlet me.\n\nWell, he importuned me not to talk of going; he assured me he had no\ndishonourable thing in his thoughts about me, and was very far from\noffering anything to me that was dishonourable, and if I thought so, he\nwould choose to say no more of it.\n\nThat part I did not relish at all.  I told him I was ready to hear\nanything that he had to say, depending that he would say nothing\nunworthy of himself, or unfit for me to hear.  Upon this, he told me\nhis proposal was this:  that I would marry him, though he had not yet\nobtained the divorce from the whore his wife; and to satisfy me that he\nmeant honourably, he would promise not to desire me to live with him,\nor go to bed with him till the divorce was obtained.  My heart said yes\nto this offer at first word, but it was necessary to play the hypocrite\na little more with him; so I seemed to decline the motion with some\nwarmth, and besides a little condemning the thing as unfair, told him\nthat such a proposal could be of no signification, but to entangle us\nboth in great difficulties; for if he should not at last obtain the\ndivorce, yet we could not dissolve the marriage, neither could we\nproceed in it; so that if he was disappointed in the divorce, I left\nhim to consider what a condition we should both be in.\n\nIn short, I carried on the argument against this so far, that I\nconvinced him it was not a proposal that had any sense in it.  Well,\nthen he went from it to another, and that was, that I would sign and\nseal a contract with him, conditioning to marry him as soon as the\ndivorce was obtained, and to be void if he could not obtain it.\n\nI told him such a thing was more rational than the other; but as this\nwas the first time that ever I could imagine him weak enough to be in\nearnest in this affair, I did not use to say Yes at first asking; I\nwould consider of it.\n\nI played with this lover as an angler does with a trout.  I found I had\nhim fast on the hook, so I jested with his new proposal, and put him\noff.  I told him he knew little of me, and bade him inquire about me; I\nlet him also go home with me to my lodging, though I would not ask him\nto go in, for I told him it was not decent.\n\nIn short, I ventured to avoid signing a contract of marriage, and the\nreason why I did it was because the lady that had invited me so\nearnestly to go with her into Lancashire insisted so positively upon\nit, and promised me such great fortunes, and such fine things there,\nthat I was tempted to go and try.  'Perhaps,' said I, 'I may mend\nmyself very much'; and then I made no scruple in my thoughts of\nquitting my honest citizen, whom I was not so much in love with as not\nto leave him for a richer.\n\nIn a word, I avoided a contract; but told him I would go into the\nnorth, that he should know where to write to me by the consequence of\nthe business I had entrusted with him; that I would give him a\nsufficient pledge of my respect for him, for I would leave almost all I\nhad in the world in his hands; and I would thus far give him my word,\nthat as soon as he had sued out a divorce from his first wife, he would\nsend me an account of it, I would come up to London, and that then we\nwould talk seriously of the matter.\n\nIt was a base design I went with, that I must confess, though I was\ninvited thither with a design much worse than mine was, as the sequel\nwill discover.  Well, I went with my friend, as I called her, into\nLancashire.  All the way we went she caressed me with the utmost\nappearance of a sincere, undissembled affection; treated me, except my\ncoach-hire, all the way; and her brother brought a gentleman's coach to\nWarrington to receive us, and we were carried from thence to Liverpool\nwith as much ceremony as I could desire.  We were also entertained at a\nmerchant's house in Liverpool three or four days very handsomely; I\nforbear to tell his name, because of what followed.  Then she told me\nshe would carry me to an uncle's house of hers, where we should be\nnobly entertained.  She did so; her uncle, as she called him, sent a\ncoach and four horses for us, and we were carried near forty miles I\nknow not whither.\n\nWe came, however, to a gentleman's seat, where was a numerous family, a\nlarge park, extraordinary company indeed, and where she was called\ncousin.  I told her if she had resolved to bring me into such company\nas this, she should have let me have prepared myself, and have\nfurnished myself with better clothes.  The ladies took notice of that,\nand told me very genteelly they did not value people in their country\nso much by their clothes as they did in London; that their cousin had\nfully informed them of my quality, and that I did not want clothes to\nset me off; in short, they entertained me, not like what I was, but\nlike what they thought I had been, namely, a widow lady of a great\nfortune.\n\nThe first discovery I made here was, that the family were all Roman\nCatholics, and the cousin too, whom I called my friend; however, I must\nsay that nobody in the world could behave better to me, and I had all\nthe civility shown me that I could have had if I had been of their\nopinion.  The truth is, I had not so much principle of any kind as to\nbe nice in point of religion, and I presently learned to speak\nfavourably of the Romish Church; particularly, I told them I saw little\nbut the prejudice of education in all the difference that were among\nChristians about religion, and if it had so happened that my father had\nbeen a Roman Catholic, I doubted not but I should have been as well\npleased with their religion as my own.\n\nThis obliged them in the highest degree, and as I was besieged day and\nnight with good company and pleasant discourse, so I had two or three\nold ladies that lay at me upon the subject of religion too.  I was so\ncomplaisant, that though I would not completely engage, yet I made no\nscruple to be present at their mass, and to conform to all their\ngestures as they showed me the pattern, but I would not come too cheap;\nso that I only in the main encouraged them to expect that I would turn\nRoman Catholic, if I was instructed in the Catholic doctrine as they\ncalled it, and so the matter rested.\n\nI stayed here about six weeks; and then my conductor led me back to a\ncountry village, about six miles from Liverpool, where her brother (as\nshe called him) came to visit me in his own chariot, and in a very good\nfigure, with two footmen in a good livery; and the next thing was to\nmake love to me.  As it had happened to me, one would think I could not\nhave been cheated, and indeed I thought so myself, having a safe card\nat home, which I resolved not to quit unless I could mend myself very\nmuch.  However, in all appearance this brother was a match worth my\nlistening to, and the least his estate was valued at was #1000 a year,\nbut the sister said it was worth #1500 a year, and  lay most of it in\nIreland.\n\nI that was a great fortune, and passed for such, was above being asked\nhow much my estate was; and my false friend taking it upon a foolish\nhearsay, had raised it from #500 to #5000, and by the time she came\ninto the country she called it  #15,000.  The Irishman, for such I\nunderstood him to be, was stark mad at this bait; in short, he courted\nme, made me presents, and ran in debt like a madman for the expenses of\nhis equipage and of  his courtship.  He had, to give him his due, the\nappearance of an extraordinary fine gentleman; he was tall,\nwell-shaped, and had an extraordinary address; talked as naturally of\nhis park and his stables, of his horses, his gamekeepers, his woods,\nhis tenants, and his servants, as if we had been in the mansion-house,\nand I had seen them all about me.\n\nHe never so much as asked me about my fortune or estate, but assured me\nthat when we came to Dublin he would jointure me in #600 a year good\nland; and that we could enter into a deed of settlement or contract\nhere for the performance of it.\n\nThis was such language indeed as I had not been used to, and I was here\nbeaten out of all my measures; I had a she-devil in my bosom, every\nhour telling me how great her brother lived.  One time she would come\nfor my orders, how I would have my coaches painted, and how lined; and\nanother time what clothes my page should wear; in short, my eyes were\ndazzled.  I had now lost my power of saying No, and, to cut the story\nshort, I consented to be married; but to be the more private, we were\ncarried farther into the country, and married by a Romish clergyman,\nwho I was assured would marry us as effectually as a Church of England\nparson.\n\nI cannot say but I had some reflections in this affair upon the\ndishonourable forsaking my faithful citizen, who loved me sincerely,\nand who was endeavouring to quit himself of a scandalous whore by whom\nhe had been indeed barbarously used, and promised himself infinite\nhappiness in his new choice; which choice was now giving up herself to\nanother in a manner almost as scandalous as hers could be.\n\nBut the glittering shoe of a great estate, and of fine things, which\nthe deceived creature that was now my deceiver represented every hour\nto my imagination, hurried me away, and gave me no time to think of\nLondon, or of anything there, much less of the obligation I had to a\nperson of infinitely more real merit than what was now before me.\n\nBut the thing was done; I was now in the arms of my new spouse, who\nappeared still the same as before; great even to magnificence, and\nnothing less than #1000 a year could support the ordinary equipage he\nappeared in.\n\nAfter we had been married about a month, he began to talk of my going\nto West Chester in order to embark for Ireland.  However, he did not\nhurry me, for we stayed near three weeks longer, and then he sent to\nChester for a coach to meet us at the Black Rock, as they call it, over\nagainst Liverpool.  Thither we went in a fine boat they call a pinnace,\nwith six oars; his servants, and horses, and baggage going in the\nferry-boat.  He made his excuse to me that he had no acquaintance in\nChester, but he would go before and get some handsome apartment for me\nat a private house.  I asked him how long we should stay at Chester.\nHe said, not at all, any longer than one night or two, but he would\nimmediately hire a coach to go to Holyhead.  Then I told him he should\nby no means give himself the trouble to get private lodgings for one\nnight or two, for that Chester being a great place, I made no doubt but\nthere would be very good inns and accommodation enough; so we lodged at\nan inn in the West Street, not far from the Cathedral; I forget what\nsign it was at.\n\nHere my spouse, talking of my going to Ireland, asked me if I had no\naffairs to settle at London before we went off.  I told him No, not of\nany great consequence, but what might be done as well by letter from\nDublin.  'Madam,' says he, very respectfully, 'I suppose the greatest\npart of your estate, which my sister tells me is most of it in money in\nthe Bank of England, lies secure enough, but in case it required\ntransferring, or any way altering its property, it might be necessary\nto go up to London and settle those things before we went over.'\n\nI seemed to look strange at it, and told him I knew not what he meant;\nthat I had no effects in the Bank of England that I knew of; and I\nhoped he could not say that I had ever told him I had.  No, he said, I\nhad not told him so, but his sister had said the greatest part of my\nestate lay there.  'And I only mentioned it, me dear,' said he, 'that\nif there was any occasion to settle it, or order anything about it, we\nmight not be obliged to the hazard and trouble of another voyage back\nagain'; for he added, that he did not care to venture me too much upon\nthe sea.\n\nI was surprised at this talk, and began to consider very seriously what\nthe meaning of it must be; and it presently occurred to me that my\nfriend, who called him brother, had represented me in colours which\nwere not my due; and I thought, since it was come to that pitch, that I\nwould know the bottom of it before I went out of England, and before I\nshould put myself into I knew not whose hands in a strange country.\n\nUpon this I called his sister into my chamber the next morning, and\nletting her know the discourse her brother and I had been upon the\nevening before, I conjured her to tell me what she had said to him, and\nupon what foot it was that she had made this marriage.  She owned that\nshe had told him that I was a great fortune, and said that she was told\nso at London.  'Told so!' says I warmly; 'did I ever tell you so?'  No,\nshe said, it was true I did not tell her so, but I had said several\ntimes that what I had was in my own disposal.  'I did so,' returned I\nvery quickly and hastily, 'but I never told you I had anything called a\nfortune; no, not that I had #100, or the value of #100, in the world.\nAny how did it consist with my being a fortune,' said I, 'that I should\ncome here into the north of England with you, only upon the account of\nliving cheap?' At these words, which I spoke warm and high, my husband,\nher brother (as she called him), came into the room, and I desired him\nto come and sit down, for I had something of moment to say before them\nboth, which it was absolutely necessary he should hear.\n\nHe looked a little disturbed at the assurance with which I seemed to\nspeak it, and came and sat down by me, having first shut the door; upon\nwhich I began, for I was very much provoked, and turning myself to him,\n'I am afraid,' says I, 'my dear' (for I spoke with kindness on his\nside), 'that you have a very great abuse put upon you, and an injury\ndone you never to be repaired in your marrying me, which, however, as I\nhave had no hand in it, I desire I may be fairly acquitted of it, and\nthat the blame may lie where it ought to lie, and nowhere else, for I\nwash my hands of every part of it.'\n\n'What injury can be done me, my dear,' says he, 'in marrying you.  I\nhope it is to my honour and advantage every way.'  'I will soon explain\nit to you,' says I, 'and I fear you will have no reason to think\nyourself well used; but I will convince you, my dear,' says I again,\n'that I have had no hand in it'; and there I stopped a while.\n\nHe looked now scared and wild, and began, I believe, to suspect what\nfollowed; however, looking towards me, and saying only, 'Go on,' he sat\nsilent, as if to hear what I had more to say; so I went on.  'I asked\nyou last night,' said I, speaking to him, 'if ever I made any boast to\nyou of my estate, or ever told you I had any estate in the Bank of\nEngland or anywhere else, and you owned I had not, as is most true; and\nI desire you will tell me here, before your sister, if ever I gave you\nany reason from me to think so, or that ever we had any discourse about\nit'; and he owned again I had not, but said I had appeared always as a\nwoman of fortune, and he depended on it that I was so, and hoped he was\nnot deceived.  'I am not inquiring yet whether you have been deceived\nor not,' said I; 'I fear you have, and I too; but I am clearing myself\nfrom the unjust charge of being concerned in deceiving you.\n\n'I have been now asking your sister if ever I told her of any fortune\nor estate I had, or gave her any particulars of it; and she owns I\nnever did.  Any pray, madam,' said I, turning myself to her, 'be so\njust to me, before your brother, to charge me, if you can, if ever I\npretended to you that I had an estate; and why, if I had, should I come\ndown into this country with you on purpose to spare that little I had,\nand live cheap?'  She could not deny one word, but said she had been\ntold in London that I had a very great fortune, and that it lay in the\nBank of England.\n\n'And now, dear sir,' said I, turning myself to my new spouse again, 'be\nso just to me as to tell me who has abused both you and me so much as\nto make you believe I was a fortune, and prompt you to court me to this\nmarriage?'  He could not speak a word, but pointed to her; and, after\nsome more pause, flew out in the most furious passion that ever I saw a\nman in my life, cursing her, and calling her all the whores and hard\nnames he could think of; and that she had ruined him, declaring that\nshe had told him I had #15,000, and that she was to have #500 of him\nfor procuring this match for him.  He then added, directing his speech\nto me, that she was none of his sister, but had been his whore for two\nyears before, that she had had #100 of him in part of this bargain, and\nthat he was utterly undone if things were as I said; and in his raving\nhe swore he would let her heart's blood out immediately, which\nfrightened her and me too.  She cried, said she had been told so in the\nhouse where I lodged.  But this aggravated him more than before, that\nshe should put so far upon him, and run things such a length upon no\nother authority than a hearsay; and then, turning to me again, said\nvery honestly, he was afraid we were both undone.  'For, to be plain,\nmy dear, I have no estate,' says he; 'what little I had, this devil has\nmade me run out in waiting on you and putting me into this equipage.'\nShe took the opportunity of his being earnest in talking with me, and\ngot out of the room, and I never saw her more.\n\nI was confounded now as much as he,  and knew not what to say.  I\nthought many ways that I had the worst of it, but his saying he was\nundone, and that he had no estate neither, put me into a mere\ndistraction.  'Why,' says I to him, 'this has been a hellish juggle,\nfor we are married here upon the foot of a double fraud; you are undone\nby the disappointment, it seems; and if I had had a fortune I had been\ncheated too, for you say you have nothing.'\n\n'You would indeed have been cheated, my dear,' says he, 'but you would\nnot have been undone, for #15,000 would have maintained us both very\nhandsomely in this country; and I assure you,' added he, 'I had\nresolved to have dedicated every groat of it to you; I would not have\nwronged you of a shilling, and the rest I would have made up in my\naffection to you, and tenderness of you, as long as I lived.'\n\nThis was very honest indeed, and I really believe he spoke as he\nintended, and that he was a man that was as well qualified to make me\nhappy, as to his temper and behaviour, as any man ever was; but his\nhaving no estate, and being run into debt on this ridiculous account in\nthe country, made all the prospect dismal and dreadful, and I knew not\nwhat to say, or what to think of myself.\n\nI told him it was very unhappy that so much love, and so much good\nnature as I discovered in him, should be thus precipitated into misery;\nthat I saw nothing before us but ruin; for as to me, it was my\nunhappiness that what little I had was not able to relieve us week, and\nwith that I pulled out a bank bill of #20 and eleven guineas, which I\ntold him I had saved out of  my little income, and that by the account\nthat creature had given me of the way of living in that country, I\nexpected it would maintain me three or four years; that if it was taken\nfrom me, I was left destitute, and he knew what the condition of a\nwoman among strangers must be, if she had no money in her pocket;\nhowever, I told him, if he would take it, there it was.\n\nHe told me with a great concern, and I thought I saw tears stand in his\neyes, that he would not touch it; that he abhorred the thoughts of\nstripping me and make me miserable; that, on the contrary, he had fifty\nguineas left, which was all he had in the world, and he pulled it out\nand threw it down on the table, bidding me take it, though he were to\nstarve for want of it.\n\nI returned, with the same concern for him, that I could not bear to\nhear him talk so; that, on the contrary, if he could propose any\nprobable method of living, I would do anything that became me on my\npart, and that I would live as close and as narrow as he could desire.\n\nHe begged of me to talk no more at that rate, for it would make him\ndistracted; he said he was bred a gentleman, though he was reduced to a\nlow fortune, and that there was but one way left which he could think\nof, and that would not do, unless I could answer him one question,\nwhich, however, he said he would not press me to.  I told him I would\nanswer it honestly; whether it would be to his satisfaction or not,\nthat I could not tell.\n\n'Why, then, my dear, tell me plainly,' says he, 'will the little you\nhave keep us together in any figure, or in any station or place, or\nwill it not?'\n\nIt was my happiness hitherto that I had not discovered myself or my\ncircumstances at all--no, not so much as my name; and seeing these was\nnothing to be expected from him, however good-humoured and however\nhonest he seemed to be, but to live on what I knew would soon be\nwasted, I resolved to conceal everything but the bank bill and the\neleven guineas which I had owned; and I would have been very glad to\nhave lost that and have been set down where he took me up.  I had\nindeed another bank bill about me of #30, which was the whole of what I\nbrought with me, as well to subsist on in the country, as not knowing\nwhat might offer; because this creature, the go-between that had thus\nbetrayed us both, had made me believe strange things of my marrying to\nmy advantage in the country, and I was not willing to be without money,\nwhatever might happen.  This bill I concealed, and that made me the\nfreer of the rest, in consideration of his circumstances, for I really\npitied him heartily.\n\nBut to return to his question, I told him I never willingly deceived\nhim, and I never would.  I was very sorry to tell him that the little I\nhad would not subsist us; that it was not sufficient to subsist me\nalone in the south country, and that this was the reason that made me\nput myself into the hands of that woman who called him brother, she\nhaving assured me that I might board very handsomely at a town called\nManchester, where I had not yet been, for about #6 a year; and my whole\nincome not being about #15 a year, I thought I might live easy upon it,\nand wait for better things.\n\nHe shook his head and remained silent, and a very melancholy evening we\nhad; however, we supped together, and lay together that night, and when\nwe had almost supped he looked a little better and more cheerful, and\ncalled for a bottle of wine.  'Come, my dear,' says he, 'though the\ncase is bad, it is to no purpose to be dejected.  Come, be as easy as\nyou can; I will endeavour to find out some way or other to live; if you\ncan but subsist yourself, that is better than nothing.  I must try the\nworld again; a man ought to think like a man; to be discouraged is to\nyield to the misfortune.'  With this he filled a glass and drank to me,\nholding my hand and pressing it hard in his hand all the while the wine\nwent down, and protesting afterwards his main concern was for me.\n\nIt was really a true, gallant spirit he was of, and it was the more\ngrievous to me.  'Tis something of relief even to be undone by a man of\nhonour, rather than by a scoundrel; but here the greatest\ndisappointment was on his side, for he had really spent a great deal of\nmoney, deluded by this madam the procuress; and it was very remarkable\non what poor terms he proceeded.  First the baseness of the creature\nherself is to be observed, who, for the getting #100 herself, could be\ncontent to let him spend three or four more, though perhaps it was all\nhe had in the world, and more than all; when she had not the least\nground, more than a little tea-table chat, to say that I had any\nestate, or was a fortune, or the like.  It is true the design of\ndeluding a woman of fortune, if I had been so, was base enough; the\nputting the face of great things upon poor circumstances was a fraud,\nand bad enough; but the case a little differed too, and that in his\nfavour, for he was not a rake that made a trade to delude women, and,\nas some have done, get six or seven fortunes after one another, and\nthen rifle and run away from them; but he was really a gentleman,\nunfortunate and low, but had lived well; and though, if I had had a\nfortune, I should have been enraged at the slut for betraying me, yet\nreally for the man, a fortune would not have been ill bestowed on him,\nfor he was a lovely person indeed, of generous principles, good sense,\nand of abundance of good-humour.\n\nWe had a great deal of close conversation that night, for we neither of\nus slept much; he was as penitent for having put all those cheats upon\nme as if it had been felony, and that he was going to execution; he\noffered me again every shilling of the money he had about him, and said\nhe would go into the army and seek the world for more.\n\nI asked him why he would be so unkind to carry me into Ireland, when I\nmight suppose he could not have subsisted me there.  He took me in his\narms.  'My dear,' said he, 'depend upon it, I never designed to go to\nIreland at all, much less to have carried you thither, but came hither\nto be out of the observation of the people, who had heard what I\npretended to, and withal, that nobody might ask me for money before I\nwas furnished to supply them.'\n\n'But where, then,' said I, 'were we to have gone next?'\n\n'Why, my dear,' said he, 'I'll confess the whole scheme to you as I had\nlaid it; I purposed here to ask you something about your estate, as you\nsee I did, and when you, as I expected you would, had entered into some\naccount with me of the particulars, I would have made an excuse to you\nto have put off our voyage to Ireland for some time, and to have gone\nfirst towards London.\n\n'Then, my dear,' said he, 'I resolved to have confessed all the\ncircumstances of my own affairs to you, and let you know I had indeed\nmade use of these artifices to obtain your consent to marry me, but had\nnow nothing to do but ask to your pardon, and to tell you how\nabundantly, as I have said above, I would endeavour to make you forget\nwhat was past, by the felicity of the days to come.'\n\n'Truly,' said I to him, 'I find you would soon have conquered me; and\nit is my affliction now, that I am not in a condition to let you see\nhow easily I should have been reconciled to you, and have passed by all\nthe tricks you had put upon me, in recompense of so much good-humour.\nBut, my dear,' said I, 'what can we do now?  We are both undone, and\nwhat better are we for our being reconciled together, seeing we have\nnothing to live on?'\n\nWe proposed a great many things, but nothing could offer where there\nwas nothing to begin with.  He begged me at last to talk no more of it,\nfor, he said, I would break his heart; so we talked of other things a\nlittle, till at last he took a husband's leave of me, and so we went to\nsleep.\n\nHe rose before me in the morning; and indeed, having lain awake almost\nall night, I was very sleepy, and lay till near eleven o'clock.  In\nthis time he took his horses and three servants, and all his linen and\nbaggage, and away he went, leaving a short but moving letter for me on\nthe table, as follows:--\n\n\n'MY DEAR--I am a dog; I have abused you; but I have been drawn into do\nit by a base creature, contrary to my principle and the general\npractice of my life.  Forgive me, my dear!  I ask your pardon with the\ngreatest sincerity; I am the most miserable of men, in having deluded\nyou.  I have been so happy to possess you, and now am so wretched as to\nbe forced to fly from you.  Forgive me, my dear; once more I say,\nforgive me!  I am not able to see you ruined by me, and myself unable\nto support you.  Our marriage is nothing; I shall never be able to see\nyou again; I here discharge you from it; if you can marry to your\nadvantage, do not decline it on my account; I here swear to you on my\nfaith, and on the word of a man of honour, I will never disturb your\nrepose if I should know of it, which, however, is not likely.  On the\nother hand, if you should not marry, and if good fortune should befall\nme, it shall be all yours, wherever you are.\n\n'I have put some of the stock of money I have left into your pocket;\ntake places for yourself and your maid in the stage-coach, and go for\nLondon; I hope it will bear your charges thither, without breaking into\nyour own.  Again I sincerely ask your pardon, and will do so as often\nas I shall ever think of you.  Adieu, my dear, for ever!--I am, your\nmost affectionately, J.E.'\n\n\nNothing that ever befell me in my life sank so deep into my heart as\nthis farewell.  I reproached him a thousand times in my thoughts for\nleaving me, for I would have gone with him through the world, if I had\nbegged my bread.  I felt in my pocket, and there found ten guineas, his\ngold watch, and two little rings, one a small diamond ring worth only\nabout #6, and the other a plain gold ring.\n\nI sat me down and looked upon these things two hours together, and\nscarce spoke a word, till my maid interrupted me by telling me my\ndinner was ready.  I ate but little, and after dinner I fell into a\nvehement fit of crying, every now and then calling him by his name,\nwhich was James.  'O Jemmy!' said I, 'come back, come back.  I'll give\nyou all I have; I'll beg, I'll starve with you.'  And thus I ran raving\nabout the room several times, and then sat down between whiles, and\nthen walking about again, called upon him to come back, and then cried\nagain; and thus I passed the afternoon, till about seven o'clock, when\nit was near dusk, in the evening, being August, when, to my unspeakable\nsurprise, he comes back into the inn, but without a servant, and comes\ndirectly up into my chamber.\n\nI was in the greatest confusion imaginable, and so was he too.  I could\nnot imagine what should be the occasion of it, and began to be at odds\nwith myself whether to be glad or sorry; but my affection biassed all\nthe rest, and it was impossible to conceal my joy, which was too great\nfor smiles, for it burst out into tears.  He was no sooner entered the\nroom but he ran to me and took me in his arms, holding me fast, and\nalmost stopping my breath with his kisses, but spoke not a word.  At\nlength I began.  'My dear,' said I, 'how could you go away from me?' to\nwhich he gave no answer, for it was impossible for him to speak.\n\nWhen our ecstasies were a little over, he told me he was gone about\nfifteen miles, but it was not in his power to go any farther without\ncoming back to see me again, and to take his leave of me once more.\n\nI told him how I had passed my time, and how loud I had called him to\ncome back again.  He told me he heard me very plain upon Delamere\nForest, at a place about twelve miles off.  I smiled.   'Nay,' says he,\n'do not think I am in jest, for if ever I heard your voice in my life,\nI heard you call me aloud, and sometimes I thought I saw you running\nafter me.'  'Why,' said I, 'what did I say?'--for I had not named the\nwords to him.  'You called aloud,' says he, 'and said, O Jemmy!  O\nJemmy!  come back, come back.'\n\nI laughed at him.  'My dear,' says he, 'do not laugh, for, depend upon\nit, I heard your voice as plain as you hear mine now; if you please,\nI'll go before a magistrate and make oath of it.'  I then began to be\namazed and surprised, and indeed frightened, and told him what I had\nreally done, and how I had called after him, as above.\n\nWhen we had amused ourselves a while about this, I said to him:  'Well,\nyou shall go away from me no more; I'll go all over the world with you\nrather.'  He told me it would be a very difficult thing for him to leave\nme, but since it must be, he hoped I would make it as easy to me as I\ncould; but as for him, it would be his destruction that he foresaw.\n\nHowever, he told me that he considered he had left me to travel to\nLondon alone, which was too long a journey; and that as he might as\nwell go that way as any way else, he was resolved to see me safe\nthither, or near it; and if he did go away then without taking his\nleave, I should not take it ill of him; and this he made me promise.\n\nHe told me how he had dismissed his three servants, sold their horses,\nand sent the fellows away to seek their fortunes, and all in a little\ntime, at a town on the road, I know not where.  'And,' says he, 'it\ncost me some tears all alone by myself, to think how much happier they\nwere than their master, for they could go to the next gentleman's house\nto see for a service, whereas,' said he, 'I knew not wither to go, or\nwhat to do with myself.'\n\nI told him I was so completely miserable in parting with him, that I\ncould not be worse; and that now he was come again, I would not go from\nhim, if he would take me with him, let him go whither he would, or do\nwhat he would.  And in the meantime I agreed that we would go together\nto London; but I could not be brought to consent he should go away at\nlast and not take his leave of me, as he proposed to do; but told him,\njesting, that if he did, I would call him back again as loud as I did\nbefore.  Then I pulled out his watch and gave it him back, and his two\nrings, and his ten guineas; but he would not take them, which made me\nvery much suspect that he resolved to go off upon the road and leave me.\n\nThe truth is, the circumstances he was in, the passionate expressions\nof his letter, the kind, gentlemanly treatment I had from him in all\nthe affair, with the concern he showed for me in it, his manner of\nparting with that large share which he gave me of his little stock\nleft--all these had joined to make such impressions on me, that I\nreally loved him most tenderly, and could not bear the thoughts of\nparting with him.\n\nTwo days after this we quitted Chester, I in the stage-coach, and he on\nhorseback.  I dismissed my maid at Chester.  He was very much against\nmy being without a maid, but she being a servant hired in the country,\nand I resolving to keep no servant at London, I told him it would have\nbeen barbarous to have taken the poor wench and have turned her away as\nsoon as I came to town; and it would also have been a needless charge\non the road, so I satisfied him, and he was easy enough on the score.\n\nHe came with me as far as Dunstable, within thirty miles of London, and\nthen he told me fate and his own misfortunes obliged him to leave me,\nand that it was not convenient for him to go to London, for reasons\nwhich it was of no value to me to know, and I saw him preparing to go.\nThe stage-coach we were in did not usually stop at Dunstable, but I\ndesiring it but for a quart of an hour, they were content to stand at\nan inndoor a while, and we went into the house.\n\nBeing in the inn, I told him I had but one favour more to ask of him,\nand that was, that since he could not go any farther, he would give me\nleave to stay a week or two in the town with him, that we might in that\ntime think of something to prevent such a ruinous thing to us both, as\na final separation would be; and that I had something of moment to\noffer him, that I had never said yet, and which perhaps he might find\npracticable to our mutual advantage.\n\nThis was too reasonable a proposal to be denied, so he called the\nlandlady of the house, and told her his wife was taken ill, and so ill\nthat she could not think of going any farther in the stage-coach, which\nhad tired her almost to death, and asked if she could not get us a\nlodging for two or three days in a private house, where I might rest me\na little, for the journey had been too much for me.  The landlady, a\ngood sort of woman, well-bred and very obliging, came immediately to\nsee me; told me she had two or three very good rooms in a part of the\nhouse quite out of the noise, and if I saw them, she did not doubt but\nI would like them, and I should have one of her maids, that should do\nnothing else but be appointed to wait on me.  This was so very kind,\nthat I could not but accept of it, and thank her; so I went to look on\nthe rooms and liked them very well, and indeed they were\nextraordinarily furnished, and very pleasant lodgings; so we paid the\nstage-coach, took out our baggage, and resolved to stay here a while.\n\nHere I told him I would live with him now till all my money was spent,\nbut would not let him spend a shilling of his own.  We had some kind\nsquabble about that, but I told him it was the last time I was like to\nenjoy his company, and I desired he would let me be master in that\nthing only, and he should govern in everything else; so he acquiesced.\n\nHere one evening, taking a walk into the fields, I told him I would now\nmake the proposal to him I had told him of; accordingly I related to\nhim how I had lived in Virginia, that I had a mother I believed was\nalive there still, though my husband was dead some years.  I told him\nthat had not my effects miscarried, which, by the way, I magnified\npretty much, I might have been fortune good enough to him to have kept\nus from being parted in this manner.  Then I entered into the manner of\npeoples going over to those countries to settle, how they had a\nquantity of land given them by the Constitution of the place; and if\nnot, that it might be purchased at so easy a rate this it was not worth\nnaming.\n\nI then gave him a full and distinct account of the nature of planting;\nhow with carrying over but two or three hundred pounds value in English\ngoods, with some servants and tools, a man of application would\npresently lay a foundation for a family, and in a very few years be\ncertain to raise an estate.\n\nI let him into the nature of the product of the earth; how the ground\nwas cured and prepared, and what the usual increase of it was; and\ndemonstrated to him, that in a very few years, with such a beginning,\nwe should be as certain of being rich as we were now certain of being\npoor.\n\nHe was surprised at my discourse; for we made it the whole subject of\nour conversation for near a week together, in which time I laid it down\nin black and white, as we say, that it was morally impossible, with a\nsupposition of any reasonable good conduct, but that we must thrive\nthere and do very well.\n\nThen I told him what measures I would take to raise such a sum of #300\nor thereabouts; and I argued with him how good a method it would be to\nput an end to our misfortunes and restore our circumstances in the\nworld, to what we had both expected; and I added, that after seven\nyears, if we lived, we might be in a posture to leave our plantations\nin good hands, and come over again and receive the income of it, and\nlive here and enjoy it; and I gave him examples of some that had done\nso, and lived now in very good circumstances in London.\n\nIn short, I pressed him so to it, that he almost agreed to it, but\nstill something or other broke it off again; till at last he turned the\ntables, and he began to talk almost to the same purpose of Ireland.\n\nHe told me that a man that could confine himself to country life, and\nthat could find but stock to enter upon any land, should have farms\nthere for #50 a year, as good as were here let for #200 a year; that\nthe produce was such, and so rich the land, that if much was not laid\nup, we were sure to live as handsomely upon it as a gentleman of #3000\na year could do in England and that he had laid a scheme to leave me in\nLondon, and go over and try; and if he found he could lay a handsome\nfoundation of living suitable to the respect he had for me, as he\ndoubted not he should do, he would come over and fetch me.\n\nI was dreadfully afraid that upon such a proposal he would have taken\nme at my word, viz. to sell my little income as I called it, and turn\nit into money, and let him carry it over into Ireland and try his\nexperiment with it; but he was too just to desire it, or to have\naccepted it if I had offered it; and he anticipated me in that, for he\nadded, that he would go and try his fortune that way, and if he found\nhe could do anything at it to live, then, by adding mine to it when I\nwent over, we should live like ourselves; but that he would not hazard\na shilling of mine till he had made the experiment with a little, and\nhe assured me that if he found nothing to be done in Ireland, he would\nthen come to me and join in my project for Virginia.\n\nHe was so earnest upon his project being to be tried first, that I\ncould not withstand him; however, he promised to let me hear from him\nin a very little time after his arriving there, to let me know whether\nhis prospect answered his design, that if there was not a possibility\nof success, I might take the occasion to prepare for our other voyage,\nand then, he assured me, he would go with me to America with all his\nheart.\n\nI could bring him to nothing further than this.  However, those\nconsultations entertained us near a month, during which I enjoyed his\ncompany, which indeed was the most entertaining that ever I met in my\nlife before.  In this time he let me into the whole story of his own\nlife, which was indeed surprising, and full of an infinite variety\nsufficient to fill up a much brighter history, for its adventures and\nincidents, than any I ever say in print; but I shall have occasion to\nsay more of him hereafter.\n\nWe parted at last, though with the utmost reluctance on my side; and\nindeed he took his leave very unwillingly too, but necessity obliged\nhim, for his reasons were very good why he would not come to London, as\nI understood more fully some time afterwards.\n\nI gave him a direction how to write to me, though still I reserved the\ngrand secret, and never broke my resolution, which was not to let him\never know my true name, who I was, or where to be found; he likewise\nlet me know how to write a letter to him, so that, he said, he would be\nsure to receive it.\n\nI came to London the next day after we parted, but did not go directly\nto my old lodgings; but for another nameless reason took a private\nlodging in St. John's Street, or, as it is vulgarly called, St.\nJones's, near Clerkenwell; and here, being perfectly alone, I had\nleisure to sit down and reflect seriously upon the last seven months'\nramble I had made, for I had been abroad no less.  The pleasant hours I\nhad with my last husband I looked back on with an infinite deal of\npleasure; but that pleasure was very much lessened when I found some\ntime after that I was really with child.\n\nThis was a perplexing thing, because of the difficulty which was before\nme where I should get leave to lie in; it being one of the nicest\nthings in the world at that time of day for a woman that was a\nstranger, and had no friends, to be entertained in that circumstance\nwithout security, which, by the way, I had not, neither could I procure\nany.\n\nI had taken care all this while to preserve a correspondence with my\nhonest friend at the bank, or rather he took care to correspond with\nme, for he wrote to me once a week; and though I had not spent my money\nso fast as to want any from him, yet I often wrote also to let him know\nI was alive.  I had left directions in Lancashire, so that I had these\nletters, which he sent, conveyed to me; and during my recess at St.\nJones's received a very obliging letter from him, assuring me that his\nprocess for a divorce from his wife went on with success, though he met\nwith some difficulties in it that he did not expect.\n\nI was not displeased with the news that his process was more tedious\nthan he expected; for though I was in no condition to have him yet, not\nbeing so foolish to marry him when I knew myself to be with child by\nanother man, as some I know have ventured to do, yet I was not willing\nto lose him, and, in a word, resolved to have him if he continued in\nthe same mind, as soon as I was up again; for I saw apparently I should\nhear no more from my husband; and as he had all along pressed to marry,\nand had assured me he would not be at all disgusted at it, or ever\noffer to claim me again, so I made no scruple to resolve to do it if I\ncould, and if my other friend stood to his bargain; and I had a great\ndeal of reason to be assured that he would stand to it, by the letters\nhe wrote to me, which were the kindest and most obliging that could be.\n\nI now grew big, and the people where I lodged perceived it, and began\nto take notice of it to me, and, as far as civility would allow,\nintimated that I must think of removing.  This put me to extreme\nperplexity, and I grew very melancholy, for indeed I knew not what\ncourse to take.  I had money, but no friends, and was like to have a\nchild upon my hands to keep, which was a difficulty I had never had\nupon me yet, as the particulars of my story hitherto make appear.\n\nIn the course of this affair I fell very ill, and my melancholy really\nincreased my distemper; my illness proved at length to be only an ague,\nbut my apprehensions were really that I should miscarry.  I should not\nsay apprehensions, for indeed I would have been glad to miscarry, but I\ncould never be brought to entertain so much as a thought of\nendeavouring to miscarry, or of taking any thing to make me miscarry; I\nabhorred, I say, so much as the thought of it.\n\nHowever, speaking of it in the house, the gentlewoman who kept the\nhouse proposed to me to send for a midwife.  I scrupled it at first,\nbut after some time consented to it, but told her I had no particular\nacquaintance with any midwife, and so left it to her.\n\nIt seems the mistress of the house was not so great a stranger to such\ncases as mine was as I thought at first she had been, as will appear\npresently, and she sent for a midwife of the right sort--that is to\nsay, the right sort for me.\n\nThe woman appeared to be an experienced woman in her business, I mean\nas a midwife; but she had another calling too, in which she was as\nexpert as most women if not more.  My landlady had told her I was very\nmelancholy, and that she believed that had done me harm; and once,\nbefore me, said to her, 'Mrs. B----' (meaning the midwife), 'I believe\nthis lady's trouble is of a kind that is pretty much in your way, and\ntherefore if you can do anything for her, pray do, for she is a very\ncivil gentlewoman'; and so she went out of the room.\n\nI really did not understand her, but my Mother Midnight began very\nseriously to explain what she mean, as soon as she was gone.  'Madam,'\nsays she, 'you seem not to understand what your landlady means; and\nwhen you do understand it, you need not let her know at all that you do\nso.\n\n'She means that you are under some circumstances that may render your\nlying in difficult to you, and that you are not willing to be exposed.\nI need say no more, but to tell you, that if you think fit to\ncommunicate so much of your case to me, if it be so, as is necessary,\nfor I do not desire to pry into those things, I perhaps may be in a\nposition to help you and to make you perfectly easy, and remove all\nyour dull thoughts upon that subject.'\n\nEvery word this creature said was a cordial to me, and put new life and\nnew spirit into my heart; my blood began to circulate immediately, and\nI was quite another body; I ate my victuals again, and grew better\npresently after it.  She said a great deal more to the same purpose,\nand then, having pressed me to be free with her, and promised in the\nsolemnest manner to be secret, she stopped a little, as if waiting to\nsee what impression it made on me, and what I would say.\n\nI was too sensible to the want I was in of such a woman, not to accept\nher offer; I told her my case was partly as she guessed, and partly\nnot, for I was really married, and had a husband, though he was in such\nfine circumstances and so remote at that time, as that he could not\nappear publicly.\n\nShe took me short, and told me that was none of her business; all the\nladies that came under her care were married women to her.  'Every\nwoman,' she says, 'that is with child has a father for it,' and whether\nthat father was a husband or no husband, was no business of hers; her\nbusiness was to assist me in my present circumstances, whether I had a\nhusband or no.  'For, madam,' says she, 'to have a husband that cannot\nappear, is to have no husband in the sense of the case; and, therefore,\nwhether you are a wife or a mistress is all one to me.'\n\nI found presently, that whether I was a whore or a wife, I was to pass\nfor a whore here, so I let that go.  I told her it was true, as she\nsaid, but that, however, if I must tell her my case, I must tell it her\nas it was; so I related it to her as short as I could, and I concluded\nit to her thus.  'I trouble you with all this, madam,' said I, 'not\nthat, as you said before, it is much to the purpose in your affair, but\nthis is to the purpose, namely, that I am not in any pain about being\nseen, or being public or concealed, for 'tis perfectly indifferent to\nme; but my difficulty is, that I have no acquaintance in this part of\nthe nation.'\n\n'I understand you, madam' says she; 'you have no security to bring to\nprevent the parish impertinences usual in such cases, and perhaps,'\nsays she, 'do not know very well how to dispose of the child when it\ncomes.'  'The last,' says I, 'is not so much my concern as the first.'\n'Well, madam,' answered the midwife, 'dare you put yourself into my\nhands?  I live in such a place; though I do not inquire after you, you\nmay inquire after me.  My name is B----; I live in such a\nstreet'--naming the street--'at the sign of the Cradle.  My profession\nis a midwife, and I have many ladies that come to my house to lie in.\nI have given security to the parish in general terms to secure them\nfrom any charge from whatsoever shall come into the world under my\nroof.  I have but one question to ask in the whole affair, madam,' says\nshe, 'and if that be answered you shall be entirely easy for all the\nrest.'\n\nI presently understood what she meant, and told her, 'Madam, I believe\nI understand you.  I thank God, though I want friends in this part of\nthe world, I do not want money, so far as may be necessary, though I do\nnot abound in that neither':  this I added because I would not make her\nexpect great things.  'Well, madam,' says she, 'that is the thing\nindeed, without which nothing can be done in these cases; and yet,'\nsays she, 'you shall see that I will not impose upon you, or offer\nanything that is unkind to you, and if you desire it, you shall know\neverything beforehand, that you may suit yourself to the occasion, and\nbe neither costly or sparing as you see fit.'\n\nI told her she seemed to be so perfectly sensible of my condition, that\nI had nothing to ask of her but this, that as I had told her that I had\nmoney sufficient, but not a great quantity, she would order it so that\nI might be at as little superfluous charge as possible.\n\nShe replied that she would bring in an account of the expenses of it in\ntwo or three shapes, and like a bill of fare, I should choose as I\npleased; and I desired her to do so.\n\nThe next day she brought it, and the copy of her three bills was a\nfollows:--\n\n\n1.  For three months' lodging in her house, including\n    my diet, at 10s. a week . . . . . . . . . . . 6#,  0s., 0d.\n\n2.  For a nurse for the month, and use of childbed\n    linen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1#, 10s., 0d.\n\n3.  For a minister to christen the child, and to the\n    godfathers and clerk  . . . . . . . . . . . . 1#, 10s., 0d.\n\n4.  For a supper at the christening if I had five friends\n    at it . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1#,  0s., 0d.\n\n    For her fees as a midwife, and the taking off the\n    trouble of the parish . . . . . . . . . . . . 3#,  3s., 0d.\n\n    To her maid servant attending . . . . . . . . 0#, 10s., 0d.\n                                                 --------------\n                                                 13#, 13s., 0d.\n\n\nThis was the first bill; the second was the same terms:--\n\n1.  For three months' lodging and diet, etc., at 20s.\n    per week . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13#,  0s., 0d.\n\n2.  For a nurse for the month, and the use of linen\n    and lace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  2#, 10s., 0d.\n\n3.  For the minister to christen the child, etc., as\n    above . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2#,  0s., 0d.\n\n4.  For supper and for sweetmeats\n    . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3#,  3s., 0d.\n\n    For her fees as above . . . . . . . . . . . . 5#,  5s., 0d.\n\n    For a servant-maid  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1#,  0s., 0d.\n                                                 --------------\n                                                 26#, 18s., 0d.\n\n\nThis was the second-rate bill; the third, she said, was for a degree\nhigher, and when the father or friends appeared:--\n\n1.  For three months' lodging and diet, having two\n    rooms and a garret for a servant . . . . . . 30#,  0s., 0d.,\n\n2.  For a nurse for the month, and the finest suit\n    of childbed linen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4#,  4s., 0d.\n\n3.  For the minister to christen the child, etc.  2#, 10s., 0d.\n\n4.  For a supper, the gentlemen to send in the\n    wine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  6#,  0s., 0d.\n\n    For my fees, etc. . . . . . . . . . . . . .  10#, 10s., 0d.\n\n    The maid, besides their own maid, only\n    . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 0#, 10s., 0d.\n                                                 --------------\n                                                 53#, 14s., 0d.\n\n\nI looked upon all three bills, and smiled, and told her I did not see\nbut that she was very reasonable in her demands, all things considered,\nand for that I did not doubt but her accommodations were good.\n\nShe told me I should be judge of that when I saw them.  I told her I\nwas sorry to tell her that I feared I must be her lowest-rated\ncustomer.  'And perhaps, madam,' said I, 'you will make me the less\nwelcome upon that account.'  'No, not at all,' said she; 'for where I\nhave one of the third sort I have two of the second, and four to one of\nthe first, and I get as much by them in proportion as by any; but if\nyou doubt my care of you, I will allow any friend you have to overlook\nand see if you are well waited on or no.'\n\nThen she explained the particulars of her bill.  'In the first place,\nmadam,' said she, 'I would have you observe that here is three months'\nkeeping; you are but ten shillings a week; I undertake to say you will\nnot complain of my table.  I suppose,' says she, 'you do not live\ncheaper where you are now?'  'No, indeed,' said I, 'not so cheap, for I\ngive six shillings per week for my chamber, and find my own diet as\nwell as I can, which costs me a great deal more.'\n\n'Then, madam,' says she, 'if the child should not live, or should be\ndead-born, as you know sometimes happens, then there is the minister's\narticle saved; and if you have no friends to come to you, you may save\nthe expense of a supper; so that take those articles out, madam,' says\nshe, 'your lying in will not cost you above #5, 3s. in all more than\nyour ordinary charge of  living.'\n\nThis was the most reasonable thing that I ever heard of; so I smiled,\nand told her I would come and be her customer; but I told her also,\nthat as I had two months and more to do, I might perhaps be obliged to\nstay longer with her than three months, and desired to know if she\nwould not be obliged to remove me before it was proper.  No, she said;\nher house was large, and besides, she never put anybody to remove, that\nhad lain in, till they were willing to go; and if she had more ladies\noffered, she was not so ill-beloved among her neighbours but she could\nprovide accommodations for twenty, if there was occasion.\n\nI found she was an eminent lady in her way; and, in short, I agreed to\nput myself into her hands, and promised her.  She then talked of other\nthings, looked about into my accommodations where I was, found fault\nwith my wanting attendance and conveniences, and that I should not be\nused so at her house.  I told her I was shy of speaking, for the woman\nof the house looked stranger, or at least I thought so, since I had\nbeen ill, because I was with child; and I was afraid she would put some\naffront or other upon me, supposing that I had been able to give but a\nslight account of myself.\n\n'Oh dear,' said she, 'her ladyship is no stranger to these things; she\nhas tried to entertain ladies in your condition several times, but she\ncould not secure the parish; and besides, she is not such a nice lady\nas you take her to be; however, since you are a-going, you shall not\nmeddle with her, but I'll see you are a little better looked after\nwhile you are here than I think you are, and it shall not cost you the\nmore neither.'\n\nI did not understand her at all; however, I thanked her, and  so we\nparted.  The next morning she sent me a chicken roasted and hot, and a\npint bottle of sherry, and ordered the maid to tell me that she was to\nwait on me every day as long as I stayed there.\n\nThis was surprisingly good and kind, and I accepted it very willingly.\nAt night she sent to me again, to know if I wanted anything, and how I\ndid, and to order the maid to come to her in the morning with my\ndinner.  The maid  had orders to make me some chocolate in the morning\nbefore she came away, and did so, and at noon she brought me the\nsweetbread of a breast of veal, whole, and a dish of soup for my\ndinner; and after this manner she nursed me up at a distance, so that I\nwas mightily well pleased, and quickly well, for indeed my dejections\nbefore were the principal part of my illness.\n\nI expected, as is usually the case among such people, that the servant\nshe sent me would have been some imprudent brazen wench of Drury Lane\nbreeding, and I was very uneasy at having her with me upon that\naccount; so I would not let her lie in that house the first night by\nany means, but had my eyes about me as narrowly as if she had been a\npublic thief.\n\nMy gentlewoman guessed presently what was the matter, and sent her back\nwith a short note, that I might depend upon the honesty of her maid;\nthat she would be answerable for her upon all accounts; and that she\ntook no servants into her house without very good security for their\nfidelity.  I was then perfectly easy; and indeed the maid's behaviour\nspoke for itself, for a modester, quieter, soberer girl never came into\nanybody's family, and I found her so afterwards.\n\nAs soon as I was well enough to go abroad, I went with the maid to see\nthe house, and to see the apartment I was to have; and everything was\nso handsome and so clean and well, that, in short, I had nothing to\nsay, but was wonderfully pleased and satisfied with what I had met\nwith, which, considering the melancholy circumstances I was in, was far\nbeyond what I looked for.\n\nIt might be expected that I should give some account of the nature of\nthe wicked practices of this woman, in whose hands I was now fallen;\nbut it would be too much encouragement to the vice, to let the world\nsee what easy measures were here taken to rid the women's unwelcome\nburthen of a child clandestinely gotten.  This grave matron had several\nsorts of practice, and this was one particular, that if a child was\nborn, though not in her house (for she had occasion to be called to\nmany private labours), she had people at hand, who for a piece of money\nwould take the child off their hands, and off from the hands of the\nparish too; and those children, as she said, were honestly provided for\nand taken care of.  What should become of them all, considering so\nmany, as by her account she was concerned with, I cannot conceive.\n\nI had many times discourses upon that subject with her; but she was\nfull of this argument, that she save the life of many an innocent lamb,\nas she called them, which would otherwise perhaps have been murdered;\nand of many women who, made desperate by the misfortune, would\notherwise be tempted to destroy their children, and bring themselves to\nthe gallows.  I granted her that this was true, and a very commendable\nthing, provided the poor children fell into good hands afterwards, and\nwere not abused, starved, and neglected by the nurses that bred them\nup.  She answered, that she always took care of that, and had no nurses\nin her business but what were very good, honest people, and such as\nmight be depended upon.\n\nI could say nothing to the contrary, and so was obliged to say, 'Madam,\nI do not question you do your part honestly, but what those people do\nafterwards is the main question'; and she stopped my mouth again with\nsaying that she took the utmost care about it.\n\nThe only thing I found in all her conversation on these subjects that\ngave me any distaste, was, that one time in discouraging about my being\nfar gone with child, and the time I expected to come, she said\nsomething that looked as if she could help me off with my burthen\nsooner, if I was willing; or, in English, that she could give me\nsomething to make me miscarry, if I had a desire to put an end to my\ntroubles that way; but I soon let her see that I abhorred the thoughts\nof it; and, to do her justice, she put it off so cleverly, that I could\nnot say she really intended it, or whether she only mentioned the\npractice as a horrible thing; for she couched her words so well, and\ntook my meaning so quickly, that she gave her negative before I could\nexplain myself.\n\nTo bring this part into as narrow a compass as possible, I quitted my\nlodging at St. Jones's and went to my new governess, for so they called\nher in the house, and there I was indeed treated with so much courtesy,\nso carefully looked to, so handsomely provided, and everything so well,\nthat I was surprised at it, and could not at first see what advantage\nmy governess made of it; but I found afterwards that she professed to\nmake no profit of lodgers' diet, nor indeed could she get much by it,\nbut that her profit lay in the other articles of her management, and\nshe made enough that way, I assure you; for 'tis scarce credible what\npractice she had, as well abroad as at home, and yet all upon the\nprivate account, or, in plain English, the whoring account.\n\nWhile I was in her house, which was near four months, she had no less\nthan twelve ladies of pleasure brought to bed within the doors, and I\nthink she had two-and-thirty, or thereabouts, under her conduct without\ndoors, whereof one, as nice as she was with me, was lodged with my old\nlandlady at St. Jones's.\n\nThis was a strange testimony of the growing vice of the age, and such a\none, that as bad as I had been myself, it shocked my very senses.  I\nbegan to nauseate the place I was in and, about all, the wicked\npractice; and yet I must say that I never saw, or do I believe there\nwas to be seen, the least indecency in the house the whole time I was\nthere.\n\nNot a man was ever seen to come upstairs, except to visit the lying-in\nladies within their month, nor then without the old lady with them, who\nmade it a piece of honour of her management that no man should touch a\nwoman, no, not his own wife, within the month; nor would she permit any\nman to lie in the house upon any pretence whatever, no, not though she\nwas sure it was with his own wife; and her general saying for it was,\nthat she cared not how many children were born in her house, but she\nwould have none got there if she could help it.\n\nIt might perhaps be carried further than was needful, but it was an\nerror of the right hand if it was an error, for by this she kept up the\nreputation, such as it was, of her business, and obtained this\ncharacter, that though she did take care of the women when they were\ndebauched, yet she was not instrumental to their being debauched at\nall; and yet it was a wicked trade she drove too.\n\nWhile I was there, and before I was brought to bed, I received a letter\nfrom my trustee at the bank, full of kind, obliging things, and\nearnestly pressing me to return to London.  It was near a fortnight old\nwhen it came to me, because it had been first sent into Lancashire, and\nthen returned to me.  He concludes with telling me that he had obtained\na decree, I think he called it, against his wife, and that he would be\nready to make good his engagement to me, if I would accept of him,\nadding a great many protestations of kindness and affection, such as he\nwould have been far from offering if he had known the circumstances I\nhad been in, and which as it was I had been very far from deserving.\n\nI returned an answer to his letter, and dated it at Liverpool, but sent\nit by messenger, alleging that it came in cover to a friend in town.  I\ngave him joy of his deliverance, but raised some scruples at the\nlawfulness of his marrying again, and told him I supposed he would\nconsider very seriously upon that point before he resolved on it, the\nconsequence being too great for a man of his judgment to venture rashly\nupon a thing of that nature; so concluded, wishing him very well in\nwhatever he resolved, without letting him into anything of my own mind,\nor giving any answer to his proposal of my coming to London to him, but\nmentioned at a distance my intention to return the latter end of the\nyear, this being dated in April.\n\nI was brought to bed about the middle of May and had another brave boy,\nand myself in as good condition as usual on such occasions.  My\ngoverness did her part as a midwife with the greatest art and dexterity\nimaginable, and far beyond all that ever I had had any experience of\nbefore.\n\nHer care of me in my travail, and after in my lying in, was such, that\nif she had been my own mother it could not have been better.  Let none\nbe encouraged in their loose practices from this dexterous lady's\nmanagement, for she is gone to her place, and I dare say has left\nnothing behind her that can or will come up on it.\n\nI think I had been brought to bed about twenty-two days when I received\nanother letter from my friend at the bank, with the surprising news\nthat he had obtained a final sentence of divorce against his wife, and\nhad served her with it on such a day, and that he had such an answer to\ngive to all my scruples about his marrying again, as I could not\nexpect, and as he had no desire of; for that his wife, who had been\nunder some remorse before for her usage of him, as soon as she had the\naccount that he had gained his point, had very unhappily destroyed\nherself that same evening.\n\nHe expressed himself very handsomely as to his being concerned at her\ndisaster, but cleared himself of having any hand in it, and that he had\nonly done himself justice in a case in which he was notoriously injured\nand abused.  However, he said that he was extremely afflicted at it,\nand had no view of any satisfaction left in his world, but only in the\nhope that I would come and relieve him by my company; and then he\npressed me violently indeed to give him some hopes that I would at\nleast come up to town and let him see me, when he would further enter\ninto discourse about it.\n\nI was exceedingly surprised at the news, and began now seriously to\nreflect on my present circumstances, and the inexpressible misfortune\nit was to me to have a child upon my hands, and what to do in it I knew\nnot.  At last I opened my case at a distance to my governess.  I\nappeared melancholy and uneasy for several days, and she lay at me\ncontinually to know what trouble me.  I could not for my life tell her\nthat I had an offer of marriage, after I had so often told her that I\nhad a husband, so that I really knew not what to say to her.  I owned I\nhad something which very much troubled me, but at the same time told\nher I could not speak of it to any one alive.\n\nShe continued importuning me several days, but it was impossible, I\ntold her, for me to commit the secret to anybody.  This, instead of\nbeing an answer to her, increased her importunities; she urged her\nhaving been trusted with the greatest secrets of this nature, that it\nwas her business to conceal everything, and that to discover things of\nthat nature would be her ruin.  She asked me if ever I had found her\ntattling to me of other people's affairs, and how could I suspect her?\nShe told me, to unfold myself to her was telling it to nobody; that she\nwas silent as death; that it must be a very strange case indeed that\nshe could not help me out of; but to conceal it was to deprive myself\nof all possible help, or means of help, and to deprive her of the\nopportunity of serving me.  In short, she had such a bewitching\neloquence, and so great a power of persuasion that there was no\nconcealing anything from her.\n\nSo I resolved to unbosom myself to her.  I told her the history of my\nLancashire marriage, and how both of us had been disappointed; how we\ncame together, and how we parted; how he absolutely discharged me, as\nfar as lay in him, free liberty to marry again, protesting that if he\nknew it he would never claim me, or disturb or expose me; that I\nthought I was free, but was dreadfully afraid to venture, for fear of\nthe consequences that might follow in case of a discovery.\n\nThen I told her what a good offer I had; showed her my friend's two\nlast letters, inviting me to come to London, and let her see with what\naffection and earnestness they were written, but blotted out the name,\nand also the story about the disaster of his wife, only that she was\ndead.\n\nShe fell a-laughing at my scruples about marrying, and told me the\nother was no marriage, but a cheat on both sides; and that, as we were\nparted by mutual consent, the nature of the contract was destroyed, and\nthe obligation was mutually discharged.  She had arguments for this at\nthe tip of her tongue; and, in short, reasoned me out of my reason; not\nbut that it was too by the help of my own inclination.\n\nBut then came the great and main difficulty, and that was the child;\nthis, she told me in so many words, must be removed, and that so as\nthat it should never be possible for any one to discover it.  I knew\nthere was no marrying without entirely concealing that I had had a\nchild, for he would soon have discovered by the age of it that it was\nborn, nay, and gotten too, since my parley with him, and that would\nhave destroyed all the affair.\n\nBut it touched my heart so forcibly to think of parting entirely with\nthe child, and, for aught I knew, of having it murdered, or starved by\nneglect and ill-usage (which was much the same), that I could not think\nof it without horror.  I wish all those women who consent to the\ndisposing their children out of the way, as it is called, for decency\nsake, would consider that 'tis only a contrived method for murder; that\nis to say, a-killing their children with safety.\n\nIt is manifest to all that understand anything of children, that we are\nborn into the world helpless, and incapable either to supply our own\nwants or so much as make them known; and that without help we must\nperish; and this help requires not only an assisting hand, whether of\nthe mother or somebody else, but there are two things necessary in that\nassisting  hand, that is, care and skill; without both which, half the\nchildren that are born would die, nay, though they were not to be\ndenied food; and one half more of those that remained would be cripples\nor fools, lose their limbs, and perhaps their sense.  I question not\nbut that these are partly the reasons why affection was placed by\nnature in the hearts of mothers to their children; without which they\nwould never be able to give themselves up, as 'tis necessary they\nshould, to the care and waking pains needful to the support of their\nchildren.\n\nSince this care is needful to the life of children, to neglect them is\nto murder them; again, to give them up to be managed by those people\nwho have none of that needful affection placed by nature in them, is to\nneglect them in the highest degree; nay, in some it goes farther, and\nis a neglect in order to their being lost; so that 'tis even an\nintentional murder, whether the child lives or dies.\n\nAll those things represented themselves to my view, and that is the\nblackest and most frightful form:  and as I was very free with my\ngoverness, whom I had now learned to call mother, I represented to her\nall the dark thoughts which I had upon me about it, and told her what\ndistress I was in.  She seemed graver by much at this part than at the\nother; but as she was hardened in these things beyond all possibility\nof being touched with the religious part, and the scruples about the\nmurder, so she was equally impenetrable in that part which related to\naffection.  She asked me if she had not been careful and tender to me\nin my lying in, as if I had been her own child.  I told her I owned she\nhad.  'Well, my dear,' says she, 'and when you are gone, what are you\nto me?  And what would it be to me if you were to be hanged?  Do you\nthink there are not women who, as it is their trade and they get their\nbread by it, value themselves upon their being as careful of children\nas their own mothers can be, and understand it rather better?  Yes,\nyes, child,' says she, 'fear it not; how were we nursed ourselves?  Are\nyou sure you was nursed up by your own mother? and yet you look fat and\nfair, child,' says the old beldam; and with that she stroked me over\nthe face.  'Never be concerned, child,' says she, going on in her\ndrolling way; 'I have no murderers about me; I employ the best and the\nhonestest nurses that can be had, and have as few children miscarry\nunder their hands as there would if they were all nursed by mothers; we\nwant neither care nor skill.'\n\nShe touched me to the quick when she asked if I was sure that I was\nnursed by my own mother; on the contrary I was sure I was not; and I\ntrembled, and looked pale at the very expression.  'Sure,' said I to\nmyself, 'this creature cannot be a witch, or have any conversation with\na spirit, that can inform her what was done with me before I was able\nto know it myself'; and I looked at her as if I had been frightened;\nbut reflecting that it could not be possible for her to know anything\nabout me, that disorder went off, and I began to be easy, but it was\nnot presently.\n\nShe perceived the disorder I was in, but did not know the meaning of\nit; so she ran on in her wild talk upon the weakness of my supposing\nthat children were murdered because they were not all nursed by the\nmother, and to persuade me that the children she disposed of were as\nwell used as if the mothers had the nursing of them themselves.\n\n'It may be true, mother,' says I, 'for aught I know, but my doubts are\nvery strongly grounded indeed.'  'Come, then,' says she, 'let's hear\nsome of them.'  'Why, first,' says I, 'you give a piece of money to\nthese people to take the child off the parent's hands, and to take care\nof it as long as it lives.  Now we know, mother,' said I, 'that those\nare poor people, and their gain consists in being quit of the charge as\nsoon as they can; how can I doubt but that, as it is best for them to\nhave the child die, they are not over solicitous about life?'\n\n'This is all vapours and fancy,' says the old woman; 'I tell you their\ncredit depends upon the child's life, and they are as careful as any\nmother of you all.'\n\n'O mother,' says I, 'if I was but sure my little baby would be\ncarefully looked to, and have justice done it, I should be happy\nindeed; but it is impossible I can be satisfied in that point unless I\nsaw it, and to see it would be ruin and destruction to me, as now my\ncase stands; so what to do I know not.'\n\n'A fine story!' says the governess.  'You would see the child, and you\nwould not see the child; you would be concealed and discovered both\ntogether.  These are things impossible, my dear; so you must e'en do as\nother conscientious mothers have done before you, and be contented with\nthings as they must be, though they are not as you wish them to be.'\n\nI understood what she meant by conscientious mothers; she would have\nsaid conscientious whores, but she was not willing to disoblige me, for\nreally in this case I was not a whore, because legally married, the\nforce of former marriage excepted.\n\nHowever, let me be what I would, I was not come up to that pitch of\nhardness common to the profession; I mean, to be unnatural, and\nregardless of the safety of my child; and I preserved this honest\naffection so long, that I was upon the point of giving up my friend at\nthe bank, who lay so hard at me to come to him and marry him, that, in\nshort, there was hardly any room to deny him.\n\nAt last my old governess came to me, with her usual assurance.  'Come,\nmy dear,' says she, 'I have found out a way how you shall be at a\ncertainty that your child shall be used well, and yet the people that\ntake care of it shall never know you, or who the mother of the child\nis.'\n\n'Oh mother,' says I, 'if you can do so, you will engage me to you for\never.'  'Well,' says she, 'are you willing to be a some small annual\nexpense, more than what we usually give to the people we contract\nwith?'  'Ay,' says I, 'with all my heart, provided I may be concealed.'\n'As to that,' says the governess, 'you shall be secure, for the nurse\nshall never so much as dare to inquire about you, and you shall once or\ntwice a year go with me and see your child, and see how 'tis used, and\nbe satisfied that it is in good hands, nobody knowing who you are.'\n\n'Why,' said I, 'do you think, mother, that when I come to see my child,\nI shall be able to conceal my being the mother of it?  Do you think\nthat possible?'\n\n'Well, well,' says my governess, 'if you discover it, the nurse shall\nbe never the wiser; for she shall be forbid to ask any questions about\nyou, or to take any notice.  If she offers it, she shall lose the money\nwhich you are suppose to give her, and the child shall be taken from\nher too.'\n\nI was very well pleased with this.  So the next week a countrywoman was\nbrought from Hertford, or thereabouts, who was to take the child off\nour hands entirely for #10 in money.  But if I would allow #5 a year\nmore of her, she would be obliged to bring the child to my governess's\nhouse as often as we desired, or we should come down and look at it,\nand see how well she used it.\n\nThe woman was very wholesome-looking, a likely woman, a cottager's\nwife, but she had very good clothes and linen, and everything well\nabout her; and with a heavy heart and many a tear, I let her have my\nchild.  I had been down at Hertford, and looked at her and at her\ndwelling, which I liked well enough; and I promised her great things if\nshe would be kind to the child, so she knew at first word that I was\nthe child's mother.  But she seemed to be so much out of the way, and\nto have no room to inquire after me, that I thought I was safe enough.\nSo, in short, I consented to let her have the child, and I gave her\n#10; that is to say, I gave it to my governess, who gave it the poor\nwoman before my face, she agreeing never to return the child back to\nme, or to claim anything more for its keeping or bringing up; only that\nI promised, if she took a great deal of care of it, I would give her\nsomething more as often as I came to see it; so that I was not bound to\npay the #5, only that I promised my governess I would do it.  And thus\nmy great care was over, after a manner, which though it did not at all\nsatisfy my mind, yet was the most convenient for me, as my affairs then\nstood, of any that could be thought of at that time.\n\nI then began to write to my friend at the bank in a more kindly style,\nand particularly about the beginning of July I sent him a letter, that\nI proposed to be in town some time in August.  He returned me an answer\nin the most passionate terms imaginable, and desired me to let him have\ntimely notice, and he would come and meet me, two day's journey.  This\npuzzled me scurvily, and I did not know what answer to make of it.\nOnce I resolved to take the stage-coach to West Chester, on purpose\nonly to have the satisfaction of coming back, that he might see me\nreally come in the same coach; for I had a jealous thought, though I\nhad no ground for it at all, lest he should think I was not really in\nthe country.  And it was no ill-grounded thought as you shall hear\npresently.\n\nI endeavoured to reason myself out of it, but it was in vain; the\nimpression lay so strong on my mind, that it was not to be resisted.\nAt last it came as an addition to my new design of going into the\ncountry, that it would be an excellent blind to my old governess, and\nwould cover entirely all my other affairs, for she did not know in the\nleast whether my new lover lived in London or in Lancashire; and when I\ntold her my resolution, she was fully persuaded it was in Lancashire.\n\nHaving taken my measure for this journey I let her know it, and sent\nthe maid that tended me, from the beginning, to take a place for me in\nthe coach.  She would have had me let the maid have waited on me down\nto the last stage, and come up again in the waggon, but I convinced her\nit would not be convenient.  When I went away, she told me she would\nenter into no measures for correspondence, for she saw evidently that\nmy affection to my child would cause me to write to her, and to visit\nher too when I came to town again.  I assured her it would, and so took\nmy leave, well satisfied to have been freed from such a house, however\ngood my accommodations there had been, as I have related above.\n\nI took the place in the coach not to its full extent, but to a place\ncalled Stone, in Cheshire, I think it is, where I not only had no\nmanner of business, but not so much as the least acquaintance with any\nperson in the town or near it.  But I knew that with money in the\npocket one is at home anywhere; so I lodged there two or three days,\ntill, watching my opportunity, I found room in another stage-coach, and\ntook passage back again for London, sending a letter to my gentleman\nthat I should be such a certain day at Stony-Stratford, where the\ncoachman told me he was to lodge.\n\nIt happened to be a chance coach that I had taken up, which, having\nbeen hired on purpose to carry some gentlemen to West Chester who were\ngoing for Ireland, was now returning, and did not tie itself to exact\ntimes or places as the stages did; so that, having been obliged to lie\nstill on Sunday, he had time to get himself ready to come out, which\notherwise he could not have done.\n\nHowever, his warning was so short, that he could not reach to\nStony-Stratford time enough to be with me at night, but he met me at a\nplace called Brickhill the next morning, as we were just coming in to\ntow.\n\nI confess I was very glad to see him, for I had thought myself a little\ndisappointed over-night, seeing I had gone so far to contrive my coming\non purpose.  He pleased me doubly too by the figure he came in, for he\nbrought a very handsome (gentleman's) coach and four horses, with a\nservant to attend him.\n\nHe took me out of the stage-coach immediately, which stopped at an inn\nin Brickhill; and putting into the same inn, he set up his own coach,\nand bespoke his dinner.  I asked him what he meant by that, for I was\nfor going forward with the journey.  He said, No, I had need of a\nlittle rest upon the road, and that was a very good sort of a house,\nthough it was but a little town; so we would go no farther that night,\nwhatever came of it.\n\nI did not press him much, for since he had come so to meet me, and put\nhimself to so much expense, it was but reasonable I should oblige him a\nlittle too; so I was easy as to that point.\n\nAfter dinner we walked to see the town, to see the church, and to view\nthe fields, and the country, as is usual for strangers to do; and our\nlandlord was our guide in going to see the church. I observed my\ngentleman inquired pretty much about the parson, and I took the hint\nimmediately that he certainly would propose to be married; and though\nit was a sudden thought, it followed presently, that, in short, I would\nnot refuse him; for, to be plain, with my circumstances I was in no\ncondition now to say No; I had no reason now to run any more such\nhazards.\n\nBut while these thoughts ran round in my head, which was the work but\nof a few moments, I observed my landlord took him aside and whispered\nto him, though not very softly neither, for so much I overheard:  'Sir,\nif you shall have occasion----' the rest I could not hear, but it seems\nit was to this purpose:  'Sir, if you shall have occasion for a\nminister, I have a friend a little way off that will serve you, and be\nas private as you please.' My gentleman answered loud enough for me to\nhear, 'Very well, I believe I shall.'\n\nI was no sooner come back to the inn but he fell upon me with\nirresistible words, that since he had had the good fortune to meet me,\nand everything concurred, it would be hastening his felicity if I would\nput an end to the matter just there.  'What do you mean?' says I,\ncolouring a little.  'What, in an inn, and upon the road!  Bless us\nall,' said I, as if I had been surprised, 'how can you talk so?'  'Oh,\nI can talk so very well,' says he, 'I came a-purpose to talk so, and\nI'll show you that I did'; and with that he pulls out a great bundle of\npapers.  'You fright me,' said I; 'what are all these?'  'Don't be\nfrighted, my dear,' said he, and kissed me.  This was the first time\nthat he had been so free to call me 'my dear'; then he repeated it,\n'Don't be frighted; you shall see what it is all'; then he laid them\nall abroad.  There was first the deed or sentence of divorce from his\nwife, and the full evidence of her playing the whore; then there were\nthe certificates of the minister and churchwardens of the parish where\nshe lived, proving that she was buried, and intimating the manner of\nher death; the copy of the coroner's warrant for a jury to sit upon\nher, and the verdict of the jury, who brought it in Non compos mentis.\nAll this was indeed to the purpose, and to give me satisfaction,\nthough, by the way, I was not so scrupulous, had he known all, but that\nI might have taken him without it.  However, I looked them all over as\nwell as I could, and told him that this was all very clear indeed, but\nthat he need not have given himself the trouble to have brought them\nout with him, for it was time enough.  Well, he said, it might be time\nenough for me, but no time but the present time was time enough for him.\n\nThere were other papers rolled up, and I asked him what they were.\n'Why, ay,' says he, 'that's the question I wanted to have you ask me';\nso he unrolls them and takes out a little shagreen case, and gives me\nout of it a very fine diamond ring.  I could not refuse it, if I had a\nmind to do so, for he put it upon my finger; so I made him a curtsy and\naccepted it.  Then he takes out another ring:  'And this,' says he, 'is\nfor another occasion,' so he puts that in his pocket.  'Well, but let\nme see it, though,' says I, and smiled; 'I guess what it is; I think\nyou are mad.' 'I should have been mad if I had done less,' says he, and\nstill he did not show me, and I had a great mind to see it; so I says,\n'Well, but let me see it.'  'Hold,' says he, 'first look here'; then he\ntook up the roll again and read it, and behold! it was a licence for us\nto be married.  'Why,' says I, 'are you distracted?  Why, you were\nfully satisfied that I would comply and yield at first word, or\nresolved to take no denial.'  'The last is certainly the case,' said\nhe.  'But you may be mistaken,' said I.  'No, no,' says he, 'how can\nyou think so?  I must not be denied, I can't be denied'; and with that\nhe fell to kissing me so violently, I could not get rid of him.\n\nThere was a bed in the room, and we were walking to and again, eager in\nthe discourse; at last he takes me by surprise in his arms, and threw\nme on the bed and himself with me, and holding me fast in his arms, but\nwithout the least offer of any indecency, courted me to consent with\nsuch repeated entreaties and arguments, protesting his affection, and\nvowing he would not let me go till I had promised him, that at last I\nsaid, 'Why, you resolve not to be denied, indeed, I can't be denied.'\n'Well, well,' said I, and giving him a slight kiss, 'then you shan't be\ndenied,' said I; 'let me get up.'\n\nHe was so transported with my consent, and the kind manner of it, that\nI began to think once he took it for a marriage, and would not stay for\nthe form; but I wronged him, for he gave over kissing me, and then\ngiving me two or three kisses again, thanked me for my kind yielding to\nhim; and was so overcome with the satisfaction and joy of it, that I\nsaw tears stand in his eyes.\n\nI turned from him, for it filled my eyes with tears too, and I asked\nhim leave to retire a little to my chamber.  If ever I had a grain of\ntrue repentance for a vicious and abominable life for twenty-four years\npast, it was then.  On, what a felicity is it to mankind, said I to\nmyself, that they cannot see into the hearts of one another!  How happy\nhad it been for me if I had been wife to a man of so much honesty, and\nso much affection from the beginning!\n\nThen it occurred to me, 'What an abominable creature am I!  and how is\nthis innocent gentleman going to be abused by me!  How little does he\nthink, that having divorced a whore, he is throwing himself into the\narms of another! that he is going to marry one that has lain with two\nbrothers, and has had three children by her own brother! one that was\nborn in Newgate, whose mother was a whore, and is now a transported\nthief!  one that has lain with thirteen men, and has had a child since\nhe saw me!  Poor gentleman!' said I, 'what is he going to do?' After\nthis reproaching myself was over, it following thus: 'Well, if I must\nbe his wife, if it please God to give me grace, I'll be a true wife to\nhim, and love him suitably to the strange excess of his passion for me;\nI will make him amends if possible, by what he shall see, for the\ncheats and abuses I put upon him, which he does not see.'\n\nHe was impatient for my coming out of my chamber, but finding me long,\nhe went downstairs and talked with my landlord about the parson.\n\nMy landlord, an officious though well-meaning fellow, had sent away for\nthe neighbouring clergyman; and when my gentleman began to speak of it\nto him, and talk of sending for him, 'Sir,' says he to him, 'my friend\nis in the house'; so without any more words he brought them together.\nWhen he came to the minister, he asked him if he would venture to marry\na couple of strangers that were both willing.  The parson said that Mr.\n---- had said something to him of it; that he hoped it was no\nclandestine business; that he seemed to be a grave gentleman, and he\nsupposed madam was not a girl, so that the consent of friends should be\nwanted.  'To put you out of doubt of that,' says my gentleman, 'read\nthis paper'; and out he pulls the license.  'I am satisfied,' says the\nminister; 'where is the lady?'  'You shall see her presently,' says my\ngentleman.\n\nWhen he had said thus he comes upstairs, and I was by that time come\nout of my room; so he tells me the minister was below, and that he had\ntalked with him, and that upon showing him the license, he was free to\nmarry us with all his heart, 'but he asks to see you'; so he asked if I\nwould let him come up.\n\n''Tis time enough,' said I, 'in the morning, is it not?'  'Why,' said\nhe, 'my dear, he seemed to scruple whether it was not some young girl\nstolen from her parents, and I assured him we were both of age to\ncommand our own consent; and that made him ask to see you.'  'Well,'\nsaid I, 'do as you please'; so up they brings the parson, and a merry,\ngood sort of gentleman he was.  He had been told, it seems, that we had\nmet there by accident, that I came in the Chester coach, and my\ngentleman in his own coach to meet me; that we were to have met last\nnight at Stony-Stratford, but that he could not reach so far.  'Well,\nsir,' says the parson, 'every ill turn has some good in it.  The\ndisappointment, sir,' says he to my gentleman, 'was yours, and the good\nturn is mine, for if you had met at Stony-Stratford I had not had the\nhonour to marry you.  Landlord, have you a Common Prayer Book?'\n\nI started as if I had been frightened.  'Lord, sir,' says I, 'what do\nyou mean?  What, to marry in an inn, and at night too?' 'Madam,' says\nthe minister, 'if you will have it be in the church, you shall; but I\nassure you your marriage will be as firm here as in the church; we are\nnot tied by the canons to marry nowhere but in the church; and if you\nwill have it in the church, it will be a public as a county fair; and\nas for the time of day, it does not at all weigh in this case; our\nprinces are married in their chambers, and at eight or ten o'clock at\nnight.'\n\nI was a great while before I could be persuaded, and pretended not to\nbe willing at all to be married but in the church.  But it was all\ngrimace; so I seemed at last to be prevailed on, and my landlord and\nhis wife and daughter were called up.  My landlord was father and clerk\nand all together, and we were married, and very merry we were; though I\nconfess the self-reproaches which I had upon me before lay close to me,\nand extorted every now and then a deep sigh from me, which my\nbridegroom took notice of, and endeavoured to encourage me, thinking,\npoor man, that I had some little hesitations at the step I had taken so\nhastily.\n\nWe enjoyed ourselves that evening completely, and yet all was kept so\nprivate in the inn that not a servant in the house knew of it, for my\nlandlady and her daughter waited on me, and would not let any of the\nmaids come upstairs, except while we were at supper.  My landlady's\ndaughter I called my bridesmaid; and sending for a shopkeeper the next\nmorning, I gave the young woman a good suit of knots, as good as the\ntown would afford, and finding it was a lace-making town, I gave her\nmother a piece of bone-lace for a head.\n\nOne reason that my landlord was so close was, that he was unwilling the\nminister of the parish should hear of it; but for all that somebody\nheard of it, so at that we had the bells set a-ringing the next morning\nearly, and the music, such as the town would afford, under our window;\nbut my landlord brazened it out, that we were married before we came\nthither, only that, being his former guests, we would have our\nwedding-supper at his house.\n\nWe could not find in our hearts to stir the next day; for, in short,\nhaving been disturbed by the bells in the morning, and having perhaps\nnot slept overmuch before, we were so sleepy afterwards that we lay in\nbed till almost twelve o'clock.\n\nI begged my landlady that we might not have any more music in the town,\nnor ringing of bells, and she managed it so well that we were very\nquiet; but an odd passage interrupted all my mirth for a good while.\nThe great room of the house looked into the street, and my new spouse\nbeing belowstairs, I had walked to the end of the room; and it being a\npleasant, warm day, I had opened the window, and was standing at it for\nsome air, when I saw three gentlemen come by on horseback and go into\nan inn just against us.\n\nIt was not to be concealed, nor was it so doubtful as to leave me any\nroom to question it, but the second of the three was my Lancashire\nhusband.  I was frightened to death; I never was in such a\nconsternation in my life; I though I should have sunk into the ground;\nmy blood ran chill in my veins, and I trembled as if I had been in a\ncold fit of ague.  I say, there was no room to question the truth of\nit; I knew his clothes, I knew his horse, and I knew his face.\n\nThe first sensible reflect I made was, that my husband was not by to\nsee my disorder, and that I was very glad of it.  The gentlemen had not\nbeen long in the house but they came to the window of their room, as is\nusual; but my window was shut, you may be sure.  However, I could not\nkeep from peeping at them, and there I saw him again, heard him call\nout to one of the servants of the house for something he wanted, and\nreceived all the terrifying confirmations of its being the same person\nthat were possible to be had.\n\nMy next concern was to know, if possible, what was his business there;\nbut that was impossible.  Sometimes my imagination formed an idea of\none frightful thing, sometimes of another; sometime I thought he had\ndiscovered me, and was come to upbraid me with ingratitude and breach\nof honour; and every moment I fancied he was coming up the stairs to\ninsult me; and innumerable fancies came into my head of what was never\nin his head, nor ever could be, unless the devil had revealed it to him.\n\nI remained in this fright nearly two hours, and scarce ever kept my eye\nfrom the window or door of the inn where they were.  At last, hearing a\ngreat clatter in the passage of their inn, I ran to the window, and, to\nmy great satisfaction, saw them all three go out again and travel on\nwestward.  Had they gone towards London, I should have been still in a\nfright, lest I should meet him on the road again, and that he should\nknow me; but he went the contrary way, and so I was eased of that\ndisorder.\n\nWe resolved to be going the next day, but about six o'clock at night we\nwere alarmed with a great uproar in the street, and people riding as if\nthey had been out of their wits; and what was it but a hue-and-cry\nafter three highwaymen that had robbed two coaches and some other\ntravellers near Dunstable Hill, and notice had, it seems, been given\nthat they had been seen at Brickhill at such a house, meaning the house\nwhere those gentlemen had been.\n\nThe house was immediately beset and searched, but there were witnesses\nenough that the gentlemen had been gone over three hours.  The crowd\nhaving gathered about, we had the news presently; and I was heartily\nconcerned now another way.  I presently told the people of the house,\nthat I durst to say those were not the persons, for that I knew one of\nthe gentlemen to be a very honest person, and of a good estate in\nLancashire.\n\nThe constable who came with the hue-and-cry was immediately informed of\nthis, and came over to me to be satisfied from my own mouth, and I\nassured him that I saw the three gentlemen as I was at the window; that\nI saw them afterwards at the windows of the room they dined in; that I\nsaw them afterwards take horse, and I could assure him I knew one of\nthem to be such a man, that he was a gentleman of a very good estate,\nand an undoubted character in Lancashire, from whence I was just now\nupon my journey.\n\nThe assurance with which I delivered this gave the mob gentry a check,\nand gave the constable such satisfaction, that he immediately sounded a\nretreat, told his people these were not the men, but that he had an\naccount they were very honest gentlemen; and so they went all back\nagain.  What the truth of the matter was I knew not, but certain it was\nthat the coaches were robbed at Dunstable Hill, and #560 in money\ntaken; besides, some of the lace merchants that always travel that way\nhad been visited too.  As to the three gentlemen, that remains to be\nexplained hereafter.\n\nWell, this alarm stopped us another day, though my spouse was for\ntravelling, and told me that it was always safest travelling after a\nrobbery, for that the thieves were sure to be gone far enough off when\nthey had alarmed the country; but I was afraid and uneasy, and indeed\nprincipally lest my old acquaintance should be upon the road still, and\nshould chance to see me.\n\nI never lived four pleasanter days together in my life.  I was a mere\nbride all this while, and my new spouse strove to make me entirely easy\nin everything.  Oh could this state of life have continued, how had all\nmy past troubles been forgot, and my future sorrows avoided!  But I had\na past life of a most wretched kind to account for, some if it in this\nworld as well as in another.\n\nWe came away the fifth day; and my landlord, because he saw me uneasy,\nmounted himself, his son, and three honest country fellows with good\nfirearms, and, without telling us of it, followed the coach, and would\nsee us safe into Dunstable.  We could do no less than treat them very\nhandsomely at Dunstable, which cost my spouse about ten or twelve\nshillings, and something he gave the men for their time too, but my\nlandlord would take nothing for himself.\n\nThis was the most happy contrivance for me that could have fallen out;\nfor had I come to London unmarried, I must either have come to him for\nthe first night's entertainment, or have discovered to him that I had\nnot one acquaintance in the whole city of London that could receive a\npoor bride for the first night's lodging with her spouse.  But now,\nbeing an old married woman, I made no scruple of going directly home\nwith him, and there I took possession at once of a house well\nfurnished, and a husband in very good circumstances, so that I had a\nprospect of a very happy life, if I knew how to manage it; and I had\nleisure to consider of the real value of the life I was likely to live.\nHow different it was to be from the loose ungoverned part I had acted\nbefore, and how much happier a life of virtue and sobriety is, than\nthat which we call a life of pleasure.\n\nOh had this particular scene of life lasted, or had I learned from that\ntime I enjoyed it, to have tasted the true sweetness of it, and had I\nnot fallen into that poverty which is the sure bane of virtue, how\nhappy had I been, not only here, but perhaps for ever!  for while I\nlived thus, I was really a penitent for all my life past.  I looked\nback on it with abhorrence, and might truly be said to hate myself for\nit.  I often reflected how my lover at the Bath, struck at the hand of\nGod, repented and abandoned me, and refused to see me any more, though\nhe loved me to an extreme; but I, prompted by that worst of devils,\npoverty, returned to the vile practice, and made the advantage of what\nthey call a handsome face to be the relief to my necessities, and\nbeauty be a pimp to vice.\n\nNow I seemed landed in a safe harbour, after the stormy voyage of life\npast was at an end, and I began to be thankful for my deliverance.  I\nsat many an hour by myself, and wept over the remembrance of past\nfollies, and the dreadful extravagances of a wicked life, and sometimes\nI flattered myself that I had sincerely repented.\n\nBut there are temptations which it is not in the power of human nature\nto resist, and few know what would be their case if driven to the same\nexigencies.  As covetousness is the root of all evil, so poverty is, I\nbelieve, the worst of all snares.  But I waive that discourse till I\ncome to an experiment.\n\nI lived with this husband with the utmost tranquillity; he was a quiet,\nsensible, sober man; virtuous, modest, sincere, and in his business\ndiligent and just.  His business was in a narrow compass, and his\nincome sufficient to a plentiful way of living in the ordinary way.  I\ndo not say to keep an equipage, and make a figure, as the world calls\nit, nor did I expect it, or desire it; for as I abhorred the levity and\nextravagance of my former life, so I chose now to live retired, frugal,\nand within ourselves.  I kept no company, made no visits; minded my\nfamily, and obliged my husband; and this kind of life became a pleasure\nto me.\n\nWe lived in an uninterrupted course of ease and content for five years,\nwhen a sudden blow from an almost invisible hand blasted all my\nhappiness, and turned me out into the world in a condition the reverse\nof all that had been before it.\n\nMy husband having trusted one of his fellow-clerks with a sum of money,\ntoo much for our fortunes to bear the loss of, the clerk failed, and\nthe loss fell very heavy on my husband, yet it was not so great neither\nbut that, if he had had spirit and courage to have looked his\nmisfortunes in the face, his credit was so good that, as I told him, he\nwould easily recover it; for to sink under trouble is to double the\nweight, and he that will die in it, shall die in it.\n\nIt was in vain to speak comfortably to him; the wound had sunk too\ndeep; it was a stab that touched the vitals; he grew melancholy and\ndisconsolate, and from thence lethargic, and died.  I foresaw the blow,\nand was extremely oppressed in my mind, for I saw evidently that if he\ndied I was undone.\n\nI had had two children by him and no more, for, to tell the truth, it\nbegan to be time for me to leave bearing children, for I was now\neight-and-forty, and I suppose if he had lived I should have had no\nmore.\n\nI was now left in a dismal and disconsolate case indeed, and in several\nthings worse than ever.  First, it was past the flourishing time with\nme when I might expect to be courted for a mistress; that agreeable\npart had declined some time, and the ruins only appeared of what had\nbeen; and that which was worse than all this, that I was the most\ndejected, disconsolate creature alive.  I that had encouraged my\nhusband, and endeavoured to support his spirits under his trouble,\ncould not support my own; I wanted that spirit in trouble which I told\nhim was so necessary to him for bearing the burthen.\n\nBut my case was indeed deplorable, for I was left perfectly friendless\nand helpless, and the loss my husband had sustained had reduced his\ncircumstances so low, that though indeed I was not in debt, yet I could\neasily foresee that what was left would not support me long; that while\nit wasted daily for subsistence, I had not way to increase it one\nshilling, so that it would be soon all spent, and then I saw nothing\nbefore me but the utmost distress; and this represented itself so\nlively to my thoughts, that it seemed as if it was come, before it was\nreally very near; also my very apprehensions doubled the misery, for I\nfancied every sixpence that I paid for a loaf of bread was the last\nthat I had in the world, and that to-morrow I was to fast, and be\nstarved to death.\n\nIn this distress I had no assistant, no friend to comfort or advise me;\nI sat and cried and tormented myself night and day, wringing my hands,\nand sometimes raving like a distracted woman; and indeed I have often\nwondered it had not affected my reason, for I had the vapours to such a\ndegree, that my understanding was sometimes quite lost in fancies and\nimaginations.\n\nI lived two years in this dismal condition, wasting that little I had,\nweeping continually over my dismal circumstances, and, as it were, only\nbleeding to death, without the least hope or prospect of help from God\nor man; and now I had cried too long, and so often, that tears were, as\nI might say, exhausted, and I began to be desperate, for I grew poor\napace.\n\nFor a little relief I had put off my house and took lodgings; and as I\nwas reducing my living, so I sold off most of my goods, which put a\nlittle money in my pocket, and I lived near a year upon that, spending\nvery sparingly, and eking things out to the utmost; but still when I\nlooked before me, my very heart would sink within me at the inevitable\napproach of misery and want.  Oh let none read this part without\nseriously reflecting on the circumstances of a desolate state, and how\nthey would grapple with mere want of friends and want of bread; it will\ncertainly make them think not of sparing what they have only, but of\nlooking up to heaven for support, and of the wise man's prayer, 'Give\nme not poverty, lest I steal.'\n\nLet them remember that a time of distress is a time of dreadful\ntemptation, and all the strength to resist is taken away;  poverty\npresses, the soul is made desperate by distress, and what can be done?\nIt was one evening, when being brought, as I may say, to the last gasp,\nI think I may truly say I was distracted and raving, when prompted by I\nknow not what spirit, and, as it were, doing I did not know what or\nwhy, I dressed me (for I had still pretty good clothes) and went out.\nI am very sure I had no manner of design in my head when I went out; I\nneither knew nor considered where to go, or on what business; but as\nthe devil carried me out and laid his bait for me, so he brought me, to\nbe sure, to the place, for I knew not whither I was going or what I did.\n\nWandering thus about, I knew not whither, I passed by an apothecary's\nshop in Leadenhall Street, when I saw lie on a stool just before the\ncounter a little bundle wrapped in a white cloth; beyond it stood a\nmaid-servant with her back to it, looking towards the top of the shop,\nwhere the apothecary's apprentice, as I suppose, was standing upon the\ncounter, with his back also to the door, and a candle in his hand,\nlooking and reaching up to the upper shelf for something he wanted, so\nthat both were engaged mighty earnestly, and nobody else in the shop.\n\nThis was the bait; and the devil, who I said laid the snare, as readily\nprompted me as if he had spoke, for I remember, and shall never forget\nit, 'twas like a voice spoken to me over my shoulder, 'Take the bundle;\nbe quick; do it this moment.'  It was no sooner said but I stepped into\nthe shop, and with my back to the wench, as if I had stood up for a\ncart that was going by, I put my hand behind me and took the bundle,\nand went off with it, the maid or the fellow not perceiving me, or any\none else.\n\nIt is impossible to express the horror of my soul all the while I did\nit.  When I went away I had no heart to run, or scarce to mend my pace.\nI crossed the street indeed, and went down the first turning I came to,\nand I think it was a street that went through into Fenchurch Street.\nFrom thence I crossed and turned through so many ways and turnings,\nthat I could never tell which way it was, not where I went; for I felt\nnot the ground I stepped on, and the farther I was out of danger, the\nfaster I went, till, tired and out of breath, I was forced to sit down\non a little bench at a door, and then I began to recover, and found I\nwas got into Thames Street, near Billingsgate.  I rested me a little\nand went on; my blood was all in a fire; my heart beat as if I was in a\nsudden fright.  In short, I was under such a surprise that I still knew\nnot wither I was going, or what to do.\n\nAfter I had tired myself thus with walking a long way about, and so\neagerly, I began to consider and make home to my lodging, where I came\nabout nine o'clock at night.\n\nWhen the bundle was made up for, or on what occasion laid where I found\nit, I knew not, but when I came to open it I found there was a suit of\nchildbed-linen in it, very good and almost new, the lace very fine;\nthere was a silver porringer of a pint, a small silver mug and six\nspoons, with some other linen, a good smock, and three silk\nhandkerchiefs, and in the mug, wrapped up in a paper, 18s. 6d. in money.\n\nAll the while I was opening these things I was under such dreadful\nimpressions of fear, and I such terror of mind, though I was perfectly\nsafe, that I cannot express the manner of it.  I sat me down, and cried\nmost vehemently.  'Lord,' said I, 'what am I now? a thief!  Why, I\nshall be taken next time, and be carried to Newgate and be tried for my\nlife!'  And with that I cried again a long time, and I am sure, as poor\nas I was, if I had durst for fear, I would certainly have carried the\nthings back again; but that went off after a while.  Well, I went to\nbed for that night, but slept little; the horror of the fact was upon\nmy mind, and I knew not what I said or did all night, and all the next\nday.  Then I was impatient to hear some news of the loss; and would\nfain know how it was, whether they were a poor body's goods, or a rich.\n'Perhaps,' said I, 'it may be some poor widow like me, that had packed\nup these goods to go and sell them for a little bread for herself and a\npoor child, and are now starving and breaking their hearts for want of\nthat little they would have fetched.'  And this thought tormented me\nworse than all the rest, for three or four days' time.\n\nBut my own distresses silenced all these reflections, and the prospect\nof my own starving, which grew every day more frightful to me, hardened\nmy heart by degrees.  It was then particularly heavy upon my mind, that\nI had been reformed, and had, as I hoped, repented of all my past\nwickedness; that I had lived a sober, grave, retired life for several\nyears, but now I should be driven by the dreadful necessity of my\ncircumstances to the gates of destruction, soul and body; and two or\nthree times I fell upon my knees, praying to God, as well as I could,\nfor deliverance; but I cannot but say, my prayers had no hope in them.\nI knew not what to do; it was all fear without, and dark within; and I\nreflected on my past life as not sincerely repented of, that Heaven was\nnow beginning to punish me on this side the grave, and would make me as\nmiserable as I had been wicked.\n\nHad I gone on here I had perhaps been a true penitent; but I had an\nevil counsellor within, and he was continually prompting me to relieve\nmyself by the worst means; so one evening he tempted me again, by the\nsame wicked impulse that had said 'Take that bundle,' to go out again\nand seek for what might happen.\n\nI went out now by daylight, and wandered about I knew not whither, and\nin search of I knew not what, when the devil put a snare in my way of a\ndreadful nature indeed, and such a one as I have never had before or\nsince.  Going through Aldersgate Street, there was a pretty little\nchild who had been at a dancing-school, and was going home, all alone;\nand my prompter, like a true devil, set me upon this innocent creature.\nI talked to it, and it prattled to me again, and I took it by the hand\nand led it along till I came to a paved alley that goes into\nBartholomew Close, and I led it in there.  The child said that was not\nits way home.  I said, 'Yes, my dear, it is; I'll show you the way\nhome.' The child had a little necklace on of gold beads, and I had my\neye upon that, and in the dark of the alley I stooped, pretending to\nmend the child's clog that was loose, and took off her necklace, and\nthe child never felt it, and so led the child on again.  Here, I say,\nthe devil put me upon killing the child in the dark alley, that it\nmight not cry, but the very thought frighted me so that I was ready to\ndrop down; but I turned the child about and bade it go back again, for\nthat was not its way home.  The child said, so she would, and I went\nthrough into Bartholomew Close, and then turned round to another\npassage that goes into St. John Street; then, crossing into Smithfield,\nwent down Chick Lane and into Field Lane to Holborn Bridge, when,\nmixing with the crowd of people usually passing there, it was not\npossible to have been found out; and thus I enterprised my second sally\ninto the world.\n\nThe thoughts of this booty put out all the thoughts of the first, and\nthe reflections I had made wore quickly off; poverty, as I have said,\nhardened my heart, and my own necessities made me regardless of\nanything.  The last affair left no great concern upon me, for as I did\nthe poor child no harm, I only said to myself, I had given the parents\na just reproof for their negligence in leaving the poor little lamb to\ncome home by itself, and it would teach them to take more care of it\nanother time.\n\nThis string of beads was worth about twelve or fourteen pounds.  I\nsuppose it might have been formerly the mother's, for it was too big\nfor the child's wear, but that perhaps the vanity of the mother, to\nhave her child look fine at the dancing-school, had made her let the\nchild wear it; and no doubt the child had a maid sent to take care of\nit, but she, careless jade, was taken up perhaps with some fellow that\nhad met her by the way, and so the poor baby wandered till it fell into\nmy hands.\n\nHowever, I did the child no harm; I did not so much as fright it, for I\nhad a great many tender thoughts about me yet, and did nothing but\nwhat, as I may say, mere necessity drove me to.\n\nI had a great many adventures after this, but I was young in the\nbusiness, and did not know how to manage, otherwise than as the devil\nput things into my head; and indeed he was seldom backward to me.  One\nadventure I had which was very lucky to me.  I was going through\nLombard Street in the dusk of the evening, just by the end of Three\nKing court, when on a sudden comes a fellow running by me as swift as\nlightning, and throws a bundle that was in his hand, just behind me, as\nI stood up against the corner of the house at the turning into the\nalley.  Just as he threw it in he said, 'God bless you, mistress, let\nit lie there a little,' and away he runs swift as the wind.  After him\ncomes two more, and immediately a young fellow without his hat, crying\n'Stop thief!' and after him two or three more.  They pursued the two\nlast fellows so close, that they were forced to drop what they had got,\nand one of them was taken into the bargain, and other got off free.\n\nI stood stock-still all this while, till they came back, dragging the\npoor fellow they had taken, and lugging the things they had found,\nextremely well satisfied that they had recovered the booty and taken\nthe thief; and thus they passed by me, for I looked only like one who\nstood up while the crowd was gone.\n\nOnce or twice I asked what was the matter, but the people neglected\nanswering me, and I was not very importunate; but after the crowd was\nwholly past, I took my opportunity to turn about and take up what was\nbehind me and walk away.  This, indeed, I did with less disturbance\nthan I had done formerly, for these things I did not steal, but they\nwere stolen to my hand.  I got safe to my lodgings with this cargo,\nwhich was a piece of fine black lustring silk, and a piece of velvet;\nthe latter was but part of a piece of about eleven yards; the former\nwas a whole piece of near fifty yards.  It seems it was a mercer's shop\nthat they had rifled.  I say rifled, because the goods were so\nconsiderable that they had lost; for the goods that they recovered were\npretty many, and I believe came to about six or seven several pieces of\nsilk.  How they came to get so many I could not tell; but as I had only\nrobbed the thief, I made no scruple at taking these goods, and being\nvery glad of them too.\n\nI had pretty good luck thus far, and I made several adventures more,\nthough with but small purchase, yet with good success, but I went in\ndaily dread that some mischief would befall me, and that I should\ncertainly come to be hanged at last.  The impression this made on me\nwas too strong to be slighted, and it kept me from making attempts\nthat, for ought I knew, might have been very safely performed; but one\nthing I cannot omit, which was a bait to me many a day.  I walked\nfrequently out into the villages round the town, to see if nothing\nwould fall in my way there; and going by a house near Stepney, I saw on\nthe window-board two rings, one a small diamond ring, and the other a\ngold ring, to be sure laid there by some thoughtless lady, that had\nmore money then forecast, perhaps only till she washed her hands.\n\nI walked several times by the window to observe if I could see whether\nthere was anybody in the room or no, and I could see nobody, but still\nI was not sure.  It came presently into my thoughts to rap at the\nglass, as if I wanted to speak with somebody, and if anybody was there\nthey would be sure to come to the window, and then I would tell them to\nremove those rings, for that I had seen two suspicious fellows take\nnotice of them.  This was a ready thought.  I rapped once or twice and\nnobody came, when, seeing the coast clear, I thrust hard against the\nsquare of the glass, and broke it with very little noise, and took  out\nthe two rings, and walked away with them very safe.  The diamond ring\nwas worth about #3, and the other about 9s.\n\nI was now at a loss for a market for my goods, and especially for my\ntwo pieces of silk.  I was very loth to dispose of them for a trifle,\nas the poor unhappy thieves in general do, who, after they have\nventured their lives for perhaps a thing of value, are fain to sell it\nfor a song when they have done; but I was resolved I would not do thus,\nwhatever shift I made, unless I was driven to the last extremity.\nHowever, I did not well know what course to take.  At last I resolved\nto go to my old governess, and acquaint myself with her again.  I had\npunctually supplied the #5 a year to her for my little boy as long as I\nwas able, but at last was obliged to put a stop to it.  However, I had\nwritten a letter to her, wherein I had told her that my circumstances\nwere reduced very low; that I had lost my husband, and that I was not\nable to do it any longer, and so begged that the poor child might not\nsuffer too much for its mother's misfortunes.\n\nI now made her a visit, and I found that she drove something of the old\ntrade still, but that she was not in such flourishing circumstances as\nbefore; for she had been sued by a certain gentleman who had had his\ndaughter stolen from him, and who, it seems, she had helped to convey\naway; and it was very narrowly that she escaped the gallows.  The\nexpense also had ravaged her, and she was become very poor; her house\nwas but meanly furnished, and she was not in such repute for her\npractice as before; however, she stood upon her legs, as they say, and\na she was a stirring, bustling woman, and had some stock left, she was\nturned pawnbroker, and lived pretty well.\n\nShe received me very civilly, and with her usual obliging manner told\nme she would not have the less respect for me for my being reduced;\nthat she had taken care my boy was very well looked after, though I\ncould not pay for him, and that the woman that had him was easy, so\nthat I needed not to trouble myself about him till I might be better\nable to do it effectually.\n\nI told her that I had not much money left, but that I had some things\nthat were money's worth, if she could tell me how I might turn them\ninto money.  She asked me what it was I had.  I pulled out the string\nof gold beads, and told her it was one of my husband's presents to me;\nthen I showed her the two parcels of silk, which I told her I had from\nIreland, and brought up to town with me; and the little diamond ring.\nAs to the small parcel of plate and spoons, I had found means to\ndispose of them myself before; and as for the childbed-linen I had, she\noffered me to take it herself, believing it to have been my own.  She\ntold me that she was turned pawnbroker, and that she would sell those\nthings for me as pawn to her; and so she sent presently for proper\nagents that bought them, being in her hands, without any scruple, and\ngave good prices too.\n\nI now began to think this necessary woman might help me a little in my\nlow condition to some business, for I would gladly have turned my hand\nto any honest employment if I could have got it.  But here she was\ndeficient; honest business did not come within her reach.  If I had\nbeen younger, perhaps she might have helped me to a spark, but my\nthoughts were off that kind of livelihood, as being quite out of the\nway after fifty, which was my case, and so I told her.\n\nShe invited me at last to come, and be at her house till I could find\nsomething to do, and it should cost me very little, and this I gladly\naccepted of.  And now living a little easier, I entered into some\nmeasures to have my little son by my last husband taken off; and this\nshe made easy too, reserving a payment only of #5 a year, if I could\npay it.  This was such a help to me, that for a good while I left off\nthe wicked trade that I had so newly taken up; and gladly I would have\ngot my bread by the help of my needle if I could have got work, but\nthat was very hard to do for one that had no manner of acquaintance in\nthe world.\n\nHowever, at last I got some quilting work for ladies' beds, petticoats,\nand the like; and this I liked very well, and worked very hard, and\nwith this I began to live; but the diligent devil, who resolved I\nshould continue in his service, continually prompted me to go out and\ntake a walk, that is to say, to see if anything would offer in the old\nway.\n\nOne evening I blindly obeyed his summons, and fetched a long circuit\nthrough the streets, but met with no purchase, and came home very weary\nand empty; but not content with that, I went out the next evening too,\nwhen going by an alehouse I saw the door of a little room open, next\nthe very street, and on the table a silver tankard, things much in use\nin public-houses at that time.  It seems some company had been drinking\nthere, and the careless boys had forgot to take it away.\n\nI went into the box frankly, and setting the silver tankard on the\ncorner of the bench, I sat down before it, and knocked with my foot; a\nboy came presently, and I bade him fetch me a pint of warm ale, for it\nwas cold weather; the boy ran, and I heard him go down the cellar to\ndraw the ale.  While the boy was gone, another boy came into the room,\nand cried, 'D' ye call?' I spoke with a melancholy air, and said, 'No,\nchild; the boy is gone for a pint of ale for me.'\n\nWhile I sat here, I heard the woman in the bar say, 'Are they all gone\nin the five?' which was the box I sat in, and the boy said, 'Yes.' 'Who\nfetched the tankard away?' says the woman.  'I did,' says another boy;\n'that's it,' pointing, it seems, to another tankard, which he had\nfetched from another box by mistake; or else it must be, that the rogue\nforgot that he had not brought it in, which certainly he had not.\n\nI heard all this, much to my satisfaction, for I found plainly that the\ntankard was not missed, and yet they concluded it was fetched away; so\nI drank my ale, called to pay, and as I went away I said, 'Take care of\nyour plate, child,' meaning a silver pint mug, which he brought me\ndrink in.  The boy said, 'Yes, madam, very welcome,' and away I came.\n\nI came home to my governess, and now I thought it was a time to try\nher, that if I might be put to the necessity of being exposed, she\nmight offer me some assistance.  When I had been at home some time, and\nhad an opportunity of talking to her, I told her I had a secret of the\ngreatest consequence in the world to commit to her, if she had respect\nenough for me to keep it a secret.  She told me she had kept one of my\nsecrets faithfully; why should I doubt her keeping another?  I told her\nthe strangest thing in the world had befallen me, and that it had made\na thief of me, even without any design, and so told her the whole story\nof the tankard.  'And have you brought it away with you, my dear?' says\nshe.  'To be sure I have,' says I, and showed it her.  'But what shall\nI do now,' says I; 'must not carry it again?'\n\n'Carry it again!' says she.  'Ay, if you are minded to be sent to\nNewgate for stealing it.'  'Why,' says I, 'they can't be so base to\nstop me, when I carry it to them again?'  'You don't know those sort of\npeople, child,' says she; 'they'll not only carry you to Newgate, but\nhang you too, without any regard to the honesty of returning it; or\nbring in an account of all the other tankards they have lost, for you\nto pay for.'  'What must I do, then?' says I.  'Nay,' says she, 'as you\nhave played the cunning part and stole it, you must e'en keep it;\nthere's no going back now.  Besides, child,' says she, 'don't you want\nit more than they do?  I wish you could light of such a bargain once a\nweek.'\n\nThis gave me a new notion of my governess, and that since she was\nturned pawnbroker, she had a sort of people about her that were none of\nthe honest ones that I had met with there before.\n\nI had not been long there but I discovered it more plainly than before,\nfor every now and then I saw hilts of swords, spoons, forks, tankards,\nand all such kind of ware brought in, not to be pawned, but to be sold\ndownright; and she bought everything that came without asking any\nquestions, but had very good bargains, as I found by her discourse.\n\nI found also that in following this trade she always melted down the\nplate she bought, that it might not be challenged; and she came to me\nand told me one morning that she was going to melt, and if I would, she\nwould put my tankard in, that it might not be seen by anybody.  I told\nher, with all my heart; so she weighed it, and allowed me the full\nvalue in silver again; but I found she did not do the same to the rest\nof her customers.\n\nSome time after this, as I was at work, and very melancholy, she begins\nto ask me what the matter was, as she was used to do.  I told her my\nheart was heavy; I had little work, and nothing to live on, and knew\nnot what course to take.  She laughed, and told me I must go out again\nand try my fortune; it might be that I might meet with another piece of\nplate.  'O mother!' says I, 'that is a trade I have no skill in, and if\nI should be taken I am undone at once.'  Says she, 'I could help you to\na schoolmistress that shall make you as dexterous as herself.'  I\ntrembled at  that proposal, for hitherto I had had no confederates, nor\nany acquaintance among that tribe.  But she conquered all my modesty,\nand all my fears; and in a little time, by the help of this\nconfederate, I grew as impudent a thief, and as dexterous as ever Moll\nCutpurse was, though, if fame does not belie her, not half so handsome.\n\nThe comrade she helped me to dealt in three sorts of craft, viz.\nshoplifting, stealing of shop-books and pocket-books, and taking off\ngold watches from the ladies' sides; and this last she did so\ndexterously that no woman ever arrived to the performance of that art\nso as to do it like her.  I liked the first and the last of these\nthings very well, and I attended her some time in the practice, just as\na deputy attends a midwife, without any pay.\n\nAt length she put me to practice.  She had shown me her art, and I had\nseveral times unhooked a watch from her own side with great dexterity.\nAt last she showed me a prize, and this was a young lady big with\nchild, who had a charming watch.  The thing was to be done as she came\nout of church.  She goes on one side of the lady, and pretends, just as\nshe came to the steps, to fall, and fell against the lady with so much\nviolence as put her into a great fright, and both cried out terribly.\nIn the very moment that she jostled the lady, I had hold of the watch,\nand holding it the right way, the start she gave drew the hook out, and\nshe never felt it.  I made off immediately, and left my schoolmistress\nto come out of her pretended fright gradually, and the lady too; and\npresently the watch was missed.  'Ay,' says my comrade, 'then it was\nthose rogues that thrust me down, I warrant ye; I wonder the\ngentlewoman did not miss her watch before, then we might have taken\nthem.'\n\nShe humoured the thing so well that nobody suspected her, and I was got\nhome a full hour before her.  This was my first adventure in company.\nThe watch was indeed a very fine one, and had a great many trinkets\nabout it, and my governess allowed us #20 for it, of which I had half.\nAnd thus I was entered a complete thief, hardened to the pitch above\nall the reflections of conscience or modesty, and to a degree which I\nmust acknowledge I never thought possible in me.\n\nThus the devil, who began, by the help of an irresistible poverty, to\npush me into this wickedness, brought me on to a height beyond the\ncommon rate, even when my necessities were not so great, or the\nprospect of my misery so terrifying; for I had now got into a little\nvein of work, and as I was not at a loss to handle my needle, it was\nvery probable, as acquaintance came in, I might have got my bread\nhonestly enough.\n\nI must say, that if such a prospect of work had presented itself at\nfirst, when I began to feel the approach of my miserable\ncircumstances--I say, had such a prospect of getting my bread by\nworking presented itself then, I had never fallen into this wicked\ntrade, or into such a wicked gang as I was now embarked with; but\npractice had hardened me, and I grew audacious to the last degree; and\nthe more so because I had carried it on so long, and had never been\ntaken; for, in a word, my new partner in wickedness and I went on\ntogether so long, without being ever detected, that we not only grew\nbold, but we grew rich, and we had at one time one-and-twenty gold\nwatches in our hands.\n\nI remember that one day being a little more serious than ordinary, and\nfinding I had so good a stock beforehand as I had, for I had near #200\nin money for my share, it came strongly into my mind, no doubt from\nsome kind spirit, if such there be, that at first poverty excited me,\nand my distresses drove me to these dreadful shifts; so seeing those\ndistresses were now relieved, and I could also get something towards a\nmaintenance by working, and had so good a bank to support me, why\nshould I now not leave off, as they say, while I was well? that I could\nnot expect to go always free; and if I was once surprised, and\nmiscarried, I was undone.\n\nThis was doubtless the happy minute, when, if I had hearkened to the\nblessed hint, from whatsoever had it came, I had still a cast for an\neasy life.  But my fate was otherwise determined; the busy devil that\nso industriously drew me in had too fast hold of me to let me go back;\nbut as poverty brought me into the mire, so avarice kept me in, till\nthere was no going back.  As to the  arguments which my reason dictated\nfor persuading me to lay down, avarice stepped in and said, 'Go on, go\non; you have had very good luck; go on till you have gotten four or\nfive hundred pounds, and then you shall leave off, and then you may\nlive easy without working at all.'\n\nThus I, that was once in the devil's clutches, was held fast there as\nwith a charm, and had no power to go without the circle, till I was\nengulfed in labyrinths of trouble too great to get out at all.\n\nHowever, these thoughts left some impression upon me, and made me act\nwith some more caution than before, and more than my directors used for\nthemselves.  My comrade, as I called her, but rather she should have\nbeen called my teacher, with another of her scholars, was the first in\nthe misfortune; for, happening to be upon the hunt for purchase, they\nmade an attempt upon a linen-draper in Cheapside, but were snapped by a\nhawk's-eyed journeyman, and seized with two pieces of cambric, which\nwere taken also upon them.\n\nThis was enough to lodge them both in Newgate, where they had the\nmisfortune to have some of their former sins brought to remembrance.\nTwo other indictments being brought against them, and the facts being\nproved upon them, they were both condemned to die.  They both pleaded\ntheir bellies, and were both voted quick with child; though my tutoress\nwas no more with child than I was.\n\nI went frequently to see them, and condole with them, expecting that it\nwould be my turn next; but the place gave me so much horror, reflecting\nthat it was the place of my unhappy birth, and of my mother's\nmisfortunes, and that I could not bear it, so I was forced to leave off\ngoing to see them.\n\nAnd oh! could I have but taken warning by their disasters, I had been\nhappy still, for I was yet free, and had nothing brought against me;\nbut it could not be, my measure was not yet filled up.\n\nMy comrade, having the brand of an old offender, was executed; the\nyoung offender was spared, having obtained a reprieve, but lay starving\na long while in prison, till at last she got her name into what they\ncall a circuit pardon, and so came off.\n\nThis terrible example of my comrade frighted me heartily, and for a\ngood while I made no excursions; but one night, in the neighbourhood of\nmy governess's house, they cried 'Fire.' My governess looked out, for\nwe were all up, and cried immediately that such a gentlewoman's house\nwas all of a light fire atop, and so indeed it was.  Here she gives me\na job.  'Now, child,' says she, 'there is a rare opportunity, for the\nfire being so near that you may go to it before the street is blocked\nup with the crowd.'  She presently gave me my cue.  'Go, child,' says\nshe, 'to the house, and run in and tell the lady, or anybody you see,\nthat you come to help them, and that you came from such a gentlewoman\n(that is, one of her acquaintance farther up the street).'  She gave me\nthe like cue to the next house, naming another name that was also an\nacquaintance of the gentlewoman of the house.\n\nAway I went, and, coming to the house, I found them all in confusion,\nyou may be sure.  I ran in, and finding one of the maids, 'Lord!\nsweetheart,' says I, 'how came this dismal accident?  Where is your\nmistress?  Any how does she do?  Is she safe?  And where are the\nchildren?  I come from Madam ---- to help you.'  Away runs the maid.\n'Madam, madam,' says she, screaming as loud as she could yell, 'here is\na gentlewoman come from Madam ---- to help us.'  The poor woman, half\nout of her wits, with a bundle under her arm, an two little children,\ncomes toward me.  'Lord! madam,' says I, 'let me carry the poor\nchildren to Madam ----,' she desires you to send them; she'll take care\nof the poor lambs;' and immediately I takes one of them out of her\nhand, and she lifts the other up into my arms.  'Ay, do, for God's\nsake,' says she, 'carry them to her.  Oh! thank her for her kindness.'\n'Have you anything else to secure, madam?' says I; 'she will take care\nof it.'  'Oh dear! ay,' says she, 'God bless her, and thank her. Take\nthis bundle of plate and carry it to her too.  Oh, she is a good woman.\nOh Lord! we are utterly ruined, utterly undone!'  And away she runs\nfrom me out of her wits, and the maids after her; and away comes I with\nthe two children and the bundle.\n\nI was no sooner got into the street but I saw another woman come to me.\n'Oh!' says she, 'mistress,' in a piteous tone, 'you will let fall the\nchild.  Come, this is a sad time; let me help you'; and immediately\nlays hold of my bundle to carry it for me.  'No,' says I; 'if you will\nhelp me, take the child by the hand, and lead it for me but to the\nupper end of the street; I'll go with you and satisfy you for your\npains.'\n\nShe could not avoid going, after what I said; but the creature, in\nshort, was one of the same business with me, and wanted nothing but the\nbundle; however, she went with me to the door, for she could not help\nit.  When we were come there I whispered her, 'Go, child,' said I, 'I\nunderstand your trade; you may meet with purchase enough.'\n\nShe understood me and walked off.  I thundered at the door with the\nchildren, and as the people were raised before by the noise of the\nfire, I was soon let in, and I said, 'Is madam awake?  Pray tell her\nMrs. ---- desires the favour of her to take the two children in; poor\nlady, she will be undone, their house is all of a flame,'  They took\nthe children in very civilly, pitied the family in distress, and away\ncame I with my bundle.  One of the maids asked me if  I was not to\nleave the bundle too.  I said, 'No, sweetheart, 'tis to go to another\nplace; it does not belong to them.'\n\nI was a great way out of the hurry now, and so I went on, clear of\nanybody's inquiry, and brought the bundle of plate, which was very\nconsiderable, straight home, and gave it to my old governess.  She told\nme she would not look into it, but bade me go out again to look for\nmore.\n\nShe gave me the like cue to the gentlewoman of the next house to that\nwhich was on fire, and I did my endeavour to go, but by this time the\nalarm of fire was so great, and so many engines playing, and the street\nso thronged with people, that I could not get near the house whatever I\nwould do; so I came back again to my governess's, and taking the bundle\nup into my chamber, I began to examine it.  It is with horror that I\ntell what a treasure I found there; 'tis enough to say, that besides\nmost of the family plate, which was considerable, I found a gold chain,\nan old-fashioned thing, the locket of which was broken, so that I\nsuppose it had not been used some years, but the gold was not the worse\nfor that; also a little box of burying-rings, the lady's wedding-ring,\nand some broken bits of old lockets of gold, a gold watch, and a purse\nwith about #24 value in old pieces of gold coin, and several other\nthings of value.\n\nThis was the greatest and the worst prize that ever I was concerned in;\nfor indeed, though, as I have said above, I was hardened now beyond the\npower of all reflection in other cases, yet it really touched me to the\nvery soul when I looked into this treasure, to think of the poor\ndisconsolate gentlewoman who had lost so much by the fire besides; and\nwho would think, to be sure, that she had saved her plate and best\nthings; how she would be surprised and afflicted when she should find\nthat she had been deceived, and should find that the person that took\nher children and her goods, had not come, as was pretended, from the\ngentlewoman in the next street, but that the children had been put upon\nher without her own knowledge.\n\nI say, I confess the inhumanity of this action moved me very much, and\nmade me relent exceedingly, and tears stood in my eyes upon that\nsubject; but with all my sense of its being cruel and inhuman, I could\nnever find in my heart to make any restitution.  The reflection wore\noff, and I began quickly to forget the circumstances that attended the\ntaking them.\n\nNor was this all; for though by this job I was become considerably\nricher than before, yet the resolution I had formerly taken, of leaving\noff this horrid trade when I had gotten a little more, did not return,\nbut I must still get farther, and more; and the avarice joined so with\nthe success, that I had no more thought of coming to a timely\nalteration of life, though without it I could expect no safety, no\ntranquillity in the possession of what I had so wickedly gained; but a\nlittle more, and a little more, was the case still.\n\nAt length, yielding to the importunities of my crime, I cast off all\nremorse and repentance, and all the reflections on that head turned to\nno more than this, that I might perhaps come to have one booty more\nthat might complete my desires; but though I certainly had that one\nbooty, yet every hit looked towards another, and was so encouraging to\nme to go on with the trade, that I had no gust to the thought of laying\nit down.\n\nIn this condition, hardened by success, and resolving to go on, I fell\ninto the snare in which I was appointed to meet with my last reward for\nthis kind of life.  But even this was not yet, for I met with several\nsuccessful adventures more in this way of being undone.\n\nI remained still with my governess, who was for a while really\nconcerned for the misfortune of my comrade that had been hanged, and\nwho, it seems, knew enough of my governess to have sent her the same\nway, and which made her very uneasy; indeed, she was in a very great\nfright.\n\nIt is true that when she was gone, and had not opened mouth to tell\nwhat she knew, my governess was easy as to that point, and perhaps glad\nshe was hanged, for it was in her power to have obtained a pardon at\nthe expense of her friends; but on the other hand, the loss of her, and\nthe sense of her kindness in not making her market of what she knew,\nmoved my governess to mourn very sincerely for her.  I comforted her as\nwell as I could, and she in return hardened me to merit more completely\nthe same fate.\n\nHowever, as I have said, it made me the more wary, and particularly I\nwas very shy of shoplifting, especially among the mercers and drapers,\nwho are a set of fellows that have their eyes very much about them.  I\nmade a venture or two among the lace folks and the milliners, and\nparticularly at one shop where I got notice of two young women who were\nnewly set up, and had not been bred to the trade.  There I think I\ncarried off a piece of bone-lace, worth six or seven pounds, and a\npaper of thread.  But this was but once; it was a trick that would not\nserve again.\n\nIt was always reckoned a safe job when we heard of a new shop, and\nespecially when the people were such as were not bred to shops.  Such\nmay depend upon it that they will be visited once or twice at their\nbeginning, and they must be very sharp indeed if they can prevent it.\n\nI made another adventure or two, but they were but trifles too, though\nsufficient to live on.  After this nothing considerable offering for a\ngood while, I began to think that I must give over the trade in\nearnest; but my governess, who was not willing to lose me, and expected\ngreat things of me, brought me one day into company with a young woman\nand a fellow that went for her husband, though as it appeared\nafterwards, she was not his wife, but they were partners, it seems, in\nthe trade they carried on, and partners in something else.  In short,\nthey robbed together, lay together, were taken together, and at last\nwere hanged together.\n\nI came into a kind of league with these two by the help of my\ngoverness, and they carried me out into three or four adventures, where\nI rather saw them commit some coarse and unhandy robberies, in which\nnothing but a great stock of impudence on their side, and gross\nnegligence on the people's side who were robbed, could have made them\nsuccessful.  So I resolved from that time forward to be very cautious\nhow I adventured upon anything with them; and indeed, when two or three\nunlucky projects were proposed by them, I declined the offer, and\npersuaded them against it.  One time they particularly proposed robbing\na watchmaker of three gold watches, which they had eyed in the daytime,\nand found the place where he laid them.  One of them had so many keys\nof all kinds, that he made no question to open the place where the\nwatchmaker had laid them; and so we made a kind of an appointment; but\nwhen I came to look narrowly into the thing, I found they proposed\nbreaking open the house, and this, as a thing out of my way, I would\nnot embark in, so they went without me.  They did get into the house by\nmain force, and broke up the locked place where the watches were, but\nfound but one of the gold watches, and a silver one, which they took,\nand got out of the house again very clear.  But the family, being\nalarmed, cried out 'Thieves,' and the man was pursued and taken; the\nyoung woman had got off too, but unhappily was stopped at a distance,\nand the watches found upon her.  And thus I had a second escape, for\nthey were convicted, and both hanged, being old offenders, though but\nyoung people.  As I said before that they robbed together and lay\ntogether, so now they hanged together, and there ended my new\npartnership.\n\nI began now to be very wary, having so narrowly escaped a scouring, and\nhaving such an example before me; but I had a new tempter, who prompted\nme every day--I mean my governess; and now a prize presented, which as\nit came by her management, so she expected a good share of the booty.\nThere was a good quantity of Flanders lace lodged in a private house,\nwhere she had gotten intelligence of it, and Flanders lace being\nprohibited, it was a good booty to any custom-house officer that could\ncome at it.  I had a full account from my governess, as well of the\nquantity as of the very place where it was concealed, and I went to a\ncustom-house officer, and told him I had such a discovery to make to\nhim of such a quantity of lace, if he would assure me that I should\nhave my due share of the reward.  This was so just an offer, that\nnothing could be fairer; so he agreed, and taking a constable and me\nwith him, we beset the house.  As I told him I could go directly to the\nplace, he left it to me; and the hole being very dark, I squeezed\nmyself into it, with a candle in my hand, and so reached the pieces out\nto him, taking care as I gave him some so to secure as much about\nmyself as I could conveniently dispose of.  There was near #300 worth\nof lace in the hole, and I secured about #50 worth of it to myself.\nThe people of the house were not owners of the lace, but a merchant who\nhad entrusted them with it; so that they were not so surprised as I\nthought they would be.\n\nI left the officer overjoyed with his prize, and fully satisfied with\nwhat he had got, and appointed to meet him at a house of his own\ndirecting, where I came after I had disposed of the cargo I had about\nme, of which he had not the least suspicion.  When I came to him he\nbegan to capitulate with me, believing I did not understand the right I\nhad to a share in the prize, and would fain have put me off with #20,\nbut I let him know that I was not so ignorant as he supposed I was; and\nyet I was glad, too, that he offered to bring me to a certainty.\n\nI asked #100, and he rose up to #30; I fell to #80, and he rose again\nto #40; in a word, he offered #50, and I consented, only demanding a\npiece of lace, which I though came to about #8 or #9, as if it had been\nfor my own wear, and he agreed to it.  So I got #50 in money paid me\nthat same night, and made an end of the bargain; nor did he ever know\nwho I was, or where to inquire for me, so that if it had been\ndiscovered that part of the goods were embezzled, he could have made no\nchallenge upon me for it.\n\nI very punctually divided this spoil with my governess, and I passed\nwith her from this time for a very dexterous manager in the nicest\ncases.  I found that this last was the best and easiest sort of work\nthat was in my way, and I made it my business to inquire out prohibited\ngoods, and after buying some, usually betrayed them, but none of these\ndiscoveries amounted to anything considerable, not like that I related\njust now; but I was willing to act safe, and was still cautious of\nrunning the great risks which I found others did, and in which they\nmiscarried every day.\n\nThe next thing of moment was an attempt at a gentlewoman's good watch.\nIt happened in a crowd, at a meeting-house, where I was in very great\ndanger of being taken.  I had full hold of her watch, but giving a\ngreat jostle, as if somebody had thrust me against her, and in the\njuncture giving the watch a fair pull, I found it would not come, so I\nlet it go that moment, and cried out as if I had been killed, that\nsomebody had trod upon my foot, and that there were certainly\npickpockets there, for somebody or other had given a pull at my watch;\nfor you are to observe that on these adventures we always went very\nwell dressed, and I had very good clothes on, and a gold watch by my\nside, as like a lady as other fold.\n\nI had no sooner said so, but the other gentlewoman cried out 'A\npickpocket' too, for somebody, she said, had tried to pull her watch\naway.\n\nWhen I touched her watch I was close to her, but when I cried out I\nstopped as it were short, and the crowd bearing her forward a little,\nshe made a noise too, but it was at some distance from me, so that she\ndid not in the least suspect me; but when she cried out 'A pickpocket,'\nsomebody cried, 'Ay, and here has been another! this gentlewoman has\nbeen attempted too.'\n\nAt that very instance, a little farther in the crowd, and very luckily\ntoo, they cried out 'A pickpocket,' again, and really seized a young\nfellow in the very act.  This, though unhappy for the wretch, was very\nopportunely for my case, though I had carried it off handsomely enough\nbefore; but now it was out of doubt, and all the loose part of the\ncrowd ran that way, and the poor boy was delivered up to the rage of\nthe street, which is a cruelty I need not describe, and which, however,\nthey are always glad of, rather than to be sent to Newgate, where they\nlie often a long time, till they are almost perished, and sometimes\nthey are hanged, and the best they can look for, if they are convicted,\nis to be transported.\n\nThis was a narrow escape to me, and I was so frighted that I ventured\nno more at gold watches a great while.  There was indeed a great many\nconcurring circumstances in this adventure which assisted to my escape;\nbut the chief was, that the woman whose watch I had pulled at was a\nfool; that is to say, she was ignorant of the nature of the attempt,\nwhich one would have thought she should not have been, seeing she was\nwise enough to fasten her watch so that it could not be slipped up.\nBut she was in such a fright that she had no thought about her proper\nfor the discovery; for she, when she felt the pull, screamed out, and\npushed herself forward, and put all the people about her into disorder,\nbut said not a word of her watch, or of a pickpocket, for a least two\nminutes' time, which was time enough for me, and to spare.  For as I\nhad cried out behind her, as I have said, and bore myself back in the\ncrowd as she bore forward, there were several people, at least seven or\neight, the throng being still moving on, that were got between me and\nher in that time, and then I crying out 'A pickpocket,' rather sooner\nthan she, or at least as soon, she might as well be the person\nsuspected as I, and the people were confused in their inquiry; whereas,\nhad she with a presence of mind needful on such an occasion, as soon as\nshe felt the pull, not screamed out as she did, but turned immediately\nround and seized the next body that was behind her, she had infallibly\ntaken me.\n\nThis is a direction not of the kindest sort to the fraternity, but 'tis\ncertainly a key to the clue of a pickpocket's motions, and whoever can\nfollow it will as certainly catch the thief as he will be sure to miss\nif he does not.\n\nI had another adventure, which puts this matter out of doubt, and which\nmay be an instruction for posterity in the case of a pickpocket.  My\ngood old governess, to give a short touch at her history, though she\nhad left off the trade, was, as I may say, born a pickpocket, and, as I\nunderstood afterwards, had run through all the several degrees of that\nart, and yet had never been taken but once, when she was so grossly\ndetected, that she was convicted and ordered to be transported; but\nbeing a woman of a rare tongue, and withal having money in her pocket,\nshe found means, the ship putting into Ireland for provisions, to get\non shore there, where she lived and practised her old trade for some\nyears; when falling into another sort of bad company, she turned\nmidwife and procuress, and played a hundred pranks there, which she\ngave me a little history of in confidence between us as we grew more\nintimate; and it was to this wicked creature that I owed all the art\nand dexterity I arrived to, in which there were few that ever went\nbeyond me, or that practised so long without any misfortune.\n\nIt was after those adventures in Ireland, and when she was pretty well\nknown in that country, that she left Dublin and came over to England,\nwhere, the time of her transportation being not expired, she left her\nformer trade, for fear of falling into bad hands again, for then she\nwas sure to have gone to wreck.  Here she set up the same trade she had\nfollowed in Ireland, in which she soon, by her admirable management and\ngood tongue, arrived to the height which I have already described, and\nindeed began to be rich, though her trade fell off again afterwards, as\nI have hinted before.\n\nI mentioned thus much of the history of this woman here, the better to\naccount for the concern she had in the wicked life I was now leading,\ninto all the particulars of which she led me, as it were, by the hand,\nand gave me such directions, and I so well followed them, that I grew\nthe greatest artist of my time and worked myself out of every danger\nwith such dexterity, that when several more of my comrades ran\nthemselves into Newgate presently, and by that time they had been half\na year at the trade, I had now practised upwards of five years, and the\npeople at Newgate did not so much as know me; they had heard much of me\nindeed, and often expected me there, but I always got off, though many\ntimes in the extremest danger.\n\nOne of the greatest dangers I was now in, was that I was too well known\namong the trade, and some of them, whose hatred was owing rather to\nenvy than any injury I had done them, began to be angry that I should\nalways escape when they were always catched and hurried to Newgate.\nThese were they that gave me the name of Moll Flanders; for it was no\nmore of affinity with my real name or with any of the name I had ever\ngone by, than black is of kin to white, except that once, as before, I\ncalled myself Mrs. Flanders; when I sheltered myself in the Mint; but\nthat these rogues never knew, nor could I ever learn how they came to\ngive me the name, or what the occasion of it was.\n\nI was soon informed that some of these who were gotten fast into\nNewgate had vowed to impeach me; and as I knew that two or three of\nthem were but too able to do it, I was under a great concern about it,\nand kept within doors for a good while.  But my governess--whom I\nalways made partner in my success, and who now played a sure game with\nme, for that she had a share of the gain and no share in the hazard--I\nsay, my governess was something impatient of my leading such a useless,\nunprofitable life, as she called it; and she laid a new contrivance for\nmy going abroad, and this was to dress me up in men's clothes, and so\nput me into a new kind of practice.\n\nI was tall and personable, but a little too smooth-faced for a man;\nhowever, I seldom went abroad but in the night, it did well enough; but\nit was a long time before I could behave in my new clothes--I mean, as\nto my craft.  It was impossible to be so nimble, so ready, so dexterous\nat these things in a dress so contrary to nature; and I did everything\nclumsily, so I had neither the success nor the easiness of escape that\nI had before, and I resolved to leave it off; but that resolution was\nconfirmed soon after by the following accident.\n\nAs my governess disguised me like a man, so she joined me with a man, a\nyoung fellow that was nimble enough at his business, and for about\nthree weeks we did very well together.  Our principal trade was\nwatching shopkeepers' counters, and slipping off any kind of goods we\ncould see carelessly laid anywhere, and we made several good bargains,\nas we called them, at this work.  And as we kept always together, so we\ngrew very intimate, yet he never knew that I was not a man, nay, though\nI several times went home with him to his lodgings, according as our\nbusiness directed, and four or five times lay with him all night.  But\nour design lay another way, and it was absolutely necessary to me to\nconceal my sex from him, as appeared afterwards.  The circumstances of\nour living, coming in late, and having such and such business to do as\nrequired that nobody should be trusted with the coming into our\nlodgings, were such as made it impossible to me to refuse lying with\nhim, unless I would have owned my sex; and as it was, I effectually\nconcealed myself.  But his ill, and my good fortune, soon put an end to\nthis life, which I must own I was sick of too, on several other\naccounts.  We had made several prizes in this new way of business, but\nthe last would be extraordinary.  There was a shop in a certain street\nwhich had a warehouse behind it that looked into another street, the\nhouse making the corner of the turning.\n\nThrough the window of the warehouse we saw, lying on the counter or\nshowboard, which was just before it, five pieces of silks, besides\nother stuffs, and though it was almost dark, yet the people, being busy\nin the fore-shop with customers, had not had time to shut up those\nwindows, or else had forgot it.\n\nThis the young fellow was so overjoyed with, that he could not restrain\nhimself.  It lay all within his reach he said, and he swore violently\nto me that he would have it, if he broke down the house for it.  I\ndissuaded him a little, but saw there was no remedy; so he ran rashly\nupon it, slipped out a square of the sash window dexterously enough,\nand without noise, and got out four pieces of the silks, and came with\nthem towards me, but was immediately pursued with a terrible clutter\nand noise.  We were standing together indeed, but I had not taken any\nof the goods out of his hand, when I said to him hastily, 'You are\nundone, fly, for God's sake!'  He ran like lightning, and I too, but\nthe pursuit was hotter after him because he had the goods, than after\nme.  He dropped two of the pieces, which stopped them a little, but the\ncrowd increased and pursued us both.  They took him soon after with the\nother two pieces upon him, and then the rest followed me.  I ran for it\nand got into my governess's house whither some quick-eyed people\nfollowed me to warmly as to fix me there.  They did not immediately\nknock, at the door, by which I got time to throw off my disguise and\ndress me in my own clothes; besides, when they came there, my\ngoverness, who had her tale ready, kept her door shut, and called out\nto them and told them there was no man come in there.  The people\naffirmed there did a man come in there, and swore they would break open\nthe door.\n\nMy governess, not at all surprised, spoke calmly to them, told them\nthey should very freely come and search her house, if they should bring\na constable, and let in none but such as the constable would admit, for\nit was unreasonable to let in a whole crowd.  This they could not\nrefuse, though they were a crowd.  So a constable was fetched\nimmediately, and she very freely opened the door; the constable kept\nthe door, and the men he appointed searched the house, my governess\ngoing with them from room to room.  When she came to my room she called\nto me, and said aloud, 'Cousin, pray open the door; here's some\ngentlemen that must come and look into your room.'\n\nI had a little girl with me, which was my governess's grandchild, as\nshe called her; and I bade her open the door, and there sat I at work\nwith a great litter of things about me, as if I had been at work all\nday, being myself quite undressed, with only night-clothes on my head,\nand a loose morning-gown wrapped about me.  My governess made a kind of\nexcuse for their disturbing me, telling me partly the occasion of it,\nand that she had no remedy but to open the doors to them, and let them\nsatisfy themselves, for all she could say to them would not satisfy\nthem.  I sat still, and bid them search the room if they pleased, for\nif there was anybody in the house, I was sure they were not in my room;\nand as for the rest of the house, I had nothing to say to that, I did\nnot understand what they looked for.\n\nEverything looked so innocent and to honest about me, that they treated\nme civiller than I expected, but it was not till they had searched the\nroom to a nicety, even under the bed, in the bed, and everywhere else\nwhere it was possible anything could be hid.  When they had done this,\nand could find nothing, they asked my pardon for troubling me, and went\ndown.\n\nWhen they had thus searched the house from bottom to top, and then top\nto bottom, and could find nothing, they appeased the mob pretty well;\nbut they carried my governess before the justice.  Two men swore that\nthey saw the man whom they pursued go into her house.  My governess\nrattled and made a great noise that her house should be insulted, and\nthat she should be used thus for nothing; that if a man did come in, he\nmight go out again presently for aught she knew, for she was ready to\nmake oath that no man had been within her doors all that day as she\nknew of (and that was very true indeed); that is might be indeed that\nas she was abovestairs, any fellow in a fright might find the door open\nand run in for shelter when he was pursued, but that she knew nothing\nof it; and if it had been so, he certainly went out again, perhaps at\nthe other door, for she had another door into an alley, and so had made\nhis escape and cheated them all.\n\nThis was indeed probable enough, and the justice satisfied himself with\ngiving her an oath that she had not received or admitted any man into\nher house to conceal him, or protect or hide him from justice.  This\noath she might justly take, and did so, and so she was dismissed.\n\nIt is easy to judge what a fright I was in upon this occasion, and it\nwas impossible for my governess ever to bring me to dress in that\ndisguise again; for, as I told her, I should certainly betray myself.\n\nMy poor partner in this mischief was now in a bad case, for he was\ncarried away before my Lord Mayor, and by his worship committed to\nNewgate, and the people that took him were so willing, as well as able,\nto prosecute him, that they offered themselves to enter into\nrecognisances to appear at the sessions and pursue the charge against\nhim.\n\nHowever, he got his indictment deferred, upon promise to discover his\naccomplices, and particularly the man that was concerned with him in\nhis robbery; and he failed not to do his endeavour, for he gave in my\nname, whom he called Gabriel Spencer, which was the name I went by to\nhim; and here appeared the wisdom of my concealing my name and sex from\nhim, which, if he had ever known I had been undone.\n\nHe did all he could to discover this Gabriel Spencer; he described me,\nhe discovered the place where he said I lodged, and, in a word, all the\nparticulars that he could of my dwelling; but having concealed the main\ncircumstances of my sex from him, I had a vast advantage, and he never\ncould hear of me.  He brought two or three families into trouble by his\nendeavouring to find me out, but they knew nothing of me, any more than\nthat I had a fellow with me that they had seen, but knew nothing of.\nAnd as for my governess, though she was the means of his coming to me,\nyet it was done at second-hand, and he knew nothing of her.\n\nThis turned to his disadvantage; for having promised discoveries, but\nnot being able to make it good, it was looked upon as trifling with the\njustice of the city, and he was the more fiercely pursued by the\nshopkeepers who took him.\n\nI was, however, terribly uneasy all this while, and that I might be\nquite out of the way, I went away from my governess's for a while; but\nnot knowing wither to wander, I took a maid-servant with me, and took\nthe stage-coach to Dunstable, to my old landlord and landlady, where I\nhad lived so handsomely with my Lancashire husband.  Here I told her a\nformal story, that I expected my husband every day from Ireland, and\nthat I had sent a letter to him that I would meet him at Dunstable at\nher house, and that he would certainly land, if the wind was fair, in a\nfew days, so that I was come to spend a few days with them till he\nshould come, for he was either come post, or in the West Chester coach,\nI knew not which; but whichsoever it was, he would be sure to come to\nthat house to meet me.\n\nMy landlady was mighty glad to see me, and my landlord made such a stir\nwith me, that if I had been a princess I could not have been better\nused, and here I might have been welcome a month or two if I had\nthought fit.\n\nBut my business was of another nature.  I was very uneasy (though so\nwell disguised that it was scarce possible to detect me) lest this\nfellow should somehow or other find me out; and though he could not\ncharge me with this robbery, having persuaded him not to venture, and\nhaving also done nothing in it myself but run away, yet he might have\ncharged me with other things, and have bought his own life at the\nexpense of mine.\n\nThis filled me with horrible apprehensions.  I had no recourse, no\nfriend, no confidante but my old governess, and I knew no remedy but to\nput my life in her hands, and so I did, for I let her know where to\nsend to me, and had several letters from her while I stayed here.  Some\nof them almost scared me out my wits but at last she sent me the joyful\nnews that he was hanged, which was the best news to me that I had heard\na great while.\n\nI had stayed here five weeks, and lived very comfortably indeed (the\nsecret anxiety of my mind excepted); but when I received this letter I\nlooked pleasantly again, and told my landlady that I had received a\nletter from my spouse in Ireland, that I had the good news of his being\nvery well, but had the bad news that his business would not permit him\nto come away so soon as he expected, and so I was like to go back again\nwithout him.\n\nMy landlady complimented me upon the good news however, that I had\nheard he was well.  'For I have observed, madam,' says she, 'you hadn't\nbeen so pleasant as you used to be; you have been over head and ears in\ncare for him, I dare say,' says the good woman; ''tis easy to be seen\nthere's an alteration in you for the better,' says she.  'Well, I am\nsorry the esquire can't come yet,' says my landlord; 'I should have\nbeen heartily glad to have seen him.  But I hope, when you have certain\nnews of his coming, you'll take a step hither again, madam,' says he;\n'you shall be very welcome whenever you please to come.'\n\nWith all these fine compliments we parted, and I came merry enough to\nLondon, and found my governess as well pleased as I was.  And now she\ntold me she would never recommend any partner to me again, for she\nalways found, she said, that I had the best luck when I ventured by\nmyself.  And so indeed I had, for I was seldom in any danger when I was\nby myself, or if I was, I got out of it with more dexterity than when I\nwas entangled with the dull measures of other people, who had perhaps\nless forecast, and were more rash and impatient than I; for though I\nhad as much courage to venture as any of them, yet I used more caution\nbefore I undertook a thing, and had more presence of mind when I was to\nbring myself off.\n\nI have often wondered even at my own hardiness another way, that when\nall my companions were surprised and fell so suddenly into the hand of\njustice, and that I so narrowly escaped, yet I could not all this while\nenter into one serious resolution to leave off this trade, and\nespecially considering that I was now very far from being poor; that\nthe temptation of necessity, which is generally the introduction of all\nsuch wickedness, was now removed; for I had near #500 by me in ready\nmoney, on which I might have lived very well, if I had thought fit to\nhave retired; but I say, I had not so much as the least inclination to\nleave off; no, not so much as I had before when I had but #200\nbeforehand, and when I had no such frightful examples before my eyes as\nthese were.  From hence 'tis evident to me, that when once we are\nhardened in crime, no fear can affect us, no example give us any\nwarning.\n\nI had indeed one comrade whose fate went very near me for a good while,\nthough I wore it off too in time.  That case was indeed very unhappy.\nI had made a prize of a piece of very good damask in a mercer's shop,\nand went clear off myself, but had conveyed the piece to this companion\nof mine when we went out of the shop, and she went one way and I went\nanother.  We had not been long out of the shop but the mercer missed\nhis piece of stuff, and sent his messengers, one one way and one\nanother, and they presently seized her that had the piece, with the\ndamask upon her.  As for me, I had very luckily stepped into a house\nwhere there was a lace chamber, up one pair of stairs, and had the\nsatisfaction, or the terror indeed, of looking out of the window upon\nthe noise they made, and seeing the poor creature dragged away in\ntriumph to the justice, who immediately committed her to Newgate.\n\nI was careful to attempt nothing in the lace chamber, but tumbled their\ngoods pretty much to spend time; then bought a few yards of edging and\npaid for it, and came away very sad-hearted indeed for the poor woman,\nwho was in tribulation for what I only had stolen.\n\nHere again my old caution stood me in good stead; namely, that though I\noften robbed with these people, yet I never let them know who I was, or\nwhere I lodged, nor could they ever find out my lodging, though they\noften endeavoured to watch me to it.  They all knew me by the name of\nMoll Flanders, though even some of them rather believed I was she than\nknew me to be so.  My name was public among them indeed, but how to\nfind me out they knew not, nor so much as how to guess at my quarters,\nwhether they were at the east end of the town or the west; and this\nwariness was my safety upon all these occasions.\n\nI kept close a great while upon the occasion of this woman's disaster.\nI knew that if I should do anything that should miscarry, and should be\ncarried to prison, she would be there and ready to witness against me,\nand perhaps save her life at my expense.  I considered that I began to\nbe very well known by name at the Old Bailey, though they did not know\nmy face, and that if I should fall into their hands, I should be\ntreated as an old offender; and for this reason I was resolved to see\nwhat this poor creature's fate should be before I stirred abroad,\nthough several times in her distress I conveyed money to her for her\nrelief.\n\nAt length she came to her trial.  She pleaded she did not steal the\nthing, but that one Mrs. Flanders, as she heard her called (for she did\nnot know her), gave the bundle to her after they came out of the shop,\nand bade her carry it home to her lodging.  They asked her where this\nMrs. Flanders was, but she could not produce her, neither could she\ngive the least account of me; and the mercer's men swearing positively\nthat she was in the shop when the goods were stolen, that they\nimmediately missed them, and pursued her, and found them upon her,\nthereupon the jury brought her in guilty; but the Court, considering\nthat she was really not the person that stole the goods, an inferior\nassistant, and that it was very possible she could not find out this\nMrs. Flanders, meaning me, though it would save her life, which indeed\nwas true--I say, considering all this, they allowed her to be\ntransported, which was the utmost favour she could obtain, only that\nthe Court told her that if she could in the meantime produce the said\nMrs. Flanders, they would intercede for her pardon; that is to say, if\nshe could find me out, and hand me, she should not be transported.\nThis I took care to make impossible to her, and so she was shipped off\nin pursuance of her sentence a little while after.\n\nI must repeat it again, that the fate of this poor woman troubled me\nexceedingly, and I began to be very pensive, knowing that I was really\nthe instrument of her disaster; but the preservation of my own life,\nwhich was so evidently in danger, took off all my tenderness; and\nseeing that she was not put to death, I was very easy at her\ntransportation, because she was then out of the way of doing me any\nmischief, whatever should happen.\n\nThe disaster of this woman was some months before that of the\nlast-recited story, and was indeed partly occasion of my governess\nproposing to dress me up in men's clothes, that I might go about\nunobserved, as indeed I did; but I was soon tired of that disguise, as\nI have said, for indeed it exposed me to too many difficulties.\n\nI was now easy as to all fear of witnesses against me, for all those\nthat had either been concerned with me, or that knew me by the name of\nMoll Flanders, were either hanged or transported; and if I should have\nhad the misfortune to be taken, I might call myself anything else, as\nwell as Moll Flanders, and no old sins could be placed into my account;\nso I began to run a-tick again with the more freedom, and several\nsuccessful adventures I made, though not such as I had made before.\n\nWe had at that time another fire happened not a great way off from the\nplace where my governess lived, and I made an attempt there, as before,\nbut as I was not soon enough before the crowd of people came in, and\ncould not get to the house I aimed at, instead of a prize, I got a\nmischief, which had almost put a period to my life and all my wicked\ndoings together; for the fire being very furious, and the people in a\ngreat fright in removing their goods, and throwing them out of window,\na wench from out of a window threw a feather-bed just upon me.  It is\ntrue, the bed being soft, it broke no bones; but as the weight was\ngreat, and made greater by the fall, it beat me down, and laid me dead\nfor a while.  Nor did the people concern themselves much to deliver me\nfrom it, or to recover me at all; but I lay like one dead and neglected\na good while, till somebody going to remove the bed out of the way,\nhelped me up.  It was indeed a wonder the people in the house had not\nthrown other goods out after it, and which might have fallen upon it,\nand then I had been inevitably killed; but I was reserved for further\nafflictions.\n\nThis accident, however, spoiled my market for that time, and I came\nhome to my governess very much hurt and bruised, and frighted to the\nlast degree, and it was a good while before she could set me upon my\nfeet again.\n\nIt was now a merry time of the year, and Bartholomew Fair was begun.  I\nhad never made any walks that way, nor was the common part of the fair\nof much advantage to me; but I took a turn this year into the\ncloisters, and among the rest I fell into one of the raffling shops.\nIt was a thing of no great consequence to me, nor did I expect to make\nmuch of it; but there came a gentleman extremely well dressed and very\nrich, and as 'tis frequent to talk to everybody in those shops, he\nsingled me out, and was very particular with me.  First he told me he\nwould put in for me to raffle, and did so; and some small matter coming\nto his lot, he presented it to me (I think it was a feather muff); then\nhe continued to keep talking to me with a more than common appearance\nof respect, but still very civil, and much like a gentleman.\n\nHe held me in talk so long, till at last he drew me out of the raffling\nplace to the shop-door, and then to a walk in the cloister, still\ntalking of a thousand things cursorily without anything to the purpose.\nAt last he told me that, without compliment, he was charmed with my\ncompany, and asked me if I durst trust myself in a coach with him; he\ntold me he was a man of honour, and would not offer anything to me\nunbecoming him as such.  I seemed to decline it a while, but suffered\nmyself to be importuned a little, and then yielded.\n\nI was at a loss in my thoughts to conclude at first what this gentleman\ndesigned; but I found afterwards he had had some drink in his head, and\nthat he was not very unwilling to have some more.  He carried me in the\ncoach to the Spring Garden, at Knightsbridge, where we walked in the\ngardens, and he treated me very handsomely; but I found he drank very\nfreely.  He pressed me also to drink, but I declined it.\n\nHitherto he kept his word with me, and offered me nothing amiss.  We\ncame away in the coach again, and he brought me into the streets, and\nby this time it was near ten o'clock at night, and he stopped the coach\nat a house where, it seems, he was acquainted, and where they made no\nscruple to show us upstairs into a room with a bed in it.  At first I\nseemed to be unwilling to go up, but after a few words I yielded to\nthat too, being willing to see the end of it, and in hope to make\nsomething of it at last.  As for the bed, etc., I was not much\nconcerned about that part.\n\nHere he began to be a little freer with me than he had promised; and I\nby little and little yielded to everything, so that, in a word, he did\nwhat he pleased with me; I need say no more.  All this while he drank\nfreely too, and about one in the morning we went into the coach again.\nThe air and the shaking of the coach made the drink he had get more up\nin his head than it was before, and he grew uneasy in the coach, and\nwas for acting over again what he had been doing before; but as I\nthought my game now secure, I resisted him, and brought him to be a\nlittle still, which had not lasted five minutes but he fell fast asleep.\n\nI took this opportunity to search him to a nicety.  I took a gold\nwatch, with a silk purse of gold, his fine full-bottom periwig and\nsilver-fringed gloves, his sword and fine snuff-box, and gently opening\nthe coach door, stood ready to jump out while the coach was going on;\nbut the coach stopped in the narrow street beyond Temple Bar to let\nanother coach pass, I got softly out, fastened the door again, and gave\nmy gentleman and the coach the slip both together, and never heard more\nof them.\n\nThis was an adventure indeed unlooked for, and perfectly undesigned by\nme; though I was not so past the merry part of life, as to forget how\nto behave, when a fop so blinded by his appetite should not know an old\nwoman from a young.  I did not indeed look so old as I was by ten or\ntwelve years; yet I was not a young wench of seventeen, and it was easy\nenough to be distinguished.  There is nothing so absurd, so surfeiting,\nso ridiculous, as a man heated by wine in his head, and wicked gust in\nhis inclination together; he is in the possession of two devils at\nonce, and can no more govern himself by his reason than a mill can\ngrind without water; his vice tramples upon all that was in him that\nhad any good in it, if any such thing there was; nay, his very sense is\nblinded by its own rage, and he acts absurdities even in his views;\nsuch a drinking more, when he is drunk already; picking up a common\nwoman, without regard to what she is or who she is, whether sound or\nrotten, clean or unclean, whether ugly or handsome, whether old or\nyoung, and so blinded as not really to distinguish.  Such a man is\nworse than a lunatic; prompted by his vicious, corrupted head, he no\nmore knows what he is doing than this wretch of mine knew when I picked\nhis pocket of his watch and his purse of gold.\n\nThese are the men of whom Solomon says, 'They go like an ox to the\nslaughter, till a dart strikes through their liver'; an admirable\ndescription, by the way, of the foul disease, which is a poisonous\ndeadly contagion mingling with the blood, whose centre or foundation is\nin the liver; from whence, by the swift circulation of the whole mass,\nthat dreadful nauseous plague strikes immediately through his liver,\nand his spirits are infected, his vitals stabbed through as with a dart.\n\nIt is true this poor unguarded wretch was in no danger from me, though\nI was greatly apprehensive at first of what danger I might be in from\nhim; but he was really to be pitied in one respect, that he seemed to\nbe a good sort of man in himself; a gentleman that had no harm in his\ndesign; a man of sense, and of a fine behaviour, a comely handsome\nperson, a sober solid countenance, a charming beautiful face, and\neverything that could be agreeable; only had unhappily had some drink\nthe night before, had not been in bed, as he told me when we were\ntogether; was hot, and his blood fired with wine, and in that condition\nhis reason, as it were asleep, had given him up.\n\nAs for me, my business was his money, and what I could make of him; and\nafter that, if I could have found out any way to have done it, I would\nhave sent him safe home to his house and to his family, for 'twas ten\nto one but he had an honest, virtuous wife and innocent children, that\nwere anxious for his safety, and would have been glad to have gotten\nhim home, and have taken care of him till he was restored to himself.\nAnd then with what shame and regret would he look back upon himself!\nhow would he reproach himself with associating himself with a whore!\npicked up in the worst of all holes, the cloister, among the dirt and\nfilth of all the town! how would he be trembling for fear he had got\nthe pox, for fear a dart had struck through his liver, and hate himself\nevery time he looked back upon the madness and brutality of his\ndebauch! how would he, if he had any principles of honour, as I verily\nbelieve he had--I say, how would he abhor the thought of giving any ill\ndistemper, if he had it, as for aught he knew he might, to his modest\nand virtuous wife, and thereby sowing the contagion in the life-blood\nof his posterity.\n\nWould such gentlemen but consider the contemptible thoughts which the\nvery women they are concerned with, in such cases as these, have of\nthem, it would be a surfeit to them.  As I said above, they value not\nthe pleasure, they are raised by no inclination to the man, the passive\njade thinks of no pleasure but the money; and when he is, as it were,\ndrunk in the ecstasies of his wicked pleasure, her hands are in his\npockets searching for what she can find there, and of which he can no\nmore be sensible in the moment of his folly that he can forethink of it\nwhen he goes about it.\n\nI knew a woman that was so dexterous with a fellow, who indeed deserved\nno better usage, that while he was busy with her another way, conveyed\nhis purse with twenty guineas in it out of his fob-pocket, where he had\nput it for fear of her, and put another purse with gilded counters in\nit into the room of it.  After he had done, he says to her, 'Now han't\nyou picked my pocket?'  She jested with him, and told him she supposed\nhe had not much to lose; he put his hand to his fob, and with his\nfingers felt that his purse was there, which fully satisfied him, and\nso she brought off his money.  And this was a trade with her; she kept\na sham gold watch, that is, a watch of silver gilt, and a purse of\ncounters in her pocket to be ready on all such occasions, and I doubt\nnot practiced it with success.\n\nI came home with this last booty to my governess, and really when I\ntold her the story, it so affected her that she was hardly able to\nforbear tears, to know how such a gentleman ran a daily risk of being\nundone every time a glass of wine got into his head.\n\nBut as to the purchase I got, and how entirely I stripped him, she told\nme it pleased her wonderfully.  'Nay child,' says she, 'the usage may,\nfor aught I know, do more to reform him than all the sermons that ever\nhe will hear in his life.'  And if the remainder of the story be true,\nso it did.\n\nI found the next day she was wonderful inquisitive about this\ngentleman; the description I had given her of him, his dress, his\nperson, his face, everything concurred to make her think of a gentleman\nwhose character she knew, and family too.  She mused a while, and I\ngoing still on with the particulars, she starts up; says she, 'I'll lay\n#100 I know the gentleman.'\n\n'I am sorry you do,' says I, 'for I would not have him exposed on any\naccount in the world; he has had injury enough already by me, and I\nwould not be instrumental to do him any more.' 'No, no,' says she, 'I\nwill do him no injury, I assure you, but you may let me satisfy my\ncuriosity a little, for if it is he, I warrant you I find it out.'  I\nwas a little startled at that, and told her, with an apparent concern\nin my face, that by the same rule he might find me out, and then I was\nundone.  She returned warmly, 'Why, do you think I will betray you,\nchild?  No, no,' says she, 'not for all he is worth in the world.  I\nhave kept your counsel in worse things than these; sure you may trust\nme in this.'  So I said no more at that time.\n\nShe laid her scheme another way, and without acquainting me of it, but\nshe was resolved to find it out if possible.  So she goes to a certain\nfriend of hers who was acquainted in the family that she guessed at,\nand told her friend she had some extraordinary business with such a\ngentleman (who, by the way, was no less than a baronet, and of a very\ngood family), and that she knew not how to come at him without somebody\nto introduce her.  Her friend promised her very readily to do it, and\naccordingly goes to the house to see if the gentleman was in town.\n\nThe next day she come to my governess and tells her that Sir ---- was\nat home, but that he had met with a disaster and was very ill, and\nthere was no speaking with him.  'What disaster?' says my governess\nhastily, as if she was surprised at it.  'Why,' says her friend, 'he\nhad been at Hampstead to visit a gentleman of his acquaintance, and as\nhe came back again he was set upon and robbed; and having got a little\ndrink too, as they suppose, the rogues abused him, and he is very ill.'\n'Robbed!' says my governess, 'and what did they take from him?'  'Why,'\nsays her friend, 'they took his gold watch and his gold snuff-box, his\nfine periwig, and what money he had in his pocket, which was\nconsiderable, to be sure, for Sir ---- never goes without a purse of\nguineas about him.'\n\n'Pshaw!' says my old governess, jeering, 'I warrant you he has got\ndrunk now and got a whore, and she has picked his pocket, and so he\ncomes home to his wife and tells her he has been robbed.  That's an old\nsham; a thousand such tricks are put upon the poor women every day.'\n\n'Fie!' says her friend, 'I find you don't know Sir ----; why he is as\ncivil a gentleman, there is not a finer man, nor a soberer, graver,\nmodester person in the whole city; he abhors such things; there's\nnobody that knows him will think such a thing of him.' 'Well, well,'\nsays my governess, 'that's none of my business; if it was, I warrant I\nshould find there was something of that kind in it; your modest men in\ncommon opinion are sometimes no better than other people, only they\nkeep a better character, or, if you please, are the better hypocrites.'\n\n'No, no,' says her friend, 'I can assure you Sir ---- is no hypocrite,\nhe is really an honest, sober gentleman, and he has certainly been\nrobbed.'  'Nay,' says my governess, 'it may be he has; it is no\nbusiness of mine, I tell you; I only want to speak with him; my\nbusiness is of another nature.'  'But,' says her friend, 'let your\nbusiness be of what nature it will, you cannot see him yet, for he is\nnot fit to be seen, for he is very ill, and bruised very much,'  'Ay,'\nsays my governess, 'nay, then he has fallen into bad hands, to be\nsure,'  And then she asked gravely, 'Pray, where is he bruised?'  'Why,\nin the head,' says her friend, 'and one of his hands, and his face, for\nthey used him barbarously.'  'Poor gentleman,' says my governess, 'I\nmust wait, then, till he recovers'; and adds, 'I hope it will not be\nlong, for I want very much to speak with him.'\n\nAway she comes to me and tells me this story.  'I have found out your\nfine gentleman, and a fine gentleman he was,' says she; 'but, mercy on\nhim, he is in a sad pickle now.  I wonder what the d--l you have done\nto him; why, you have almost killed him.'  I looked at her with\ndisorder enough.  'I killed him!' says I; 'you must mistake the person;\nI am sure I did nothing to him; he was very well when I left him,' said\nI, 'only drunk and fast asleep.'  'I know nothing of that,' says she,\n'but he is in a sad pickle now'; and so she told me all that her friend\nhad said to her.  'Well, then,' says I, 'he fell into bad hands after I\nleft him, for I am sure I left him safe enough.'\n\nAbout ten days after, or a little more, my governess goes again to her\nfriend, to introduce her to this gentleman; she had inquired other ways\nin the meantime, and found that he was about again, if not abroad\nagain, so she got leave to speak with him.\n\nShe was a woman of a admirable address, and wanted nobody to introduce\nher; she told her tale much better than I shall be able to tell it for\nher, for she was a mistress of her tongue, as I have said already.  She\ntold him that she came, though a stranger, with a single design of\ndoing him a service and he should find she had no other end in it; that\nas she came purely on so friendly an account, she begged promise from\nhim, that if he did not accept what she should officiously propose he\nwould not take it ill that she meddled with what was not her business.\nShe assured him that as what she had to say was a secret that belonged\nto him only, so whether he accepted her offer or not, it should remain\na secret to all the world, unless he exposed it himself; nor should his\nrefusing her service in it make her so little show her respect as to do\nhim the least injury, so that he should be entirely at liberty to act\nas he thought fit.\n\nHe looked very shy at first, and said he knew nothing that related to\nhim that required much secrecy; that he had never done any man any\nwrong, and cared not what anybody might say of him; that it was no part\nof his character to be unjust to anybody, nor could he imagine in what\nany man could render him any service; but that if it was so\ndisinterested a service as she said, he could not take it ill from any\none that they should endeavour to serve him; and so, as it were, left\nher a liberty either to tell him or not to tell, as she thought fit.\n\nShe found him so perfectly indifferent, that she was almost afraid to\nenter into the point with him; but, however, after some other\ncircumlocutions she told him that by a strange and unaccountable\naccident she came to have a particular knowledge of the late unhappy\nadventure he had fallen into, and that in such a manner, that there was\nnobody in the world but herself and him that were acquainted with it,\nno, not the very person that was with him.\n\nHe looked a little angrily at first.  'What adventure?' said he.\n'Why,' said she, 'of your being robbed coming from Knightbr----;\nHampstead, sir, I should say,' says she.  'Be not surprised, sir,' says\nshe, 'that I am able to tell you every step you took that day from the\ncloister in Smithfield to the Spring Garden at Knightsbridge, and\nthence to the ---- in the Strand, and how you were left asleep in the\ncoach afterwards.  I say, let not this surprise you, for, sir, I do not\ncome to make a booty of you, I ask nothing of you, and I assure you the\nwoman that was with you knows nothing who you are, and never shall; and\nyet perhaps I may serve you further still, for I did not come barely to\nlet you know that I was informed of these things, as if I wanted a\nbribe to conceal them; assure yourself, sir,' said she, 'that whatever\nyou think fit to do or say to me, it shall be all a secret as it is, as\nmuch as if I were in my grave.'\n\nHe was astonished at her discourse, and said gravely to her, 'Madam,\nyou are a stranger to me, but it is very unfortunate that you should be\nlet into the secret of the worst action of my life, and a thing that I\nam so justly ashamed of, that the only satisfaction of it to me was,\nthat I thought it was known only to God and my own conscience.'  'Pray,\nsir,' says she, 'do not reckon the discovery of it to me to be any part\nof your misfortune.  It was a thing, I believe, you were surprised\ninto, and perhaps the woman used some art to prompt you to it; however,\nyou will never find any just cause,' said she, 'to repent that I came\nto hear of it; nor can your own mouth be more silent in it that I have\nbeen, and ever shall be.'\n\n'Well,' says he, 'but let me do some justice to the woman too; whoever\nshe is, I do assure you she prompted me to nothing, she rather declined\nme.  It was my own folly and madness that brought me into it all, ay,\nand brought her into it too; I must give her her due so far.  As to\nwhat she took from me, I could expect no less from her in the condition\nI was in, and to this hour I know not whether she robbed me or the\ncoachman; if she did it, I forgive her, and I think all gentlemen that\ndo so should be used in the same manner; but I am more concerned for\nsome other things that I am for all that she took from me.'\n\nMy governess now began to come into the whole matter, and he opened\nhimself freely to her.  First she said to him, in answer to what he had\nsaid about me, 'I am glad, sir, you are so just to the person that you\nwere with; I assure you she is a gentlewoman, and no woman of the town;\nand however you prevailed with her so far as you did, I am sure 'tis\nnot her practice.  You ran a great venture indeed, sir; but if that be\nany part of your care, I am persuaded you may be perfectly easy, for I\ndare assure you no man has touched her, before you, since her husband,\nand he has been dead now almost eight years.'\n\nIt appeared that this was his grievance, and that he was in a very\ngreat fright about it; however, when my governess said this to him, he\nappeared very well pleased, and said, 'Well, madam, to be plain with\nyou, if I was satisfied of that, I should not so much value what I\nlost; for, as to that, the temptation was great, and perhaps she was\npoor and wanted it.'  'If she had not been poor, sir ----,' says my\ngoverness, 'I assure you she would never have yielded to you; and as\nher poverty first prevailed with her to let you do as you did, so the\nsame poverty prevailed with her to pay herself at last, when she saw\nyou were in such a condition, that if she had not done it, perhaps the\nnext coachman might have done it.'\n\n'Well,' says he, 'much good may it do her.  I say again, all the\ngentlemen that do so ought to be used in the same manner, and then they\nwould be cautious of themselves.  I have no more concern about it, but\non the score which you hinted at before, madam.'  Here he entered into\nsome freedoms with her on the subject of what passed between us, which\nare not so proper for a woman to write, and the great terror that was\nupon his mind with relation to his wife, for fear he should have\nreceived any injury from me, and should communicate if farther; and\nasked her at last if she could not procure him an opportunity to speak\nwith me.  My governess gave him further assurances of my being a woman\nclear from any such thing, and that he was as entirely safe in that\nrespect as he was with his own lady; but as for seeing me, she said it\nmight be of dangerous consequence; but, however, that she would talk\nwith me, and let him know my answer, using at the same time some\narguments to persuade him not to desire it, and that it could be of no\nservice to him, seeing she hoped he had no desire to renew a\ncorrespondence with me, and that on my account it was a kind of putting\nmy life in his hands.\n\nHe told her he had a great desire to see me, that he would give her any\nassurances that were in his power, not to take any advantages of me,\nand that in the first place he would give me a general release from all\ndemands of any kind.  She insisted how it might tend to a further\ndivulging the secret, and might in the end be injurious to him,\nentreating him not to press for it; so at length  he desisted.\n\nThey had some discourse upon the subject of the things he had lost, and\nhe seemed to be very desirous of his gold watch, and told her if she\ncould procure that for him, he would willingly give as much for it as\nit was worth.  She told him she would endeavour to procure it for him,\nand leave the valuing it to himself.\n\nAccordingly the next day she carried the watch, and he gave her thirty\nguineas for it, which was more than I should have been able to make of\nit, though it seems it cost much more.  He spoke something of his\nperiwig, which it seems cost him threescore guineas, and his snuff-box,\nand in a few days more she carried them too; which obliged him very\nmuch, and he gave her thirty more.  The next day I sent him his fine\nsword and cane gratis, and demanded nothing of him, but I had no mind\nto see him, unless it had been so that he might be satisfied I knew who\nhe was, which he was not willing to.\n\nThen he entered into a long talk with her of the manner how she came to\nknow all this matter.  She formed a long tale of that part; how she had\nit from one that I had told the whole story to, and that was to help me\ndispose of the goods; and this confidante brought the things to her,\nshe being by profession a pawnbroker; and she hearing of his worship's\ndisaster, guessed at the thing in general; that having gotten the\nthings into her hands, she had resolved to come and try as she had\ndone.  She then gave him repeated assurances that it should never go\nout of her mouth, and though she knew the woman very well, yet she had\nnot let her know, meaning me, anything of it; that is to say, who the\nperson was, which, by the way, was false; but, however, it was not to\nhis damage, for I never opened my mouth of it to anybody.\n\nI had a great many thoughts in my head about my seeing him again, and\nwas often sorry that I had refused it.  I was persuaded that if I had\nseen him, and let him know that I knew him, I should have made some\nadvantage of him, and perhaps have had some maintenance from him; and\nthough it was a life wicked enough, yet it was not so full of danger as\nthis I was engaged in.  However, those thoughts wore off, and I\ndeclined seeing him again, for that time; but my governess saw him\noften, and he was very kind to her, giving her something almost every\ntime he saw her.  One time in particular she found him very merry, and\nas she thought he had some wine in his head, and he pressed her again\nvery earnestly to let him see that woman that, as he said, had\nbewitched him so that night, my governess, who was from the beginning\nfor my seeing him, told him he was so desirous of it that she could\nalmost yield of it, if she could prevail upon me; adding that if he\nwould please to come to her house in the evening, she would endeavour\nit, upon his repeated assurances of forgetting what was past.\n\nAccordingly she came to me, and told me all the discourse; in short,\nshe soon biassed me to consent, in a case which I had some regret in my\nmind for declining before; so I prepared to see him.  I dressed me to\nall the advantage possible, I assure you, and for the first time used a\nlittle art; I say for the first time, for I had never yielded to the\nbaseness of paint before, having always had vanity enough to believe I\nhad no need of it.\n\nAt the hour appointed he came; and as she observed before, so it was\nplain still, that he had been drinking, though very far from what we\ncall being in drink.  He appeared exceeding pleased to see me, and\nentered into a long discourse with me upon the old affair.  I begged\nhis pardon very often for my share of it, protested I had not any such\ndesign when first I met him, that I had not gone out with him but that\nI took him for a very civil gentleman, and that he made me so many\npromises of offering no uncivility to me.\n\nHe alleged the wine he drank, and that he scarce knew what he did, and\nthat if it had not been so, I should never have let him take the\nfreedom with me that he had done.  He protested to me that he never\ntouched any woman but me since he was married to his wife, and it was a\nsurprise upon him; complimented me upon being so particularly agreeable\nto him, and the like; and talked so much of that kind, till I found he\nhad talked himself almost into a temper to do the same thing over\nagain.  But I took him up short.  I protested I had never suffered any\nman to touch me since my husband died, which was near eight years.  He\nsaid he believed it to be so truly; and added that madam had intimated\nas much to him, and that it was his opinion of that part which made his\ndesire to see me again; and that since he had once broke in upon his\nvirtue with me, and found no ill consequences, he could be safe in\nventuring there again; and so, in short, it went on to what I expected,\nand to what will not bear relating.\n\nMy old governess had foreseen it, as well as I, and therefore led him\ninto a room which had not a bed in it, and yet had a chamber within it\nwhich had a bed, whither we withdrew for the rest of the night; and, in\nshort, after some time being together, he went to bed, and lay there\nall night.  I withdrew, but came again undressed in the morning, before\nit was day, and lay with him the rest of the time.\n\nThus, you see, having committed a crime once is a sad handle to the\ncommitting of it again; whereas all the regret and reflections wear off\nwhen the temptation renews itself.  Had I not yielded to see him again,\nthe corrupt desire in him had worn off, and 'tis very probable he had\nnever fallen into it with anybody else, as I really believe he had not\ndone before.\n\nWhen he went away, I told him I hoped he was satisfied he had not been\nrobbed again.  He told me he was satisfied in that point, and could\ntrust me again, and putting his hand in his pocket, gave me five\nguineas, which was the first money I had gained that way for many years.\n\nI had several visits of the like kind from him, but he never came into\na settled way of maintenance, which was what I would have best pleased\nwith.  Once, indeed, he asked me how I did to live.  I answered him\npretty quick, that I assured him I had never taken that course that I\ntook with him, but that indeed I worked at my needle, and could just\nmaintain myself; that sometime it was as much as I was able to do, and\nI shifted hard enough.\n\nHe seemed to reflect upon himself that he should be the first person to\nlead me into that, which he assured me he never intended to do himself;\nand it touched him a little, he said, that he should be the cause of\nhis own sin and mine too.  He would often make just reflections also\nupon the crime itself, and upon the particular circumstances of it with\nrespect to himself; how wine introduced the inclinations how the devil\nled him to the place, and found out an object to tempt him, and he made\nthe moral always himself.\n\nWhen these thoughts were upon him he would go away, and perhaps not\ncome again in a month's time or longer; but then as the serious part\nwore off, the lewd part would wear in, and then he came prepared for\nthe wicked part.  Thus we lived for some time; thought he did not keep,\nas they call it, yet he never failed doing things that were handsome,\nand sufficient to maintain me without working, and, which was better,\nwithout following my old trade.\n\nBut this affair had its end too; for after about a year, I found that\nhe did not come so often as usual, and at last he left if off\naltogether without any dislike to bidding adieu; and so there was an\nend of that short scene of life, which added no great store to me, only\nto make more work for repentance.\n\nHowever, during this interval I confined myself pretty much at home; at\nleast, being thus provided for, I made no adventures, no, not for a\nquarter of a year after he left me; but then finding the fund fail, and\nbeing loth to spend upon the main stock, I began to think of my old\ntrade, and to look abroad into the street again; and my first step was\nlucky enough.\n\nI had dressed myself up in a very mean habit, for as I had several\nshapes to appear in, I was now in an ordinary stuff-gown, a blue apron,\nand a straw hat and I placed myself at the door of the Three Cups Inn\nin St. John Street.  There were several carriers used the inn, and the\nstage-coaches for Barnet, for Totteridge, and other towns that way\nstood always in the street in the evening, when they prepared to set\nout, so that I was ready for anything that offered, for either one or\nother.  The meaning was this; people come frequently with bundles and\nsmall parcels to those inns, and call for such carriers or coaches as\nthey want, to carry them into the country; and there generally attend\nwomen, porters' wives or daughters, ready to take in such things for\ntheir respective people that employ them.\n\nIt happened very oddly that I was standing at the inn gate, and a woman\nthat had stood there before, and which was the porter's wife belonging\nto the Barnet stage-coach, having observed me, asked if I waited for\nany of the coaches.  I told her Yes, I waited for my mistress, that was\ncoming to go to Barnet.  She asked me who was my mistress, and I told\nher any madam's name that came next me; but as it seemed, I happened\nupon a name, a family of which name lived at Hadley, just beyond Barnet.\n\nI said no more to her, or she to me, a good while; but by and by,\nsomebody calling her at a door a little way off, she desired me that if\nanybody called for the Barnet coach, I would step and call her at the\nhouse, which it seems was an alehouse.  I said Yes, very readily, and\naway she went.\n\nShe was no sooner gone but comes a wench and a child, puffing and\nsweating, and asks for the Barnet coach.  I answered presently, 'Here.'\n'Do you belong to the Barnet coach?' says she.  'Yes, sweetheart,' said\nI; 'what do ye want?'  'I want room for two passengers,' says she.\n'Where are they, sweetheart?' said I.  'Here's this girl, pray let her\ngo into the coach,' says she, 'and I'll go and fetch my mistress.'\n'Make haste, then, sweetheart,' says I, 'for we may be full else.'  The\nmaid had a great bundle under her arm; so she put the child into the\ncoach, and I said, 'You had best put your bundle into the coach too.'\n'No,' says she, 'I am afraid somebody should slip it away from the\nchild.'  'Give to me, then,' said I, 'and I'll take care of it.'  'Do,\nthen,' says she, 'and be sure you take of it.'  'I'll answer for it,'\nsaid I, 'if it were for #20 value.'  'There, take it, then,' says she,\nand away she goes.\n\nAs soon as I had got the bundle, and the maid was out of sight, I goes\non towards the alehouse, where the porter's wife was, so that if I had\nmet her, I had then only been going to give her the bundle, and to call\nher to her business, as if I was going away, and could stay no longer;\nbut as I did not meet her, I walked away, and turning into Charterhouse\nLane, then crossed into Batholomew Close, so into Little Britain, and\nthrough the Bluecoat Hospital, into Newgate Street.\n\nTo prevent my being known, I pulled off my blue apron, and wrapped the\nbundle in it, which before was made up in a piece of painted calico,\nand very remarkable; I also wrapped up my straw hat in it, and so put\nthe bundle upon my head; and it was very well that I did thus, for\ncoming through the Bluecoat Hospital, who should I meet but the wench\nthat had given me the bundle to hold.  It seems she was going with her\nmistress, whom she had been gone to fetch, to the Barnet coaches.\n\nI saw she was in haste, and I had no business to stop her; so away she\nwent, and I brought my bundle safe home to my governess.  There was no\nmoney, nor plate, or jewels in the bundle, but a very good suit of\nIndian damask, a gown and a petticoat, a laced-head and ruffles of very\ngood Flanders lace, and some linen and other things, such as I knew\nvery well the value of.\n\nThis was not indeed my own invention, but was given me by one that had\npractised it with success, and my governess liked it extremely; and\nindeed I tried it again several times, though never twice near the same\nplace; for the next time I tried it in White Chapel, just by the corner\nof Petticoat Lane, where the coaches stand that go out to Stratford and\nBow, and that side of the country, and another time at the Flying\nHorse, without Bishopgate, where the Cheston coaches then lay; and I\nhad always the good luck to come off with some booty.\n\nAnother time I placed myself at a warehouse by the waterside, where the\ncoasting vessels from the north come, such as from Newcastle-upon-Tyne,\nSunderland, and other places.  Here, the warehouses being shut, comes a\nyoung fellow with a letter; and he wanted a box and a hamper that was\ncome from Newcastle-upon-Tyne.  I asked him if he had the marks of it;\nso he shows me the letter, by virtue of which he was to ask for it, and\nwhich gave an account of the contents, the box being full of linen, and\nthe hamper full of glass ware.  I read the letter, and took care to see\nthe name, and the marks, the name of the person that sent the goods,\nthe name of the person that they were sent to; then I bade the\nmessenger come in the morning, for that the warehouse-keeper would not\nbe there any more that night.\n\nAway went I, and getting materials in a public house, I wrote a letter\nfrom Mr. John Richardson of Newcastle to his dear cousin Jemmy Cole, in\nLondon, with an account that he sent by such a vessel (for I remembered\nall the particulars to a title), so many pieces of huckaback linen, so\nmany ells of Dutch holland and the like, in a box, and a hamper of\nflint glasses from Mr. Henzill's glasshouse; and that the box was\nmarked I. C. No. 1, and the hamper was directed by a label on the\ncording.\n\nAbout an hour after, I came to the warehouse, found the\nwarehouse-keeper, and had the goods delivered me without any scruple;\nthe value of the linen being about #22.\n\nI could fill up this whole discourse with the variety of such\nadventures, which daily invention directed to, and which I managed with\nthe utmost dexterity, and always with success.\n\nAt length--as when does the pitcher come safe home that goes so very\noften to the well?--I fell into some small broils, which though they\ncould not affect me fatally, yet made me known, which was the worst\nthing next to being found guilty that could befall me.\n\nI had taken up the disguise of a widow's dress; it was without any real\ndesign in view, but only waiting for anything that might offer, as I\noften did.  It happened that while I was going along the street in\nCovent Garden, there was a great cry of 'Stop thief!  Stop thief!' some\nartists had, it seems, put a trick upon a shopkeeper, and being\npursued, some of them fled one way, and some another; and one of them\nwas, they said, dressed up in widow's weeds, upon which the mob\ngathered about me, and some said I was the person, others said no.\nImmediately came the mercer's journeyman, and he swore aloud I was the\nperson, and so seized on me.  However, when I was brought back by the\nmob to the mercer's shop, the master of the house said freely that I\nwas not the woman that was in his shop, and would have let me go\nimmediately; but another fellow said gravely, 'Pray stay till Mr. ----'\n(meaning the journeyman) 'comes back, for he knows her.'  So they kept\nme by force near half an hour.  They had called a constable, and he\nstood in the shop as my jailer; and in talking with the constable I\ninquired where he lived, and what trade he was; the man not\napprehending in the least what happened afterwards, readily told me his\nname, and trade, and where he lived; and told me as a jest, that I\nmight be sure to hear of his name when I came to the Old Bailey.\n\nSome of the servants likewise used me saucily, and had much ado to keep\ntheir hands off me; the master indeed was civiller to me than they, but\nhe would not yet let me go, though he owned he could not say I was in\nhis shop before.\n\nI began to be a little surly with him, and told him I hoped he would\nnot take it ill if I made myself amends upon him in a more legal way\nanother time; and desired I might send for friends to see me have right\ndone me.  No, he said, he could give no such liberty; I might ask it\nwhen I came before the justice of peace; and seeing I threatened him,\nhe would take care of me in the meantime, and would lodge me safe in\nNewgate.  I told him it was his time now, but it would be mine by and\nby, and governed my passion as well as I was able.  However, I spoke to\nthe constable to call me a porter, which he did, and then I called for\npen, ink, and paper, but they would let me have none.  I asked the\nporter his name, and where he lived, and the poor man told it me very\nwillingly.  I bade him observe and remember how I was treated there;\nthat he saw I was detained there by force.  I told him I should want\nhis evidence in another place, and it should not be the worse for him\nto speak.  The porter said he would serve me with all his heart.  'But,\nmadam,' says he, 'let me hear them refuse to let you go, then I may be\nable to speak the plainer.'\n\nWith that I spoke aloud to the master of the shop, and said, 'Sir, you\nknow in your own conscience that I am not the person you look for, and\nthat I was not in your shop before, therefore I demand that you detain\nme here no longer, or tell me the reason of your stopping me.'  The\nfellow grew surlier upon this than before, and said he would do neither\ntill he thought fit.  'Very well,' said I to the constable and to the\nporter; 'you will be pleased to remember this, gentlemen, another\ntime.'  The porter said, 'Yes, madam'; and the constable began not to\nlike it, and would have persuaded the mercer to dismiss him, and let me\ngo, since, as he said, he owned I was not the person.  'Good, sir,'\nsays the mercer to him tauntingly, 'are you a justice of peace or a\nconstable?  I charged you with her; pray do you do your duty.'  The\nconstable told him, a little moved, but very handsomely, 'I know my\nduty, and what I am, sir; I doubt you hardly know what you are doing.'\nThey had some other hard words, and in the meantime the journeyman,\nimpudent and unmanly to the last degree, used me barbarously, and one\nof them, the same that first seized upon me, pretended he would search\nme, and began to lay hands on me.  I spit in his face, called out to\nthe constable, and bade him to take notice of my usage.  'And pray, Mr.\nConstable,' said I, 'ask that villain's name,' pointing to the man.\nThe constable reproved him decently, told him that he did not know what\nhe did, for he knew that his master acknowledged I was not the person\nthat was in his shop; 'and,' says the constable, 'I am afraid your\nmaster is bringing himself, and me too, into trouble, if this\ngentlewoman comes to prove who she is, and where she was, and it\nappears that she is not the woman you pretend to.'  'Damn her,' says\nthe fellow again, with a impudent, hardened face, 'she is the lady, you\nmay depend upon it; I'll swear she is the same body that was in the\nshop, and that I gave the pieces of satin that is lost into her own\nhand.  You shall hear more of it when Mr. William and Mr. Anthony\n(those  were other journeymen) come back; they will know her again as\nwell as I.'\n\nJust as the insolent rogue was talking thus to the constable, comes\nback Mr. William and Mr. Anthony, as he called them, and a great rabble\nwith them, bringing along with them the true widow that I was pretended\nto be; and they came sweating and blowing into the shop, and with a\ngreat deal of triumph, dragging the poor creature in the most butcherly\nmanner up towards their master, who was in the back shop, and cried out\naloud, 'Here's the widow, sir; we have catched her at last.' 'What do\nye mean by that?' says the master.  'Why, we have her already; there\nshe sits,' says he, 'and Mr. ----,' says he, 'can swear this is she.'\nThe other man, whom they called Mr. Anthony, replied, 'Mr. ---- may say\nwhat he will, and swear what he will, but this is the woman, and\nthere's the remnant of satin she stole; I took it out of her clothes\nwith my own hand.'\n\nI sat still now, and began to take a better heart, but smiled and said\nnothing; the master looked pale; the constable turned about and looked\nat me.  'Let 'em alone, Mr. Constable,' said I; 'let 'em go on.'  The\ncase was plain and could not be denied, so the constable was charged\nwith the right thief, and the mercer told me very civilly he was sorry\nfor the mistake, and hoped I would not take it ill; that they had so\nmany things of this nature put upon them every day, that they could not\nbe blamed for being very sharp in doing themselves justice.  'Not take\nit ill, sir!' said I; 'how can I take it well!  If you had dismissed me\nwhen your insolent fellow seized on me it the street, and brought me to\nyou, and when you yourself acknowledged I was not the person, I would\nhave put it by, and not taken it ill, because of the many ill things I\nbelieve you have put upon you daily; but your treatment of me since has\nbeen insufferable, and especially that of your servant; I must and will\nhave reparation for that.'\n\nThen he began to parley with me, said he would make me any reasonable\nsatisfaction, and would fain have had me tell him what it was I\nexpected.  I told him that I should not be my own judge, the law should\ndecide it for me; and as I was to be carried before a magistrate, I\nshould let him hear there what I had to say.  He told me there was no\noccasion to go before the justice now, I was at liberty to go where I\npleased; and so, calling to the constable, told him he might let me go,\nfor I was discharged.  The constable said calmly to him, 'sir, you\nasked me just now if I knew whether I was a constable or justice, and\nbade me do my duty, and charged me with this gentlewoman as a prisoner.\nNow, sir, I find you do not understand what is my duty, for you would\nmake me a justice indeed; but I must tell you it is not in my power.  I\nmay keep a prisoner when I am charged with him, but 'tis the law and\nthe magistrate alone that can discharge that prisoner; therefore 'tis a\nmistake, sir; I must carry her before a justice now, whether you think\nwell of it or not.'  The mercer was very high with the constable at\nfirst; but the constable happening to be not a hired officer, but a\ngood, substantial kind of man (I think he was a corn-handler), and a\nman of good sense, stood to his business, would not discharge me\nwithout going to a justice of the peace; and I insisted upon it too.\nWhen the mercer saw that, 'Well,' says he to the constable, 'you may\ncarry her where you please; I have nothing to say to her.' 'But, sir,'\nsays the constable, 'you will go with us, I hope, for 'tis you that\ncharged me with her.'  'No, not I,' says the mercer; 'I tell you I have\nnothing to say to her.'  'But pray, sir, do,' says the constable; 'I\ndesire it of you for your own sake, for the justice  can do nothing\nwithout you.'  'Prithee, fellow,' says the mercer, 'go about your\nbusiness; I tell you I have nothing to say to the gentlewoman.  I\ncharge you in the king's name to dismiss her.'  'Sir,' says the\nconstable, 'I find you don't know what it is to be constable; I beg of\nyou don't oblige me to be rude to you.'  'I think I need not; you are\nrude enough already,' says the mercer.  'No, sir,' says the constable,\n'I am not rude; you have broken the peace in bringing an honest woman\nout of the street, when she was about her lawful occasion, confining\nher in your shop, and ill-using her here by your servants; and now can\nyou say I am rude to you?  I think I am civil to you in not commanding\nor charging you in the king's name to go with me, and charging every\nman I see that passes your door to aid and assist me in carrying you by\nforce; this you cannot but know I have power to do, and yet I forbear\nit, and once more entreat you to go with me.'  Well, he would not for\nall this, and gave the constable ill language.  However, the constable\nkept his temper, and would not be provoked; and then I put in and said,\n'Come, Mr. Constable, let him alone; I shall find ways enough to fetch\nhim before a magistrate, I don't fear that; but there's the fellow,'\nsays I, 'he was the man that seized on me as I was innocently going\nalong the street, and you are a witness of the violence with me since;\ngive me leave to charge you with him, and carry him before the\njustice.'  'Yes, madam,' says the constable; and turning to the fellow\n'Come, young gentleman,' says he to the journeyman, 'you must go along\nwith us; I hope you are not above the constable's power, though your\nmaster is.'\n\nThe fellow looked like a condemned thief, and hung back, then looked at\nhis master, as if he could help him; and he, like a fool, encourage the\nfellow to be rude, and he truly resisted the constable, and pushed him\nback with a good force when he went to lay hold on him, at which the\nconstable knocked him down, and called out for help; and immediately\nthe shop was filled with people, and the constable seized the master\nand man, and all his servants.\n\nThis first ill consequence of this fray was, that the woman they had\ntaken, who was really the thief, made off, and got clear away in the\ncrowd; and two other that they had stopped also; whether they were\nreally guilty or not, that I can say nothing to.\n\nBy this time some of his neighbours having come in, and, upon inquiry,\nseeing how things went, had endeavoured to bring the hot-brained mercer\nto his senses, and he began to be convinced that he was in the wrong;\nand so at length we went all very quietly before the justice, with a\nmob of about five hundred people at our heels; and all the way I went I\ncould hear the people ask what was the matter, and other reply and say,\na mercer had stopped a gentlewoman instead of a thief, and had\nafterwards taken the thief, and now the gentlewoman had taken the\nmercer, and was carrying him before the justice.  This pleased the\npeople strangely, and made the crowd increase, and they cried out as\nthey went, 'Which is the rogue?  which is the mercer?'  and  especially\nthe women.  Then when they saw him they cried out, 'That's he, that's\nhe'; and every now and then came a good dab of dirt at him; and thus we\nmarched a good while, till the mercer thought fit to desire the\nconstable to call a coach to protect himself from the rabble; so we\nrode the rest of the way, the constable and I, and the mercer and his\nman.\n\nWhen we came to the justice, which was an ancient gentleman in\nBloomsbury, the constable giving first a summary account of the matter,\nthe justice bade me speak, and tell what I had to say.  And first he\nasked my name, which I was very loth to give, but there was no remedy,\nso I told him my name was Mary Flanders, that I was a widow, my husband\nbeing a sea captain, died on a voyage to Virginia; and some other\ncircumstances I told which he could never contradict, and that I lodged\nat present in town with such a person, naming my governess; but that I\nwas preparing to go over to America, where my husband's effects lay,\nand that I was going that day to buy some clothes to put myself into\nsecond mourning, but had not yet been in any shop, when that fellow,\npointing to the mercer's journeyman, came rushing upon me with such\nfury as very much frighted me, and carried me back to his master's\nshop, where, though his master acknowledged I was not the person, yet\nhe would not dismiss me, but charged a constable with me.\n\nThen I proceeded to tell how the journeyman treated me; how they would\nnot suffer me to send for any of my friends; how afterwards they found\nthe real thief, and took the very goods they had lost upon her, and all\nthe particulars as before.\n\nThen the constable related his case:  his dialogue with the mercer\nabout discharging me, and at last his servant's refusing to go with\nhim, when he had charged him with him, and his master encouraging him\nto do so, and at last his striking the constable, and the like, all as\nI have told it already.\n\nThe justice then heard the mercer and his man.  The mercer indeed made\na long harangue of the great loss they have daily by lifters and\nthieves; that it was easy for them to mistake, and that when he found\nit he would have dismissed me, etc., as above.  As to the journeyman,\nhe had very little to say, but that he pretended other of the servants\ntold him that I was really the person.\n\nUpon the whole, the justice first of all told me very courteously I was\ndischarged; that he was very sorry that the mercer's man should in his\neager pursuit have so little discretion as to take up an innocent\nperson for a guilty person; that if he had not been so unjust as to\ndetain me afterward, he believed I would have forgiven the first\naffront; that, however, it was not in his power to award me any\nreparation for anything, other than by openly reproving them, which he\nshould do; but he supposed I would apply to such methods as the law\ndirected; in the meantime he would bind him over.\n\nBut as to the breach of the peace committed by the journeyman, he told\nme he should give me some satisfaction for that, for he should commit\nhim to Newgate for assaulting the constable, and for assaulting me also.\n\nAccordingly he sent the fellow to Newgate for that assault, and his\nmaster gave bail, and so we came away; but I had the satisfaction of\nseeing the mob wait upon them both, as they came out, hallooing and\nthrowing stones and dirt at the coaches they rode in; and so I came\nhome to my governess.\n\nAfter this hustle, coming home and telling my governess the story, she\nfalls a-laughing at me.  'Why are you merry?' says I; 'the story has\nnot so much laughing room in it as you imagine; I am sure I have had a\ngreat deal of hurry and fright too, with a pack of ugly rogues.'\n'Laugh!' says my governess; 'I laugh, child, to see what a lucky\ncreature you are; why, this job will be the best bargain to you that\never you made in your life, if you manage it well.  I warrant you,'\nsays she, 'you shall make the mercer pay you #500 for damages, besides\nwhat you shall get out of the journeyman.'\n\nI had other thoughts of the matter than she had; and especially,\nbecause I had given in my name to the justice of peace; and I knew that\nmy name was so well known among the people at Hick's Hall, the Old\nBailey, and such places, that if this cause came to be tried openly,\nand my name came to be inquired into, no court would give much damages,\nfor the reputation of a person of such a character.  However, I was\nobliged to begin a prosecution in form, and accordingly my governess\nfound me out a very creditable sort of a man to manage it, being an\nattorney of very good business, and of a good reputation, and she was\ncertainly in the right of this; for had she employed a pettifogging\nhedge solicitor, or a man not known, and not in good reputation, I\nshould have brought it to but little.\n\nI met this attorney, and gave him all the particulars at large, as they\nare recited above; and he assured me it was a case, as he said, that\nwould very well support itself, and that he did not question but that a\njury would give very considerable damages on such an occasion; so\ntaking his full instructions he began the prosecution, and the mercer\nbeing arrested, gave bail.  A few days after his giving bail, he comes\nwith his attorney to my attorney, to let him know that he desired to\naccommodate the matter; that it was all carried on in the heat of an\nunhappy passion; that his client, meaning me, had a sharp provoking\ntongue, that I used them ill, gibing at them, and jeering them, even\nwhile they believed me to be the very person, and that I had provoked\nthem, and the like.\n\nMy attorney managed as well on my side; made them believe\n I was a widow of fortune, that I was able to do myself justice,\nand had great friends to stand by me too, who had all made me promise\nto sue to the utmost, and that if it cost me a thousand pounds I would\nbe sure to have satisfaction, for that the affronts I had received were\ninsufferable.\n\nHowever, they brought my attorney to this, that he promised he would\nnot blow the coals, that if I inclined to accommodation, he would not\nhinder me, and that he would rather persuade me to peace than to war;\nfor which they told him he should be no loser; all which he told me\nvery honestly, and told me that if they offered him any bribe, I should\ncertainly know it; but upon the whole he told me very honestly that if\nI would take his opinion, he would advise me to make it up with them,\nfor that as they were in a great fright, and were desirous above all\nthings to make it up, and knew that, let it be what it would, they\nwould be allotted to bear all the costs of the suit; he believed they\nwould give me freely more than any jury or court of justice would give\nupon a trial.  I asked him what he thought they would be brought to.\nHe told me he could not tell as to that, but he would tell me more when\nI saw him again.\n\nSome time after this, they came again to know if he had talked with me.\nHe told them he had; that he found me not so averse to an accommodation\nas some of my friends were, who resented the disgrace offered me, and\nset me on; that they blowed the coals in secret, prompting me to\nrevenge, or do myself justice, as they called it; so that he could not\ntell what to say to it; he told them he would do his endeavour to\npersuade me, but he ought to be able to tell me what proposal they\nmade.  They pretended they could not make any proposal, because it\nmight be made use of against them; and he told them, that by the same\nrule he could not make any offers, for that might be pleaded in\nabatement of what damages a jury might be inclined to give.  However,\nafter some discourse and mutual promises that no advantage should be\ntaken on either side, by what was transacted then or at any other of\nthose meetings, they came to a kind of a treaty; but so remote, and so\nwide from one another, that nothing could be expected from it; for my\nattorney demanded #500 and charges, and they offered #50 without\ncharges; so they broke off, and the mercer proposed to have a meeting\nwith me myself; and my attorney agreed to that very readily.\n\nMy attorney gave me notice to come to this meeting in good clothes, and\nwith some state, that the mercer might see I was something more than I\nseemed to be that time they had me.  Accordingly I came in a new suit\nof second mourning, according to what I had said at the justice's.  I\nset myself out, too, as well as a widow's dress in second mourning\nwould admit; my governess also furnished me with a good pearl necklace,\nthat shut in behind with a locket of diamonds, which she had in pawn;\nand I had a very good figure; and as I stayed till I was sure they were\ncome, I came in a coach to the door, with my maid with me.\n\nWhen I came into the room the mercer was surprised.  He stood up and\nmade his bow, which I took a little notice of, and but a little, and\nwent and sat down where my own attorney had pointed to me to sit, for\nit was his house.  After a little while the mercer said, he did not\nknow me again, and began to make some compliments his way.  I told him,\nI believed he did not know me at first, and that if he had, I believed\nhe would not have treated me as he did.\n\nHe told me he was very sorry for what had happened, and that it was to\ntestify the willingness he had to make all possible reparation that he\nhad appointed this meeting; that he hoped I would not carry things to\nextremity, which might be not only too great a loss to him, but might\nbe the ruin of his business and shop, in which case I might have the\nsatisfaction of repaying an injury with an injury ten times greater;\nbut that I would then get nothing, whereas he was willing to do me any\njustice that was in his power, without putting himself or me to the\ntrouble or charge of a suit at law.\n\nI told him I was glad to hear him talk so much more like a man of sense\nthan he did before; that it was true, acknowledgment in most cases of\naffronts was counted reparation sufficient; but this had gone too far\nto be made up so; that I was not revengeful, nor did I seek his ruin,\nor any man's else, but that all my friends were unanimous not to let me\nso far neglect my character as to adjust a thing of this kind without a\nsufficient reparation of honour; that to be taken up for a thief was\nsuch an indignity as could not be put up; that my character was above\nbeing treated so by any that knew me, but because in my condition of a\nwidow I had been for some time careless of  myself, and negligent of\nmyself, I might be taken for such a creature, but that for the\nparticular usage I had from him afterwards,--and then I repeated all as\nbefore; it was so provoking I had scarce patience to repeat it.\n\nWell, he acknowledged all, and was might humble indeed; he made\nproposals very handsome; he came up to #100 and to pay all the law\ncharges, and added that he would make me a present of a very good suit\nof clothes.  I came down to #300, and I demanded that I should publish\nan advertisement of the particulars in the common newspapers.\n\nThis was a clause he never could comply with.  However, at last he came\nup, by good management of my attorney, to #150 and a suit of black silk\nclothes; and there I agree, and as it were, at my attorney's request,\ncomplied with it, he paying my attorney's bill and charges, and gave us\na good supper into the bargain.\n\n\nWhen I came to receive the money, I brought my governess with me,\ndressed like an old duchess, and a gentleman very well dressed, who we\npretended courted me, but I called him cousin, and the lawyer was only\nto hint privately to him that his gentleman courted the widow.\n\nHe treated us handsomely indeed, and paid the money cheerfully enough;\nso that it cost him #200 in all, or rather more.  At our last meeting,\nwhen all was agreed, the case of the journeyman came up, and the mercer\nbegged very hard for him; told me he was a man that had kept a shop of\nhis own, and been in good business, had a wife, and several children,\nand was very poor; that he had nothing to make satisfaction with, but\nhe should come to beg my pardon on his knees, if I desired it, as\nopenly as I pleased.  I had no spleen at the saucy rogue, nor were his\nsubmissions anything to me, since there was nothing to be got by him,\nso I thought it was as good to throw that in generously as not; so I\ntold him I did not desire the ruin of any man, and therefore at his\nrequest I would forgive the wretch; it was below me to seek any revenge.\n\nWhen we were at supper he brought the poor fellow in to make\nacknowledgment, which he would have done with as much mean humility as\nhis offence was with insulting haughtiness and pride, in which he was\nan instance of a complete baseness of spirit, impious, cruel, and\nrelentless when uppermost and in prosperity, abject and low-spirited\nwhen down in affliction.  However, I abated his cringes, told him I\nforgave him, and desired he might withdraw, as if I did not care for\nthe sight of him, though I had forgiven him.\n\nI was now in good circumstances indeed, if I could have known my time\nfor leaving off, and my governess often said I was the richest of the\ntrade in England; and so I believe I was, for I had #700 by me in\nmoney, besides clothes, rings, some plate, and two gold watches, and\nall of them stolen, for I had innumerable jobs besides these I have\nmentioned.  Oh!  had I even now had the grace of  repentance, I had\nstill leisure to have looked back upon my follies, and have made some\nreparation; but the satisfaction I was to make for the public mischiefs\nI had done was yet left behind; and I could not forbear going abroad\nagain, as I called it now, than any more I could when my extremity\nreally drove me out for bread.\n\nIt was not long after the affair with the mercer was made up, that I\nwent out in an equipage quite different from any I had ever appeared in\nbefore.  I dressed myself like a beggar woman, in the coarsest and most\ndespicable rags I could get, and I walked about peering and peeping\ninto every door and window I came near; and indeed I was in such a\nplight now that I knew as ill how to behave in as ever I did in any.  I\nnaturally abhorred dirt and rags; I had been bred up tight and cleanly,\nand could be no other, whatever condition I was in; so that this was\nthe most uneasy disguise to me that ever I put on.  I said presently to\nmyself that this would not do, for this was a dress that everybody was\nshy and afraid of; and I thought everybody looked at me, as if they\nwere afraid I should come near them, lest I should take something from\nthem, or afraid to come near me, lest they should get something from\nme.  I wandered about all the evening the first time I went out, and\nmade nothing of it, but came home again wet, draggled, and tired.\nHowever, I went out again the next night, and then I met with a little\nadventure, which had like to have cost me dear.  As I was standing near\na tavern door, there comes a gentleman on horseback, and lights at the\ndoor, and wanting to go into the tavern, he calls one of the drawers to\nhold his horse.  He stayed pretty long in the tavern, and the drawer\nheard his master call, and thought he would be angry with him.  Seeing\nme stand by him, he called to me, 'Here, woman,' says he, 'hold this\nhorse a while, till I go in; if the gentleman comes, he'll give you\nsomething.'  'Yes,' says I, and takes the horse, and walks off with him\nvery soberly, and carried him to my governess.\n\nThis had been a booty to those that had understood it; but never was\npoor thief more at a loss to know what to do with anything that was\nstolen; for when I came home, my governess was quite confounded, and\nwhat to do with the creature, we neither of us knew.  To send him to a\nstable was doing nothing, for it was certain that public notice would\nbe given in the Gazette, and the horse described, so that we durst not\ngo to fetch it again.\n\nAll the remedy we had for this unlucky adventure was to go and set up\nthe horse at an inn, and send a note by a porter to the tavern, that\nthe gentleman's horse that was lost such a time was left at such an\ninn, and that he might be had there; that the poor woman that held him,\nhaving led him about the street, not being able to lead him back again,\nhad left him there.  We might have waited till the owner had published\nand offered a reward, but we did not care to venture the receiving the\nreward.\n\nSo this was a robbery and no robbery, for little was lost by it, and\nnothing was got by it, and I was quite sick of going out in a beggar's\ndress; it did not answer at all, and besides, I thought it was ominous\nand threatening.\n\nWhile I was in this disguise, I fell in with a parcel of folks of a\nworse kind than any I ever sorted with, and I saw a little into their\nways too.  These were coiners of money, and they made some very good\noffers to me, as to profit; but the part they would have had me have\nembarked in was the most dangerous part.  I mean that of the very\nworking the die, as they call it, which, had I been taken, had been\ncertain death, and that at a stake--I say, to be burnt to death at a\nstake; so that though I was to appearance but a beggar, and they\npromised mountains of gold and silver to me to engage, yet it would not\ndo.  It is true, if I had been really a beggar, or had been desperate\nas when I began, I might perhaps have closed with it; for what care\nthey to die that can't tell how to live?  But at present this was not\nmy condition, at least I was for no such terrible risks as those;\nbesides, the very thoughts of being burnt at a stake struck terror into\nmy very soul, chilled my blood, and gave me the vapours to such a\ndegree, as I could not think of it without trembling.\n\nThis put an end to my disguise too, for as I did not like the proposal,\nso I did not tell them so, but seemed to relish it, and promised to\nmeet again.  But I durst see them no more; for if I had seen them, and\nnot complied, though I had declined it with the greatest assurance of\nsecrecy in the world, they would have gone near to have murdered me, to\nmake sure work, and make themselves easy, as they call it.  What kind\nof easiness that is, they may best judge that understand how easy men\nare that can murder people to prevent danger.\n\nThis and horse-stealing were things quite out of my way, and I might\neasily resolve I would have to more to say to them; my business seemed\nto lie another way, and though it had hazard enough in it too, yet it\nwas more suitable to me, and what had more of art in it, and more room\nto escape, and more chances for a-coming off if a surprise should\nhappen.\n\nI had several proposals made also to me about that time, to come into a\ngang of house-breakers; but that was a thing I had no mind to venture\nat neither, any more than I had at the coining trade.  I offered to go\nalong with two men and a woman, that made it their business to get into\nhouses by stratagem, and with them I was willing enough to venture.\nBut there were three of them already, and they did not care to part,\nnor I to have too many in a gang, so I did not close with them, but\ndeclined them, and they paid dear for their next attempt.\n\nBut at length I met with a woman that had often told me what adventures\nshe had made, and with success, at the waterside, and I closed with\nher, and we drove on our business pretty well.  One day we came among\nsome Dutch people at St.  Catherine's, where we went on pretence to buy\ngoods that were privately got on shore.  I was two or three times in a\nhouse where we saw a good quantity of prohibited goods, and my\ncompanion once brought away three pieces of Dutch black silk that\nturned to good account, and I had my share of it; but in all the\njourneys I made by myself, I could not get an opportunity to do\nanything, so I laid it aside, for I had been so often, that they began\nto suspect something, and were so shy, that I saw nothing was to be\ndone.\n\nThis baulked me a little, and I resolved to push at something or other,\nfor I was not used to come back so often without purchase; so the next\nday I dressed myself up fine, and took a walk to the other end of the\ntown.  I passed through the Exchange in the Strand, but had no notion\nof finding anything to do there, when on a sudden I saw a great\ncluttering in the place, and all the people, shopkeepers as well as\nothers, standing up and staring; and what should it be but some great\nduchess come into the Exchange, and they said the queen was coming.  I\nset myself close up to a shop-side with my back to the counter, as if\nto let the crowd pass by, when keeping my eye upon a parcel of lace\nwhich the shopkeeper was showing to some ladies that stood by me, the\nshopkeeper and her maid were so taken up with looking to see who was\ncoming, and what shop they would go to, that I found means to slip a\npaper of lace into my pocket and come clear off with it; so the\nlady-milliner paid dear enough for her gaping after the queen.\n\nI went off from the shop, as if driven along by the throng, and\nmingling myself with the crowd, went out at the other door of the\nExchange, and so got away before they missed their lace; and because I\nwould not be followed, I called a coach and shut myself up in it.  I\nhad scarce shut the coach doors up, but I saw the milliner's maid and\nfive or six more come running out into the street, and crying out as if\nthey were frightened.  They did not cry 'Stop thief!' because nobody\nran away, but I could hear the word 'robbed,' and 'lace,' two or three\ntimes, and saw the wench wringing her hands, and run staring to and\nagain, like one scared.  The coachman that had taken me up was getting\nup into the box, but was not quite up, so that the horse had not begun\nto move; so that I was terrible uneasy, and I took the packet of lace\nand laid it ready to have dropped it out at the flap of the coach,\nwhich opens before, just behind the coachman; but to my great\nsatisfaction, in less than a minute the coach began to move, that is to\nsay, as soon as the coachman had got up and spoken to his horses; so he\ndrove away without any interruption, and I brought off my purchase,\nwhich was work near #20.\n\nThe next day I dressed up again, but in quite different clothes, and\nwalked the same way again, but nothing offered till I came into St.\nJames's Park, where I saw abundance of fine ladies in the Park, walking\nin the Mall, and among the rest there was a little miss, a young lady\nof about twelve or thirteen years old, and she had a sister, as I\nsuppose it was, with her, that might be about nine years old.  I\nobserved the biggest had a fine gold watch on, and a good necklace of\npearl, and they had a footman in livery with them; but as it is not\nusual for the footman to go behind the ladies in the Mall, so I\nobserved the footman stopped at their going into the Mall, and the\nbiggest of the sisters spoke to him, which I perceived was to bid him\nbe just there when they came back.\n\nWhen I heard her dismiss the footman, I stepped up to him and asked\nhim, what little lady that was? and held a little chat with him about\nwhat a pretty child it was with her, and how genteel and well-carriaged\nthe lady, the eldest, would be:  how womanish, and how grave; and the\nfool of a fellow told me presently who she was; that she was Sir Thomas\n----'s eldest daughter, of Essex, and that she was a great fortune;\nthat her mother was not come to town yet; but she was with Sir William\n----'s lady, of Suffolk, at her lodging in Suffolk Street, and a great\ndeal more; that they had a maid and a woman to wait on them, besides\nSir Thomas's coach, the coachman, and himself; and that young lady was\ngoverness to the whole family, as well here as at home too; and, in\nshort, told me abundance of things enough for my business.\n\nI was very well dressed, and had my gold watch as well as she; so I\nleft the footman, and I puts myself in a rank with this young lady,\nhaving stayed till she had taken one double turn in the Mall, and was\ngoing forward again; by and by I saluted her by her name, with the\ntitle of Lady Betty.  I asked her when she heard from her father; when\nmy lady her mother would be in town, and how she did.\n\nI talked so familiarly to her of her whole family that she could not\nsuspect but that I knew them all intimately.  I asked her why she would\ncome abroad without Mrs. Chime with her (that was the name of her\nwoman) to take of Mrs. Judith, that was her sister.  Then I entered\ninto a long chat with her about her sister, what a fine little lady she\nwas, and asked her if she had learned French, and a thousand such\nlittle things to entertain her, when on a sudden we saw the guards\ncome, and the crowd ran to see the king go by to the Parliament House.\n\nThe ladies ran all to the side of the Mall, and I helped my lady to\nstand upon the edge of the boards on the side of the Mall, that she\nmight be high enough to see; and took the little one and lifted her\nquite up; during which, I took care to convey the gold watch so clean\naway from the Lady Betty, that she never felt it, nor missed it, till\nall the crowd was gone, and she was gotten into the middle of the Mall\namong the other ladies.\n\nI took my leave of her in the very crowd, and said to her, as if in\nhaste, 'Dear Lady Betty, take care of your little sister.' And so the\ncrowd did as it were thrust me away from her, and that I was obliged\nunwillingly to take my leave.\n\nThe hurry in such cases is immediately over, and the place clear as\nsoon as the king is gone by; but as there is always a great running and\nclutter just as the king passes, so having dropped the two little\nladies, and done my business with them without any miscarriage, I kept\nhurrying on among the crowd, as if I ran to see the king, and so I got\nbefore the crowd and kept so till I came to the end of the Mall, when\nthe king going on towards the Horse Guards, I went forward to the\npassage, which went then through against the lower end of the\nHaymarket, and there I bestowed a coach upon myself, and made off, and\nI confess I have not yet been so good as my word, viz. to go and visit\nmy Lady Betty.\n\nI was once of the mind to venture staying with Lady Betty till she\nmissed the watch, and so have made a great outcry about it with her,\nand have got her into the coach, and put myself in the coach with her,\nand have gone home with her; for she appeared so fond of me, and so\nperfectly deceived by my so readily talking to her of all her relations\nand family, that I thought it was very easy to push the thing farther,\nand to have got at least the necklace of pearl; but when I considered\nthat though the child would not perhaps have suspected me, other people\nmight, and that if I was searched I should be discovered, I thought it\nwas best to go off with what I had got, and be satisfied.\n\nI came accidentally afterwards to hear, that when the young lady missed\nher watch, she made a great outcry in the Park, and sent her footman up\nand down to see if he could find me out, she having described me so\nperfectly that he knew presently that it was the same person that had\nstood and talked so long with him, and asked him so many questions\nabout them; but I gone far enough out of their reach before she could\ncome at her footman to tell him the story.\n\nI made another adventure after this, of a nature different from all I\nhad been concerned in yet, and this was at a gaming-house near Covent\nGarden.\n\nI saw several people go in and out; and I stood in the passage a good\nwhile with another woman with me, and seeing a gentleman go up that\nseemed to be of more than ordinary fashion, I said to him, 'Sir, pray\ndon't they give women leave to go up?' 'Yes, madam,' says he, 'and to\nplay too, if they please.'  'I mean so, sir,' said I.  And with that he\nsaid he would introduce me if I had a mind; so I followed him to the\ndoor, and he looking in, 'There, madam,' says he, 'are the gamesters,\nif you have a mind to venture.'  I looked in and said to my comrade\naloud, 'Here's nothing but men; I won't venture among them.'  At which\none of the gentlemen cried out, 'You need not be afraid, madam, here's\nnone but fair gamesters; you are very welcome to come and set what you\nplease.'  so I went a little nearer and looked on, and some of them\nbrought me a chair, and I sat down and saw the box and dice go round\napace; then I said to my comrade, 'The gentlemen play too high for us;\ncome, let us go.'\n\nThe people were all very civil, and one gentleman in particular\nencouraged me, and said, 'Come, madam, if you please to venture, if you\ndare trust me, I'll answer for it you shall have nothing put upon you\nhere.'  'No, sir,' said I, smiling, 'I hope the gentlemen would not\ncheat a woman.'  But still I declined venturing, though I pulled out a\npurse with money in it, that they might see I did not want money.\n\nAfter I had sat a while, one gentleman said to me, jeering, 'Come,\nmadam, I see you are afraid to venture for yourself; I always had good\nluck with the ladies, you shall set for me, if you won't set for\nyourself.'  I told him, 'sir, I should be very loth to lose your\nmoney,' though I added, 'I am pretty lucky too; but the gentlemen play\nso high, that I dare not indeed venture my own.'\n\n'Well, well,' says he, 'there's ten guineas, madam; set them for me.'\nso I took his money and set, himself looking on.  I ran out nine of the\nguineas by one and two at a time, and then the box coming to the next\nman to me, my gentleman gave me ten guineas more, and made me set five\nof them at once, and the gentleman who had the box threw out, so there\nwas five guineas of his money again.  He was encouraged at this, and\nmade me take the box, which was a bold venture.  However, I held the\nbox so long that I had gained him his whole money, and had a good\nhandful of guineas in my lap, and which was the better luck, when I\nthrew out, I threw but at one or two of those that had set me, and so\nwent off easy.\n\nWhen I was come this length, I offered the gentleman all the gold, for\nit was his own; and so would have had him play for himself, pretending\nI did not understand the game well enough.  He laughed, and said if I\nhad but good luck, it was no matter whether I understood the game or\nno; but I should not leave off.  However, he took out the fifteen\nguineas that he had put in at first, and bade me play with the rest.  I\nwould have told them to see how much I had got, but he said, 'No, no,\ndon't tell them, I believe you are very honest, and 'tis bad luck to\ntell them'; so I played on.\n\nI understood the game well enough, though I pretended I did not, and\nplayed cautiously.  It was to keep a good stock in my lap, out of which\nI every now and then conveyed some into my pocket, but in such a\nmanner, and at such convenient times, as I was sure he could not see it.\n\nI played a great while, and had very good luck for him; but the last\ntime I held the box, they set me high, and I threw boldly at all; I\nheld the box till I gained near fourscore guineas, but lost above half\nof it back in the last throw; so I got up, for I was afraid I should\nlose it all back again, and said to him, 'Pray come, sir, now, and take\nit and play for yourself; I think I have done pretty well for you.'  He\nwould have had me play on, but it grew late, and I desired to be\nexcused.  When I gave it up to him, I told him I hoped he would give me\nleave to tell it now, that I might see what I had gained, and how lucky\nI had been for him; when I told them, there were threescore and three\nguineas.  'Ay,' says I, 'if it had not been for that unlucky throw, I\nhad got you a hundred guineas.'  So I gave him all the money, but he\nwould not take it till I had put my hand into it, and taken some for\nmyself, and bid me please myself.  I refused it, and was positive I\nwould not take it myself; if he had a mind to anything of that kind, it\nshould be all his own doings.\n\nThe rest of the gentlemen seeing us striving cried, 'Give it her all';\nbut I absolutely refused that.  Then one of them said, 'D--n ye, jack,\nhalve it with her; don't you know you should be always upon even terms\nwith the ladies.'  So, in short, he divided it with me, and I brought\naway thirty guineas, besides about forty-three which I had stole\nprivately, which I was sorry for afterward, because he was so generous.\n\nThus I brought home seventy-three guineas, and let my old governess see\nwhat good luck I had at play.  However, it was her advice that I should\nnot venture again, and I took her counsel, for I never went there any\nmore; for I knew as well as she, if the itch of play came in, I might\nsoon lose that, and all the rest of what I had got.\n\nFortune had smiled upon me to that degree, and I had thriven so much,\nand my governess too, for she always had a share with me, that really\nthe old gentlewoman began to talk of leaving off while we were well,\nand being satisfied with what we had got; but, I know not what fate\nguided me, I was as backward to it now as she was when I proposed it to\nher before, and so in an ill hour we gave over the thoughts of it for\nthe present, and, in a word, I grew more hardened and audacious than\never, and the success I had made my name as famous as any thief of my\nsort ever had been at Newgate, and in the Old Bailey.\n\nI had sometime taken the liberty to play the same game over again,\nwhich is not according to practice, which however succeeded not amiss;\nbut generally I took up new figures, and contrived to appear in new\nshapes every time I went abroad.\n\nIt was not a rumbling time of the year, and the gentlemen being most of\nthem gone out of town, Tunbridge, and Epsom, and such places were full\nof people.  But the city was thin, and I thought our trade felt it a\nlittle, as well as other; so that at the latter end of the year I\njoined myself with a gang who usually go every year to Stourbridge\nFair, and from thence to Bury Fair, in Suffolk.  We promised ourselves\ngreat things there, but when I came to see how things were, I was weary\nof it presently; for except mere picking of pockets, there was little\nworth meddling with; neither, if a booty had been made, was it so easy\ncarrying it off, nor was there such a variety of occasion for business\nin our way, as in London; all that I made of the whole journey was a\ngold watch at Bury Fair, and a small parcel of linen at Cambridge,\nwhich gave me an occasion to take leave of the place.  It was on old\nbite, and I thought might do with a country shopkeeper, though in\nLondon it would not.\n\nI bought at a linen-draper's shop, not in the fair, but in the town of\nCambridge, as much fine holland and other things as came to about seven\npounds; when I had done, I bade them be sent to such an inn, where I\nhad purposely taken up my being the same morning, as if I was to lodge\nthere that night.\n\nI ordered the draper to send them home to me, about such an hour, to\nthe inn where I lay, and I would pay him his money.  At the time\nappointed the draper sends the goods, and I placed one of our gang at\nthe chamber door, and when the innkeeper's maid brought the messenger\nto the door, who was a young fellow, an apprentice, almost a man, she\ntells him her mistress was asleep, but if he would leave the things and\ncall in about an hour, I should be awake, and he might have the money.\nHe left the parcel very readily, and goes his way, and in about half an\nhour my maid and I walked off, and that very evening I hired a horse,\nand a man to ride before me, and went to Newmarket, and from thence got\nmy passage in a coach that was not quite full to St. Edmund's Bury,\nwhere, as I told you, I could make but little of my trade, only at a\nlittle country opera-house made a shift to carry off a gold watch from\na lady's side, who was not only intolerably merry, but, as I thought, a\nlittle fuddled, which made my work much easier.\n\nI made off with this little booty to Ipswich, and from thence to\nHarwich, where I went into an inn, as if I had newly arrived from\nHolland, not doubting but I should make some purchase among the\nforeigners that came on shore there; but I found them generally empty\nof things of value, except what was in their portmanteaux and Dutch\nhampers, which were generally guarded by footmen; however, I fairly got\none of their portmanteaux one evening out of the chamber where the\ngentleman lay, the footman being fast asleep on the bed, and I suppose\nvery drunk.\n\nThe room in which I lodged lay next to the Dutchman's, and having\ndragged the heavy thing with much ado out of the chamber into mine, I\nwent out into the street, to see if I could find any possibility of\ncarrying it off.  I walked about a great while, but could see no\nprobability either of getting out the thing, or of conveying away the\ngoods that were in it if I had opened it, the town being so small, and\nI a perfect stranger in it; so I was returning with a resolution to\ncarry it back again, and leave it where I found it.  Just in that very\nmoment I heard a man make a noise to some people to make haste, for the\nboat was going to put off, and the tide would be spent.  I called to\nthe fellow, 'What boat is it, friend,' says I, 'that you belong to?'\n'The Ipswich wherry, madam,' says he.  'When do you go off?' says I.\n'This moment, madam,' says he; 'do you want to go thither?'  'Yes,'\nsaid I, 'if you can stay till I fetch my things.' 'Where are your\nthings, madam?' says he.  'At such an inn,' said I.  'Well, I'll go\nwith you, madam,' says he, very civilly, 'and bring them for you.'\n'Come away, then,' says I, and takes him with me.\n\nThe people of the inn were in a great hurry, the packet-boat from\nHolland being just come in, and two coaches just come also with\npassengers from London, for another packet-boat that was going off for\nHolland, which coaches were to go back next day with the passengers\nthat were just landed.  In this hurry it was not much minded that I\ncame to the bar and paid my reckoning, telling my landlady I had gotten\nmy passage by sea in a wherry.\n\nThese wherries are large vessels, with good accommodation for carrying\npassengers from Harwich to London; and though they are called wherries,\nwhich is a word used in the Thames for a small boat rowed with one or\ntwo men, yet these are vessels able to carry twenty passengers, and ten\nor fifteen tons of goods, and fitted to bear the sea.  All this I had\nfound out by inquiring the night before into the several ways of going\nto London.\n\nMy landlady was very courteous, took my money for my reckoning, but was\ncalled away, all the house being in a hurry.  So I left her, took the\nfellow up to my chamber, gave him the trunk, or portmanteau, for it was\nlike a trunk, and wrapped it about with an old apron, and he went\ndirectly to his boat with it, and I after him, nobody asking us the\nleast question about it; as for the drunken Dutch footman he was still\nasleep, and his master with other foreign gentlemen at supper, and very\nmerry below, so I went clean off with it to Ipswich; and going in the\nnight, the people of the house knew nothing but that I was gone to\nLondon by the Harwich wherry, as I had told my landlady.\n\nI was plagued at Ipswich with the custom-house officers, who stopped my\ntrunk, as I called it, and would open and search it.  I was willing, I\ntold them, they should search it, but husband had the key, and he was\nnot yet come from Harwich; this I said, that if upon searching it they\nshould find all the things be such as properly belonged to a man rather\nthan a woman, it should not seem strange to them.  However, they being\npositive to open the trunk I consented to have it be broken open, that\nis to say, to have the lock taken off, which was not difficult.\n\nThey found nothing for their turn, for the trunk had been searched\nbefore, but they discovered several things very much to my\nsatisfaction, as particularly a parcel of money in French pistols, and\nsome Dutch ducatoons or rix-dollars, and the rest was chiefly two\nperiwigs, wearing-linen, and razors, wash-balls, perfumes, and other\nuseful things necessary for a gentleman, which all passed for my\nhusband's, and so I was quit to them.\n\nIt was now very early in the morning, and not light, and I knew not\nwell what course to take; for I made no doubt but I should be pursued\nin the morning, and perhaps be taken with the things about me; so I\nresolved upon taking new measures.  I went publicly to an inn in the\ntown with my trunk, as I called it, and having taken the substance out,\nI did not think the lumber of it worth my concern; however, I gave it\nthe landlady of the house with a charge to take great care of it, and\nlay it up safe till I should come again, and away I walked in to the\nstreet.\n\nWhen I was got into the town a great way from the inn, I met with an\nancient woman who had just opened her door, and I fell into chat with\nher, and asked her a great many wild questions of things all remote to\nmy purpose and design; but in my discourse I found by her how the town\nwas situated, that I was in a street that went out towards Hadley, but\nthat such a street went towards the water-side, such a street towards\nColchester, and so the London road lay there.\n\nI had soon my ends of this old woman, for I only wanted to know which\nwas the London road, and away I walked as fast as I could; not that I\nintended to go on foot, either to London or to Colchester, but I wanted\nto get quietly away from Ipswich.\n\nI walked about two or three miles, and then I met a plain countryman,\nwho was busy about some husbandry work, I did not know what, and I\nasked him a great many questions first, not much to the purpose, but at\nlast told him I was going for London, and the coach was full, and I\ncould not get a passage, and asked him if he could tell me where to\nhire a horse that would carry double, and an honest man to ride before\nme to Colchester, that so I might get a place there in the coaches.\nThe honest clown looked earnestly at me, and said nothing for above\nhalf a minute, when, scratching his poll, 'A horse, say you and to\nColchester, to carry double?  why yes, mistress, alack-a-day, you may\nhave horses enough for money.'  'Well, friend,' says I, 'that I take\nfor granted; I don't expect it without money.'  'Why, but, mistress,'\nsays he, 'how much are you willing to give?'  'Nay,' says I again,\n'friend, I don't know what your rates are in the country here, for I am\na stranger; but if you can get one for me, get it as cheap as you can,\nand I'll give you somewhat for your pains.'\n\n'Why, that's honestly said too,' says the countryman.  'Not so honest,\nneither,' said I to myself, 'if thou knewest all.' 'Why, mistress,'\nsays he, 'I have a horse that will carry double, and I don't much care\nif I go myself with you,' and the like.  'Will you?' says I; 'well, I\nbelieve you are an honest man; if you will, I shall be glad of it; I'll\npay you in reason.'  'Why, look ye, mistress,' says he, 'I won't be out\nof reason with you, then; if I carry you to Colchester, it will be\nworth five shillings for myself and my horse, for I shall hardly come\nback to-night.'\n\nIn short, I hired the honest man and his horse; but when we came to a\ntown upon the road (I do not remember the name of it, but it stands\nupon a river), I pretended myself very ill, and I could go no farther\nthat night but if he would stay there with me, because I was a\nstranger, I would pay him for himself and his horse with all my heart.\n\nThis I did because I knew the Dutch gentlemen and their servants would\nbe upon the road that day, either in the stagecoaches or riding post,\nand I did not know but the drunken fellow, or somebody else that might\nhave seen me at Harwich, might see me again, and so I thought that in\none day's stop they would be all gone by.\n\nWe lay all that night there, and the next morning it was not very early\nwhen I set out, so that it was near ten o'clock by the time I got to\nColchester.  It was no little pleasure that I saw the town where I had\nso many pleasant days, and I made many inquiries after the good old\nfriends I had once had there, but could make little out; they were all\ndead or removed.  The young ladies had been all married or gone to\nLondon; the old gentleman and the old lady that had been my early\nbenefactress all dead; and which troubled me most, the young gentleman\nmy first lover, and afterwards my brother-in-law, was dead; but two\nsons, men grown, were left of him, but they too were transplanted to\nLondon.\n\nI dismissed my old man here, and stayed incognito for three or four\ndays in Colchester, and then took a passage in a waggon, because I\nwould not venture being seen in the Harwich coaches.  But I needed not\nhave used so much caution, for there was nobody in Harwich but the\nwoman of the house could have known me; nor was it rational to think\nthat she, considering the hurry she was in, and that she never saw me\nbut once, and that by candlelight, should have ever discovered me.\n\nI was now returned to London, and though by the accident of the last\nadventure I got something considerable, yet I was not fond of any more\ncountry rambles, nor should I have ventured abroad again if I had\ncarried the trade on to the end of my days. I gave my governess a\nhistory of my travels; she liked the Harwich journey well enough, and\nin discoursing of these things between ourselves she observed, that a\nthief being a creature that watches the advantages of other people's\nmistakes, 'tis impossible but that to one that is vigilant and\nindustrious many opportunities must happen, and therefore she thought\nthat one so exquisitely keen in the trade as I was, would scarce fail\nof something extraordinary wherever I went.\n\nOn the other hand, every branch of my story, if duly considered, may be\nuseful to honest people, and afford a due caution to people of some\nsort or other to guard against the like surprises, and to have their\neyes about them when they have to do with strangers of any kind, for\n'tis very seldom that some snare or other is not in their way.  The\nmoral, indeed, of all my history is left to be gathered by the senses\nand judgment of the reader; I am not qualified to preach to them.  Let\nthe experience of one creature completely wicked, and completely\nmiserable, be a storehouse of useful warning to those that read.\n\nI am drawing now towards a new variety of the scenes of life.  Upon my\nreturn, being hardened by a long race of crime, and success\nunparalleled, at least in the reach of my own knowledge, I had, as I\nhave said, no thoughts of laying down a trade which, if I was to judge\nby the example of other, must, however, end at last in misery and\nsorrow.\n\nIt was on the Christmas day following, in the evening, that, to finish\na long train of wickedness, I went abroad to see what might offer in my\nway; when going by a working silversmith's in Foster Lane, I saw a\ntempting bait indeed, and not be resisted by one of my occupation, for\nthe shop had nobody in it, as I could see, and a great deal of loose\nplate lay in the window, and at the seat of the man, who usually, as I\nsuppose, worked at one side of the shop.\n\nI went boldly in, and was just going to lay my hand upon a piece of\nplate, and might have done it, and carried it clear off, for any care\nthat the men who belonged to the shop had taken of it; but an officious\nfellow in a house, not a shop, on the other side of the way, seeing me\ngo in, and observing that there was nobody in the shop, comes running\nover the street, and into the shop, and without asking me what I was,\nor who, seizes upon me, an cries out for the people of the house.\n\nI had not, as I said above, touched anything in the shop, and seeing a\nglimpse of somebody running over to the shop, I had so much presence of\nmind as to knock very  hard with my foot on the floor of the house, and\nwas just calling out too, when the fellow laid hands on me.\n\nHowever, as I had always most courage when I was in most danger, so\nwhen the fellow laid hands on me, I stood very high upon it, that I\ncame in to buy half a dozen of silver spoons; and to my good fortune,\nit was a silversmith's that sold plate, as well as worked plate for\nother shops.  The fellow laughed at that part, and put such a value\nupon the service that he had done his neighbour, that he would have it\nbe that I came not to buy, but to steal; and raising a great crowd.  I\nsaid to the master of the shop, who by this time was fetched home from\nsome neighbouring place, that it was in vain to make noise, and enter\ninto talk there of the case; the fellow had insisted that I came to\nsteal, and he must prove it, and I desired we might go before a\nmagistrate without any more words; for I began to see I should be too\nhard for the man that had seized me.\n\nThe master and mistress of the shop were really not so violent as the\nman from t'other side of the way; and the man said, 'Mistress, you\nmight come into the shop with a good design for aught I know, but it\nseemed a dangerous thing for you to come into such a shop as mine is,\nwhen you see nobody there; and I cannot do justice to my neighbour, who\nwas so kind to me, as not to acknowledge he had reason on his side;\nthough, upon the whole, I do not find you attempted to take anything,\nand I really know not what to do in it.'  I pressed him to go before a\nmagistrate with me, and if anything could be proved on me that was like\na design of robbery, I should willingly submit, but if not, I expected\nreparation.\n\nJust while we were in this debate, and a crowd of people gathered about\nthe door, came by Sir T. B., an alderman of the city, and justice of\nthe peace, and the goldsmith hearing of it, goes out, and entreated his\nworship to come in and decide the case.\n\nGive the goldsmith his due, he told his story with a great deal of\njustice and moderation, and the fellow that had come over, and seized\nupon me, told his with as much heat and foolish passion, which did me\ngood still, rather than harm.  It came then to my turn to speak, and I\ntold his worship that I was a stranger in London, being newly come out\nof the north; that I lodged in such a place, that I was passing this\nstreet, and went into the goldsmith's shop to buy half a dozen of\nspoons.  By great luck I had an old silver spoon in my pocket, which I\npulled out, and told him I had carried that spoon to match it with half\na dozen of new ones, that it might match some I had in the country.\n\nThat seeing nobody I the shop, I knocked with my foot very hard to make\nthe people hear, and had also called aloud with my voice; 'tis true,\nthere was loose plate in the shop, but that nobody could say I had\ntouched any of it, or gone near it; that a fellow came running into the\nshop out of the street, and laid hands on me in a furious manner, in\nthe very moments while I was calling for the people of the house; that\nif he had really had a mind to have done his neighbour any service, he\nshould have stood at a distance, and silently watched to see whether I\nhad touched anything or no, and then have clapped in upon me, and taken\nme in the fact.  'That is very true,' says Mr. Alderman, and turning to\nthe fellow that stopped me, he asked him if it was true that I knocked\nwith my foot?  He said, yes, I had knocked, but that might be because\nof his coming.  'Nay,' says the alderman, taking him short, 'now you\ncontradict yourself, for just now you said she was in the shop with her\nback to you, and did not see you till you came upon her.'  Now it was\ntrue that my back was partly to the street, but yet as my business was\nof a kind that required me to have my eyes every way, so I really had a\nglance of him running over, as I said before, though he did not\nperceive it.\n\nAfter a full hearing, the alderman gave it as his opinion that his\nneighbour was under a mistake, and that I was innocent, and the\ngoldsmith acquiesced in it too, and his wife, and so I was dismissed;\nbut as I was going to depart, Mr. Alderman said, 'But hold, madam, if\nyou were designing to buy spoons, I hope you will not let my friend\nhere lose his customer by the mistake.'  I readily answered, 'No, sir,\nI'll buy the spoons still, if he can match my odd spoon, which I\nbrought for a pattern'; and the goldsmith showed me some of the very\nsame fashion.  So he weighed the spoons, and they came to\nfive-and-thirty shillings, so I pulls out my purse to pay him, in which\nI had near twenty guineas, for I never went without such a sum about\nme, whatever might happen, and I found it of use at other times as well\nas now.\n\nWhen Mr. Alderman saw my money, he said, 'Well, madam, now I am\nsatisfied you were wronged, and it was for this reason that I moved you\nshould buy the spoons, and stayed till you had bought them, for if you\nhad not had money to pay for them, I should have suspected that you did\nnot come into the shop with an intent to buy, for indeed the sort of\npeople who come upon these designs that you have been charged with, are\nseldom troubled with much gold in their pockets, as I see you are.'\n\nI smiled, and told his worship, that then I owed something of his\nfavour to my money, but I hoped he saw reason also in the justice he\nhad done me before.  He said, yes, he had, but this had confirmed his\nopinion, and he was fully satisfied now of my having been injured.  So\nI came off with flying colours, though from an affair in which I was at\nthe very brink of destruction.\n\nIt was but three days after this, that not at all made cautious by my\nformer danger, as I used to be, and still pursuing the art which I had\nso long been employed in, I ventured into a house where I saw the doors\nopen, and furnished myself, as I though verily without being perceived,\nwith two pieces of flowered silks, such as they call brocaded silk,\nvery rich.  It was not a mercer's shop, nor a warehouse of a mercer,\nbut looked like a private dwelling-house, and was, it seems, inhabited\nby a man that sold goods for the weavers to the mercers, like a broker\nor factor.\n\nThat I may make short of this black part of this story, I was attacked\nby two wenches that came open-mouthed at me just as I was going out at\nthe door, and one of them pulled me back into the room, while the other\nshut the door upon me.  I would have given them good words, but there\nwas no room for it, two fiery dragons could not have been more furious\nthan they were; they tore my clothes, bullied and roared as if they\nwould have murdered me; the mistress of the house came next, and then\nthe master, and all outrageous, for a while especially.\n\nI gave the master very good words, told him the door was open, and\nthings were a temptation to me, that I was poor and distressed, and\npoverty was when many could not resist, and begged him with tears to\nhave pity on me.  The mistress of the house was moved with compassion,\nand inclined to have let me go, and had almost persuaded her husband to\nit also, but the saucy wenches were run, even before they were sent,\nand had fetched a constable, and then the master said he could not go\nback, I must go before a justice, and answered his wife that he might\ncome into trouble himself if he should let me go.\n\nThe sight of the constable, indeed, struck me with terror, and I\nthought I should have sunk into the ground.  I fell into faintings, and\nindeed the people themselves thought I would have died, when the woman\nargued again for me, and entreated her husband, seeing they had lost\nnothing, to let me go.  I offered him to pay for the two pieces,\nwhatever the value was, though I had not got them, and argued that as\nhe had his goods, and had really lost nothing, it would be cruel to\npursue me to death, and have my blood for the bare attempt of taking\nthem.  I put the constable in mind that I had broke no doors, nor\ncarried anything away; and when I came to the justice, and pleaded\nthere that I had neither broken anything to get in, nor carried\nanything out, the justice was inclined to have released me; but the\nfirst saucy jade that stopped me, affirming that I was going out with\nthe goods, but that she stopped me and pulled me back as I was upon the\nthreshold, the justice upon that point committed me, and I was carried\nto Newgate.  That horrid place! my very blood chills at the mention of\nits name; the place where so many of my comrades had been locked up,\nand from whence they went to the fatal tree; the place where my mother\nsuffered so deeply, where I was brought into the world, and from whence\nI expected no redemption but by an infamous death:  to conclude, the\nplace that had so long expected me, and which with so much art and\nsuccess I had so long avoided.\n\nI was not fixed indeed; 'tis impossible to describe the terror of my\nmind, when I was first brought in, and when I looked around upon all\nthe horrors of that dismal place.  I looked on myself as lost, and that\nI had nothing to think of but of going out of the world, and that with\nthe utmost infamy:  the hellish noise, the roaring, swearing, and\nclamour, the stench and nastiness, and all the dreadful crowd of\nafflicting things that I saw there, joined together to make the place\nseem an emblem of hell itself, and a kind of an entrance into it.\n\nNow I reproached myself with the many hints I had had, as I have\nmentioned above, from my own reason, from the sense of my good\ncircumstances, and of the many dangers I had escaped, to leave off\nwhile I was well, and how I had withstood them all, and hardened my\nthoughts against all fear.  It seemed to me that I was hurried on by an\ninevitable and unseen fate to this day of misery, and that now I was to\nexpiate all my offences at the gallows; that I was now to give\nsatisfaction to justice with my blood, and that I was come to the last\nhour of my life and of my wickedness together.  These things poured\nthemselves in upon my thoughts in a confused manner, and left me\noverwhelmed with melancholy and despair.\n\nThem I repented heartily of all my life past, but that repentance\nyielded me no satisfaction, no peace, no, not in the least, because, as\nI said to myself, it was repenting after the power of further sinning\nwas taken away.  I seemed not to mourn that I had committed such\ncrimes, and for the fact as it was an offence against God and my\nneighbour, but I mourned that I was to be punished for it.  I was a\npenitent, as I thought, not that I had sinned, but that I was to\nsuffer, and this took away all the comfort, and even the hope of my\nrepentance in my own thoughts.\n\nI got no sleep for several nights or days after I came into that\nwretched place, and glad I would have been for some time to have died\nthere, though I did not consider dying as it ought to be considered\nneither; indeed, nothing could be filled with more horror to my\nimagination than the very place, nothing was more odious to me than the\ncompany that was there.  Oh!  if I had but been sent to any place in\nthe world, and not to Newgate, I should have thought myself happy.\n\nIn the next place, how did the hardened wretches that were there before\nme triumph over me!  What! Mrs. Flanders come to Newgate at last?\nWhat! Mrs. Mary, Mrs. Molly, and after that plain Moll Flanders? They\nthought the devil had helped me, they said, that I had reigned so long;\nthey expected me there many years ago, and was I come at last?  Then\nthey flouted me with my dejections, welcomed me to the place, wished me\njoy, bid me have a good heart, not to be cast down, things might not be\nso bad as I feared, and the like; then called for brandy, and drank to\nme, but put it all up to my score, for they told me I was but just come\nto the college, as they called it, and sure I had money in my pocket,\nthough they had none.\n\nI asked one of this crew how long she had been there.  She said four\nmonths. I asked her how the place looked to her when she first came\ninto it.  'Just as it did now to you,' says she, dreadful and\nfrightful'; that she thought she was in hell; 'and I believe so still,'\nadds she, 'but it is natural to me now, I don't disturb myself about\nit.'  'I suppose,' says I, 'you are in no danger of what is to follow?'\n'Nay,' says she, 'for you are mistaken there, I assure you, for I am\nunder sentence, only I pleaded my belly, but I am no more with child\nthan the judge that tried me, and I expect to be called down next\nsessions.' This 'calling down' is calling down to their former\njudgment, when a woman has been respited for her belly, but proves not\nto be with child, or if she has been with child, and has been brought\nto bed.  'Well,' says I, 'are you thus easy?'  'Ay,' says she, 'I can't\nhelp myself; what signifies being sad?  If I am hanged, there's an end\nof me,' says she; and away she turns dancing, and sings as she goes the\nfollowing piece of Newgate wit ----\n\n    'If I swing by the string\n     I shall hear the bell ring\n     And then there's an end of poor Jenny.'\n\nI mention this because it would be worth the observation of any\nprisoner, who shall hereafter fall into the same misfortune, and come\nto that dreadful place of Newgate, how time, necessity, and conversing\nwith the wretches that are there familiarizes the place to them; how at\nlast they become reconciled to that which at first was the greatest\ndread upon their spirits in the world, and are as impudently cheerful\nand merry in their misery as they were when out of it.\n\nI cannot say, as some do, this devil is not so black as he is painted;\nfor indeed no colours can represent the place to the life, not any soul\nconceive aright of it but those who have been sufferers there.  But how\nhell should become by degree so natural, and not only tolerable, but\neven agreeable, is a thing unintelligible but by those who have\nexperienced it, as I have.\n\nThe same night that I was sent to Newgate, I sent the news of it to my\nold governess, who was surprised at it, you may be sure, and spent the\nnight almost as ill out of Newgate, as I did in it.\n\nThe next morning she came to see me; she did what she could to comfort\nme, but she saw that was to no purpose; however, as she said, to sink\nunder the weight was but to increase the weight; she immediately\napplied herself to all the proper methods to prevent the effects of it,\nwhich we feared, and first she found out the two fiery jades that had\nsurprised me.  She tampered with them, offered them money, and, in a\nword, tried all imaginable ways to prevent a prosecution; she offered\none of the wenches #100 to go away from her mistress, and not to appear\nagainst me, but she was so resolute, that though she was but a servant\nmaid at #3 a year wages or thereabouts, she refused it, and would have\nrefused it, as my governess said she believed, if she had offered her\n#500.  Then she attacked the other maid; she was not so hard-hearted in\nappearance as the other, and sometimes seemed inclined to be merciful;\nbut the first wench kept her up, and changed her mind, and would not so\nmuch as let my governess talk with her, but threatened to have her up\nfor tampering with the evidence.\n\nThen she applied to the master, that is to say, the man whose goods had\nbeen stolen, and particularly to his wife, who, as I told you, was\ninclined at first to have some compassion for me; she found the woman\nthe same still, but the man alleged he was bound by the justice that\ncommitted me, to prosecute, and that he should forfeit his recognisance.\n\nMy governess offered to find friends that should get his recognisances\noff of the file, as they call it, and that he should not suffer; but it\nwas not possible to convince him that could be done, or that he could\nbe safe any way in the world but by appearing against me; so I was to\nhave three witnesses of fact against me, the master and his two maids;\nthat is to say, I was as certain to be cast for my life as I was\ncertain that I was alive, and I had nothing to do but to think of\ndying, and prepare for it.  I had but a sad foundation to build upon,\nas I said before, for all my repentance appeared to me to be only the\neffect of my fear of death, not a sincere regret for the wicked life\nthat I had lived, and which had brought this misery upon me, for the\noffending my Creator, who was now suddenly to be my judge.\n\nI lived many days here under the utmost horror of soul; I had death, as\nit were, in view, and thought of nothing night and day, but of gibbets\nand halters, evil spirits and devils; it is not to be expressed by\nwords how I was harassed, between the dreadful apprehensions of death\nand the terror of my conscience reproaching me with my past horrible\nlife.\n\nThe ordinary of Newgate came to me, and talked a little in his way, but\nall his divinity ran upon confessing my crime, as he called it (though\nhe knew not what I was in for), making a full discovery, and the like,\nwithout which he told me God would never forgive me; and he said so\nlittle to the purpose, that I had no manner of consolation from him;\nand then to observe the poor creature preaching confession and\nrepentance to me in the morning, and find him drunk with brandy and\nspirits by noon, this had something in it so shocking, that I began to\nnauseate the man more than his work, and his work too by degrees, for\nthe sake of the man; so that I desired him to trouble me no more.\n\nI know not how it was, but by the indefatigable application of my\ndiligent governess I had no bill preferred against me the first\nsessions, I mean to the grand jury, at Guildhall; so I had another\nmonth or five weeks before me, and without doubt this ought to have\nbeen accepted by me, as so much time given me for reflection upon what\nwas past, and preparation for what was to come; or, in a word, I ought\nto have esteemed it as a space given me for repentance, and have\nemployed it as such, but it was not in me.  I was sorry (as before) for\nbeing in Newgate, but had very few signs of repentance about me.\n\nOn the contrary, like the waters in the cavities and hollows of\nmountains, which petrify and turn into stone whatever they are suffered\nto drop on, so the continual conversing with such a crew of hell-hounds\nas I was, had the same common operation upon me as upon other people.\nI degenerated into stone; I turned first stupid and senseless, then\nbrutish and thoughtless, and at last raving mad as any of them were;\nand, in short, I became as naturally pleased and easy with the place,\nas if indeed I had been born there.\n\nIt is scarce possible to imagine that our natures should be capable of\nso much degeneracy, as to make that pleasant and agreeable that in\nitself is the most complete misery.  Here was a circumstance that I\nthink it is scarce possible to mention a worse:  I was as exquisitely\nmiserable as, speaking of common cases, it was possible for any one to\nbe that had life and health, and money to help them, as I had.\n\nI had weight of guilt upon me enough to sink any creature who had the\nleast power of reflection left, and had any sense upon them of the\nhappiness of this life, of the misery of another; then I had at first\nremorse indeed, but no repentance; I had now neither remorse nor\nrepentance.  I had a crime charged on me, the punishment of which was\ndeath by our law; the proof so evident, that there was no room for me\nso much as to plead not guilty.  I had the name of an old offender, so\nthat I had nothing to expect but death in a few weeks' time, neither\nhad I myself any thoughts of escaping; and yet a certain strange\nlethargy of soul possessed me.  I had no trouble, no apprehensions, no\nsorrow about me, the first surprise was gone; I was, I may well say, I\nknow not how; my senses, my reason, nay, my conscience, were all\nasleep; my course of life for forty years had been a horrid\ncomplication of wickedness, whoredom, adultery, incest, lying, theft;\nand, in a word, everything but murder and treason had been my practice\nfrom the age of eighteen, or thereabouts, to three-score; and now I was\nengulfed in the misery of punishment, and had an infamous death just at\nthe door, and yet I had no sense of my condition, no thought of heaven\nor hell at least, that went any farther than a bare flying touch, like\nthe stitch or pain that gives a hint and goes off.  I neither had a\nheart to ask God's mercy, nor indeed to think of it.  And in this, I\nthink, I have given a brief description of the completest misery on\nearth.\n\nAll my terrifying thoughts were past, the horrors of the place were\nbecome familiar, and I felt no more uneasiness at the noise and\nclamours of the prison, than they did who made that noise; in a word, I\nwas become a mere Newgate-bird, as wicked and as outrageous as any of\nthem; nay, I scarce retained the habit and custom of good breeding and\nmanners, which all along till now ran through my conversation; so\nthorough a degeneracy had possessed me, that I was no more the same\nthing that I had been, than if I had never been otherwise than what I\nwas now.\n\nIn the middle of this hardened part of my life I had another sudden\nsurprise, which called me back a little to that thing called sorrow,\nwhich indeed I began to be past the sense of before.  They told me one\nnight that there was brought into the prison late the night before\nthree highwaymen, who had committed robbery somewhere on the road to\nWindsor, Hounslow Heath, I think it was, and were pursued to Uxbridge\nby the country, and were taken there after a gallant resistance, in\nwhich I know not how many of the country people were wounded, and some\nkilled.\n\nIt is not to be wondered that we prisoners were all desirous enough to\nsee these brave, topping gentlemen, that were talked up to be such as\ntheir fellows had not been known, and especially because it was said\nthey would in the morning be removed into the press-yard, having given\nmoney to the head master of the prison, to be allowed the liberty of\nthat better part of the prison.  So we that were women placed ourselves\nin the way, that we would be sure to see them; but nothing could\nexpress the amazement and surprise I was in, when the very first man\nthat came out I knew to be my Lancashire husband, the same who lived so\nwell at Dunstable, and the same who I afterwards saw at Brickhill, when\nI was married to my last husband, as has been related.\n\nI was struck dumb at the sight, and knew neither what to say nor what\nto do; he did not know me, and that was all the present relief I had.\nI quitted my company, and retired as much as that dreadful place\nsuffers anybody to retire, and I cried vehemently for a great while.\n'Dreadful creature that I am,' said I, 'how many poor people have I made\nmiserable?  How many desperate wretches have I sent to the devil?'  He\nhad told me at Chester he was ruined by that match, and that his\nfortunes were made desperate on my account; for that thinking I had\nbeen a fortune, he was run into debt more than he was able to pay, and\nthat he knew not what course to take; that he would go into the army\nand carry a musket, or buy a horse and take a tour, as he called it;\nand though I never told him that I was a fortune, and so did not\nactually deceive him myself, yet I did encourage the having it thought\nthat I was so, and by that means I was the occasion originally of his\nmischief.\n\nThe surprise of the thing only struck deeper into my thoughts, any gave\nme stronger reflections than all that had befallen me before.  I\ngrieved day and night for him, and the more for that they told me he\nwas the captain of the gang, and that he had committed so many\nrobberies, that Hind, or Whitney, or the Golden Farmer were fools to\nhim; that he would surely be hanged if there were no more men left in\nthe country he was born in; and that there would abundance of people\ncome in against him.\n\nI was overwhelmed with grief for him; my own case gave me no\ndisturbance compared to this, and I loaded myself with reproaches on\nhis account.  I bewailed his misfortunes, and the ruin he was now come\nto, at such a rate, that I relished nothing now as I did before, and\nthe first reflections I made upon the horrid, detestable life I had\nlived began to return upon me, and as these things returned, my\nabhorrence of the place I was in, and of the way of living in it,\nreturned also; in a word, I was perfectly changed, and become another\nbody.\n\nWhile I was under these influences of sorrow for him, came notice to me\nthat the next sessions approaching there would be a bill preferred to\nthe grand jury against me, and that I should be certainly tried for my\nlife at the Old Bailey.  My temper was touched before, the hardened,\nwretched boldness of spirit which I had acquired abated, and conscious\nin the prison, guilt began to flow in upon my mind.  In short, I began\nto think, and to think is one real advance from hell to heaven.  All\nthat hellish, hardened state and temper of soul, which I have said so\nmuch of before, is but a deprivation of thought; he that is restored to\nhis power of thinking, is restored to himself.\n\nAs soon as I began, I say, to think, the first think that occurred to\nme broke out thus:  'Lord! what will become of me?  I shall certainly\ndie!  I shall be cast, to be sure, and there is nothing beyond that but\ndeath!  I have no friends; what shall I do?  I shall be certainly cast!\nLord, have mercy upon me!  What will become of me?'  This was a sad\nthought, you will say, to be the first, after so long a time, that had\nstarted into my soul of that kind, and yet even this was nothing but\nfright at what was to come; there was not a word of sincere repentance\nin it all.  However, I was indeed dreadfully dejected, and disconsolate\nto the last degree; and as I had no friend in the world to communicate\nmy distressed thoughts to, it lay so heavy upon me, that it threw me\ninto fits and swoonings several times a day.  I sent for my old\ngoverness, and she, give her her due, acted the part of a true friend.\nShe left no stone unturned to prevent the grand jury finding the bill.\nShe sought out one or two of the jurymen, talked with them, and\nendeavoured to possess them with favourable dispositions, on account\nthat nothing was taken away, and no house broken, etc.; but all would\nnot do, they were over-ruled by the rest; the two wenches swore home to\nthe fact, and the jury found the bill against me for robbery and\nhouse-breaking, that is, for felony and burglary.\n\nI sunk down when they brought me news of it, and after I came to myself\nagain, I thought I should have died with the weight of it.  My\ngoverness acted a true mother to me; she pitied me, she cried with me,\nand for me, but she could not help me; and to add to the terror of it,\n'twas the discourse all over the house that I should die for it.  I\ncould hear them talk it among themselves very often, and see them shake\ntheir heads and say they were sorry for it, and the like, as is usual\nin the place.  But still nobody came to tell me their thoughts, till at\nlast one of the keepers came to me privately, and said with a sigh,\n'Well, Mrs. Flanders, you will be tried on Friday' (this was but a\nWednesday); 'what do you intend to do?'  I turned as white as a clout,\nand said, 'God knows what I shall do; for my part, I know not what to\ndo.'  'Why,' says he, 'I won't flatter you, I would have you prepare\nfor death, for I doubt you will be cast; and as they say you are an old\noffender, I doubt you will find but little mercy.  They say,' added he,\n'your case is very plain, and that the witnesses swear so home against\nyou, there will be no standing it.'\n\nThis was a stab into the very vitals of one under such a burthen as I\nwas oppressed with before, and I could not speak to him a word, good or\nbad, for a great while; but at last I burst out into tears, and said to\nhim, 'Lord! Mr. ----, what must I do?'  'Do!' says he, 'send for the\nordinary; send for a minister and talk with him; for, indeed, Mrs.\nFlanders, unless you have very good friends, you are no woman for this\nworld.'\n\nThis was plain dealing indeed, but it was very harsh to me, at least I\nthought it so.  He left me in the greatest confusion imaginable, and\nall that night I lay awake.  And now I began to say my prayers, which I\nhad scarce done before since my last husband's death, or from a little\nwhile after.  And truly I may well call it saying my prayers, for I was\nin such a confusion, and had such horror upon my mind, that though I\ncried, and repeated several times the ordinary expression of 'Lord,\nhave mercy upon me!' I never brought myself to any sense of my being a\nmiserable sinner, as indeed I was, and of confessing my sins to God,\nand begging pardon for the sake of Jesus Christ.  I was overwhelmed\nwith the sense of my condition, being tried for my life, and being sure\nto be condemned, and then I was as sure to be executed, and on this\naccount I cried out all night, 'Lord, what will become of me?  Lord!\nwhat shall I do?  Lord! I shall be hanged!  Lord, have mercy upon me!'\nand the like.\n\nMy poor afflicted governess was now as much concerned as I, and a great\ndeal more truly penitent, though she had no prospect of being brought\nto trial and sentence.  Not but that she deserved it as much as I, and\nso she said herself; but she had not done anything herself for many\nyears, other than receiving what I and others stole, and encouraging us\nto steal it.  But she cried, and took on like a distracted body,\nwringing her hands, and crying out that she was undone, that she\nbelieved there was a curse from heaven upon her, that she should be\ndamned, that she had been the destruction of all her friends, that she\nhad brought such a one, and such a one, and such a one to the gallows;\nand there she reckoned up ten or eleven people, some of which I have\ngiven account of, that came to untimely ends; and that now she was the\noccasion of my ruin, for she had persuaded me to go on, when I would\nhave left off.  I interrupted her there.  'No, mother, no,' said I,\n'don't speak of that, for you would have had me left off when I got the\nmercer's money again, and when I came home from Harwich, and I would\nnot hearken to you; therefore you have not been to blame; it is I only\nhave ruined myself, I have brought myself to this misery'; and thus we\nspent many hours together.\n\nWell, there was no remedy; the prosecution went on, and on the Thursday\nI was carried down to the sessions-house, where I was arraigned, as\nthey called it, and the next day I was appointed to be tried.  At the\narraignment I pleaded 'Not guilty,' and well I might, for I was\nindicted for felony and burglary; that is, for feloniously stealing two\npieces of brocaded silk, value #46, the goods of Anthony Johnson, and\nfor breaking open his doors; whereas I knew very well they could not\npretend to prove I had broken up the doors, or so much as lifted up a\nlatch.\n\nOn the Friday I was brought to my trial.  I had exhausted my spirits\nwith crying for two or three days before, so that I slept better the\nThursday night than I expected, and had more courage for my trial than\nindeed I thought possible for me to have.\n\nWhen the trial began, the indictment was read, I would have spoke, but\nthey told me the witnesses must be heard first, and then I should have\ntime to be heard.  The witnesses were the two wenches, a couple of\nhard-mouthed jades indeed, for though the thing was truth in the main,\nyet they aggravated it to the utmost extremity, and swore I had the\ngoods wholly in my possession, that I had hid them among my clothes,\nthat I was going off with them, that I had one foot over the threshold\nwhen they discovered themselves, and then I put t' other over, so that\nI was quite out of the house in the street with the goods before they\ntook hold of me, and then they seized me, and brought me back again,\nand they took the goods upon me.  The fact in general was all true, but\nI believe, and insisted upon it, that they stopped me before I had set\nmy foot clear of the threshold of the house.  But that did not argue\nmuch, for certain it was that I had taken the goods, and I was bringing\nthem away, if I had not been taken.\n\nBut I pleaded that I had stole nothing, they had lost nothing, that the\ndoor was open, and I went in, seeing the goods lie there, and with\ndesign to buy.  If, seeing nobody in the house, I had taken any of them\nup in my hand it could not be concluded that I intended to steal them,\nfor that I never carried them farther than the door to look on them\nwith the better light.\n\nThe Court would not allow that by any means, and made a kind of a jest\nof my intending to buy the goods, that being no shop for the selling of\nanything, and as to carrying them to the door to look at them, the\nmaids made their impudent mocks upon that, and spent their wit upon it\nvery much; told the Court I had looked at them sufficiently, and\napproved them very well, for I had packed them up under my clothes, and\nwas a-going with them.\n\nIn short, I was found guilty of felony, but acquitted of the burglary,\nwhich was but small comfort to me, the first bringing me to a sentence\nof death, and the last would have done no more.  The next day I was\ncarried down to receive the dreadful sentence, and when they came to\nask me what I had to say why sentence should not pass, I stood mute a\nwhile, but somebody that stood behind me prompted me aloud to speak to\nthe judges, for that they could represent things favourably for me.\nThis encouraged me to speak, and I told them I had nothing to say to\nstop the sentence, but that I had much to say to bespeak the mercy of\nthe Court; that I hoped they would allow something in such a case for\nthe circumstances of it; that I had broken no doors, had carried\nnothing off; that nobody had lost anything; that the person whose goods\nthey were was pleased to say he desired mercy might be shown (which\nindeed he very honestly did); that, at the worst, it was the first\noffence, and that I had never been before any court of justice before;\nand, in a word, I spoke with more courage that I thought I could have\ndone, and in such a moving tone, and though with tears, yet not so many\ntears as to obstruct my speech, that I could see it moved others to\ntears that heard me.\n\nThe judges sat grave and mute, gave me an easy hearing, and time to say\nall that I would, but, saying neither Yes nor No to it, pronounced the\nsentence of death upon me, a sentence that was to me like death itself,\nwhich, after it was read, confounded me.  I had no more spirit left in\nme, I had no tongue to speak, or eyes to look up either to God or man.\n\nMy poor governess was utterly disconsolate, and she that was my\ncomforter before, wanted comfort now herself; and sometimes mourning,\nsometimes raging, was as much out of herself, as to all outward\nappearance, as any mad woman in Bedlam.  Nor was she only disconsolate\nas to me, but she was struck with horror at the sense of her own wicked\nlife, and began to look back upon it with a taste quite different from\nmine, for she was penitent to the highest degree for her sins, as well\nas sorrowful for the misfortune.  She sent for a minister, too, a\nserious, pious, good man, and applied herself with such earnestness, by\nhis assistance, to the work of a sincere repentance, that I believe,\nand so did the minister too, that she was a true penitent; and, which\nis still more, she was not only so for the occasion, and at that\njuncture, but she continued so, as I was informed, to the day of her\ndeath.\n\nIt is rather to be thought of than expressed what was now my condition.\nI had nothing before me but present death; and as I had no friends to\nassist me, or to stir for me, I expected nothing but to find my name in\nthe dead warrant, which was to come down for the execution, the Friday\nafterwards, of five more and myself.\n\nIn the meantime my poor distressed governess sent me a minister, who at\nher request first, and at my own afterwards, came to visit me.  He\nexhorted me seriously to repent of all my sins, and to dally no longer\nwith my soul; not flattering myself with hopes of life, which, he said,\nhe was informed there was no room to expect, but unfeignedly to look up\nto God with my whole soul, and to cry for pardon in the name of Jesus\nChrist.  He backed his discourses with proper quotations of Scripture,\nencouraging the greatest sinner to repent, and turn from their evil\nway, and when he had done, he kneeled down and prayed with me.\n\nIt was now that, for the first time, I felt any real signs of\nrepentance.  I now began to look back upon my past life with\nabhorrence, and having a kind of view into the other side of time, and\nthings of life, as I believe they do with everybody at such a time,\nbegan to look with a different aspect, and quite another shape, than\nthey did before.  The greatest and best things, the views of felicity,\nthe joy, the griefs of life, were quite other things; and I had nothing\nin my thoughts but what was so infinitely superior to what I had known\nin life, that it appeared to me to be the greatest stupidity in nature\nto lay any weight upon anything, though the most valuable in this world.\n\nThe word eternity represented itself with all its incomprehensible\nadditions, and I had such extended notions of it, that I know not how\nto express them.  Among the rest, how vile, how gross, how absurd did\nevery pleasant thing look!--I mean, that we had counted pleasant\nbefore--especially when I reflected that these sordid trifles were the\nthings for which we forfeited eternal felicity.\n\nWith these reflections came, of mere course, severe reproaches of my\nown mind for my wretched behaviour in my past life; that I had\nforfeited all hope of any happiness in the eternity that I was just\ngoing to enter into, and on the contrary was entitled to all that was\nmiserable, or had been conceived of misery; and all this with the\nfrightful addition of its being also eternal.\n\nI am not capable of reading lectures of instruction to anybody, but I\nrelate this in the very manner in which things then appeared to me, as\nfar as I am able, but infinitely short of the lively impressions which\nthey made on my soul at that time; indeed, those impressions are not to\nbe explained by words, or if they are, I am not mistress of words\nenough to express them.  It must be the work of every sober reader to\nmake just reflections on them, as their own circumstances may direct;\nand, without question, this is what every one at some time or other may\nfeel something of; I mean, a clearer sight into things to come than\nthey had here, and a dark view of their own concern in them.\n\nBut I go back to my own case.  The minister pressed me to tell him, as\nfar as I though convenient, in what state I found myself as to the\nsight I had of things beyond life.  He told me he did not come as\nordinary of the place, whose business it is to extort confessions from\nprisoners, for private ends, or for the further detecting of other\noffenders; that his business was to move me to such freedom of\ndiscourse as might serve to disburthen my own mind, and furnish him to\nadminister comfort to me as far as was in his power; and assured me,\nthat whatever I said to him should remain with him, and be as much a\nsecret as if it was known only to God and myself; and that he desired\nto know nothing of me, but as above to qualify him to apply proper\nadvice and assistance to me, and to pray to God for me.\n\nThis honest, friendly way of treating me unlocked all the sluices of my\npassions.  He broke into my very soul by it; and I unravelled all the\nwickedness of my life to him. In a word, I gave him an abridgment of\nthis whole history; I gave him a picture of my conduct for fifty years\nin miniature.\n\nI hid nothing from him, and he in return exhorted me to sincere\nrepentance, explained to me what he meant by repentance, and then drew\nout such a scheme of infinite mercy, proclaimed from heaven to sinners\nof the greatest magnitude, that he left me nothing to say, that looked\nlike despair, or doubting of being accepted; and in this condition he\nleft me the first night.\n\nHe visited me again the next morning, and went on with his method of\nexplaining the terms of divine mercy, which according to him consisted\nof nothing more, or more difficult, than that of being sincerely\ndesirous of it, and willing to accept it; only a sincere regret for,\nand hatred of, those things I had done, which rendered me so just an\nobject of divine vengeance.  I am not able to repeat the excellent\ndiscourses of this extraordinary man; 'tis all that I am able to do, to\nsay that he revived my heart, and brought me into such a condition that\nI never knew anything of in my life before.  I was covered with shame\nand tears for things past, and yet had at the same time a secret\nsurprising joy at the prospect of being a true penitent, and obtaining\nthe comfort of a penitent--I mean, the hope of being forgiven; and so\nswift did thoughts circulate, and so high did the impressions they had\nmade upon me run, that I thought I could freely have gone out that\nminute to execution, without any uneasiness at all, casting my soul\nentirely into the arms of infinite mercy as a penitent.\n\nThe good gentleman was so moved also in my behalf with a view of the\ninfluence which he saw these things had on me, that he blessed God he\nhad come to visit me, and resolved not to leave me till the last\nmoment; that is, not to leave visiting me.\n\nIt was no less than twelve days after our receiving sentence before any\nwere ordered for execution, and then upon a Wednesday the dead warrant,\nas they call it, came down, and I found my name was among them.  A\nterrible blow this was to my new resolutions; indeed my heart sank\nwithin me, and I swooned away twice, one after another, but spoke not a\nword.  The good minister was sorely afflicted for me, and did what he\ncould to comfort me with the same arguments, and the same moving\neloquence that he did before, and left me not that evening so long as\nthe prisonkeepers would suffer him to stay in the prison, unless he\nwould be locked up with me all night, which he was not willing to be.\n\nI wondered much that I did not see him all the next day, it being the\nday before the time appointed for execution; and I was greatly\ndiscouraged, and dejected in my mind, and indeed almost sank for want\nof the comfort which he had so often, and with such success, yielded me\non his former visits.  I waited with great impatience, and under the\ngreatest oppressions of spirits imaginable, till about four o'clock he\ncame to my apartment; for I had obtained the favour, by the help of\nmoney, nothing being to be done in that place without it, not to be\nkept in the condemned hole, as they call it, among the rest of the\nprisoners who were to die, but to have a little dirty chamber to myself.\n\nMy heart leaped within me for joy when I heard his voice at the door,\neven before I saw him; but let any one judge what kind of motion I\nfound in my soul, when after having made a short excuse for his not\ncoming, he showed me that his time had been employed on my account;\nthat he had obtained a favourable report from the Recorder to the\nSecretary of State in my particular case, and, in short, that he had\nbrought me a reprieve.\n\nHe used all the caution that he was able in letting me know a thing\nwhich it would have been a double cruelty to have concealed; and yet it\nwas too much for me; for as grief had overset me before, so did joy\noverset me now, and I fell into a much more dangerous swooning than I\ndid at first, and it was not without a great difficulty that I was\nrecovered at all.\n\nThe good man having made a very Christian exhortation to me, not to let\nthe joy of my reprieve put the remembrance of my past sorrow out of my\nmind, and having told me that he must leave me, to go and enter the\nreprieve in the books, and show it to the sheriffs, stood up just\nbefore his going away, and in a very earnest manner prayed to God for\nme, that my repentance might be made unfeigned and sincere; and that my\ncoming back, as it were, into life again, might not be a returning to\nthe follies of life which I had made such solemn resolutions to\nforsake, and to repent of them.  I joined heartily in the petition, and\nmust needs say I had deeper impressions upon my mind all that night, of\nthe mercy of God in sparing my life, and a greater detestation of my\npast sins, from a sense of the goodness which I had tasted in this\ncase, than I had in all my sorrow before.\n\nThis may be thought inconsistent in itself, and wide from the business\nof this book; particularly, I reflect that many of those who may be\npleased and diverted with the relation of the wild and wicked part of\nmy story may not relish this, which is really the best part of my life,\nthe most advantageous to myself, and the most instructive to others.\nSuch, however, will, I hope, allow me the liberty to make my story\ncomplete.  It would be a severe satire on such to say they do not\nrelish the repentance as much as they do the crime; and that they had\nrather the history were a complete tragedy, as it was very likely to\nhave been.\n\nBut I go on with my relation.  The next morning there was a sad scene\nindeed in the prison.  The first thing I was saluted with in the\nmorning was the tolling of the great bell at St.  Sepulchre's, as they\ncall it, which ushered in the day.  As soon as it began to toll, a\ndismal groaning and crying was heard from the condemned hole, where\nthere lay six poor souls who were to be executed that day, some from\none crime, some for another, and two of them for murder.\n\nThis was followed by a confused clamour in the house, among the several\nsorts of prisoners, expressing their awkward sorrows for the poor\ncreatures that were to die, but in a manner extremely differing one\nfrom another.  Some cried for them; some huzzaed, and wished them a\ngood journey; some damned and cursed those that had brought them to\nit--that is, meaning the evidence, or prosecutors--many pitying them,\nand some few, but very few, praying for them.\n\nThere was hardly room for so much composure of mind as was required for\nme to bless the merciful Providence that had, as it were, snatched me\nout of the jaws of this destruction.  I remained, as it were, dumb and\nsilent, overcome with the sense of it, and not able to express what I\nhad in my heart; for the passions on such occasions as these are\ncertainly so agitated as not to be able presently to regulate their own\nmotions.\n\nAll the while the poor condemned creatures were preparing to their\ndeath, and the ordinary, as they call him, was busy with them,\ndisposing them to submit to their sentence--I say, all this while I was\nseized with a fit of trembling, as much as I could have been if I had\nbeen in the same condition, as to be sure the day before I expected to\nbe; I was so violently agitated by this surprising fit, that I shook as\nif it had been in the cold fit of an ague, so that I could not speak or\nlook but like one distracted.  As soon as they were all put into carts\nand gone, which, however, I had not courage enough to see--I say, as\nsoon as they were gone, I fell into a fit of crying involuntarily, and\nwithout design, but as a mere distemper, and yet so violent, and it\nheld me so long, that I knew not what course to take, nor could I stop,\nor put a check to it, no, not with all the strength and courage I had.\n\nThis fit of crying held me near two hours, and, as I believe, held me\ntill they were all out of the world, and then a most humble, penitent,\nserious kind of joy succeeded; a real transport it was, or passion of\njoy and thankfulness, but still unable to give vent to it by words, and\nin this I continued most part of the day.\n\nIn the evening the good minister visited me again, and then fell to his\nusual good discourses.  He congratulated my having a space yet allowed\nme for repentance, whereas the state of those six poor creatures was\ndetermined, and they were now past the offers of salvation; he\nearnestly pressed me to retain the same sentiments of the things of\nlife that I had when I had a view of eternity; and at the end of all\ntold me I should not conclude that all was over, that a reprieve was\nnot a pardon, that he could not yet answer for the effects of it;\nhowever, I had this mercy, that I had more time given me, and that it\nwas my business to improve that time.\n\nThis discourse, though very seasonable, left a kind of sadness on my\nheart, as if I might expect the affair would have a tragical issue\nstill, which, however, he had no certainty of; and I did not indeed, at\nthat time, question him about it, he having said that he would do his\nutmost to bring it to a good end, and that he hoped he might, but he\nwould not have me be secure; and the consequence proved that he had\nreason for what he said.\n\nIt was about a fortnight after this that I had some just apprehensions\nthat I should be included in the next dead warrant at the ensuing\nsessions; and it was not without great difficulty, and at last a humble\npetition for transportation, that I avoided it, so ill was I beholding\nto fame, and so prevailing was the fatal report of being an old\noffender; though in that they did not do me strict justice, for I was\nnot in the sense of the law an old offender, whatever I was in the eye\nof the judge, for I had never been before them in a judicial way\nbefore; so the judges could not charge me with being an old offender,\nbut the Recorder was pleased to represent my case as he thought fit.\n\nI had now a certainty of life indeed, but with the hard conditions of\nbeing ordered for transportation, which indeed was hard condition in\nitself, but not when comparatively considered; and therefore I shall\nmake no comments upon the sentence, nor upon the choice I was put to.\nWe shall all choose anything rather than death, especially when 'tis\nattended with an uncomfortable prospect beyond it, which was my case.\n\nThe good minister, whose interest, though a stranger to me, had\nobtained me the reprieve, mourned sincerely for this part.  He was in\nhopes, he said, that I should have ended my days under the influence of\ngood instruction, that I should not have been turned loose again among\nsuch a wretched crew as they generally are, who are thus sent abroad,\nwhere, as he said, I must have more than ordinary secret assistance\nfrom the grace of God, if I did not turn as wicked again as ever.\n\nI have not for a good while mentioned my governess, who had during\nmost, if not all, of this part been dangerously sick, and being in as\nnear a view of death by her disease as I was by my sentence, was a\ngreat penitent--I say, I have not mentioned her, nor indeed did I see\nher in all this time; but being now recovering, and just able to come\nabroad, she came to see me.\n\nI told her my condition, and what a different flux and reflux of tears\nand hopes I had been agitated with; I told her what I had escaped, and\nupon what terms; and she was present when the minister expressed his\nfears of my relapsing into wickedness upon my falling into the wretched\ncompanies that are generally transported.  Indeed I had a melancholy\nreflection upon it in my own mind, for I knew what a dreadful gang was\nalways sent away together, and I said to my governess that the good\nminister's fears were not without cause.  'Well, well,' says  she, 'but\nI hope you will not be tempted with such a horrid example as that.' And\nas soon as the minister was gone, she told me she would not have me\ndiscouraged, for perhaps ways and means might be found out to dispose\nof me in a particular way, by myself, of which she would talk further\nto me afterward.\n\nI looked earnestly at her, and I thought she looked more cheerful than\nshe usually had done, and I entertained immediately a thousand notions\nof being delivered, but could not for my life image the methods, or\nthink of one that was in the least feasible; but I was too much\nconcerned in it to let her go from me without explaining herself,\nwhich, though she was very loth to do, yet my importunity prevailed,\nand, while I was still pressing, she answered me in a few words, thus:\n'Why, you have money, have you not?  Did you ever know one in your life\nthat was transported and had a hundred pounds in his pocket, I'll\nwarrant you, child?' says she.\n\nI understood her presently, but told her I would leave all that to her,\nbut I saw no room to hope for anything but a strict execution of the\norder, and as it was a severity that was esteemed a mercy, there was no\ndoubt but it would be strictly observed.  She said no more but this:\n'We will try what can be done,' and so we parted for that night.\n\nI lay in the prison near fifteen weeks after this order for\ntransportation was signed.  What the reason of it was, I know not, but\nat the end of this time I was put on board of a ship in the Thames, and\nwith me a gang of thirteen as hardened vile creatures as ever Newgate\nproduced in my time; and it would really well take up a history longer\nthan mine to describe the degrees of impudence and audacious villainy\nthat those thirteen were arrived to, and the manner of their behaviour\nin the voyage; of which I have a very diverting account by me, which\nthe captain of the ship who carried them over gave me the minutes of,\nand which he caused his mate to write down at large.\n\nIt may perhaps be thought trifling to enter here into a relation of all\nthe little incidents which attended me in this interval of my\ncircumstances; I mean, between the final order of my transportation and\nthe time of my going on board the ship; and I am too near the end of my\nstory to allow room for it; but something relating to me and my\nLancashire husband I must not omit.\n\nHe had, as I have observed already, been carried from the master's side\nof the ordinary prison into the press-yard, with three of his comrades,\nfor they found another to add to them after some time; here, for what\nreason I knew not, they were kept in custody without being brought to\ntrial almost three months.  It seems they found means to bribe or buy\noff some of those who were expected to come in against them, and they\nwanted evidence for some time to convict them.  After some puzzle on\nthis account, at first they made a shift to get proof enough against\ntwo of them to carry them off; but the other two, of which my\nLancashire husband was one, lay still in suspense.  They had, I think,\none positive evidence against each of them, but the law strictly\nobliging them to have two witnesses, they could make nothing of it.\nYet it seems they were resolved not to part with the men neither, not\ndoubting but a further evidence would at last come in; and in order to\nthis, I think publication was made, that such prisoners being taken,\nany one that had been robbed by them might come to the prison and see\nthem.\n\nI took this opportunity to satisfy my curiosity, pretending that I had\nbeen robbed in the Dunstable coach, and that I would go to see the two\nhighwaymen.  But when I came into the press-yard, I so disguised\nmyself, and muffled my face up so, that he could see little of me, and\nconsequently knew nothing of who I was; and when I came back, I said\npublicly that I knew them very well.\n\nImmediately it was rumoured all over the prison that Moll Flanders\nwould turn evidence against one of the highwaymen, and that I was to\ncome off by it from the sentence of transportation.\n\nThey heard of it, and immediately my husband desired to see this Mrs.\nFlanders that knew him so well, and was to be an evidence against him;\nand accordingly I had leave given to go to him.  I dressed myself up as\nwell as the best clothes that I suffered myself ever to appear in there\nwould allow me, and went to the press-yard, but had for some time a\nhood over my face.  He said little to me at first, but asked me if I\nknew him.  I told him, Yes, very well; but as I concealed my face, so I\ncounterfeited my voice, that he had not the least guess at who I was.\nHe asked me where I had seen him.  I told him between Dunstable and\nBrickhill; but turning to the keeper that stood by, I asked if I might\nnot be admitted to talk with him alone.  He said Yes, yes, as much as I\npleased, and so very civilly withdrew.\n\nAs soon as he was gone, I had shut the door, I threw off my hood, and\nbursting out into tears, 'My dear,' says I, 'do you not know me?'  He\nturned pale, and stood speechless, like one thunderstruck, and, not\nable to conquer the surprise, said no more but this, 'Let me sit down';\nand sitting down by a table, he laid his elbow upon the table, and\nleaning his head on his hand, fixed his eyes on the ground as one\nstupid.  I cried so vehemently, on the other hand, that it was a good\nwhile ere I could speak any more; but after I had given some vent to my\npassion by tears, I repeated the same words, 'My dear, do you not know\nme?'  At which he answered, Yes, and said no more a good while.\n\nAfter some time continuing in the surprise, as above, he cast up his\neyes towards me and said, 'How could you be so cruel?' I did not\nreadily understand what he meant; and I answered, 'How can you call me\ncruel?  What have I been cruel to you in?' 'To come to me,' says he,\n'in such a place as this, is it not to insult me?  I have not robbed\nyou, at least not on the highway.'\n\nI perceived by this that he knew nothing of the miserable circumstances\nI was in, and thought that, having got some intelligence of his being\nthere, I had come to upbraid him with his leaving me.  But I had too\nmuch to say to him to be affronted, and told him in few words, that I\nwas far from coming to insult him, but at best I came to condole\nmutually; that he would be easily satisfied that I had no such view,\nwhen I should tell him that my condition was worse than his, and that\nmany ways.  He looked a little concerned at the general expression of\nmy condition being worse than his, but, with a kind smile, looked a\nlittle wildly, and said, 'How can that be?  When you see me fettered,\nand in Newgate, and two of my companions executed already, can you can\nyour condition is worse than mine?'\n\n'Come, my dear,' says I, 'we have a long piece of work to do, if I\nshould be to relate, or you to hear, my unfortunate history; but if you\nare disposed to hear it, you will soon conclude with me that my\ncondition is worse than yours.'  'How is that possible,' says he again,\n'when I expect to be cast for my life the very next sessions?'  'Yes,\nsays I, ''tis very possible, when I shall tell you that I have been\ncast for my life three sessions ago, and am under sentence of death; is\nnot my case worse than yours?'\n\nThen indeed, he stood silent again, like one struck dumb, and after a\nwhile he starts up.  'Unhappy couple!' says he.  'How can this be\npossible?'  I took him by the hand.  'Come, my dear,' said I, 'sit\ndown, and let us compare our sorrows.  I am a prisoner in this very\nhouse, and in much worse circumstances than you, and you will be\nsatisfied I do not come to insult you, when I tell you the\nparticulars.'  And with this we sat down together, and I told him so\nmuch of my story as I thought was convenient, bringing it at last to my\nbeing reduced to great poverty, and representing myself as fallen into\nsome company that led me to relieve my distresses by way that I had\nbeen utterly unacquainted with, and that they making an attempt at a\ntradesman's house, I was seized upon for having been but just at the\ndoor, the maid-servant pulling me in; that I neither had broke any lock\nnor taken anything away, and that notwithstanding that, I was brought\nin guilty and sentenced to die; but that the judges, having been made\nsensible of the hardship of my circumstances, had obtained leave to\nremit the sentence upon my consenting to be transported.\n\nI told him I fared the worse for being taken in the prison for one Moll\nFlanders, who was a famous successful thief, that all of them had heard\nof, but none of them had ever seen; but that, as he knew well, was none\nof my name.  But I placed all to the account of my ill fortune, and\nthat under this name I was dealt with as an old offender, though this\nwas the first thing they had ever known of me.  I gave him a long\nparticular of things that had befallen me since I saw him, but I told\nhim if I had seen him since he might think I had, and then gave him an\naccount how I had seen him at Brickhill; how furiously he was pursued,\nand how, by giving an account that I knew him, and that he was a very\nhonest gentleman, one Mr. ----, the hue-and-cry was stopped, and the\nhigh constable went back again.\n\nHe listened most attentively to all my story, and smiled at most of the\nparticulars, being all of them petty matters, and infinitely below what\nhe had been at the head of; but when I came to the story of Brickhill,\nhe was surprised.  'And was it you, my dear,' said he, 'that gave the\ncheck to the mob that was at our heels there, at Brickhill?'  'Yes,'\nsaid I, 'it was I indeed.'  And then I told him the particulars which I\nhad observed him there.  'Why, then,' said he, 'it was you that saved\nmy life at that time, and I am glad I owe my life to you, for I will\npay the debt to you now, and I'll deliver you from the present\ncondition you are in, or I will die in the attempt.'\n\nI told him, by no means; it was a risk too great, not worth his running\nthe hazard of, and for a life not worth his saving.  'Twas no matter\nfor that, he said, it was a life worth all the world to him; a life\nthat had given him a new life; 'for,' says he, 'I was never in real\ndanger of being taken, but that time, till the last minute when I was\ntaken.'  Indeed, he told me his danger then lay in his believing he had\nnot been pursued that way; for they had gone from Hockey quite another\nway, and had come over the enclosed country into Brickhill, not by the\nroad, and were sure they had not been seen by anybody.\n\nHere he gave me a long history of his life, which indeed would make a\nvery strange history, and be infinitely diverting.  He told me he took\nto the road about twelve years before he married me; that the woman\nwhich called him brother was not really his sister, or any kin to him,\nbut one that belonged to their gang, and who, keeping correspondence\nwith him, lived always in town, having good store of acquaintance; that\nshe gave them a perfect intelligence of persons going out of town, and\nthat they had made several good booties by her correspondence; that she\nthought she had fixed a fortune for him when she brought me to him, but\nhappened to be disappointed, which he really could not blame her for;\nthat if it had been his good luck that I had had the estate, which she\nwas informed I had, he had resolved to leave off the road and live a\nretired, sober live but never to appear in public till some general\npardon had been passed, or till he could, for money, have got his name\ninto some particular pardon, that so he might have been perfectly easy;\nbut that, as it had proved otherwise, he was obliged to put off his\nequipage and take up the old trade again.\n\nHe gave me a long account of some of his adventures, and particularly\none when he robbed the West Chester coaches near Lichfield, when he got\na very great booty; and after that, how he robbed five graziers, in the\nwest, going to Burford Fair in Wiltshire to buy sheep.  He told me he\ngot so much money on those two occasions, that if he had known where to\nhave found me, he would certainly have embraced my proposal of going\nwith me to Virginia, or to have settled in a plantation on some other\nparts of the English colonies in America.\n\nHe told me he wrote two or three letters to me, directed according to\nmy order, but heard nothing from me.  This I indeed knew to be true,\nbut the letters coming to my hand in the time of my latter husband, I\ncould do nothing in it, and therefore chose to give no answer, that so\nhe might rather believe they had miscarried.\n\nBeing thus disappointed, he said, he carried on the old trade ever\nsince, though when he had gotten so much money, he said, he did not run\nsuch desperate risks as he did before.  Then he gave me some account of\nseveral hard and desperate encounters which he had with gentlemen on\nthe road, who parted too hardly with their money, and showed me some\nwounds he had received; and he had one or two very terrible wounds\nindeed, as particularly one by a pistol bullet, which broke his arm,\nand another with a sword, which ran him quite through the body, but\nthat missing his vitals, he was cured again; one of his comrades having\nkept with him so faithfully, and so friendly, as that he assisted him\nin riding near eighty miles before his arm was set, and then got a\nsurgeon in a considerable city, remote from that place where it was\ndone, pretending they were gentlemen travelling towards Carlisle and\nthat they had been attacked on the road by highwaymen, and that one of\nthem had shot him into the arm and broke the bone.\n\nThis, he said, his friend managed so well, that they were not suspected\nat all, but lay still till he was perfectly cured.  He gave me so many\ndistinct accounts of his adventures, that it is with great reluctance\nthat I decline the relating them; but I consider that this is my own\nstory, not his.\n\nI then inquired into the circumstances of his present case at that\ntime, and what it was he expected when he came to be tried.  He told me\nthat they had no evidence against him, or but very little; for that of\nthree robberies, which they were all charged with, it was his good\nfortune that he was but in one of them, and that there was but one\nwitness to be had for that fact, which was not sufficient, but that it\nwas expected some others would come in against him; that he thought\nindeed, when he first saw me, that I had been one that came of that\nerrand; but that if somebody came in against him, he hoped he should be\ncleared; that he had had some intimation, that if he would submit to\ntransport himself, he might be admitted to it without a trial, but that\nhe could not think of it with any temper, and thought he could much\neasier submit to be hanged.\n\nI blamed him for that, and told him I blamed him on two accounts;\nfirst, because if he was transported, there might be a hundred ways for\nhim that was a gentleman, and a bold enterprising man, to find his way\nback again, and perhaps some ways and means to come back before he\nwent.  He smiled at that part, and said he should like the last the\nbest of the two, for he had a kind of horror upon his mind at his being\nsent over to the plantations, as Romans sent condemned slaves to work\nin the mines; that he thought the passage into another state, let it be\nwhat it would, much more tolerable at the gallows, and that this was\nthe general notion of all the gentlemen who were driven by the exigence\nof their fortunes to take the road; that at the place of execution\nthere was at least an end of all the miseries of the present state, and\nas for what was to follow, a man was, in his opinion, as likely to\nrepent sincerely in the last fortnight of his life, under the pressures\nand agonies of a jail and the condemned hole, as he would ever be in\nthe woods and wilderness of America; that servitude and hard labour\nwere things gentlemen could never stoop to; that it was but the way to\nforce them to be their own executioners afterwards, which was much\nworse; and that therefore he could not have any patience when he did\nbut think of being transported.\n\nI used the utmost of my endeavour to persuade him, and joined that\nknown woman's rhetoric to it--I mean, that of tears.  I told him the\ninfamy of a public execution was certainly a greater pressure upon the\nspirits of a gentleman than any of the mortifications that he could\nmeet with abroad could be; that he had at least in the other a chance\nfor his life, whereas here he had none at all; that it was the easiest\nthing in the world for him to manage the captain of a ship, who were,\ngenerally speaking, men of good-humour and some gallantry; and a small\nmatter of conduct, especially if there was any money to be had, would\nmake way for him to buy himself off when he came to Virginia.\n\nHe looked wistfully at me, and I thought I guessed at what he meant,\nthat is to say, that he had no money; but I was mistaken, his meaning\nwas another way.  'You hinted just now, my dear,' said he, 'that there\nmight be a way of coming back before I went, by which I understood you\nthat it might be possible to buy it off here.  I had rather give #200\nto prevent going, than #100 to be set at liberty when I came there.'\n'That is, my dear,' said I, 'because you do not know the place so well\nas I do.' 'That may be,' said he; 'and yet I believe, as well as you\nknow it, you would do the same, unless it is because, as you told me,\nyou have a mother there.'\n\nI told him, as to my mother, it was next to impossible but that she\nmust be dead many years before; and as for any other relations that I\nmight have there, I knew them not now; that since the misfortunes I had\nbeen under had reduced me to the condition I had been in for some\nyears, I had not kept up any correspondence with them; and that he\nwould easily believe, I should find but a cold reception from them if I\nshould be put to make my first visit in the condition of a transported\nfelon; that therefore, if I went thither, I resolved not to see them;\nbut that I had many views in going there, if it should be my fate,\nwhich took off all the uneasy part of it; and if he found himself\nobliged to go also, I should easily instruct him how to manage himself,\nso as never to go a servant at all, especially since I found he was not\ndestitute of money, which was the only friend in such a condition.\n\nHe smiled, and said he did not tell me he had money.  I took him up\nshort, and told him I hoped he did not understand by my speaking, that\nI should expect any supply from him if he had money; that, on the other\nhand, though I had not a great deal, yet I did not want, and while I\nhad any I would rather add to him than weaken him in that article,\nseeing, whatever he had, I knew in the case of transportation he would\nhave occasion of it all.\n\nHe expressed himself in a most tender manner upon that head.  He told\nme what money he had was not a great deal, but that he would never hide\nany of it from me if I wanted it, and that he assured me he did not\nspeak with any such apprehensions; that he was only intent upon what I\nhad hinted to him before he went; that here he knew what to do with\nhimself, but that there he should be the most ignorant, helpless wretch\nalive.\n\nI told him he frighted and terrified himself with that which had no\nterror in it; that if he had money, as I was glad to hear he had, he\nmight not only avoid the servitude supposed to be the consequence of\ntransportation, but begin the world upon a new foundation, and that\nsuch a one as he could not fail of success in, with the common\napplication usual in such cases; that he could not but call to mind\nthat is was what I had recommended to him many years before and had\nproposed it for our mutual subsistence and restoring our fortunes in\nthe world; and I would tell him now, that to convince him both of the\ncertainty of it and of my being fully acquainted with the method, and\nalso fully satisfied in the probability of success, he should first see\nme deliver myself from the necessity of going over at all, and then\nthat I would go with him freely, and of my own choice, and perhaps\ncarry enough with me to satisfy him that I did not offer it for want of\nbeing able to live without assistance from him, but that I thought our\nmutual misfortunes had been such as were sufficient to reconcile us\nboth to quitting this part of the world, and living where nobody could\nupbraid us with what was past, or we be in any dread of a prison, and\nwithout agonies of a condemned hole to drive us to it; this where we\nshould look back on all our past disasters with infinite satisfaction,\nwhen we should consider that our enemies should entirely forget us, and\nthat we should live as new people in a new world, nobody having\nanything to say to us, or we to them.\n\nI pressed this home to him with so many arguments, and answered all his\nown passionate objections so effectually that he embraced me, and told\nme I treated him with such sincerity and affection as overcame him;\nthat he would take my advice, and would strive to submit to his fate in\nhope of having the comfort of my assistance, and of so faithful a\ncounsellor and such a companion in his misery.  But still he put me in\nmind of what I had mentioned before, namely, that there might be some\nway to get off before he went, and that it might be possible to avoid\ngoing at all, which he said would be much better.  I told him he should\nsee, and be fully satisfied, that I would do my utmost in that part\ntoo, and if it did not succeed, yet that I would make good the rest.\n\nWe parted after this long conference with such testimonies of kindness\nand affection as I thought were equal, if not superior, to that at our\nparting at Dunstable; and now I saw more plainly than before, the\nreason why he declined coming at that time any farther with me toward\nLondon than Dunstable, and why, when we parted there, he told me it was\nnot convenient for him to come part of the way to London to bring me\ngoing, as he would otherwise have done.  I have observed that the\naccount of his life would have made a much more pleasing history than\nthis of mine; and, indeed, nothing in it was more strange than this\npart, viz. that he carried on that desperate trade full five-and-twenty\nyears and had never been taken, the success he had met with had been so\nvery uncommon, and such that sometimes he had lived handsomely, and\nretired in place for a year or two at a time, keeping himself and a\nman-servant to wait on him, and had often sat in the coffee-houses and\nheard the very people whom he had robbed give accounts of their being\nrobbed, and of the place and circumstances, so that he could easily\nremember that it was the same.\n\nIn this manner, it seems, he lived near Liverpool at the time he\nunluckily married me for a fortune.  Had I been the fortune he\nexpected, I verily believe, as he said, that he would have taken up and\nlived honestly all his days.\n\nHe had with the rest of his misfortunes the good luck not to be\nactually upon the spot when the robbery was done which he was committed\nfor, and so none of the persons robbed could swear to him, or had\nanything to charge upon him.  But it seems as he was taken with the\ngang, one hard-mouthed countryman swore home to him, and they were like\nto have others come in according to the publication they had made; so\nthat they expected more evidence against him, and for that reason he\nwas kept in hold.\n\nHowever, the offer which was made to him of admitting him to\ntransportation was made, as I understood, upon the intercession of some\ngreat person who pressed him hard to accept of it before a trial; and\nindeed, as he knew there were several that might come in against him, I\nthought his friend was in the right, and I lay at him night and day to\ndelay it no longer.\n\nAt last, with much difficulty, he gave his consent; and as he was not\ntherefore admitted to transportation in court, and on his petition, as\nI was, so he found himself under a difficulty to avoid embarking\nhimself as I had said he might have done; his great friend, who was his\nintercessor for the favour of that grant, having given security for him\nthat he should transport himself, and not return within the term.\n\nThis hardship broke all my measures, for the steps I took afterwards\nfor my own deliverance were hereby rendered wholly ineffectual, unless\nI would abandon him, and leave him to go to America by himself; than\nwhich he protested he would much rather venture, although he were\ncertain to go directly to the gallows.\n\nI must now return to my case.  The time of my being transported\naccording to my sentence was near at hand; my governess, who continued\nmy fast friend, had tried to obtain a pardon, but it could not be done\nunless with an expense too heavy for my purse, considering that to be\nleft naked and empty, unless I had resolved to return to my old trade\nagain, had been worse than my transportation, because there I knew I\ncould live, here I could not.  The good minister stood very hard on\nanother account to prevent my being transported also; but he was\nanswered, that indeed my life had been given me at his first\nsolicitations, and therefore he ought to ask no more. He was sensibly\ngrieved at my going, because, as he said, he feared I should lose the\ngood impressions which a prospect of death had at first made on me, and\nwhich were since increased by his instructions; and the pious gentleman\nwas exceedingly concerned about me on that account.\n\nOn the other hand, I really was not so solicitous about it as I was\nbefore, but I industriously concealed my reasons for it from the\nminister, and to the last he did not know but that I went with the\nutmost reluctance and affliction.\n\nIt was in the month of February that I was, with seven other convicts,\nas they called us, delivered to a merchant that traded to Virginia, on\nboard a ship, riding, as they called it, in Deptford Reach.  The\nofficer of the prison delivered us on board, and the master of the\nvessel gave a discharge for us.\n\nWe were for that night clapped under hatches, and kept so close that I\nthought I should have been suffocated for want of air; and the next\nmorning the ship weighed, and fell down the river to a place they call\nBugby's Hole, which was done, as they told us, by the agreement of the\nmerchant, that all opportunity of escape should be taken from us.\nHowever, when the ship came thither and cast anchor, we were allowed\nmore liberty, and particularly were permitted to come up on the deck,\nbut not up on the quarter-deck, that being kept particularly for the\ncaptain and for passengers.\n\nWhen by the noise of the men over my head, and the motion of the ship,\nI perceived that they were under sail, I was at first greatly\nsurprised, fearing we should go away directly, and that our friends\nwould not be admitted to see us any more; but I was easy soon after,\nwhen I found they had come to an anchor again, and soon after that we\nhad notice given by some of the men where we were, that the next\nmorning we should have the liberty to come up on deck, and to have our\nfriends come and see us if we had any.\n\nAll that night I lay upon the hard boards of the deck, as the\npassengers did, but we had afterwards the liberty of little cabins for\nsuch of us as had any bedding to lay in them, and room to stow any box\nor trunk for clothes and linen, if we had it (which might well be put\nin), for some of them had neither shirt nor shift or a rag of linen or\nwoollen, but what was on their backs, or a farthing of money to help\nthemselves; and yet I did not find but they fared well enough in the\nship, especially the women, who got money from the seamen for washing\ntheir clothes, sufficient to  purchase any common things that they\nwanted.\n\nWhen the next morning we had the liberty to come up on the deck, I\nasked one of the officers of the ship, whether I might not have the\nliberty to send a letter on shore, to let my friends know where the\nship lay, and to get some necessary things sent to me.  This was, it\nseems, the boatswain, a very civil, courteous sort of man, who told me\nI should have that, or any other liberty that I desired, that he could\nallow me with safety.  I told him I desired no other; and he answered\nthat the ship's boat would go up to London the next tide, and he would\norder my letter to be carried.\n\nAccordingly, when the boat went off, the boatswain came to me and told\nme the boat was going off, and that he went in it himself, and asked me\nif my letter was ready he would take care of it.  I had prepared\nmyself, you may be sure, pen, ink, and paper beforehand, and I had\ngotten a letter ready directed to my governess, and enclosed another\nfor my fellow-prisoner, which, however, I did not let her know was my\nhusband, not to the last.  In that to my governess, I let her know\nwhere the ship lay, and pressed her earnestly to send me what things I\nknew she had got ready for me for my voyage.\n\nWhen I gave the boatswain the letter, I gave him a shilling with it,\nwhich I told him was for the charge of a messenger or porter, which I\nentreated him to send with the letter as soon as he came on shore, that\nif possible I might have an answer brought back by the same hand, that\nI might know what was become of my things; 'for sir,' says I, 'if the\nship should go away before I have them on board, I am undone.'\n\nI took care, when I gave him the shilling, to let him see that I had a\nlittle better furniture about me than the ordinary prisoners, for he\nsaw that I had a purse, and in it a pretty deal of money; and I found\nthat the very sight of it immediately furnished me with very different\ntreatment from what I should otherwise have met with in the ship; for\nthough he was very courteous indeed before, in a kind of natural\ncompassion to me, as a woman in distress, yet he was more than\nordinarily so afterwards, and procured me to be better treated in the\nship than, I say, I might otherwise have been; as shall appear in its\nplace.\n\nHe very honestly had my letter delivered to my governess's own hands,\nand brought me back an answer from her in writing; and when he gave me\nthe answer, gave me the shilling again.  'There,' says he, 'there's\nyour shilling again too, for I delivered the letter myself.'  I could\nnot tell what to say, I was so surprised at the thing; but after some\npause, I said, 'Sir, you are too kind; it had been but reasonable that\nyou had paid yourself coach-hire, then.'\n\n'No, no,' says he, 'I am overpaid.  What is the gentlewoman?  Your\nsister.'\n\n'No, sir,' says I, 'she is no relation to me, but she is a dear friend,\nand all the friends I have in the world.'  'Well,' says he, 'there are\nfew such friends in the world.  Why, she cried after you like a child,'\n'Ay,' says I again, 'she would give a hundred pounds, I believe, to\ndeliver me from this dreadful condition I am in.'\n\n'Would she so?' says he.  'For half the money I believe I could put you\nin a way how to deliver yourself.'  But this he spoke softly, that\nnobody could hear.\n\n'Alas! sir,' said I, 'but then that must be such a deliverance as, if I\nshould be taken again, would cost me my life.'  'Nay,' said he, 'if you\nwere once out of the ship, you must look to yourself afterwards; that I\ncan say nothing to.'  So we dropped the discourse for that time.\n\nIn the meantime, my governess, faithful to the last moment, conveyed my\nletter to the prison to my husband, and got an answer to it, and the\nnext day came down herself to the ship, bringing me, in the first\nplace, a sea-bed as they call it, and all its furniture, such as was\nconvenient, but not to let the people think it was extraordinary.  She\nbrought with her a sea-chest--that is, a chest, such as are made for\nseamen, with all the conveniences in it, and filled with everything\nalmost that I could want; and in one of the corners of the chest, where\nthere was a private drawer, was my bank of money--this is to say, so\nmuch of it as I had resolved to carry with me; for I ordered a part of\nmy stock to be left behind me, to be sent afterwards in such goods as I\nshould want when I came to settle; for money in that country is not of\nmuch use where all things are brought for tobacco, much more is it a\ngreat loss to carry it from hence.\n\nBut my case was particular; it was by no means proper to me to go\nthither without money or goods, and for a poor convict, that was to be\nsold as soon as I came on shore, to carry with me a cargo of goods\nwould be to have notice taken of it, and perhaps to have them seized by\nthe public; so I took part of my stock with me thus, and left the other\npart with my governess.\n\nMy governess brought me a great many other things, but it was not\nproper for me to look too well provided in the ship, at least till I\nknew what kind of a captain we should have.  When she came into the\nship, I thought she would have died indeed; her heart sank at the sight\nof me, and at the thoughts of parting with me in that condition, and\nshe cried so intolerably, I could not for a long time have any talk\nwith her.\n\nI took that time to read my fellow-prisoner's letter, which, however,\ngreatly perplexed me.  He told me he was determined to go, but found it\nwould be impossible for him to be discharged time enough for going in\nthe same ship, and which was more than all, he began to question\nwhether they would give him leave to go in what ship he pleased, though\nhe did voluntarily transport himself; but that they would see him put\non board such a ship as they should direct, and that he would be\ncharged upon the captain as other convict prisoners were; so that he\nbegan to be in despair of seeing me till he came to Virginia, which\nmade him almost desperate; seeing that, on the other hand, if I should\nnot be there, if any accident of the sea or of mortality should take me\naway, he should be the most undone creature there in the world.\n\nThis was very perplexing, and I knew not what course to take.  I told\nmy governess the story of the boatswain, and she was mighty eager with\nme treat with him; but I had no mind to it, till I heard whether my\nhusband, or fellow-prisoner, so she called him, could be at liberty to\ngo with me or no.  At last I was forced to let her into the whole\nmatter, except only that of his being my husband.  I told her I had\nmade a positive bargain or agreement with him to go, if he could get\nthe liberty of going in the same ship, and that I found he had money.\n\nThen I read a long lecture to her of what I proposed to do when we came\nthere, how we could plant, settle, and, in short, grow rich without any\nmore adventures; and, as a great secret, I told her that we were to\nmarry as soon as he came on board.\n\nShe soon agreed cheerfully to my going when she heard this, and she\nmade it her business from that time to get him out of the prison in\ntime, so that he might go in the same ship with me, which at last was\nbrought to pass, though with great difficulty, and not without all the\nforms of a transported prisoner-convict, which he really was not yet,\nfor he had not been tried, and which was a great mortification to him.\nAs our fate was now determined, and we were both on board, actually\nbound to Virginia, in the despicable quality of transported convicts\ndestined to be sold for slaves, I for five years, and he under bonds\nand security not to return to England any more, as long as he lived, he\nwas very much dejected and cast down; the mortification of being\nbrought on board, as he was, like a prisoner, piqued him very much,\nsince it was first told him he should transport himself, and so that he\nmight go as a gentleman at liberty.  It is true he was not ordered to\nbe sold when he came there, as we were, and for that reason he was\nobliged to pay for his passage to the captain, which we were not; as to\nthe rest, he was as much at a loss as a child what to do with himself,\nor with what he had, but by directions.\n\nOur first business was to compare our stock.  He was very honest to me,\nand told me his stock was pretty good when he came into the prison, but\nthe living there as he did in a figure like a gentleman, and, which was\nten times as much, the making of friends, and soliciting his case, had\nbeen very expensive; and, in a word, all his stock that he had left was\n#108, which he had about him all in gold.\n\nI gave him an account of my stock as faithfully, that is to say, of\nwhat I had taken to carry with me, for I was resolved, whatever should\nhappen, to keep what I had left with my governess in reserve; that in\ncase I should die, what I had with me was enough to give him, and that\nwhich was left in my governess's hands would be her own, which she had\nwell deserved of me indeed.\n\nMy stock which I had with me was #246 some odd shillings; so that we\nhad #354 between us, but a worse gotten estate was scarce ever put\ntogether to being the world with.\n\nOur greatest misfortune as to our stock was that it was all in money,\nwhich every one knows is an unprofitable cargo to be carried to the\nplantations.  I believe his was really all he had left in the world, as\nhe told me it was; but I, who had between #700 and #800 in bank when\nthis disaster befell me, and who had one of the faithfullest friends in\nthe world to manage it for me, considering she was a woman of manner of\nreligious principles, had still #300 left in her hand, which I reserved\nas above; besides, some very valuable things, as particularly two gold\nwatches, some small pieces of plate, and some rings--all stolen goods.\nThe plate, rings, and watches were put in my chest with the money, and\nwith this fortune, and in the sixty-first year of my age, I launched\nout into a new world, as I may call it, in the condition (as to what\nappeared) only of a poor, naked convict, ordered to be transported in\nrespite from the gallows.  My clothes were poor and mean, but not\nragged or dirty, and none knew in the whole ship that I had anything of\nvalue about me.\n\nHowever, as I had a great many very good clothes and linen in\nabundance, which I had ordered to be packed up in two great boxes, I\nhad them shipped on board, not as my goods, but as consigned to my real\nname in Virginia; and had the bills of loading signed by a captain in\nmy pocket; and in these boxes was my plate and watches, and everything\nof value except my money, which I kept by itself in a private drawer in\nmy chest, which could not be found, or opened, if found, without splitting\nthe chest to pieces.\n\nIn this condition I lay for three weeks in the ship, not knowing\nwhether I should have my husband with me or no, and therefore not\nresolving how or in what manner to receive the honest boatswain's\nproposal, which indeed he thought a little strange at first.\n\nAt the end of this time, behold my husband came on board.  He looked\nwith a dejected, angry countenance, his great heart was swelled with\nrage and disdain; to be dragged along with three keepers of Newgate,\nand put on board like a convict, when he had not so much as been\nbrought to a trial.  He made loud complaints of it by his friends, for\nit seems he had some interest; but his friends got some check in their\napplication, and were told he had had favour enough, and that they had\nreceived such an account of him, since the last grant of his\ntransportation, that he ought to think himself very well treated that\nhe was not prosecuted anew.  This answer quieted him at once, for he\nknew too much what might have happened, and what he had room to expect;\nand now he saw the goodness of the advice to him, which prevailed with\nhim to accept of the offer of a voluntary transportation.  And after\nthis his chagrin at these hell-hounds, as he called them, was a little\nover, he looked a little composed, began to be cheerful, and as I was\ntelling him how glad I was to have him once more out of their hands, he\ntook me in his arms, and acknowledged with great tenderness that I had\ngiven him the best advice possible.  'My dear,' says he, 'thou has\ntwice saved my life; from henceforward it shall be all employed for\nyou, and I'll always take your advice.'\n\nThe ship began now to fill; several passengers came on board, who were\nembarked on no criminal account, and these had accommodations assigned\nthem in the great cabin, and other parts of the ship, whereas we, as\nconvicts, were thrust down below, I know not where.  But when my\nhusband came on board, I spoke to the boatswain, who had so early given\nme hints of his friendship in carrying my letter.  I told him he had\nbefriended me in many things, and I had not made any suitable return to\nhim, and with that I put a guinea into his hand.  I told him that my\nhusband was now come on board; that though we were both under the\npresent misfortune, yet we had been persons of a different character\nfrom the wretched crew that we came with, and desired to know of him,\nwhether the captain might not be moved to admit us to some conveniences\nin the ship, for which we would make him what satisfaction he pleased,\nand that we would gratify him for his pains in procuring this for us.\nHe took the guinea, as I could see, with great satisfaction, and\nassured me of his assistance.\n\nThen he told us he did not doubt but that the captain, who was one of\nthe best-humoured gentlemen in the world, would be easily brought to\naccommodate us as well as we could desire, and, to make me easy, told\nme he would go up the next tide on purpose to speak to the captain\nabout it.  The next morning, happening to sleep a little longer than\nordinary, when I got up, and began to look abroad, I saw the boatswain\namong the men in his ordinary business.  I was a little melancholy at\nseeing him there, and going forward to speak to him, he saw me, and\ncame towards me, but not giving him time to speak first, I said,\nsmiling, 'I doubt, sir, you have forgot us, for I see you are very\nbusy.'  He returned presently, 'Come along with me, and you shall see.'\nSo he took me into the great cabin, and there sat a good sort of a\ngentlemanly man for a seaman, writing, and with a great many papers\nbefore him.\n\n'Here,' says the boatswain to him that was a-writing, 'is the\ngentlewoman that the captain spoke to you of'; and turning to me, he\nsaid, 'I have been so far from forgetting your business, that I have\nbeen up at the captain's house, and have represented faithfully to the\ncaptain what you said, relating to you being furnished with better\nconveniences for yourself and your husband; and the captain has sent\nthis gentleman, who is mate of the ship, down with me, on purpose to\nshow you everything, and to accommodate you fully to your content, and\nbid me assure you that you shall not be treated like what you were at\nfirst expected to be, but with the same respect as other passengers are\ntreated.'\n\nThe mate then spoke to me, and, not giving me time to thank the\nboatswain for his kindness, confirmed what the boatswain had said, and\nadded that it was the captain's delight to show himself kind and\ncharitable, especially to those that were under any misfortunes, and\nwith that he showed me several cabins built up, some in the great\ncabin, and some partitioned off, out of the steerage, but opening into\nthe great cabin on purpose for the accommodation of passengers, and\ngave me leave to choose where I would.  However, I chose a cabin which\nopened into the steerage, in which was very good conveniences to set\nour chest and boxes, and a table to eat on.\n\nThe mate then told me that the boatswain had given so good a character\nof me and my husband, as to our civil behaviour, that he had orders to\ntell me we should eat with him, if we thought fit, during the whole\nvoyage, on the common terms of passengers; that we might lay in some\nfresh provisions, if we pleased; or if not, he should lay in his usual\nstore, and we should have share with him.  This was very reviving news\nto me, after so many hardships and afflictions as I had gone through of\nlate.  I thanked him, and told him the captain should make his own\nterms with us, and asked him leave to go and tell my husband of it, who\nwas not very well, and was not yet out of his cabin.  Accordingly I\nwent, and my husband, whose spirits were still so much sunk with the\nindignity (as he understood it) offered him, that he was scared yet\nhimself, was so revived with the account that I gave him of the\nreception we were like to have in the ship, that he was quite another\nman, and new vigour and courage appeared in his very countenance.  So\ntrue is it, that the greatest of spirits, when overwhelmed by their\nafflictions, are subject to the greatest dejections, and are the most\napt to despair and give themselves up.\n\nAfter some little pause to recover himself, my husband came up with me,\nand gave the mate thanks for the kindness, which he had expressed to\nus, and sent suitable acknowledgment by him to the captain, offering to\npay him by advance, whatever he demanded for our passage, and for the\nconveniences he had helped us to.  The mate told him that the captain\nwould be on board in the afternoon, and that he would leave all that\ntill he came.  Accordingly, in the afternoon the captain came, and we\nfound him the same courteous, obliging man that the boatswain had\nrepresented him to be; and he was so well pleased with my husband's\nconversation, that, in short, he would not let us keep the cabin we had\nchosen, but gave us one that, as I said before, opened into the great\ncabin.\n\nNor were his conditions exorbitant, or the man craving and eager to\nmake a prey of us, but for fifteen guineas we had our whole passage and\nprovisions and cabin, ate at the captain's table, and were very\nhandsomely entertained.\n\nThe captain lay himself in the other part of the great cabin, having\nlet his round house, as they call it, to a rich planter who went over\nwith his wife and three children, who ate by themselves.  He had some\nother ordinary passengers, who quartered in the steerage, and as for\nour old fraternity, they were kept under the hatches while the ship lay\nthere, and came very little on the deck.\n\nI could not refrain acquainting my governess with what had happened; it\nwas but just that she, who was so really concerned for me, should have\npart in my good fortune.  Besides, I wanted her assistance to supply me\nwith several necessaries, which before I was shy of letting anybody see\nme have, that it might not be public; but now I had a cabin and room to\nset things in, I ordered abundance of good things for our comfort in\nthe voyage, as brandy, sugar, lemons, etc., to make punch, and treat\nour benefactor, the captain; and abundance of things for eating and\ndrinking in the voyage; also a larger bed, and bedding proportioned to\nit; so that, in a word, we resolved to want for nothing in the voyage.\n\nAll this while I had provided nothing for our assistance when we should\ncome to the place and begin to call ourselves planters; and I was far\nfrom being ignorant of what was needful on that occasion; particularly\nall sorts of tools for the planter's work, and for building; and all\nkinds of furniture for our dwelling, which, if to be bought in the\ncountry, must necessarily cost double the price.\n\nSo I discoursed that point with my governess, and she went and waited\nupon the captain, and told him that she hoped ways might be found out\nfor her two unfortunate cousins, as she called us, to obtain our\nfreedom when we came into the country, and so entered into a discourse\nwith him about the means and terms also, of which I shall say more in\nits place; and after thus sounding the captain, she let him know,\nthough we were unhappy in the circumstances that occasioned our going,\nyet that we were not unfurnished to set ourselves to work in the\ncountry, and we resolved to settle and live there as planters, if we\nmight be put in a way how to do it.  The captain readily offered his\nassistance, told her the method of entering upon such business, and how\neasy, nay, how certain it was for industrious people to recover their\nfortunes in such a manner.  'Madam,' says he, ''tis no reproach to any\nmany in that country to have been sent over in worse circumstances than\nI perceive your cousins are in, provided they do but apply with\ndiligence and good judgment to the business of that place when they\ncome there.'\n\nShe then inquired of him what things it was necessary we should carry\nover with us, and he, like a very honest as well as knowing man, told\nher thus:  'Madam, your cousins in the first place must procure\nsomebody to buy them as servants, in conformity to the conditions of\ntheir transportation, and then, in the name of that person, they may go\nabout what they will; they may either purchase some plantations already\nbegun, or they may purchase land of the Government of the country, and\nbegin where they please, and both will be done reasonably.' She bespoke\nhis favour in the first article, which he promised to her to take upon\nhimself, and indeed faithfully performed it, and as to the rest, he\npromised to recommend us to such as should give us the best advice, and\nnot to impose upon us, which was as much as could be desired.\n\nShe then asked him if it would not be necessary to furnish us with a\nstock of tools and materials for the business of planting, and he said,\n'Yes, by all means.'  And then she begged his assistance in it.  She\ntold him she would furnish us with everything that was convenient\nwhatever it cost her.  He accordingly gave her a long particular of\nthings necessary for a planter, which, by his account, came to about\nfourscore or a hundred pounds.  And, in short, she went about as\ndexterously to buy them, as if she had been an old Virginia merchant;\nonly that she bought, by my direction, above twice as much of\neverything as he had given her a list of.\n\nThese she put on board in her own name, took his bills of loading for\nthem, and endorsed those bills of loading to my husband, insuring the\ncargo afterwards in her own name, by our order; so that we were\nprovided for all events, and for all disasters.\n\nI should have told you that my husband gave her all his whole stock of\n#108, which, as I have said, he had about him in gold, to lay out thus,\nand I gave her a good sum besides; so that I did not break into the\nstock which I had left in her hands at all, but after we had sorted out\nour whole cargo, we had yet near #200 in money, which was more than\nenough for our purpose.\n\nIn this condition, very cheerful, and indeed joyful at being so happily\naccommodated as we were, we set sail from Bugby's Hole to Gravesend,\nwhere the ship lay about ten more days, and where the captain came on\nboard for good and all.  Here the captain offered us a civility, which\nindeed we had no reason to expect, namely, to let us go on shore and\nrefresh ourselves, upon giving our words in a solemn manner that we\nwould not go from him, and that we would return peaceably on board\nagain.  This was such an evidence of his confidence in us, that it\novercame my husband, who, in a mere principle of gratitude, told him,\nas he could not be in any capacity to make a suitable return for such a\nfavour, so he could not think of accepting of it, nor could he be easy\nthat the captain should run such a risk.  After some mutual civilities,\nI gave my husband a purse, in which was eighty guineas, and he put in\ninto the captain's hand.  'There, captain,' says he, 'there's part of a\npledge for our fidelity; if we deal dishonestly with you on any\naccount, 'tis your own.'  And on this we went on shore.\n\nIndeed, the captain had assurance enough of our resolutions to go, for\nthat having made such provision to settle there, it did not seem\nrational that we would choose to remain here at the expense and peril\nof life, for such it must have been if we had been taken again.  In a\nword, we went all on shore with the captain, and supped together in\nGravesend, where we were very merry, stayed all night, lay at the house\nwhere we supped, and came all very honestly on board again with him in\nthe morning.  Here we bought ten dozen bottles of good beer, some wine,\nsome fowls, and such things as we thought might be acceptable on board.\n\nMy governess was with us all this while, and went with us round into\nthe Downs, as did also the captain's wife, with whom she went back.  I\nwas never so sorrowful at parting with my own mother as I was at\nparting with her, and I never saw her more.  We had a fair easterly\nwind sprung up the third day after we came to the Downs, and we sailed\nfrom thence the 10th of April.  Nor did we touch any more at any place,\ntill, being driven on the coast of Ireland by a very hard gale of wind,\nthe ship came to an anchor in a little bay, near the mouth of a river,\nwhose name I remember not, but they said the river came down from\nLimerick, and that it was the largest river in Ireland.\n\nHere, being detained by bad weather for some time, the captain, who\ncontinued the same kind, good-humoured man as at first, took us two on\nshore with him again.  He did it now in kindness to my husband indeed,\nwho bore the sea very ill, and was very sick, especially when it blew\nso hard.  Here we bought in again a store of fresh provisions,\nespecially beef, pork, mutton, and fowls, and the captain stayed to\npickle up five or six barrels of beef to lengthen out the ship's store.\nWe were here not above five days, when the weather turning mild, and a\nfair wind, we set sail again, and in two-and-forty days came safe to\nthe coast of Virginia.\n\nWhen we drew near to the shore, the captain called me to him, and told\nme that he found by my discourse I had some relations in the place, and\nthat I had been there before, and so he supposed I understood the\ncustom in their disposing the convict prisoners when they arrived.  I\ntold him I did not, and that as to what relations I had in the place,\nhe might be sure I would make myself known to none of them while I was\nin the circumstances of a prisoner, and that as to the rest, we left\nourselves entirely to him to assist us, as he was pleased to promise us\nhe would do.  He told me I must get somebody in the place to come and\nbuy us as servants, and who must answer for us to the governor of the\ncountry, if he demanded us.  I told him we should do as he should\ndirect; so he brought a planter to treat with him, as it were, for the\npurchase of these two servants, my husband and me, and there we were\nformally sold to him, and went ashore with him.  The captain went with\nus, and carried us to a certain house, whether it was to be called a\ntavern or not I know not, but we had a bowl of punch there made of rum,\netc., and were very merry.  After some time the planter gave us a\ncertificate of discharge, and an acknowledgment of having served him\nfaithfully, and we were free from him the next morning, to go wither we\nwould.\n\nFor this piece of service the captain demanded of us six thousand\nweight of tabacco, which he said he was accountable for to his\nfreighter, and which we immediately bought for him, and made him a\npresent of twenty guineas besides, with which he was abundantly\nsatisfied.\n\nIt is not proper to enter here into the particulars of what part of the\ncolony of Virginia we settled in, for divers reasons; it may suffice to\nmention that we went into the great river Potomac, the ship being bound\nthither; and there we intended to have settled first, though afterwards\nwe altered our minds.\n\nThe first thing I did of moment after having gotten all our goods on\nshore, and placed them in a storehouse, or warehouse, which, with a\nlodging, we hired at the small place or village where we landed--I say,\nthe first thing was to inquire after my mother, and after my brother\n(that fatal person whom I married as a husband, as I have related at\nlarge).  A little inquiry furnished me with information that Mrs. ----,\nthat is, my mother, was dead; that my brother (or husband) was alive,\nwhich I confess I was not very glad to hear; but which was worse, I\nfound he was removed from the plantation where he lived formerly, and\nwhere I lived with him, and lived with one of his sons in a plantation\njust by the place where we landed, and where we had hired a warehouse.\n\nI was a little surprised at first, but as I ventured to satisfy myself\nthat he could not know me, I was not only perfectly easy, but had a\ngreat mind to see him, if it was possible to so do without his seeing\nme.  In order to that I found out by inquiry the plantation where he\nlived, and with a woman of that place whom I got to help me, like what\nwe call a chairwoman, I rambled about towards the place as if I had\nonly a mind to see the country and look about me.  At last I came so\nnear that I saw the dwellinghouse.  I asked the woman whose plantation\nthat was; she said it belonged to such a man, and looking out a little\nto our right hands, 'there,' says she, is the gentleman that owns the\nplantation, and his father with him.'  'What are their Christian\nnames?' said I.  'I know not,' says she, 'what the old gentleman's name\nis, but the son's name is Humphrey; and I believe,' says she, 'the\nfather's is so too.'  You may guess, if you can, what a confused\nmixture of joy and fight possessed my thoughts upon this occasion, for\nI immediately knew that this was nobody else but my own son, by that\nfather she showed me, who was my own brother.  I had no mask, but I\nruffled my hood so about my face, that I depended upon it that after\nabove twenty years' absence, and withal not expecting anything of me in\nthat part of the world, he would not be able to know anything of me.\nBut I need not have used all that caution, for the old gentleman was\ngrown dim-sighted by some distemper which had fallen upon his eyes, and\ncould but just see well enough to walk about, and not run against a\ntree or into a ditch.  The woman that was with me had told me that by a\nmere accident, knowing nothing of what importance it was to me.  As\nthey drew near to us, I said, 'Does he know you, Mrs. Owen?' (so they\ncalled the woman).  'Yes,' said she, 'if he hears me speak, he will\nknow me; but he can't see well enough to know me or anybody else'; and\nso she told me the story of his sight, as I have related.  This made me\nsecure, and so I threw open my hoods again, and let them pass by me.\nIt was a wretched thing for a mother thus to see her own son, a\nhandsome, comely young gentleman in flourishing circumstances, and\ndurst not make herself known to him, and durst not take any notice of\nhim.  Let any mother of children that reads this consider it, and but\nthink with what anguish of mind I restrained myself; what yearnings of\nsoul I had in me to embrace him, and weep over him; and how I thought\nall my entrails turned within me, that my very bowels moved, and I knew\nnot what to do, as I now know not how to express those agonies!  When\nhe went from me I stood gazing and trembling, and looking after him as\nlong as I could see him; then sitting down to rest me, but turned from\nher, and lying on my face, wept, and kissed the ground that he had set\nhis foot on.\n\nI could not conceal my disorder so much from the woman but that she\nperceived it, and thought I was not well, which I was obliged to\npretend was true; upon which she pressed me to rise, the ground being\ndamp and dangerous, which I did accordingly, and walked away.\n\nAs I was going back again, and still talking of this gentleman and his\nson, a new occasion of melancholy offered itself thus.  The woman\nbegan, as if she would tell me a story to divert me: 'There goes,' says\nshe, 'a very odd tale among the neighbours where this gentleman\nformerly live.'  'What was that?' said I.  'Why,' says she, 'that old\ngentleman going to England, when he was a young man, fell in love with\na young lady there, one of the finest women that ever was seen, and\nmarried her, and brought her over hither to his mother who was then\nliving.  He lived here several years with her,' continued she, 'and had\nseveral children by her, of which the young gentleman that was with him\nnow was one; but after some time, the old gentlewoman, his mother,\ntalking to her of something relating to herself when she was in\nEngland, and of her circumstances in England, which were bad enough,\nthe daughter-in-law began to be very much surprised and uneasy; and, in\nshort, examining further into things, it appeared past all\ncontradiction that the old gentlewoman was her own mother, and that\nconsequently that son was his wife's own brother, which struck the\nwhole family with horror, and put them into such confusion that it had\nalmost ruined them all.  The young woman would not live with him; the\nson, her brother and husband, for a time went distracted; and at last\nthe young woman went away for England, and has never been heard of\nsince.'\n\nIt is easy to believe that I was strangely affected with this story,\nbut 'tis impossible to describe the nature of my disturbance.  I seemed\nastonished at the story, and asked her a thousand questions about the\nparticulars, which I found she was thoroughly acquainted with.  At last\nI began to inquire into the circumstances of the family, how the old\ngentlewoman, I mean my mother, died, and how she left what she had; for\nmy mother had promised me very solemnly, that when she died she would\ndo something for me, and leave it so, as that, if I was living, I\nshould one way or other come at it, without its being in the power of\nher son, my brother and husband, to prevent it.  She told me she did\nnot know exactly how it was ordered, but she had been told that my\nmother had left a sum of money, and had tied her plantation for the\npayment of it, to be made good to the daughter, if ever she could be\nheard of, either in England or elsewhere; and that the trust was left\nwith this son, who was the person that we saw with his father.\n\nThis was news too good for me to make light of, and, you may be sure,\nfilled my heart with a thousand thoughts, what course I should take,\nhow, and when, and in what manner I should make myself known, or\nwhether I should ever make myself know or no.\n\nHere was a perplexity that I had not indeed skill to manage myself in,\nneither knew I what course to take.  It lay heavy upon my mind night\nand day.  I could neither sleep nor converse, so that my husband\nperceived it, and wondered what ailed me, strove to divert me, but it\nwas all to no purpose.  He pressed me to tell him what it was troubled\nme, but I put it off, till at last, importuning me continually, I was\nforced to form a story, which yet had a plain truth to lay it upon too.\nI told him I was troubled because I found we must shift our quarters\nand alter our scheme of settling, for that I found I should be known if\nI stayed in that part of the country; for that my mother being dead,\nseveral of my relations were come into that part where we then was, and\nthat I must either discover myself to them, which in our present\ncircumstances was not proper on many accounts, or remove; and which to\ndo I knew not, and that this it was that made me so melancholy and so\nthoughtful.\n\nHe joined with me in this, that it was by no means proper for me to\nmake myself known to anybody in the circumstances in which we then\nwere; and therefore he told me he would be willing to remove to any\nother part of the country, or even to any other country if I thought\nfit.  But now I had another difficulty, which was, that if I removed to\nany other colony, I put myself out of the way of ever making a due\nsearch after those effects which my mother had left.  Again I could\nnever so much as think of breaking the secret of my former marriage to\nmy new husband; it was not a story, as I thought, that would bear\ntelling, nor could I tell what might be the consequences of it; and it\nwas impossible to search into the bottom of the thing without making it\npublic all over the country, as well who I was, as what I now was also.\n\nIn this perplexity I continued a great while, and this made my spouse\nvery uneasy; for he found me perplexed, and yet thought I was not open\nwith him, and did not let him into every part of my grievance; and he\nwould often say, he wondered what he had done that I would not trust\nhim with whatever it was, especially if it was grievous and afflicting.\nThe truth is, he ought to have been trusted with everything, for no man\nin the world could deserve better of a wife; but this was a thing I\nknew not how to open to him, and yet having nobody to disclose any part\nof it to, the burthen was too heavy for my mind; for let them say what\nthey please of our sex not being able to keep a secret, my life is a\nplain conviction to me of the contrary; but be it our sex, or the man's\nsex, a secret of moment should always have a confidant, a bosom friend,\nto whom we may communicate the joy of it, or the grief of it, be it\nwhich it will, or it will be a double weight upon the spirits, and\nperhaps become even insupportable in itself; and this I appeal to all\nhuman testimony for the truth of.\n\nAnd this is the cause why many times men as well as women, and men of\nthe greatest and best qualities other ways, yet have found themselves\nweak in this part, and have not been able to bear the weight of a\nsecret joy or of a secret sorrow, but have been obliged to disclose it,\neven for the mere giving vent to themselves, and to unbend the mind\noppressed with the load and weights which attended it.  Nor was this\nany token of folly or thoughtlessness at all, but a natural consequence\nof the thing; and such people, had they struggled longer with the\noppression, would certainly have told it in their sleep, and disclosed\nthe secret, let it have been of what fatal nature soever, without\nregard to the person to whom it might be exposed.  This necessity of\nnature is a thing which works sometimes with such vehemence in the\nminds of those who are guilty of any atrocious villainy, such as secret\nmurder in particular, that they have been obliged to discover it,\nthough the consequence would necessarily be their own destruction.\nNow, though it may be true that the divine justice ought to have the\nglory of all those discoveries and confessions, yet 'tis as certain\nthat Providence, which ordinarily works by the hands of nature, makes\nuse here of the same natural causes to produce those extraordinary\neffects.\n\nI could give several remarkable instances of this in my long\nconversation with crime and with criminals.  I knew one fellow that,\nwhile I was in prison in Newgate, was one of those they called then\nnight-fliers.  I know not what other word they may have understood it\nby since, but he was one who by connivance was admitted to go abroad\nevery evening, when he played his pranks, and furnished those honest\npeople they call thief-catchers with business to find out the next day,\nand restore for a reward what they had stolen the evening before.  This\nfellow was as sure to tell in his sleep all that he had done, and every\nstep he had taken, what he had stolen, and where, as sure as if he had\nengaged to tell it waking, and that there was no harm or danger in it,\nand therefore he was obliged, after he had been out, to lock himself\nup, or be locked up by some of the keepers that had him in fee, that\nnobody should hear him; but, on the other hand, if he had told all the\nparticulars, and given a full account of his rambles and success, to\nany comrade, any brother thief, or to his employers, as I may justly\ncall them, then all was well with him, and he slept as quietly as other\npeople.\n\nAs the publishing this account of my life is for the sake of the just\nmoral of very part of it, and for instruction, caution, warning, and\nimprovement to every reader, so this will not pass, I hope, for an\nunnecessary digression concerning some people being obliged to disclose\nthe greatest secrets either of their own or other people's affairs.\n\nUnder the certain oppression of this weight upon my mind, I laboured in\nthe case I have been naming; and the only relief I found for it was to\nlet my husband into so much of it as I thought would convince him of\nthe necessity there was for us to think of settling in some other part\nof the world; and the next consideration before us was, which part of\nthe English settlements we should go to.  My husband was a perfect\nstranger to the country, and had not yet so much as a geographical\nknowledge of the situation of the several places; and I, that, till I\nwrote this, did not know what the word geographical signified, had only\na general knowledge from long conversation with people that came from\nor went to several places; but this I knew, that Maryland,\nPennsylvania, East and West Jersey, New York, and New England lay all\nnorth of Virginia, and that they were consequently all colder climates,\nto which for that very reason, I had an aversion.  For that as I\nnaturally loved warm weather, so now I grew into years I had a stronger\ninclination to shun a cold climate.  I therefore considered of going to\nCaroline, which is the only southern colony of the English on the\ncontinent of America, and hither I proposed to go; and the rather\nbecause I might with great ease come from thence at any time, when it\nmight be proper to inquire after my mother's effects, and to make\nmyself known enough to demand them.\n\nWith this resolution I proposed to my husband our going away from where\nwe was, and carrying all our effects with us to Caroline, where we\nresolved to settle; for my husband readily agreed to the first part,\nviz. that was not at all proper to stay where we was, since I had\nassured him we should be known there, and the rest I effectually\nconcealed from him.\n\nBut now I found a new difficulty upon me.  The main affair grew heavy\nupon my mind still, and I could not think of going out of the country\nwithout somehow or other making inquiry into the grand affair of what\nmy mother had done for me; nor could I with any patience bear the\nthought of going away, and not make myself known to my old husband\n(brother), or to my child, his son; only I would fain have had this\ndone without my new husband having any knowledge of it, or they having\nany knowledge of him, or that I had such a thing as a husband.\n\nI cast about innumerable ways in my thoughts how this might be done.  I\nwould gladly have sent my husband away to Caroline with all our goods,\nand have come after myself, but this was impracticable; he would never\nstir without me, being himself perfectly unacquainted with the country,\nand with the methods of settling there or anywhere else.  Then I\nthought we would both go first with part of our goods, and that when we\nwere settled I should come back to Virginia and fetch the remainder;\nbut even then I knew he would never part with me, and be left there to\ngo on alone.  The case was plain; he was bred a gentleman, and by\nconsequence was not only unacquainted, but indolent, and when we did\nsettle, would much rather go out into the woods with his gun, which\nthey call there hunting, and which is the ordinary work of the Indians,\nand which they do as servants; I say, he would rather do that than\nattend the natural business of his plantation.\n\nThese were therefore difficulties insurmountable, and such as I knew\nnot what to do in.  I had such strong impressions on my mind about\ndiscovering myself to my brother, formerly my husband, that I could not\nwithstand them; and the rather, because it ran constantly in my\nthoughts, that if I did not do it while he lived, I might in vain\nendeavour to convince my son afterward that I was really the same\nperson, and that I was his mother, and so might both lose the\nassistance and comfort of the relation, and the benefit of whatever it\nwas my mother had left me; and yet, on the other hand, I could never\nthink it proper to discover myself to them in the circumstances I was\nin, as well relating to the having a husband with me as to my being\nbrought over by a legal transportation as a criminal; on both which\naccounts it was absolutely necessary to me to remove from the place\nwhere I was, and come again to him, as from another place and in\nanother figure.\n\nUpon those considerations,  I went on with telling my husband the\nabsolute necessity there was of our not settling in Potomac River, at\nleast that we should be presently made public there; whereas if we went\nto any other place in the world, we should come in with as much\nreputation as any family that came to plant; that, as it was always\nagreeable to the inhabitants to have families come among them to plant,\nwho brought substance with them, either to purchase plantations or\nbegin new ones, so we should be sure of a kind, agreeable reception,\nand that without any possibility of a discovery of our circumstances.\n\nI told him in general, too, that as I had several relations in the\nplace where we were, and that I durst not now let myself be known to\nthem, because they would soon come into a knowledge of the occasion and\nreason of my coming over, which would be to expose myself to the last\ndegree, so I had reason to believe that my mother, who died here, had\nleft me something, and perhaps considerable, which it might be very\nwell worth my while to inquire after; but that this too could not be\ndone without exposing us publicly, unless we went from hence; and then,\nwherever we settled, I might come, as it were, to visit and to see my\nbrother and nephews, make myself known to them, claim and inquire after\nwhat was my due, be received with respect, and at the same time have\njustice done me with cheerfulness and good will; whereas, if I did it\nnow, I could expect nothing but with trouble, such as exacting it by\nforce, receiving it with curses and reluctance, and with all kinds of\naffronts, which he would not perhaps bear to see; that in case of being\nobliged to legal proofs of being really her daughter, I might be at\nloss, be obliged to have recourse to England, and it may be to fail at\nlast, and so lose it, whatever it might be.  With these arguments, and\nhaving thus acquainted my husband with the whole secret so far as was\nneedful of him, we resolved to go and seek a settlement in some other\ncolony, and at first thoughts, Caroline was the place we pitched upon.\n\nIn order to this we began to make inquiry for vessels going to\nCarolina, and in a very little while got information, that on the other\nside the bay, as they call it, namely, in Maryland, there was a ship\nwhich came from Carolina, laden with rice and other goods, and was\ngoing back again thither, and from thence to Jamaica, with provisions.\nOn this news we hired a sloop to take in our goods, and taking, as it\nwere, a final farewell of Potomac River, we went with all our cargo\nover to Maryland.\n\nThis was a long and unpleasant voyage, and my spouse said it was worse\nto him than all the voyage from England, because the weather was but\nindifferent, the water rough, and the vessel small and inconvenient.\nIn the next place, we were full a hundred miles up Potomac River, in a\npart which they call Westmoreland County, and as that river is by far\nthe greatest in Virginia, and I have heard say it is the greatest river\nin the world that falls into another river, and not directly into the\nsea, so we had base weather in it, and were frequently in great danger;\nfor though we were in the middle, we could not see land on either side\nfor many leagues together.  Then we had the great river or bay of\nChesapeake to cross, which is where the river Potomac falls into it,\nnear thirty miles broad, and we entered more great vast waters whose\nnames I know not, so that our voyage was full two hundred miles, in a\npoor, sorry sloop, with all our treasure, and if any accident had\nhappened to us, we might at last have been very miserable; supposing we\nhad lost our goods and saved our lives only, and had then been left\nnaked and destitute, and in a wild, strange place not having one friend\nor acquaintance in all that part of the world.  The very thought of it\ngives me some horror, even since the danger is past.\n\nWell, we came to the place in five days' sailing; I think they call it\nPhilip's Point; and behold, when we came thither, the ship bound to\nCarolina was loaded and gone away but three days before.  This was a\ndisappointment; but, however, I, that was to be discouraged with\nnothing, told my husband that since we could not get passage to\nCaroline, and that the country we was in was very fertile and good, we\nwould, if he liked of it, see if we could find out anything for our\ntune where we was, and that if he liked things we would settle here.\n\nWe immediately went on shore, but found no conveniences just at that\nplace, either for our being on shore or preserving our goods on shore,\nbut was directed by a very honest Quaker, whom we found there, to go to\na place about sixty miles east; that is to say, nearer the mouth of the\nbay, where he said he lived, and where we should be accommodated,\neither to plant, or to wait for any other place to plant in that might\nbe more convenient; and he invited us with so much kindness and simple\nhonesty, that we agreed to go, and the Quaker himself went with us.\n\nHere we bought us two servants, viz. an English woman-servant just come\non shore from a ship of Liverpool, and a Negro man-servant, things\nabsolutely necessary for all people that pretended to settle in that\ncountry.  This honest Quaker was very helpful to us, and when we came\nto the place that he proposed to us, found us out a convenient\nstorehouse for our goods, and lodging for ourselves and our servants;\nand about two months or thereabouts afterwards, by his direction, we\ntook up a large piece of land from the governor of that country, in\norder to form our plantation, and so we laid the thoughts of going to\nCaroline wholly aside, having been very well received here, and\naccommodated with a convenient lodging till we could prepare things,\nand have land enough cleared, and timber and materials provided for\nbuilding us a house, all which we managed by the direction of the\nQuaker; so that in one year's time we had nearly fifty acres of land\ncleared, part of it enclosed, and some of it planted with tabacco,\nthough not much; besides, we had garden ground and corn sufficient to\nhelp supply our servants with roots and herbs and bread.\n\nAnd now I persuaded my husband to let me go over the bay again, and\ninquire after my friends.  He was the willinger to consent to it now,\nbecause he had business upon his hands sufficient to employ him,\nbesides his gun to divert him, which they call hunting there, and which\nhe greatly delighted in; and indeed we used to look at one another,\nsometimes with a great deal of pleasure, reflecting how much better\nthat was, not than Newgate only, but than the most prosperous of our\ncircumstances in the wicked trade that we had been both carrying on.\n\nOur affair was in a very good posture; we purchased of the proprietors\nof the colony as much land for #35, paid in ready money, as would make\na sufficient plantation to employ between fifty and sixty servants, and\nwhich, being well improved, would be sufficient to us as long as we\ncould either of us live; and as for children, I was past the prospect\nof anything of that kind.\n\nBut out good fortune did not end here.  I went, as I have said, over\nthe bay, to the place where my brother, once a husband, lived; but I\ndid not go to the same village where I was before, but went up another\ngreat river, on the east side of the river Potomac, called Rappahannock\nRiver, and by this means came on the back of his plantation, which was\nlarge, and by the help of a navigable creek, or little river, that ran\ninto the Rappahannock, I came very near it.\n\nI was now fully resolved to go up point-blank to my brother (husband),\nand to tell him who I was; but not knowing what temper I might find him\nin, or how much out of temper rather, I might make him by such a rash\nvisit, I resolved to write a letter to him first, to let him know who I\nwas, and that I was come not to give him any trouble upon the old\nrelation, which I hoped was entirely forgot, but that I applied to him\nas a sister to a brother, desiring his assistance in the case of that\nprovision which our mother, at her decease, had left for my support,\nand which I did not doubt but he would do me justice in, especially\nconsidering that I was come thus far to look after it.\n\nI said some very tender, kind things in the letter about his son, which\nI told him he knew to be my own child, and that as I was guilty of\nnothing in marrying him, any more than he was in marrying me, neither\nof us having then known our being at all related to one another, so I\nhoped he would allow me the most passionate desire of once seeing my\none and only child, and of showing something of the infirmities of a\nmother in preserving a violent affect for him, who had never been able\nto retain any thought of me one way or other.\n\nI did believe that, having received this letter, he would immediately\ngive it to his son to read, I having understood his eyes being so dim,\nthat he could not see to read it; but it fell out better than so, for\nas his sight was dim, so he had allowed his son to open all letters\nthat came to his hand for him, and the old gentleman being from home,\nor out of the way when my messenger came, my letter came directly to my\nson's hand, and he opened and read it.\n\nHe called the messenger in, after some little stay, and asked him where\nthe person was who gave him the letter.  The messenger told him the\nplace, which was about seven miles off, so he bid him stay, and\nordering a horse to be got ready, and two servants, away he came to me\nwith the messenger.  Let any one judge the consternation I was in when\nmy messenger came back, and told me the old gentleman was not at home,\nbut his son was come along with him, and was just coming up to me.  I\nwas perfectly confounded, for I knew not whether it was peace or war,\nnor could I tell how to behave; however, I had but a very few moments\nto think, for my son was at the heels of the messenger, and coming up\ninto my lodgings, asked the fellow at the door something.  I suppose it\nwas, for I did not hear it so as to understand it, which was the\ngentlewoman that sent him; for the messenger said, 'There she is, sir';\nat which he comes directly up to me, kisses me, took me in his arms,\nand embraced me with so much passion that he could not speak, but I\ncould feel his breast heave and throb like a child, that cries, but\nsobs, and cannot cry it out.\n\nI can neither express nor describe the joy that touched my very soul\nwhen I found, for it was easy to discover that part, that he came not\nas a stranger, but as a son to a mother, and indeed as a son who had\nnever before known what a mother of his own was; in short, we cried\nover one another a considerable while, when at last he broke out first.\n'My dear mother,' says he, 'are you still alive?  I never expected to\nhave seen your face.'  As for me, I could say nothing a great while.\n\nAfter we had both recovered ourselves a little, and were able to talk,\nhe told me how things stood. As to what I had written to his father, he\ntold me he had not showed my letter to his father, or told him anything\nabout it; that what his grandmother left me was in his hands, and that\nhe would do me justice to my full satisfaction; that as to his father,\nhe was old and infirm both in body and mind; that he was very fretful\nand passionate, almost blind, and capable of nothing; and he questioned\nwhether he would know how to act in an affair which was of so nice a\nnature as this; and that therefore he had come himself, as well to\nsatisfy himself in seeing me, which he could not restrain himself from,\nas also to put it into my power to make a judgment, after I had seen\nhow things were, whether I would discover myself to his father or no.\n\nThis was really so prudently and wisely managed, that I found my son\nwas a man of sense, and needed no direction from me.  I told him I did\nnot wonder that his father was as he had described him, for that his\nhead was a little touched before I went away; and principally his\ndisturbance was because I could not be persuaded to conceal our\nrelation and to live with him as my husband, after I knew that he was\nmy brother; that as he knew better than I what his father's present\ncondition was, I should readily join with him in such measure as he\nwould direct; that I was indifferent as to seeing his father, since I\nhad seen him first, and he could not have told me better news than to\ntell me that what his grandmother had left me was entrusted in his\nhands, who, I doubted not, now he knew who I was, would, as he said, do\nme justice.  I inquired then how long my mother had been dead, and\nwhere she died, and told so many particulars of the family, that I left\nhim no room to doubt the truth of my being really and truly his mother.\n\nMy son then inquired where I was, and how I had disposed myself.  I\ntold him I was on the Maryland side of the bay, at the plantation of a\nparticular friend who came from England in the same ship with me; that\nas for that side of the bay where he was, I had no habitation.  He told\nme I should go home with him, and live with him, if I pleased, as long\nas I lived; that as to his father, he knew nobody, and would never so\nmuch as guess at me.  I considered of that a little, and told him, that\nthough it was really no concern to me to live at a distance from him,\nyet I could not say it would be the most comfortable thing in the world\nto me to live in the house with him, and to have that unhappy object\nalways before me, which had been such a blow to my peace before; that\nthough I should be glad to have his company (my son), or to be as near\nhim as possible while I stayed, yet I could not think of being in the\nhouse where I should be also under constant restraint for fear of\nbetraying myself in my discourse, nor should I be able to refrain some\nexpressions in my conversing with him as my son, that might discover\nthe whole affair, which would by no means be convenient.\n\nHe acknowledged that I was right in all this.  'But then, dear mother,'\nsays he, 'you shall be as near me as you can.'  So he took me with him\non horseback to a plantation next to his own, and where I was as well\nentertained as I could have been in his own.  Having left me there he\nwent away home, telling me we would talk of the main business the next\nday; and having first called me his aunt, and given a charge to the\npeople, who it seems were his tenants, to treat me with all possible\nrespect.  About two hours after he was gone, he sent me a maid-servant\nand a Negro boy to wait on me, and provisions ready dressed for my\nsupper; and thus I was as if I had been in a new world, and began\nsecretly now to wish that I had not brought my Lancashire husband from\nEngland at all.\n\nHowever, that wish was not hearty neither, for I loved my Lancashire\nhusband entirely, as indeed I had ever done from the beginning; and he\nmerited from me as much as it was possible for a man to do; but that by\nthe way.\n\nThe next morning my son came to visit me again almost as soon as I was\nup.  After a little discourse, he first of all pulled out a deerskin\nbag, and gave it me, with five-and-fifty Spanish pistoles in it, and\ntold me that was to supply my expenses from England, for though it was\nnot his business to inquire, yet he ought to think I did not bring a\ngreat deal of money out with me, it not being usual to bring much money\ninto that country.  Then he pulled out his grandmother's will, and read\nit over to me, whereby it appeared that she had left a small\nplantation, as he called it, on York River, that is, where my mother\nlived, to me, with the stock of servants and cattle upon it, and given\nit in trust to this son of mine for my use, whenever he should hear of\nmy being alive, and to my heirs, if I had any children, and in default\nof heirs, to whomsoever I should by will dispose of it; but gave the\nincome of it, till I should be heard of, or found, to my said son; and\nif I should not be living, then it was to him, and his heirs.\n\nThis plantation, though remote from him, he said he did not let out,\nbut managed it by a head-clerk (steward), as he did another that was\nhis father's, that lay hard by it, and went over himself three or four\ntimes a year to look after it.  I asked him what he thought the\nplantation might be worth.  He said, if I would let it out, he would\ngive me about #60 a year for it; but if I would live on it, then it\nwould be worth much more, and, he believed, would bring me in about\n#150 a year.  But seeing I was likely either to settle on the other\nside of the bay, or might perhaps have a mind to go back to England\nagain, if I would let him be my steward he would manage it for me, as\nhe had done for himself, and that he believed he should be able to send\nme as much tobacco to England from it as would yield me about #100 a\nyear, sometimes more.\n\nThis was all strange news to me, and things I had not been used to; and\nreally my heart began to look up more seriously than I think it ever\ndid before, and to look with great thankfulness to the hand of\nProvidence, which had done such wonders for me, who had been myself the\ngreatest wonder of wickedness perhaps that had been suffered to live in\nthe world.  And I must again observe, that not on this occasion only,\nbut even on all other occasions of thankfulness, my past wicked and\nabominable life never looked so monstrous to me, and I never so\ncompletely abhorred it, and reproached myself with it, as when I had a\nsense upon me of Providence doing good to me, while I had been making\nthose vile returns on my part.\n\nBut I leave the reader to improve these thoughts, as no doubt they will\nsee cause, and I go on to the fact.  My son's tender carriage and kind\noffers fetched tears from me, almost all the while he talked with me.\nIndeed, I could scarce discourse with him but in the intervals of my\npassion; however, at length I began, and expressing myself with wonder\nat my being so happy to have the trust of what I had left, put into the\nhands of my own child, I told him, that as to the inheritance of it, I\nhad no child but him in the world, and was now past having any if I\nshould marry, and therefore would desire him to get a writing drawn,\nwhich I was ready to execute, by which I would, after me, give it\nwholly to him and to his heirs.  And in the meantime, smiling, I asked\nhim what made him continue a bachelor so long.  His answer was kind and\nready, that Virginia did not yield any great plenty of wives, and that\nsince I talked of going back to England, I should send him a wife from\nLondon.\n\nThis was the substance of our first day's conversation, the pleasantest\nday that ever passed over my head in my life, and which gave me the\ntruest satisfaction.  He came every day after this, and spent a great\npart of his time with me, and carried me about to several of his\nfriends' houses, where I was entertained with great respect.  Also I\ndined several times at his own house, when he took care always to see\nhis half-dead father so out of the way that I never saw him, or he me.\nI made him one present, and it was all I had of value, and that was one\nof the gold watches, of which I mentioned above, that I had two in my\nchest, and this I happened to have with me, and I gave it him at his\nthird visit.  I told him I had nothing of any value to bestow but that,\nand I desired he would now and then kiss it for my sake.  I did not\nindeed tell him that I had stole it from a gentlewoman's side, at a\nmeeting-house in London.  That's by the way.\n\nHe stood a little while hesitating, as if doubtful whether to take it\nor no; but I pressed it on him, and made him accept it, and it was not\nmuch less worth than his leather pouch full of Spanish gold; no, though\nit were to be reckoned as if at London, whereas it was worth twice as\nmuch there, where I gave it him.  At length he took it, kissed it, told\nme the watch should be a debt upon him that he would be paying as long\nas I lived.\n\nA few days after he brought the writings of gift, and the scrivener\nwith them, and I signed them very freely, and delivered them to him\nwith a hundred kisses; for sure nothing ever passed between a mother\nand a tender, dutiful child with more affection.  The next day he\nbrings me an obligation under his hand and seal, whereby he engaged\nhimself to manage and improve the plantation for my account, and with\nhis utmost skill, and to remit the produce to my order wherever I\nshould be; and withal, to be obliged himself to make up the produce\n#100 a year to me.  When he had done so, he told me that as I came to\ndemand it before the crop was off, I had a right to produce of the\ncurrent year, and so he paid me #100 in Spanish pieces of eight, and\ndesired me to give him a receipt for it as in full for that year,\nending at Christmas following; this being about the latter end of\nAugust.\n\nI stayed here about five weeks, and indeed had much ado to get away\nthen.  Nay, he would have come over the bay with me, but I would by no\nmeans allow him to it.  However, he would send me over in a sloop of\nhis own, which was built like a yacht, and served him as well for\npleasure as business.  This I accepted of, and so, after the utmost\nexpressions both of duty and affection, he let me come away, and I\narrived safe in two days at my friend's the Quaker's.\n\nI brought over with me for the use of our plantation, three horses,\nwith harness and saddles, some hogs, two cows, and a thousand other\nthings, the gift of the kindest and tenderest child that ever woman\nhad.  I related to my husband all the particulars of this voyage,\nexcept that I called my son my cousin; and first I told him that I had\nlost my watch, which he seemed to take as a misfortune; but then I told\nhim how kind my cousin had been, that my mother had left me such a\nplantation, and that he had preserved it for me, in hopes some time or\nother he should hear from me; then I told him that I had left it to his\nmanagement, that he would render me a faithful account of its produce;\nand then I pulled him out the #100 in silver, as the first year's\nproduce; and then pulling out the deerskin purse with the pistoles,\n'And here, my dear,' says I, 'is the gold watch.'  My husband--so is\nHeaven's goodness sure to work the same effects in all sensible minds\nwhere mercies touch the heart--lifted up both hands, and with an\necstacy of joy, 'What is God a-doing,' says he, 'for such an ungrateful\ndog as I am!'  Then I let him know what I had brought over in the\nsloop, besides all this; I mean the horses, hogs, and cows, and other\nstores for our plantation; all which added to his surprise, and filled\nhis heart with thankfulness; and from this time forward I believe he\nwas as sincere a penitent, and as thoroughly a reformed man, as ever\nGod's goodness brought back from a profligate, a highwayman, and a\nrobber.  I could fill a larger history than this with the evidence of\nthis truth, and but that I doubt that part of the story will not be\nequally diverting as the wicked part, I have had thoughts of making a\nvolume of it by itself.\n\nAs for myself, as this is to be my own story, not my husband's, I\nreturn to that part which related to myself.  We went on with our\nplantation, and managed it with the help and diversion of such friends\nas we got there by our obliging behaviour, and especially the honest\nQuaker, who proved a faithful, generous, and steady friend to us; and\nwe had very good success, for having a flourishing stock to begin with,\nas I have said, and this being now increased by the addition of #150\nsterling in money, we enlarged our number of servants, built us a very\ngood house, and cured every year a great deal of land.  The second year\nI wrote to my old governess, giving her part with us of the joy of our\nsuccess, and order her how to lay out the money I had left with her,\nwhich was #250 as above, and to send it to us in goods, which she\nperformed with her usual kindness and fidelity, and this arrived safe\nto us.\n\nHere we had a supply of all sorts of clothes, as well for my husband as\nfor myself; and I took especial care to buy for him all those things\nthat I knew he delighted to have; as two good long wigs, two\nsilver-hilted swords, three or four fine fowling-pieces, a fine saddle\nwith holsters and pistols very handsome, with a scarlet cloak; and, in\na word, everything I could think of to oblige him, and to make him\nappear, as he really was, a very fine gentleman.  I ordered a good\nquantity of such household stuff as we yet wanted, with linen of all\nsorts for us both.  As for myself, I wanted very little of clothes or\nlinen, being very well furnished before.  The rest of my cargo\nconsisted in iron-work of all sorts, harness for horses, tools, clothes\nfor servants, and woollen cloth, stuffs, serges, stockings, shoes,\nhats, and the like, such as servants wear; and whole pieces also to\nmake up for servants, all by direction of the Quaker; and all this\ncargo arrived safe, and in good condition, with three woman-servants,\nlusty wenches, which my old governess had picked for me, suitable\nenough to the place, and to the work we had for them to do; one of\nwhich happened to come double, having been got with child by one of the\nseamen in the ship, as she owned afterwards, before the ship got so far\nas Gravesend; so she brought us a stout boy, about seven months after\nher landing.\n\nMy husband, you may suppose, was a little surprised at the arriving of\nall this cargo from England; and talking with me after he saw the\naccount of this particular, 'My dear,' says he, 'what is the meaning of\nall this?  I fear you will run us too deep in debt:  when shall we be\nable to make return for it all?' I smiled, and told him that is was all\npaid for; and then I told him, that what our circumstances might expose\nus to, I had not taken my whole stock with me, that I had reserved so\nmuch in my friend's hands, which now we were come over safe, and was\nsettled in a way to live, I had sent for, as he might see.\n\nHe was amazed, and stood a while telling upon his fingers, but said\nnothing.  At last he began thus:  'Hold, let's see,' says he, telling\nupon his fingers still, and first on his thumb; 'there's #246 in money\nat first, then two gold watches, diamond rings, and plate,' says he,\nupon the forefinger.  Then upon the next finger, 'Here's a plantation\non York River, #100 a year, then #150 in money, then a sloop load of\nhorses, cows, hogs, and stores'; and so on to the thumb again.  'And\nnow,' says he, 'a cargo cost #250 in England, and worth here twice the\nmoney.' 'Well,' says I, 'what do you make of all that?'  'Make of it?'\nsays he; 'why, who says I was deceived when I married a wife in\nLancashire?  I think I have married a fortune, and a very good fortune\ntoo,' says he.\n\nIn a word, we were now in very considerable circumstances, and every\nyear increasing; for our new plantation grew upon our hands insensibly,\nand in eight years which we lived upon it, we brought it to such pitch,\nthat the produce was at least #300 sterling a year; I mean, worth so\nmuch in England.\n\nAfter I had been a year at home again, I went over the bay to see my\nson, and to receive another year's income of my plantation; and I was\nsurprised to hear, just at my landing there, that my old husband was\ndead, and had not been buried above a fortnight.  This, I confess, was\nnot disagreeable news, because now I could appear as I was, in a\nmarried condition; so I told my son before I came from him, that I\nbelieved I should marry a gentleman who had a plantation near mine; and\nthough I was legally free to marry, as to any obligation that was on me\nbefore, yet that I was shy of it, lest the blot should some time or\nother be revived, and it might make a husband uneasy.  My son, the same\nkind, dutiful, and obliging creature as ever, treated me now at his own\nhouse, paid me my hundred pounds, and sent me home again loaded with\npresents.\n\nSome time after this, I let my son know I was married, and invited him\nover to see us, and my husband wrote a very obliging letter to him\nalso, inviting him to come and see him; and he came accordingly some\nmonths after, and happened to be there just when my cargo from England\ncame in, which I let him believe belonged all to my husband's estate,\nnot to me.\n\nIt must be observed that when the old wretch my brother (husband) was\ndead, I then freely gave my husband an account of all that affair, and\nof this cousin, as I had called him before, being my own son by that\nmistaken unhappy match.  He was perfectly easy in the account, and told\nme he should have been as easy if the old man, as we called him, had\nbeen alive.  'For,' said he, 'it was no fault of yours, nor of his; it\nwas a mistake impossible to be prevented.'  He only reproached him with\ndesiring me to conceal it, and to live with him as a wife, after I knew\nthat he was my brother; that, he said, was a vile part.  Thus all these\ndifficulties were made easy, and we lived together with the greatest\nkindness and comfort imaginable.\n\nWe are grown old; I am come back to England, being almost seventy years\nof age, husband sixty-eight, having performed much more than the\nlimited terms of my transportation; and now, notwithstanding all the\nfatigues and all the miseries we have both gone through, we are both of\nus in good heart and health.  My husband remained there some time after\nme to settle our affairs, and at first I had intended to go back to\nhim, but at his desire I altered that resolution, and he is come over\nto England also, where we resolve to spend the remainder of our years\nin sincere penitence for the wicked lives we have lived.\n\nWRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1683"